A Rather Chaotic Revision of The Fellowship

~Twenty-one~

He kept hidden, a shadow in the barren snow, just as he had to. It was tricky at times, climbing down down the steep mountain face while simultaneously keeping just out of distance that he appeared an inconspicuous speck, and just close enough that the nine or ten orcs were just in sight. Progressively, the landscape attained a sharp, downward slant, as if keeping one's footing wasn't already hard enough. It would only take one slip, one misgauged step for it all to spiral downhill. And the orcs knew that too, traveling on lower ground, with their staggering, bowlegged feet. Caranthir often found himself wedged between large stones and precariously balanced piles of snow for cover. The orcs had chosen a treacherous path in hopes of avoiding a clash, balanced back only by their truly vital end goal. Fair shall the end be, though long and hard shall be the road. Caranthir faltered a moment in the snow. It was too fitting.

There was a wind coming from the southwest, still blusteringly strong like the gales from the previous days, but warmer, as if sent from a calmer land across peaceful shores, caressing him and filling him up with fire. It fueled him for the while as he walked, though the snow only fell harder and seeped through his clothes to turn his bones to ice, brushing at his face relentlessly, until before long it had become an irritated scarlet.

Caranthir couldn't see, not obviously, at least, just where Frodo was headed when it came to snitching weapons. Truthfully, the Ring's aura of evil lay over them all like a mist, and there were some regions where the feeling of evil was most potent (and it was not just around his left boot). He would have to wait, until he felt the telltale nudge and the hobbit's small whisper.

From behind, the wind drummed at his back. Today it blew from the southwest rather than the north, still blusteringly strong like the gales from the previous days, but warmer. It came from calmer lands, perhaps as far enough to stray from peaceful shores, caressing him and filling him up with fire. Caranthir would let the fire fuel him. He would keep going, keep waiting for Frodo.

From his spot, a few hundred yards from the caravan of Sauron's filth, Caranthir was close enough to take in the herd. If anything was the same from Beleriand, it was that orcs moved as cattle. Always with hate, with murder on their minds they moved, at cases staggering on their bent-kneed legs or, if they had particular muster, pushed themselves to a sprint (although it was a rare trait, usually kept by the leaders alone). They moved as if automated, running on tired, dead legs on a stage beyond exhaustion, but not quite noticing or caring, each glare and turn of the head a mirror to another's. For they were creatures without fëar, simple mockery of living - and though their brutish, selfish minds disagreed often, that was really another thing they shared. Melkor could not create his own, truly living things, so he strung the scrambled minds of twisted, broken elves together, and in the end, the orcs were dumb. They lacked character.

It had been Curvo that pointed this out to him once; a long time ago. While hunting the wooded riversides of Ossiriand, Curvo had stopped, sat perfectly straight and still on his mount as the others stared, a strange light in his eyes, as if he'd made some epiphany. Then, he had explained, in a cold, flowing tone that could have been Fëanáro's, perfectly distant, cold and evaluating. The orcs were scrambled chaos, all of them the same. Yet the fault of the Eldar was this: they feared and hated the creatures still. Just as Morgoth wanted.

Curufin had always been the smart one. Smarter than Moryo, than even the rest of the brothers -- save of course Maedhros. Except Maedhros had thrown all his sense into war, obsessed over battle and unions and practically nothing else, in the storm of everything that followed never going back to the older brother Moryo had once known. And Maedhros had known his skill in mind and blade would place him on a road of power, but he kept it all to himself; perhaps because he thought there was nothing he or any of them could gain with it all anyway. Curvo used his mind as a weapon where Maedhros had closed everything off, to the point he died and became heartless, became Curufin. And with that he always was the same in his manner, outwardly distant and cold, always evaluating. Caranthir had hated watching them all turn this way, watching himself turn this way. The world already condemned them all as monsters. Oh, they were monsters -- so why keep fighting? Even the Valar, they had kept him pinned down. Beyond whatever hate they all shared for him, there was more. There was always more with the Valar.