Battle Song
Prologue
A thin black haze hung over the land like a cloud of malice and hatred through which the sun was a red glare. She surveyed the battlefield below, strewn with the carcasses of men, orcs, and wolves. Among them stood the long figure of a man, by his apparel a warrior captain of Gondor. His name was Boromir, and he was also the son of Denethor, the steward and present ruler of Gondor in the absence of a king. His stormy gray eyes were as forlorn and filled with sorrow as an elf lord's for his gaze never left the bodies of his fallen comrades. He was only thankful that his younger brother, Faramir, had been wounded in a previous battle and taken back to Minas Tirith. If he had not been wounded much worse could have befallen him. Slowly, Boromir turned towards the East where the haze originated. A wind blew towards him from that direction, ruffling his reddish-brown hair and filling the air with the hideous stench of death. The sind seemed to circle around him, pervading his ears with the sound of mocking laughter. "Damn you," Boromir growled, clenching his hands into fists as burning tears slid down his fair face despite his efforts to hold them back. How long would this last? This battle was won but at a terrible price. There would be many others to come. His people did valiantly to protect Middle Earth but there seemed to be no end to Sauron and his orcs. The people of the White City could only last so long. When will it end?! When the king returns, answered a voice inside him. "The king?!" Boromir roared inwardly. It could be another age before the heir of Isildur returned to Gondor. Why couldn't his father be crowned king? If he were, then they would raise a host unseen since the Last Alliance and wipe Sauron from this world forever. If only they could have the throne! With this thought he fell his knees and pounded both fists onto the earth causing it to shake in his fury. Boromir choked back a sob as tears streamed down his face. His tears stung his face with shame to weep before the eye of Sauron but this he could not help while pain and hopelessness clawed at his heart. "Mew," something called softly. Through tear-blurred eyes Boromir observed a small creature propping itself up with its forepaws on his hand. It was a wolf cub with raven black fur and large, sparkling hazel eyes. Its fur was matted with blood from invisible wounds, and orc blood clung to its entire muzzle. Slowly, Boromir advanced his other hand towards the cub, allowing it to catch his scent. It barked happily and pounced on him with unseen force, nearly knocking him over. Boromir laughed, allowing the pup to perch on his shoulder and gently lick away his tears. He ran his fingers through the wolf's fur, coming away a bright crimson. She was hurt but it appeared that with a healer, she could survive. "Come," whispered Boromir, shouldering the wolf as he got up from the battlefield ground. The young wolf willingly submitted to his handling. A ghost of a smile tugged at Boromir's lips as he turned his back on the East and began to trek back to his home, Minas Tirith, the White City, where a fanfare of brass trumpets awaited his return. Perhaps there was hope yet.
Prologue
A thin black haze hung over the land like a cloud of malice and hatred through which the sun was a red glare. She surveyed the battlefield below, strewn with the carcasses of men, orcs, and wolves. Among them stood the long figure of a man, by his apparel a warrior captain of Gondor. His name was Boromir, and he was also the son of Denethor, the steward and present ruler of Gondor in the absence of a king. His stormy gray eyes were as forlorn and filled with sorrow as an elf lord's for his gaze never left the bodies of his fallen comrades. He was only thankful that his younger brother, Faramir, had been wounded in a previous battle and taken back to Minas Tirith. If he had not been wounded much worse could have befallen him. Slowly, Boromir turned towards the East where the haze originated. A wind blew towards him from that direction, ruffling his reddish-brown hair and filling the air with the hideous stench of death. The sind seemed to circle around him, pervading his ears with the sound of mocking laughter. "Damn you," Boromir growled, clenching his hands into fists as burning tears slid down his fair face despite his efforts to hold them back. How long would this last? This battle was won but at a terrible price. There would be many others to come. His people did valiantly to protect Middle Earth but there seemed to be no end to Sauron and his orcs. The people of the White City could only last so long. When will it end?! When the king returns, answered a voice inside him. "The king?!" Boromir roared inwardly. It could be another age before the heir of Isildur returned to Gondor. Why couldn't his father be crowned king? If he were, then they would raise a host unseen since the Last Alliance and wipe Sauron from this world forever. If only they could have the throne! With this thought he fell his knees and pounded both fists onto the earth causing it to shake in his fury. Boromir choked back a sob as tears streamed down his face. His tears stung his face with shame to weep before the eye of Sauron but this he could not help while pain and hopelessness clawed at his heart. "Mew," something called softly. Through tear-blurred eyes Boromir observed a small creature propping itself up with its forepaws on his hand. It was a wolf cub with raven black fur and large, sparkling hazel eyes. Its fur was matted with blood from invisible wounds, and orc blood clung to its entire muzzle. Slowly, Boromir advanced his other hand towards the cub, allowing it to catch his scent. It barked happily and pounced on him with unseen force, nearly knocking him over. Boromir laughed, allowing the pup to perch on his shoulder and gently lick away his tears. He ran his fingers through the wolf's fur, coming away a bright crimson. She was hurt but it appeared that with a healer, she could survive. "Come," whispered Boromir, shouldering the wolf as he got up from the battlefield ground. The young wolf willingly submitted to his handling. A ghost of a smile tugged at Boromir's lips as he turned his back on the East and began to trek back to his home, Minas Tirith, the White City, where a fanfare of brass trumpets awaited his return. Perhaps there was hope yet.