Hail-song of black barbed dart and thunder of stone on stone. The Enemy had come at last and the harried remnant stood shoulder to shoulder to test their valor one last time against number uncounted. The bright sea-green banner of the Shipwright fluttered above the walls mocking the Black Captain below. For weeks. Seasons. A year.
Perhaps someday the Men of Numenor will answer the call. And perhaps the star-crown cave foundling will yet defy the Enemy and his ring. Or maybe it is their fate to die together on these walls. But as the ladders are laid at last on the ramparts bearing orcs numerous as blowflies, Arahen bends the bow and feeds the earth a black feast of foe's-blood. When at last their twisted angry faces appear, the maiden's black polished sword cleaves skull and shield heedless of the slaughter-din. Furious blade-stainer, fell eyed woman remembers a day long ago as she always remembered. Paying the foe in his own coin.
The servant of the lord of waters set lips to his horn. Lightning streaks over the ocean and a storm smothers the black banners of Mordor. Orcs wail as the gate of Mithlond opens and Arahen is at the forefront of the storm of spears. Covered in gore, her battle brand bites shield and slices mail and thick hide of troll. Then comes a time there are none left to slay and she stands with her comrades, Quendi, Edain, Naugrim. Hollow eyed and tired beyond tired, a chant goes up to mock the Black Captain's back. Fell king of Men, ring-slave, the betrayer must endure now the fury of his unforgiving master as he flees like a whipped cur from elf-wrath to fear.
