Author's note and disclaimer: Here's my first attempt at a LOTR fic, definitely not my usual kind of thing. This was inspired by two scenes from the movie: The "birth" of Saruman's force of Uruk-hai, and those two adorable little refugee kids from Rohan.

Rated PG-13 for violence and extreme lack of good sentence structure.

We all know none of us own anything, right ? Right. Enjoy.

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Prologue

At first there is nothing but the darkness, the pressure, the rage. Then comes the moment when he opens his eyes. Then the light, the release, the first indrawn breath. The rage bursting forth in a howl of defiance. The echoes fade, the second breath is drawn, awareness comes. He is Hass-ur, of the fighting Uruk-hai. The sword, the bow, the barbed black arrows. The will to fight, the thirst for the kill. The armor of leather and steel, the mark of the White Hand on the forehead. These come naturally to Hass-ur. He is a weapon, servant of Saruman, forged in the pits of Orthanc.

Now they leave the Tower, on the run. The will to fight, the rage, the lash of the whip. The moon looks down on the fighting Uruk-hai. The moon looks down on all, even the Master. Hass-ur keeps this thought to himself, as he keeps most thoughts. He has learned not to speak of them. That lesson did not come naturally. The thoughts of Hass-ur are not quite the same as those of the rest of his brothers.

Now, the first battle. The rush of adrenaline, the cut and thrust of the sword. The blood, the joy. No need to think of bothersome forbidden thoughts, just the will to fight. One hundred voices raise the battle-cry as one. Hass-ur roars his cry of rage in perfect unison with his brothers. The humans fall before the fighting Uruk-hai.

The pounding of blood stops. Breathing slows to normal. The red battle-rage fades away. Hass-ur looks down the length of his sword at the dying human . Sightless eyes stare up at him, each holding a piece of the day-time sky. Hass-ur stares back. The human lets out his last breath. The eyes go opaque, flat. Hass-ur pulls his blade free. He turns away.

The fighting Uruk-hai sweep across the Riddermark. The rage, the will to fight. The lash of the whip, the promise of man-flesh to eat. Pounding hearts, pounding feet in iron hob-nailed boots. The sun beats down. A village appears on the horizon. The men charge out to meet the fighting Uruk-hai. The second battle. The rush of adrenaline, the slash of the sword, the humans' eyes, flat and dull even before death. This is fear that I see in their eyes. The battle-rage, the joy. The humans fall back to their village. Hass-ur kicks down a cottage door. The man inside howls rage and defiance, his eyes holding the depths of the river. He swings his sword. Hass-ur watches the blade come down in slow-motion. He bats it aside easily, plunges his own blade home. The blood, the fear. The eyes, opaque, without depth anymore.

Hass-ur pulls his blade out, kicks the body aside. He steps through the door, finds a female. Hass-ur grabs her by the hair. He bares his teeth. He has not yet killed a female. Her eyes look into his. There is the sky again, the depths of the river. No fear... not yet. There will be. She clutches a knife. Hass-ur watches her hand tense on the hilt. He can see the blow coming in the whiteness of her knuckles, again in slow-motion. She will slash up, seeking the gap between the black breastplate and the shoulder-guard. She will not succeed. He will break her arm, throw her to the ground, fall upon her as he has seen his brothers do to other human women. His lips pull back from his teeth, a smile. The woman sees her doom in his smile. She turns the knife in her hand, stabs it into her own body before Hass-ur can react. His eyes widen. Hers look into his, still holding their pieces of sky. She spits in his face as she dies. Hass-ur lowers her to the floor. There was never any fear. No fear at all. That is courage. The thought pounds through his mind like the blood pounding through his body.

"Run, you maggots ! On, on !" The curses and shouts of his brothers. The whips of the leaders. The sun, setting, a red eye in the sky. The pounding of his blood, his thoughts. The pounding of iron-shod feet. Then the pounding of hooves, the Riders of Rohan. Turn, stand and fight. The battle cry of the Uruk-hai, roaring defiance. The third battle. The red battle-rage, the red setting sun. Pounding hooves, pounding heart, his arms, strong, dragging a rider from the saddle. The sword slash, the blood, the joy. Then the scream of the horse, the hooves, trampling. The pain, the howl of defiance, the darkness closing in.

At first, there is nothing but the darkness, the pain. Then comes the moment when Hass-ur opens his eyes. The moon looks down on him. The battle has moved on, his brothers gone on to fight again, or lying dead around him. The Rohirrim lie scattered among the Uruk-hai. All but Hass-ur are dead. He is alone for the first time in his short life. No, not alone. The moon is here. The moon looks down on me still. I live. Then the pain pounds in his head, driving out thought.

One thing is left. The will to live, the will to fight. Under the cold white eye of the moon, Hass-ur crawls from the battle-ground.