[Imladris]

Maethor

His jaw set, Maethor drew the bow to his ear and aimed carefully at the bushes. Long had it been since he had crossed blades with an orc, but he had not forgotten their cruel leers, the beastial eyes, the snarling mouths, the bubbling drool dropping from their fangs. He closed his eyes, offering himself up to the Valar as he drew his bow.

Amandur was speaking with Lespheria, but he heard them only distantly -- as if he was in a dream. A robin launched himself from a tree as he heard the lumbering orcs; a butterfly fluttered her violet wings upon a blade of grass; a lone bee rummaged within a flower seeking for pollen; the ford’s waters rippled over the pebbles. It was as if it sang of all the things that had passed before it, of the wonders it had seen.

The first orc crashed through the underbrush flourishing his crude iron sword. “Death to the foes of Imladris!” Maethor cried as he loosed his arrow. The orc fell dead, pierced at the neck. But they kept coming as a grotesque flood, their snarling mouths contorted in grim glee. When a bow was of no more use, Maethor, with a savage cry, withdrew the hidden daggers in his boots and lunged at the nearest orc, slashing his throat. With the backstroke, he plunged the blade into the gut of another.

Whirling around, he clashed blades with an orc with bulging muscles and an ugly scimitar bathed in blood of bygone victims. Sparks flew as the blades screeched. With a twist of the wrist, the orc wrenched his weapon from the parry lock and lunged towards Maethor. The young man blocked the blow with his other dagger, but the orc flicked it out of the way sending it skipping through the grass. With a grunt Maethor drove his blade forward, but with a curse the orc pushed the blow wide. Their blades glinting in the sun, they parried for a while. The chant of battle rang through the trees. Sweat streamed from Maethor’s brow. The scimitar slashed his eye. Blood poured from the wound, impeding the ranger’s vision. A fist rammed into his stomach, and Maethor fell to his knees. The orc knocked his last dagger from his hand, and kicked him violently in the stomach. Maethor flipped around and clenched the orc’s legs in his arms, jerking him off his feet. As the orc tumbled to the ground with a snarled course, Maethor flung himself upon him and began to punch the brute’s face.

The orc put his grimed hand upon Maethor’s throat and squeezed, his claw-like nails burying themselves into Maethor’s flesh as he tightened his hold. Low laughter, cold as darkness’ shadows, rang in Maethor’s ears as he struggled for breath. His eyes became shot with blood and they rolled violently as he struggled to pry the finger‘s from his throat. Dimly he saw the orc’s other hand groping for a sword that lay near by in the bloodstained grass.

The elves would come. With a struggling gasp, Maethor glanced towards the ford. A rainbow shimmered in its waters.

The orc’s fingers enclosed upon the blade. With a savage growl, he swung it upon the ranger’s neck. Maethor’s head rolled upon the ground and the orc, pushing the corpse aside, rose to his feet, a twisted smile of glee upon his face.