A/N: I don't know what I'm writing about for this chapter. It came out weird and a little wayward from what I had intended. It's a little incoherent 'cause the guy's not thinking properly—his thoughts are coming in jumbles and broken memories. Sorry for the shortness as well. I write better when chapters are short. I may revise this, though.

The Tale of an Orc

Two: Conscience of one who possesses it not

   He ran. Away from the girl, gasping as water trickled down his face. Rain. Was it rain? He glanced up, and saw that the night sky was clear, and stars filled it. He cried out, and shielded his eyes. The stars hated him.

   His breath was hot in his throat, and he coughed dryly, hand reaching up to cover his mouth. It was wet.

   His whole face was wet, and he knew not why. Tears. The words came from a half-forgotten time. Tears.

   No. He could not have tears. Those were for Elves and Men. He hated them! He was bred to kill them! Only Ilúvatar's Children could have tears! He was not one of them! Morgoth was his master!

   He stumbled forward, and saw that he neared the trees.

   Brethil. That word could not be known to him. It was the tongue of the Elves! How could he know of it?

   With an anguished scream, he disappeared amongst the trees.

***

   The rays of Anor shone in between the gaps of the leaves and branches. The light hurt him, and blinded him as eyes used to the dark saw the light, so that he hissed. But in some places the canopy was thick, and provided shelter from the sun, and he was able to hide in the high branches of a tree.

   His face was sticky and damp, and he wondered anew at the water on his face the night before.

   He looked at his hands. They were dark, the flesh wrinkled and hard in the light gloom of the forest. He reached up to touch his face, and felt the wounds inflicted by the girl.

   He growled. He had hurt her, and wanted to kill her. The scent of drawn blood had smelt so fresh and so good. She had fought back, and he retaliated with savage joy.

   Yet, he had not killed her in the last, had fled from her to this place, and had felt the water—tears—on his face as he fled. They came from his eyes, of their own accord.

   He moved absently, and gazed in wonder at a thin shaft of Anor's ray on his arm. It hurt him not at all, as his lord had said it would. He of the creature of the night could not stand against the hallowed light of the dew of Laurelin and not quail, yet he was unharmed.

   Thoughts unbidden came. He tried to push them away, snarling at the leaves, but those came still: people young and naked by starlit waters; fair songs; soft speech.

   He parted his lips to speak the words of his visions, but could not, and knew that he had forgotten how to. Only coarse growls came forth, frightening a few birds into twittering. He cursed in his mind, in the tongue of the Orcs, and those words came to him easily.

   He trembled. Should his lord learn of the visions he have had for many times, he would be slain. He thought naught of why they should come so strong now, and why the ray of Arnor hurt him not but he was afraid of the stars. He only knew that the girl from yestereve was the cause of those.

   He would slay her, so that those dreams may halt.