Title: Fire and Slaughter
Genre: LOTR—Bookverse
Rating: PG-13ish
Author's notes: For skellingtonjon, who requested Nazgûl, dark, and no
particular character, so I picked someone incredibly obscure...As always,
thanks to casapazzo for the beta. All remaining mistakes are mine...
Arise, arise, Riders of Théoden!
Fell deeds awake, fire and slaughter!
Spear shall be shaken, shield be splintered,
A sword-day, a red day, ere the sun rises!
Ride now, ride now! Ride to Gondor!
I am Guthláf, banner-bearer to Théoden, King of Rohan. I am sitting on my horse atop a hill facing the besieged capital of Gondor, and I am about to die.
Below us in the darkness the valley roils with orcs and men, trolls and wargs. In the still air the acrid smell of burning wood and the pungent, unforgettable reek of dead bodies reaches us up on the hill. Those odors mix with the dust of flung stone and torn earth, making it difficult to breathe. Flying beasts scream inhuman cries of victory above Minas Tirith and cause our horses to start and tremble. The Riders atop the horses are no less afraid, and I look toward my comrades and see sheens of sweat on brows, reins held too tightly in clammy leather gloves, and spears and shields clutched convulsively, set and re-set a hundred times.
I am a soldier, serving in the halls of Meduseld since I was old enough to understand what duty and honor meant. I have ridden at the side of my king through many battles, defending his land and people for years. I have watched friends die, I have seen farms burned and crops destroyed. I have stood at the graves of my brothers and father and sung the funeral songs. Never have I seen such destruction, such blatant hatred, such impossible odds, as this.
Our enemy has not yet spotted us, too busy with laying waste to the walled city to make certain that its rear is protected. Looking down onto the vast, endless sea of enemies, I wonder how our éoreds can even hope to be noticed, let alone change the tide of battle. The orcs will swat us like flies and continue with their assault.
I am a forthright man, and I will admit that when I first joined the Riders I dreamed of being listed among the great warriors that are sung of around the fires. As I look out on this battlefield, I see before me the kind of desperate scenario that stories are made of, but I doubt if anyone will survive the oncoming slaughter to tell the tale.
I turn toward my king sitting atop his horse Snowmane on my right side. He seems old, uncertain, the man I remember from recent years as he huddled in his throne rather than the leader we require at this moment. He looks toward me, defeated, and I know he sees the same hopelessness reflected in my eyes. Minas Tirith is in flames. There are Nazgûl and orcs surrounding its gates. We have been riding for days to answer the summons of Denethor and Gondor. The Rohirrim have come too late.
A breath of fresh air, tangy with the salt of the sea, causes my banner to flutter. Far to the south the darkness seems to be growing lighter. As I squint towards it, wondering if the past three days of darkness have just made me hungry for any kind of light, a blinding flash erupts from the top of Minas Tirith. A clap like thunder echoes across the valley and seems to resonate inside my king. Théoden uncurls from his posture of defeat and gives a great battle cry. He turns to his Riders, his eyes lingering on the face of Éomer, and cries, "Ride now! Ride now! Ride to Gondor!" He grabs the battle horn from my hands, blows it so hard that it cracks in half, and plunges himself and his horse down the hill.
He is insane. He is committing suicide. He is my king. I push my knees into my horse's sides, lift my banner high, and follow Théoden into certain death. Behind me other battle horns cry defiance and thundering hooves try to catch up with the king. But though I ride directly behind him with Éomer and the knights of his house, it seems that Snowmane flies with a speed not of this world.
Too late, the enemy realizes the new threat and turns to defend. The sun rises over the hill at our backs, a promise of a new day, as we hew the orcs in front of us like so many rows of unholy wheat. They are no match for battle-frenzied men on horseback, and I hack and stab my way alongside my king, each enemy I attack revenge for a friend lost at Helm's Deep, retribution for a cousin's farm burned and left desolate, justice come too late for the people of Gondor dying inside their walled city.
For a moment it seems as if we might actually be able to make a difference. The rays of the sun begin to warm my armor and send beams of bright light ricocheting off of the helmets and shields of the Riders that fight around me. The king's armor seems to glow with a radiance of its own, shining with the determination of the man wearing it. Théoden twists on his saddle to smile at me, his sword gleaming red with the blood of our enemies. The orcs retreat, scattered and confused in the face of our charge.
And then the sun is blotted out, blocked by the wings of an enormous beast. I look up and see Death screaming towards me, cloaked in black, wielding an enormous blade. The fell beast he rides whirls in the air and shrieks a challenge that sets every hair on my body on end and drains the courage out of me like water through a leaky pail. Talons bear down upon me and I feel myself being pulled into the air and thrown like a child's rag doll.
My body hits the ground like a sack of wet grain. I feel wetness dripping from under my armor and cannot move my arms to stem the flow of blood. I try to concentrate on what hurts, and end up tallying what does not pain me—a far shorter list. My eyes grow dim and I gaze upon the fallen body of my king trapped under Snowmane's dying weight. I see the banner of Rohan, its bright green and white fabric puddled on the ground, trampled under the hooves of stampeding, panicked horses, soaking up the blood of Riders and orcs.
I think back to my king's words before we began our attack this morning. "Foes and fire are before you, and your homes far behind," he said. "Yet, though you fight upon an alien field, the glory that you reap there shall be your own for ever. Oaths ye have taken: now fulfill them all, to lord and land and league of friendship!"
I close my eyes against the sight of my dead and dying comrades, my brothers in battle, lost forever to thoughts of glory. I whisper through the blood on my lips, wet and metallic, "hold my oath fulfilled, my king," and feel the darkness I've been fighting against for years finally consume me.
Arise, arise, Riders of Théoden!
Fell deeds awake, fire and slaughter!
Spear shall be shaken, shield be splintered,
A sword-day, a red day, ere the sun rises!
Ride now, ride now! Ride to Gondor!
I am Guthláf, banner-bearer to Théoden, King of Rohan. I am sitting on my horse atop a hill facing the besieged capital of Gondor, and I am about to die.
Below us in the darkness the valley roils with orcs and men, trolls and wargs. In the still air the acrid smell of burning wood and the pungent, unforgettable reek of dead bodies reaches us up on the hill. Those odors mix with the dust of flung stone and torn earth, making it difficult to breathe. Flying beasts scream inhuman cries of victory above Minas Tirith and cause our horses to start and tremble. The Riders atop the horses are no less afraid, and I look toward my comrades and see sheens of sweat on brows, reins held too tightly in clammy leather gloves, and spears and shields clutched convulsively, set and re-set a hundred times.
I am a soldier, serving in the halls of Meduseld since I was old enough to understand what duty and honor meant. I have ridden at the side of my king through many battles, defending his land and people for years. I have watched friends die, I have seen farms burned and crops destroyed. I have stood at the graves of my brothers and father and sung the funeral songs. Never have I seen such destruction, such blatant hatred, such impossible odds, as this.
Our enemy has not yet spotted us, too busy with laying waste to the walled city to make certain that its rear is protected. Looking down onto the vast, endless sea of enemies, I wonder how our éoreds can even hope to be noticed, let alone change the tide of battle. The orcs will swat us like flies and continue with their assault.
I am a forthright man, and I will admit that when I first joined the Riders I dreamed of being listed among the great warriors that are sung of around the fires. As I look out on this battlefield, I see before me the kind of desperate scenario that stories are made of, but I doubt if anyone will survive the oncoming slaughter to tell the tale.
I turn toward my king sitting atop his horse Snowmane on my right side. He seems old, uncertain, the man I remember from recent years as he huddled in his throne rather than the leader we require at this moment. He looks toward me, defeated, and I know he sees the same hopelessness reflected in my eyes. Minas Tirith is in flames. There are Nazgûl and orcs surrounding its gates. We have been riding for days to answer the summons of Denethor and Gondor. The Rohirrim have come too late.
A breath of fresh air, tangy with the salt of the sea, causes my banner to flutter. Far to the south the darkness seems to be growing lighter. As I squint towards it, wondering if the past three days of darkness have just made me hungry for any kind of light, a blinding flash erupts from the top of Minas Tirith. A clap like thunder echoes across the valley and seems to resonate inside my king. Théoden uncurls from his posture of defeat and gives a great battle cry. He turns to his Riders, his eyes lingering on the face of Éomer, and cries, "Ride now! Ride now! Ride to Gondor!" He grabs the battle horn from my hands, blows it so hard that it cracks in half, and plunges himself and his horse down the hill.
He is insane. He is committing suicide. He is my king. I push my knees into my horse's sides, lift my banner high, and follow Théoden into certain death. Behind me other battle horns cry defiance and thundering hooves try to catch up with the king. But though I ride directly behind him with Éomer and the knights of his house, it seems that Snowmane flies with a speed not of this world.
Too late, the enemy realizes the new threat and turns to defend. The sun rises over the hill at our backs, a promise of a new day, as we hew the orcs in front of us like so many rows of unholy wheat. They are no match for battle-frenzied men on horseback, and I hack and stab my way alongside my king, each enemy I attack revenge for a friend lost at Helm's Deep, retribution for a cousin's farm burned and left desolate, justice come too late for the people of Gondor dying inside their walled city.
For a moment it seems as if we might actually be able to make a difference. The rays of the sun begin to warm my armor and send beams of bright light ricocheting off of the helmets and shields of the Riders that fight around me. The king's armor seems to glow with a radiance of its own, shining with the determination of the man wearing it. Théoden twists on his saddle to smile at me, his sword gleaming red with the blood of our enemies. The orcs retreat, scattered and confused in the face of our charge.
And then the sun is blotted out, blocked by the wings of an enormous beast. I look up and see Death screaming towards me, cloaked in black, wielding an enormous blade. The fell beast he rides whirls in the air and shrieks a challenge that sets every hair on my body on end and drains the courage out of me like water through a leaky pail. Talons bear down upon me and I feel myself being pulled into the air and thrown like a child's rag doll.
My body hits the ground like a sack of wet grain. I feel wetness dripping from under my armor and cannot move my arms to stem the flow of blood. I try to concentrate on what hurts, and end up tallying what does not pain me—a far shorter list. My eyes grow dim and I gaze upon the fallen body of my king trapped under Snowmane's dying weight. I see the banner of Rohan, its bright green and white fabric puddled on the ground, trampled under the hooves of stampeding, panicked horses, soaking up the blood of Riders and orcs.
I think back to my king's words before we began our attack this morning. "Foes and fire are before you, and your homes far behind," he said. "Yet, though you fight upon an alien field, the glory that you reap there shall be your own for ever. Oaths ye have taken: now fulfill them all, to lord and land and league of friendship!"
I close my eyes against the sight of my dead and dying comrades, my brothers in battle, lost forever to thoughts of glory. I whisper through the blood on my lips, wet and metallic, "hold my oath fulfilled, my king," and feel the darkness I've been fighting against for years finally consume me.