Short Stories

Ode To A Warrior

The waning light glinted off the helms of the host that stood at the borders of the forest. It was a warm evening, but a breeze was stirring, and the pennants of the Elves danced in the wind. The sunset had stained the landscape a peculiar shade of burnt gold, and it made the scene feel even more surreal. All the soldiers waited with baited breath. Their armour shone with the glorious light of the Two Trees, but hope was not in their hearts.

The enemy was far too many. The inky black tide sweeping forth was sure to overcome those that defended the fair land of Lórien. Still, they stood fast, for they could not let the Ring of Adamant fall into the possession of the Lord of Barad-dûr. But the forces of Sauron kept coming, and wave after wave swept into the wide plain. It was a pity that the field, once fair and beautiful, was soon to drink the blood of the Quendi and Yrch. For the Elves would never surrender to the foul beasts of Melkor. They would choose eternity in the Halls of Mandos before handing over the Lady of the Golden Wood to the Enemy.

But their fortitude was to no avail. They were doomed to death, and the Yrch would triumph in the end. These facts weighed heavily on the hearts of each and every Elf as they prepared for the coming onslaught. But though the Elves were dwindling in numbers and strength, the Edain were not. The Quendi would not be defeated while their allies amongst men still drew breath.

So it was then, when the hosts of Sauron kept pouring in, and the Elves were losing the last shred of hope they still possessed, that great bugles sounded from the northwest. The noble trumpeting soared over the defenders, numb with shock. The race of men had honored their alliance! How many troops had marched to defend the Golden Wood? It seemed as if all of the lands west of the Misty Mountains had been emptied into this great army. The shining sea of silver-clad soldiers marched down the hill to join the Elvish defenders. Their attire caused them to look almost like Elves themselves. The army quickly reached the edge of the forest, and halted in front of the relieved defenders. Then, a regal looking soldier rode up on a horse black as midnight.

The soldier's helm shone with the light of Eärendil's star, and their silver chestplate was a beacon in the approaching dusk. The chestplate was embossed with an inky black wolf, howling to the stars above. An aura of majesty hovered around the warrior, and the Elves were awed that one of the Edain could appear this way. Then the warrior took off their helm and spoke.

Suprisingly, the Elf-like warrior was not male. In front of the defenders stood a maiden, clad in the finest armour that the blacksmiths of men could create, with a sword of Elvish make at her side. She commanded to be taken to Lord Celeborn, and was swiftly brought to where he was watching the Enemy's approaching army.

Though the other Elves could not hear the conversation that followed, even with their advanced hearing, they all knew that the arriving army had bought them a chance for victory. They welcomed the men into their camps, and prepared for battle alongside them. Both the Quendi and Edain knew that the coming onslaught would be bloody and harsh.

The Yrch had attacked the defenders three times now, and the ground was stained black with their blood wherever they had launched their assaults. It was now night, and the stars seemed cold and distant as the two armies clashed yet again. The combined forces of Men and Elves was enough to hold off the foul beasts, but both sides had endured many losses.

The armour of the defenders was caked with dirt and blood, and their swords were too filthy to reflect the fiendish light of the torches carried by the Yrch. The battle had been going alright, but the men were growing weary. The forces of Sauron were beginning to have the advantage. The dying screams of men filled the air as the beasts of Mordor attacked with renewed vigour.

But suddenly, a lone figure became silhouetted by the rising moon. The men all looked up with hope. The Yrch all looked up with terror. Then the silver-clad warrior charged down the slope on her black stallion, as glorious as Oromë himself. Her Elvish sword gave forth a piercing blue light as she raised it aloft. The scum of Morgoth fled before her, but they could not escape.

Orc after Orc fell to her blade, their cries of terror frozen on their lips. Her blade sung as it separated the heads of the Yrch from their shoulders. The Men and Elves rallied to her, as she effortlessly cut through her foes.

But all things must come to an end, for the warrior's stallion gave a scream that shook Valinor itself and fell, its noble hide pierced by an Orcish arrow. She gracefully leaped off the fallen horse, and began to duel the Orc that had slain her loyal steed. The Orc was fast, but was no match for the skilled warrior that confronted him. He fell quickly, and others jostled to take his place.

The warrior began to struggle against the waves of Yrch that assailed her. She had deeply penetrated the enemy lines while on her stallion, so she was now far from any assistance. Her men, infuriated and filled with new life, began to cut through the masses of Yrch. The Quendi followed their lead, and the tide of the battle turned once again. But the warrior was too far from help. She began to weaken, and the jeering Yrch began to close in.

Her blade faltered, and a filthy scimitar sliced a gash in her arm. She managed to recover and keep fighting. Then, again, an Orcish blade strck her. Blood spattered her sword, but it was a gleaming scarlet instead of an oil black. She spared a single second to examine her wound, and that was her downfall.

For one of Melkor's foul beasts, seeing her slight gasp as her blood filled the air, plunged his foul blade into her chestplate. It had been beaten and battered, and the inky wolf engraved onto it was barely visible under the blood and grime. Because of this, it was of no suprise to the filthy Yrch when his sword pierced her chestplate and entered her heart.

The warrior uttered no cry as she fell. Despite this, a scream went up as her soldiers saw her collapse. They knew immediately that she had been defeated. They were filled with rage, and the remaining spawn of Mordor were no match for their anguish. The Yrch were decimated.

By the time the sun began to creep over the horizon, filling the bloodstained field with golden light, the battle had been won. The Quendi thanked the Edain, then quietly withdrew to the Golden Wood to let the stricken soldiers mourn the loss of their leader. There would be time later to cleanse the land, to wash away the stench of blood and Yrch. And as the Edain gathered on the plain before their fallen leader, the Quendi watched with sorrow, for the fate of Men after death is unknown.

Though the sacrifice was bitter, all the Free Peoples of Middle Earth agreed that if it wasn't for Haleth the Warrior, the Ring of Adamant would be in the grasp of the Dark Powers, and all Middle Earth would be under his rule. Haleth the Warrior, the Elf-Friend, the great Leader of the Edain, she who was noble in the eyes of Istari, Quendi, and Edain alike, had sacrificed herself for all of Arda. Now she was to receive Eru's gift to mankind, and leave Arda forever.