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Author's Chapter Notes:
I was reading an entry about orcs in my Tolkien's Beastiary while here at the college for my summer classes. I've done a story with an orc as the central character before and people seemed to like it so I thought 'why not do another?'

Anyway, Becoming is such an ironic title. Becoming has multiple meanings after all. It can mean beautiful or it can mean a sequence of change, both definitions fit this one-shot. So, enjoy the gorey goodness and darkness of this and hopefully we can get on to cheerier things!

And remember, I own nothing!
Sweat dripped down his face and into his already burning, bloodshot eyes. The salt stung, but he didn't even blink. He was remembering. Something he'd taken to doing a lot nowadays, getting lost within his mind and just letting his body operate automatically.

The whip, which some pathetic servant was using to strike the flesh from his back, cracked for what seemed the millionth time. He didn't care. He was lost..lost..

Lost to thoughts of sunshine on his face, laughing, playful shouts in great forest, full of green and growing things which Elves love so dearly. He was cherishing this memory, for it was fading, fading with each stroke of the whip, each time he was held down, his legs splayed while they took turns, sometimes torture would be their foreplay and he almost welcomed the delay of that.

Yes, he knew he was dying now. Not physically, no, his heart was stubborn, despite the fact that Elves could die from such invasions and trials as he had endured. He was dying in spirit, his will weakened as the scars thickened his once soft skin and his teeth became chipped from the stone-textured bread that was forced past his lips. Lips that were chapped from saliva and the tearing teeth of those who had taken him.

Some would curse his name in the end, this he realized. He was being broken for a purpose, he had been allowed that scrap of terrifying knowledge when he had first been brought before the Evil One. It's face was to look upon death, yet not a serene death as that which mortal races would enjoy, an endless death. One that was full of suffering and pain, so terrible, so unnatural. How could Illuvitar allow something so evil to inhabit the world? Why would he not save his chosen children, the ones that he gifted, yet cursed, with immortality? Had the Avari done something to offend him? Their refusal to come to the Undying Lands, perhaps, yes, that had to be it.

His purpose..had he truly had a purpose up until this moment? Maybe this was his lot, his contribution to Arda. The thought made him smile. He would bring in a new race, of course. A race apart from the abandonment of Illuvitar, spawned in darkness to shun and topple the light.

The whipping stopped and he sighed, it was time for them to have their fun again. He wondered when he would be perfectly formed for his master. Next week? Next month? It was exhilarating, exciting, formidable and yet it scared him. A small part of him, the Elven part not yet used to the torture, the miniscule spark that still flickered faintly in the back of his mind, it was not yet conformed, not yet snuffed out.

That evening, at least, he believed it was evening, he was to be given a new name. Melkor sat in the hideously beautiful throne as he was thrown to the floor. "You..." It hissed, it's voice a hoarse whisper. It stood and circled him with red slitted eyes that glinted with hellfire. Melkor fingered his stringy and dirty hair that had thinned from malnutrition and mistreatment. "Beautiful. You are becoming...something more than what you were. Something better. You will rise above and your coming generations will remember."

Remember. Remember..hadn't he began this with remembering? He couldn't remember.

"Your name is-"
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