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shadowofwar-goober · 2 years

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The Shaman and the Bard- Ch. 5 Feathers and Bones

Was fairness too much to ask for? A bow? Understanding? He can't take much more of this...

xxx

Fifty lashes. Hûra counted them all. No, it wasn’t fifty lashes, it was actually fifty-three lashes- one landed on his right arm and two landed on his left. They said ‘Them ones didn’t count!’ with a laugh. Any movement was excruciating. Breathing was painful. Movement of any kind was painful. He could barely lift his arms from the lashing they received, as few as they were. The whip tore his skin open and left his back weeping with blood for days afterwards. These wounds will take weeks- months- longer, even- to heal properly…

If they ever had time to heal at all.

Ever since that day, Hûra has been treated differently. The captains don’t pretend to tolerate his presence. His peers, even his own littermates, have taken up similar attitudes as their superiors: whether it be ignoring him, pushing him aside when rations were being handed out or outright stealing from him, they all no longer put up airs of care or at least sympathy towards him. Not even pity, anymore…

They can keep it, for all he cares. Hûra has kept the sickles and made them his own. The quartermaster never attempted to take them from him and Hûra would have fought him if he tried. They are his and his alone. What little he has, Hûra has no choice but to fight for them. No one will help him or protect him now…

Learning his way around different weapons has stalled indefinitely. He’s not allowed any of the quartermaster’s weapons, regardless if the trainer has requested for all pups to learn a specific trade at that time. ‘There’s none left. The warriors all have their own.’ is what was always told to Hûra. It hasn’t bothered him in some weeks, but this time he craved to have his hands on this weapon and learn it for himself.

“No- there ain’t no crossbows left, boy! Told you that already! Now get!” The quartermaster barked as he closed his tent flap in Hûra’s face. He grits his teeth.

Fine! See if he cares!

He seethed as he pressed his back into the cool stones of Cirith Ungol. It did little to soothe his burning back, but it helped numb it if not just a bit, which was more than he was afforded by his superiors. What did he do to deserve this, he wondered. Attacking Gubu? No, he didn’t attack that no good maggot. It was a duel and he accepted. Some blood is fine… but not his blood?

They’re all full of shrakh…

“No, ain’t got nothin’. Ask the quarter-” Hûra bears his teeth.

“What do you need?”

“Eh-?” The smith scratched the back of his head.

In all his years, he’s never met an uruk willing to give him materials, especially one so young. He remembered how the quartermaster ranted and raved about a pup- surely this one- that wasn’t to get a damn thing from anyone for any reason… But-

His eyes…

They were like burning coals searing into his soul. He found himself looking away and still those eyes of his cut through him like a hot knife through caragor fat. The smith knew to deny the boy, lest he face the wrath of his peers. With that glare, though…

It was like the Dark Lord, himself, was staring him down.

“I- uh, i-if you get me… m-materials-”

“What do you need?”

This pup wasn’t joking. He wasn’t supposed to do this, he knows, but fuck he didn’t want to be on his badside. Not with those eyes… The smith could get him a bow fine. He just needed some feathers for the fletcher to make more arrows-

“It will be done.”

With Hûra’s leave, the smith was able to sigh in relief. Was he thinking out loud? He didn't care. The vulnerability he felt swiftly dissipated and annoyance took its place. Who the hell did that pup think he was? A bowyer? The smith scoffed. He hoped the pup would wise up and not return. A feeling crept down his spine and he shivered. No, he’d be back. Just like all the wannabe upstarts he’s seen in his life, that pup couldn’t leave well enough alone…

Feathers…

No, Hûra couldn’t- he wouldn’t harm his friends. Maybe he wouldn’t need to, though… There’s a special little place where he hides things that are important to him. Not big things, but things that matter to him all the same. No uruk would want to take these things- they have little to no value to anyone else- but with how uncertain his security was, Hûra had no choice but to be secretive.

How many feathers would the fletcher need? What if this wasn’t enough? There were at least three handfuls of feathers, he thought, as he removed the rocks that he placed on top of the small hole he found just outside camp, near the caragor cages.

Maybe he didn’t need them at all… Hûra used his tunic as a makeshift sling as he piled feathers on top of feathers. Maybe this was just a means to distract him. Hûra bit his lip and blinked away his tears. As he neared the bottom of the pile, some bones caught his eye.

The urge came over him. The urge. The urge he gets whenever he sees bones. Hûra didn’t understand why he felt… this, but he nearly dropped all the black feathers he had balled up in his tunic in favour of picking up those little shards and watching them drop to the ground. Where would they land? How would they land? What would he see…? Hûra catches himself and holds the feathers close to his core.

No… not right now. But soon…

So many different eyes focused on him as he made his way to the fletcher. Some whispered behind their hands at them, a few giggled and pointed. Hûra ignored the way his ears burned with self consciousness and lowered his head, staring at the ground as he hurried his pace.

“...why are you giving me this?”

Hûra nearly burst into tears.

“I- ahem- T-The smith said y-you needed… f-feathers?” The fletcher looked down at the feathers cradled in the pup’s tunic, then back to the pup’s face. Not all the feathers could be used- but the majority could be.

“Where did you- Nevermind. Just give them here.” The fletcher grabbed the feathers and threw them onto the table. When Hûra didn’t immediately leave, the fletcher added-

“That’s all. You can go now.” His tone was annoyed and he shooed Hûra away with a flick of his wrist.

…oh.

The disappointment he felt was immeasurable. He walked away from the fletcher, eyes stinging and heart racing. Was there a reason why he was being treated so coldly and with so little placed on his needs and actions? Hûra found himself at the blacksmith, fists clenched at his sides and nails biting into the callouses that covered his palms. Before he could find his voice, the smith sighed and said-

“Did you get the fletcher what he-”

“He didn’t need anything.” Hûra was surprised at the levelness of his voice. The smith paused in fiddling with whatever-it-was he was fiddling with and sighed.

“You just had to-” Hûra cut him off.

“I want my bow, if you please, sir.” The smith turned to look at him, clearly annoyed.

“Your bow? Who do you think you-” He stumbled on his words as his eyes met Hûra’s.

That fire was back two-fold. Whatever he was about to spew, the smith immediately forgot as fear seized him once more. He couldn't place what scared him more. The defiance this pup showed his elders or those damn eyes of his. It wasn’t worth the waste of time it had been. Damn the quartermaster and any other uruk that put him in this position. He had better things to deal with other than a pup that didn’t know his place.

The smith walked away, but Hûra remained in place, watching him as he entered a tent, moved and shifted some things made of metal and wood, then returned with an aged-worn longbow.

“Here’s your damn bow.” He thrusted it into Hûra’s chest, who took one look at it then asked-

“The string, sir?”

The bow wasn’t even stringed. Did he think Hûra was stupid? Maybe he thought he would be so excited he would forget. He didn’t and the smith growled as he untied Hûra’s hair and plucked a few strands from his head. It was just long enough for him to wrap around the wooden limbs of the bow, but still too short as the hair was strung ludicrously tight. It would cut into his fingers and likely snap in two, but Hûra merely took the bow off the smith with a curt nod and turned to take his leave.

It was too tight, but it was also serviceable. For now. His fingers bled whenever he notched the arrows the fletcher threw at him as he told him to ‘fuck off!’ but they sang through the air and they hit so close to their mark that Hûra was pleased with the end results. As he practiced outside, alone, he walked to retrieve some of the arrows that stuck from a wooden watchtower he was using as a target, something in the sky caught his eye.

A hell hawk circled overhead. Alone, like him. Not terribly unusual, but for some reason Hûra was drawn to it. An urge he has become all too familiar with took hold of him.

Draw an arrow.

He pulled one out of the watchtower’s foundation.

Track the target.

His eyes follow the beast, fingers twitching around the arrow as it drifts lower in the sky.

Notch the arrow.

Blood wet his fingers as he pulled the bow taught.

Hold your breath-

His heart slowed.

-and release.

The arrow flew true and hit its mark. The hell hawk fell from the sky, dead before it hit the ground with a dull thud. Hûra was almost surprised that he hit it at all, let alone killed the creature with one shot. With a bow of such poor quality… Some guilt began to pool in his gut as he knelt beside the hawk.

Why did he do that…?

Hûra placed his hand upon the beast. Its leathery body was still warm… He closed his eyes and sighed. He knows why he did it. It doesn’t make him feel any better, regardless of how badly he needed this.

He was relieved it wasn’t one of his crows.

“I will make it worth it. I promise…”

Hûra hopes an urge like this will never manifest again. Maybe it won’t… maybe it will. The anxiety he feels for his person and his future remains, though the apprehension he felt whenever he felt the presence of bones eased but a little when he skinned and cut the meat from this creature’s skeleton.

The bones were small, slightly damaged from the fall but it did nothing to detract from their beauty in his eyes. He rolled them in his hands, admiring the sounds they created, admiring the sights that began to take shape in the cracks, the slopes and peaks…

These bones were special. Hûra swore to hide them away and, somehow, find a means to carry them with him always. He went to his special place, near the caragors, and began to cast them from his hand.

White mountains, secrecy and seclusion, air reek with foul magics-

Hûra hid away the bones before he was caught. He held his nose and scarfed down the hell hawk’s meat raw. He can’t let any of it go to waste… The others wouldn’t understand what he has done and why it was so important to him.

As he stands, his stomach drops to his feet. No… Hûra didn’t want to leave them behind. His fingers twitched and his toes curled as he fought back the urge to drop to his knees and uncover his precious bones once more. He can’t… not now. Not yet…

Then when?

Hûra ran away before he convinced himself to stay put. He needed to maintain control over his urges, lest they control him entirely. Though… perhaps this control he’s demonstrating is not as true as he would like it to be. Hûra doesn’t know if he can stay away for very long…

@space-arsonist, @sinick, @elvenmoans, @boozy-dwarf, @dirtymeanuruk

#lotr #middle earth shadow of mordor #middle earth shadow of war #uruk ocs #my ocs #a little blood #disappointment #new weapon acquired #headcanon that uruk hair is as strong as elf hair #osteomancy #mentions of corporal punishment

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