Post by Admin on Jan 1, 2021 21:20:30 GMT
Author: DaffodilB
Ranking: 3rd place
Summary: On the field of Pelennor, two young men are reunited unexpectedly, even as one of them tries to save the other.
Rating: M
Characters: Riders of Rohan, Men of Gondor, Nazgul, Orcs
Warnings: Set at the battle of Pelennor, it's pretty blunt about the killing and all the awful details that go with such battles. If someone's already read the book, or seen the movies, and was okay with it, then no problem.
Of all the tales of the Great War, perhaps none was so heart-rending, and yet oft-forgotten by the minstrels, as one particular tale of valour, love and honour. It happened amid the pounding of thousands and thousands of hooves, horses and Men flying wildly into battle, the yelling and screaming of orcs and other fell creatures roaring in the ears of all who would fight for the peace of Middle-Earth, of all free peoples, near and far. On that fateful day, the day of the battle at Pelennor, even as the Sons of Eorl charged into the fray, horns blaring, burnished shields waving, spears glittering in the sun, to join in the aid of Gondor, there was a young Rider in the midst of the charge who would soon help change the fortunes of at least one of his Gondorian brethren.
The screams of the fell beasts flying above came hard, beating down on one and all below, even as the horrid creatures swooped and careened, bearing down on those who still somehow managed to remain on their mounts, in spite of the hatred and fear bent directly on them. Dust was flying over the heads of the Riders and soldiers, their horses neighing wildly with terror in their eyes, and fires were everywhere, burning, choking, smothering everything in their paths. Boulders came crashing down hither and thither, so that no one knew where the crushing blows might fall next. And into the midst of it all, the Riders came hard, flying with shouts and high voices, for the lust of battle was on them all. Anyone listening to such a charge had to take pause, if only for an instant, for there were young and old, apprentice and sage, all with the same bright armour, the same fell voices on the air, singing of battle and glory, of valour and honour, as on they came without a halt. It was in the very middle of this tumult that the young Rider rode hard, his eyes fixed ahead, slaying wildly as he went, hacking and cutting down every orc within reach of his mount. On, on he came, golden hair flying in the wind, his sword flashing to and fro, stained with the black blood of the orcs, and even as he slew his enemies, smiting them down with cold steel, his heart beat hotter and hotter, his purpose sure.
Even as the Riders of Rohan came charging up to their aid, the Men of Gondor fought on. Hideous the creatures now forcing their way into the White City, with fires burning in the first circle, and the heads of slain Men lying now amidst the fires, as those inside the stone walls ran further in and up, to the second circle. Of those that stayed their course and fought bravely, down in the first circle and out onto the fields of the Pelennor, was a young Man of Gondor, tall and stern, his eyes a flame of fire as he slew his enemies. His situation becoming more desperate, he at last found a worthy steed, and mounted him at once, for he had need of haste, and of some advantage over the foul creatures’ swarming over the land like huge ants or beetles, seemingly endless in their numbers. Riding hard into the plain, he slew as he went, trying to do his part at holding back some of the coming onslaught, trying to prevent at least part of it from reaching the White City, home that he loved. On he rode, his shield held high, his sword flashing, flashing, never stopping. As he went on, further afield, he heard the high piercing screams of the Nazgul above him, and rode harder, doing everything in his power to leave the fear behind. Suddenly, his horse screamed in terror and pain, and down went horse and rider together, dust choking them as they fell, other riders and soldiers falling around them as well, for the Nazgul had come low, and the black breath was taking its toll on all unfortunate enough to have been beneath them. It might have been worse still for the young Gondorian, had his horse not fallen over him, covering his face and chest, and taking the brunt of the terror. As it was, the Man was badly hurt, and, try as he might, was too weak to disentangle himself from his mount, now lying sideways and atop the young Man’s right arm and shoulder, nickering in pain, for he had sustained very serious injuries as well. As he lay beside his injured horse, long blonde hair spilling out of his helm, the young Man of Gondor saw the battle around him closing in, certain that death was not now far off. His sword was there, right beside him, and yet he could not use it, his right arm crushed beneath the horse. In vain did he try to move, to free himself in spite of the pain, yet could not, and in anguish and wrath did he cry out, his frustration and rage growing as his attempts to free himself failed utterly. Was it to end this way, without the valour and honour he sought? To lie on a field of battle, defeated not so much by enemies, as he saw it, but by a broken arm and bloodied shoulder, caught beneath his horse?!
As the young Man lay injured on the field, and the battle grew hotter, the young Rider of Rohan was slaying, slaying, orcs and other foul creatures alike, his sword like a flame in the sun, his shield almost splintered, yet still in front of him, held high. Out farther into the Pelennor he rode, until he found himself in the midst of a killing field indeed, where riders, soldiers, horses and even orcs lay dead and bloodied, almost beyond recognition, and aghast, he pulled up short as he saw the young Man of Gondor, his arm caught underneath his injured horse, for not only was the Man the only living being on that patch of dusty, bloody ground, but the Rider recognized the young Man, and knew him full well. Jumping down from his mount, the young Rider took no more thought to his own safety, but put his full attention to his injured comrade, pushing with all his weight on the Man’s horse, freeing the crushed arm and shoulder of the Man of Gondor. He was sorry, of course, very sorry, that he would have to leave the Man’s horse behind, but there was nothing for it. He would do what must be done. As the rider bent over the young Man, however, the Gondorian gave a cry, and his eyes went wide. Staring back into his own eyes were those of someone he had long missed, whom he had not seen in so many years, that the thought had come to him that perhaps the young Rider had died long ago, caught in some battle far off, and out of reach. But no, there they were, and he knew the rider, knew him well, and there was no mistake.
"Well, my brother, I never thought to find you here", the Rider said gently as he tried to pick up the young Man of Gondor without hurting him further. "How--how did you get here...", the young Gondorian gasped, his breath coming ragged from the pain as he tried to stand, leaning heavily on the young Rider. "Rohan has answered the call to the aid of Gondor, brother, as I am sure you knew. Yet you did not know I was with them, it seems." The young Man of Gondor looked at his brother in wonder, even as he wretched in pain again. It was too much for him to take in now, wounded as he was, almost passing out from the pain of his crushed arm and shoulder, hanging now limply at his side. If he lived, the questions, and answers, would come later. Quickly now, and as carefully as he could manage, the young Rider lifted his brother up onto his own mount, intending to jump up in front of him, desiring only to get them to a place of relative safety, to get his brother’s injuries tended. A great deal of blood had been lost already, and he wanted to waste no time. They were too far afield as it was, and the battle was around them still, fiercely being fought by friend and foe alike. Just as the young Rider began his ascent back onto his mount, however, an arrow came flying, a black arrow, thick and hard, and finding its mark, pierced the young Rider’s back, passing through to his chest. Crumpling against his horse, he grasped his brother’s hand, gasping as he did so, "Ride, brother! Ride to safety!" The young Gondorian looked in horror at his fatally wounded brother, and knew it was hopeless. Beneath the shining armour, blood was gushing forward, spilling out onto the hard ground, the lifeblood of his brother. Grasping his sword in his good left hand, the young Man of Gondor desperately raised it up, even as the orc that shot his brother came nigh, and with one fell stroke, cleaved the head off the foul creature, and it dropped lifeless to the ground. Turning his gaze back to his brother, he saw that the young Rider was fast dying, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Dropping his sword quickly back into its sheath, he took hold of his brother’s hand, even as his brother reached up to him, imploring him to leave, "You must go...you must hurry! My horse--he will save your life. Ride now, brother...you must leave me here." The young Man of Gondor grasped at his brother, replying, "But to leave you here! Alone, on a killing field of battle, to die without the honour you deserve! I should take you back in honour into the City, even if you died on the way!" Gazing up at his brother, so earnest in his desire for valour and honour in battle, the young Rider replied even as he breathed his last, "Brother, you do not understand. Above honour is love. Remember that, brother, always." With that, the young Rider fell to the ground, dead from the spear wound. Tears coursing down his face, the young Man of Gondor, the rider’s brother, took up the reins and, with one last look back, fled the killing field, flying as fast as he could back through the battle, toward his home, the beloved White City, the last words of his brother still ringing in his heart.
Ranking: 3rd place
Summary: On the field of Pelennor, two young men are reunited unexpectedly, even as one of them tries to save the other.
Rating: M
Characters: Riders of Rohan, Men of Gondor, Nazgul, Orcs
Warnings: Set at the battle of Pelennor, it's pretty blunt about the killing and all the awful details that go with such battles. If someone's already read the book, or seen the movies, and was okay with it, then no problem.
Of all the tales of the Great War, perhaps none was so heart-rending, and yet oft-forgotten by the minstrels, as one particular tale of valour, love and honour. It happened amid the pounding of thousands and thousands of hooves, horses and Men flying wildly into battle, the yelling and screaming of orcs and other fell creatures roaring in the ears of all who would fight for the peace of Middle-Earth, of all free peoples, near and far. On that fateful day, the day of the battle at Pelennor, even as the Sons of Eorl charged into the fray, horns blaring, burnished shields waving, spears glittering in the sun, to join in the aid of Gondor, there was a young Rider in the midst of the charge who would soon help change the fortunes of at least one of his Gondorian brethren.
The screams of the fell beasts flying above came hard, beating down on one and all below, even as the horrid creatures swooped and careened, bearing down on those who still somehow managed to remain on their mounts, in spite of the hatred and fear bent directly on them. Dust was flying over the heads of the Riders and soldiers, their horses neighing wildly with terror in their eyes, and fires were everywhere, burning, choking, smothering everything in their paths. Boulders came crashing down hither and thither, so that no one knew where the crushing blows might fall next. And into the midst of it all, the Riders came hard, flying with shouts and high voices, for the lust of battle was on them all. Anyone listening to such a charge had to take pause, if only for an instant, for there were young and old, apprentice and sage, all with the same bright armour, the same fell voices on the air, singing of battle and glory, of valour and honour, as on they came without a halt. It was in the very middle of this tumult that the young Rider rode hard, his eyes fixed ahead, slaying wildly as he went, hacking and cutting down every orc within reach of his mount. On, on he came, golden hair flying in the wind, his sword flashing to and fro, stained with the black blood of the orcs, and even as he slew his enemies, smiting them down with cold steel, his heart beat hotter and hotter, his purpose sure.
Even as the Riders of Rohan came charging up to their aid, the Men of Gondor fought on. Hideous the creatures now forcing their way into the White City, with fires burning in the first circle, and the heads of slain Men lying now amidst the fires, as those inside the stone walls ran further in and up, to the second circle. Of those that stayed their course and fought bravely, down in the first circle and out onto the fields of the Pelennor, was a young Man of Gondor, tall and stern, his eyes a flame of fire as he slew his enemies. His situation becoming more desperate, he at last found a worthy steed, and mounted him at once, for he had need of haste, and of some advantage over the foul creatures’ swarming over the land like huge ants or beetles, seemingly endless in their numbers. Riding hard into the plain, he slew as he went, trying to do his part at holding back some of the coming onslaught, trying to prevent at least part of it from reaching the White City, home that he loved. On he rode, his shield held high, his sword flashing, flashing, never stopping. As he went on, further afield, he heard the high piercing screams of the Nazgul above him, and rode harder, doing everything in his power to leave the fear behind. Suddenly, his horse screamed in terror and pain, and down went horse and rider together, dust choking them as they fell, other riders and soldiers falling around them as well, for the Nazgul had come low, and the black breath was taking its toll on all unfortunate enough to have been beneath them. It might have been worse still for the young Gondorian, had his horse not fallen over him, covering his face and chest, and taking the brunt of the terror. As it was, the Man was badly hurt, and, try as he might, was too weak to disentangle himself from his mount, now lying sideways and atop the young Man’s right arm and shoulder, nickering in pain, for he had sustained very serious injuries as well. As he lay beside his injured horse, long blonde hair spilling out of his helm, the young Man of Gondor saw the battle around him closing in, certain that death was not now far off. His sword was there, right beside him, and yet he could not use it, his right arm crushed beneath the horse. In vain did he try to move, to free himself in spite of the pain, yet could not, and in anguish and wrath did he cry out, his frustration and rage growing as his attempts to free himself failed utterly. Was it to end this way, without the valour and honour he sought? To lie on a field of battle, defeated not so much by enemies, as he saw it, but by a broken arm and bloodied shoulder, caught beneath his horse?!
As the young Man lay injured on the field, and the battle grew hotter, the young Rider of Rohan was slaying, slaying, orcs and other foul creatures alike, his sword like a flame in the sun, his shield almost splintered, yet still in front of him, held high. Out farther into the Pelennor he rode, until he found himself in the midst of a killing field indeed, where riders, soldiers, horses and even orcs lay dead and bloodied, almost beyond recognition, and aghast, he pulled up short as he saw the young Man of Gondor, his arm caught underneath his injured horse, for not only was the Man the only living being on that patch of dusty, bloody ground, but the Rider recognized the young Man, and knew him full well. Jumping down from his mount, the young Rider took no more thought to his own safety, but put his full attention to his injured comrade, pushing with all his weight on the Man’s horse, freeing the crushed arm and shoulder of the Man of Gondor. He was sorry, of course, very sorry, that he would have to leave the Man’s horse behind, but there was nothing for it. He would do what must be done. As the rider bent over the young Man, however, the Gondorian gave a cry, and his eyes went wide. Staring back into his own eyes were those of someone he had long missed, whom he had not seen in so many years, that the thought had come to him that perhaps the young Rider had died long ago, caught in some battle far off, and out of reach. But no, there they were, and he knew the rider, knew him well, and there was no mistake.
"Well, my brother, I never thought to find you here", the Rider said gently as he tried to pick up the young Man of Gondor without hurting him further. "How--how did you get here...", the young Gondorian gasped, his breath coming ragged from the pain as he tried to stand, leaning heavily on the young Rider. "Rohan has answered the call to the aid of Gondor, brother, as I am sure you knew. Yet you did not know I was with them, it seems." The young Man of Gondor looked at his brother in wonder, even as he wretched in pain again. It was too much for him to take in now, wounded as he was, almost passing out from the pain of his crushed arm and shoulder, hanging now limply at his side. If he lived, the questions, and answers, would come later. Quickly now, and as carefully as he could manage, the young Rider lifted his brother up onto his own mount, intending to jump up in front of him, desiring only to get them to a place of relative safety, to get his brother’s injuries tended. A great deal of blood had been lost already, and he wanted to waste no time. They were too far afield as it was, and the battle was around them still, fiercely being fought by friend and foe alike. Just as the young Rider began his ascent back onto his mount, however, an arrow came flying, a black arrow, thick and hard, and finding its mark, pierced the young Rider’s back, passing through to his chest. Crumpling against his horse, he grasped his brother’s hand, gasping as he did so, "Ride, brother! Ride to safety!" The young Gondorian looked in horror at his fatally wounded brother, and knew it was hopeless. Beneath the shining armour, blood was gushing forward, spilling out onto the hard ground, the lifeblood of his brother. Grasping his sword in his good left hand, the young Man of Gondor desperately raised it up, even as the orc that shot his brother came nigh, and with one fell stroke, cleaved the head off the foul creature, and it dropped lifeless to the ground. Turning his gaze back to his brother, he saw that the young Rider was fast dying, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Dropping his sword quickly back into its sheath, he took hold of his brother’s hand, even as his brother reached up to him, imploring him to leave, "You must go...you must hurry! My horse--he will save your life. Ride now, brother...you must leave me here." The young Man of Gondor grasped at his brother, replying, "But to leave you here! Alone, on a killing field of battle, to die without the honour you deserve! I should take you back in honour into the City, even if you died on the way!" Gazing up at his brother, so earnest in his desire for valour and honour in battle, the young Rider replied even as he breathed his last, "Brother, you do not understand. Above honour is love. Remember that, brother, always." With that, the young Rider fell to the ground, dead from the spear wound. Tears coursing down his face, the young Man of Gondor, the rider’s brother, took up the reins and, with one last look back, fled the killing field, flying as fast as he could back through the battle, toward his home, the beloved White City, the last words of his brother still ringing in his heart.