#tw coporal punishment

[shadowofwar-goober]

The Shaman and the Bard- Ch. 4: It was an accident-

They were both accidents. Or, maybe, he was the real accident-

Warnings: Corporal Punishment, Lashings, Some Blood and Violence

xxx

    Hûra hated the weapons he was forced to use. No, that’s not right. He hated the swords given to him. Through… borrowing some swords from the quartermaster, Hûra has realized that the weapons he and his littermates were given were of poor quality. Unbalanced, without proper hilts, without proper sheaths… It was no wonder why they struggled to make any progress with their training. Yet they were blamed all the same and Hûra became all the more determined to be better. Not wholly to please- he was desperate for praise and for recognition of any kind, even if it was fleeting- but also to prove he was worth something. To them, to himself, to anyone that would see him pick up a weapon and fight.

    Swords didn’t feel right to him. In his hands, they fit… awkwardly. Hûra couldn’t imagine them as an extension of his person like the bladesmaster had instructed them all to do during their rigorous training exercises. They weren’t a part of him, merely… objects that he had in his hand. I was beginning to get under Hûra’s skin, though he hadn’t a clue as to why. During one of these training exercises, he broke one of his blades. 

    As much as he despised the weapons, it, of course, was an accident. Complaining about his blade chipping and cracking fell on deaf ears. When it did finally snap and splinter into different pieces while he was sparring with another uruk, Hûra was surprised by the anger directed towards him for such a common occurrence, as damaged and poorly made the equipment they were forced to use was. 

    It wasn’t the first time Hûra was struck for such a minor offense, but he would argue that no offense occurred. It’s a dull piece of shrakh blade that was due to crack any day! It didn’t stop his trainer and the quartermaster from hurling insults at him, his worth, his being an uruk and him being a disgrace to the Dark tribe and the clan as a whole. He was forced to his feet, after collapsing to his knees from the blow to his face, and stripped of his other, brittle blade.

    “If you can’t be arsed to take care of your weapons proper, then you don’t deserve proper weapons!” Hûra’s ears burned as he could feel the moist breath of the quartermaster hit his face. Others giggled. Some looked away, uncomfortable. He turned on his heel and left the young uruk standing there, awkward and jaw clenched tightly.

    “Stay put, boy!” He called out from over his shoulder as he entered his tent. 

    ‘Boy’. Hûra gritted his teeth. He should have just said ‘maggot’, instead, he thought bitterly. The mute stares were starting to get to him. The silence was broken by a tent flap being swatted open and Hûra felt tears of shame well in his eyes when two sickles were produced in front of him. 

    “Here, since you can’t treat your weapons with respect, you get to use tools instead. Since you obviously don’t get their importance…” His sneered as he shoved the tools into his chest. Hûra barely managed to collect them in time, before they slipped through his trembling hands. 

    More laughter… Everything he does is nothing but one big joke, he guesses. He wouldn’t laugh at them if this happened to anyone else. 

    It wouldn’t happen to anyone else. You are the sorriest one out of this entire lot… 

    Farming sickles… they weren’t meant for combat. That doesn’t mean they can’t be mastered, or at least somewhat learned. Hûra needed to make due with what was given to him. His form was improving, that he was certain of, so what’s the difference if it’s a new tool given to him? He’ll learn it all the same… He must, no matter what. 

    Soon, his tears began to dry and calm overtook him. They laughed. His littermates laughed and the older uruks laughed and his captains laughed, but the sting of humiliation Hûra had once felt began to warm into something different. The weight in his hands, the size… different possibilities began to form in his mind and he believes that this might be something far greater than the shoddy swords he was forced to weld in his training. Yes, with more practice and application, Hûra could make something great out of these so-called farming tools. 

    “Maybe Hûra should show us how it’s done!”

    “Yeah! C’mon and show us the way of the farmer!”

    “I’ll take him on!”

    He recognized that voice. Gubu. Just another lad that thinks he’s better because he’s bigger, older, and more favoured by the captains. Hûra didn’t like him, but he didn’t hate him, either. He was hesitant to take on the challenged duel. These sickles are sharp… They aren’t for training. One wrong move on either of their parts and someone will be seriously injured… 

    But he can’t turn away a duel.

    It will prove them all right if he declines. Hûra isn’t incapable. He isn’t stupid, he isn’t weak… No, he must do this. Even if he loses, not all of his honour will be tarnished irreparably. And if he wins… 

    “...as you wish.” 

    Excitement quickly spread around the training camp. Ever uruk wanted to see some unfortunate pup be beaten into submission by a stronger, more capable warrior. All the more because that pup was using farming tools as weapons. ‘Was it a dare?’ ‘It’s a punishment!’ ‘He’s going to die…’ ‘So what?! Blood’s blood! I wanna see it spilled!’ 

    A ring was formed around them. Not much room was given. Fine. Hûra bowed before his opponent, who merely grinned down at him with sharp teeth and malice in his eyes. As Hûra raised to his full height, Gubu already had his sword drawn and was pressing his advance towards him. 

    Gubu did exactly what he always did: rush forwards as a means to overwhelm his target and send them off balance. It worked to Hûra's advantage. His sickles were of short reach, but Gubu went ahead and closed the distance between them so quickly and so sloppily. Hûra hasn’t used these blades before, but he didn’t need to be a master to counter such a rushed action. 

    Hook one near the hand, around the blade and hook the other around his raised leg-

    Two crescent-shaped gashes were cut into his flesh: one on his right hand, between the thin skin of his thumb and forefinger, and another, much longer and deeper one around the back of his mid-calf. Hûra all but lifted him off his feet and sent him and his weapon crashing to the ground, the blade falling out of his reach. Not that Gubu could do much fighting after those injuries.

    He let out a cry of surprise. The crowd fell silent, shocked that one of the bullies of this company had not only lost a duel, but was injured by a nobody pup fresh out of the vats and with such ridiculous weapons to boot. The smell of blood hit Hûra’s nose and he felt sick. It wasn’t his intention to harm Gubu… even if he was a bastard that was asking for it. He holds the sickles in his right hand and offers his left to the fallen uruk, who stares at him, bewildered, before snarling and spitting at him. 

    “You little shrakh-!” 

    Hûra yelped and dropped the sickles as his braid was yanked hard from behind. Their trainer, seeing the commotion, had come to break up what fight was taking place and punish whoever was involved. Upon smelling blood and seeing Hûra, blades glistening black, standing over an injured upstart, flew into a rage and dragged him through the crowd that quickly dispersed, spreading thin enough to avoid the wrath of several pissed off captains who’s rage was focused solely on Hûra while also remaining close enough to witness the righteous retribution that was about to take place. 

    “Get back to work! The lot of ya! You two!” Two uruks that were still close to Gubu stood stiff. “Take ‘im to the healer! NOW!” They help Gubu to his feet, who promptly shoves them away and refuses assistance in walking. 

    There is relief when he gets up and walks away on his own. Hûra didn’t completely fuck up, then. Gubu wasn’t a cripple and he was going to survive. But he was still going to be punished. His hair was pulled tight even when he was shoved to the ground and onto his knees.

    “What did you plan to prove by doing that?!” It was shouted into his ear and Hûra thought he would go deaf. He hissed and winced in pain as his braid was tugged yet again.

    “-allenged- H-He ch-challenged M-ME-!” He’s silenced by more pain. 

    “So you go and try to cripple him?!” Hûra shook his head.

    “N-NO! -didn’t- I DIDN’T-” It didn’t matter what he said or didn’t say. Hûra knew the real reason why they were going to punish him. 

    They liked Gubu and hated him. Hûra was supposed to be humiliated by the quartermaster’s punishment of giving him sickles, not use them as actual weapons and make due with what he had. Once again, Hûra has proved himself to be a disappointment, regardless of his adaptability and willingness and capability to learn. 

    “Give the brat fifty lashes. Maybe then he’ll learn his place.”

    Hûra screwed his eyes shut as both his arms were grabbed and held out by two different elders. His shirt was yanked up by its helm and it rested bunched up around his neck. The sharp stones under his knees ground into his skin painfully. This will be painful, but he can endure. The heartache he faces, however, will be a struggle on its own. 

    Fifty lashes… Hûra can count them and be glad when it’s over with. The disappointment he is faced with, knowing he will never be desirable? 

    He wishes for it to be over with, already.

@space-arsonist, @sinick, @boozy-dwarf, @elvenmoans, @dirtymeanuruk

#lotr #middle earth shadow of mordor #middle earth shadow of war #uruk culture #uruk society #uruk hai #my ocs #uruk ocs #tw coporal punishment #tw blood and violence #he finds his weapon of choice #unjust punishments