[CaptainofDespair]

Mirkwood...that is where the Elf’s distraught mind took him, flooding every sense with what memories he could scrape from the bowels of his soul. Memory was a portal for him, to a time long past, where he could live in quiet solitude, free from the confines of a world that only showed him hate, and fed him torment. His heart began to throb, and pound against the inner wall of his chest, he felt alive, but if for a brief, fleeting moment. His memories were happiness for him, a polar opposite of his current state. He could see his one-time home, and he relished it, grasping to hold on to it, longing for it. Various smells rushed into the void within his nostrils, replacing the acrid, caustic scent of Mordor. He could even feel the wind, blowing through the canopy of the forest, wafting many new smells about. What had once been a dream, had now become a physical aura, a gateway of an old life for him.

This is what kept him alive, those long years in Cirith Ungol, and Cirith Gorgor. When he had first been taken captive, he had tried to resist his tormentors. Yet, that was to no avail, even for one as strong willed as he was, and more so, how he had been. The tantalizing thought that he could escape lingered for a few years. It had been rekindled when he was transferred from Gorgor, and he thought it possible, to an extent. But those thoughts soon drove him to madness, as he realized there was no escape from the fortress-prison of Cirith Ungol. And soon, he began to despair, and death lurked in every corner of his cell, slowly creeping in upon him, waiting for the perfect moment to take him. Only the all-important visage of his mother’s caring and loving face kept him alive. And he soon discovered the power of his memory. Since he was not used as a slave, he had a great amount of free time on his hands, and so he put it to good use. At first, he would spend a few minutes, then hours, drifting into his past, delving into something long gone. Eventually, he mastered this peculiar version of hindsight, and he could spend days on end reliving his past, without being forced to consume the meager portions divvied out by the orcs. The orcs had not liked this change in him, for they could not taunt him any longer. And thus, they started beating him again, using any form of torture they could to break his spirit again. His memories saved him, and the orcs soon ended their bloody experiments. He held his memories ever tighter after that, keeping them close, to save him when he needed a reminder of what life he could have, should Fate intervene, and free him.

And Fate did save him, he sent to him the man Grash, to open his cell door, and set him free. But even with that pseudo-freedom, he was not totally over-joyed, for he was still in the realm of Mordor. His journey in the Tunnel provided him with a new ally in his desire to free himself from the Black Land. The voices that had spoken to him, and given him the tools to fight off Shelob’s ravenous, salivating jaws. They had left him for a time, alone, with only glimmers of memory to hold him above the raging waters that sought to drown him in their vehement undercurrent. He had seen Barad-dur, and shuddered at the horrors within, and only faint fading thoughts of hope kept his sanity then. The Stone of Sauron nearly broke him. The Dark Lord’s unquenchable thirst for domination was able to drive the weakened thoughts of hope from the Elf’s mind, like beasts flee before the tides of a dark storm. Then, when he thought he passed the last trial that the forsaken land could send out to harry him, the orc army of Morgul came marching, which a Nazgul at its helm.

His mind continued to wander, he had lost the memories that he had yearned for, of Mirkwood, of his mother, and they were twisted into visions of malice, and hate, of the Nazgul. He had been struck down, not by any blade, nor by just any of the Nazgul, but by the commander of Minas Morgul. Fate was not kind that day. Death had its clutches upon his neck, ready to drag him to the dark abyss that awaited him. He had given his live for one who, in time, would not remember his sacrifice. But it was for the best, for he was nothing now, if he ever was something beside a simple Elf. Yet he was saved, not by some memory of the distant past, but the ghosts of that past. His ancient saviors from the Tunnel came back to him, to repay their debt, for one final stand against the cruelty of Sauron. Like a disciplined legion they came, to face the hordes of the Dark Lord which slithered through his mind, infecting it with their scum. And those spirits of the dead came with wrath, and drove back the Enemy, scattering his power like dust caught in the wind. They saved him, and his hope was partially restored, just enough to carry him into the High Pass of the Mountains of Shadow...

Now, he was here, sprawled out upon the withered, rocky surface of this clearing in the desolate crags of a gloomy mountain spire. His trance had reminded him of a myriad of things, and he felt alone, with no one there for support, comfort far off in the distance. He awoke from his mediation, to see his...friends...scattered about, sleeping, if not with one eye open. He scoured their faces, seeing what he could see within them. He smiled wryly. Hope is what he found in their placid faces, but not a hope for him, for them. Yet, he questioned his motives, and thus he searched his heart, hoping against a dying glimmer of life, that there would be an answer for him.

In the midst of this, there came a shout. The man Zurumor had awoken to the sight of Orcs, and the Traitor. He yelled out, sounding a call to arms, and readying himself for a defense that would determine life and death for the company. Morgoroth arose as quickly as he could, ignoring the biting pain that coursed through his shoulder. He drew a small, glistening blade, the last remnant of his father’s memory, and prepared for his last battle with the soldiers of the Enemy.

The Orcs were of a good number, but they were not the Uruks, the pride of Mordor’s Orc commanders. They were mere Snaga. Under normal circumstance, they would be easy foes, and would be dealt with quickly. But the company was weak, and bore many injures, and thus the defense was made quite difficult. The Elf struggled to find a comfortable mode of attack, and he was forced to watch his allies face the strength of many fresh orc troops. The dwarves Bror and Dwali fought hard, for endurance was of their race, and their short stature awarded a certain advantage. Yet even that was not enough, for exhaustion and grievous wounds make for horrid companions. But the company was not as divided as it had been, and aid came from the race of Men, who, fighting side by side with their new friends, pushed the orcs back, if but for a moment. Within this short span of time, the Elf had gathered his strength, and caring not for the afflictions that pained him, he drove himself forward, to bring the justice of the Elves to the unholy, heathen orcs.

Grunting and brandishing their crudely manufactured scimitars, the orcs assaulted the company, which had now swelled to full force, as every member of the party rose to meet their attackers. After the orcs’ first attack, they were driven back to the Pass, where the company held its staggered line. Many times the orc came, but each time they were driven back, but with lessening force. Already the defenders began to tire, for their sleep was not a restful one. Yet still, there were a few fresh orc marauders ready to strike at the deteriorating front line. These soldiers began to mass, preparing for an attack that could penetrate the line, and allow for the rogue prisoners to be killed, or to be captured, and feasted upon for a hearty orc meal.

Finally, that charge came, as the orcs, uncaring for any harm to that might come them, ceaselessly crawled upon the defenders, hacking and slashing with axe and blade, hoping to cause chaos, and force the rebels to turn to flee, and thus be cut down. For a few moments, time seemed to slow, and all motion was made difficult, but yet, it seemed like the attack might be repulsed. Yet, it was not so, and the orcs broke the line, and surged through, forced on by curses and the ironshod fist of Lurg. And who was there to block the gap? The weakened Elf himself, alone. The orc saw the weakness in his arm, and thought to exploit, for they were eager to spill Elven blood. But the Elf had hoped for this, and he allowed them to exploit his injury. They tried to strike him upon his wound, and force him to plead for mercy just before they would deal his death blow. But it was to no avail, as the elven blade smote two of the attacking Snaga, leaving their helms dripping in blackened blood.

But the Elf quickly tired, and he had to force himself into weaker and weaker positions, so that he could exploit the orcs’ bloodlust. Soon, they overwhelmed him, surrounding him, shaking fist and blade at him, trying to corner him against the dark soiled walls of the mountain. Yet, his allies, having been beaten back themselves, were now regaining the upper hand. It was in this moment, he realized what he must do. “Hope is beyond me, only Death is my comfort. I must fight for the mortal kind, so that they may have a chance at life, for their lives are short, and must be spent in happiness, not sorrow and despair.”

The Orcs that had surrounded him were quickly growing tired of his game, as he rotated around a small section of the clearing, and they wanted to kill him, and be done with it. And when he leapt upon a rock, they grew all the more agitated, and attacked. The first went reeling back from a boot to the face and a dagger to chain-covered gut. The second was dispatched with a quick jab of his blade to the throat, spilling black blood across the dirt, staining the soil a dark color. Hopping down from his pedestal, he rushed as quickly as he could, limping slightly, to where he could do the most damage to the fiendish orc kind. Standing in the center of what was once the defenders’ last line of hope, he made his stand. There, he rallied the orc to him, hoping to draw their attention away from the others, to provide some manner of relief. His cries in the Sindar tongue awoke an ageless hate, one brooding over many centuries, passed down from generation to generation.

Many of the Orcs were already dead, or were fleeing back to Lurg, to regroup for another assault, and they caught the Elf. Standing alone, his would-be oppressors came on, swinging their rusty blades. A few managed to strike the Elf, but only gave minor wounds. He still danced doggedly, avoiding his enemies blows, and infuriating them further. But finally, the Elf’s end had come. With many foes circling about him now, he could no longer defend himself adequately, and he fell beneath a fury of blades, one landing upon his wound, leaving him crying out in agony and distress, and the final death blow, dealt by lust-filled snaga, a piercing blow to the stomach, which left him bleeding out, yet again. He could fight no more, but the Orc had lost him in the fray, and he managed to pull himself away, with his last ounce of strength, to a desolate, bloodless sect of the clearing, to die. And as he lay there, chest heaving spasmodically, and blood dripping from his many wounds, he laid out his blade upon his breast, and fell into Death, a wry smirk upon his visage.