This probably will not update quickly. It was originally something I made a long time ago when I had a lot less confidence in my writing and rarely posted any of it (granted, it was pretty bad back then, but I now realize "wrote a dumb story" is not a prison-worthy offense, no matter what the internet tells you). I decided to dust it off because I DON'T KNOW. I'm trying to hammer it into shape to the best of my abilities, but that's gonna take a while.

Razashûk didn't like trees, and they didn't like him.

He scuttled across the forest floor in timid bursts, avoiding as many big trees as possible while trying not to get whipped on the legs by the tiny sucker branches poking out of the ground, feeding on the massive gnarled roots that seemed to place themselves right where he'd trip on them. Some forests weren't so bad, like dead scrublands and burned groves with only hints of life peeking through the ashes, but ancient places like this were agony to sneak through because the trees had been around long enough to know exactly what he was and how to do everything in their meager power to kill him by inches.

Stinging needles of sunlight pierced the canopy, and Razashûk was grateful that for once this wasn't anything that required him to be terribly stealthy. Between the stumbling and the cursing, he'd probably woken up everything for a mile around him. Good thing that consisted of birds and rodents instead of Elves. If there ever had been any in these parts, they had the sense to haul ass out of there long ago.

The predicament he was in had started off nobly enough. Talk of the war had long since reached even the most obscure corners of the Misty Mountains. Subtle noises in the wind and thunder had called to him, to take up his knife and bow for a greater purpose than picking off straggling animals and keeping scavengers away from the cavern entrances. And so he'd struck out to leave the simple life behind and seek his fortune in the heart of the Land of Shadows, as you do, but the world had displayed its usual sense of fairness only a few weeks into the journey.

One bright morning, just as he was slinking towards a hole to hide and rest in, a coldness cut through the air and he felt his legs crumple beneath him as his breath stuck in his throat and choked him. When he came to, he felt numb and slow, as if he was walking in a river of muck surrounded by a thick fog. His lungs ached and he could have sworn his heart was beating in a different rhythm.

No one needed to tell Razashûk what had happened.

Of course, he couldn't just turn around and go home. Chief Burzash would finally declare him an official disappointment, his family would make fun of him beyond the usual, and he'd still be right back where he started, possibly with more duties involving cleaning up Warg shit. Besides, it would be adding insult to injury to the rest of the tribe. Losing their divine guiding force and gaining a spineless quitter was a poor bargain, and soothing others in times of grief and panic wasn't exactly one of his strong points.

He wandered in no particular direction, stopping at length to mope and sleep and hope that each time he woke up it would have been a stupid dream and Lord Sauron's gaze still enveloped the world.

After several aimless days, he was knocked out of the haze one evening by a towering Uruk-hai who helpfully shoved him into the puckerbrush and smacked him for leaving footprints, shortly before a small patrol of bedraggled Men passed through, close enough that their stink made him squint. Fortunately they didn't seem too alert and didn't even notice any signs of strange foreign boots mucking up the ground. Whatever they were after, it wasn't Orcs.

"You're welcome," the Uruk said, after they were safely out of sight and earshot. Razashûk had never dealt with any of Saruman's creations directly, but always heard they were a bunch of smug bastards, and this one certainly wasn't helping his case.

He bore the mark of the White Hand on his armor, and his hair was tied back in a futile stab at preventing it from being a tangled mess. It was shot through with sun-bleached streaks the color of rust. The mere thought of spending that much time in daylight made Razashûk's skin itch.

The Uruk squinted and studied him for a moment. "You're from the mountains, I reckon."

"So?"

"So you'd know how to get through places like that. Tunnels and trails and such, off the beaten path. Tell you what, for as long as we're heading the same direction, you navigate the way, and I'll make sure you don't get killed."

"Fair enough," he said. He wasn't sure why. But at the very least it couldn't hurt to have a large wall of flesh between him and any more trouble that came his way, and they trekked together over the bumpy terrain, making uneasy small talk.

Said wall of flesh was named Durgrat, and he was headed for the vague destination of Somewhere Out East after his prospects back home suddenly took a turn for the worse. "Isengard shit the bed," he explained with the typical eloquence Razashûk would soon grow accustomed to. Razashûk wasn't clear on the whole thing, as his tribe had stayed out of that particular mess. Chief Burzash decided the idea of some weird geezer in fancy clothes promising them the moon in exchange for a bunch of mangy Wargs and tarnished swords smelled a bit off. But Razashûk had got wind of stories of a terrible flood, and for all his bluster, a complete failure on the White Wizard's part to prevent it or do anything to salvage the wreckage of his once-proud fortress.

After a long stretch of silence, Durgrat glanced around nervously then leaned in towards the other Orc. "I have something to show you."

Razashûk glowered. "You must be very new to the world indeed if you think anyone's gonna fall for that. Fuck off."

"Don't flatter yourself, snaga. Anyway, I don't have it on me."

Razashûk let that slide. "Why not?"

"Too valuable to carry around here, so close to Men. If I die, at least it won't fall into their hands."

"Ah," he replied. It was probably a bad idea to let slip he wasn't quite certain where he was and had no idea there were Mannish settlements nearby. He'd abandoned the path he originally planned after losing any compelling reason to follow it.

"I stashed it a bit south of here, past, uh, all that." Durgrat waved his arm at a thick mass of trees a couple hundred yards away.

"That shouldn't take too long to bolt through. It won't be pleasant, but not much of anything is lately. We'll survive."

Durgrat grumbled and suggested an alternate route over the plains that would take a little longer, and at first Razashûk thought he was just being a big showoff about his special fancy skin that let him shrug off sunlight like it was nothing. But oh no, he insisted. He had to go around the forest and didn't even want to be too close to the edge. Razashûk elected to suck it up and charge on through, while Durgrat promised to meet him on the other side.

So much for that legendary Uruk-hai toughness. Razashûk had to assume Durgrat was still alive only through some bizarre blessing from the depths of the Void, unseen forces keeping him around for a great destiny yet to be revealed.

The sun was gone and splotches of clouds fitfully blotted out the moon. Razashûk exhaled in relief, both from the escape from the gauntlet of angry foliage, and the sight of a small fire not too far off in the distance, meaning Durgrat hadn't just been setting some weird trap or had ditched him like he'd halfway expected. He hoisted an armload of dry branches, which he liked to think of as one final insult to the forest, and trudged towards the flickering light.

"How was your little stroll through the sunny field?"

"Fine," the Uruk said, despite the blood-soaked cloth wrapped around his upper arm.

A few odd items were strewn on the ground around him. There was a rough iron pot on the fire, bubbling with some unknown murky substance. "It's stew, sort of," said Durgrat. "There's meat parts in it." He gave it a sideways glance, wrinkling up his nose. "I tried."

Razashûk did his best not to make a face right back at him. An Uruk feeling the need to actually cook a piece of meat didn't bode well for its condition. He took a cautious slurp and was relieved that whatever was in the attempted stew, at least none of it was still moving. It was thin yet oddly gelatinous, full of mysterious lumps, and tasted kind of like how pond scum smelled. But it wasn't as if he had much of a choice in the matter, with his stomach clawing at itself for the good part of the last couple of days. Food was food, and he'd had worse things in his mouth.

After ingesting as much of it as he could tolerate, Razashûk got back to business. "About this fantastic thing you insisted on sharing. I hope you didn't mean that stuff."

"No, it's better. Much better. It's actually good, even."

Razashûk made a non-committal grunt.

"Trust me," he said, reaching into a soggy leather satchel that Razashûk had figured was empty. "I nicked this from Sharkey's library. Unimportant things don't end up in there." He thrust a thick, rolled-up parchment that had definitely seen better days towards Razashûk.

"The fuck were you doing in a library?"

Durgrat huffed. "That's not the point. Go on, look at it."

He carefully uncurled the battered scroll, revealing a somewhat archaic map of the Eastern side of the world.

It was in a slightly different dialect than he was used to, but Razashûk understood the legend well enough through the odd spellings and outdated names, and was suddenly glad his father couldn't see him now to jab him with a well-aimed "I told you so" about the usefulness of learning to read old Morgul runes. He recognized the borderlands and the Black Gate, a thick bar of ink standing out among little wisps of valleys and river tributaries. Though he'd never been there, he'd heard enough stories to know where the Tarks now encroached on Mordor, and the general layout of the vast plains separating the weak and the lost from the denizens of the black city.

But it was one corner in particular that really caught his eye: the one marked with a scratchy drawing, clearly added in later by a different hand. It showed a large box nestled in a pile of jewels, coins, and weapons, surrounded by lurid and esoteric descriptions like "The Witch-king's Daughter" and "Piercer of a Thousand Hearts".

"Do you understand now?" said Durgrat. "Yeah, go ahead and laugh at my education, but even I can catch on to that."

Blessing from the Void, indeed.