"An Elf at Helm's Deep"
Aranel
Turnabout, turnabout. Darkness in my eyes. Rain in my eyes. Fear in my eyes and also courage.
Cacophony of battle. Turnabout, turnabout! Metal strives with metal; strength strives with strength; blood strives with blood.
The rain; in my eyes and the dark eyes.
My metal; my strength; my blood.
Turnabout! Turnabout! I mustn't let him prevail! A belligerent grunt. I sever the sound in his throat.
Survive; outlast; endure!
Turnabout! Turnabout! Here's another foe. Strength is his, but mine can best—. My sword laughs as it dully flashes with delight. A strangled, expiring snarl. The creature falls; strength was his, but now 'tis mine. His armor, his weapon—utilitarian, brutal contrivances—but useless to him now. No match for me; I will survive.
Turnabout! Turnabout!
Does it never end?
The torrential rain descends.
I count it as a friend.
They shall not prevail.
I will not abide the thought.
It is they that shall be slain—
'Tis the Orcs that soon will rot!
The standard of Lórien maintains its lofty, though embattled, place. Those colors—. They led us here; now they keep us here. They keep me here.
I'm only a common soldier—so plain to see.
But is it not tiny drops that compose the sea?
And do not common warriors make a vast army?
Turnabout, I pray you! Turnabout!