User blog:High Prince Imrahil/Hospital Beds - a short story

"Hold the line! You are soldiers of Gondor, and no matter what comes through that door, you will stand your ground!"

Turgon son of Adrahil, a young Swan Knight, drew his blade at Mithrandir's words, the sword unsteady in his shaking hand.

He could hear the fell chanting of rough orcs outside the gate, like the scraping of metal upon stone

"Grond.... grond..... grond...."

The very sound of so many hideous voices sent chills up Turgon's spine. And still the rhythmic chanting continued, in time with the relentless pounding of the battering ram.

"Hold!" shouted Mithrandir, his white cloak shimmering in the torchlight "Hold the line!"

Imrahil stood behind the wizard, silent in his glimmering mail and winged helm. He looked grim as he drew his own blade, crafted in the shape of a swan.

"About me, men!" said the prince, shouting above the orcish din outside "Knights of the Swan, rally about my banner!"

The Swan Knights who were near rallied about, though most were in the citadel preparing the last defense. Turgon glanced at each face as he took his place in the ranks, all of them showed almost inhuman terror. Turgon had seen these men in battle against Southron and Easternling, and they were brave men who had laughed in the face of danger. But not this time.

With a mighty crash, a huge metal ram, fashioned in the shape of a wolf, burst open the gates, and shrapnel flew everywhere, followed by a volley of orcish arrows. One arrow flew inches from Turgon's face, hitting a stone wall and falling to the ground with a clatter.

"Gates and walls will not avail you now!" shouted Imrahil "We must rely on courage and cold steel! Forth, men of the swan, for glory and honor!"

"For Gondor!" cried the men as a sea of orcs plunged through the gate

The warriors of Gondor were pushed back from the gate, but Mithrandir, like a bastion himself, stood firm as the men rallied around him. The wizard stood tall and erect, like a shinning star in the midst of impenetrable darkness.

Turgon was towards the back of the ranks, but as the orcs surged forward, he found himself at the front, facing a massive uruk-hai.

Turgon grasped his sword with both hands. and barely dodged a blow by the uruk's massive hammer. Turgon struck at the brute's arm, piercing the scaly skin and sending a geyser of black blood spurting out.

"Gondor!" shouted Turgon, as with all his might, he pushed the sword through the uruk's arm. The enraged beast ripped his hand away, and Turgon's sword with it, and the young knight found himself unarmed.

The uruk raised a mace, and Turgon, helpless without his sword, raised his shield and braced himself for the blow.

The first thing Turgon felt, was a huge blow on his shield, the mere sound of it so loud that his ears rang. He felt his shield give way, cloven in two, and his arm shatter.

Pain shot through his shoulder as he fell to the cold stone, driven to the ground by the mere force of the uruk's blow.

Turgon closed his eyes tight against the pain, as the brute swung again. Turgon rolled, but the uruk hit his legs and they shattered with a sickening crunch. The Uruk drew his blade, and Turgon knew his time had come.

"Help me" muttered Turgon, as loud as he could manage, in desperate hope a comrade might be free to come to his aid. But Turgon heard only the sound of orcish warcries and the sound of approaching enemies...

High Prince Imrahil presents: Hospital Beds

Turgon jerked awake, cold sweat dripping from his body, soaking his cot. He could hear his heart pounding in his throat, it felt as if it were speeding as fast as a palfrey. Yet as he glanced around, he saw no gates, no city, no enemy armies. Only the interior of his own familiar hospital room. He sat on a white cot, and the room was hewn of plain marble, a single window opening out on the night sky. There was a dresser, a chair, and a small table, all roughly hewn from oak.

"Another nightmare..." he said hoarsely, his hand dropping into his hands

"Lord?" said a voice, as light flooded the room from the doorway "Is everything okay?"

Turgon's eyes adjusted to the light, and he saw Cirion, the warden of the hospital with a candle in his hand. Cirion was a tall grim man of around sixty, Numenorean reckoning. He had a rough look about him, but was a good and kind doctor.

"Yes, warden. I am okay..."

"You were screaming in your sleep again, Lord Turgon"

"Y-yes..."

Turgon sighed, his shoulders slumping

"Those memories just won't leave me. It's as if they're forever emblazoned in my eyelids..."

Cirion sat at the foot of Turgon's bed and layed his hand on the lord's shoulder

"I know, Turgon. You veterans saw things in The War that no man should ever see."

"It was their eyes...." said Turgon, looking absently out into the starry night

"Lord?"

"Those glimmering orange eyes, that danced with cruelty... those haunting orcish eyes... they would seem to light up with every man they killed, as if it brought them joy and some sick satisfaction..."

Turgon's shoulders quivered as he began to weep.

"Warden, it's been two years. I've been in this hospital for a year and a half. Shouldn't I be better by now?"

"Lord, healing takes time sometimes..."

Turgon's body convulsed with a shudder

"But I haven't healed... it's as if everything happened yesterday... or even right now. Please, Cirion, sit for a while... I think recounting some of my memories will ease me. It's always better to talk."

Cirion, his eyes half-closed and looking very tired, reluctantly slumped into the wooden chair beside the bed, as Turgon spoke...

"I'll never forget that day at Minas Tirith, Cirion. I was there as a Swan Knight under Lord Imrahil, as I've told you before. We knew from the beginning that survival was simply not an option. The Rohirrim had not come, and Lebinnin could only spare a tithe of its force. Our scouts reported hundreds of thousands of orcs among the enemy, and although that number was exaggerated, it didn't seem so when one stood upon a tower and looked out over the enemy army. The screams, the horror, the terror... and those hideous heads..."

Turgon shuddered anew, the look on his face as fearful as if he was still on the battlefield

"You will never understand, Cirion, what it was like. I saw an object sail over the walls, and I assumed it was just a rock from a catapult. It hit the building with... with an odd thumping sound, and just bounced off. Me and my squire, Beleg, ran over to see what it was, and as we looked at it we still couldn't figure it out. It was so disfigured that it looked like.... like a lump of meat someone would get at a butchers shop.

Beleg said 'What the hell is it?', and I said 'I don't know, but maybe they're flingin' meat over here to try and spread disease or something'

And we kept lookin at it, and starin' at it, and Bergil turned it over with the blunt end of his spear... that's when... well, that's when..."

Turgon couldn't finish. He broke into uncontrolled sobs as Cirion layed a hand on his shoulder.

"Well, Cirion" said Turgon at last, his voice hoarse "That's when we knew what it was. It was pretty well unrecognizable, but you could make out an eye and the mouth... I'll never forget that moment, Cirion, not even when I die and go to yonder shore. And... and there, branded on the bare muscle and tendon of that disfigured... of the disfigured object, was the a fiery eye..

It only got worse, Cirion... worse from there. More sailed over the walls, and more, until it felt like we were wading in the human remains... Oh Manwe, those faces... a few were barely disfigured, and you could see the hideous expressions of terror and pain. The blood-shot eyes, the pointed teeth, the pale skin. The stone... by Manwe, the very stone of the walls and streets was slick with blood.

But then -through some dark devilry- Those heads exploded into flames. Men near them lit up like human torches, screaming, flailing, rolling on the ground. But the fire was of witchcraft, and nothing we did could put it out... they just slowly withered away into charred bones... those piercing screams...

People burning all around me, flame lighting up buildings, explosions and screaming... I doubt Utumno or Angband could have been a worse hell. And that was even before the enemy broke the gates...

Believe me, by the time they pulled up the ram, the entire first tier of the city was on fire. Almost every man on that level was dead or dying, and very few of us were even there to try and keep the gate barred. They brought up huge towers- as tall as the White Tower, they seemed- made of wood and iron, that they rolled up to the wall. Orcs, Southrons, easternlings... they poured onto the wall, then down the steps, then into the city.

Me and my comrades standing behind the gate... knowing that at any moment the ram would finally break through and orcs would charge in. Even the most seasoned of those veterans were shaking with fear. Except Mithrandir and Prince Imrahil, of course, and even Imrahil appeared to flinch a bit with each pound of the ram.

Doom.... doom.... doom... the pounding of the metal ram upon the gate was like the tolls of bells at a funeral, slow and rhythmic. Then they brought in a different ram, huge and black, fashioned like a mighty wolf, eyes writhed in flame. Grond was its name, named after the hammer of Morgoth... Again and again they chanted its name, as it hit the gate. Once.... twice.... the sound was like rolling thunder in the hills. On the third hit, the gates flew open as if struck by lightning, and orcs flooded the courtyard.

But the fear of orc and ram alike seemed to pall in the face of what else rode through the gate... a king clothed all in black, his hideous voice like the screech of some dark creature from the pits. He wore a hood, and carried a black sword that was lit up in flame... yet the flames seemed not to give off light, but pure darkness.

Cirion, we Knights of Dol Amroth have been through battle innumerable, and we pride ourselves on not fleeing the field of battle even in the most dire of circumstances... but there was some terror there that heart and mind could not conquer, and we fled back like frightened rabbits. Knight, archer, footman alike ran away from the gate to the second level...

All of us except Mithrandir. Even Imrahil had gone, albeit only because his mount had gone mad and borne him away. Yet, as I looked over my shoulder, Mithrandir stood alone in front of the dark rider. So stirring was the scene, that I stopped at looked back to see the exchange

'This is my hour! Do you not know death when you see it? Die now and curse in vain!'

So rending where those words, that my legs buckled beneath me, and I could not find the strength to run. The dark rider raised his sword, and it burst into even greater flame. Yet Mithrandir did not move...

But suddenly, off in the far distance, I heard horns, hundreds of horns, borne upon the wind. At first I thought it only my fearful imagination, but I realized that they were real. And horns could only mean one thing: The Rohirrim had come at last.

Cirion? Cirion??"

Cirion sat leaned back, breathing deeply and slowly, and snoring. He had fallen asleep.

"Cirion?? Oh well, I suppose the story wasn't that interesting anyways..."

Turgon sighed and lay back down on his bed, alone with his thoughts and memories.

'''So what do you guys think? Good? Sad? Melodramatic? Please leave a comment!'''