A/N: This concept has been lurking in my mind for years and years, ever since Fellowship of the Ring came out (inspired, in fact, by one shot of an orc smithing a sword in Isengard). I admit, before the films, I hadn't given much thought to orcs in any deep sense. The books are perfectly clear-cut on the subject; they are villains, and do not merit meaningful study. The references to Saruman's creation of his own Uruk Hai, however, I found very interesting. The books use the term "breeding", but never go into much detail of exactly what that entails. The films show them growing out of the earth like tubers, which I assume was a tactful way of getting around the distasteful particulars. I could not find any record of Tolkien himself speaking plainly on the matter, either in his texts or his personal letters, probably for the same reason. I ended up running with an amalgam of the two interpretations – a natural conception, but a kind of external stasis period before they are fully developed. YMMV, of course. It's hard to talk of people as objects for breeding and experimentation, and it squicks me out a bit – but unfortunately, there are plenty of nasty concepts lurking in Lord of the Rings if you scratch the surface.

Knife's Edge

Part II

Lurtz was facing something he had never experienced before: an ethical quandary.

It wasn't really a choice, of course. He should go to Saruman. His Master. If the Uruk Hai had any loyalty, it was to him – he had created them, brought them life, brought them iron and blood and war, made them strong. Lurtz was favoured; he knew his prowess and lust for battle had set him apart, that Saruman had been pleased. The knowledge burned in him with a vicious pride. Perfect, he had said. My fighting Uruk Hai.

And loyalty was not the only thing at stake. Edgers endangered colonies, no matter how the traits manifested themselves. The fact that the smith was twice his age with triple his experience was of no consequence. Edgers must die without question.

And yet…

The quiet focus as they sparred – the pleasure of finding a rival equal in skill – his opponent's silent concentration, the stillness in his eyes – the simple joy of physical exertion, clean, swift, powerful – the strange calm that came from their combat, the world reduced to a simplicity of parry and precision…

He was outside the door to his Master's audience chamber.

As he reached for the handle, that flash of cool quiet concentration again, and he hesitated, his hand hovering in mid-air…

But the moment passed, and Lurtz opened Saruman's door. It was the best thing, really, for him most of all. Orcs don't get second chances.

Saruman cast his cold gaze around the armoury, his upper lip curling in displeasure. How could this have been going on for so long, right under his nose?

It wasn't noticeable until you looked carefully. The general-use weapons were finely made, it was true – much better quality than the mass-produced ironmongery the apprentices on the forge floor churned out – but there was nothing to mark them out as special. The smith's paltry sleeping-cot was unexceptional, too, until you realised that the weapons hanging on the wall in this particular area had less the look of storage, and more the look of display.

It was subtle. Even here, the swords and axes were plain, with no visible ornamentation… But look closely, and it became evident that these pieces were the product of craftsmanship. The blades were slick as glass, honed to perfection. The problem did not necessarily lie with craftsmanship in and of itself – after all, better arms meant better armies – no, it lay with the fact that these things were so obviously created with painstaking care. With passion. With love.

Saruman unhooked a sword from the wall and held it out. It was so beautifully balanced that you could support it under the crossguard with a single finger. It was like an extension of his own arm.

How could he have missed this? It was so cringingly clear. He let the sword drop to the floor, the metallic clatter echoing around the walls.

"You did well to inform me," he told the hulking shape of Lurtz. "You are true Uruk Hai. This is not Uruk Hai, do you realise? This is weak. This is pitiful."

It was difficult to discern anything from Lurtz's yellow eyes. He simply waited.

"This was wisely done. As a reward, you will lead the raiding party I am sending to the Anduin. You are my first commander. I have an urgent matter that must be dealt with; captives which must be brought to me at all costs. I give this undertaking to you."

The orc's eyes widened slightly.

"Find this smith," Saruman said softly, his voice like an epitaph. "Find him and bring him to me now. Go."

The Perfect Uruk glanced imperceptibly along the rows of swords, and obeyed.

He was in the forge, of course.

It was easy to see the reason he had lasted so long. Lurtz towered over most of his peers, but the smith had to be pushing seven foot. The muscles in his arms would have been immense even had they not been honed from years at the anvil. His eyes betrayed absolutely nothing, reflecting the dull bronze of his trade.

"You're to go to Master Saruman."

The smith stood in the glow of the fire, and Lurtz realised there was no point in pretending. You told him, didn't you, said the air between them. That's good, I suppose. What you should have done. Uruk Hai have no weaknesses.

Slowly, the smith withdrew a sword from the maw of the forge, a cherry-red blade that fizzed and spat, heat rolling out in shimmering fumes. He took a step forward. Lurtz' hand flew to the hilt of his cudgel…

But the smith turned, dipping the sword into the trough and sending up a plume of acrid steam, before laying the thing carefully down on an anvil.

The pleasure of finding a rival equal in skill. Quiet concentration. The simple joy of physical exertion, clean, swift, powerful. The strange calm that comes from the combat, the world reduced to a simplicity of parry and precision.

Something flickered in Lurtz's eyes.

It can be very hard to spot an Edger. They are not all like the piteous mewling thing from the training grounds. Sometimes the Edge is so far away, you can only just see it on the horizon. But it is still there.

Lurtz lowered his weapon. "Go," he said.

The smith stared.

"There is a scout party leaving for the Anduin; the gates are open. Follow them and go. You were not here when I came for you."

Eyes met. Yellow and bronze, for a fraction of a second, were one and the same. But orcs don't get second chances… do they?

Lurtz brought his cudgel up and jammed it against the hollow of the smith's throat. "Get out, you filthy whoreson, or I'll kill you myself."

He went.

There's a stone rolling downhill.

Lurtz will not see the outcome, dying as he does by the hand of the strange man at Parth Galen, the man with the bright deep eyes and the sword that whispers of old kings and new promises. But the stone rolls because of him, and now somewhere in Middle Earth a rebel orc is roaming.

The thing about stones is that they cause avalanches.

FIN