Prologue
One, two, breathe, one, two, breathe…
The sun rose blood red that day.
One, two, breathe, one, two, breathe…
He continued running, his iron shod shoes hitting the mixture of half baked mud and shriveled grass with a rhythmic motion. All the better to keep count.
One, two, breathe…
Of course, his counting was a bit irregular due to the limp he was sporting. A sizeable portion of his thigh was missing after he had hurriedly removed an arrow using only his dagger whilst running from another horse archer. That combined with the stab wound through his side was enough to slow him down considerably. But it did not stop him. He kept running, kept counting…
One, two, breathe…
He knew he was finished, didn't even know why he bothered running. He was alone, wounded, exhausted, in enemy territory…and most of all, lost. When he had first started running, he assumed he was headed in a northwesterly direction. But he had been disoriented and was being pursued by a mounted archer. He could have changed direction at any time.
One, two, breathe…
Each breath caused him pain, his chest heaving against the heavy armor he wore. His legs continued to move, almost mechanically, in a relentless stride that never slackened in pace. His pace might have been slower than usual, but considering he was sorely wounded, he seemed to be straining himself past the limit.
One, two, breathe, one, two, breathe…
But Uruk-hai know no limits. They were not created with limits. They were not created for the purpose of ever encountering limits. They were created and trained for one thing. To kill.
But now it seemed that he was defying all he had been taught and trained to do. He felt the sweat trickling down his back, and felt the sting of a type of shame, something he had never before encountered. His back, bare of all armor, had been turned toward the enemy. The Uruk-hai wore no armor on their backs, because they knew no fear, knew no pain. They would not run from the enemy.
One, two, breathe, one, two, breathe…
He was running. He had been running for a day and a half. He had never paused to think about what he had done. But now, it wormed into his mind.
He had turned his back on his enemy. He had felt fear, he had felt pain. He had run away.
But as of now, he was really concerned with only one thing…survival.
He concentrated back on the task at hand. It took effort just to breathe. Painful gasps shook him as quivers ran down his legs, making it more difficult to run, but his powerful body, trained to take all types of abuses, continued on. He pressed onward, forcing his legs to move, up and down, in a steady rhythm. Heavy, yes, but still steady and quick.
His silhouette stood against the blood red sunrise, a tall, loping figure, standing upright like a man, but not quite like a man.
He continued, all the while scanning the flatlands. He knew that he was unprotected out in this land and could easily be spotted by the keen-eyed men of Rohan. But he kept running. If only he could get back to Isengard!
Fool! He thought, Saruman would kill me…
But it didn't matter. He had set off towards Isengard, and that was where he would go. But he didn't even know if he was headed in the right direction!
He continued to count, continued to run, continued to breathe.
One, two, breathe, one, two, breathe…
This pattern continued unceasingly, the figure continuing to run with a loping stride as behind him, against the red orb of the rising sun, a thin, almost indiscernible thread of smoke rose, marking the last resting place of those who hadn't forgotten what they had been made for.