13. The Battle
"My lord!"
Aragorn shot up and his eyes fell immediately upon Emathar, his face pale and panic-stricken in the poor light. "My lord; they're here!"
"Who's here?" he replied slowly, standing up and feeling a sickening sensation slip through his body. Emathar stared wide-eyed at him, and suddenly Aragorn noticed he was shaking nervously.
"The orcs!" he cried, and then swallowed with much difficulty. "The Nhaxûn orcs!"
Aragorn looked around him, seeing the whole camp in disarray in the grey daylight. Men were running all over the place, dismantling tents and hurriedly forcing belongings into their rucksacks. Anxious whispers were echoing across the still air, sounding far louder than they would normally be.
"How long have you known this, Emathar?" he asked, quickly pushing a blanket into his own bag and tying the strings together in a fast not.
"Only just now, my lord. The watchmen have seen disturbances not far up the mountain. It seems we are nearer to the peak than first portrayed, and the entrances to the weaving lairs of the orcs are apparently very close."
"Thank you, Emathar." Aragorn left his friend and ran through the stirring camp. Just when he needed Calosin and Halbarad, neither one of them appeared. As he passed groups of men, he urged them to be armed and ready in a matter of minutes, sending the word round quickly. He could sense their apprehension but he knew once the time came… well, they would be fine.
He spotted the back of a man with light russet hair and heard its accompanying voice.
"Halbarad?" he called and the man turned to face him. Aragorn sighed with relief.
"What's the matter, my lord? Everything is under control, so far. Nothing has gone wrong." In concern he moved forward and placed his hand on Aragorn's shoulder. "Has it?" he whispered.
Aragorn glanced around to check that no one was nearby. "Halbarad, where are Calosin and the elf-maiden? She will be in great danger when, when, you know…" he trailed off and Halbarad nodded understandingly. He too looked away, wide of Aragorn's face.
"I have not seen Calosin for a while, I am afraid," he said, meeting again Aragorn's eyes. "But I did see her." Aragorn's gaze thickened. "Not very long ago, she was outside, away from the tents. I saw her come back, constantly checking very cautiously that nobody had seen her." Aragorn could not understand why Arwen had not been asleep. She was still ill, and no way should she have been up when there was seemingly no one to guard her. She could have been hurt, she could have been-
"Find Calosin," he ordered hoarsely. "We must find her." Halbarad nodded and turned away. But Aragorn suddenly laid a hand on his arm and pulled him back. "Please," he said.
Aragorn fled among the growing number of people, a mass blocking his way and his chance to spot the two people he so desperately needed to find. Struggling under arms and between bodies he squeezed his way through the middle and strained for any hopeful sight at all. It looked to him as if Arwen had vanished, and if she had, it would be most definitely into a barricade of hungry orcs. He cringed as he swam through the men, trying to make himself believe she was here. It also looked as if Calosin had disappeared, but he was probably just hiding so that he could get out of leading some of the Dunedain into battle.
But finally he caught sight of Calosin on the edge of the crowd. Typically he was chatting to someone, when it was actually his duty to order their party as most discreetly as possible. He was most certainly not doing that now (not even the discreet bit).
"Calosin! Calosin!" Aragorn yelled and ran over to him. Calosin pulled through the crowd and met Aragorn halfway. "Calosin; have you seen Ar-… err, Ithiluin?" Calosin stared blankly up at Aragorn. "Speak!" he shouted again, his heart now racing five times its normal rate.
"Umm, no, my lord. But why are you so worried?" he looked at Aragorn expectantly, who turned away, not hearing his friend's question and searching his eyes hopelessly through the sea of Ranger bodies.
Calosin resigned to muttering to himself, seeing as he was not going to be listened to by Aragorn. "Well, I suppose she is extremely beautiful…"
"WHAT?" Aragorn exclaimed. "You've seen her!" Now this was a surprise.
His friend glanced away unsurely, trying to not be ashamed, obviously because he thought Aragorn had still not found out what she looked like. "Maybe…" he trailed off, refusing eye-contact completely. Then he suddenly came back, fiercely defending himself. "But, she is very pretty."
"Well of course she is, Calosin!" Aragorn shouted. "She is Arwen Undómiel, Evenstar of the elves, Lady of Rivendell and granddaughter of Galadriel! Of course she is going to be beautiful!" He sighed and immediately felt his throat tighten. She was here and a band of orcs were marching to them right now, and he had to stop them murdering her.
Wherever she happened to be.
"Calosin, you must help me find her!" he said, staring wildly around them. Receiving no reply, he looked back to find Calosin's eyes round and full of shock, and his mouth half-open as if he was contesting to win the goldfish prize in a fancy-dress party.
"Calosin!" He shook his friend violently and dazed he looked into Aragorn's eyes, his mind clearly elsewhere.
"Yes, certainly, anything, my lord," he replied, standing up wobbly as Aragorn dropped him in the snow. "Definitely, without doubt, don't worry in the slightest-"
"Then stop wittering on and help me find her!" Aragorn ran off. He decided he would weave his way through the men and surely someone would know where Arwen was. She couldn't just vanish from their camp with nobody spotting her. How difficult could it really be to find her and hide her in safety?
Suddenly there was a harsh, strangled-sounding call let off into the air. Aragorn's eyes flickered unsurely up to the summit of the mountain, from where now a large sound was echoing. Then a haunting silence lay around. The sun was reflecting piercingly off the brilliant-white snow and so Aragorn shaded his eyes carefully with his hand.
And then he saw. Hundreds of big, black, bulging orcs standing up over the edge, their evil faces leering down at them. They brandished thick, barbed blades coated in some repulsive reddish-brown gunge and held them triumphantly in the air as they looked over their prey with glinting red fire eyes. For a second no body dared speak as the horde gurgled once more in their crude and sordid grunts.
But then Aragorn shouted out and tore his eyes away from the awful sight. "Man your positions, people of the West! Halbarad's men, follow him to the east; to the west, those lead by Calosin! The last third come with me through the middle towards the cliff-path!"
They were all his men really, but Aragorn liked to give his two friends more authority. He wasn't one for taking all the credit.
Immediately the Rangers sprang into action and ran to their captains, lining up in ranks. The fear washed away and instead hope and courage leapt up. Aragorn himself sprinted right to the front and kept a watchful eye on the happenings above. For the moment no volleys would waylay their advance, and if they were lucky his men would be able to ascend the steep road quickly and be sheltered by the bows of the east and west groups.
As soon as he reached the foot of the slope his men were all in line and waiting for his orders. Aragorn turned around, his hand falling threateningly to the hilt of his sword. He refocused on the black mass at the peak of the snow and immediately spotted their commander. He was practically impossible to miss.
He was the blackest black ever imaginable, a massive, fat body hanging over the cliff-edge, waddling around in front of the orc legions. His dress was a ripped costume which looked rather like moulding feathers and a blood-congealed mess, and a huge belt wrapped around his disgustingly overweight belly which made his Rangers wrinkle their noses horribly. But it was what he had on his head which was most disturbing. It seemed to be a skull, a big, grimy, curved bone fixed over his head. Red eyes stabbed out through the eye-sockets and a dark nose hooked out of the place a normal nose should have been. Aragorn shivered. He had absolutely no idea what creature that skull-thing had come from, and he sincerely hoped that the insides of it had been cleaned out before that revolting orc had jammed it on its head. Or maybe in fact he hoped they hadn't.
He turned to see rows of orcs appearing further behind the others up there against the contrasting but still depressing grey sky. Aragorn knew if those orcs were ready when they attacked, it would make the situation very sticky, to say the least. And maybe even in more ways than one.
Aragorn swivelled round. "Bows up!" He yelled. In one generous movement the four hundred or so Dunedain all lifted up their bows and flipped an arrow into place. Their keen, hardened faces were fixed up on the mountain ridge, searching for a good target. Aragorn observed them in content, and then, discreetly taking a knife from its sheath, he faced the orc mass above them again. They appeared to be having a few problems with who went where and the fat leader was in a bit of a state. Aragorn suppressed a grin. Now was perfect.
"Dunedain, Men of the West, now is the time to fight for your people, for the good of the world, for the beauty around us, for the love in your hearts! Do not stop until you have freed yourselves and your families, by destroying this evil! So now let us fight!" Aragorn turned from his Rangers back up to the top of the snow-ridge.
"Ready…" he focused on an especially ugly orc. "And… FIRE!"
Aragorn hurled his knife and then ducked down, watching the mass of arrows swarm up the mountain like a band of bees and sting the unprotected orcs. A united orcish-shriek went up in anger and the noise of weapons hurriedly being drawn sounded in the air.
"Again!" Aragorn shouted, and the bows were loaded in seconds. "Fire!" He knelt down in the snow, looking at his men behind him as their faces showed their delight of scoring their targets.
Suddenly, a shower of daggers rained down on them, and the Rangers stooped low in hope of the missiles avoiding them. But some men never got up again.
Aragorn turned his eyes away from the bodies. It was always tough like this. "Fire!" he commanded, and then as the arrows swooped over him, he called to Halbarad.
"Cover my men while we ascend!" In the mid-distance he saw Halbarad nod his head in agreement. On his other side he saw Calosin getting his group ready to fire another time.
"Quickly now!" Aragorn called to his men. "Follow me!" He began leaping up the slope as more cascades flew over them, a battle in the air. Running to the rugged rock wall he became sheltered, and as more Rangers joined their line Aragorn was able to move faster. The white road was narrow and curved upwards round a large point and the men marched on five-abreast. As Aragorn met the corner, he slowly looked back down below where the main body of the Dunedain was. The Nhaxûn orcs showed no sign of realising that his one hundred and fifty men had vanished out of sight. He saw the men let loose another volley, the first row immediately kneeling down as they fired their arrows, the next row shooting, then the next, and the next, and so on, a huge wave movement, and a very professional and effective way of doing it. Aragorn smiled. They might just do this.
Instructing his followers, Aragorn ran on, them swiftly chasing on his tail. He gazed up as the road flattened out a bit more, and wound up to the ridge. There were three more corners until the top, and he guessed they would be met on the second one. They advanced further, silently passing over the compressed snow, hiding close to the mountain. Slipping round the bend, they used their stealth to progress right up to the end of the steep strait. Then they halted.
Aragorn fixed his eyes on his men, a warning light kindling in them. Without any sound he indicated to their knives and they drew them out in white flashes. He nodded, and then beckoned them forward, so that he could melt in with the first ranks. Gripping the handles of each of his knives tightly, then he mouthed to the others 'one', 'two'…
And on 'three' as one great body they charged around the bend, immediately crashing into a wall of orcs. Amid loud cries the fighting suddenly started, knives slashing all around him, maces swinging down, and bodies falling. Aragorn attacked the nearest orc, quickly bringing one knife up to halt the black pike. As the foul being snarled in anger Aragorn stabbed him in the stomach with his left knife, before shoving him down and jumping on to another. He parried the orcs again and again, always putting up a defence before bringing a sharp end to their misery. The Rangers were caught up in a tide of orcs, hammering pikes always near their skins, but they could fight well, and there was no worry.
Aragorn shouted to his friends, urging them to start progressing further up the mountain slope. He could already see signs of Calosin's men joining the grisly tumult, and so it was best just to reach the stronghold, right at the top, and end it sooner than it might otherwise. A large orc suddenly landed on top of him, and he fell to the white floor under its weight, the slimy body very heavy. He groaned as his knees bent and his back ached. But as he touched the snow Aragorn thrust his knife into the body above him. Before the dead weight lolled over completely onto him, Aragorn rolled out of the way and jumped up, catching another orc between the legs and sending him squealing to his death.
The amount of orcs was growing bigger. Hundreds of red eyes were glinting amidst the black merging bodies, all trying to reach his Dunedain and combat them. Aragorn had known they would have about four to one, but his men could cope with that. It was just now, he wasn't really sure if there were more than the two thousand orcs than they had first known about. It would be sheer numbers certainly rather than skill if they were overwhelmed. But Aragorn hoped they wouldn't.
He fought on, resisting the amount of attacks placed on him by the orcs who were keen to kill him as the leader. There was always something to be afraid of, one mace tumbling down the centre, and one sharp pike shooting out at his side. Aragorn ducked down, slicing at one orc's legs and tripping the other up with its body. He grabbed the fallen mace and threw it at another approaching creature, ramming it into his head.
Aragorn called his men on, and gradually over an hour or so they managed to steadily climb the slope, turning the bend and coming in sight of the peak. Arwen had vanished completely from his mind. Now Aragorn could see some arrows of Halbarad's men still firing at the orc lines positioned on an adjoining ridge, but now that they were so close there was still loads of fighting. Aragorn was finding it quite difficult fighting and maintaining control over his Rangers. There was always a friend to help him behind, but fenced in on three sides by savage orcs with sharpened weapons pointing his way was not totally encouraging.
An especially large orc planted itself in Aragorn's path. As the dented pike was thrust towards his neck, Aragorn halted its path with his two knives. The orc pulled a face but all Aragorn did was slide one knife down and stab it into the orc's stomach. As it tumbled below Aragorn stole the pike and, two more orcs rushing to take the first's place, hurled it at them. The pike shot through both, spearing them like toasted bread on a stick (except this was rather more painful).
Suddenly a cackling orc leapt on top of him. Aragorn twisted and rammed his left knife into the black squirming body, pleased to be killing such a violent specimen. But as the orc struggled for his last breath, he dragged his sharp armour over Aragorn's hand and lurched to one side, wrenching his arm and making him cry out. Instinctively he pulled his knife quickly out, but now his hand was bleeding and his wrist ached uncomfortably.
Aragorn decided it was time to draw out his sword. Such thick battle made knives a bit tricky, and with his wrist like this now… well, his shiny steel sword needed to see daylight, however dark the late afternoon was. With a scraping noise adding to the clamour of orcs and men, his long sword appeared out of nowhere and immediately slashed over an orc's body. Then Aragorn stepped further forward, meeting a horrifically scarred black creature. Twice their swords met, but on the third time, Aragorn spun round, breaking the pattern, and dug the blade into the orc. Sweat pouring down his tired body, Aragorn encountered two more orcs. He clashed swords with one, ducking under the other's blow, and then dug in his left hand's knife, before the surprise reached the other orc and Aragorn's sword sliced off his neck.
Aragorn staggered forward, exhaustion beginning to etch away at his muscles, his arms heavy with the dynamic action eyes stinging from straining to catch sight of his men and the orcs on the snow-ridge. Every time he finished off one, another came, and then maybe two, or three. It didn't matter how many orcs he tricked by parrying swords with them three times and then wounding them, there were always more to attack him.
Two massive orcs jumped into his path, dragging down even more the heavy leaden feeling in his tummy. Aragorn tripped one up with his sword, stabbed the following orc with his blood-coated knife and then finally shoving his sword into the fat clumsy orc's back. As he did so something clung to his foot and Aragorn stumbled, also having a mace whizzing closely by his ear. In anger he swung round instantly, swiping off the offending orc's head with the repulsive bulging insides of the orc lurching out as it plummeted down right in front of his nose.
And as he tore his glance away in anguish, Aragorn suddenly saw her. There above him, standing on the highest peak of the mountain, his dearest Evenstar, his Arwen. The icy wind ran through her flowing ebony hair as she dealt swift strokes with her curved blade, orcs tumbling down rapidly her as if such beauty could not be harmed by that amount of evil. She fought calmly, moving as if some natural force was guiding her, a ring of white snow around her light feet showing where she had stayed safe.
Aragorn stood transfixed as he looked at her, everything falling completely silent and the horrifying slaying encircling him far, far away. It was just like a dream to him as he watched her slender body moving while she evaded sharp blows, her gentle face pale and smooth, her lips a pallid pink colour, her blue eyes cold and shielded, and her delicate eyebrows were held in such a sad expression that that alone could have moved Aragorn to tears. The image was so unrealistic, so fair and so terrible, he felt his throat tighten and his heart call out to her.
In almost the same instance, Aragorn saw Arwen bring down the last deadly smite and pull her eyes away from where they had been focused, making him positive she had sensed him there and watching her. In what seemed as long as an age she slowly turned round to face him, her eyes following her sword and falling down on him. Aragorn nearly cried out from his emotion, the heightening of his love for her pulsating quickly throughout his tired body, purifying his mind and holding his heart. She gazed into his own eyes, so beautiful as she stood there, a shimmering figure so dreamlike with the blazing sun piercing through the storm clouds above her, a beacon of light in his faint hopes. Her invisible touch seemed to reach right inside him; she took away his breath and she stole his love. She was untouchably beautiful, her fluttering hair softening her gentle face, her smooth features a treat to look at, her eyes twinkling as she met his, deep and yet so sad, moving something inside him strangely. He wanted to show her his irresistible love for her, that he would do anything to keep her safe. He wanted to bring her happiness. He wanted to hold her in his arms. Aragorn felt himself crying out inside, he just needed her.
Arwen shivered and her lips parted, the intenseness between their echoing eyes overpowering. Tears watered in her eyes as he fell further into her, feeling their mirrored affection reaching out from his heart to hers, from hers to his. He saw nothing but her, felt nothing but her gaze inside himself, heard nothing around them at all. She was everything, nothing could be without her, so perfect, so attractive, and so touching… he slid more and more into her sapphire eyes, his love for her pouring out whilst hers filled him up, her life mingled with his; until he finally found her soul, crying out to his, pleading for his hot passion and openly handing him hers.
Out of nowhere suddenly a sword lashed out and struck Arwen to the ground. Her scream knocked Aragorn senseless as she fell down, her agony and pain bursting unbearably through her yell. She disappeared out of sight as he discovered that he could not breathe, his body numb, his blood run cold. Then suddenly a picture of Arwen lying dead, white and splashed with red, filled his mind. He gasped and then looked up, realising that he had to save her, if no one else could.
Leaping up the steep slope, he shot into a mass of seething orcs, all clamouring for a chance to kill. In a violent fervour he cut the cold air with his sword, black bodies dropping down like ugly flies. He moved quickly and strongly, fighting for one reason, holding onto one thing. Slash slash down, one dropped to his own feet, ting then stab, another one fell down onto his knees, crash flash bash dash swipe, at last that one came to lay with the other festering bodies. More stepped out to greet him as he tried to wind up the path, looming out in front as he swung his blood-congealed sword out to them.
Some were easier than others, some resigned to his skill, and some were fierce and resistant, challenging him till their last; but in all their sheer number was overwhelming. Aragorn felt the exhaustion pulling him down, begging him to stop and rest, tearing at his every weary limb; yet he had to keep going, running as he slew, dodging as he stabbed, cutting as he weaved in and out and under all the bulging black mass raging around him. He shouted out with a note of panic in his voice for more men to come and help him, but only a handful seemed to be within earshot and all were having great troubles themselves.
And as every second past he knew Arwen was growing weak, her wound ripping through her body, her flame of life guttering out. He wept as he struggled on, his face soaked in blood and sweat, his throat choking and his arms aching. He couldn't let her die, he couldn't. He had to fight on, keep running, keep slashing at the orcs, and keep going until he reached her. Hatred arose in his heart; those foul creatures had harmed his Evenstar, his jewel, his love, his life. They deserved what they were getting, every single bit of him, his bite crueller than his look, his strength stronger than his energy; and it was certainly costing him.
But would he reach Arwen in time? He staggered up to the peak, a last ring of enemies closing in around him. Swinging his sword a revolting corpse fell down, followed by another, though now he was trapped inside. Aragorn ran his sword around the circle, clashing every weapon of the orcs. As he turned he spotted the dark bundle of Arwen's body out of the corner of his eye. He would save her, he would, and she would live.
Aragorn cried out and jumped forward, striking the first orc he met, throwing him to the ground, then spinning in an arc, meeting a second, missing then stabbing his awful body. He summoned up every last bit of strength he owned, charging at the creatures, combating them with everything he had. He kept on going, if it was his heart alone, slaying more and more, until he ran at the last, yelling in torment as his sword clashed against the blade, trying again, and again, and again, and then at last he sliced the orc's grim body in half and stumbled over the corpse.
He had nothing left now, he could barely move; barely even raise his head to see if Arwen was alive. Aragorn fell forward on his knees, the weight of his own body too much to bear. He crawled over to Arwen, his lungs struggling and openly panting, screaming for rest and still being forced on. He collapsed as he reached her, sitting on his knees as the scene in front broke his heart.
There she lay, a small figure in the snow, her blue cloak thrown back to reveal the awful wound in her stomach. Her body quivered as she fought to resist, her whimpers pitiful and her expression utterly distressing. Steaming tears ran down her smooth face as the rich blood pumped out of the deep cut, going so far into her tender flesh that the snow all around her waist was a sickening crimson colour. Aragorn panted her name, imploring her to stay with him. He leant forward on his elbows, taking her limp hand, and warming it between his palms. Slowly her eyes flickered open and she fixed on his, her love still reaching in through his clouded eyes.
"Estel…" she breathed, closing her eyes and squeezing more tears out. Aragorn moaned to her, praying that she would open her eyes again, desperately pulling out some athelas leaves from his pocket in hope she would be healed. But Arwen did not look at him again, and teardrops ran down his face and fell melancholy onto her bleeding gash. His shaking hand reached out and he bruised the green leaves between his fingertips as he firmly pressed them into her blood. Her chest was heaving violently and as he gently wiped the hot blood away with his fingers he saw her wound being torn even more as she did so.
"No…" he wept, feeling the heat on his hands escaping her body when she needed it so much. Aragorn edged over her body, keeping one hand protectively on her cut, bringing his face close to hers. "Arwen? Please………" With his spare fingers he stroked her dark hair out of her eyes, leaning near to her head lying in the freezing snow. He let his breath flow over her face, his warmth trying to hold her to him and not let her go. Her magenta lips trembled but he could sense her fighting to show him that she was alive.
Aragorn decided suddenly to help the process; to help her. Closing his sore eyes he leant forward, his soft lips touching hers. Gently he pressed against them, tenderly showing his passion and calling out to her frantic soul, giving her everything he could in his kiss.
When he broke away, he watched her in sorrow as more blood seeped out and soaked her velvet dress. She didn't reply, no murmured words or weak hands. He felt his eyebrows break down and push more tears out of his already dry eyes. This was too bad, far too bad for any words.
And then he saw her. Arwen opened her eyes again, immediately falling into his. She tried to smile at him, to reassure him she would be okay, but she was so tired she could only explain with the love in her eyes. Aragorn felt himself smile for her, as he gazed into her shining azure eyes, his heart so relieved she was still alive, still living, still loving…
But then Arwen's eyes broke away from his, and shot to the side, focusing on something behind him. Aragorn saw a faint change from pain to terror as she saw what was happening. He unwillingly let go of her hand and stood up, turning at the same time to face the danger.
There were even more bands of orcs. Aragorn couldn't believe his luck. Before he knew it he was dragged viciously back into fighting them again, forcing his sword against theirs, scraping down their bodies like fingernails down tree-trunks. This wasn't fair, it wasn't, he had to save Arwen, and yet here he was unable to, leaving her there alone and weak and bleeding and dying…
He heard some voices, not some harsh, cackling orc ones, but some strong, northern accents, his friends shouting out to him. In between orcs he tore his eyes away and chanced upon seeing dozens of his men running up the slope to him, the orcs there falling off the cliffs and dripping down from the power and suddenness of the attack. Aragorn felt a huge weight lift from his soldiers, more and more of his Rangers coming to his aid; and Arwen's. He stabbed again, sliced for the last time, felt the shudder of his sword meeting against a foe's. And then the orc dropped down, and the black band which had been around him was suddenly filled with triumphant and weary Men of the West, all sighing and leaning heavily upon their swords. They had won. Just.
Aragorn breathed out, finally knowing he could tend to Arwen and give her all the love and more which she needed, let alone deserved. He turned around on the grey-stained snow, his heart already feeling happier and freer. His eyes fell to the ground where he knew she had laid.
But Arwen was gone.
Xxx
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