*Decided to do some explorations of individual characters stories starting with this guy, just cause I like enjoy writing some character studies and I heart me some Tuor :)
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The Trials of Young Tuor
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Captured
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The poor young man sat hunched like a beast in a cage, in a cold barnyard alongside all the other slaves. They were all captured from among his people, he guessed - tall and fair as his foster folk the woodland elves, of pale hair or of black, some may even be his kin. But here they were - the newest captives were all kept here, without water for days, and without food for more, obliged to sleep on a thin pile of hay and relieve themselves in a pail in one corner of their cramped quarters like horses in their stalls.
'What was I thinking?' thought the young man to himself. 'I was not thinking. Would that I followed my foster father's wisdom, and fled to bide my time to fight on a day of better odds, with the aid of more friends and more thought into a plan of attack.'
He felt quite foolish. He had dashed off alone, blind with rage, thinking he could subdue their attackers with ease alone, using naught but his woodman's ax. He had indeed cut down very many of his attackers, but in the end there were just too many. An enemy whip had wound tight around his arms and body, and then they swarmed around him and grappled him to the ground. They had brought archers in plenty, and laid in wait, and his elf companions despite their quick hands and sure aim had spent their arrows before long and were driven away. Then suddenly he was alone, and he was captured.
Nearby were others, caught thralls who had tried to escape, fresh captures sold to their masters by the roving orcs who found hidden groups of refugees abroad. He turned to one of them caged up next to him. He was a boy with dark hair, not much younger than himself.
"Are you from near to here?" he asked, but the boy just stared at him in fear.
"Quiet!" said another in a whisper. An older man, in whom could be seen the marks of age with white strands salting his hair and lines beginning to appear on his face. "They will hear you!"
But the young man was proud, and still unheeding of the danger. He saw that the man had the dark hair of his mother's people. "Are you of the house of Bëor, good sir?" he asked easily.
But suddenly appeared in the entryway a short stocky man, who walked through the shelter with a bow-legged swagger and a whip in his hand. "Eh!" he barked. "Pipe down, if you know what's good for you!" And he cast his whip, and struck the newcomer across the knuckles where his hands held the beams. "There's more where that came from," the driver growled, "if you care to keep at it."
The young man glowered, wincing at the fresh blood on his fingers, but in his eyes smoldered the pride of his father's house. The driver gave a gravelly laugh. "You'll learn, yellow hair!" he said, "you'll learn."
Hours later in the still of the night the older man whispered to him. "You had best keep your head down, young lord," he said, "unless you would be stuck in there and only ever let out with chain-linked cuffs on each limb."
Now this new prisoner was not quite fully come of age, but was already quite tall and broad for his years. So between his size and the rage they could see simmering behind his eyes, his captors kept him in his cage for several days longer, and the master and his drivers looked down with gloating pleasure at him crouched in the pen in which they held him. They gave him food and water, but exceedingly little, and for want of it he did eventually simmer down.
And there he sat, already missing sorely with newfound appreciation the hard and wary living he had back in the caves. He thought of his foster people, and wondered how they fared, or if they had even survived the attack. He was willing to wager that they did, for they were keen to flee quickly, and were faster at the bow, while he sprang out and charged, his wrath having long simmered in his heart for the plight of his people and his elf friends. In those first days the early spring breezes of the northern plains of Hithlum kept his humiliating quarters cold, and the mist drifting in from the season's rains dampened his clothes and made the barn even more miserable. He leaned against the back of his small cell, and rested his head against the wall in defeat.