Hass-ur's mind races, thoughts swirling, surging. His plan, ruined by the Whiteskins, the stinking Rohirrim. They took the horse. Rage. His hands clench. I will not lie here waiting for death. He must leave, hide. His leg still will not hold his weight. How long until it heals ? Two more days ? A week ? There is no knowledge he can draw on. With injuries this severe, the treatment is simple – a hastened death and fresh meat for the iron cook-pots. No. I will live. An image comes into his mind, the Master leaning on his black staff. A spear-shaft. A staff of my own, to lean on.
"Hass-ur ? Please, it's Eothain. I think he's sick." The girl-maggot, eyes bright, wet.
Stupid, weak, human children. Small, worthless burdens. Take the food. Set fire to the barn. Run. Hide. Live. The girl-child's hand on his arm, small and soft. Her eyes, like the sky after rain, pleading. No. He cannot run. Hass-ur growls in frustration.
The girl-maggot does not back away. "Please. Help my brother."
Hass-ur remembers the boy's hands, splinting his shattered leg, wrapping the bandages. The boy will understand this new thought, the idea of a spear-shaft to use for walking. I still need the boy. The thought is an annoyance, nothing more, like the girl-maggot tugging at him. Hass-ur lets her pull him to the boy's side, her soft little hand holding his hard calloused one. The boy-maggot is shaking as though cold, his small body burning hot. Eyes stare up at Hass-ur, glazed, unseeing.
"He's got a fever, he's sick. Help him."
Hass-ur shrugs. "I don't know how." He is unashamed. The fighting Uruk-hai do not need such knowledge. "I only kill." The girl stamps a small foot. More defiance. It amuses him. Silly little maggot.
"You have to wipe his face." She frowns, concentrating. "And put a cool cloth on his forehead. And say, there, there, go to sleep."
"You do it."
The rain begins to fall again. "I tried. It doesn't help."
A snarl of frustration. Rage. All his plans, thwarted. I still need the boy. Hass-ur takes the cloth the girl-child holds out, wets it with water, swipes roughly, ineffectually at the boy's face. The maggot-child shudders, water running down his face, into his matted hair.
"No, no. Wring it out." Impatient, the girl-child takes over. Hass-ur watches. Gentle little hands, soft little voice, crooning. "Go to sleep," he echoes her, a hoarse growl. "Go to sleep. When darkness comes, I'll take you to Edoras." The boy blinks, river-blue eyes focused on Hass-ur's face, suddenly lucid, hopeful. "Yes. Sleep now." The boy-child closes his eyes. Hass-ur pulls the girl against his chest, readjusts the leash around his wrist. "Sleep."
-----
The red eye of the sun, setting. They eat the food supplied by the horse-boys, dried meat and flat bread. The boy is pale, weak, but his skin is cool, the fever broken. "Will you really take us... t-to Edoras ?" A whisper, eyes filled with fear, with hope.
"You cut me a stick. A staff." Black-clawed hands sketch the dimensions in the air. "To lean on," Hass-ur explains. "To walk with." Anxiety. Will the boy understand ? Hass-ur feels rage, red, blinding. At himself, for his need, his fear. At the human-maggot-child, for having this power over him. He snarls, clenches his fists helplessly.
"You want a crutch." Understanding. Eagerness. "I can make you one, easy."
Hass-ur blinks. He jerks the girl's leash, pulling her into his grasp. "Do it," he orders harshly, "now." The boy nods, eagerness replaced by wariness in an instant. Hass-ur frowns as the boy stumbles from the barn. He was ready to help me, even before I threatened the girl. Why ? I am his enemy.
-----
In the fading twilight, they set out. The crutch that the boy has made from a forked branch works beyond Hass-ur's wildest expectations. It is even padded with straw and rags, for comfort. Comfort. The concept amuses him. Baffles him. He drags himself to his feet, leaning against the door frame for support. Putting the crutch in place, he takes a step, then another. He crosses the barnyard, leans against the fence for a moment, pushes himself upright. Resting already ? Am I so weak ? No. A low growl of defiance. The fighting Uruk-hai are strong. They do not fear pain. The children watch him, wide-eyed. "We go, now." The boy, still sick, totters. The girl, small and useless, dawdles. Weak little Whiteskin maggots. The Uruk-hai is glad to blame them for the lack of progress. Step. Plant the crutch. Swing forward. He steadies himself, leaning on the crutch. Step. Each swing that takes the weight off his injured leg is an instant of relief, each step an eternity of pain.
The moon rises. They make their slow way across the plains. The girl-child chatters. Hass-ur endures it. Her piping voice distracts from the agony in his leg. "-and in the land of the gods, two trees grow, one with golden sun-apples, and one with silver moon-apples," she concludes. She yawns, falls silent for a time. A line of trees appears in the distance, grows closer with terrible slowness. Step. Plant the crutch. Swing, and step. "-and then Mama told Eothain to ride Garold to Edoras, to warn the King. Mama will find us in Edoras," she tells him confidently. A long pause. Another yawn. "Do you have a mother, Hass-ur ? You must have," she answers her own question, "everyone has a mother."
"No."
She stares up at him, her face a pale round blur in the moonlight. "What ?"
"I don't have a mother."
The girl-child drags her feet. "Did she die ? Poor Hass-ur," she mumbles sleepily.
"No. The Master..." he ponders, laboriously. He is tired, he realizes. No. Weakness. He rejects it. The shelter of the tress beckons, so close. "He made me. Us. The fighting Uruk-hai. To be his weapons. To kill."
The soft hand pats his arm, slips away. "He must be a very bad man."
Step. Pause. Plant the crutch. Swing. Step. Pause. The boy tugs at his other arm. "We have to stop. Freda has to rest." Hass-ur jerks the leash. The girl stumbles forward. Plant the crutch. Swing and step. A long pause. "Please. She can't go on."
Another tug on the leash. There is no response. The girl lies on the grass, fast asleep under the pale, cold eye of the moon. Fall behind, be left behind. Hass-ur lets the leash trail from his wrist. Plant the crutch. Pause.
"Don't leave us."
Hass-ur turns, leaning heavily on his crutch. "Fall behind, be left behind."
"No !" The boy glares. "I- I'll carry her, then."
Still defiant. He watches the boy struggle to sling the girl-child onto his back. He takes one staggering step forward. Two steps. The boy falls to his knees. Hass-ur takes a breath, blows it out through his teeth, a sigh of resignation. "Help me lift her." The girl-child's small weight on his shoulder seems enough to crush him. I can't... No ! I am Hass-ur, of the fighting Uruk-hai ! He snarls. Plant the crutch, swing, step. Two steps, three, four. The boy pulls Hass-ur's arm over his narrow shoulders, supporting part of Hass-ur's weight with the remnants of his small strength. At last, together, they reach the trees. The shadows, the sheltering darkness. The trickle of a stream below.
The boy's teeth flash white in the gloom. "We made it." Hass-ur lets the girl-child slide off his shoulder, slumps to the ground, holding her. The boy snuggles against him, one arm flung across his chest. They sleep. Beneath the trees, beneath the pale cold eye of the moon.
-----
The warmth of the sun on his face, the flicker of light and shadow through his eyelids, the calling of birds in his ears. Hass-ur wakes, alone. The bird-cries, abruptly silenced. The pounding of horses' hooves, distant, coming closer. He reaches for his sword, for the girl-child's leash. Nothing.
"Hass-ur." The children crouch in the bushes on the other side of the little stream, just beyond reach. Past the trees, the rolling land rises, foothills plodding one after another into the distance. The girl-child smiles at him, eyes just one shade darker than the morning sky, trusting. "It's time for us to go," the boy-child says. "Meduseld is just beyond those hills." He gestures toward the higher hills, barely visible through the golden morning haze. His eyes watch Hass-ur, darker than the sky, darker than his sister's. Cautious. Wary. Hass-ur's sword lies on the ground beside the stream, dragged beyond the Uruk's reach. "A patrol is coming. W-we won't tell them you're here. We won't tell anyone, ever. Right, Freda ?" The girl nods. Smiling. Trusting.
Time slows. Draw the dagger. Throw it at the boy. Hass-ur can picture the black-hilted dagger protruding from the boy's thin chest, the red blood welling up, pooling on the ground under his body. Roll down the slope, across the stream. Grab the girl's leg, pull her back, break her neck, crush her windpipe. He can see himself doing it, killing them. Looking into the river-eyes staring back at him across the trickle of water, he knows the boy can see it too. The boy moves, slow-motion, pushing his sister behind him. One more moment, and she will be out of the shelter of the trees. Out in view of the approaching Rohirrim.
The girl-child looks back, still smiling. "Goodbye, Hass-ur."
There is still time. The boy pushes her again, his eyes locked on Hass-ur. Pleading. Hass-ur lets them go. This is mercy. No ! He snarls. This is weakness. Hass-ur rolls across the narrow gully, drags himself up the slope on the far side, ignoring the pain in his leg. The pounding hooves, still faint. The cloud of dust far across the rolling hills of grass. Too far away to see the children, just tiny specks against the line of trees. Hass-ur bends the black orc-bow, knocks a barbed black arrow. He has time to shoot them both. They will fall in the tall, thick grass. The Whiteskins will never know. Will never catch him. He draws the arrow back, takes aim between the boy's shoulders. Long minutes pass. Weakness. He curses it, curses himself. The boy will betray his hiding place. The horses will bear down on him, trampling. The Rohirrim will kill him. Still he holds the arrow against the bow-string, watching until the children have passed out of range, until the riders have come close enough to see them.
A distant shout, the cloud of dust changing course, pounding closer, pulling up short as the two are surrounded, lifted high onto the backs of swift steeds, borne away over the rolling hills. Bird-song resumes, dappled sunlight beats down through green leaves. Hass-ur waits, resigned, sometimes dozing. The sun follows its slow arc across the sky, reddens, sinks into the west. The Rohirrim do not return. I have shown mercy... and been granted mercy in return.
At last, there is nothing but the darkness, the pain, slowly fading now, healing. The waning moon looks down on Hass-ur. He is alone. One thing is left. The will to live, the will to be. To understand. Hass-ur picks up his crutch and steps out of the sheltering dark, into the silver-white light of the moon. He turns toward the mountains, toward the west. He begins his journey. And the moon shines down.
-----
Author's notes: Thank you to Steelsheen, Wolf of the Easterlings, Wolf of Gondor, She-Elf4, Patty, Imithwennyere, =), I'm lovin' it, red mage 1, and draylon for the reviews, constructive criticism, and encouragement.