MEN OF THE WEST
By
Elendil-of-Arnor
Disclaimer: I don't the characters.
Chapter 1: Calm Before the Storm
It was gloriously beautiful day in the Westfold of Rohan, but the once flowing; fertile fields of the once fair land were now trampled and scored by the iron-shod feet of the orcs, Uruk-hai, men and horses.
Into this barren and desolate land a young man cantered on his horse, followed by his wife and two small children. He had only recently returned from the slaughter at the Hornburg. He was weary of battle and wanted nothing more than to retire in his home and start up the farm again.
He was surprised the old place had survived. The wild men and orcs had obviously not followed the treacherous Saruman's orders as closely as he had planned.
"But all is well," he thought. "I have done my part in this war."
"Folcwine!" he heard his wife, Rian, call. "Please help me with the baggage and for the sake of the gods, do take off your armour! You will see no more of battle and war."
"I'll help you with the baggage," said Folcwine, "Let me- Wait! What is that?"
They turned to see a line of horsemen charging for them, led by Grimbold. "You are Folcwine, are you not?" said Grimbold.
"I am," said Folcwine. "What trouble stirs, Grimbold?"
"The beacons of Minas Tirith are lit. Gondor calls for aid. Theoden King feels the need to muster the Rohirrim and ride to Gondor's aid."
"Gondor!" said Folcwine. "Gondor. What a land of arrogant braggarts! They have never come to our aid! Why should we come to theirs?"
"Everything you said may well be true, Folcwine," said Grimbold. "But Gondor is the last free bastion of the West. If it falls.besides, the Oath of Cirion and Eorl yet stands. Rohan will honour her alliance with Gondor, whether you say yea or nay. We have not time to decide, Folcwine. Will you ride with us or no? If you ride, you will probably fall, but you will have died for the freedom of you and of all your kin. If you decide nay, then you will be remembered for nothing, save as one who refused to participate in defence of the West."
Folcwine looked from Grimbold to Rian and back to Grimbold. "May I?" he asked Grimbold.
"Make it brief," said Grimbold. Folcwine walked with his wife to their cottage door. "Rian." he paused.
"Say no more," said Rian. "Rohan has need of you more than I. I would not have you shirk your duty for me. But promise me, Folcwine, please promise me, that when your duty is done, ride to our door once more." "I promise," Folcwine said thickly. He kissed his two small sons, Freawine and Deor on the forehead, hugged them, and jumped on his horse. "I am ready," he said. "Column forward!" bellowed Grimbold. "We ride for Dunharrow!" The 500 men of the Westfold rode westwards. Folcwine looked back at his ever-receding farmhouse, until it was but a speck on the horizon. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was cold and dark. Very dark. So dark, Belecthor, Captain of Gondor had to reach out his hand to grope out the nearest wall in the ruined western side of Osgiliath. He was able to discern two shapes coming towards him. "Father!" called one of the ghostly figures. "Aratan!" "Ondoher!" yelled Belecthor. "How are you two feeling?"
"As well as can be expected, father," said Aratan, "But our visit is far from social. We come on an errand from Captain Faramir. He wishes to meet with you to formulate a plan."
Belecthor placed his hand on his chest in token of salute and moved as swiftly as possible through the ruined city to meet the senior Captain.
His face was weary and drawn, younger than his thirty-eight years, but his stride was still long and his eye as keen as a hawk. "Belecthor! Orcs are ready to pour over the river into West Osgiliath. My plan is to let the first battalion of orcs into the city. You station your men along the western most edge of the wall. Have your 250 fine archers lace them with arrows. My swordsmen will be positioned along the bottom of the eastern wall to dispatch the next group of orcs. Position your swordsmen along the rear of the western wall to destroy any potential escapees. This has to work, Belecthor. The plan is flawed, Belecthor, but I can think of no other and have to no time to hear any other ideas. The honour of Emyn Arnen." He said, saluting by placing his hand over his chest.
"The honour of the White Tower!" said Belecthor, doing the same gesture. He was well aware that both of his sons were in Faramir's company and would be on the front line of attack. He walked back to his lines, imagining what his wife, daughters, and one young son left at home were doing right now. Were they discussing him or would Hathaldia was doing her perpetual knitting.
He arrived back at his position and ordered his lines as Faramir had wished. Not in all his 45 years had he ever seen a more determined yet so depressed soul. He knew that his relationship with his father, the Lord Denethor was strenuous at best, especially since Boromir had left. His lieutenant, Cirion, interrupted his thoughts. "Captain," said the rotund man, who stood in stark contrast to Belecthor's 6'3" frame. "The archers are in position." Suddenly through the darkness Belecthor could make out shapes in front of him. He could hear the sneers and growls. "Orcs!" he thought. "Curse the foul creatures!" "Fire!" he cried. And Cirion repeated the order. The lead group of orcs fell dead before him. "Reload! Aim" cried Belecthor. "Fire!" More orcs fell. The process was repeated twice more before suddenly as Belecthor was repeating the command, he saw illuminated by the torchlight of the orcs, Faramir's swordsmen fleeing from the hoard. Faramir rushed to him, breathless and panicked. "The Riders are here!" he gasped, even as he said so, mysterious winged creatures, swooped down on some of his archers, picked them up, and dropped them from a great height. He turned to Faramir. "Ondoher! Aratan! Where are they?" "I have not seen them!" said Faramir. Cirion rushed over to Belecthor. "Captains," he said, "They are-" Cirion never finished his sentence, for at that very moment, a winged rider swooped down and caught him up. Belecthor never saw him again. "Our lines are broken. The city is lost. Get your men out of here. Belecthor, my lieutenant, Madril was also lost, but their sacrifice will be in vain, if we do not make for Minas Tirith immediately." Belecthor yelled for his men to pull back. He rushed for his horse and leapt upon it and rode as fast he could back to the White Tower. His swordsmen and archers were now being brutally slaughtered. "Pull back to the city!" he cried, riding amongst his men. Most of his men had no time to grab their horses, but fled on their feet and ever and among them, the Winged Terrors, the Nazgul were grabbing his men and tearing them to shreds. It was in this moment as he rode as he could, that the Great Gate of Minas Tirith opened miles ahead. Belecthor wondered when he would be next to fall, but all of a sudden a rider clad in white sped out of the city and expelled from his staff a blinding white light that drove the Nazgul back. He then rode with Belecthor and Faramir, and what was left of his men back to the city.
By
Elendil-of-Arnor
Disclaimer: I don't the characters.
Chapter 1: Calm Before the Storm
It was gloriously beautiful day in the Westfold of Rohan, but the once flowing; fertile fields of the once fair land were now trampled and scored by the iron-shod feet of the orcs, Uruk-hai, men and horses.
Into this barren and desolate land a young man cantered on his horse, followed by his wife and two small children. He had only recently returned from the slaughter at the Hornburg. He was weary of battle and wanted nothing more than to retire in his home and start up the farm again.
He was surprised the old place had survived. The wild men and orcs had obviously not followed the treacherous Saruman's orders as closely as he had planned.
"But all is well," he thought. "I have done my part in this war."
"Folcwine!" he heard his wife, Rian, call. "Please help me with the baggage and for the sake of the gods, do take off your armour! You will see no more of battle and war."
"I'll help you with the baggage," said Folcwine, "Let me- Wait! What is that?"
They turned to see a line of horsemen charging for them, led by Grimbold. "You are Folcwine, are you not?" said Grimbold.
"I am," said Folcwine. "What trouble stirs, Grimbold?"
"The beacons of Minas Tirith are lit. Gondor calls for aid. Theoden King feels the need to muster the Rohirrim and ride to Gondor's aid."
"Gondor!" said Folcwine. "Gondor. What a land of arrogant braggarts! They have never come to our aid! Why should we come to theirs?"
"Everything you said may well be true, Folcwine," said Grimbold. "But Gondor is the last free bastion of the West. If it falls.besides, the Oath of Cirion and Eorl yet stands. Rohan will honour her alliance with Gondor, whether you say yea or nay. We have not time to decide, Folcwine. Will you ride with us or no? If you ride, you will probably fall, but you will have died for the freedom of you and of all your kin. If you decide nay, then you will be remembered for nothing, save as one who refused to participate in defence of the West."
Folcwine looked from Grimbold to Rian and back to Grimbold. "May I?" he asked Grimbold.
"Make it brief," said Grimbold. Folcwine walked with his wife to their cottage door. "Rian." he paused.
"Say no more," said Rian. "Rohan has need of you more than I. I would not have you shirk your duty for me. But promise me, Folcwine, please promise me, that when your duty is done, ride to our door once more." "I promise," Folcwine said thickly. He kissed his two small sons, Freawine and Deor on the forehead, hugged them, and jumped on his horse. "I am ready," he said. "Column forward!" bellowed Grimbold. "We ride for Dunharrow!" The 500 men of the Westfold rode westwards. Folcwine looked back at his ever-receding farmhouse, until it was but a speck on the horizon. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was cold and dark. Very dark. So dark, Belecthor, Captain of Gondor had to reach out his hand to grope out the nearest wall in the ruined western side of Osgiliath. He was able to discern two shapes coming towards him. "Father!" called one of the ghostly figures. "Aratan!" "Ondoher!" yelled Belecthor. "How are you two feeling?"
"As well as can be expected, father," said Aratan, "But our visit is far from social. We come on an errand from Captain Faramir. He wishes to meet with you to formulate a plan."
Belecthor placed his hand on his chest in token of salute and moved as swiftly as possible through the ruined city to meet the senior Captain.
His face was weary and drawn, younger than his thirty-eight years, but his stride was still long and his eye as keen as a hawk. "Belecthor! Orcs are ready to pour over the river into West Osgiliath. My plan is to let the first battalion of orcs into the city. You station your men along the western most edge of the wall. Have your 250 fine archers lace them with arrows. My swordsmen will be positioned along the bottom of the eastern wall to dispatch the next group of orcs. Position your swordsmen along the rear of the western wall to destroy any potential escapees. This has to work, Belecthor. The plan is flawed, Belecthor, but I can think of no other and have to no time to hear any other ideas. The honour of Emyn Arnen." He said, saluting by placing his hand over his chest.
"The honour of the White Tower!" said Belecthor, doing the same gesture. He was well aware that both of his sons were in Faramir's company and would be on the front line of attack. He walked back to his lines, imagining what his wife, daughters, and one young son left at home were doing right now. Were they discussing him or would Hathaldia was doing her perpetual knitting.
He arrived back at his position and ordered his lines as Faramir had wished. Not in all his 45 years had he ever seen a more determined yet so depressed soul. He knew that his relationship with his father, the Lord Denethor was strenuous at best, especially since Boromir had left. His lieutenant, Cirion, interrupted his thoughts. "Captain," said the rotund man, who stood in stark contrast to Belecthor's 6'3" frame. "The archers are in position." Suddenly through the darkness Belecthor could make out shapes in front of him. He could hear the sneers and growls. "Orcs!" he thought. "Curse the foul creatures!" "Fire!" he cried. And Cirion repeated the order. The lead group of orcs fell dead before him. "Reload! Aim" cried Belecthor. "Fire!" More orcs fell. The process was repeated twice more before suddenly as Belecthor was repeating the command, he saw illuminated by the torchlight of the orcs, Faramir's swordsmen fleeing from the hoard. Faramir rushed to him, breathless and panicked. "The Riders are here!" he gasped, even as he said so, mysterious winged creatures, swooped down on some of his archers, picked them up, and dropped them from a great height. He turned to Faramir. "Ondoher! Aratan! Where are they?" "I have not seen them!" said Faramir. Cirion rushed over to Belecthor. "Captains," he said, "They are-" Cirion never finished his sentence, for at that very moment, a winged rider swooped down and caught him up. Belecthor never saw him again. "Our lines are broken. The city is lost. Get your men out of here. Belecthor, my lieutenant, Madril was also lost, but their sacrifice will be in vain, if we do not make for Minas Tirith immediately." Belecthor yelled for his men to pull back. He rushed for his horse and leapt upon it and rode as fast he could back to the White Tower. His swordsmen and archers were now being brutally slaughtered. "Pull back to the city!" he cried, riding amongst his men. Most of his men had no time to grab their horses, but fled on their feet and ever and among them, the Winged Terrors, the Nazgul were grabbing his men and tearing them to shreds. It was in this moment as he rode as he could, that the Great Gate of Minas Tirith opened miles ahead. Belecthor wondered when he would be next to fall, but all of a sudden a rider clad in white sped out of the city and expelled from his staff a blinding white light that drove the Nazgul back. He then rode with Belecthor and Faramir, and what was left of his men back to the city.