3441, Second Age. Plains of Dagorlad
Grey light filtered through the fog, signaling the coming of the day for the elves and men ranged along the Dagorlad Plain. All that could be done to prepare for the final assault of Mordor had been done and now the wait commenced. Long straight lines of warriors stood silent sentinel as the fog rose and swirled. Even the sound of metal clanking on metal seemed muted in the stillness. No breath of air stirred their cloaks. No excited whisper passed beyond pursed lips.
On the front lines stood the high king, Gil-Galad, next to his troops from Lindon. On his right, and nearly a mile distant, was Elrond with those gathered from Rivendell and beyond. Immediately to Gil-Galad's left were the men, Elendil with his sons, Anarion and Isildur, ranged near. Cirdan's forces stood to Elrond's right with Amroth and the Lothlorien contingency just beyond. Only Thranduil and Oropher were absent from the main lines. The elves of Mirkwood were high on the western flank, with archers ready and waiting.
Erestor was sandwiched between Elrond and Glorfindel clenching his sword so tightly that his hand ached. He knew that all around him, the other warriors felt the same tension. If they were to remove their gloves, the knuckles would gleam as whitely as bone. Idly, he watched a thin line of sweat trace down Gildor's temple. Erestor internally cursed Sauron for forcing the Alliance to cull from the youngest of their kin. Gildor and Lindir, to only name a few, should not be standing upon the plain, waiting to perish or be victorious. They should be home, courting lovers and singing and dancing until their toes were tired. By tilting his head the smallest fraction, he could see Oropher, standing tall and proud and aloof. He wanted to shout at Oropher and call him a fool. Perhaps, they were the fools though, to believe they could win victory over the darkness that was Mordor. Erestor hardened his heart and ground his teeth as he pushed the cowardly thoughts from his mind.
Gildor would have prayed, had he been able to formulate any thought at all. He was terrified, but even more terrified to show his fear. Surely, he thought, he as not alone with his fear. Yet, from the corners of his eyes, he could see long straight lines of men and elves looking more composed than seemed possible. Beside him, Lindir was so tense that his whole body thrummed. His pale face showed a stubbornness that was not normally attributed to the happy young elf. /Please/ thought Gildor /Let my friend survive./
Lindir breathed slowly and shallowly through his nose. In his chest his heart raced as though he'd run a hundred leagues. Fear clouded his thoughts. Every thing he believed in was being tested. He only hoped that he would not be found lacking.
From his vantage high on a bluff, Thranduil studied the tableau below him. Easily he could distinguish man from elf. He saw the proud banner of the men, Elendil and his sons. Thranduil's keen elven eyes could even pick out Anarion and his heart thudded heavily. He should have stayed and spoken with Anarion, but his hurt had been too great for coherent thought. He'd lain in his cot, an unfamiliar place to him, and relived nearly every moment of his time with Anarion from their first meeting to the cold words between them the night before. Dawn had come and he'd risen from his cot with grainy eyes and a short temper.
Oropher had said nothing when Thranduil had tucked his tail between his legs and returned to the Mirkwood camp. In fact, his father had barely acknowledged his existence at all. Perhaps, though, the silence was good for it allowed Thranduil to think in peace and not have to put in to words the terrible anguish of his soul. He was not yet ready to voice his pain.
Anarion's silence was like thunder to those standing near him. He radiated rage and sorrow that none had ever felt before and he made no attempt to disguise his feelings. There were those men in camp, who like old women, made it their business to know all that went on about them and they had long known and shared their information about Anarion's tent mate. Equally, they shared the knowledge that Anarion had spent the night alone. Normally there would have been speculation about such an event, but the coming battle over shadowed all else.
All that Gil-Galad had worked for was coming to pass and he lifted his chin in defiance. None would have thought that seven years ago they would be standing before the great black gates challenging the mightiest evil in all of Middle Earth. He felt a surge of pride as he felt the men all around him. He sensed their resolve, their dedication, and above all, their loyalty to a cause greater than themselves. His dark eyes shifted to his right and met the gray eyes of his beloved Elrond. He ventured a tentative, if not confident, smile.
Elrond's heart swelled when the high king smiled. None but Gil-Galad could have marshaled so many forces to brave Sauron. Soon he and Gil-Galad would be able to return to Lindon, to their lives as Standard Bearer and King, as lovers. Elrond wanted nothing more than for the war to end and for peace to reign at last in Middle Earth. He'd seen the damage to men and elves alike and the terrible cost of lives. Though the toll was high, he knew the price had to be paid, even with the blood of the innocents.
Cirdan's beard bristled as he stared long and hard at the black gates. He'd waited and waited for the moment when he could shove his sword, drenched with all the hate and disgust he could muster, deep in to the heart of the enemy. The abominations that had poured forth from Mordor had left him ill and shaken to his very core. The dark force that took the beauty and the grace of elves and twisted it until it was barely recognizable was horrific burden and Cirdan was long tired of carrying the anger in his heart. When he'd joined the alliance, he'd known that Gil-Galad had every intention of seeing Sauron die. As a fellow ring bearer, Cirdan knew that they would be able to marshal enough strength to do just that. He'd seen wars before and knew their price. He and his soldiers of the Gray Havens paid it willingly.
Isildur studied his brother's countenance and
knew a sorrow unlike any he'd ever felt. His harsh words had been meant to
make his brother see reason and to end his affair with the elf. Isildur did
not want to examine the motives behind his wretched behavior, for if he had,
he would have known that his cause had been one of jealousy, not justice and
certainly not concern. Not only did Anarion have a wife and children, he had
at his beck and call a beauteous and deadly creature with sapphire eyes and
a glorious blond mane. Somehow it had all seemed unfair to Isildur and he'd
reacted before he'd thought. Now
as he stood shoulder to shoulder with is brother, Isildur wished he'd kept
his treacherous tongue behind his teeth for he knew he'd caused hurt to his
beloved brother that would be a long time in healing. When he'd awoken that
morning, Amroth wondered what he was doing here, in this accursed place with
his small force from Lothlorien. He'd wondered if he would see the evening
sun set. He wondered how many of his troops would be alive come the end of
the battle or if all would be lost in a moment's time. He pushed aside his
doubts.
In the distance before them, a long note wailed from deep within the walls of Mordor and the ground beneath their feet rumbled and shook as the great gates slowly began to swing inward. Even more noxious fumes spewed from the dark lord's nest and engulfed both defender and attacker alike. A loud keening wail rose in the fog and the twisted life that was the orcs of Mordor spilled forth.
Glorfindel's deep blue eyes lit with an inner fire that the men would have called insane and shied from. His wrist flexed within the bracer on his arm. His lips pulled back from his teeth in a feral smile. At last.
As the orcs rushed from the gates, Gil-Galad raised his fist high in the air where all could see his signal. They were to wait until the last second before unleashing their combined armies. His plan was to pull his forces back and allow the orcs to pour into the gap created by his retreat and allow those gathered on the sides to surround the orcs and cut off their retreat.
Quickly, the dark forces drew closer and close and still Gil-Galad held his troops in check. Oropher shifted uneasily and snarled at the high king's apparent cowardice. He thought Gil-Galad must be quite mad to wait so long to signal the counter attack. Only a fool would wait until the orcs were in their midst before striking. In that moment, Oropher made his fateful decision.
"Attack!" His clear voice rang over
the hilltop, sending those from Mirkwood into immediate battle. As one, the
elves raised their bows and fired a volley of arrows in to the midst of the
orcs. Each arrow unerringly found a target and orcs dropped dead.
Satisfied that he'd made the appropriate tactical move, Oropher signaled his
elves to charge.
Startled, the elves below glanced up as arrows reigned down like hail. Eyes turned to Gil-Galad and the high king, unable to do anything else, gave the signal everyone had been waiting for. The elves in the valley fired their own missiles, but the advantage had been lost and the intended pincher movement was unable to be completed. Elendil was unable to hold his men and they charged headlong in to the fray, forcing Anarion to follow with his own troops as back up. Only Isildur's line remained unbroken on the men's side. Amroth held his forces together, through a combination of discipline and frantic shouting, and barely managed to maneuver his elves in to the appropriate position while Cirdan desperately divided his elves between Elrond and Amroth.
Thranduil followed the elves as they rushed down the hill, headlong in to the orc's right flank. The orcs, already alerted to the attack turned in unison and began to systematically cut down the unsupported elven group. Oropher was among the first to fall and Thranduil tripped over his father's body as the king succumbed to an orc blade.
"Father," screamed Thranduil as he stumbled over the bloodied and lifeless body. Before he could do or say anything else, however, he was forced in to a fighting retreat along with the rest of the survivors of the group. To his dismay, as he began reaching higher ground, Thranduil realized that nearly two-thirds of his elves were slain. "Regroup! Regroup!" He shouted, waving frantically at those elves still fighting below.
Anarion, seeing the Mirkwood elves in trouble, tried to rally his forces enough to act as rear guard and help the elves retreat. In the desperate melee, an axe found it's mark in his chest and his last breath was a wheezing cough that no one heard above the din of battle.
Thranduil, seeing the men rally to help his elves retreat, watched in horrified fascination as one short, squat orc raised his ax and swung it towards Anarion. Time slowed to a crawl as the ax bit deep and red blood flowed. Anarion seemed to raise his eyes, as if searching for something and then he crumpled in upon himself and was lost beneath the orcs as they streamed over the men trying vainly to hold their own.
Isildur witnessed his beloved older brother fall beneath the orc blade and he desperately began cleaving a path through the never-ending stream of gray bodies orcs as he tried to reach Anarion. He wanted to tell his brother that he was sorry and that he'd never meant to harm him or Thranduil. Jealousy had made busy work of his tongue and he wanted so much for Anarion to know that.
Elendil used his forces to begin pushing the orcs east, towards Elrond. The Standard Bearer kept his own forces in place and fired arrow after arrow in to the orcs, trapping them between the men and the deadly arrows of the elves. After the initial chaos, order was restored and the tide began to turn in favor of the Alliance once more. Victory was once again within the grasp of the Alliance and everyone could feel it. Lindir and Gildor threw aside their bows and drew their swords as the orcs were forced in to their ranks. The orcs had their backs to the elves at first and they were completely taken unawares. Once they realized what was happening, they turned to face the new threat, but it was already too late.
With Glorfindel on one side and Erestor on the other, Elrond inexorably pushed his battle group forward, and with Amroth and Cirdan, managed at last to close the gap leading back to Mordor. Fierce fighting continued, but all knew that the field belonged to the Alliance. Elrond began cutting a path towards his king and lover when the last act of a desperate wizard forever altered the destiny of Middle Earth.
Once more the gates groaned beneath their own weight and swung outwards. Rather than pouring fourth more orcs, however, a lone figure appeared. Nearly seven feet tall and clothed in heavy armor, the figure strode purposefully from the gates. In his hand he carried a mace and over his head he wore a horned helm. A moment of stunned silence greeted him as he stood gazing at the destruction of his army.
Gil-Galad was the first to react. "Sauron!" He raised his sword high and rushed foolishly towards the giant.
Elendil followed the high king, his sword raised high in the air and a battle cry on his lips. Before either could reach him, the mace came down and when it arose again, the spiked head was coated with the blood of elves and men.
Lindir screamed as he felt the mace brush past him. His armor gave at the shoulder and blood trickled from a deep gouge. He landed in the deep mud and felt more than saw a body land atop his. Struggling beneath the weight, he screamed again when he realized the body was that of Gildor.
Lindir pushed at the limp body and rolled off him. His hands shook as he caressed the pale face and brushed strands of golden hair from damp brow. "Gildor?"
Gildor's eyes fluttered open and he smiled weakly. "I do not think it's so bad." His voice could barely be heard over the noise of the battle.
Lindir stared in horror at the deep rent in the armor. Though the metal had taken most of the punishment, the elf's flesh was ripped open. "Hold still," he said calmly as he took his own cloak and stuffed the cloth inside the armor where the flesh was torn. His arm ached where he'd been wounded, but he ignored the pain. Once he felt the blood had been staunched, he put his good arm under Gildor's weight and began the slow process of dragging him away from the main lines.
Gil-Galad's sword bit in to Sauron's armor and the helmed head twisted down to see what insignificant creature had dared to touch his person with metal. Before he could react, Elendil was at Gil-Galad's side. Together they began a dance of blades and feet around the wizard, seeking an opening or weakness to exploit. With a mighty roar Sauron hefted his mace high and brought it down upon the high king.
Elendil saw Gil-Galad fall and rushed to stand over the lifeless body as he attempted to parry the thrusts of the nastily spiked mace. He did not realize that his one remaining son was behind him, sword raised. Sauron snarled behind his helm and with a thrust of his weapon, sent Elendil, king of the west, reeling in to Isildur's arms. Isildur dropped his own weapon in order to catch his father's body. In shock, he dropped his father as he saw the mortal wound in Elendil's chest. Like Anarion, Elendil's last sighing breath went unheard over the fray and confusion of battle. Isildur stumbled back and landed heavily in the mud and his father's body slipped from his arms. Frantically he scrabbled for a weapon and his hand closed about the hilt of a blade. Years of training had honed Isildur's fighting instincts and he raised the weapon at the last second, not in offense, but in defense. As Sauron's weapon came closer, Isildur closed his eyes tightly and swung with all his might. The broken blade of his father separated wrist from body and Sauron roared once more in rage and fear as the one thing that gave him power and strength was stripped from him.
The smoking hand of the wizard dropped to Isildur's side and deep rumbling shook the earth. All around him, men and elves ducked low as a great swirling wind whipped hair and cloaks. Only Elrond would have remained up right, had not Glorfindel pulled him bodily to the ground. Sauron exploded and bits of his armor struck those far and wide and the dark magical force holding the ancient wizard together was suddenly released in a thunderous whoosh.
Lindir threw his body atop Gildor's and his friend whimpered in pain. He tried to cover Gildor as best he could with his own body to protect him. Lindir felt a sharp pain to the back of his head and then everything went dark.
Elrond scrambled in the dirt and mud and over the bodies of the slain as he tried to crawl towards his beloved. His cheek bore cuts and bruises from bits of Sauron's armor. He felt hands upon him and tried to fight them off. "Release me," he cried.
"Hold, Elrond, I am trying to help you, my friend." Glorfindel had Elrond around the waist and was slowly trying to pull the elf to his feet. Elrond relaxed and allowed his friend to help him stand.
He felt dizzy and nauseous and he swayed on his feet. His gray eyes cast the ground for signs of Gil-Galad. When he finally saw him, Elrond knew his healing skills would be of no use to the king. Just beyond Elendil and Gil-Galad, lay a stunned Isildur who clutched a golden band between his fingers.
Pockets of fighting continued as the orcs tried to find an escape route. The men and elves were determined that none should escape. Cirdan spied two bodies in the mud and groaned. He recognized their shapes and went to them. He gently rolled Lindir off of Gildor and examined him carefully. Sighing, he turned from Lindir and examined Gildor. Looking up and around, Cirdan sought help.
Gathering his wits about him Elrond focused his attention from his lover's corpse to Isildur. The large blond had in only a few hour's time become king of the west and his shock-glazed eyes told Elrond that the man was uncomprehending of anything around him. Walking through the carnage, Elrond laid a gentle hand on Isildur's shoulder.
"Come, your highness," he addressed the man with his new formal title. "We must make haste for Mount Doom so that we may destroy the last of Sauron's power."
"Destroy it?" Isildur turned the ring over between his fingers. "Nay, Lord Elrond, this is now an heirloom of my kingdom. My brother and my father died for this and it has come in to my hands. If I am now the king, then I decree this to be a symbol of all for which we have fought and died."
Elrond stared for a moment, uncomprehending. "Nay, Isildur, this is not an heirloom of your kingdom; this is a symbol of all the evil that has plagued Middle Earth and it must be destroyed in the caverns of Mount Doom. Come." He ordered.
Isildur struggled to his feet. With a sneer on his face, he shook his head. "No, Elrond. I will not allow you to dictate to me as you did my father and brother. Your king and lover are dead. Who now commands the elves?" His dark eyes scanned the area, and he noted the small bands still fighting in the dust and mud and blood. "Go and bury the dead, Elrond. This ring is for the living." He tucked the ring inside his shirt and strode away, leaving a surprised Elrond to stare in his wake.
"Erestor, come help me," Cirdan saw one of the elves from Rivendell and called him over. "The young ones are gravely injured," he added as Erestor approached.
"How badly?" Erestor asked and then he looked down. "Oh, no."
Thranduil at last ordered his forces to cease firing. The remaining orcs he would leave to the troops on the plain. "I will need some to help gather the wounded. The rest of you, retreat to the camp," he ordered as he stared below. "I will join you shortly. Make preparations to depart as soon as we have our wounded attended."
Glorfindel, who had attached himself to Elrond's side, snarled. "We should kill him now."
Elrond's dark brow rose. "Nay, Glorfindel,
it is not for the likes of us to decide who lives or dies. Besides, he is
a king and we may not slay one of royalty, for who would lead the men of the
west if they loose all their male heirs?" He took a deep breath. "Come,
my friend, Isildur is out of our reach. But still we have much to do. I would
take Gil-Galad's body from here so that he may be given the honor he deserves."
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