Well, well, well. A rather quick update if I do say so myself. And I do. I absolutely love the responses that this story is getting. When I write I want to do something new. Even if I take a clichéd idea, I want to do something with it that no one has ever done. Screw this 'girl in ME' bit, I threw a frigging dragon into the mix. Hellz yea. Also some half-orcs and hinting at Galadriel getting drunk on the water in her mirror (I'm telling you if you haven't read A Dragon's Quest you are missing out. There's some great humor floating around in there.)
Now there's some major, crazy shit going down in this chapter. I mean like…serious fan-hitting shit going down. Our Magical Trio is not here, but there is someone from the past that is that I rather felt uncomfortable writing. I'm not used to that type of scene. *Shrug* I swear I'm going somewhere with it, though.
Chapter 6 – Looking Forward, Looking Back
"Orc!"
"No, no! Please, listen-!" he said, before James shook him hard enough to rattle his teeth. There was no telling how long the creature had been in the bush, and how much he had heard. Just moments before, Frodo had been speaking of the Ring. In the wrong hands that information could be deadly.
"You listen, Orc…" James snarled. The orc was trembling in James' grasp, a fact that James found odd. He had come across many orcs in his day, and none of them had trembled. Sure a few of them had groveled for their lives, but James had never been too inclined to spare the servants of Sauron. This thing looked different, though. All the orcs he had ever seen were green or grey, or the occasional sickly pale color. This one was a light brown in color, almost like a deep tan.
The hands grasping at his claws were tipped in sharp black nails. He wasn't stooping or bow-legged, either. He was certainly an odd breed of orc.
"How much did you hear?" Legolas asked, keeping the shivering creature in the sight of one of his arrows. Yellow eyes turned on him, the black pupil all but constricted to a pinprick with fear.
"I didn't-! I didn't hear!" he exclaimed, his voice finally breaking. Tears flooded his face as he seemed to fall apart in James' grasp.
"Liar!" James hissed and his grip on the front of him tightened so much that his claws pierced the flesh, making him keen with pain and fear.
"You had best talk quickly, for your next words may be your last," Aragorn said grimly, the silver-glow of Andúril leveling at the orc's nose. His yellow eyes focused on the glowing tip. James released the tight grip slightly, and the creature began to speak.
"You gotta- you gotta believe me! I d-didn't mean to h-hear nothing! I was h-hiding!" he stuttered. Andúril's tip lowered to the hollow of his throat, and all of the blood from the orc's face drained, leaving him a sickly color. "Not f-from y-you!"
"Where are the others?" James asked, resting the tip of a shiny claw on the jawline of the orc. The implication was clear: as sharp as the sword was, James' claws were just as deadly.
"I'm th-the only one-," he started, and felt James' claw dig painfully into his neck.
"Orcs don't travel alone! Where are the others?" James snapped, the smell of smoke surrounding the other creature as the breath got steadily hotter.
"M'not an orc!" he spat fearfully.
"Not an orc? What are you, then? A bird?" Gimli asked. "You're not a dwarf!"
"Nor a Man," Boromir supplied.
"Nor a Hobbit!" Piped Sam.
"Nor Elf," Said Legolas.
"Or dragon," James supplied. All eyes were on him. "Everyone else said it…" he replied defensively.
Something terrible came to Pippin's mind. He'd seen pictures of orcs and illustrations in the libraries. He had studied them. This…creature…was like no orc he had ever seen. He was trembling and crying like a youngling, and really only looked half-grown. He looked like…oh stars.
"He's just a child!" Merry suddenly exclaimed, voicing Pippin's thoughts.
"Even a warg was a cub once!" Gimli said gruffly. James let go of the orc in surprise.
"Strider, please!" Merry said, bursting through the protective men to push Aragorn's blade away. "Look at him! I mean really look at him!"
They did. He was gangly and thin, his face stretched tautly over his skull from too little food. His whole body shook violently as he stared at them and he was crying pitifully, sniffling and holding the place where James' claws had dug into his skin. He was terrified. Merry turned to him, taking hold of his shaking hand and patting it gently.
"They seem rather frightening, lad, but they're all good at heart. They're only being protective! What's your name?" Merry asked gently. The orcling fell to his knees in front of Merry, scooting as close to the hobbit as he could for the comfort his presence provided.
"M-my modor c-called me Sceadu. It means 'Shadow,'" he sniffled. Merry patted his hand gently and pressed a kiss to his brow.
"See now, fellows? How much easier that was? Now, my dear Shadow, I need to know how much of our talking you heard…" Merry said. Sceadu looked at the grim faces around him, and then into the warm face of the hobbit. He had never seen such a creature before. At first he had thought them children, but now that he was close he realized that they were just like Little Men. They were round and had jolly faces, save for the one who had spoken about a Ring. His face looked solemn and drawn.
"I heard the dark-haired Little Man speak of…of a Ring…" he said. Gimli gave a shout, causing Sceadu to flinch.
"He knows too much, then! We should just kill him and be done with it!" he said. Aragorn pursed his lips and stared down at the orcling.
"What are you? You are like no orc I've ever seen," he said. Sceadu gulped.
"I'm not Orc. I'm Uruk. And I'm only Half…" he said.
"Uruk? I've only heard of the Black Uruks from Mordor," Gandalf said, still holding Glamdring in one hand and his staff in the other. Sceadu shook his head.
"My father was not of Mordor. He was one of the Fighting Uruk of Isengard," he said, his voice much calmer as Merry continued to stroke his hand. There was murmuring among them.
"Saruman's treachery is indeed great if he is recruiting the aid of Orcs," Gandalf said gruffly. Sceadu shook his head again.
"Not recruiting. The Uruk-hai are his own creation. Tall and broad like Men, they are, and rightly so: their blood is mixed with that of Men to make them big and resistant to the sun," Sceadu said. Horror was etched on their faces. Orcs that did not fear the sun? Eru be with them all! "'Least that's what my modor told me," he added. "'Fore she died."
"Did you kill her?" Boromir asked sharply. Sceadu looked up in horror, his mouth open against the accusation.
"Never! I never hurt anybody! 'Specially not modor! She was…the only one…who didn't hate me," his face crumpled and he began to cry again. Merry pulled his face to him, stroking the sleek black hair gingerly. Boromir found himself on the receiving end of a rather nasty glare. The hobbits may look cute and cuddly, but he would be damned if they weren't ferocious little things when the situation called for it! Were glares alone enough to win a war, Merry could flatten the hosts of Mordor with his face at that moment.
"That was extremely unkind, Boromir," Merry said. "I believe him," he added, looking at Aragorn and Gandalf.
"I don't!" Gimli said. "I think we ought to just separate his head from his shoulders and let the birds of Saruman feast on the offspring of one of his little inventions!" he snapped. Sceadu wrapped his arms around Merry, shuddering in terror.
"Stop it! Stop it all of you! We won't be killing any children 'round here!" Merry said, one arm around the lad's head and the other going to the handle of his blade, which he had sheathed when he discovered the orc was but a child.
"Mister Brandybuck, I do not believe you realize the gravity of the situation. He cannot be allowed to leave us with the knowledge he possesses," Gandalf said.
"You'll have to strike me down too if you wish to take his life," Merry returned, his chin going up. Pippin pushed through the Men, going to stand with his cousin.
"And I won't let Merry be harmed by no Man, or Dwarf, or Elf, or W-Wizard. Or even Dragon!" Pippin said, standing on the other side of Sceadu. Merry wasn't done holding his own, though.
"Tell me what we are fighting for! What exactly makes us hate the Orcs as we do? Isn't it that they kill mindlessly? We fight them because they cannot be at peace! Then what makes us any better if we go around killing children? The lad did not provoke us, nor has he done anything to defend himself," Merry said passionately.
"He has not moved against us only because we are stronger! Were the roles reversed he would slay us all!" Legolas provided, his bow still aimed at the Orc…Uruk…whatever it was.
"He cannot be allowed free with what he has heard," Gandalf said grimly. "And taking him with us is an unnecessary burden. It would be more merciful to kill him." And Gandalf was loathe to say it. Merry was right. What made them different from the Orcs if they went about slaughtering children? But this wasn't an easy situation to be in. This little…Uruk could doom them all if he breathed a word to the wrong person.
"Please don't kill me!" Sceadu pulled away from Merry and sprawled face-down in front of the rest of the Fellowship. "I don't kn-know where you are going…but I can help! Please! I am very strong and fast and I will do anything. Just don't kill me..." he pleaded. Aragorn's sword wavered when faced with the pitiful pleading.
"What does the Ri- er…leader of our quest feel that we should do?" Aragorn asked, turning to look at Frodo. Frodo's face was pale and he looked up at Aragorn like a deer caught in lantern light.
"I do not know…" Frodo said.
"A quick slice with my axe and it won't be a problem anymore! Hell, a nice arrow to the neck from the elf would solve our problems as well!" Gimli grunted.
"Have mercy…have mercy on me…I am lost and alone…I can help…I will not be a burden…" Sceadu was begging.
"I could not bear it if the death of a child was on my command. If you insist on giving me the choice, then I say we take him with us," Frodo said swiftly, turning away from them and striding away several feet.
"Oh thank you! Thank you, thank you! You won't regret this! I swear!" Sceadu bubbled. Merry laughed and leaned down to grab his hand.
"Up you go, my lad! You are naught but skin and bones! Surely we can find a few scraps of food for you?" he said, looking at Aragorn questioningly. Aragorn's face was forbidding as he sheathed Andúril.
"Our supplies were supposed to last two Men, an Elf, a Dragon, a Wizard, and four Hobbits for as long as we could make them. We never planned to also feed a young Orcling-,"
"Uruk! I'm an Uruk! Er…half, at least," Sceadu said, his brown cheeks flushing when Aragorn looked at him sharply. The others began slowly putting away their weapons.
"I say this is a mistake," Gimli muttered. "And if he makes any wrong move I'll remedy this situation myself," he added, giving the Uruk a heated glare. Sceadu gulped, but Merry put himself between the boy and the Dwarf.
"I will see to him, Master Gimli, and I will make sure he is as meek as a lamb and cheerful as a…as a…well, cheerful as a Hobbit!" Merry said, laughing as he looked back up at Sceadu. The lad gave him a watery smile. "Now tell me, friend Shadow, how old you are?" he asked.
"I'm twelve summers, Master," he said. Merry flushed.
"I ain't nobody's Master. Now don't start going on like Sam about how you'll be trying to please your Master. We hear enough of his groveling as it is!" Merry said. Pippin snickered.
"I don't grovel!" Sam growled. "I merely try to make sure Mr. Frodo is as comfortable as possible on this miserable journey! And now we have to worry about an orc-pup murdering us as we sleep!" Sam replied.
"I've never murdered anybody and I never will!" Sceadu replied hotly. Boromir tilted his head slightly.
"And what blood has the blade at your side tasted?" he asked innocuously. Sceadu looked down at the hilt of his short sword.
"No blood has it shed. My modor was teaching me to use it before she fell ill," he said, resting a small hand on the hilt of his sword.
"Being taught sword play by a woman? It's probably not because of lack of want you have never killed," Boromir said softly, a darkly amused expression on his face. Sceadu seemed to prickle with anger.
"My modor was a shield-maiden of Rohan! You'd do well to hold your tongue against her!" he said. Boromir frowned.
"Rohan has ever been loyally at Gondor's side. A shield-maid of the Rohirrim would never take up with an orc willingly," Boromir stated. Sceadu deflated.
"She didn't. My modor was the spoils of an attack of a village of Rohan. She escaped her captors and fled to the safety of a neighboring village. When she discovered she was expecting, the villagers told her to rid herself of me…but she would not. She believed my life was sacred and she kept me. Some days I wish she hadn't bothered," he was staring firmly at the ground, scuffing about a few rocks with his worn, dirty boots.
"Would have saved us a great deal of trouble," Boromir replied honestly, before sheathing his own sword and turning away. "We ought to move on before we lose the moonlight and those blasted birds can see us again." He lifted his pack and swung it onto his shoulder.
James moved past the Uruk, turning to look him in the face. He reached out with one claw and grabbed Sceadu's left hand. He pressed something into his palm and then walked away. Sceadu watched the dragon leave, his eyes wide with fright. What manner of people were these that they had a dragon loyal to them? He had best be on his finest behavior.
He opened his palm to see a wafer of way-bread and a strip of chewy, dried fruit mixture. He looked up at the retreating dragon in wonder.
"He's got a loud bark, and definitely a sharp bite, but Sir Dragon also has a very big heart," Merry said as he went to gather his own pack.
What a day!
Nothing further happened that night. The next morning dawned even brighter than before. But the air was chill again; already the wind was turning back towards the east. For two more nights they marched on, climbing steadily but ever more slowly as their road wound up into the hills, and the mountains towered up, nearer and nearer. On the third morning Caradhras rose before them, a mighty peak, tipped with snow like silver, but with sheer naked sides, dull red as if stained with blood.
"That's an awful big mountain!" Sceadu murmured as he looked at it.
"Quite intimidating, and no mistake!" Pippin agreed.
"Caradhras was called the Cruel, and had an ill name," Said Gimli, his beetle-black eyes glaring at the half-Uruk, "Long before even rumors of Sauron were heard in these lands."
"Who is Sauron?" Sceadu asked. All footsteps stopped and every head turned towards him in disbelief. His brown face flushed at the sudden attention. "Did…I say something wrong?" he asked, his voice a bit squeaky with nervousness.
"You do not know the name of the Dark Lord?" Boromir asked. Sceadu shuffled at the stones under his feet and shook his head. "The Lord of Mordor?" he tried again.
"My modor didn't talk a lot about things outside the village. I think…I think she was scared of everything outside. If she knew of this Dark Lord and Mordor she didn't tell me…" he finished.
"Probably tried to prevent you from signing up for the Black Army!" Gimli muttered.
"He's bad news, my lad, terribly bad news. Not someone you'd invite over for tea and biscuits at all! Although from what I've heard he might be more likely to invite himself over!" Merry said. Gandalf shook his head at the description from the Hobbit.
"Calling the Dark Lord bad news is rather like saying Caradhras is cold. It doesn't quite cover it and will make people underestimate the deadliness. And now we must continue, and we would do well not to mention any more Dark Lords or their shadowy lands," Gandalf said as he began to walk forward again.
Merry gave Sceadu a reassuring pat on his hand.
"Don't mind them. I've discovered I'm quite ignorant of many things outside of the Shire. Why don't you tell me about your mother?" He asked cheerfully. Sceadu's face lit up with innocent glee as he began to describe his mother to them.
"Oh, fuck this," James snapped loudly, tucking his wings firmly under his cloak as the snow began to fall. He quickly accessed his pack and pulled out the fur-lined leather slippers for his front and back paws. Then he cast water-proofing spells and warming charms on both of them. "I fucking hate snow," he said, shivering despite his precautions.
"I barely feel the cold!" Sceadu exclaimed happily, sticking out his tongue to catch flakes. Pippin laughed at the childish antics and then joined him. They continued to catch flakes until the snow began falling too hard to tilt up one's face.
Oh my god this mountain is going to kill me! James thought desperately. Despite his coverings and most fervent spells, his feet were numb with cold. Legolas, the frigging nancy elf that he was, was skipping across the snow like some gay little snow-bird. Gimli's thick leather tunic and coat were protecting him from a good amount of the snow. Boromir had that luxurious Gondorian cloak of fur-lined wool wrapped around him. Aragorn was wrapped firmly in his own woolen cloak and Gandalf was bent to the wind with his head down, using the brim of his hat to protect his eyes as he led them up the mountain. The only ones who seemed to mind the cold were the poor hobbits. They were too small to generate enough of their own warmth. The little Uruk, while not dancing across the snow, had pulled out a woolen cloak from his pack and was making do with only that.
James opened his mouth and tried to cough a cloud of fire. Dry sparks flew from his mouth. Damn it! His body temperature was too low! It seemed like such a paradox that a fire-breathing lizard was cold-blooded, but such was the nature of his body. And when his temperature fell too low, he could not spit flames. This was not going well.
Use my power. The thought flitted across his mind so silently that he almost didn't even realize that he had heard it at all. He looked up to see Frodo struggling against the high banks of snow.
Fuck off, Ring. I've already told you! James snapped inside his head.
Master will lend thee my power so that Caradhras the Cruel lies down before thy will. Take me up upon thy hand and my strength will be thine to command. Came the voice again.
Shut your ungodly, lopsided mouth you piece of cheap costume jewelry! I am not a fragile reed to bend to the wind of your will! I will become a dragon popsicle before I let myself be thrust under the will of another! He was growling aloud now.
So be it. I only hope all of thy companions are as stalwart as thee. And then the voice was gone. James shook his head violently to dislodge a few flakes and shake free the presence of the Ring in his head.
Frodo slipped against the snow suddenly, yelping as he fell backwards into a drift.
"Frodo!" Aragorn exclaimed in concern. He helped the frazzled Hobbit to his feet. Frodo laid his hand against his chest instinctively, and gave a gasp of concern. He looked around desperately and saw the Ring on its large chain, sitting upon the snow pretty-as-you-please.
It was Boromir who was closest, and he bent over to pick up the chain, dangling it on one finger by the chain. His head tilted slightly as if he were listening.
"It is a strange fate we should suffer so much fear and doubt…over so small a thing. Such a little thing," he murmured.
"Boromir…" Aragorn said sternly. Boromir's eyes lingered on the Ring for a few more breathless seconds, before he walked slowly down the slope to the Ranger and the Hobbit. Aragorn's hand was resting on the hilt of Andúril. He did not think he would need it against Boromir, but he would not risk the safety of this mission for anyone.
"As you wish. I truly meant no harm by my curious inspection. I only find it fascinating that so small a trinket has bound the lives of so many and caused such strife upon our lands," he said, holding out the Ring. Frodo snatched it from his hand, replacing it around his neck and looking rather tortured for a few seconds.
"And much more strife upon us if it continues to exist," Aragorn said to the man of Gondor. Boromir's gaze left Frodo and he looked at Aragorn.
"I wish only peace for my people. I wish only to see a time when husbands and sons and brothers are not buried by the scores. I wish only to see a time when children may play in the streets without worrying about a siege on the city. I wish only to see a time when we can look to the East and not see the glowing remnants of the Master of Mordor as his foul army trickles ever closer, infecting the land and spreading his festering presence around Gondor until it falls into the very bowels of Udûn to be swallowed up by fire and ice!" Boromir said heatedly. "And while my father works himself to the bone to keep the borders safe from that threat we have a man who claims that he has the right to Kingship, who could bring a very real hope to the hearts of his people, traipsing around out in the wilderness dancing with Elves under the moonlight!"
Boromir did not wait for Aragorn to reply, but he turned in a swirl of his cloak and continued on. Aragorn swallowed hard.
"Strider…" Frodo said weakly. Aragorn rested his hand on Frodo's head.
"This journey weighs on us all, my friend. Boromir's heart is heavy with many burdens. We will be well, I think, if we can get off of this mountain in one piece," he said softly. Frodo swallowed.
"If…if…if," he sighed.
Dark baleful eyes stared into a globe. A picture played within its depths like looking through a distorted window. He watched the sordid group struggle against the snow and the cold, and a smile as chilling as the mountain curled against his lips underneath his mustache. He reached up a bony hand to stroke his beard thoughtfully.
"So, Gandalf, you try to lead them over Caradhras. And if that fails, where then will you go?" he asked, staring at the leader of the group as he bent and used a staff to break the snow in a path. He let out a short barking laugh when he noticed the black beast at the rear of their party, struggling the hardest of all of them while the rest blundered on, ignorant of the overgrown lizard's turmoil.
He reached over and rang a silver bell at his side, calling for his favorite servant. He had a feeling she would want to see this. He only had to wait a few moments before the soft sound of her steps reached his ears. She entered the room with her slender staff tapping softly against the black marble floor.
She was tall and thin, wearing patched and ragged green robes over a green cotton dress. Her long blond hair was thin and streaked liberally with white in many places. She wore thin manacles around her wrists that bound what power she had to her Master, making her incapable of rebellion or self-defense.
Her delicately pointed ears poked through the thin strands of hair and twitched slightly as she walked, and she listened for signs of trouble and tried to get a feel for the reason for her summoning. Her grey eyes were dulled with long suffering and pain.
But the most striking feature on her face was her mouth. Her master had long told her that her mouth would get her in trouble. And many times it had. Far too many times had she felt a switch across her backside or a leather strap against her shoulders. But when Saruman's patience and mercy had grown short, he had finally put an end to the problem once and for all.
Her lips were stitched firmly shut, allowing her very little room to open her mouth. She ate a liquid diet through a reed straw, lending to her thin frame and relatively poor health. For nearly a decade her survival was in herbal potions and strengthening brews. That and a little thing called sheer damned stubbornness. She was sure that her master just wanted her to lie down and die, but she would not give him the satisfaction. Her Malfoy obstinacy was, at this time, her greatest survival tool.
Many times had she tried to cut the stitches herself, but there was magic woven into the thread that made it as permanent as Saruman wished it. It did not rot away or fray or give way to knives. She had a few tiny scars around the stitching from where she had tried several times to free herself.
"Come, Ithilrhas. I wish for you to see something. I believe you will recognize it," Saruman said harshly. She approached with trepidation, seeing that the Palantír was active. He was always so volatile during and after his sessions with the Seeing Stone. She looked into the stone, unable to see what he was trying to make her-
She inhaled sharply through her nose.
"Yes, I know you see him. It is your dragon friend, yes?" he asked. She looked at him, her grey eyes wild with emotion. "Now, now, don't try to speak all at once!" he laughed austerely at her. Her face flushed with shame and she looked away from the Stone. "It is just as well that you are here. I grow tired of your presence. There is someone I wish for you to meet," he said.
From behind his throne-like seat a shadowy figure emerged, dressed in black furs and slinking as smoothly as oil. His face was pale and his hair was slicked with some kind of hair product, making it appear smooth and greasy.
"This is Gríma, son of Gálmód, and advisor to Théoden King of Rohan. He has been faithful to the White Hand and I have offered you as a gift. You are worthless now to me, but Gríma finds you fascinating," Saruman said.
Gríma reached forward and touched her face. To her credit she did not flinch, but the light in her eyes changed. Though she was silenced her gaze became like flashing steel, glaring at the man. He gave her a chilling smile.
"I am a fair man. If you please me well I have been given the instructions on how to remove the stitching against your lips. Fail in your service to me, and I have also been given the instructions to let your eyes join your lips, forever closed," he said. His voice was soft and gentle, but full of dark promise. Ithilrhas whimpered slightly and saw Gríma shiver appreciatively.
"Come now, fair Lady Wizard. Long has it been since you have laid those steely eyes on the City of Edoras. You are mine now, and I treat my belongings how they deserve to be treated," he added, reaching out and grasping one of her hands. His hand was warm, but it was not comforting. He led her away from the black throne of Orthanc, murmuring soft words of promise to her. She turned one last time at the door, her grey eyes landing on the Palantír as a final image flashed against the dark surface. She saw the gleaming golden eyes staring out in horror as Saruman began to chant in another language, bringing the wrath of Caradhras upon them. Gríma pulled insistently on her hand, drawing her attention back.
"Eyes to me, sweetling. You must look ahead, to your future. You'll never get those stitches out if you keep looking back."
I do not like Gríma or Saruman right now. They both give me the heebie-jeebies. *Heebie-jeebies dance*
Ah, little Sceadu. He's such a darling. I love him so. From what I have gathered the Rohirric language is based on Old English. Sceadu really means 'Shadow' in Old English, and the word 'modor' that he keeps saying is just 'mother' in OE. Hope that clears that up.
Now…I hope little Half-Uruk kiddies running around gets me a few reviews. That is not common. I've read a few fanfics in my day and few and far between are the ones that go into deep thought about what the Orcs and Uruks were capable of. They are featured quite nicely in here I do believe. This is the beginning of a beautiful adventure. :D
…review? Pwease? At least favorite or follow! Those make me happy too!