Chapter Text
The thud of booted feet beat a squelchy staccato on the wet leafy ground, as the Uruk from Mordor marched through the forests of Gondor. Their leader Gnoth marched at their head, huge sword hanging from his belt, a massive, wooden shield on his arm, both arm and shield covered with burns and scars. To his right marched Durk, his second in command, a shorter Uruk with beetling brows and a massive nose.
Gnoth turned to his second in command and hissed, “Look at the sky. We attack when we see one of the Nine.”
Durk scratched his head. “Why, Leader Gnoth?”
Gnoth ground his teeth. “We create a diversion. The Nine have business in the village, and we help.
“A diversion! Good!”
“But we still kill!” Gnoth growled, turning around to glare at his stepson behind him, “The only good human is a dead human!”
Xajar, the son of Gnoth’s late concubine, nodded. Unlike the typical Mordor Uruk, he was short and broad-shouldered, dyed from head to foot in black designs on a deep red. Two short swords hung from his belt, armour plates covered his chest and back, and a strip of white mourning cloth hung limp and wet against his arm, signalling someone he loved had died less than a month ago.
None of Xajar’s weapons had ever drawn blood. This was his first raid, his first real battle.
He felt both excited and apprehensive. Xajar's clan lived in Mordor, worshipped Lord Sauron, and lived by raiding the villages around Gondor. It was their life, enforced by the splendour of the fiery eye over Barad-dur.
Uruk who returned from raids boasted of their kills. Would he survive this raid to do likewise? Would he fight with honor and courage? He was Uruk, after all, and Uruk were born to kill Men.
A loud, harsh screech split the sky. Something dark and huge flew by against the grey sky, blotting out the moon for a brief instant.
“Our signal.” Gnoth raised a horn to his lips and blew two shrill notes. Weapons slid out of scabbards with metallic screeches and the Uruk began their charge. Xajar pulled his twin swords out and ran.
Xajar almost ran into Gnoth as he slammed into the enemy. The Uruk’s charge became scattered as they attacked the disorganised Men. The rain beat a staccato on Xajar’s helmet, but through that and the clash of weapons also rose voices that were shriller and more treble. Xajar froze. What were the Men doing? Why were children and women here, at a scene of war?
But he had no time to think of children. Any minute now, he would get his first kill. Xajar stopped and breathed, adrenalin pounding through his veins as he looked around for likely warriors to attack.
A small Man ran between two Uruk and collided with his stomach. He pulled the Man away from him and lifted his sword, giddy at the thought of making his first kill, and waited for the Man to attack. But the small Man didn’t, instead raising his face to look at Xajar with terrified eyes. This wasn’t a Man, this was a child.
Robbed of his chance to take his first scalp, Xajar hissed, “Get out of here! No place for children!”
The boy stood frozen. Xajar took a threatening step toward him and howled into his face. The boy fell backwards. Still sitting down, he slithered backward, then got up and ran, away from the melee and into the forest.
Children! Xajar turned back into the thick of battle. Where were all the warriors? The Men fighting here were terrible – one would think they hadn’t been trained at all, the way they swung their swords around and the shock on their faces as Uruk swords drew life from their bodies.
A small Man in a skirt stumbled through the crowd, a babe in his… no her! arms. A woman? With a baby? Xajar was horrified. Uruk mothers were sheltered and hidden from the rest of the world, not running through battlefields with their babies! This was not how Gnoth had described the raids!
One of his Uruk comrades reached for the woman. Xajar leapt forward without thinking, pushed the Uruk warrior’s hand aside and grabbed her by the waist. The Uruk gave up his casual attempt with a jeering laugh.
Xajar had no idea what his comrade intended to do to the woman, but it couldn’t be anything good. He had to get the woman away from the fray.
The woman struggled, panicking. Xajar covered her mouth with a hand to prevent her from shrieking, and pulled her out of the thick of battle. He dragged her, still resisting, into a clump of trees where the others wouldn’t see them.
“Shut up!” he hissed in her ear. “When I let you go, run as fast you can, but don’t scream or they’ll catch you!”
She stood there frozen.
“Do you understand me?” he spoke slowly in Westron.
She nodded, and turned to look into his eyes. Her eyes widened in surprise. Good, he thought, she understood.
Xajar released her. She whispered, “thank you,” turned and ran into the forest, bedraggled skirt flapping around her ankles.
He leaned against a tree, trying to marshal his thoughts. This wasn’t what he had been told about raids. He had heard of famous victories over the legendary fighting Men of Gondor. But these were not soldiers, they were workers, or perhaps farmers. This wasn’t war, it was slaughter, and it turned his stomach.
The tree felt sturdy and rough against his back. The leaves rustled above him and he looked up, but could see nothing in the dark. Something whimpered to his left and he turned his head. Beside a bush sprawled a woman’s body, dead or wounded, clotting blood forming a sullen stain against a lilac sleeve. Beside her was a small girl child, sitting on the muddy ground, half-covered in mud, clinging to her mother’s skirt and looking at him with huge, frightened eyes. If his Uruk comrades found this child…! He lifted a finger to his lips in the universal signal for quiet.
“Xajar!” a voice rumbled, startling him.
Gnoth had found him. He stood six feet away and glared.
“Coming!” Xajar moved forward, trying to shield the child from Gnoth’s eyes.
Gnoth looked at him suspiciously and turned away, but unluckily a small whimper broke the silence.
Gnoth spun around. He pushed Xajar out of the way and spotted the little girl.
“So this is what you were hiding!”
Xajar shook his head, “What? No!”
Gnoth looked at him contemptuously. “Liar”
Xajar’s eyes slid away to the ground. He had feared and obeyed Gnoth under the lash for decades, and old habits die hard.
“Kill her.”
“What!” Xajar snapped.
“You heard me. Kill her!”
Xajar stepped back a couple of steps. “I won’t kill a child! It’s against the code!”
“Don’t babble! The only dead Man is a dead Man. That is our code. Didn’t your mother teach you?”
Xajar shook his head. He could not kill the child, but defying Gnoth made his skin crawl in terror. Inside his head, he heard his mother’s voice as if she were standing behind him “Never let the helpless be hurt. That’s your family’s code.”
Gnoth reached the end of his patience. He bellowed, “If you won’t, then get out of the way!” and took a step forward toward the child.
The child screamed. The tree rustled violently and a small Man dropped on all fours in front of the child.
Xajar stepped back in consternation. The creature was small, even shorter than him, and slimmer, with flyaway red-blond hair rebelliously escaping from thick braids, and a determined expression on his sweet, childlike face. Surely that was a dwarf? He wore a knitted cardigan and was holding a hefty book in front of himself, as if that would provide even a modicum of protection against Gnoth’s heavy sword.
Not a soldier, but a gently-brought-up dwarf who had probably never held a weapon in his life. Xajar could not stand by and watch him be slaughtered. He did have a code, even if the other Uruk didn’t share it.
Xajar stepped between Gnoth and the pretty dwarf, his swords automatically poised. “Please, Gnoth. Let them go. They don’t matter – it’s the warriors we need to kill.”
“Much you know about it. We don’t just fight, we exterminate! Do you know what that means?”
Xajar shook his head, troubled.
“You mangy, useless cur!” Gnoth hissed. “I knew you weren’t worth the feeding! But your stupid mother wouldn’t listen, would she?”
Xajar shook his head, “She wasn’t stupid”, shaken by his own temerity in contradicting Gnoth.
“She was a stupid whore and you’re a useless sack of crap. I should have got rid of you ages ago. Move!” Gnoth’s voice was as hard as his eyes as he menacingly lifted his huge sword and massive shield, towering over the short Xajar.
The insult to his mother was not new – he had heard Gnoth call her much worse to her face. But he could not let the little dwarf and the child die. Xajar stood his ground.
Gnoth swung his sword, and Xajar parried with his own. Their swords clashed again and again, each clash sending shocks up his arms. This wasn’t a training duel. His stepfather was trying to kill him.
He tried every trick in the book, but he was trying to disarm Gnoth rather than kill him, and eventually that restraint felled him.
Xajar’s foot slipped half an inch on the sodden forest floor, and Gnoth found an opening. A sharp pain ran up Xajar’s thigh, and his leg gave way in sheer agony, making him close his eyes for a brief second. When he looked up, Gnoth stood above him, sword held high, his eyes murderous with rage.
Xajar tried to rise, but fell back. His mind blanked out as the sword prepared to come down.
But it didn’t. The little dwarf ran forward and attacked Gnoth, smashing him in the face with his heavy book, and Gnoth was driven backwards, his sword falling to the ground. The dwarf pressed his advantage, hitting him again with surprising strength, but Gnoth had recovered from his surprise. He grabbed the dwarf by the throat with a meaty hand.
The same harsh screech he had heard earlier tore through the night sky. Gnoth looked upward and wavered. He dropped the slim dwarf on the ground, raised a horn to his lips and blew three blasts. He picked up his sword, looked at Xajar for a long moment and said, “You are exiled.” He reached out and pulled Xajar’s birth amulet off his upper arm, leaving a bleeding scar in its’ wake. “You know the law. And if you break the law and return to Mordor, I’ll kill you myself.”
Gnoth sheathed his sword, and lumbered back the way he came.
Exiled!
The dwarf put an arm around Xajar’s back and propped him up.
“Can you speak Westron?” the dwarf asked in a raspy voice. Red finger marks stood out against the dwarf’s pale skin where Gnoth had grabbed him.
“Yes,” Xajar gritted out. As the adrenalin in his body ebbed, pain took over, drumming through his leg.
“I need to get you to a healer.”
“Exiled!” he muttered. “I am already dead.”
The sounds of boots grew louder and suddenly the clearing was full of people. A pair of boots stopped next to him. He closed his eyes and braced himself for the blow that would end his pain.
“Ori! What on earth are you doing here? And is that an orc??” the speaker sounded young.
“Gimli! Help me! This orc saved my life. And there’s a wounded woman. We need to get them to a healer!”
“Mahal! You don’t fool around, do you? I’ll get reinforcements. Let’s carry them to the village.”
A shrill whistle split the air and Xajar found himself picked up and carried.
Houses loomed out of the early morning mist, some burning, some ruined. Wounded men, women, and children lay on the grass, waiting for the healers. Some stared at him in disbelief.
Xajar was settled under a tree, where one of the dwarves gave him a potion to drink. He drank it before he realised it was probably a sleeping potion. Within seconds, he was fast asleep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When Xajar opened his eyes, he felt a bit disoriented. Where was the night sky? Where was the Eye of Sauron? He was lying on a cot, instead of the ground. Above him was a grey canopy – a tent?. Next to the bed was a makeshift table with potions and instruments lying on it haphazardly.
He was in one of the healer’s tents. But why? How badly was he wounded?
He sat up gingerly and saw that his leg was neatly bandaged, but the breeches were torn open, bloodied and muddy. A quick check showed him the rest of his clothing and his weapons were intact. His twin swords lay by the bed on a strange shield, along with some other weapons.
He ran his hands over his body. Good. The daggers were still there. He reached for the closest one, under his arm, and prepared to slide it out.
The tent flap opened, and a little girl peeked in. It was the little girl he had saved the previous night, but almost unrecognisable – clean and fresh, dressed in a green frock, with green ribbons in her curly hair.
Xajar pushed the dagger back and smiled at her. His goal would have to wait. She smiled back shyly and ran out. A low hum of voices came from outside the tent, shadowy figures walked about, casting long shadows upon the sides of the tent.
Before Xajar could move, a Man entered slowly, deep frown lines on his forehead, tired eyes and pepper and salt beard. He wore breeches of a deep blue, with a moss green tunic, and a knitted jacket with several pockets. He checked Xajar’s wound, then pulse, and his eyes and mouth.
“Healing well. You dwarrows are disgustingly resilient.”
“I’m not…” but the healer had already turned away, picked up a couple of instruments from the table, thrust them into his pockets, and left.
Xajar sighed. Men were crazy. And was there no privacy in this place?
The tent flap opened. The little dwarf who had saved him came in. His braids were neater, and he wore brighter and definitely drier clothes. He carried a tray in his hands, with bread, a covered bowl, and a cup of tea.
Clearly no privacy.
“Good. You’re up. Have some breakfast and you’ll feel better.”
Xajar stared at the dwarf, the first one he had ever seen. He was short, shorter even than Xajar, with gentle eyes that were now smiling at him. Not handsome, no. Too small, too short, none of the hulking muscles and battle scars that made for male beauty in Mordor. But there was something fascinating about the little dwarf’s face and eyes.
What was his name? Oh yes – Ori!
Ori kept the tray on Xajar’s lap and uncovered the bowl. It was some kind of stew, with chunks of meat amid vegetables and sauce. It smelled heavenly and Xajar’s stomach rumbled.
“There you go. I bet you’re hungry.” Ori picked up a metal utensil of the kind Men used and handed it to him.
“Thank you.” Xajar said gruffly, feeling strangely shy. He had no idea how to use the utensil so he kept it back on the tray, broke off a large chunk of the bread and dunked it in the stew instead. It tasted strange, but quite good. The meat was fresher than the meats he was accustomed to in Mordor.
“It’s the least I could do. You saved my life.” Ori smiled and placed a hand on Xajar’s arm. The touch felt like a small jolt of electricity and Xajar’s heartbeat speeded up.
That was strange. But not surprising, since no one but Adon had ever touched him with affection.
Xajar smiled uncertainly. That felt unnatural too. He had never smiled at anyone but his mother in his life. “You should not have jumped from the tree.”
“Well, I couldn’t stay there and let the child die, could I?”
Xajar nodded. “No. I could not, either.”
“You’ll be glad to know her mother is right as rain. Just a flesh wound and concussion. She’ll be fine in a day or two.”
Xajar nodded, relieved. The image of the woman sprawled on the ground would haunt his nightmares for a long time.
“The little girl is awfully cute. She came in to take a look at you and ran up to me saying the little red man is awake.”
Xajar said uncertainly, “I’m not a Man. And this is madder,” referring to the deep rose-red dye that covered his shaved head and body, making his skin look like tanned leather. On top of the red base were intricate geometric designs in iron gall ink.
“But if the little girl calls you a little red man you’ll agree anyway.”
Xajar smiled slowly. The child was delightful. “Yes.”
“But are you an orc? You don’t look like them much. I know some Uruk paint themselves but so do some Men, and dwarrows, too…”
“I am Uruk,” he said flatly, the familiar query making him flush with anger. He had had enough of this back in Mordor, and the taunts of the taller Uruk still rang in his ear. However nice Ori was, Xajar wasn’t about to let anyone doubt his identity.
Ori gave him a sceptical look, but didn’t pursue the topic.
Xajar broke a chunk off the bread, dunked it in the stew and devoured it greedily. He was very hungry. Once the bread was all gone, he tipped the contents of the stew directly into his mouth. It was delicious. He washed it down with the tea, and sank back down in the bed, suddenly exhausted. For some brief moments, the young dwarf’s company had made him forget, but now it came back to him in a rush. He was a clan-less, family-less, friendless Uruk. By clan law he should have already killed himself. He had nothing to live for, anyway. Even if he wanted to survive, how could he? An exiled orc had no place in the world. Neither side would accept him.
He closed his eyes.
Ori drew the covers over him, and Xajar regretfully heard the dwarf leave. He slowly slipped into a disturbed sleep.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Xajar was woken by the sound of harsh voices in front of the tent. He tried to get up, but was prevented by Ori’s soft hand pressing down on his arm.
There were people outside the tent, yelling. The sounds were cacophonous at first, but a refrain stood out: “Kill the Orc! Kill the Orc! Kill the Beast! Kill the Beast from Mordor!”
It was ironic. Xajar’s enemies were about to do in public what Xajar could not manage to do in private. He hoped it would be painless.
He leaned back against his pillow wearily. “It is all right. It’s over, anyway.”
“Hush!”
A voice shouted and the chanters grew quiet. There seemed to be about 14-15 persons outside.
The shouting grew. The tent flap was pulled aside and several villagers came in. Some were carrying swords.
Xajar lifted his hands and placed them atop his head. He would not resist.
The healer stepped between Xajar and the angry villagers. “First of all, you aren’t going to kill any patient of mine. If you attack my patient, I’ll go back to Minas Tirith right now, and you can have all the fun of finding another healer for your wounded.”
“Second of all,” and the healer drew an extremely nasty looking, curved dagger, “if anyone moves a step forward I promise to hurt you in the worst way possible. I’m a healer – I know what hurts. And thirdly, you’re all morons. My patient is not an Orc, he’s a dwarf.”
Xajar froze. He was Uruk! But perhaps this wasn't the best time to say that.
One of the Men yelled, “Look at him! He’s hairless and painted. He can’t be a dwarf!”
The healer replied, “Ever heard of razors and dyes? He’s probably a spy from some eastern dwarven kingdom. I assure you he’s a pure dwarf. When he came here, he had not a drop of blood on his weapons. On the contrary - do you see that little girl over there? He risked his life to protect her and had his leg cut open with an orc sword. Now make of all that what you will.”
Xajar’s ears pricked up in horror. Was the little girl in the tent? What kind of monsters would let a little girl watch a slaughter?
His question was answered as the little girl jumped into his lap and put her arms around his neck.
“Uff,” he grunted.
The girl turned and screamed something at the Men, but Xajar couldn’t make it out. She turned and hugged him tightly and burst into tears.
Xajar felt his eyes burning. Unnatural. He didn’t cry.
The healer said, “There you go. Out of the mouths of babes…”
Someone screamed from the back, “Take Elwing back! He’ll hurt her!” He opened his eyes and glared at them, but no one stepped forward. The child – Elwing – snuggled into him.
A woman’s voice rose above the cacophony, “Is this true? Did he save her?” The crowd fell silent.
Ori replied softly, “Yes, and me at the same time. I owe him my life. If you want to kill him, you’ll go through me, and believe me your chieftain will not enjoy explaining that to the Steward. I’m a diplomat from Erebor.”
There was silence. Xajar cradled the girl in his arms, then looked up and grunted, “Take the child outside. This is no place for a child.”
A woman stepped forward. The child clung, but Xajar said, “It’ll be all right,” and the child finally went to the woman, who carried her out.
There was silence for a while, then an elderly Man leaning on a staff stepped forward. “Can I take a closer look?”
Ori looked at him for a moment, then moved aside. The man hobbled forward, bent and inspected Xajar’s bandages, and heaved a sigh. He turned around and said, “Let him be. He’s no orc.”
The tent emptied. The healer and Ori stepped outside the tent as well.
Xajar felt drained. If he ever needed a demonstration that, cut off from his clan, he could not survive, this was it. Wherever he went, Men and Dwarves would fear him and try to kill him. There would be no Ori to take his part.
He had put it off long enough.
He reached under his left sleeve and a slim but deadly dagger slipped into his hand. He closed his eyes, raised a hand to his neck and felt for the jugular vein. He prepared to strike.