Silmarillion Writers' Guild

Title: Harvester of Sorrow
Author: binkaslibrary
Rating: Adult
Warnings: Death, gore
Summary: For the International Day of Fanworks, a short fic. My prompt: Things We Never Said, First Meetings, and Lost Letters.

An orc and his grim job.



Shaghkar was good. Obedient. Killed a few white-faces. Not many. Was his first battle, after all. It pleased the captain. He rewarded Shaghkar. “Go search ‘em!” Captain roared. He grinned, pointing at the dead.

Shaghkar ran. Soon, he had his hands full. White-face’d stuffed goods inside his jerkin. Screeching with joy, he rolled over another corpse.

This white-face had fallen prone on the ground. Looked up with his bright eyes. Head thrown back. His helmet ripped away. Shinin' yellow hair fell all over the place. Shaghkar bent over. Glanced at the white-face up close.

White-face's lips trembled. Shaghkar noticed. Leaned forward. Grinned broadly.

He’d never seen a white-face up close ‘til now. His own called ‘em “elves”. Shaghkar shrugged. Took a deep sniff. Smelled blood. Fresh and tasty. Saliva pooled in his mouth.

White-face lived. Yet. Shaghkar ran his tongue along his teeth.

Stormy eyes lost their haze. Focused on Shaghkar. Sent him threat. Flame. Anguish.

Shaghkar's head tilted. Not afraid. The white-face's teeth clenched. His skin sweaty and bloody. Shaghkar didn’t care. He looked down at white-face. Belly slashed. Guts spilling out. The white-face's hands tried and failed to tuck ‘em in.

Shaghkar looked around quick-like.

The white-face's sword far too long for Shaghkar. Pity. Shiny. The dagger... Shaghkar pulled it out of the scabbard. Looked at it close up.

“Please...”

Shaghkar hid the dagger behind him. Shook his head. White-face not dangerous. At all.

White-face mumbled somethin’. Shaghkar understood naught. But, he knew in his gut: White-face’s beggin’ for death. Shaghkar looked at the dagger in his hand. Fisted his fingers around the hilt.

Shaghkar was good. Obedient. He’d killed a few white-faces. Butchered ‘em all right. Shaghkar smacked his tongue.

Swift, he shoved the dagger. Into the white-face's chest. To the hilt. Shaghkar howled.

White-face oh'ed. Gurgled. Arched and stiffened.

Shaghkar tore the dagger out. Tucked it in his belt. Blood dizzied him. His hands pawed at the white-face. Searchin’ for more shiny stuff. Shaghkar rolled ‘em over. Jerked ‘em back again. Mad! He found nothing. Only a small, leather sack.

Shaghkar wolfed at it. Tore off a chunk. Chewed it and spat it out. He rolled out the rest. Looked at it. Shook it. Smelled it. Turned it upside down. What was it?

“Piece of shit!”

Shaghkar threw it away. Left the dead white-face to rot.


***


If the Orc could read, he would have discovered a letter from the fallen Elda to his ladylove. The letter that had never reached its recipient. Now, when his spirit flew beyond the boundaries of Arda, the Orc left it to crumble to pieces beside his tormented body. The parchment was torn, bloodied and soiled. No one would ever read the whole of it, but if you dared look closely, passer-by, you might find the last clear fragment:


never told you. I now regret it. You must think me a coward.
saw you at the lake. I love you. I forever will.

Yours beyond time and place,
Aikanáro



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Author's Note: The title is borrowed from Metallica.

Aikanáro = Aegnor

A lifetime supply of thank-yous goes to Oshun for her help, beta and great suggestions. Thank you!