Chapter Six: Valacirca, Menelvagor, And Then Some

A/N: More dialogue taken from The Two Towers. Just trying to keep it canon, since Amy is obviously not.

So they ran. Again.

With long strides and gaits that resembled animals rather than men, the orcs began to make their way over the long plain. Amy ran along with them, but she had moved herself to the hindmost position, just alongside Azrat; inside the group there was sheer chaos as orcs jostled for positions, fought, and yelled, all the while running at a great speed.

They're nuts, Amy thought, watching the madness that was taking place in front of her as curses of mixed languages pierced the serene night air. If they took a little more time to get themselves organized and in a line, they could go so much faster. Why don't they even consider that option? Why does Uglúk let them run however they want? I don't think he's a very good leader, aside from his ability to yell. And maybe kick. If he could only get some respect from them, he'd—

Amy! You're cheering for the bad guys! Stop that!

Disturbed by these thoughts of sympathy towards those she had been instructed to hate, Amy looked towards the sky. It was tinted slightly with light blue on the western horizon, just under the slender moon, which shone in the sky like a sliver of glossy pearl. Around it, the stars glittered and shimmered as they had done at home. Sighing, Amy looked around the sky, which twinkled and sparkled like a display of diamonds on black velvet.

Okay, this is gorgeous. Even if I don't make it out of here alive—which I do want to, Powers That Be, just in case you're listening—I'll always remember this. I can't believe that people wouldn't care about something so beautiful. Why are they so clear here, but I'm lucky if I see one or two at home? Arg, that nerdy kid was talking about that once, but what did he call it? Light Smog? Light Vapors? Erm…oh, yeah! Light pollution! Right. No lights in Middle-earth.

"Azrat," she said, turning to him and making sure to keep quite, for Uglúk was running not far behind them, "where is the Big Dipper?"

"What? Dipper? Well, I think Gúshlúf has a flask of water with him; he might—"

"No," Amy said, shaking her head. "The constellation. The star-picture?"

"I don't know what you mean, Grûsbálk."

"Mmm…it's shaped like this—here, give me your hand." Taking Azrat's hand by the wrist and turning it so that his palm faced the sky, Amy drew a sickle-shaped contour in his palm.

"Oh…that. Why would you want to see that, that horrible sickle?" he asked bitterly.

"Because I…why is it so horrible?"

"Huh." Azrat tilted his head back towards the sky, gazing lazily at the stars as he trotted. "You don't know that story, do you? Don't have these sorts of lovely stories in the East, I guess. My old friend Babgá use to tell me it. He was like you, a lesser breed, and his mum use to tell him stories. That over there," he said, pointing north, where the Dippers twinkled, "is what those dirty Elves call…no, I dare not speak its name. Know that we call it the Scythe. Their great queen of the stars—just thinking about their name for her makes my head ache—set those into a sky as a warning to all of us. To Saruman, and his master, and his master's master. And that dirty sickle, and the Elves' sky-swordsman, and their divine ship, are always going to be in the heavens until the last days of this world, watching us, so that we have no peace by day or night.

"It goes to show you, Grûsbálk, that those accursed Elves have got their eyes on us no matter where we go or what we do. They'll come and hunt us out of every cave and safe hole we have left, if they win the war. A lot of the smaller tribes have moved into the East to get away. They're not taking any chances; and here's a fact, Grûsbálk, that I'd like to tell you, if you can keep a secret."

"I can," Amy said.

Azrat leaned close to Amy's face and whispered: "I wish I was among those fleeing tribes. I don't trust the power of the Hand, or the Eye."

"I don't blame you," she said softly, blinking nervously under the strong stare of his yellow eyes. "This whole war has gotten horrible. Loads of people are going to die. And I…I'll probably never see my home again. I miss my mom and dad." She sniffled. "I can't be happy here without my family, no matter how pretty it is."

Azrat clapped her lightly on the shoulder in a gesture of reassurance. If she had been one of his complaining friends, he would have started complaining in turn about how his father was an orc and his mother was a Rohirric prisoner of war that died soon after she gave birth to him from malnutrition; how his father had been mercilessly strangled to death by a great uruk for getting in the way in the forge; how he had spent his childhood training to be a soldier; and how the only home he knew were the stinking caves under Orthanc. That was how orc foot-soldiers bonded: by comparing horrific stories.

"Grûsbálk, I—"

"Hai, you two! Uglúk called from behind them. "What are you saying? Speak up! Have you got something to share with us all?"

"Nothing, nothing!" Azrat called back. "Nothing at all!"

"See that you keep it that way!" Uglúk responded, and Amy seethed silently as she ran.

They had run about a mile or so from the cliff when the land pitched down into a wide shallow depression in the earth. Long grass of rich green swayed lightly in the night breeze, except in some parts, where it had been stamped down into the earth by great heavy hooves. The ground here was soft and wet, and felt soothing on Amy's tired feet. All about them there was a thick blanket of cool mist, glimmering in the pale dying moonlight. The shapes of orcs ran in front of them steadily, growing dimmer in the mist until they were swallowed up by it altogether.

For a fleeting instant, the thought dashed through Amy's mind that she might use the mist to her advantage and make a break for it, to turn and run until she reached the ravine, and to scramble up it and escape. Maybe she would be able to disappear into the fog before Uglúk would be able to catch her, and she could live in a tree for the rest of her life.

No, her brain told her. Where would you go? You know nothing about surviving in such a raw wilderness. You would die within a week, and you know it. Stop being an idiot already.

"I really have to do something about that voice," she muttered so that only she could hear. "It's quite rude."

From behind them, Uglúk called again, this time addressing the whole line of uruks: "Ai! Steady now!"

The words had scarcely left his corroded lips when one of the hobbits, just a little bit ahead of Amy and Azrat, decided to take action. Swerving to the right and diving out of the way, the little hobbit disappeared into the mist before anyone had the chance to act.

"Halt!" yelled Uglúk, just before everything went to hell.

For a moment, there was a great deal of disarray. Amy saw, running into the night, the small hobbit. Someone let out a great cry, pointing in the fugitive's direction, and the chase was on. Amy found herself thrown into it, running even faster than she had before. Someone sprinted out in front of the hobbit and snatched him up off the ground; it was Azrat. Amy saw the hobbit quickly draw his hands up to his face, and she thought, Don't bother trying to fighting, little hobbit; you won't even scratch that leathery face.
But to her great surprise, the hobbit was not trying to defend himself. Reaching up to his throat, he pulled something off of his cloak and cast it to the ground, where it lay gleaming in the starlight. As the rest of the uruks trotted quickly back into the line, the hobbit struggling wildly still, Amy wandered over to the object for a closer look. She picked the object up and dusted the grass and dirt off of it.

It was a broach of fine craftsmanship, twisted and knotted in the shaped of a green leaf with silver veins. Emerald veneer shone delicately in the setting beams of the moon, and the whole broach seemed to tingle in her hands, causing her little pinpricks of pain; but it was lovely. It looked similar to the broaches she had seen in the movie, but it was far superior. It seemed to have its own perpetual light source, for even when she cupped it in her hands and blocked it from the moon, it shone dimly with an ethereal glow. She ran her finger lightly over the surface; she could feel the tiny raised veins of a real leaf, too minute to be seen.

So this is true Elven-craft. Amazing. All the jewelry-makers in the world would give up diamonds and gems, or anything, just to learn how it shines like this, never mind how they make the veins so small. Incred—

"Grûsbálk!"

Snapped out of her reverie by Azrat's voice, Amy clipped the broach onto one of the leathery thongs clasped around her waist before trotting back into the line. She was distracted momentarily as Azrat leaned over to ask her what she had discovered, and so she did not see the look of horror and disbelief on the runaway hobbit's face as the Elven-broach gleamed off of her decaying belt, just before one of his guards cracked a whip around his tiny ankles, causing him to jump forward and begin running again.


Coming Up: Lots more running. More fighting among the orcs. The Riders of Rohan make the appearance.

Remember the Fords,

Simbelmynë

~Simmí~