Disclaimer:

First off, I don’t own Lord of the Rings or anything related to Lord of the Rings. They all belong to Tolkien. I only own the following: Lindariel (daughter of Thranduil), Morfang (son of Gorbag), and Gwedhiel/Igrim Shapogataar (Galadriel’s sister and the “Orc-Mother”).

All the info I got for the story is from Wikipedia. None of it is valid unless it’s from the Silmarillion. For one, Orc Women exist, hence the Orc Mother Igrim Shapogataar, who is the oldest Orc who remembers being an Elf once. Another shaky “fact” I used is that Orcs are redeemable, but according to humans or elves. Everything else (such as an Orc Mother) is all made up stuff.

Now that all the disclaimers have been made, enjoy.

~

Usually, an Orc’s armor always meant the difference between life and death. Yet armor is heavy and hinders movement, which he needed. And the armor would only hinder him further if he kept it. Morfang wasn’t stupid like the muscle-headed Uruk Hai. He used his head. He had a brain. Keeping his sword and twin daggers, Morfang threw his dirt and blood covered breastplate, helmet, and leg wear into the river before crossing it.

His pointy ears pricked at the sound of dogs. He ran across the river, unable to avoid splashing the water. The barking only got closer. Cursing in the Black Tongue, he picked up his speed.

All that did was make the splashes louder.

When Morfang finally reached the other shore, the dogs had already caught up to where he discarded his armor and he sprinted into the woods. He dared to look behind him. The dogs were following and their masters close behind on their horses.

The current would give him a little more time to make his escape. He didn’t know where he was, nor did it matter…at the moment.

Mordor had fallen three months ago and had become ridden with the dead of his fellow countrymen. For centuries, Morfang had sought a way to gain honor with the Eye. And right when the chance had come, the Ring was destroyed and he escaped with his life.

Morfang tripped over a root and skipped to regain his balance. The dogs barked again and he swore, picking up speed once again.

As he ran, something embedded itself in his thigh and he shrieked, falling to the ground. He gazed at the arrow and grabbed its head. He relaxed his leg and ripped the arrow out with grit teeth. If he survived today, he’d bind it. For now, it was more important to run. Using the pain to his advantage, Morfang ran faster than before.

He found a tree with low branches and swung himself up. The dogs would find it and the men would search around it, but by that time, Morfang had already jumped to the next nearest tree, and from there to the nearest after that.

He pressed his grimy hands against his wound and focused on breathing. His heart raced, but then slowed down as his breathing calmed. Even when the Orc Hunters arrived, his heart did not start to race again. If his heart raced, the action would release panic-stricken adrenaline, and that would release a strong scent that would alert the dogs to him. Every Orc, from the most brainless maggot to the smartest commander, knew how scent could emit from their own bodies and how to use it to their advantage.

The dogs barked up the first tree he climbed into and the Hunters searched it.

After what seemed like ages, they gave up and went on elsewhere. When he could hear them no longer, Morfang ripped his sleeve and bound it around his thigh.

He listened to the wind, seeing what sounds he would catch. The trees talked here. But he also heard singing. Elf music, it sounded like. He’d have to get out of this wood. The Elves were just as ruthless as the Hunters.

Morfang sighed. From a pack of wolves into a lion’s den…what more can go wrong? he asked himself as he fell asleep…

Lindariel woke at the first rays, unable to sleep well that night. She got out of her bed and went to dress for the day. After dawning the white gown of a maiden yet to reach womanhood (an Elf does not reach adulthood until they are about two thousand years of age), Lindariel took a silver comb and dragged it through her golden hair.

She wished that she could just leave her quarters, but she was afraid to do so at this time in the morning without a guard or handmaiden. Especially since the last time, when she had been lectured sternly by her father and her brother. She didn’t want to risk it again. So she brushed her hair until it shined and frizzed out. She set her comb down and ran her fingers through it, trying to lessen the frizz.

The sun rose and the welcoming horns blared. Lindariel left her vanity and strode to her balcony, wanting to see if she could catch a glimpse of the visitor or, she hoped, her returning brother.

Seeing a white steed walk through with a proud rider on its shoulders—a rider she recognized—Lindariel forgot her fear of leaving her room in these early hours and ran to greet the visitor.

“Legolas!” she shouted, rushing toward him. A servant had already taken the horse and he was speaking with the guards.

Legolas turned and openly embraced his sister.

“Welcome home, Brother.”
Legolas tilted his sister’s head up and studied her. He shook his head. “Shouldn’t you be in bed, Lindariel?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted. “And you shouldn’t lecture me. I’m not a child anymore.”

“Father would disagree,” Legolas said, leading her back into their home. “And so do I.”

“Don’t be so old,” Lindariel teased, poking his ribs. Legolas gave her a brotherly push, but it brought a smile to her face as she said, “I want to know everything that happened while you were away.”

“Everything? It is not for a lady’s ears.”

Lindariel punched his arm in protest. “I’m not so womanish that I’d faint at hearing the details of a battle! I’ve a stronger stomach than that.”

“I know. Father worries about that.”

“Why?”

“He says it won’t help you find a good husband.”

“Father’s old fashioned then, just like all the other Elders.”

“Should you shirk tradition so easily?” Legolas challenged, handing his cloak to a servant.

“Should you not?” Lindariel challenged back. “You’re the next king of Mirkwood and you just nod your head at whatever father tells you.”

“No, I don’t,” Legolas snapped. “Sometimes I argue, but I’m realistic enough to listen. Unlike someone I could mention. If you’re not careful, you’ll marry a Dwarf!”

Lindariel winced. No Elf, no matter how spirited, would want to marry a Dwarf.

Legolas smiled. “Well, even if that were to happen, I know exactly who to suggest as your husband.”

Lindariel punched Legolas’ arm again. “Stop that, Legolas! It’s unnerving.”

Legolas only laughed and gave her a one arm hug. “I apologize, Lindariel. If you really want to know, you can listen to my report to father.”

Lindariel frowned, but understood the meaning. Legolas couldn’t tell her—father needed to hear it first. So until then, Lindariel would have to wait until Legolas finished his report to hear it herself. And it’d be possible that Legolas would not wish to relive it a second time for his younger sister, so her only chance would be to listen to his report later that day.

Lindariel, having overcome her shyness for the day, went to retrieve her cloak and decided to go riding for a little while. She asked Legolas to send a page to her when he was about to report to father. Legolas promised and she was off.

Lindariel stopped at the borders of Mirkwood and saw a metallic shine amongst the river. Carefully, she rode across the river and realized it was a breastplate that she had never seen before. Thick and rough, dented and scratched, whoever wore it had seen many battles and survived them.

Lindariel left the breastplate, crossing the river back to her home. She looked for tracks, but her eyes were not as trained as her brother’s. And there were many tracks on the ground. She couldn’t distinguish one from the other. Save the dog and horse tracks.

Her horse stopped and began to snort and look around wildly.

“Hush, hush,” Lindariel said, stroking the horse’s neck. The horse calmed and went forward a bit. But as they passed a tree, her steed whinnied and reared up. Lindariel shrieked and her horse galloped off, leaving her on the ground. She groaned and forced herself to sit up.

She saw spots and stars. Her back ached horribly and her eyes watered. Her voice was caught in her throat.
Before her voice could be released, someone jumped on top of her and covered her mouth with a foul smelling, gnarled hand, forcing her back down. With his other hand, he held a sharp, iron dagger against her throat.
Her eyes widened at the creature’s appearance.

His whole body looked like an old man’s, if not for his large, pointy ears, black lips, fiery yellow eyes, and half-rotted yellow jagged teeth. His hair was white, styled in a Mohawk, and a lock of hair fell past his sallow-colored neck. The smell he emitted was the dank, disgusting musk of blood and sweat. He had an iron earring on his left ear, shaped like a shark’s tooth, dangling from his lobe. One of the sleeves of his jerkin was ripped and served as a bandage for an injury on his right leg.

The sharp, yellow nails of his hand gently pressed against the skin around her mouth. “Don’t scream,” he demanded. His breath smelt of stale blood. It watered Lindariel’s eyes further, making it easier for her to cry silently. A weaker woman, she thought, would have passed out from the stench. “Hold it down or I’ll bleed you like a pig.”
Lindariel’s tears of pain became tears of fear and she nodded, biting down her agonized scream.

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