OK, guys, really sorry about the time between updates, but I've been scrambling to meet school deadlines. I made this chapter longer to make up for the long wait and also the shortness of the last chapter (I swear, it was longer when I was writing it). I said I'd make this chapter darker, and I tried my best. I hope I deliver. Enjoy, and remember, feedback is my meat and drink!
Ski deliberately took her time crossing the field between Lothlórien and Moria. The trees thinned until they no longer formed anything like a wood, but were simply staggered throughout the area. She dawdled by every one of them until she finally came to the last tree for some miles. The Orc sat at its base to rest for a moment, her cheerful mood evaporating as she contemplated returning to the dark caverns in which she and her relatives dwelt.
She heaved a sigh and rested the crown of her head against the bole of the tree, gazing up at the sunlight shining through the leaves, creating a soft green glow. A gentle breeze made the branches bend and wave, the Sun flashing in and out of view through them. Ski briefly closed her eyes and wondered, for the millionth time, why Orcs hated the Upper World so, and insisted on living in perpetual, stifling darkness. She curled her lip when she thought about her "home": a single moderately sized "room" in the underground city in which she, her eight siblings, their mother, and at least one random Orc acquaintance slept—at least eleven Orcs in the room at any given sleep-time. Ski supposed the room may have been a Dwarf's residence at one time, when Dwarves lived in Moria, but it had just as likely been a cupboard or storage-room. Ski had seen Dwarven-houses in Moria, and almost all of them consisted of more than one room. All the bigger houses were claimed by Orcs who were higher up on the social food chain, though—and they didn't hesitate to use lethal force to defend their affluent dwellings.
Ski reluctantly stopped her mind from wandering and stood slowly, drinking in the fresh wind and the beauty of the day. She thoroughly loathed the idea of returning to Moria; but she had nowhere else to go. Out here in the Upper World, especially this close to Lothlórien, an Orc such as herself could easily be killed. In Moria, there was some measure of safety—at least, safety from Elves and Men and the like. But an Orc was in just as much danger among its own kind—a wrong word, an "off" tone, even a look that was taken in the wrong way, and you would find yourself with a gash in your throat or a hole in your belly, watching your lifeblood drain away onto the cold stone while your former compatriots went about their business with nary a look askance.
Somehow, Ski had always managed to slip through the cracks. As a very young Orc, she had been voraciously curious; but after several beatings for being a "damn noisy snot that wouldn't shut up," she had learned her lesson and kept her mouth shut. Always quiet, always in the corner or against the wall, the unassuming young Orc managed to melt into the background. Sometimes even her own mother forgot she had even birthed an eighth child—sometimes she skipped over Ski and went straight to Krith, Ski's younger brother. Occasionally the Orc-girl would catch the attention of someone and be yelled at for something or other, but she mostly went unnoticed and unacknowledged.
That was beginning to change, though. Ski was becoming more and more noticeable, though she herself didn't know this. Days spent out in the open, in the wholesome air and sun of Lothlórien, had begun to smooth out her skin and lighten it a few shades. Her jetty hair, once sparse and stringy from malnutrition and constant darkness, was now thicker and healthier-looking. And despite Ski's best efforts to conduct her forays into the open clandestinely, a couple of her returns had been noticed.
Today's return was not one of those, however. Ski spared a few seconds to marvel at the Mirrormere, the stars reflected in it even in the golden light of day, and continued on her way, soon arriving at the Dimrill Gate. She skulked in the shadow of a boulder near the entrance, straining her eyes and ears for signs of a guard. After waiting several minutes and finding none, Ski quickly slipped through the entrance and sidestepped into a nook in the stone wall to let her eyes adjust to the dark and to listen again for unwanted company. The Orc's eyes quickly adjusted and, satisfied she was still alone, she set out towards home.
The narrow, arching bridge scarcely even made Ski flinch anymore, she had traversed it so many times. She trotted across, looking at her feet and trying to ignore the endless abyss that invaded her peripheral vision. Once on the other side, Ski let her feet take her homewards and started to outline a course of action. Her feet knew the way—up the many staircases, through the hallways, right, left, down a slope, straight, up more stairs, through a room, left again, and so forth—through the labyrinthine ancient halls that had once been the pride of the Dwarven race. Ski bent her mind upon her planning. What to do? Her clearing may not be safe for some time; but she couldn't stand the thought of staying in Moria for a week or more. She had gotten too used to the light and clouds and wind and trees from her ever-more-frequent visits to the forest glade.
By the time Ski had reached the First Deep, she had come up with a semblance of a plan. She had an idea of staying in Moria just long enough to steal some supplies, and then camping out by the Mirrormere for a week—out in the fresh air, but close enough to the Gates to flee inside them if the situation warranted. It was a simple scheme and by no means provided for all variables, but it was enough to go on. Pausing to take stock of her surroundings, Ski instinctively pressed up against the wall.
Just in time, too. A heartbeat later, she heard voices, echoing off the stone and growing louder as they approached.
"I have it straight from Minas Morgul," rasped one nasally voice. "Lugbúrz is being rebuilt."
"Oh really?" growled the other voice, a throaty rumble that made Ski think of a dark pit of boiling acid. "And when do you talk to anyone from Morgul?"
The first voice scoffed. "I have relations there, remember? Don't you remember that Orc from over there who came here last month? That was my second cousin."
"That scrawny maggot?" jeered the acid voice. "I should have seen the family resemblance!"
"I'll have you know that my family is highly respected by the Nine—and the Dark Lord himself!" spat the first, his voice shrill with indignation.
"Ha! As if. You know very well the Nine respect none but the Master…"
The voices passed on, becoming fainter until the echoes garbled their words beyond recognition. Ski let out her breath, her heart racing with fear. Lugbúrz being rebuilt! The Nine awake once more—and the Master himself, Morgoth's apprentice, once again commanding his Orcs! She'd had no idea how dark the world's situation had become. The other races must be warned! Elves and Men had defeated Sauron before; they could surely do it again. She must tell Alagos, so that he could warn the rest of the Elves!
That thought made up Ski's mind. Never mind the potential danger to herself—she was going back to her clearing and waiting for Alagos. When he showed up, she would apprise him of the situation. Forget about grabbing supplies. This was urgent!
Ski leapt from her place at the wall and charged back the way she had come, caution forgotten in her haste. She didn't even attempt to make her passage silent. And that was her mistake.
As she raced through a doorway, something tripped her, and she went sprawling face-first onto the cold stone floor. Groaning and shaking her head to clear away the stars, Ski sat up and twisted around to see what had caused her fall—and she froze. On either side of the doorway was an Orc. One was stringy and sickly-looking, and the other was slightly taller, thick-middled and muscular, with a brutish face. Both Orcs were grinning in malicious amusement.
"Well, well, well," sneered the big one, "what do we have here? A little Orc-girl running away from home?" Ski's stomach dropped. That deep, burning voice was unmistakable: these two were the Orcs who had passed her earlier. They must have heard her coming and hidden, and one must have tripped her with his foot.
The stringy one took a rather lopsided step closer. "Hey," he exclaimed in his nasally whine, "this here is that weirdo kid! That one of Snaga's that was always asking questions about Elves and the Upper World!"
The thick one also took a heavy step forward and leaned down to peer into the frightened young Orc's face. He grunted in surprise. "It sure is," he rumbled. "Only she looks different." He leaned even closer until his vicious face was nearly touching Ski's. "Lighter. Almost like…like she's not so Orc-like anymore."
"Yeah!" whined the skinny one. "Looks almost more like an Elf!"
Ski was nearly paralyzed with terror—she didn't like the looks of these Orcs, not one bit—but she found strength enough to speak. "I-I don't know what y-you're talking about," she said in a trembling squeak. She cleared her throat repeated more loudly, "I don't know what you're talking about." She raised her chin defiantly.
"Oh yeah?" growled the brutish Orc. "Then where have you been the past few weeks? Not with your family, I know. I've been…ah, visiting Snaga lately." He leered at Ski, who held back a shudder of revulsion. "So where were you?"
Ski forced her voice to be steady. "None of your business. You just need to know I was elsewhere. That's all. Elsewhere."
"'Elsewhere!'" mimicked the scrawny Orc, while the bigger one guffawed. The brute leaned in again, his broad nose practically touching Ski's skin. "It is most certainly my business," he breathed. His air was sour and rancid and made Ski want to gag. He took a deep whiff through his nose. "Smells like grass and trees," he muttered, "and something else…Elf." The last word was a snarl and the Orc's meaty arm shot out, grabbing Ski's jaw in a grip like a vise. His hand was so large it covered half her face, and she struggled to breathe. The Orc squeezed even tighter, his claws digging in to her skin.
"Do you know," he hissed into her ear, "what we do to filthy little traitors?" Ski's eyes darted to the other Orc, standing a few feet away. He was watching the scene with a greedy, hungry look. A shake from Ski's assailant jerked her attention back to him. He was glaring at her with narrow orange eyes, his friend's hungry look mirrored on his face. He put his mouth close to Ski's ear, his oily cheek pressing against hers. "We do whatever we like," he breathed.
Ski had been wriggling her lips and jaw, and now she managed to get her mouth open. She clamped it closed again with as much force as she could muster, catching half the Orc's finger between her teeth. He had not been expecting it, and he shoved her face away with a howl, his claws scraping painfully across her cheek. Ski kicked him in the groin and then in the face, and scrambled upright, beginning to run even before she had properly gotten to her feet.
Behind her she heard the big Orc's snarls. "You idiot!" he roared, presumably at his companion. "Don't just stand there watching me! Get that bitch!" A smack resounded behind her, and Ski heard the stringy Orc's yelp and whining apology. Footsteps rapidly followed her, and Ski somehow doubled her pace. She had no idea she could run so fast—she would probably be keeping pace with Alagos, were he here!
Alagos! The thought of her friend gave the young Orc strength. She positively flew through the maze of hallways and rooms, thinking of nothing but reaching the Dimrill Gate. Ski heard her pursuer's panting and fading footsteps; then those ceased entirely, and she heard nothing but her own footsteps, her ragged breath and her pounding heart. Her legs burned and her chest ached, but she ignored the pain.
There was the Bridge of Khazad-dûm! Ski raced across it without even slowing. In a few seconds, she saw a sliver of daylight from the doors. She slowed only long enough to slip out the Gate, and then shot across the rocky expanse. Ski hared away to Lothlórien, to safety and a friend, and cast nary a glance backward at the place she would no longer call home.