Legendarium [ Tolkien One-Shots ]

A Sharp Betrayal

Dark dreams filled his mind. A shadow and a flame encroached on what hope had remained in his heart, and the bonds that held him fast bit into his skin like daggers. He dreaded wakefulness, knowing that each time his eyes opened he was met with the ugly shapes of orcs and their cruel blades.

Many days he had been held captive. He had lost count, knowing only pain and anguish now. The orcs were taking him to Morgoth, this much he knew in his heart. Sooner or later they would arrive. He began to wish for the former, so that he could die. But alas, that would not be the case.

As he lay in fitful slumber, he heard noises on the edge of consciousness. No voices, but a scratching and the unsheathing of a blade. He could not wake himself, so deeply asleep was he. But fear filled his unconscious mind.

He felt someone pawing at him, as the orcs often had done. Someone messed with the bonds around his hands. But still he could not wake himself. He tried desperately. He needed to flee from this new bout of orc torture. When at last he felt the sharp, all too familiar pain of a slice from a blade, he leapt to consciousness.

He found a dark shape before him holding a cold, black blade that glinted in the moonlight. He dove forward, grabbing the sword and wrestling with the orc. The spawn of Morgoth would pay. Now that his bonds had been cut, he would decimate those who’d kept him captive.

At last the sword came free. He thrust it forward into the body of the orc with a scream.

A fair cry went up. “Túrin! No!”

The moonlight glinted off the braided silver hair of the orc he’d stabbed. And suddenly, to his horror, Túrin realized his mistake. To his right, a dark haired elf watched in complete shock. For before them, slain unjustly, lay the body of Túrin’s greatest friend.

“Beleg.” He whispered the name of his companion and then fell silent. A new darkness covered his mind.

But their cries had roused the orcs. Gwindor grabbed Túrin, who still held the black sword, and pushed him forward. Tears from shock stained the elf's face.

Túrin could not comprehend what had happened. The elf tried to push him forward, tried to speak to him. But Túrin would not respond. He stared down at the body and his own shook in anger, in fear, in shock.

The hoots and cries of the orcs grew around them. Dark voices, harsh voices. They were the shadow incarnate, and they wanted their prey back. Gwindor glanced around in terror.

“Run.”