Title: The Fey and the Fell
Author: Lady K. d’Azrael (miltonic_satan@hotmail.com)
Pairings: Glorfindel/ Uglúk (yes, you did read that correctly) 
Rating: R 
Summary: A strange turn of events lead to an injured Uglúk entering 
Rivendell. He discovers he has more in common with the Elves than he 
could ever have expected.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to JRR, who, despite living in gay-
undertone hell, never put any sex in his stories. This is why we need 
fanfics. Other elements are unabashedly filched from Beowulf and Sir 
Gawain and the Green Knight.
Warnings: Kinky/Squicky Pairings, a few Silmarillion refs, but nothing 
too esoteric. 
Author’s Notes: Alternate universe setting where Uglúk doesn’t get killed 
by the filthy white-skins. He’s too sexy to die, okay?
Also, I’m assuming that the Elves of Imladris would not hear of the events 
in the Shire on Frodo’s return, and would therefore not know of 
Saruman’s death at the hands of Gríma.
Thanks to: Kev, for his suggestion that Isildur should have been played by 
Ian Paisley, for a more forceful ‘No!’ in reply to Elrond’s command to 
throw the ring into the fire. NB – if you don’t know who Ian Paisley is, 
you probably don’t live in Northern Ireland and should be grateful.


      “And deep in their dark hearts the Orcs loathed the Master whom 
      they served in fear, the maker only of their misery.”
                                                       [JRR Tolkien, The Silmarillion]
      
Uglúk was the first-born of the Uruk-hai, and also the last alive after the 
War of the Ring. He could not help but think that Saruman’s first effort 
had been imperfect, because he had not been like the others. He stood 
straighter and had more subtle features. He had not feel camaraderie the 
others had seemed too, as they squabbled amongst themselves in a 
bastardised version of the black tongue of Mordor. Uglúk did not speak 
unless required to do so, and he preferred to use the common tongue, 
although his Orkish vocal chords were not really suited to its delicacy. The 
others had regarded him with a resentful but cowardly suspicion, partly 
because he was different and acted aloof, and partly because he had been 
Saruman’s favourite. But none of that mattered now, the other Uruks had 
all perished by the hands of Men and Elves. His master Saruman too, had 
never returned and was assumed dead. Uglúk did not mourn, he was 
practical and had two desires: one was to stay alive, the other was to 
explore the realm until he found someone who could report to him the 
history of the Great War. 
	He was travelling north up from Isengard beneath the range of 
mountains that was called Hithaeglir in the common tongue. He suspected 
that there would be Orcs left in the mines of Moria who might tell him 
something of what they knew of the war. After a long and tiring journey of 
over a week he reached the Moria gates. They were covered in rubble and 
detritus, beaten in by the creature that lives in the lake. After another few 
gruelling hours of labour, Uglúk managed to make an opening big enough 
for him to clamber through. His eyes opened wide, loving the complete 
darkness and picking out the details of his surroundings better than an Elf 
could in full light. He wound his way through the corridors, kicking aside 
the odd dwarf skull. The darkness of Moria was unlike any other he had 
ever encountered. It was absolute, heavy and claustrophobic; not at all like 
the darkness of his home in Isengard which was cool and reassuring. He 
did not like this place, even before he met its inhabitants. 
      The Elven for Orc, Saruman had told him, was ‘Yrch’. More a 
noise of disgust than a word. It was fitting, Uglúk thought as he moved 
deeper into the labyrinth and heard the clamour of a group of Orcs who 
were arguing vociferously in the Black Tongue. Their arguing had reached 
such a pitch that they had regressed to a form of communication that was 
not even language, just snarling and gesturing. Uglúk knew it was a very 
dangerous thing to get caught up in. any moment now they were about to 
draw their swords and attack each other. He stood back behind the 
doorway and waited patiently until several Orcs had been slain and peace 
restored before he made his entrance.
The Orcs of Moria looked at him blankly. Sheltered in the bowels of the 
mountain as they were, they had not seen the Uruk-hai.
“I am Uglúk, half Orc and half Goblin, once a servant of Saruman of 
Many Colours. I come here to seek information about the War of the Ring, 
of how it came to be that the Dark Lord fell.”
He was speaking in the same dialect of the Black Tongue that he knew 
those Orcs used, but they looked at him with the same wide-eyed 
mystification as if he were speaking in Elvish. Evidently, Uglúk had been 
labouring under a misapprehension.
“You lie!” snarled the first Orc, without introducing himself. “The Dark 
Lord has not fallen. It cannot be!”
“I will throw myself on my own sword if it is a lie! The Dark Lord has 
fallen and the white skins have slain all my kind.”
The two of the three remaining Orcs cursed and kicked the prone bodies of 
their two fallen companions. The one who had spoken first was swart and 
hunched over, a terrible light of cunning glowed in his narrow eyes.
“And how was it that you came to survive? Did you run from the white 
skins like a coward?”
Uglúk spat at his feet, brandishing his crude and battle-notched one-bladed 
sword. “Say that again, slave! I had more spirit than the rest and I fought 
my way out of the circle of horse-men to return to my master. If you do 
not believe me then I will show you what those men suffered at my 
hands!”
“As my two friends would tell you if they lived, it is better that you should 
not cross me, bastard half-Goblin!”
Uglúk would take no more of this. Before the Orc could draw his sword, 
Uglúk lashed out and hefted his head from his shoulders with one terrible 
blow. The other two scattered, but one of the sly cowards shot him with an 
arrow that stuck in his shoulder. Uglúk fell to the ground in pain, unable to 
follow them.  He found his strength again and sat up, breaking off the end 
of the arrow with a grunt of pain and cursing in Orkish. He stood up 
slowly and began to make his way back to the gate, his great head hung in 
desolation and his wound throbbing. He was the first and last of the Uruk-
hai, what was his fate now? How many years could he expect anyway? 
Was he to wander eternally like one of Cain’s clan, or at least until some 
man or Elf took mercy and pierced his heart with a sword or an arrow?  
Perhaps this Orc arrow would do him in. The wound was deep and still 
bleeding. 
	Uglúk did not die of blood loss, but he had no more healing salve 
and so the wound became infected, or perhaps the arrowhead had been 
poisoned with something cruel and lingering, he was unsure which. For a 
week he stumbled gradually northwards, losing his strength as the wound 
festered. He needed to bathe it. Needed water but could find no rivers and 
could not spare drinking water. When he had all but given up hope, was 
staggering and fading in an out of consciousness he saw one ahead. With a 
last burst of strength he made it, but fell headfirst in, unable to do anything 
else. Everything went black and he knew no more.
	Uglúk woke. He wondered if this was Valhalla. The light hurt his 
eyes and there was a cloying scent of flowers. His shoulder was throbbing, 
so he suspected that he was not dead, unless the afterlife was 
extraordinarily cruel. He reached out with one hand to assess his 
surroundings, still blinded, and felt cloth beneath it. 
“It awakes.” Said a musical voice.
“What is this place?!” Demanded Uglúk. “I cannot see!” 
The owner of the voice laughed and suddenly the room became darker as 
curtains closed.
“You are in the haven of Imladris. A young Elf found you in the river and 
was unsure if you were man, Elf or Orc, but gave you the benefit of the 
doubt and brought you to us to be healed.”
Uglúk’s sight was beginning to return, he could make out blurred shapes.
“I am none of those things.” He growled. “Do not insult me.”
“I know of your kind, you are the servant of Saruman. One of his fighting 
Uruk-hai.”
“Who and what are you?” Uglúk demanded.
“I am the lord of Imladris.”
Imladris . . . Uglúk remembered Saruman speaking of it. “You are Elrond 
the Half-Elven then.” He said.
“No.” the Elf replied. “Our great lord has gone across the seas to the 
havens. I am his successor. My name is Glorfindel.”
“I am Uglúk, captain of the Uruk-hai. Or I was, now I am merely the last. 
Tell me, master Elf, if you knew what I am then why did you let me into 
your refuge?”
“A good question. I hoped that you might tell me what became of your 
master, Saruman. We are uneasy to have such a dangerous loose end.”
“If I knew, why should I tell you? You would probably just kill me 
afterwards anyway.” Uglúk moved to get up, but his shoulder gave him an 
unbearable twinge of pain and so he collapsed helpless back down onto 
the bed.
 “Careful. You are not yet healed.” The Elf sat down by him. He held a 
bowl of steaming water. Glorfindel began to dab the wound with a clean 
cloth dipped in his healing water. Whatever the sweet herbs were that 
scented it, they had a pain-numbing property as well as a cleansing one. 
Uglúk grumbled, but lay still. “We would have no reason to kill you if you 
meant us no harm. We hoped you might see reason and grant us the 
information we seek in return for our hospitality.”
Uglúk was silent for a moment. He was beginning to make out the details 
of the Elf’s face. He was fairer even than most of his kind. He possessed 
the kind of ephemeral-seeming, fragile beauty that the Orcs, in their envy, 
so delighted in destroying. He confessed: “I do not know where my master 
is. He was gone from Isengard when I returned and it was in ruins. I have 
travelled this way because I sought news of the war and of where Saruman 
might be.”
“You will swear this by anything you hold sacred?”
“I will swear by my master’s life and by my own.”
“I believe you.”
Glorfindel sighed and moved off the bed. “I will trouble you no more then. 
You may stay until you are well.” With that he swept out of the room.
Uglúk fell into an uneasy sleep until nightfall. His eyesight was perfectly 
restored by then and he made himself get up, although his wounded arm 
was still useless and extremely painful. He walked stiffly, trying not to 
move it. As he staggered bravely to the door he caught sight of himself in 
the mirror and almost didn’t recognise what he saw. He growled. What in 
the name of Mordor had those bloody Elves done to him? His armour was 
gone and he was dressed in a robe of sable and silver. They had obviously 
bathed him while he was unconscious, because the paint of the White 
Hand was gone from his face. They had also somehow managed to comb 
out his matted black hair, which now fell straight over his shoulders and 
down his back, with the front sections in two fine plaits in the typical 
Elven style. Uglúk cursed vehemently in the Black Tongue and strode out 
of the room to search for an Elf to shout at. He wanted his armour and his 
sword back.
He found a garden outside that overflowed with verdure and seemed to be 
the source of that disgusting floral scent that pervaded the entire place. On 
the edge of a fountain sat his host, engrossed in a book. Despite his fury, 
Uglúk was forced to pause before this vision. Glorfindel was dressed in a 
robe that was the shade of green Uglúk would evermore associate with the 
Elves, a deep shimmering shade that was natural and magical at the same 
time. His sharp features were rendered even more unearthly by the moon’s 
light, which his pale skin reflected with an opalescent trace. His golden 
hair was unbraided, one straight section hanging against his cheek before a 
faintly pointed ear. It was the beauty that the Orcs would have wanted to 
destroy, but for some reason Uglúk did not hate it as he should have, he 
felt only wonder and a gnawing envy.
“Elf!” growled Uglúk, recovering his righteous indignation. “You had no 
right to do this to me while I was unconscious and helpless.”
“Do what?” enquired Glorfindel, perplexed.
Uglúk  growled and gestured at his attire. “Make me look like a woman! Is 
this some kind of joke?”
“A woman?” Glorfindel smiled. “That is clearly the robe of a male.”
“You Elves all look like women. Where are my armour and my sword? I 
wish to leave.” Uglúk’s face was determined, but a sudden twinge of pain 
made his features screw up and caused his heavy form to sway 
dangerously.
“I would not recommend it. You are not well enough.” Glorfindel stood 
and took him kindly by the arm, encouraging him to sit on the edge of the 
fountain. “You Uruk-hai are extremely hardy, for I do not believe that 
there is another creature in Middle Earth who could even stand up after 
such an ordeal.” 
This flattery appeased Uglúk’s pride a little and he allowed himself to sit.
Glorfindel joined him, folding his graceful hands in his lap. “I’m not sure 
you realise how close to death you were. It was quite a struggle to get you 
back to the land of the living.”
Uglúk grunted. “You should not have bothered.”
“There is no need for such fatalism. You are free now that the Dark Lord 
has fallen. I can see the light of logic in your eyes, you are not one of 
those mindless Orcs. You were meant for better things.”
Uglúk paused for a moment, considering this. “I do not know what to do 
with this freedom. I was created to fight. The fall of my master’s side 
means I do not have a purpose.” He was surprised by his own verbosity. 
Uglúk had never had call to speak before, although he had often thought. 
He did not know where these words came from, some Elvish history that 
was buried in his mind and merely inherited.
“You should make your own. Indeed, I believe you have. You came this 
way to seek information of the war, and we have that in abundance.”
“Why would you waste your time with me? Orcs are the foes of the 
Elves.”
Glorfindel smiled. His expression was captivating, with many subtle 
inflections. “You are only half Orc.”
“It is my better half.” Uglúk grunted in bitter humour.
“The Orcs were Elves once you know.”
“Yes, Saruman told me.”
Glorfindel studied him with earnest sparkling eyes. “It’s strange. I cannot 
see it in the Orcs, but in you I can see my ancestors.”
Uglúk  struggled to find words. “I have memories of things before my own 
life. They are just pieces, but some things I understood before Saruman 
told me the tales.” 
“As I inherited fragments of the lives of my ancestors. I understand. Do 
the Orcs feel it too, do you know?”
“I do not think they feel anything. They do not know anything. All they 
understand or desire is . . . transient.”  Uglúk  balked as the voice that was 
his own said the last word. Why did this Elf make him unlock his hidden 
word-hoard?
Glorfindel raised his face to the sky. “Tell me, does your kind love the 
stars as we do?”
“I do not know. I have not looked.” Uglúk followed Glorfindel’s gaze and 
watched the heavens.
“Elbereth, our dearest guardian, made them and she arranged them to 
foretell history. The fall of the Dark Lords is written there.”
“What do they say becomes of the dark’s servants after the fall of their 
Lord?”
“They do not say.” Glorfindel stood and turned to Uglúk again. “Come 
with me into the hall and I will tell you of the war, if you wish.” Uglúk 
nodded and followed his host inside.
	By the fire of the hall Glorfindel told him everything: The fall of 
Saruman at the hands of the Ents, the siege of Helm’s Deep, the battle of 
Minas Tirith and how the Witch King of Angmar was slain. Uglúk was 
silent, lost in his own thoughts. He looked up as Glorfindel narrated the 
battle at the gates of Mordor and how two halflings destroyed the One 
Ring in the fires of Mount Doom. 
“The two halflings my company captured?” Uglúk asked, his face 
clouded.
Glorfindel smiled at the notion of Merry and Pippin destroying the One 
Ring. “No. Not those two. Another two that you did not find at Amon 
Hen.”
“I am not sure,” Uglúk began haltingly, “whether it would please me to 
have been an instrument in the fall of Sauron or not.”
“Which would you prefer: to be slaving in Barad-Dûr or to sit with me 
before a warm fire?”
Uglúk smiled and showed his huge yellowed canine teeth. “You are trying 
to domesticate me, I think.”
“Do you object?”
Uglúk ignored the question. “Tell me, Elf lord, why would you bother to 
seek my company when this hall is filled with your own fair kind?”
Glorfindel cast his eyes downward, suddenly melancholy. “The hall is no 
longer filled. My people are fading in Middle Earth and all long for the 
Havens of the West.”
“Why do you not go, then?”
“I do not desire to leave. I think I am the only one. Being with the others 
only makes me despondent.”
There was silence between them. Glorfindel shook off his sadness and 
enquired after the needs of his guest. “You must be hungry. Will you 
come and eat at my table?”
“Ha! I thank you for your offer, but you would soon discover that I have 
no manners.”
Glorfindel rose reluctantly and smiled once more. “Then go and rest. I 
shall have something sent to you.”
Uglúk returned to his room and lay back on the bed. He felt incongruous 
in the midst of all this delicate finery. He had terrified two young Elf 
squires on his journey through the corridors, even with his borrowed 
civilised appearance. He did not belong here, as soon as he was well he 
would put his armour back on and leave to wander aimlessly once more. 
Despite all these assurances he made himself, Uglúk’s dreams were 
troubled by images of the beautiful form of Glorfindel lying against his 
own, of his gentle, feminine smile and his lilting reassurances. He also 
remembered his ancestors and the torture in the dungeons of Morgoth.    
	In the early afternoon when Uglúk lay in bed, still drowsy, 
Glorfindel came and sat by him. He inspected Uglúk’s wound and bathed 
it again, then stayed for more idle conversation. They spoke mainly of the 
race of men and their doubtful gift of free thought. Reluctantly, after an 
hour Glorfindel took his leave, as he had duties to attend to. Before he left 
he leaned down and bestowed a chaste kiss on Uglúk’s flawed lips. Uglúk 
closed his eyes and turned away, grumbling something unintelligible. 
Glorfindel laughed and swept out of the room, leaving Uglúk furious and 
confused.
	Uglúk found that he missed the Elf’s company as he wandered 
about the gardens in the early evening. The pain in his shoulder was 
becoming more bearable and he had regained his balance. He realised, 
with mixed feelings, that he would be able to leave Rivendell in another 
day or two. Even if he had not been concerned about his fate in the outside 
world, he was beginning to form an attachment to this strange place. He 
did not belong here, it irritated him in its perfection and  purity. Yet, he 
loved the fresh, cool darkness there and, although he was loath to admit it, 
he found solace in the company of Glorfindel. 
	He was disappointed to not run into the golden-haired host that 
evening, but as before, his host came first thing in the afternoon to sit by 
him once again. He touched Uglúk’s wound with his healing fingertips.
“It is closing over well. You are almost healed.”
“Yes. I think I will leave tomorrow. I have trespassed where I am not 
welcome long enough.”
Glorfindel looked as if he was about to protest, but he held his tongue, 
pulling Uglúk’s robe back over his shoulder. At last he said “As you 
wish.” And once again, he leaned down, bestowing this time two equally 
gentle kisses on the bemused Uruk’s mouth. Uglúk had to suppress every 
feral instinct in his body so as not to grasp the Elf roughly and ravage his 
trusting form. With a last regretful look, Glorfindel left the room.
	That evening Glorfindel found Uglúk in the garden and brought 
him a gift.
“You may have your own back if you would prefer, but it is blunt and 
notched, so I thought you might prefer this.” He placed a sword in a silver-
wrought scabbard in Uglúk’s hands. Uglúk looked at it in wonder before 
saying:
“It is an old sword, one forged by your ancient ancestors. It is too precious 
to you, I cannot take it.”
“It was forged by the greatest of the Elven smiths in the first age. They are 
your ancestors too. Take it, for I would be more at ease to know you were 
well protected.” 
Uglúk raised his yellow eyes and nodded dumbly in thanks. He drew the 
sword from its scabbard and  tried its weight in his hand.
Glorfindel laughed when it began to shine intensely blue “It will glow like 
that when Orcs are near.”
Uglúk sighed. “Could you not tell it to glow only when foolish Elves are 
near? That would be of more use to me.” 
	That evening they walked together about the confines of the haven, 
as if testing its boundaries. Glorfindel told him of all the wonders of 
Middle Earth; of all that he had seen and also of the things and places that 
were only whispered about in suspicious awe by the Elven travellers.
	The following morning Uglúk was up and putting on his armour 
when Glorfindel came to his chamber. His new sword lay on the bed. He 
felt he had regained his old prowess just to be out of that robe. And yet, 
holding a sword again saddened him because in Rivendell he had neither 
wanted nor needed one. 
“You look like a fighter again.” Said Glorfindel, voicing Uglúk’s own 
thoughts. He ran his gaze up the Uruk’s form, thrilled and slightly envious 
of his defined masculinity. Nothing about him was Elvish and delicate, but 
indestructible, powerful. His dark skin was tanned and smooth as new 
leather, the definition of muscle on his thighs and arms clearly visible. His 
features were hewn and adamant: a high forehead that shadowed his 
yellow, predatory eyes, a sharp nose and a prominent lower lip that 
almost, but never entirely covered his sharp teeth. There was something 
feline about him and yet none of it was graceful or elusive as was the way 
of the Elves. He was like one of the great cats in repose, flexing with 
latent power. Glorfindel was as captivated by his animal baseness as 
Uglúk was by the Elf’s beauty. 
“Are you going?” Glorfindel asked, quietly.
“Yes. I was about to come and find you to thank you for healing me.”
“It was my pleasure, and I have enjoyed speaking with you.”
Uglúk nodded and picked up his sword. He meant to leave, but he stood 
stupidly while he and Glorfindel stared at each other. The Elf suddenly 
said: “Stay.”
“I don’t belong here.” Uglúk replied. Glorfindel was suddenly against 
him, his long arms crossed behind Uglúk’s neck. The Elf’s cheek lay 
against his own. 
“Stay. I will give you a reason to.”
Uglúk lost his tenuous grip on reason and grasped Glorfindel roughly by 
the shoulders, ravaging his soft mouth with his teeth and tongue. The Elf 
stiffened in his arms and made a noise of desperation that stirred pity in 
Uglúk’s dark heart. He released Glorfindel, who brought a hand up to the 
corner of his mouth, which was bleeding where one of the Uruk’s sharp 
teeth had caught him.
“You should not taunt fell beasts. I am not like you, I could not give you 
what it is you desire. Just because I speak reason does not mean I can 
change what I am. I cannot control my instincts, and you are too delicate 
to withstand them. That is why I must return to Mordor, that barren land is 
where I belong, fighting out my short life with the rest of the unnatural 
creations of the Dark Lord.” 
But Glorfindel did not look afraid, as he should have done. Waxing with 
indignation, he grabbed Uglúk by the shoulders, mimicking the Uruk’s 
own earlier gestures, and kissed him fiercely in return.
“I am not delicate. I have lived since the second age and I am a warrior 
who has slain countless hundreds of your kind. Do not assume that you 
know what is best for me, or what I really desire.”
Uglúk’s eyes opened wide in surprise and he gave a low, throaty laugh. 
Glorfindel moved away across the room and threw off his robe, lying back 
naked upon the bed  with a fierce, almost feral look in his eyes that 
countered the vulnerability of his pale, exposed skin. Uglúk tore off his 
armour, breaking the leather straps that fastened his chest plate and, with a 
snarl, threw himself down upon the Elf. More forceful kissing ensued, 
Uglúk grasping at Glorfindel’s soft, tactile form with his rough  hands and 
rending nails. He was dimly aware that he was probably hurting the Elf, 
but from the way Glorfindel entwined his legs with Uglúk’s own and ran 
his hands covetously over his powerful thighs and sinuous back, it was 
clear that he was not recoiling from the rough attention. Uglúk moved his 
mouth down to the hollow of Glorfindel’s throat, smiling to himself 
through the bites and kisses as Glorfindel released ragged groans at the 
attention, his chest rising and falling with laboured breathing. When Uglúk 
felt he had prolonged the Elf’s suffering long enough, he raised himself up 
on his hands and knees, turning Glorfindel over forcefully. Glorfindel 
breathed out unevenly, turning his head to catch a glance of Uglúk. Their 
coupling was no more gentle than their kisses had been; Uglúk regressed 
to curses in the Black Tongue, pulling on a handful of Glorfindel’s golden 
hair. Glorfindel abased himself willingly and readily. Satiation seemed to 
break the spell of savagery and they lay against each other, silent and 
tender. Glorfindel rested his head on Uglúk’s uninjured shoulder, tracing 
unseen patterns on the Uruk’s chest with his fingertips. Uglúk kissed 
Glorfindel’s forehead, stroking back his damp, tousled hair.
“Will you stay?” whispered Glorfindel.
“No.” replied Uglúk. There was silence between them for a heavy moment 
before he amended: “Come with me.”
“To Mordor?” 
Uglúk laughed. “No, not to Mordor.”
“Where, then?”
“To the lost realms, to all the places you told me of. I want you to show 
me all there is to see.”  
“Yes. I will, if you desire it.” Was Glorfindel’s simple reply.
	When the darkness fell Uglúk met Glorfindel in the garden. He 
was arrayed like the Uruk himself, as a warrior, but his armour was 
skilfully wrought in a fine metal that put the pig-iron cast of Uglúk’s own 
to shame. About his shoulders was a cloak of silver-green that rendered 
him almost invisible in the darkness, with a silver clasp at the throat above 
which could just be seen a red bite-mark. Glorfindel kissed Uglúk and cast 
a cloak that was the twin of his own about the Uruk’s shoulders. He pulled 
the hood up, covering Uglúk’s dark hair that was growing tangled once 
again through neglect.
“When people see us,” smiled Uglúk. “They will think it is a pair of Elven 
travellers.”
Glorfindel laughed and drew his sword, which began to glow a fierce blue, 
as if it were crying out against  Uglúk’s proximity.
“This way.” The Elf said confidently, pointing his sword to the West. 
Walking stealthily side by side, they moved through the trees towards the 
ford in the river Bruinen.

-The End