Author's Note: Written from the phrase "high grass" for a fic tree. Largely a practice exercise for writing action.
Even as he wrenched his blade from the skull of the first orc, part of him knew. Aragorn kicked out, shoving the next two down together, and slashed a fourth across the throat. A sound in the high grass, and he pivoted, catching another on the backswing.
He was free, for a moment, and finished off the downed orcs.
Further down the slope, Gimli let out a war cry. He turned to see a writhing mass of orcs, with the clang of the battle axe beneath.
The thwip of an arrow. One fell, then another and Aragorn caught a glimpse of Gimli. His face twisted with rage as he heaved, shoving, and got enough room to let the battle axe swing free. Sunlight caught the axe, glinting, as death arced out from the blade.
Then the orcs were back upon him. He heard the twang of an arrow's release, whistling downhill, as he faced his own enemies, and the animal scream of dying orcs all around. He took one in the jugular, black blood arcing out, and heard the thud of an arrow into flesh. The orc in front of him went limp, axe falling from his hands, as he shoved him out of the way. He stumbled over the still moving body and forced his way up the hill. The horn sounded again, close, and he came to the first sword-slain orc that had not died by his own hand.
Dread sank deep as he lunged around the dead orc. The chest wound still oozed night blood, though the heart no longer lent force behind it. A curved scimitar was still clinched in its hand. He looked, quickly, as he passed, and found no red on its blade.
The bodies grew thicker, till they blocked his way. Their weapons were stained red now, and the horn did not come again. His way was clogged with corpses, and he fell, slipping on foul blackness as he tried to gain the hill. He growled, shoving, as he took his frustration out on the pile of bodies.
Then Legolas was there, dancing his way over the dead as nimbly as he had the snow-covered pass. Aragorn caught the offered hand and pulled himself up, then the elf was gone, darting ahead as he notched another arrow.
There would be no need.
He knew, as he passed the mounded dead. As he saw red gleam on rocks and dull steel. As he made out the shape at the base of a tree trunk.
He'd known when the horn sounded.
His steps slowed, as he came to the top of the hill. Eyes fixed at the tree's base, he passed through the final ring of dead. The elf was bent over him, back bowed in sorrow, and the fall of blonde hair hid his face. The dwarf cried out, as he cleared the dead and saw.
Weariness swamped him, the sword too heavy. Then, Aragorn saw the silver strands stir. The chest rose weakly, and Aragorn fell to his knees beside his friend. Legolas stood, giving him room, and he heard the dwarf just behind.
They were too late, he saw at once, but Boromir was too stubborn to die quickly. The eyes rolled in their sockets as they found his face. Blood-slick fingers clenched on his arm and pulled him in. He bent close, and heard the suck of a punctured lung as Boromir gasped out his message. He turned his head to listen, and saw the elf's eyes close, saw the axe slip from short, stubby fingers.
He felt the last faint breath on his cheek. Listened, waiting, and heard only the silence after.