Funny how the violence and profanity feel far more graphic now that I've translated this into English... best to change the rating, I think.
Truth be told, Snaga had expected something more violent. It could be the result of his own weak nature working against him, but he had expected Sauron's will to crush him with its far greater strength as the Dark Lord's own soldiers would do, and it had simply only swallowed him whole. It didn't hurt him. It didn't frighten him. His fragile body was filled with power that wasn't his own, and the falling mist engulfed the world that was the enemy of all his kin.
Some of the enemies charged astride their mounts through the Orkish lines, confident that their horses granted them superiority in battle. They did manage to cause a lot of damage indeed, but bloodthirsty soldiers soon tore all that they could grasp from their saddles, and then to pieces. Horses reared in panic and ran from the Orcs like animal from another animal, prey from predator.
"my will be done"
Snaga shivered. He barely heard the sound of the arrow flying past his ear with a hiss, let alone the sound made by the Orc it pierced a blink of an eye later. Someone managed to get his hands on the archer, but not take his life. Orc and Man struggled a while as equals until the Man overcame his enemy, laying his knife on the Orc's throat. "That one is mine." Snaga ran towards them, filled with the rage of his lord, rage that burned like despair. He would tear off the Man's head, he would do it to all Men he saw here. He would do it in Sauron's great name. This world would be emptied of light and of enemies, and under the sky peace and silence would reign.
"let there be darkness"
And there was darkness. It was not the comforting darkness of earth and night, but an emptiness that cut without warning, dulling the senses. It blinded and maimed and was abruptly gone, leaving aimless turmoil in its wake. The connection broke; it was as though a rope had been cut and an enormous, suffocating curtain had fallen upon the army. Someone screamed in horror. Fear stole the breath out of the throats of many others. The Man that Snaga had been aiming for had cut the Orc's throat and now stood stunned amidst enemies that fled, their will to fight taken from them. Others took advantage of the opportunity and cut down several Orcs, now so easy to defeat.
This time Snaga heard the din of death around him with perfect clarity. He felt the burning gaze of the Sun upon himself. The sword had once more become too heavy for his frail arms; he left it there on the ground, turned around and ran.
Krazum awoke in the mass grave under several other bodies. For one stunned moment, his head throbbing where it was wounded, he tried to determine the exact number by the weight of the corpses and the number of blunt armour edges digging into his flesh. Reality, however, returned quickly and mercilessly, forcing him to think of more important things.
"The corpses have not been lit. Will be soon, no doubt." Both his legs felt numb. There was far more weight on them. Weight that he wouldn't be able to lift before freeing his upper body. "If I dig my way out before that, the bastards will attack me. If I wait for them to leave, I'll burn to death."
To his astonishment, he realised he was still holding his sword. It was important to him, but he had not expected that he would be able to hold on to it even after losing consciousness. His left arm had more room to move, and he carefully began to pull it to his side first. The strap of his arm guard was caught in the better attached armour of the corpse lying on it, and the worn leather broke with a dry snap. "All the better gear always goes to the Uruks," Krazum thought dully, and yanked his arm to his body. The corpse fell into the empty space it had left behind. "And they must have heard that one, given that it's so quiet here."
Indeed, why was it quiet on a battlefield? Had the strap not made a sound as it broke, Krazum would have suspected that his wound had somehow robbed him of his hearing. No one screamed. No one stomped. No one died. The absence of sound was nothing like Mordor's comforting silence, not even a harbinger of the end; it was the moment in which Krazum's universe fell silent mercilessly and irreversibly, now that everything had been lost. Krazum's eyes widened in horror as he stared up at the corpses that kept the sky out of his sight. "Sky..." But the sky saw him, the stars of the sky saw him, and for one terrible blink of an eye he too saw them. "He's gone." It had happened. The burning eye of Barad-dûr had gone out. The war had been fought and lost and left Krazum behind in this world.
"And still I have to get out of here." Krazum's life was not his own, and he had no permission to throw it away even if he wanted to do so. And now he wanted to, more than ever. "Although there's no longer any reason to do so, although my body is ruined..." The sword-gash between Krazum's eyes burned. The back of his head throbbed where it had hit the ground as he had fallen. "Fly eggs in the wound. Skull fractures. Diseases, infections, permanent injuries."
Krazum pushed one corpse out of his way, and the strength and swiftness the motion demanded stirred the pain until it was an agony that tore the insides of his head. The next two dead ones were lighter, but in return Krazum's strength became lesser and lesser. The brightest stars had come out in the darkening sky, now visible, and Krazum no longer heeded them. The next corpse was far harder to move. Pain gave Krazum's rage strength, but the price it demanded was almost too high for him to pay.
"Pig-cunt's bastards," Krazum croaked and tore his sword arm free. His voice sounded strange and unnatural after such a long silence. The sound his sword made as it slit open the cadaver lying on top of it, on the other hand, felt like a very natural part of the situation.
His upper body thus freed, Krazum sat up and saw that he was the only living being there. He could not understand why the corpses had not been lit, but he was certainly not going to waste energy on pondering the matter. It was a long way to the nearest meeting place, and although he was not at all sure that he was going to actually find other survivors there, Krazum had to at least go and have a look.
"Have to?" asked a quiet but resilient spark of despair in the depths of his mind. "Why? Mordor has fallen. Our Lord is gone."
"Shut your gob," Krazum barked at the dead ones as though they were somehow responsible for his weakness, and tore their bodies off his legs. Some he could not move before cutting them into smaller pieces with his knife; and with every cut he had to look away from the corpse's face for fear of recognising it.
The mound of the slain was not very high, but Krazum had trouble descending it with his weakened legs and throbbing wounds. The pain wreaking havoc inside his head only became worse as he finally stood on flat ground; he swayed, and the entire world swayed with him. The stench of blood and death hovering above everything became unbearable. Krazum drove his sword into the ground - the blade would suffer, but it would now have to help him in another way - and leaned on it as his stomach emptied swiftly and violently upon the blood-darkened battlefield. He stood for a while like that with his back bent, eyes squeezed shut as drops of bile fell out of his gasping mouth.
"Night comes. Escape under its cover if you can." Just starting to move felt impossible, yet Krazum could do it. The world that was growing dark swayed to the beat of his footsteps and the blood on him, drying slowly in the night wind that was growing chill, made him tremble with cold; yet he could bear it and move faster and faster, step by step. The sword helped him with that. It would have to be sharpened later. "Into the night to a meeting place that might very well be empty. And where do you go after that? Perhaps there are no other survivors. Perhaps you too have no right to be alive now that He..."
"I'll heal," Krazum muttered at the whispers of despair in his head, "and come back and kill all of them. That's as good a hope as any."
As the night grew black, he arrived at last to familiar boulders and stopped to lean against the soothingly cool rocks. For a moment he felt tempted to press his burning wound against them as well, but restrained himself. He would sooner have to find clean water somewhere. There was probably none left in the caverns, but perhaps the slaves had left other supplies behind.
Krazum heard rustling at the hidden entrance, and the sound made his heart jump into his throat before he remembered that the only living beings he could expect to see there were animals. His astonishment was great indeed when from behind the rocks crawled a being that Orcs ranked only slightly higher than an animal. "It can't be," Krazum thought. The squirt that had been torn out of the earth too soon had managed to survive both the Dark Lord's fall and the host of the Free Peoples after all. The two survivors stared at each other awhile in a respectful silence.
"You stayed alive as well," said the squirt at last, apparently incapable of coming up with anything better.
"Well so I did," replied Krazum, but found himself unable to say it with any scorn. "Was there anything useful left in the caves?"
"A little," answered the small Orc. "I gathered everything into a couple of bags."
"Then go and get them. We'll have to make it to the meeting place before dawn comes."
Snaga disappeared swiftly behind the rocks and returned carrying the bags. At least he was quick, even though he lacked strength and was in many other ways incomplete. He had gone and lost his sword, too. Krazum would have to give him the knife off his belt in case they had to defend themselves.
Snaga helped Krazum put the other bag on his shoulder, and his nostrils dilated with the reek of blood. He stood quietly for a moment, watching Krazum thoughtfully. "The wound hurts," was his next self-evident statement. For some reason it didn't irritate Krazum. "Lean on me. Otherwise the sword will be ruined."
Truth be told, Krazum felt like laughing then. The small Orc clearly remembered the upbraiding he had received, but it didn't even occur to him to scold Krazum for the same offence. Small shows of mercy were rare among Orcs, and Krazum decided to allow himself to enjoy it. "Then let us go." He wrapped his arm over Snaga's narrow shoulders and was surprised when the small one didn't collapse immediately under his weight. They set out, and the weak one supported his superior in strength without fail.
"Snaga," Krazum muttered. A stupid name for someone who had survived his first battle. The small Orc looked at him quizzically. "I'll have to think of a better one."