Battle of pride
8.9.2009
Aragorn's gaze swept over the battlefield with regret. Such a thing should not have been allowed to happen, yet it had. When accepting the throne of Gondor, this was not the future he had foreseen, and not the future he had wanted. But alas, now it was too late.
Lifting one hand, the King of Gondor forced himself to make a sacrifice and a volley of arrows was released. Some of his men would undoubtedly die in the crossfire, but even more elves would lose their lives. Perhaps it was a losing battle he was fighting, for the kingdom of Mirkwood held better archers and better warriors with centuries of experience that no mere mortal could ever dream of achieving. But the soldiers of Gondor were plenty, for most of the firstborn had sailed to the Undying Lands before the disaster had occurred. And Rohan was all too willing to participate in the battle. For Gondor's sake.
Another volley of arrows fell over the battlefield and screams of the dying reached both sides. Aragorn's stormy-gray eyes rose to seek a glimpse of the elven armour far away on the other side of the valley. Once again the King of Gondor found himself wondering what awful deed had led up to these events, though knowing the cause all too well. Sadly, duty as a King demanded him to defend his people against the furious elves even as sorrow weighted his heart. And Mirkwood stood alone. It stood alone against two cities of men. Yet none could deny the elves' skills and the passion with which they fought. Feeling the sight too much to bear, Aragorn closed his eyes for a moment, only for a small moment, and wished he were once more a mere ranger devoid of responsibilities.
Losses would be great on both sides and in the morning the red dawn would speak of the horrors done. History would be written by the victors and the true meaning of this battle would be lost. Indeed, Aragorn felt that the proud warriors of Mirkwood had every reason to declare war upon Gondor, for had Gondor not wronged them greatly?
Let memories of kinder days of laughter stay near your heart in these dark hours. This was a dark smudge in the history between man and elf. Rivendell would not interfere, for had Aragorn not wed the daughter of Elrond, Lord of Rivendel? Lothlorien would not interfere, for were Galadriel and Celeborn, Lady and Lord of Lothlorien not the grandparents of Aragorn's wife? No, Mirkwood stood alone in their war, though their pride and their fury and their belief in what was right made them feared opponents. Thranduil, King of Mirkwood, was a seasoned and formidable foe.
But neither would the two elven realms stand to fight against their woodland kin. They would not take up arms against their own kind, who had mastered fight against the creatures that lurk within the shadows of Mirkwood of which like no other race had ever seen. No. Lothlorien and Rivendel turned their eyes away in sorrow and closed their borders to the war. Lord Elrond merely made a small excuse, and willingly accepted refugees to rest within his land.
Aragorn nodded to one of his captains, and a regiment set out to join the tousle. Most were shot down by elven archers as soon as they came within range. The survivors of these deadly projectiles joined their comrades in their attempts to push back the elven foot soldiers. To Aragorn's eyes it seemed as if the humans had gained some more ground, but the ranger's senses told him that this was not the case.
The clear sound of an elven horn rang out in the distance. A small group of white horses, seeming almost ethereal with their purity contrasting with the bloodstained soil, ran towards the battle. Their riders skilfully manoeuvred the mounts among fighting bodies, and elves carefully gave way. Aragorn sent another volley of arrows, ordering his archers to kill the horsemen.
Why did it feel so wrong? As if he'd overlooked some important detail. Perhaps it was simply his guilt.
Despite the arrows aiming for them, the elven riders advanced and killed those they could reach. Aragorn turned to the man beside him and gave the order. Small fractions of the horsemen of both Gondor and Rohan rode into battle. The scream of dying horses accompanied the sounds of war. Aragorn felt sick to the very depths of his soul. When would this end? Who would have to die before all this was over? Once again the King found his thoughts wandering to kinder days of little worry. And from there, to the night his meagre healing abilities had not been enough, to the day Mirkwood's elves declared war. Letting memories consume the mind on a battlefield was dangerous, this Aragorn knew, but they came nonetheless. Some unbidden, some welcomed.
An arrow pierced Aragorn's flesh near his shoulder, where there was a slight gap in the armour. The former ranger stared almost dully down at the fine wooden carving. Now he finally realized why he had felt so wrong. The battle strategy of the elves had been too direct, too simple, pulling all attention to the field. And with the eyes of both sides focused between the great armies, no one took notice a lone archer making his way within range of the King of Gondor.
Another arrow was sent flying before the elven archer was taken down. This one penetrated near Aragorn's collarbone, above where the breast plate no longer covered. Had he not made the slight, unplanned stumble backwards, it would have pierced his throat.
As the King of men fell over, and strong hands grabbed and moved him towards safety, Aragorn dimly considered that someone, some time ago, could have argued that elves were above such dishonourable means of assassinations. But Aragorn had known from the very beginning; this was not a simple war between men and elves. This was a battle of Thranduil seeking revenge. This was a battle of a father in quest of vengeance for the death of his son.
The End.
Hmm. No, I don't think I'm going to explain what exactly happened. Because I'm an evil little bitch.