[Anguirel]

Child of the 7th Age's post

Was he truly awake or asleep? At first Lindir was not sure. His fingers tightened stubbornly about the helm, cradling the precious artifact close against his chest. Dropping to his knee so that his body hunched protectively over the Dragon-helm, he gazed out unbelieving at the scene that assailed his senses. Waves of desire, sick and heavy, emanated from the intruders in an ever widening arc, directed more at the object in his arms than at himself as its lone Elven bearer. He was no more than an incidental, a thing to be mentally bludgeoned and tossed aside so that the object he carried could be claimed by those creatures who now stood before him.

Lindir sensed he had slipped unknowingly into his blackest night dream and was thrashing about to try and bring himself to waking. Yet his body refused to respond quickly. It was as though he was encumbered with a thousand blankets of steel that prevented him from disentangling his arms and legs to throw off the unyielding chains of sleep. He tried to reach for his sword but his fingers would not move the scant few inches that would bring his hand in contact with its hilt.

For a single instant he was not afraid. On one level, that of the rational, the situation made little sense. How could there be so many Orcs on such a small island when this many years had passed? Or could these creatures even be called Orcs? In all his years of battling the minions of Morgoth, he had never confronted any Orcs like these. For all their skill in battle, Orcs were usually witless folk who showed little hint that anything was going on inside, whose ugliness and rage was a flat outer mask that sheltered no inner complexities or glint of reflection. But this odd menagerie of combatants seemed different. The ugliness reflected in the Orcs' shadowy bodies and faces was as nothing compared to the horror that lay underneath. Thick layers of desire and obsession spun out to envelope the Elf, to catch him within a sticky, unrelenting web. It was as if these few members of the black host had spent a thousand years ruminating on a particular desire and now saw a means to achieve that wish, if only the unwelcome obstacle Lindir posed could be summarily eliminated.

Lindir struggled to rise to his feet, clutching the helm in his right hand while using his left to steady himself. He was finally moving but he was still too slow. The creatures were about him in an unrelenting circle, their movements nimble in a way he could never have foreseen. It made no sense. Elves were swift and adroit in their movements; Orcs eternally slow and clumsy. So how could this strange tableau be happening? A thick blade arced upward and then came down within inches of his head, barely catching the edge of his leather jerkin as pain resonated through his left side. Finally Lindir awoke. Whoever or whatever these assailants were, they were capable of inflicting injury and death, whether through physical blows or some other means.

Fear and anger exploded from within as Lindir sensed the real danger he was in. The helm dropped from his fingers onto the stoney ledge and, for the first time, he paid the thing no heed. His mind reminded him that he needed his sword. He desperately needed his sword, not to strike out at the things who were attacking him but to free his own being from the sticky strands of the web that now threatened to entangle his mind.