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A Family Way	By : kspence Category: Lord of the Rings Movies > Het - Male/Female Views: 5842 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings book series and movie series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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A/N: This story features the continuing adventures of Shagrat, an Orc. It is set immediately before ‘Captain of Mordor’ and ‘Orc in Ithilien’ and some time after ‘Nazgul’s Prey’ and ‘The Two Captains’ (all of which are available on this archive) but hasn't much connection to any of those stories and should make sense on its own.

1: A day in the life

The clock on the town hall tower was striking three. That meant another hour at least, before they came to let him down. Not having much in the way of other options, Shagrat stayed where he’d been put. After an age, a lifetime of waiting, the chime for the quarter hour sounded.   Shagrat closed his ears and tried not to listen to it. Somehow it was slightly easier to maintain the back-breaking position they’d placed him in if he didn’t have to think about how much longer he’d have to stay like this. It hurt Shagrat to swallow since his throat was bruised and sore, but it had been a long day and he’d have dearly liked something, even the barest sip of anything, to drink. That wasn’t on the cards however. Dwelling on his plight never accomplished much and he shut his eye, letting himself think - just for a moment - about what a relief it would be later on when they released him, and how it would feel afterwards, when he was finally able to lie down. He knew that it would probably be a while yet, because it wasn’t usually till the back of five, or sometimes later, that someone would be sent to get him. Once back in the winter they’d forgotten, and he’d been left out long past midnight – but it wasn’t likely that that was going to happen again. Being one of the last of a dying race Shagrat had quite the rarity value on his side and was considered quite the valuable asset, to the extent that the usually imperturbable Barker had thrown the mother and father of a strop when he found him strung up outside that night, soaked through and shivering in the rain. The Barker was a gentleman of the road, an entrepreneur whose stock-in-trade was show-business, and for the past several months Shagrat had been the star attraction in his travelling menagerie.

It was an unfortunate combination of bad luck and accident that had caused him to fall into the Barker’s hands in the first place, and since then they had been moving steadily down through the country, on the road as much as they stopped off from it. So if nothing else they certainly had travelled, even if ‘menagerie’ was perhaps overstating the Barker’s assets more than a little, the operation he was running being not much more than a second-rate freak-show.

As well as Shagrat, the Barker’s collection included a young brown bear; an unthrifty-looking animal that did not so much dance as lurch and weave dementedly from place to place, only occasionally on its hind legs. There was also a crate of not-so-fancy poultry, and a stripy horse that was supposed to be some kind of wild ass from the wide grassland country far to the south. That was an elderly beast, so far past its prime that these days, the poor thing looked distinctly as if its black-and-white markings had been painted on. Yes, the Barker’s collection was the very definition of a disparate, and dispirited assortment of creatures, to the extent that even someone such as Shagrat could certainly count himself the highlight of the show, if only because he was -

“Orc! You’re a dirty! - Stinkin’! - Murderin’ - Orc!”

The local boy shouted it out before he hurled the clod of dirt or whatever it was he was holding in his fist, and that gave Shagrat just enough time to turn to one side and flinch away. The missile clipped against the backboard of the pillory-post he was imprisoned in and disintegrated into a powdery mess that rained down over his head. Half-dry horse-muck mortared with gobbets of mud this time, noted Shagrat, who had come to be something of an authority in these sorts of matters. Though they shouldn’t have been throwing anything that would cause too much actual damage, tempers invariably ran high where his kind were concerned: he’d copped one on the forehead earlier in the day from a covertly-flung beer-bottle which had smashed on impact and that just showed, you could never be too sure. Shagrat had already lost his right eye in a previous misadventure and as a result was now extremely leery whenever projectile items were being aimed at his face.

In any case the lad was quite correct. Shagrat was an Orc; an Uruk-hai hailing from Mordor, to be exact and he was also a filthy one, because the market-crowd that morning when things were at their hottest had been throwing any amount of junk and refuse his way. Most of the debris had hit home, a passing quantity had stuck, and he was now coated head-to-toe in it.   And as to the murderin’ aspects of the case – well, that was also true, despite the fact that – by virtue of the nature of his military posting – in latter years many of the people the Orc had been involved in killing had in fact been members of his own side. Still, the important point here was that the side Shagrat was on hadn’t been the winning one at the end of the War of the Ring, the kind of detail that always tended to leave an indelible stain on a person’s reputation, as a murderer he was counted and probably would remain till the end of his days (an end-point that, the way his luck was currently running, looked to be none too far off). All these things considered together then, there wasn’t a lot he could have said to the boy, even assuming he’d been properly able to reply. But Bill Chard, the hired man employed by Shagrat’s Barker to run the more practical aspects of his organisation, had nearly throttled him earlier on while he was securing his neck and wrists into the wooden cut-outs of the stocks. The Orc had fought back with all the energy left in him, though admittedly these days that wasn’t saying much.

Emboldened by his success, the youngster drew nearer, the better to examine the captive Uruk at close range and he stared at him, disappointment obvious and growing by the minute. One of the terrible soldier-Orcs of Mordor was what he’d heard about and had been expecting to see down in the village square, but if this was really it, the creature was sorely lacking in almost every department. This Orc had no sword or even a scrap of armour on and though he was so big that to fit in the stocks they’d had to fold him almost double (he was standing there, arse up in the air, bent in two like a half-open clasp-knife), his knees were shaking under his shift and he looked barely able to hold his own weight. He was ugly enough all right – with his red-raw scars and dirty grey hair, and the torn-away chunk that was missing from his ear – he looked more like an alley-cat than anything; a scrotty old alley-cat that’d been out scrapping and landed up worst in the fight. Thoroughly unimpressed, the boy bent down to the gutter and picked up a long stick, with the intention of curiously prodding the creature with it.

The Orc’s good eye flicked down to the stick the lad was carrying and then quickly back up to the youth’s face.   He worked his throat for a moment and licking his lips, said in a rough rasp of a voice: “Go on son. Hop it. Bugger off, all right?”

To the Shagrat’s astonishment the lad retreated a few steps at that and actually did begin buggering off - even looking fearfully back over his shoulder a time or two before he finally turned tail and ran for it.   Feeling warmed by a wholly unaccustomed glow of satisfaction, the Uruk watched him go. The realization that even in his current predicament he hadn’t yet lost all of his old capacity to alarm or affront cheered him no end.

Shagrat’s contented mood ended a scant few seconds later when someone stepped up behind him and casually booted him in the seat of his pants. It was Bill Chard, the Uruk’s hated handler. He was a thickset, hard-faced man, just this side of middle-age and if his appearance and behaviour were anything to go by the fellow was living proof - as if any more was really needed - that his species and Shagrat’s own were capable of interbreeding quite successfully; albeit in this case with disproportionately awful results.

“Wake up to yourself, you miserable old scrote!” Chard yelled, coming round to the front of the stocks to shout loudly into Shagrat’s ear, and speaking as if he was feeble-minded, or deaf. “S’not you that little runt’s pissin’ ‘imself on account of,” he continued, “- it’s yours truly - stands to reason, dunnit? Those nosey little sods’ve been well warned to keep away – told ‘em myself, didn’t I? They all know I mean business.”

While he was ranting away, Chard had begun undoing the catches that fastened the top and bottom halves of Shagrat’s pillory-post together. They were old metal latches, not even properly locked.

“Not – surely not time for that, yet, is it?” the Orc croaked, eyeing him warily.

Chard didn’t answer.   Amongst other things, Chard was supposed to act as Shagrat’s ‘minder’ – though in practice what he usually did most minding of was his own business, more often than not while propping up the bar in the nearest pub. In theory Chard was charged with overseeing Shagrat’s welfare - as well that of the various customers who would from time to time pay the Gaffer for more exclusive access to him, and while it was Chard’s task to ensure that everybody emerged from the encounter unscathed, the sad truth was that he did a very sloppy job of it. Shagrat for example rarely saw hide nor hair of him from early morning until late at night, and it was, frankly, worrying that he had turned up this day so far ahead of schedule.

“Out,” Chard ordered at length. He wasn’t a man of many words, not where Shagrat was concerned at any rate.

The Orc didn’t react at once. If it was going to happen, he was going to have to take things slowly. Impatiently hauling Shagrat backwards out of the stocks, Chard dropped him to the ground.   “Up!” he said.

“Wait,” the Uruk gasped, “for pity’s sake, wait.” He was stiff and sore all over, the muscles in his shoulders, thighs and most of all, his back, having more or less frozen in place owing to the unnatural stance he’d been forced to adopt for what? The past seven? eight? – hours.

Chard might or might not have heard, but in any case he pulled the Orc upright, grabbing and holding him by the back of his shirt and his hair. As the Uruk was unable to get his feet under him Chard simply dragged him along behind as he went. He was much stronger than Shagrat, now, but this was nothing new: he’d already demonstrated that many times before.

“Inside. Here.” Chard manhandled his charge through an open back-doorway and then along a series of service passageways. Eventually they stopped in a stone-flagged bathroom, in which was – a tin tub full of hot water.

“Out of them clothes. Then get in.”

This was a fresh and unwelcome development. Caught off-guard the Uruk hesitated, whereupon Chard stepped forward to strip the rags and tatters he was wearing off him. He propelled the Orc into the water and held him under for a time until spluttering and gagging, Shagrat managed to claw his way back to the surface, retching helplessly.   He’d inadvertently swallowed a mouthful or two, and the water had been tainted with some kind of dreadful emetic that was stinging his eye and burning horribly at the delicate tissues of his nose and throat.

“Bath salts,” Chard explained. “It’ll take some of the stink off yer. You reek like an old billy-goat.”

Shagrat had – or had once possessed - an acutely sensitive sense of smell, which the corrosively perfumed bath salts had sent completely haywire. Snorting to try and clear the taint from his nostrils, he wondered dazedly if he would ever be able to smell or taste anything properly again. That was the least of his problems, however. As the Orc struggled to get his senses working again, Chard doused him with more water and began scouring him down, using a bristly piece of flannel and a bar of evil-looking mustard-coloured soap.

“Give us yer todger,” Chard said, reaching between his legs.

Usually Shagrat knew much better than to try to resist when Chard was in a mood as foul as this, but in more of a visceral reaction than anything else he struck at him, feinting and baring his teeth. “Keep your hands to yourself,” he snarled, telling Chard what he could go and do to himself.

Chard immediately punched him on either side of the head, in the stomach, and then, as if for good measure, once in the small of his back. He didn’t hit Shagrat as hard as he might have but the blows were all placed with vicious accuracy and were in combination debilitating, as he’d intended them to be. Bruised and winded, the Orc folded over on his knees in the water. Then Chard reached down and washed him anyway, soaping up a lather over his cock and balls and even probing well in with his flannel, to clean the crack of his arse. He worked efficiently and impersonally, doing a much more thorough job than he might have done if it hadn’t been clear how wholeheartedly Shagrat resented this.

To finish with, Chard dunked him under again, then hefted him clear of the bathtub to deposit him on the floor. Noting that his sleeves as well as the front of his shirt and trousers were saturated with water he swore fluently at the unfortunate Uruk.

“Wait ‘ere. I’ll ‘ave to change me shirt an’ breeks,” Chard instructed. “You’ve to wear this.” He took up a garment that was hanging on a peg and lobbed it into the Orc’s hands. It was a worn, greyish overshirt, much-mended but clean, and mostly intact.

When he was gone Shagrat sank down, shaking his head to try to clear the ringing in his ears, his good eye smarting and watering painfully. Chard was always very easy with his fists and it wasn’t as if the Orc hadn’t endured far worse at his hands in the past; but then Shagrat hadn’t much of anything left, his pride and dignity as well as his physical well-being having all been eroded by the privations he’d been experiencing since the fall of Mordor. Now this latest invasion of privacy was stripping away even the last few shreds of self-respect he’d had remaining to him.
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A Family Way