This was written a while back, and is somewhat of a "What If" kind of
story. You don't have to agree with me on what happens, or on the
characters, but I hope you enjoy what you read.
NOTE: this fiction contains NO SLASH!
Shimoyo Lómiel (1 Cor C13 V1-3)
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, places, and things belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.
The rain had just stopped as Orophin stepped with all the grace possible through the courtyard of Helm's Deep, over and around the piled corpses of Men, Orcs, and his own Elven kindred. Though his face was impassive, his wildly searching eyes betrayed his horror of the aftermath. His hands-one clenching a bow of the Lothlórien Galadhrim and the other an Elven sword- both trembled, making the weapons quiver. A gruesome mixture of grime, water, and the blood of the three races splashed thickly around Orophin's ankles, staining his boots a stinking, muddy brown. Numbly, his hope ebbing in him, he sheathed his blade and used his battle-weary fingers to push his white-blond hair, splattered with black Orc blood, away from his face. His fingertips brushed the shallow black cut above his eye, and came away red and brown.
Orophin continued to search, ignoring the others around him who wandered through the bodies as he did, looking for signs of life among the dead. His steps became less sure as his path took him from solid rock to more treacherous, blood-slicked gravel, and as he passed more and more corpses, panic began to swell in his mind. The bodies were all around him, their faces blank and eyes staring; they filled the courtyard, spilled over the wall and the gap in it. Orophin lifted his eyes to the wall, beginning to despair; but his gaze caught, for a brief instant, a glimpse of crimson cloth. Hope and dread flared in the Elf, but he quickened his pace, striding towards the stairs.
Suddenly, his cloak tightened around his throat, and Orophin was jerked back. The Elf gagged, but his reflexes remained in tune; he whirled as best he could and found the edge of his cloak in the grasp of a dying Orc. The creature had been slashed across the face-a wound cut by an Elvish blade, by the look of the gash. Black blood seeped from the slash, which began above the one temple and traveled through a leering eye, pierced nose, and rotted mouth to end at the jaw. The Orc exhaled painfully, and the dark blood bubbled like boiling mud through the teeth that Orophin could see through the gash.
The claw-like hand, clamped onto the soft Elvish cloth, pulled weakly back on the cloak as the other hand reached for the elf. A sound, somewhat of a mix between a pitiful moan and a snarl, escaped the ruined face. Orophin was flooded with disgust and hatred for the creature, and in one fluid motion drew his blade and plunged it into the Orc's chest.
The mangled creature gave one last gurgling moan and lay still. The Elf pulled out his blade and swept his cloak from the corpse's grasp with an air of cold disdain. "Thaur orch...." Orophin was about to continue when he saw something move beneath the dead Orc. He paused and looked again-and excitement coursed through him. It was a hand, slender and white, flexing the fingers slowly-a hand in Elven armor.
Orophin dropped his sword and bow and rolled the dead Orc to the side, then fell to his knees in the sludge beside the Elven form underneath. The Elf lay on his back, his eyes closed and his white-gold hair sopping with brownish muck. His armor was dented on his left side, with rich crimson blood seeping through the cracks in the plating. The Elf's right hand tightly clenched the handle of a long Elven blade. His breathing was painfully slow and shallow, but otherwise he wasn't moving. But Orophin, despite the blood and slime, could easily recognize the Elf's familiar face. He meant to say the name, but it came out rather as a horrified, disbelieving whisper.
"Rúmil?"
NOTE: this fiction contains NO SLASH!
Shimoyo Lómiel (1 Cor C13 V1-3)
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, places, and things belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.
The rain had just stopped as Orophin stepped with all the grace possible through the courtyard of Helm's Deep, over and around the piled corpses of Men, Orcs, and his own Elven kindred. Though his face was impassive, his wildly searching eyes betrayed his horror of the aftermath. His hands-one clenching a bow of the Lothlórien Galadhrim and the other an Elven sword- both trembled, making the weapons quiver. A gruesome mixture of grime, water, and the blood of the three races splashed thickly around Orophin's ankles, staining his boots a stinking, muddy brown. Numbly, his hope ebbing in him, he sheathed his blade and used his battle-weary fingers to push his white-blond hair, splattered with black Orc blood, away from his face. His fingertips brushed the shallow black cut above his eye, and came away red and brown.
Orophin continued to search, ignoring the others around him who wandered through the bodies as he did, looking for signs of life among the dead. His steps became less sure as his path took him from solid rock to more treacherous, blood-slicked gravel, and as he passed more and more corpses, panic began to swell in his mind. The bodies were all around him, their faces blank and eyes staring; they filled the courtyard, spilled over the wall and the gap in it. Orophin lifted his eyes to the wall, beginning to despair; but his gaze caught, for a brief instant, a glimpse of crimson cloth. Hope and dread flared in the Elf, but he quickened his pace, striding towards the stairs.
Suddenly, his cloak tightened around his throat, and Orophin was jerked back. The Elf gagged, but his reflexes remained in tune; he whirled as best he could and found the edge of his cloak in the grasp of a dying Orc. The creature had been slashed across the face-a wound cut by an Elvish blade, by the look of the gash. Black blood seeped from the slash, which began above the one temple and traveled through a leering eye, pierced nose, and rotted mouth to end at the jaw. The Orc exhaled painfully, and the dark blood bubbled like boiling mud through the teeth that Orophin could see through the gash.
The claw-like hand, clamped onto the soft Elvish cloth, pulled weakly back on the cloak as the other hand reached for the elf. A sound, somewhat of a mix between a pitiful moan and a snarl, escaped the ruined face. Orophin was flooded with disgust and hatred for the creature, and in one fluid motion drew his blade and plunged it into the Orc's chest.
The mangled creature gave one last gurgling moan and lay still. The Elf pulled out his blade and swept his cloak from the corpse's grasp with an air of cold disdain. "Thaur orch...." Orophin was about to continue when he saw something move beneath the dead Orc. He paused and looked again-and excitement coursed through him. It was a hand, slender and white, flexing the fingers slowly-a hand in Elven armor.
Orophin dropped his sword and bow and rolled the dead Orc to the side, then fell to his knees in the sludge beside the Elven form underneath. The Elf lay on his back, his eyes closed and his white-gold hair sopping with brownish muck. His armor was dented on his left side, with rich crimson blood seeping through the cracks in the plating. The Elf's right hand tightly clenched the handle of a long Elven blade. His breathing was painfully slow and shallow, but otherwise he wasn't moving. But Orophin, despite the blood and slime, could easily recognize the Elf's familiar face. He meant to say the name, but it came out rather as a horrified, disbelieving whisper.
"Rúmil?"