Three Year's Thrall by Anu

Three Year's Thrall

"Now when Tuor was sixteen years old the Elves were minded to leave the caves of Androth where they dwelt, and to make their way secretly to the Havens of Sirion in the distant south; but they were assailed by Orcs and Easterlings before they made good their escape, and Tuor was taken captive and enslaved by Lorgan, chief of the Easterlings of Hithlum. For three years he endured that thralldom, but at the end of that time he escaped; and returning to the caves of Androth he dwelt there alone, and did such great hurt to the Easterlings that Lorgan set a price upon his head. But when Tuor had lived thus in solitude as an outlaw for four years, Ulmo set it in his heart to depart from the land of his fathers, for he had chosen Tuor as the instrument of his designs; and leaving once more the caves of Androth he went westwards across Dor-lomin, and found Annon-in-Gelydh, the Gate of the Noldor, which the people of Turgon built when they dwelt in Nevrast long years before. Thence a dark tunnel led beneath the mountains, and issued into Cirith Ninniach, the Rainbow Cleft, through which a turbulent water ran towards the western sea. Thus it was that Tuor's flight from Hithlum was marked by neither Man nor Orc, and no knowledge of it came to the ears of Morgoth."

-The Silmarillion, Chapter 23 'Of Tuor and the Fall of Gondolin', page 238.

Read Three Year's Thrall

"We leave in the morning, Tuor, try to get some rest." Annael soothed her foster-son. She and her husband sat at the fire across the dwelling from where Tuor lay half-awake on his bed. Their home was a large, one roomed cave, with corners sectioned off for various purposes.

Usually Tuor's bed was curtained away from the openness of the cavern, but everything had been packed, including the thick veils that hid his bed from the doorway and dimmed the firelight and soft talking and singing of the residents of the other caves nearby.

Tuor had been raised here since he was born, and was used to being the only Man among the Sindarin elves of Androth. Likewise, they were also used to his height and deep voice, and his gruff looks so unlike theirs. Tuor was but sixteen, and his man's growth had barely begun. It would be years before the dusky hair on his upper lip became an actual beard, or he grew as tall as all the other Men he had seen from afar.

Mother, Annael, had told him ever since he was a small child that his mother had come here and borne him after her husband Huor of only two months had died; and that he was not elven, so don't cry that you can't climb the trees as well, or sing as high and clear.

Annael had also been the one to keep him from being excluded in an important part of life, that of music. Being a Man, he had had no voice, until she delivered one into his hands. Tuor was a skilled harper, and singing with his hands had brought him back into the unity and harmony of the people of Androth.

Tuor wasn't lying awake out of anticipation for the morrow's journey to the Havens to seek refuge, if not escape; but rather the opposite. Although he had been assured that his relatives no longer lived, he still felt some dread that they might come and take him away. Tuor had lived too long among the Elves to want to leave them easily.

ael ael brushed his hair back from his brow tenderly as she passed by him to return to her seat by the fire, and he smiled at her. Tuor did need to get some rest before the journey, for it would be long and must be done in secret to avoid capture and ruin. He would be needed, his strength was valuable as an asset to his people.

Tuor was so busy worrying that he did not notice when his eyes drifted shut; and when Annael passed by him to go to her own bed, tucked the blankets tighter around the sleeping boy and pressed a kiss to each of his eyelids, closed for sleep in the custom of Men, and he did not wake from his sound slumber. Annael retired with her husband, and they slept.

The next morning they rose early and departed. The landscape was uneventfully emtpy until they came to the mountains near the noon hour, and Tuor's foster-father paused to speak with him.

"Keep your eyes open, Tuor, for the scouts have not returned this hour with report, and I fear they may have been waylaid ahead." Tuor's foster-father said to him, leading the bridle of Annael's mare under pretense of helping Tuor guide it across the rocky ground in the pass. Tuor nodded discreetly, and looked about.

He didn't like the feeling the heavily-forested dish of land they wee currently crossing gave him. He wondered if the trees were speaking to the Elves, telling them to turn back, even as the earth spoke to him. He had been taught that Men were bound to the earth, and that is why they smelled of soil and their blood tasted of metals. It had always been his belief that, if such a tie was true, were he to listen then the earth would speak to him as trees and animals of living stature communed with the elves.

Tuor's thoughts were interrupted by a battle cry, followed by a host of others, ripped from eager human throats. Tuor drew his blade and whirled to face his attackers, guiding his foster-mother's mare away from the source of the sound

It was Men of the East, their heavy armor and dark cloaks shining with a dull and terrible gleam. Tuor guessed there to be enough for their party to fight, but the women and children, what was to be done with them? They could not fight, they could not flee, they would surely be slaughtered. Tuor grabbed a passing elven lad and pressed the reigns into his hands. "Take all the women and children out of this valley! Head for shelter, if you can." The lad nodded and bravely led Annael away.

Annael clutched her horse in despair. She would be no good to them, as heavy with child as she was, but she hated the thought of flight. Concern for her child won out over her anger at her helplessness, and she did her best to aid where she could, lifting a small girl onto the horse behind her.

Tuor fought alongside his chosen kin, his sword swinging with equal ferocity to the Elves'. He was a good swordsman, even with his harp over his left shoulder, keeping his balance and footing amid the rocks. He had an extra advantage that the Elves did not, and that was equality with his foe. He met them in size and strength, and as the battle began to be won, Tuor looked after women to see them being waylaid ahead, their gaurds fallen.

His foster-father saw this in the same instant, and they and more surged forward to break apart the wave of foes there. The battle was nearly won, clearly in their favor, but suddenly Orcs swarmed down from the hills, drawn by the distinctive sound of battle. Now outnumbered, the elves fell quickly, and when Tuor's foster-father fell beneath an orc's axe, he perceived that the time was ripe to flee.

All those fleeing were stricken down, and a vast number of dead or dying Elves littered the bloody field. Tuor took several minor wounds, but fought his way into the forests, where he was pursued by both Easterlings and Orcs. His luck ran out quickly, and he was taken by a hidden group of Easterlings lying in wait, and their net brought him down. He fought, but his sword and knives found not enough purchase in the soft roping of the net to cut, and he was tied, his weapons taken, and dragged like a beast back the distance he had run.

Lorgan, chief of the Easterlings, looked about at the dead elves and pillaging Orcs in disgust. "You there, who is your leader?" he called out to the nearest one. The questioned Orc leered toothily and pointed at a hairy brute taking out his lust on a warm corpse of an elf that had just rejected life under his hand.

Lorgan walked up to the Orc, and crossing his arms over his chest, waited patiently for the other leader to finish. When the Orc came with a grunt, jerked out and stood, adjusting itself, Lorgan only then bothered to pay direct attention to it. "What do you want?" The Orc growled. "I was here before your raiding party came along and ruined my spoils." He said mildly, covering his anger. "You want retribution? Take your pick of the spoils." The Orc offered.

It was a generous offer, but Lorgan knew that if he chose all the best, he would be waylaid before he could get home. Thus, his choices must be made carefully, and he must leave plenty behind of sufficient value for the Orcs. Bastards. Lorgan hated the ugly beasts. He strode off, to look for something useful to take home.

His men had found live captives, four of them. Three elves, and most interestingly, one Man. One of the elves was dying of its wounds. Lorgan decided to leave that one for the Orcs, which were already starting to feast on the elvish corpses they hadn't sated themselves upon. The Man, however, he decided to keep. He was not of the East, but there was a fierce strength to his face. Lorgan guess him to be in his late teens.
e twe two elves, both male, were in fairly good condition after the fight. Too good of condition. Such able fighters would be more hassle than they were worth, but still, they were Elves, and that made them a rarity. If kept in cages and put on display or sold as pets to rich men, they would be perfectly acceptable.

As for the spoils, there wasn't much the orcs hadn't marred. Bolts of Elvish cloth and clothes of fine cut would be enough. Lorgan picked out the best of them and loaded them in a pile in the wagon. The tied Elves and Man he also put in there. He noticed the Man wore a harp on his shoulder. Such a skill would fetch a fair price for him, if the boy was any good at it.

Lorgan rode out, not bothering to seek out the Orc leader again. Let my leaving be his signal to take what he wants of what I've left him. Just so long as I don't have to stand there and watch him and his men eat their enemies. Disgusting. Lorgan thought to himself.

Tuor managed to roll around so that he was sitting, instead of laying on his face as he'd been thrown to lie. Tuor's childhood friend and his older brother did not meet his eyes, bouncing along in the rocking cart. They had been caught hiding together, tucked as close as brothers could be in a deserted bear den. They had seen the utter destruction of thier people, and were silent in loss, knowing that they would be next to die.

Tuor waited until none of their guards were nearby to speak, in Elvish, so that the Easterlings would not understand. "I have a knife." Both elves looked at him. He was offering them honorable death, the only escape left to them. Tuor was sorrowed at having to do it, but if his friends willed it, he would give them death by his own hand, then seek his own after.

The brothers looked at one another, and the elder spoke. "Tuor, if you will, please kill him first, for though I cannot hardly bear to see my brother die, I would not have him die in sadness over me."

Tuor nodded, and the brothers embraced and said their farewells to one another and to Tuor, thanking him. He nodded around his tears, for all three wanted to live, yet death was better than the fate destined them in thrall. Both lay down holding one another, looking each other in the eyes. Tuor reached his blade between their slim throats, wishing he could look away, but his aim must be true, and he cut cleanly and swiftly, and the two elves felt only a little pain as they died together.

Now it was his time. The guards had already noticed, and Tuor crouched and laid his blade against his skin, praying that the few seconds he had before they reached him would be enough. Alas, it was not, and the only mark on his flesh was a shallow nick when they wrestled the knife from his hand.

They laid him down on his belly and tied him, then drug him out the cage to thier leader, to whom they had just reported the incident. Tuor knelt at Lorgan's feet, and kept his eyes on the ground. Lorgan reached down and tippeor'or's chin up to see his face, and looked into Tuor's eyes.

"So you have killed them, and would have done so yourself. Tell me harper, did you know them well?" Lorgan wanted to see if this boy had done it for Elvish honor, the kind that made a raped Elf close it's eyes and die, or if he had done it in lucid cold blood. Tuor took a moment to answer, so great was his fear. "I was raised with them. They were my closest friends." He answered softly.

Lorgan smirked in pleasure, kohl-lined black eyes going darker in admiration. "What is your name, boy, and how old are you?" "My name is Tuor. And I've just passed my fifteenth year." Old enough, thought Lorgan. "Well Tuor, I think I like you after all." Lorgan cuffed him solidly. "From now on, always call me Master." "Yes Master." Tuor whispered through bleeding lips. Lorgan raised his voice and addressed his men. "I claim Tuor as my personal slave, from now until his life's end. Anyone that touches him he will be given free reign to kill in whatever way he deems nessesary. Tuor is mine alone, for any purpose I please. Is that understood?"

Lorgan's men answered up with surly yes sirs. Lorgan smiled menacingly at Tuor, and traced the line of his jaw. Tuor flinched, but did not fight. Lorgan's grin grew broader. He would look forward to when this one deemed his time-biding submission had paid off, and when the little one attempted whatever his expressive eyes promised he was planning, Lorgan would be glad to be there to crush him.

For Tuor, the malice in Lorgan's smile inspired only fear, loathing, and hate. At Lorgan's signal, his men loaded Tuor back in the wagon, and Lorgan commanded that the elves' bodies be left by the roadside. For Tuor, the long ride to Hithlum was hell.

When they stopped to make camp for the night, Tuor was unloaded and his feet untied. It felt good to stand again, even if his hands were tied to the wagon slats. He halfway hoped they would let him walk tomorrow, when he was not despairing of life and weeping quietly to himself. So far his pattern was to hope and despair alternately in tragedy. He missed his foster-mother, his extended family of the cave-dwelling Elves. Tuor missed the tight-knit of relationships he knew, and the sounds of elvish singing.

Lorgan came along after dark, and wordlessly untied the rope from the wagon, and led Tuor off. Tuor watched the ground warily, not wanting to trip in the dark. Lorgan stopped at the edge of the camp, where the faintest of firelight barely shone. Tuor saw that there was a bedroll laid out against a tree trunk. He had no time to wonder, for Lorgan tripped and shoved him. Tuor fell on it, trying to get his bearings in the dark, and found his hands tied before he had time to attempt escape.

After tying him up face down, Lorgan went away. Tuor wrestled himself over onto his back and sat up by leaning heavily on the tree. Lorgan returned, and removed his helm and cloak before sitting beside Tuor with a plate of food. It smelled rather good, and Tuor fought the stirrings of hunger, but his stomach betrayed him, growling loudly. He hadn't eaten all day, but for early this morning. Lorgan ignored him for some minutes, then turned to him with a morsel of bread in his hand.

He held it to Tuor's lips. Tuor refused it, and Lorgan took it away with a shrug. A few minutes later, he offered Tuor water from his flask. Tuor accepted that, for his thirst had become something fierce. Lorgan went away, and returned without the plate and flask. He began removing his clothes and shoes. When he was in his breeches, he turned to do the same to Tuor.

Tuor fought him off, angrily, but it did no good. Lorgan settled for having to cut them off him, and when Tuor was naked, Lorgan grasped the kicking legs and turned him onto his belly. He lay on Tuor's back, pinning him while he removed his breeches one handed, and drew the blanket over them both for privacy. He had no desire to give his men a peep show. Tuor obviously had no idea what was going to happen to him, Lorgan noted. What a wonderful day. He thought to himself. Well, if his new slave was a virgin, then he'd best not damage the lad.

If he hurt him the first time, he'd have to wait for him to heal to take him again. And when it came to tight virgins, Lorgan was not a very patient man. One would only have to ask his eleven young wives to be sure of that particular fact.

Lorgan took a moment to dig out a bottle of armor oil and slicked his fingers with it. He lifted his weight off the boy's hips, and predictably, Tuor tried to use this new space to maneuver. Lorgan was able to reach under him easily, and once there, Tuor was not able to stop Lorgan from stroking him into arousal. He growled in anger, his voice already tinged with lust. Lorgan restrained a smile. Boys this age were so easy to arouse.

When Tuor was nearly at his peak, never having noticed Lorgan's fingers inside him but for a dim pain at the first entry, Lorgan drew his hand away. Tuor whimpered, shuffling about, looking for that palm again. He gasped and went still when his motions brought his buttock into contact with Lorgan's erect and oiled member.

Lorgan chuckled, and slid it along the skin of Tuor's buttocks teasingly before driving it into the warm cleft. His hand went under Tuor again, and held the boy's cock snugly without moving while he thrusted in. Tuor pulled away from the intrusion in agony, but his stretched opening gave for Lorgan anyway. When Lorgan was hilted, he paused, sighing at the blissful sensation of Tuor stretched tight over him.

Tuor however, panted shallowly and sobbed in pain. Yet, with every breath, he could feel it relaxing, hurting less. He tried breathing more deeply, slowly, and Lorgan had the good sense to wait for him to adjust fully. When the cock impaling him no longer hurt so badly, Tuor waited. A few breaths more and it began to feel better, almost good. When a full minute had passed with Lorgan inside him, although it felt longer than any minute ever had before, Tuor squirmed at the delicious feeling of it, trying to get it to lay with more pressure along that spot inside him that hungered for touch.

Lorgan laughed and licked his neck, then drove his hips in a circular stroke. Tuor shrieked, though not in pain, and felt shame at hearing the sound. But that didn't stop him from driving back onto Lorgan to feel that again. Lorgan obliged him, and slid out, then back in, pushing directly along it in the grasping channel both times. Tuor rocked his hips back onto the now-swiftly thrusting cock and the clenching hand alternately.

He came with a cry, and a few more hard brutal thrusts that shoved his face into the ground later, Lorgan also spurted inside him. Tuor tried to breathe, the weighty bulk of Lorgan atop him panting in the same focus. When sanity had returned, Tuor felt sick with shame and was glad he hadn't eaten anything, because he was afraid he would throw up, even now on an empty stomach. It wasn't that Lorgan had used him, as bad as that was. It was the fact that he had loved nearly every minute of it that sickened him.

Oh, why could I not have died in battle? He thought to himself. Will no one save me now, as punishment for my pleasure in this evil deed, this rape? Tuor hid his face and cried quietly. Lorgan pulled out, and looked at the boy sadly a moment. He lifted his hand as if he would lay it on the boy's shoulder in comfort, thought better of it, and drew his hand back.

He lay facing the dark, his back to Tuor. The boy's bonds were tight. He wasn't going anywhere. Lorgan went to sleep.

The next morning Lorgan used Tuor again, in the early morning hours before his men woke. The boy's opening muscle was sore from the activity, and it took a little more work to please him this time, because of the pain. Tuor did not cry again, but he did decline breakfast.

Lorgan let him wash in the stream and dress, before putting him in the wagon again. He didn't think the boy would want to walk today. The wagon would be a rough ride on the terrain, and Lorgan felt a moment of remorse. Perhaps he shouldn't have taken him again this morning. Well, what was done was done, and the boy would heal quickly enough, after a while. Besides, it was worth the trouble the lad was to have such a delicious feeling of euphoria.

Lorgan even smiled. Admittedly a small smile, but from such a harsh man, it was indeed a smile. Tuor, however, lived in misery.

If the many days' ride alone was hell, it was worse when he got to Lorgan's home, the dwelling place of the Easterlings of Hithlum. It was a dirty, foul city, marred land that even the Elves had written off.

Lorgan's house was larger than the others, and he was taken out of the wagon into a locked courtyard of the house. Lorgan sent small boys off with his horses and the wagon, and led Tuor in by the rope on his wrists.

Women met and greeted Lorgan when he entered, and from the kiss and casual grope disguised as a greeting he gave each of them, Tuor guessed that these were his wives. Not all were here, apparently some were watching the numerous children. Tuor counted eight of them. When Lorgan introduced him, Tuor knelt briefly as he was recently forcefully taught, in greeting to each of them. Most sneered at him, jealous or disgusted or both. One or two looked as if they'd like to borrow him.

Tuor hung his head in shame. There was no use hoping that someone would save him, that he was worth saving. His throat was raw even now, voice hoarse from his screams of pleasure uttered last night. Lorgan went and sat down to a meal, his wives surrounding him and filling him in with news. He drug Tuor along, and Tuor had begun to think that Lorgan had forgotten he was holding the leash, but a quick jerk on it brought him to his knees, eye level with Lorgan's muddy boots.

Impatiently, Lorgan shoved one at him. Tuor guessed he was supposed to remove it. He did so, and a servant set a bowl of hot water beside him. Ah. As Lorgan's personal slave, he had to not only satisfy the man, but physically care for him as well. Tuor pondered his current state, life, death and escape while washing Lorgan's feet. His conclusion when he was forced under the table to suck Lorgan off, another skill he'd been forced to learn on the journey, was: I'll bide my time, learn what I can, and I'll get away. One day I'll come back here and kill them all, and burn this place to ashes.

The bitter taste in his mouth was not only that of Lorgan's release, but also the damning feeling of futility.

*****

After three year's of living in Lorgan's house, Tuor had come to a few conclusions. One, was that Lorgan did not bed meremerely out of a desire for sex, because with eleven wives, the man had more than enough sex. It was more about domination than lust. Yet Tuor knew also that Lorgan baited him by that, trying to pull him out of his front of submission.

Lorgan knew that Tuor's submissive additude was feigned, but Lorgan did not know that Tuor wasn't just employing it until he could escape. Under the guise of Lorgan's personal slave, Tuor had a prime opportunity to study the man. When Lorgan went out on raids or such, he had taken Tuor along, and Tuor had studied him in battle.

But last year, when Tuor had reckoned himself to be about eighteen, Lorgan had gotten smart of that plan. Tuor had learned a lot since he'd come here. He knew when and what to refuse, and how to fight without being punished. Tuor was afraid, because Lorgan did not like him, yet treated him rather well, by comparision. Some would have thought it a mercy if their Master did not punish them for offenses, and thought it favor.

Tuor knew it was not. The only time he'd openly rebelled, two years ago at seventeen, and refused to service Lorgan's wives; he had been soundly beaten. But that was all. Biting Lorgan whenraperaped him only got him a cuff. Giving Lorgan hate-filled looks was ignored. Tuor did not push his limits, though he questioned them. What did Lorgan hope to gain by allowing Tuor impertinence?

Perhaps a lowering of Tuor's guard enough that he might attempt escape? Tuor knew better than to attempt that yet. There was no way to do so, and if he were to for for any of the setups Lorgan baited him with, Lorgan would crush him, and Tuor would no longer try it again. Thus, Tuor kept his head cool, bided his time, and hated Lorgan. He couldn't afford to lose the hope he had. His only shot for escape was to sit tight and wait for a chance.

Another thing Tuor had learned was that life was actually pleasant when Lorgan was not home. Granted, it was a ploy to get him to react, for he was watched sharply; but it was actually quite nice to bathe, and sleep alone in Lorgan's bed. Even the study was open to him at these times, he snuck in often.

Another thing he'd learned, that he used to his advantage, was that Lorgan had an infatuation with him, and misjudged Tuor's intellect. Lorgan preferred Tuor sometimes to the unresisting women he'd wed. He liked going out on raids and coming home to his tent that held no whiny women, no crying children, no fawning officers. Just familiar, malicious, quiet little Tuor, who wasn't quite so little as he had been.

Tuor had gained a few pounds and inches since his capture. His beard was growing in thickly, requiring Lorgan to shave it. His skill with the harp had grown immensely, and sometimes moody Tuor could be convinced to play without being beaten.

If the truth be known, Tuor believed that Lorgan feared him in his deepest heart. That was why he was so patient to win iron control over him, because Tuor was new and strange and exotic, an unknown element that Lorgan was both drawn to and repulsed by. He didn't know what Tuor was made of, who he was, what he thought behind his brown eyes when he watched everything from behind the greasy black locks while his fingers sang on his harp strings.

Lorgan had lined his eyes with black kohl when he had first brought him home, but as the novelty of him wore off, Lorgan did not spare any more of his supplies with Tuor unless it was a special occasion. As Tuor had gotten older, Lorgan had kept his face smooth, not liking Tuor to look intimidating. And Tuor did look intimidating with his beard grown out a little, for he was taller than these men of the East, but without it he looked like a boy.

Tuor lay with the sheets wrapped around his thighs and thought over that endless goal of his, escape. How was it to be done? Lorgan would be home again today, and would likely have him unable to walk, for Lorgan was always insatiable after a month out with his troops, and his women refused the bear the brunt of the burden, letting Tuor do it instead. If anything was to be attempted, it would have to be after Lorgan had left and he had healed sufficiently after Lorgan's infamous going-away-for-a-month night.

It was nearly midmorning already. Tuor rose, and went down to the kitchens for a quick meal. When he had done, he tried to hide the fact that he was checking to see which horses were in the stable by pretending to hit on one of Lorgan's more agreeable wives. If he got away, he must not be caught, for if he did Lorgan would break his spirit, and that Tuor feared more than harm to his body. Staying here of his own free will would be too much to bear.

After seeing that there actually was one or two good horses left, Tuor allowed the woman to lead him back inside. He convinced her that he wanted to do it in the traveling supplies closet, and once inside, pinned her to the wall and rubbed on her. She was so excited by that, he packed a bag of food and gear behind her back while pretending to come. In reality, he wasn't even hard. When she orgasmed, she nearly passed out, and so he lay her on the table and told her he'd be right back.

Of course he'd lied, and once outside the closet, grabbed another of Lorgan's wives as a cover. This time he got her into the stable, but she wanted to suck him off. Tuor didn't want his mind confused by lust, or her to laugh at him for not getting erect at all over a woman, and instead suggested that he do her.

She agreed, and while his head was under her skirts, he tried not the think about what he was doing. Anything to get away. It was a disagreeable job, the one he'd hated the most when Lorgan had forced him to learn to do it shortly after he was brought here. Nevertheless, it was sufficient, and he was able to slink off and grab a horse.

From there, it was all danger. He galloped the horse right out of the gate, and the watchers in the courtyard immediately started after him. Tuor thanked the Valar that the horse knew elvish commands when he was able to slyly ditch his followers.

Lorgan would be after him soon, he knew, so Tuor did not tarry for the night, only stopping to wash his face and mouth repeatedly in a small stream before going on. About midmorning he circled back around and caught sight of Lorgan androuproup of men hot after him.

He swore, but kept his lead, praying that they did not know where the caves of Androth were, and if they did, that they did not know their tricky terrain as well as he.

It was sometime in the night when he reached the caves, and had to leave his horse because they were now so close that it's breathing would betray him. He found one and overtook him, and gathering his weapons, hunted down the next.

Morning found him blood-spattered and still hunting the Easterlings through the rocks. Daylight was even more dangerous, but he knew his way, and the animals who had taken up refuge in the caves had no interest in him.

Seeing that Tuor held the advantage among these caves, Lorgan and his remaining men left that place. They would return later and flush the lad out, or simply kill him. Tuor saw them departing, and stood on a high ledge out of range of their bows, and shouted to Lorgan so that it would echo, "One day I will kill you!" Lorgan just laughed at him. "I'll come back and let you try some day." He promised, and rode home. Tuor stood shillouted against the sky and watched him go, wrath burning in his brown eyes.

*****

Tuor spent the time before they returned to hunt him wisely. He set traps, gathered caches, built sheltered lookouts. He ambushed orcs for gear and supplies, then waited.

He could not leave the shelter of his caves, lest they enter in his absence and waylay him. When he had eaten or driven off all the game within his reach, he was reduced to a poor vegetarian diet that kept him barely strong enough to watch.

Lorgan and his hunters returned in the spring, and Tuor was ready for them.

His traps killed many as they chased him through the rocks, and he was able to slaughter them from hiding. Lorgan caught sight of him once or twice and felt fear. Tuor was grown taller and thinner, but was stronger and his beard hid his lower face. He was also more elusive, and Lorgan had a tough time of hunting him through the caves.

When night fell, Tuor targeted the man who had shamed him; and when Lorgan's men found the number of corpses by daylight, they had no more desire to hunt Tuor. They carried the bodies home for burial, and Tuor remained hidden. He was now able to hunt occasionally, and began to fill out more both in height and size.

When Tuor was twenty-one, he caught a party of orcs in the pass and slaughtered them. Vengeance felt good, he realized, standing over the pile of fallen foes. Tuor made his mark in each of their hides, and piled the bodies.

When other orcs saw the sight, they were angered, but Tuor's bait had worked, and he was able to kill most of the beasts before they escaped. His main occupation became hunting the evil creatures, and he set new traps when the old ones failed.

Winter put a halt to his plans and sent him to huddling in the cave that had been his childhood home. He missed his people, and mourned them as best he could without their bodies. Tuor was lonely when he was not hunting, for there were no others. Thus he hunted evening the heart of winter, stumbling through deep drifts.

Spring brought him to roam out of his valley for better killing grounds, and he made many more traps for the beasts, which were beginning to get smart enough to avoid the areas around the caves.

When he attacked Easterlings, he always left one alive to torture information out of, for he still entertained plans to kill and burn Lorgan's city in Hithlum. Thus it was that he learned Lorgan had set a price on him. Dead or alive, preferably alive, Lorgan would pay anyone, Man or Orc, a pretty price to bring him Tuor.

Tuor was so angered by that he stabbed the victim without waiting for more information.

He went back to his caves in hiding for a while, but it was just as well, because his victims now came to him. Tuor became adept at killing quickly from far quarters, protecting himself above all. His killing sprees would normally have ended with winter, but Orcs and Men sought him out then, and Tuor got no rest while defending his caves on various fronts.

When Tuor was twenty-two, he realized that his years of vengeance were equal to those of his imprisonment, and he considered the debt paid. But he still fought his enemies, because now he was trapped in his caves with no escape, because he had not burned Lorgan's house, and because Lorgan lived.

The extra year of revenge made him feel sick at heart, and he despaired ever getting free of this land and this fate. The days he spent in killing were furiously fueled by thoughts of what Lorgan had done to him, lest he forgive and be killed for lessening wariness. The nights he lay curled in his old home, and dreamed of something he could never remember upon waking, a sweet taste in the back of his mouth that could never quite be tasted enough to identify and find again.

As he stayed, his dream of killing Lorgan faded, until one day he sat on his perch and decided to fight no more. Tuor would always hate Lorgan, and if he could kill him one day, he would. Tuor was sick of staying in the caves that held so much memory, that were stained with the blood of Orcs and Easterlings.

One day, without hardly thinking of what he was doing, he packed supplies and gear enough for a journey, and set out. He knew not where he was headed, but as long as it was away from the miserable life he knew, he would be grateful.

When Tuor came to structures built by elves, he wept, for he had missed the simple astrologic beauty of this people, and he did not touch the stone, less it be slathered with the blood he had shed and felt ever marred by in spirit. He followed the path that was there, and no Orcs or Easterlings assailed him.

When he came to the end of the long dark path, he beheld a glorious sight; a peaceful and bright valley where simple-minded creatures rejoiced to be alive. Tuor set down his bag and knelt beside the fast-flowing water.

Yes, his heart could heal here. Tuor smiled for the first time in years.