Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings and all characters associated with it belong to the Tolkien Estate. The poem "Do not go gentle into that good night" belongs, of course, to Dylan Thomas. I make no claim to either, and have made no profit either.
Rating: K+. Rated K+ for implied, non-graphic violence.
Time frame: The Last Alliance of Men and Elves. What time during that war, I'm not sure.
A/N: Okay, so I wasn't going to publish anything new until I got my overwhelming wave of reviews and PMs replied to. But apparently this is what happens when Seren gets her finals grades back. You can probably infer how that went. The title was taken from Dylan Thomas's poem "Do not go gentle into that good night." The poem itself is at the bottom. This happens just after Elrond sees the orcs carrying the broken corpse of one of his very good friends. Yes, I know who that is. No, I'm not telling you.
Rave at Close of Day
A scream of rage exploded from him unbidden. He couldn't control it, the sudden wave of emotion that assaulted him and swept him away in its raging torrent, and it consumed him. Tears fell, unheeded and unchecked, swirling the blood – both black and crimson – and ash that clung to his pale skin, darkening his cheeks nearly as black as his hair.
His feet carried him over the treacherously shifting rocks as if they were moving of their own accord, hurtling him toward the seething mass of orcs that roiled before him. He would never even be able to recall the instant that he drew his sword, his grip sliding around the hilt as he lifted it aloft in a challenge. He would only remember the sight of red hot flame as it spewed forth from the mountaintop being reflected in the cool metal blade.
He launched himself at the nearest enemy, battering away the sword that it had with brute strength alone. Without even a slight pause, before the orc could even comprehend what was happening, Hadhafang was buried hilt deep in the loathsome beast's chest, crushing the rib cage and puncturing heart and lung. And then the sword was torn free, leaving a bloody, gaping chasm in the blade's wake.
The battle fever coupled with the blinding fury that pounded in his ears and in his eyes deafened and blinded him to all else but the enemy before him. He never heard the battle cry sound behind him as his men leapt forward to stand in their lord and captain's defense as he spent his grief-driven anger. Neither did he see the fear that was stricken into the orcs' faces as they beheld him, blazing with all of the terrible glory of an Elf Lord aroused.
And quite frankly, he did not care. He only wanted them dead.
Do not go gentle into that good night
~Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.