[CaptainofDespair]

The vast army of the Orc plodded forth, sweeping the heavy, ashen dust of the wasteland earth into Mordor’s hot, dense air. This rancid, near poisonous fume that rose in great clouds, was enough to weaken even the strongest creature. Even the orcs, who had become accustomed to the harsh realm of Mordor, had to beware the dust, and those who were not regarded as somewhat well off within the circles of orc leadership, were subjected to choking and hacking on the lung-searing ash that swirled through the atmosphere.

The Elf himself, though he had spent seventeen years in the captivity of Cirith Ungol, was still weighed down by the horrid, smokey fog that surrounded him, and burned at his lips, seizing entry to his lungs, and slowly killing him from within. The Morgul Vale was a relief for him however, as the ashen clouds from Orodruin were not as concentrated in this region. But the high mountains, that encircled the locale, forbid the release of those particles that were heaved towards the burning, red sky that hung over Mordor like a heavy, omnipresent shadow, by the ironshod feet of the Snaga, and Uruks. His Haradrim scarf had provided some benefit through this whole ordeal, filtering some of the abhorred fumes from the air, but now it was wearing thin, and the dirt and grime began to seep its way into the fabric of the cloth, choking it, and sending its filthy messengers into the lungs of the Elf.

As he slowly progressed past the ranks of the oncoming orc army, the dust that was churned up, began to grasp for his lungs, clenching them with putrid hands, tightening like a vice, and forcing the Elf to emit a horrid cough from his lips. At first it was almost uncontrollable, as he hacked and wheezed at an incessant pace. But ever so gradually, he began to retake the reins from the air that obstructed his breathing. Yet, he was vulnerable in this time, for he was expending a great deal of his energies to ‘put out the fire’ that was burning within his chest. To even attempt to recover from the spasmodic contortions of his muscles, as they vainly tried to withstand the assault the air was pressing upon him, he was forced to halt his movement. This made him all the more noticeable. As he clenched his chest, still gasping for a fresh breath, out of the thousands of minuscule particles that hung in the air around him, a wisp of cloth fell from his face, revealing the elf behind the mask. It was only that singular, solitary moment in which he was uncovered, that spoiled his disguise, as a hapless orc wandered into his path.

This orc was not the smartest of orcs, and he was not particularly good at following orders. Having been set upon the outremer of the throng that carried him in the army, he managed to disorient himself, and stumbled upon the weakened elf, who was caught staring into the dirt. The Orc, seeing that this Haradrim was in fact, not a Haradrim, drew his sword, hoping for a quick kill, and a meal, of whatever this creature was. But as he bumbled his way towards the Elf, a great commotion erupted to his rear, as several orcs began to stir about, finally boiling over the cauldron of emotion, and letting loose into a fierce skirmish. This distraction allowed the Immortal to compose himself, and regain his unraveling disguise.

As Morgoroth rose from the dirt, caked in its dark earthen matter, he saw the most terrible of beings. Hooded, and masked in endless fear, sat a Nazgul upon his vile Fell Beast. Standing defiant below the evil steed, stood a man, who Morgoroth could not recognize in his dimmed vision. Emotion stirred in his heart, as he felt compassion, and pity for the man. He swiftly rose, empowered with new vigor, and sought to drive himself between the man and the Nazgul. The orcs continued to battle, distracting the Wraith for the time. The Dark Elf hoped this would provide him time to save the man from death. But as he made his way to the line, he saw him go down into the dirt. He thought death had struck, but it was not so. His sensitive ears managed to gather a few words, the names Raeis and Zurumor, and the tone of a certain dwarf. But his comrades’ plight was not yet through, for Zurumor cast himself back into the fray, seeking to protect Raeis, whom he had come to have a deepening affection for. The Elf began to mutter to himself, debating his course of action.“Death this child seeks, to save one from feeling a wrath unending...” He let his head sink, and a familiar voice entered his mind. The memories of his father, long since buried in the chasm of his mind. The last time he saw his father, he left behind a single message, a reason to as why he was to go off to fight in land so far off, and eventually fall victim to the horrors of war. “We elves are long-lived, and we do not suffer that which men do, and I go to fight, to ensure their lives are lived well.” The Elf lifted his head at this memory, and glared at the Nazgul, who was now coming down from the burning heavens, preparing to deliver its hellish wrath unto the man Zurumor, and the elf woman he was protecting.

Hissing and snarling came the Fell Beast, as it descended, lashing its disgusting tongue about, and exhaling a carrion reek onto those who were in its path. Mounted upon this most horrifying steed, was a being of hate and death, one of the most terrifying servants of the Dark Lord. They slowly came to renewed hover, as the wings of the beast flapped calmly in the sea of chaos that stirred about it, blowing up the ash that was caked in layers upon the earth. Hope was lost for those who stood before the Winged Death, as they awaited his judgement, which would come swiftly and terribly. For a few moments, it sat silent, scanning its victims. This was all the time the Elf needed to prepare himself. As the Wraith raised the weapon of its choice, a pale sword, which gleamed with a hate gathered over many centuries, Morgoroth made his own choice, and loosed a single feathered shaft into the neck of the Nazgul’s mount. The hideous creatures reeled from this unexpected pain, and it thrashed about in the air. But its master was soon to recover, and it took notice of he who had defied the command of death.

Standing alone, the Elf waited for his enemy to come forth. The Nazgul was in the midst of killing a defiant man, who had deserved his death, but this Haradrim had done worse, and he ordered his mount higher into the sky, preparing to descend upon this new rebellious foe. Little time passed between the striking of the shot, and the Wraith’s coming. Fury was in its mind, and it wished to do quick justice upon this fiend, for he other, more important business to attend to. As he lowered himself from the sky, and came to a hover above the Elf, a strange sensation overcame it, one it had only recently felt. Yet, the Nazgul did not dwell on this, for it had not the time for such trivial matters. Now, it spoke to the Haradrim who stood before. “You dare defy the will of your master?!” The Wraith hissed at this, hoping to strike a nerve of fear, so as it could at least enjoy the kill. “You are a mere mortal, and your trifling in these matters that do not concern you, will cost you your life.” The Elf gazed up at his foe, defying the creature yet again. “I am no mortal, scum of Sauron...” Vehement hissing erupted from within the hooded mask of the being, as it was confounded at this second showing of defiance. With a flash of his hand, the Elf pulled away a bit of the scarf that covered his face, and he spoke a second time. “I am an Elf, and on my honor, you shall not take my comrades lives, without first slaying me.” A final volley of hissing rolled forth from within the cloaked demon, as it drew its glimmering blade.

Morgoroth had forfeited his life, exchanging the fates of Zurumor and Raeis for his own. As he prepared to suffer the wrath of his enemy, he caught a glimpse of his allies, as the man pulled his elf friend to her feet, and pulled her to the side, where Bror was now hidden, as best he could. The Elf now sang a silent prayer, hoping that his doom would come quickly. With sword poised to strike, the Wraith let forth one more hiss, nearly inaudible, and then it drove its blade home, searing the Elf’s flesh, as it slashed through the skin just above his heart. Chance had saved his life, as the blade narrowly missed piercing his heart, as it glanced of the bone in his shoulder. The pain was great, but the Elf knew not to cry out, and instead silently slumped against a small rock, bleeding profusely, and near death. The Nazgul knew it had not finished him, but a sudden burst of flame, and the silent call of its master, who was now in great peril, summoned the Wraith elsewhere, and it rose quickly, soaring into the heaves, only to come swooping back down over the army, letting out a vicious cry, one to summon the host to greater haste. And it left Morgoroth there, clinging to his now bloodied rock, as he slowly slipped into unconsciousness...