Would it be fate that I was the one to start this battle?
Already, I am watching myself, watching my blind eyes as I stumble forward with my arms pinned—nailed—to a log upheld as the burden of my shoulders, and my feet are not without their own constraints. Chains circle my body like a twisted attire, and for a moment, I nearly liken myself to Morgoth the Black Enemy, who wears his iron ring not as a collar, as I have, but as a crown, a mark of his corruption—and the metal has rusted around both of us.
For some reason, I am not seeing this from inside my body.
No, it could not be possible, for I was struck blind long ago, with only everlasting darkness to replace what would have been the sorrows of Arda that I would witness.
But as I turn to my right, I note that I am in the middle of a battlefield, and next to me, Gelmir is kneeling upon grass, and the skies are still blue as the eyes of my beloved brother. Gwindor.
Gwindor is staring intently at me, but not at me, his eyes hidden by the shadow of his helm. But I know they would be burning with a dark, fiery hatred as they fix their gaze upon the orcs.
And then, as I am too busy watching Gwindor, I do not see the blade that arcs down into the left quartile of the log. For a moment, blinding pain assaults me, and I am sightless once more, feeling tears and blood mix onto the stained grass.
Slowly, the blade is permitted to tear through the arm that only hangs by flesh, and I am able to see once more. My body is slumped to the ground, and by it is the arm that I once possessed—the arm that was once jointed to my body till now. The way it had been cleaved off of my shoulder was rugged work. Lacerations trace the places where the orc missed, and the fingertips are torn, the skin hanging from where it is still attached. For a moment, I had gripped too hard at the log for the sheer pain and its onslaught of daggers pressing into my shoulder until finally my arm was disconnected from me.
But I am still alive.
The orcs know, and they pull me up once more, and Gelmir moves, though I do not. The other arm is gone.
One orc piles it upon the other one.
Then, Gelmir is lifted up, and I watch my brother, unable to watch myself.
A scream splits through the air.
I turn around to see, and I feel, and it is palpable, when the scimitar has touched the bone of my thigh. And the orc is sawing at it, cutting aside flesh, marring flesh, staining the metal with blood, and already, my leg is torn open before it is torn off. Blood drips—no, floods—out of the openings, it hurts like hell, and it's not long before the bone has given way, and I feel relief for only one moment. It seems that I am borne upwards by the orcs for the world to see my humiliation, my pain, for the birds to be the witness, for the wind to be the mourner as it shrieks at injustice, and the sky to remain unchanged, still blue and still serene.
The other leg has come off as well, and I am left only a torso without arms, a body without limbs.
They do not hew my neck.
No, they leave it there as I endure the feeling of everything leaving my body, and all of the pain entering it before my beating heart gives in.
Another scream is heard.
And it is not mine.