Nozhdrul sat, scrunched up behind the crates, his nose resting on his bony knees. It was drawing near night, and the Easterlings had settled in to drinking and gaming away from where the prisoner was tied. The Orcs had retreated to the front of the cave, grumbling at the Men and gnashing their sharp little teeth when they thought of all the tasty Man-flesh on those bones.
Anuion sat crosslegged on the floor, his head bowed in weariness. His head came up warily as he heard the scrape of knees and hands draw near him.
Keeping tho the shadows at the back of the cave, Nozhdrul drew near the prisoner. 'Psst! You. Man. You want some?'
The Orc pushed a strip of dried rabbit toward Anuion and offered him a sip of brackish, though reasonably clean, water from his water skin.
Nozhdrul sniffed the air. One of the Easterling guards was drawing near. He scuttled back behind the crates, holding his breath, and waited until he had passed.
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‘Many are the strange chances of the world,’ said Mithrandir, ‘and help oft shall come from the hands of the weak when the Wise falter.’
– Gandalf in: The Silmarillion, 'Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age'
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