Die.
Bleed.
Hate.
These were the only things he could get from his enemy. They were mindless, doing and knowing only what they were told. He could have sat them down and spoken of good and peace for ages, and nothing would ever register in their heads. It scared him, that such creatures could have mutated from his own kind. He sunk his blade into a creature's gut for the twenty-sixth time that battle, and it was just the beginning. The onslaught of Helm's Deep hadn't even reached half of what they were capable of, and already the men's numbers were dwindling. They were no match for such hatred and evil. Even with the help of the elves, they couldn't win on their own. The uruk- hai were too many.
The march warden wanted to crawl into a hole and hide when he saw how much destruction was surrounding him. But what kind of a leader would he be if he abandoned the men? No, he had to fight, if he wanted to keep his honor and dignity intact. He hated himself for being part of the hatred. He hated the uruk-hai, and he hated their stench, the stench that seemed to magnify with their death, as if it resided deep in their filthy blood. It made him sick just looking at them, and it made him even sicker when he felt satisfaction with their deaths. All of this killing, no, slaughtering, was making him cold, and he began to hate himself even more than he hated them. He was an elf, a Sindarian elf of the Golden Wood, and Sindarian elves weren't supposed to fight, weren't supposed to glory in killing another, even if it was an orc spawn. But he no longer had choice in the matter. He was now fighting for his life.
There was an explosion behind him, and he turned in time to see his kin, along with a few of the human leaders, being flung into the air, before he was knocked to the ground from the force. He had seen the face of a ranger among the air bourn warriors before he fell, and his heart caught in his throat. He knew that ranger well, and at the thought of seeing him dead at the hands of these hideous creatures was enough to infuriate him. He righted himself, and began to once again hack his way through the oncoming wave of uruk-hai, only now he had a purpose beyond his own survival, and a destination. He cut his way through to the side of the Deeping Wall, and when he had the chance, he leaned over and quickly searched the ground below for the ranger's body. When he didn't find it, he turned back and began fighting once more, sure that the ranger survived the fall, and was moving to another position.
He fought for what seemed like weeks, his breathing coming unevenly, and his head began to spin from lack of rest and proper revival. Finally, he heard a voice call his name. He turned in the direction it came from, down. There was the ranger standing there, blood and sweat covering his face and armor. He yelled, calling the warden back to the Keep. The elf nodded, silently thanking the Valar for letting him get out of there alive. He yelled to his men, motioning them to the Keep. He made to go with them when a new wave of enemies hit them. He fought off the one in front of him, but as it fell it slashed open his left arm-his sword arm. He watched numbly as his own blood flowed out of him, and splashed onto the corpses below him, the black and red blood mixing into a horrid color. That's when the pain finally hit him. He winced and gasped with the new and unfamiliar feeling. He had never been mortally wounded before, in all his long years, and it was such a confusing thing to him, that he became oblivious to the battle around him.
He was caught off guard, and his enemy took advantage of it. The creature behind him sunk its axe into his back, and smiled at the sound of the elf's snapping spine and squirting blood. It out right laughed at his strangled cry, the blood welling up in the warden's throat making it almost impossible to breathe, let alone scream in pain. But the pain didn't last for long. He was once again separated from the world. He saw the golden paths of his home, and the peaceful songs of elven halls filled his ears. He saw his Lady at the end of the path, and he ran to her. When he got there, they sat down, and he leaned back into her embrace. But when he looked up into her eyes, she was no longer there, but his ranger friend instead, was holding him. "Haldir," the man whispered, but the warden couldn't answer. He wanted to say farewell to his human friend, but his spirit was slipping from his body, and he was sure the man knew his request when he felt a hand on his chest. Death finally took him, and the last thing he saw before soaring to the Halls of Mandos was his friend's sad face against the whirling stars above. He had no regrets.
An: I don't own any of the terms in this story referring to Tolkien's work.
Bleed.
Hate.
These were the only things he could get from his enemy. They were mindless, doing and knowing only what they were told. He could have sat them down and spoken of good and peace for ages, and nothing would ever register in their heads. It scared him, that such creatures could have mutated from his own kind. He sunk his blade into a creature's gut for the twenty-sixth time that battle, and it was just the beginning. The onslaught of Helm's Deep hadn't even reached half of what they were capable of, and already the men's numbers were dwindling. They were no match for such hatred and evil. Even with the help of the elves, they couldn't win on their own. The uruk- hai were too many.
The march warden wanted to crawl into a hole and hide when he saw how much destruction was surrounding him. But what kind of a leader would he be if he abandoned the men? No, he had to fight, if he wanted to keep his honor and dignity intact. He hated himself for being part of the hatred. He hated the uruk-hai, and he hated their stench, the stench that seemed to magnify with their death, as if it resided deep in their filthy blood. It made him sick just looking at them, and it made him even sicker when he felt satisfaction with their deaths. All of this killing, no, slaughtering, was making him cold, and he began to hate himself even more than he hated them. He was an elf, a Sindarian elf of the Golden Wood, and Sindarian elves weren't supposed to fight, weren't supposed to glory in killing another, even if it was an orc spawn. But he no longer had choice in the matter. He was now fighting for his life.
There was an explosion behind him, and he turned in time to see his kin, along with a few of the human leaders, being flung into the air, before he was knocked to the ground from the force. He had seen the face of a ranger among the air bourn warriors before he fell, and his heart caught in his throat. He knew that ranger well, and at the thought of seeing him dead at the hands of these hideous creatures was enough to infuriate him. He righted himself, and began to once again hack his way through the oncoming wave of uruk-hai, only now he had a purpose beyond his own survival, and a destination. He cut his way through to the side of the Deeping Wall, and when he had the chance, he leaned over and quickly searched the ground below for the ranger's body. When he didn't find it, he turned back and began fighting once more, sure that the ranger survived the fall, and was moving to another position.
He fought for what seemed like weeks, his breathing coming unevenly, and his head began to spin from lack of rest and proper revival. Finally, he heard a voice call his name. He turned in the direction it came from, down. There was the ranger standing there, blood and sweat covering his face and armor. He yelled, calling the warden back to the Keep. The elf nodded, silently thanking the Valar for letting him get out of there alive. He yelled to his men, motioning them to the Keep. He made to go with them when a new wave of enemies hit them. He fought off the one in front of him, but as it fell it slashed open his left arm-his sword arm. He watched numbly as his own blood flowed out of him, and splashed onto the corpses below him, the black and red blood mixing into a horrid color. That's when the pain finally hit him. He winced and gasped with the new and unfamiliar feeling. He had never been mortally wounded before, in all his long years, and it was such a confusing thing to him, that he became oblivious to the battle around him.
He was caught off guard, and his enemy took advantage of it. The creature behind him sunk its axe into his back, and smiled at the sound of the elf's snapping spine and squirting blood. It out right laughed at his strangled cry, the blood welling up in the warden's throat making it almost impossible to breathe, let alone scream in pain. But the pain didn't last for long. He was once again separated from the world. He saw the golden paths of his home, and the peaceful songs of elven halls filled his ears. He saw his Lady at the end of the path, and he ran to her. When he got there, they sat down, and he leaned back into her embrace. But when he looked up into her eyes, she was no longer there, but his ranger friend instead, was holding him. "Haldir," the man whispered, but the warden couldn't answer. He wanted to say farewell to his human friend, but his spirit was slipping from his body, and he was sure the man knew his request when he felt a hand on his chest. Death finally took him, and the last thing he saw before soaring to the Halls of Mandos was his friend's sad face against the whirling stars above. He had no regrets.
An: I don't own any of the terms in this story referring to Tolkien's work.