Disclaimer: I don't own these Characters. I just play in their world.
Morg watched as the approaching army of men neared Osgiliath. He sneered at the sight of the man king upon his horse, his arm uprised with his sword, the famed flame of the west, glittering in the soft moonlight.
The orcs rampaging the village heard the approaching din and snapped to attention. They readied themselves for the onslaught of Gondor's army. Bows were raised and arrows let fly, but the old wizard raised his staff and the arrows over passed the long line of soldiers. Morg hissed and raised his own sword, ready to leap from his position upon a balustrade and fight. He set his sights upon the king, quickly judging the distance between the man's horse and his own vantage point.
"Men, attack!" Aragorn's voice shattered the night. The hundreds of soldiers came at full force against the orcs. The sound of clashing swords and shouting filled the air. He quickly passed beyond the pillars of Osgiliath, failing to notice the orc hanging over the edge of a pillar. Morg leapt and landed with a thud upon Brego's back behind Aragorn.
Brego reared on his back legs, throwing the two from his back.
Aragorn fell and hit the ground with a heavy "oomph!" He regained his bearings quickly enough to see Morg's sword swing down at his head. He rolled quickly, missing the sharp blade. Pushing himself to his feet, he quickly drew his own sword and parlayed the orc's swing. He used his strength to bare down on the smaller orc, beating the hideous creature into submission as he knocked the sword from his deformed hand.
Morg threw one look down at his lost weapon and hissed at Aragorn as the man swung his sword down upon the evil creature. He would have struck, had he not been kicked in the back by a passing orc and knocked to his feet. Anduril fell from his hands and was quickly snatched up by Morg. The orc smiled triumphantly down at the fallen king, and raised the sword above his head to plunge it down into Aragorn's chest. Aragorn lunged but the blade struck his shoulder, tearing the tanned skin and drawing more blood than Aragorn knew was safe. For a moment the world spun, and his bright lights flashed behind his eyes. He cried out in pain and gripped his bleeding shoulder. He turned ferocious eyes upon the orc, and in horror he watched as the orc set about attacking the nearest man.
Belredd had raced towards the king, having seen the man fall from his horse and engage on combat with the orc. The older man swung his sword at the orc's back from high on his horse, but Morg had surprised him by turning in time to block the attack with Anduril. As Belredd passed, Morg grabbed his leg and pulled him from his saddle. Belredd landed with a grunt, his breath knocked away with the force of the fall. His eyes focused on the figure standing above him, and he watched in slowed vision as the orc slashed at his chest. He felt a burning surge of pain, and felt warmth trailing down his chest. He rose on his elbows and saw bright blood flowing from the wound.
He looked up one final time to see the orc slash at him again. Morg smiled in satisfaction as he once more sliced the human in the chest with the sword. The man gasped, and with a gurgled sound of pain, his eyes rolled into his head, and he fell back upon the ground, still and silent.
"NO!" Aragorn ran and knocked the orc off his feet. They both toppled over and Aragorn fell atop the creature. Morg, in his surprise, dropped Anduril, and Aragorn grabbed at it blindly, his fingers barely recognizing the hilt as he gripped it and plunged in to the chest of the orc. Morg's eyes went wide in a momentary look of shock, his leg twitching sporadically, and than the orc did not move.
"Chase them to the river!" Faramir's voice echoed across the fight. Aragorn spun around and rejoined the fray. He swung and hit every target. The cries of pain were defeaning, but Aragorn heard none of them. He focused on every orc in his vicinity, using his own anger as his catalyst, striking and killing as he went. He paused, breathing heavily as he watched Gondor's army chase the orcs to the riverbank.
Aragorn turned back to Belredd's fallen body. He lifted the man off the ground, the pavement stained red with the color of blood. His own shoulder ached and throbbed, and his head spun from the loss of blood, but Aragorn paid little mind to the pain. He whistled for Brego, and the horse suddenly appeared. He eased the dead man onto the saddle, climbing up behind him to secure the corpse of his courtier. He looked about with heavy eyes.
The bodies of men and orcs lay strewn about, the smell of blood heavy. The pale skin of the dead shone white in the moonlight, and Aragorn shivered. It should not be like this, he thought bitterly. I thought we had stopped the fighting.
"Retreat! Fall back!"
"To the mountains!"
The sounds of defeated orcs called throughout the night air, and Aragorn watched impassively as they fled back to the mountains. Legolas appeared beside Brego, barely panting with the effort of his exertions. Gimli and Gandalf joined them, dirty and bloodied but well.
"We have pushed them back for now, but we mustn't leave this village unguarded again." Faramir panted as he stood before Aragorn. He cast one look at the bloodied body Aragorn supported upon Brego, and hung his head in sadness.
"The poor bastard. He was too old to fight. He should not have been here."
Aragorn shook his head. "Belredd did a great service. He died with honor. I will inform his family myself."
The remaining guards and soldiers gathered their fallen friends with a final glance back towards the mountains of shadow. It was a victorious but quiet journey back to the white city.
Celrinn paced anxiously along the balcony of the Houses of Healing. She gripped her arms, bruising her skin with her fingertips. The lines around her eyes seemed more prominent than usual, and her mouth set thin in a tight line. She pulled her heavy robe tighter about her. Within the recesses of the dark rooms, the wives and sisters of soldiers prepared for the return of their wounded husbands and brothers.
Arwen rushed about the rooms, searching for clean cloths and bowls, seeking out the items her father had instructed her to bring him. She brought him water from a well, and heated it above the small fire strewn about the rooms. She brought him Athelas and stood by his side as he mixed the plant with other herbal remedies. She wiped the sweat from her brow and pulled her long dark hair back away from her neck, securing it with a strip of discarded cloth.
She ventured away from her father and walked solemnly towards a open balcony, her eyes soft and void of the fire she normally retained. She pulled at the neckline of her bodice, a nervous habit she had always possessed, and one she could never bring herself to break. She sighed. A cough behind her drew her attention, and she realized that she was not alone. Celrinn stood along the rail of the balcony, shivering and silent, ignoring Arwen and keeping her eyes focused ahead.
Arwen stepped closer to the mortal woman. When Celrinn made no motion to speak to Arwen, Arwen placed a hand on her shoulder. "Madame, you should be inside. There is tea. I could get you a cup. It would help to relax you." Arwen's soft voice broke the still of the moment. Celrinn looked at the queen and shook her head.
"I will not relax until the men have returned. When death is an assurance, one cannot find calm." She moved away from Arwen, and Arwen's hand fell limply to her side. Her eyes shone with black with contempt and mocking. "But I would not expect you to know that. How can an immortal understand death?"
Celrinn's words hit Arwen with the force of ten horses. She stood speechless as the woman walked back into the House of Healing. Arwen was stunned, and found herself unable to believe her situation.
The sound of horse hooves and yelling broke her reverie. She leaned over the railing to see the return of her husband's men. She turned and ran back into the rooms, weaving around nurses and healers. Soldiers poured in, bloody and unconscious. She moved about quickly, tripping over discarded shields and swords, boots and helmets. Her long gown caught on the sharp edge of a table and tore. She bent to inspect the damage done but straightened immediately when a shrill scream cut through the air.
At the far end of the room she saw Aragorn and Faramir. They were standing away from the healing tables, Aragorn holding Celrinn in his arms as she screamed. Arwen made her way across the room, wondering what could have happened for Celrinn to be so upset. She stopped beside the woman, casting a glance at Aragorn. He did not notice her, his head turned to speak with Faramir while still supporting Celrinn's wriggling body. Arwen wrapped her arms around Celrinn's shoulders, whispering in elvish soothing words, but without warning Celrinn swung on her and smacked her hard across the cheek. Aragorn's head snapped around at the sound and his eyes narrowed in anger when he saw the bright red mark on his wife's cheek.
"Do not touch me, whore! I do not need or want your sympathy. What do you know of grief?" Celrinn's angry words reverberated throughout the House of Healing. She ran from Arwen, her angry sobs disappearing as she fled. Arwen rubbed her sore cheek, her eyes stinging with humiliated tears.
Aragorn reached out a hand to comfort his wife, but at the touch of his hand, she flinched and jerked away. "Melda, don't cry."
Arwen walked away from him, pushing her way through as quickly as she could. Aragorn hurried after her, concerned for his wife, calling for her. "Arwen, wait!" Arwen blindly ran, ignoring the cries of wounded men and the tears of new widows. She ran from one connected room to another. Then she came to a sudden halt, having found herself in a room she had never expected to see.
Long tables were spread throughout the room, and upon each surface a body was laid out, swords draped across their folded arms. Directly in front of her lay the body of Belredd, his lips blue, his skin waxy. Hesitantly, she reached out and touched his pale skin. It was cold, clammy, and she could see the thin blue line of his veins beneath the skin. The smell of death was everywhere, and she felt a knot in her stomach and the breath in her lungs hitch.
In her blind rush she had stumbled into the morgue, and it was more frightening than facing the nine wraiths had been. She choked, a sob escaping her. She had never seen death before. In all the long years of her life, she had been sheltered from this terrible finality by her father, her brothers, and her people. Death was not common among the elves, so it was of no surprise that Arwen had never encountered it. It was consuming. Arwen felt as though she were drowning.
Arwen felt her head spin, the torchlight of the room twirling about her. She felt woozy, and when she fainted Aragorn caught her.