Grimy, calloused hands grasp my wrist and thumb. It bends: snap. The other four fingers follow: snap, snap, snap, snap. I steel myself against the pain, flailing helplessly against more to come.
My tormentor restrains my arm; his accomplice pushes firey iron onto my palm, my broken fingers forced to grip it. I stifle a cry; it burns, it burns.
They leave, laughing. Only then do I realize which hand throbs.
I will never hold a sword again.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.