[CaptainofDespair]

Within the dark unconscious of his mind, the Elf despaired. He had not cried out when the pale light of the Nazgul’s blade had entered his flesh, but his mind shrieked in agony, writhing about, terrified by this turn of events. Memories of a fading past glistened in the dark, shimmering with an eerie, green light, dancing within the confines of his mind’s eye. But he was consoled not. An agonizing pain lingered on the outer rim of his thoughts, whispering in heretical voices, painting a visage of unimaginable horror in his unconscious sight.

As he lingered there, his body paralyzed in shock, from the profuse bleeding that poured forth in sheets from the maw of his gaping wound, a familiar voice reentered his mind. Flickering in the blackness of his decaying thoughts, came the fell voice of the Dark Lord. Only a monotonous drone at first, its hate and grandeur soon amplified, infecting the Elf’s thoughts in all corners of his smitten inner self. Fear gripped the heart of the Immortal, draining his being as he fought futilely against the fiery tide of dominion that engulfed him. The Dark Lord had returned, and with him came the vast hordes of terror and despair that accompanied his coming. “I warned you Elf! You could not possibly hope to escape from my domain. Your effort has only weakened you, and your self-sacrifice only speeds the demise I would surely give you.” The Dark Lord’s omnipresent voice scoured the Elf’s thoughts, searing them with cruel words, and laying waste to any hope he might have of living past this tragedy. Yet, for all his tact and guile, the Elf could not conjure a reply that would hand him victory over his seemingly unbeatable foe. His weakened, and fragile body, having been sapped of strength, had drained his mind, and he could no longer save himself from any oppressive advances of Sauron’s grotesque evil.

The onslaught continued for the Elf, but now, his body was slowly regaining strength, having survived the terrible blood loss of his wound. Now, all his will was being summoned forth to breach the terrible power of the Dark Lord, and drive him one last time from his mind. But yet again, he could not rally his thoughts into one great charge, to eviscerate the horrid power that drove the malicious voice in his head. He was alone, and helpless to the will of Sauron. Now, he would be left as a wraith, such as that which had smote him, with his soul shredded into a twisted shadow of malice, Mandos would not be his fate. Yet, a fleeting glimmer of light within the chasm of the abyss, which had consumed his very thoughts, and had twisted his mind into a dungeon of torture, rekindled some of the fire of his shattered will. Yet, the grasp of evil is not easily broken, and a force of equal wrath is needed to vanquish such a seemingly indomitable foe. And that force came. Like the Noldor hosts of old, it came in great wrath, to smite the will of Sauron, and break the hand of oppression. The force that came, was not some last, hidden remnant of Morgoroth’s being, but the voices that had accompanied him in the Tunnel, and saved him from death. Now, they came back, as one last gesture of thanks for giving them the gift of freedom from the torturous ways of Shelob. The voices came, hissing and shrieking in unison, and they battered the will of Sauron, whose attentions had been drawn away.

And just as quickly as the host of voices of the long since dead had come, it departed, leaving the Elf in perfect solitude, to gather himself. And that he did. Slowly, having regained control of his mind, which still lay in ruin, he sought to regain his body. Broken it was still, with a devastating wound still seething with a fresh burning sensation, from the blade of the Morgul Wraith. Consciousness came to him, as the hideous light of Mordor that lingered about him, swept into his eyes. Yet, his body was still weak, and movement was difficult. The orc host had nearly ceased its fighting, and had begun to move on, to the Morannon. Looking about him, he found a scimitar from a dead orc, and used it to prop up the numbed left side of his body. Slowly working in this fashion, he managed to stand himself upright. He scanned the area around him, and noticed his comrades, slinking off to the path into the mountains, hoping to hide themselves from the vicious orcs once more. The Elf, wielding the scimitar as a walking stick of sorts, slowly plodded towards his fleeing companions, to seek the safety of the realms beyond Mordor.