[Kransha]

Everything was falling apart, everything he’d worked for, everything he’d hoped for, everything. He’d been standing, eyes agleam like sparkling stars, hellish as they were, over those who opposed him and the overthrow. Herding was behind, his men rising. Koran would’ve fallen, Herding would’ve fallen, they all would’ve been slain in their accursed turn and Thrákmazh would’ve taken the helm of this now-sinking vessel. What had happened? How had his plan, his whole world, gone so horribly awry? Around him, battle began like torrential waves, crashing, one against the other, and for once Thrákmazh was not on the prow of his troops, steering and reining them in with his military expertise. He stood, motionless and dazed, drunk off the success that had eluded him. All the power he'd dreamed of was slipping through his fingers.

All these thoughts left him, though, as his eye moved through the crowd. As he’d thought, there were not that many Elves, but one of them was far too familiar. The face and the fair voice on the wind that came from him, all was recognizable. It was the Elf who’s sword Thrákmazh held, the Elf whose compatriot he’d slain, the Elf who swore an oath to kill him a fortnight ago. As the Elves, Southrons, and Orcs collided in battle, the one noticed Elf plowed past the enemy ranks, cutting down several primitive orcs in simple succession. As the battle raced, Thrákmazh’s vision slowed. The Elf was drawing nearer, slicing his way through orcish ranks. Thrákmazh felt strange, disconnected from reality. The cacophony of conflict faded and his eye closed. His mind swam as he heard the voice that had haunted him for far too long. He had known the Elf was alive, he had known all along, he had simply never admitted it to himself. He was alive because it was Thrákmazh’s purpose to kill him, not that of some filthy slave-driver in Dol Guldur. Realizing this simple fact, the orc captain’s eye opened, filled with renewed verve, and fell upon his sworn enemy. Finally the Elf had cleared all obstacles in his way and stood a body’s length away from Thrákmazh with his blood-covered sword at his side, soundless and still. The two of them, reunited under these bizarre circumstances, stared at each other as the fight continued, their eyes locked together, both waiting for the other to make the first move.

“You…” the orc said at last; half in a sinister whisper as his fingers tightened on the hilts of both weapons he held. His heart was pounding again, it’s beat, rhythmic eternally, began to speed up, thumping against the armored shell of his chest. His blood chilled and his bones quivered in their appointed places throughout his body. At last, he was looking upon this most dreadful and hated enemy. The mixture of anticipation, glee, and fright overflowed in Thrákmazh, filling his every mental orifice. His only eye, glowing a ghastly yellow, narrowed into a precise slit that peered at the Elf. “I knew you would be here,” he said after a silent moment had passed, “…Why do you plague me, Elf?” The Elf looked back, his eyes as cold and hard as ice, dagger-like, piercing the gaze of Thrákmazh and deflating his last pang of arrogance. Though the uruk maintained the façade expertly, his confidence was slowly shrinking. “You are the plague, urûk,” the unnamed Elf murmured in reply, his words audible despite the low volume of his voice, “upon all of Arda, you and your foul kind.”

Thrákmazh winced as unnoticeably as he could and managed to crack a false grin, hoping to mask the strange twitching of his eye. He held out his right hand, the hand that held the Elven blade, its white glint shimmering like silvery ivory in the light of the dawn sun, which had just crested the far horizon. “Do you want your sword back, then,” he growled, still managing his withered smile, “or would you prefer it if I ran you through with it?” The Elf stared back, continuing the game of enemies, his form like unmoving steel, bereft of all emotion. The only visible movement or tension lay in his hand, which was shivering very slightly, in anticipation or rage perhaps. His sword, though, was frozen in place. Thrákmazh could see, despite the distance, his own reflection in the broad weapon, though the visage of it was blurry and obscured by sparkling sunlight being redirected by the blade’s watery surface as it shined down upon it from its comfortable seat in the sky above. That light hit Thrákmazh’s open eye, causing him to wince again and step back once, trying to evade the course of the bright ray that illuminated his dark face.

“Whatever blade I hold will draw your blood.” The Elf said, still fully unemotional. He did not blink, did not move, and did not budge from his place, fixed like a statue into the earth. Thrákmazh’s lip curled disdainfully and he took a step forward, his right index finger nervously tapping on the smooth Elven hilt. Around them both, battle raged, but its fearsome din was subdued, allowing the two opponents to focus solely upon each other, disregarding their surroundings. “So,” he said at last, easing into a conversational tone, “you still desire vengeance for your fallen comrade? If it consoles you at all, he is but one of many and he fell with more ease than most.” The orc was at least comforted by his familiar streak of sadism, when it took hold of him. He was thankful that he not so far gone that he did not take pleasure in the pain of others. A dark cackle billowed in his throat, ready to come out at full strength, but some form of restraint took hold and all that the one-eyed orc uttered was a pitiful croak, followed by a fragile-sounding cough, which didn’t suit Thrákmazh the Mighty.

“My student fell with his honor intact, which is more than you shall take with you into death.”

“He was your student, was he? It is a shame you did not teach him better, or perhaps he might be alive today, to see his teacher fall.” He grinned again, but that grin soon evaporated. His right hand pulsed again, the veins in it filled with fire rather than blood. The muscles of his arm throbbed painfully, and at last he knew what he must do to alleviate that pain. Thrákmazh’s arm whipped around and forward, his hand and clenching fingers suddenly releasing the gleaming sword. The weapon flew, soaring in the fashion of a majestic bird, and collided with the earth, burying itself in the ground and wobbling for a few moments before it returned to a quiet state of stillness and tranquility, resting, upturned, in the mound where it had landed. “Take your sword, Elf of Lórien,” spat Thrákmazh, throwing his orc scimitar from his left hand to his right and with the free hand reaching down to extract a long, jagged knife from his belt, “for it is useless to me.” His grin widened as the din of battle began to fill him again. “It is more fitting that you die under the same blade that slew your student.”

Simultaneously, both warriors flew forward, with the speed of the wind carrying them. The Elf swooped down, his hand releasing the blade he held, which clattered uselessly onto the ground, and scooped up his forgotten weapon, spinning it deftly upward and out of the ground and into a battle-ready stance as he ran. Thrákmazh leapt up nimbly, all the anger and hatred he’d ever felt for this Elf welling up and pouring out as his weapons shot out, seeking flesh and blood to rend. The Elf swerved beneath him and his sword, aimed down, struck dirt instead of bone. Angrily roaring, the orc veered sideways, careening towards the Elf with his sword and knife flying madly. Each attack was easily parried. The orc was loosing all his fear-inducing luster in this combat and he felt the love of war drain from him. His only goal was to kill, not to kill for Sauron, but to kill for his own evil, villainous purpose. That was the focus of his mind and the singular reason why his heart still beat in his chest. Eye ablaze, he surged forward.

With a resounding clang, the three blades in use met. Thrákmazh staggered, both arms trembling, but recovered soon enough to deflect an elegant slash from the Elf. He maneuvered to the side and his opponent tore past him, allowing the orc to turn and pounce on his prey. But, the Elf was still able to swiftly spin. The blind force of his sword bashed against Thrákmazh’s weary left hand, causing it to pull back like an injured serpent. Growling under his breath, Thrákmazh hammered his sword onto the Elf’s sword and flew at him. The two of them fell together, rolling onto the ground. They hacked at each other for a few seconds, furiously trying to make some headway, but each attack was either blocked or went madly askew. Finally, Thrákmazh pulled himself away from the immediate fray, landing on his knees some feet away from the Elf. Breathing hard, he looked up just in time to see a sword whizzing towards his face. On pure instinct, he lurched backward and the blade fell short. Taking his chance, Thrákmazh lunged again at the falling Elf and tackled him for the second time, but this time he managed to do damage. The knife clutched firmly in his left hand sank halfway up its blade into the Elf’s shoulder. The orc, as he saw his weapon find its mark, cracked another gleeful smile, but the expression was torn from his face as the iron hilt of the Elf’s sword found his unshielded face, crushing his hope of immediate victory.

Releasing his hold on the knife, Thrákmazh stumbled back and landed ignobly on his back, grabbing his throbbing jaw. Knowing that the fight was not over, he pulled himself to his feet, his eye, which had been closed tightly, opened in a flash, glowering at his foe. A short distance away, the Elf managed to stand, limping meagerly forward, and tore the offending, red-stained knife from his shoulder, casting it aside as he sucked in a sharp, pained breath. Dark crimson fluid ran from the wound down the length of his unarmored arm, but he retained his stance and resoluteness. Thrákmazh managed to smile for the third time, drawing a clenched fist along his chin to wipe away the blood secreted there. A river of muddy black now slid from the corner of his mouth. After a silent second in which both warriors regained their composure, Thrákmazh spit a reddened tooth from his mouth and spoke, letting the eerie silence settle again around the two of them. “You do not fight with your heart, Elf.” He said, “You have already failed your student, do not give up your own life so easily. I hoped for a challenge, but I see I’ll get none.”

The Elf swung his sword expertly, ignoring the loss of blood from his wound. His piercing pair of eyes met Thrákmazh’s lonely one, filling the orc’s gleeful soul with a sudden fear and dread. Thrákmazh’s expression changed, souring and darkening as the Elf looked on. Quietly, the Elf stood his ground, staring Thrákmazh down with maddening ease until; at last, he spoke in response, his voice cutting into Thrákmazh like the sword he held. “The challenge is here; spawn of Morgoth.” He whispered, loud enough only for the orc to hear. “It only requires you to accept it.”

And he did…