Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings.
Warnings: Angst, torture, short
Mindless Babble: Based more on the movies with help from study aids
The man tore through the brush; heedless of the way the brambles tore at the already abused skin of his torso. Blood flowed freely from the long gash that started somewhere past his hairline and ran down the side of his face, matting his dark hair. His sword tapped against his bruised hip, causing the man to limp slightly. In his bloodied hands, he clutched his coat, bow and a quiver that held but a few white- feathered arrows.
He stumbled then, the poison flowing in his veins causing his limbs to become unresponsive and his vision blurred. He fell to the ground hard, his injured ribs screaming in protest. He lay there for a bit in a vain attempt to regain his breath. He had long ago lost track of the days he had been running and could not remember the last time he had eaten or even tasted water. He was dizzy with pain and exhaustion. But not so much that he missed the slight vibration in the ground. He dragged himself into a standing position and managed a few staggering steps before falling to his knees. There was a large rock formation not far from him in a small clearing and he dragged himself to it. He gingerly leaned his back against it and unsheathed his sword. He swore that he would sell his life dearly.
His pursuers stepped from the shadows and the man failed to suppress the shudder of fear and alarm. They were not the disfigured orcs that had held him captive, nor the hideous goblins that sometimes helped them. These creatures were covered from head to toe in draping black. None of them seemed to have faces under the heavy fabric of their hoods. The sound of metal scraping on itself when the creatures stepped towards the man matched the sounds of their hands grasping their swords. As one, the four beings bared their weapons and advanced on the injured man.
The man struggled to stand and leaned heavily on the rocks behind him preparing to defend himself. He was able to block the first swing but the force of it slammed him to the ground. Lying on his side, he blindly swung his blade and managed to drive the things back, if only a few steps. He winced as they screamed in fury and hate. It was like nothing he had ever heard before, a sound that defied description and pierced him to his very heart.
The maneuver had bought him a few seconds of life but the price was high. His blade dropped from suddenly numb fingers. A sabaton, an armored boot, kicked his weapon away from him. The man tilted his head up watching the creature raise a dagger to make the killing stab. With his back to the rock there was only one route that held safety: he rolled toward the thing as it plunged the sword down. The man stiffened in pain as the blade cut into the injured flesh of his back on its way into the ground. The creature screamed again as it pulled its blade from the earth. The man, now completely spent, rolled onto his back.
Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur, watched as the four creatures poised to take his life.
