Orctober Instadrabbles by cuarthol

Icy wind pulled stinging tears from his eyes, so much like those of Helcaraxë it nearly froze Finrod’s resolve.  But winter would pass, spring would come again, hope was not so frail a thing.  He clung to these yet, despite their doom.

Far below, the surf battered the rocky cliffs, sending salty droplets to kiss his face even at this height.  Were it not for the thick bank of clouds he fancied he might even see across to the far shore of Eldamar.

Turning away, he walked back to where the first stones of Barad Nimras waited to be raised.

This was once a place of beauty.  He had heard the stories of healing waters blessed by Ulmo though never chanced to see it.  But the pain he hears in the stranger’s cries echo the evil which has come to this once sacred place.  Now the waters are stagnant and rank.

Tuor almost steps out of the treeline, but he is held back, a warning in the Elf’s eyes that says their paths may cross here but they go to a different doom.

It is a long time before Voronwë nods and they continue again across the now silent landscape.

The watchfires never burned quite warm enough to dry the snowmelt from their clothing.  An angry bark from the overseer reminded them not to get too close, too comfortable, and forget their watch.

It was not long after the alarm was raised, a shadow caught sneaking across the road.  Iron boots went crashing through the brush after their quarry.

He saw them as they vanished down into the hollow.  He could gain a fat reward for this prize, a small reprieve from his miserable life.

The histories would not remember the orc’s sacrifice.  He had never trusted those promises, anyway.

Chapter End Notes

Building on inspiration from the last chapter - Tuor and Voronwë pursued by orcs who sought for Turin, a "what if" they were not caught because one of the Orcs let them go?