Since On A Whim didn't work, I'm reposting all the stories in it separately. Just recently I finished The Silmarillion, and learned that Gothmog is the name of the Lord of the Balrogs. What an impressive namesake. ^__^

This one has Gothmog in it, from An Orc's Impression and Orcs Can Change. You don't need to read those first though. If you don't know who Gothmog is, he's my scaredy cat orc. He's heard rumors of the fellowship and fears for his safety in An Orc's Impression, and he actually joins the fellowship in Orcs Can Change. This has no relevance to the story line of those two though, just one similar character. I don't think I'll put in his accent here though.

O__O I actually own most of the characters in this story! I AM SHOCKED, to say the least. Any names you recognize from LOTR are not mine, the setting and ideas for the characters aren't mine either. The only elves I own are the two action figures on my desk. Elrond and Armless. Please do not sue me for them, I love them to pieces. (One of them really was loved into two pieces)

'speech' is elvish

This has not been betad, and is more of a ficlet then an actual fic.

Child of the Orc

Gothmog sat near the campfire, cleaning his sword. It did not need to be cleaned, but he needed something to do. After the metal had been polished to its usual dull gleam, Gothmog decided that what he was doing was boring and pointless. With a groan, he stood and stalked off into the trees. None of the other orcs he was running with even noticed his departure. They were all squabbling over some meat.

Entering the forest that the orcs were currently camping in, Gothmog closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. The clean, fresh scent of trees never failed to soothe his restless mind, something unheard of in an orc. He looked at a nearby tree quizzically. It was a beech tree. Slowly, Gothmog reached out to lay his palm flat on the bark, straining to hear the tree's voice. He was shocked when the tree actually drew away, quivering and rustling its branches. The beech recognized an orc's touch, that of a tree killer, and was frightened. Gothmog withdrew his hand, feeling a tear roll down his disfigured face.

"I never asked to be an orc! What I would not give to be an elf again, fair and wise! Not even the trees are my friends, for my touch is that of an orc, even if my mind is not!"

He sank to the ground, clutching his head in his hands. What was he? In all appearances, he was an orc, but his mind, his soul, and his spirit all were that of something else. Not quite elvish, but not orcish either. Gothmog was trapped between two opposite worlds, longing to be pulled completely into one. As he sat and felt sorry for himself, a faint sound caught his attention. Rising and drawing his sword, just in case, Gothmog pursued the slight noise.

After walking deeper into the forest, Gothmog froze. Lying on the ground before him were two elves. Fair and beautiful, dressed in simple forest colors, they were clearly a more solitary type of elf. Their blond hair pooled haphazardly around them, mixing together between them. Eyes that were once brilliant and wise were glazed over in death. Drying blood stained their pale skin, and cold hands clasped baskets of berries and broken jugs that probably held water. A small child was crouched between them, first shaking one, then the other. Tears ran down the young elf's face.

'Momma, Poppa, please wake up! Please!'

The Quenya words, spoken in an innocent child's voice, brought memories crashing down on Gothmog. Running into the arms of two older elves, laughing as they spun him around, dashing through a large forest with another elven child, a beautiful blond, and then his capture. Gothmog closed his eyes, feeling a familiar memory build up within him again.

He had been caught when he was so young, and that other elf was with him. The orcs who held them threatened to torture the blond first, but Gothmog remembered standing up against the orcs just long enough for his friend to escape, disappearing from sight. He no longer remembered the name of the other elf, and never even knew if that elf did indeed escape.

A shriek caused him to open his eyes. The child had noticed him, and was now cowering in fear.

"Stay away! Do not hurt me! Please do not hurt me!"

Gothmog blinked at the words. It had been so long since he had last used, much less heard, the elvish tongue. To hear it again, especially from one so small, brought a small shred of light upon his troubled heart. Forcing his tongue to move in a way it was unaccustomed to, Gothmog spoke Quenya for the first time in many centuries.

'Please, little child, be not frightened of me. I mean you no harm. I heard your cries, and was worried. Are you all right?'

Gothmog held back a smile as the child stared up at him, stupefied. Orcs had probably been the ones to do this to the older elves. To leave a child alone and defenseless was probably the cruelest thing they could have done. A smile on his face would look frightening and hostile. Just his appearance alone was probably enough to give the young boy nightmares. Tentatively stretching out a hand after sheathing his sword, Gothmog whispered, 'Please, I want to help you. What is your name? My name is Gothmog.'

The little boy blinked big green eyes up at him. Reaching out his hand slowly, he whispered back, 'I am Calenseregon. Will you really help me?'


Gothmog nodded, and drew the child close. Calenseregon clutched at Gothmog's armor, whimpering slightly.

'My momma and poppa are not waking up.'

'Calenseregon, they will not ever wake up. They have gone to the Halls of Mandos.'

Calenseregon's eyes filled with tears.

'But, but, who will be my momma and poppa?'

Gothmog held Calenseregon close.

'I will. I will try. I will protect you, my little Calenseregon.'

Calenseregon felt his eyes glaze over as sleep overtook him. Fighting back a yawn, he barely mumbled, 'Thank you Poppa Gothmog,' before drifting asleep. Gothmog scooped the boy up in his arms and walked over to a cavern not far from the dead elves. He would keep his promise, even if it would kill him. He would let Calenseregon have the life he dreamed of. Sleep soon threatened to overtake him, but he fought it back, smiling at the treasure in his arms.

'Sleep my Calenseregon. I will not let you down.'

Fin?

~Crawler