Year 3434 of the Second Age.
The cold wind that sweeps along the plains would be enough to send lesser men running. Not he, who has braved ice and snow in Ages past; no, he is not frightened or bothered by the heralding winds of autumn. Although the heat had turned the carcasses of the fallen into rot and stench, the cold will leave them frozen in their fear, a grim reminder for the survivors as they seek the faces of their brothers and sisters in arms. Summer is gone, but there are colder things that one must face when they are staring down the outstretched blade of war.
His fingers deftly pull back the string of his bow, the fluid motion coming to a stop just at his cheek. One, two, three; he exhales and then looses the arrow. It arcs through the air and embeds his target. The orc that is struck falls immediately. Yet, rumbling across the frosted plains, more rise and charge to take its place. He raises and nocks another arrow--another foe falls. The cycle continues.
With every new wave of beast and orc, those ahead of him in the front lines fall. More blood and carnage turn the fields red, and the whipping wind only worsens the sting of the loss. The imminence of close combat presses on. The fluidity of the shots becomes less; faster, choppy, inaccurate. A stray arrow from an archer further behind him whizzes past his ear, just narrowly avoiding hitting him by mistake.
He quickly nocks and releases another arrow. His shoulder starts to ache from the onslaught; how long have they been fighting? A quick glance to the horizon reveals nothing but a dark sky, burnt red by the setting sun. Another arrow. Another fallen foe. Three more slain allies. The stench is growing unbearable. Were he not of the ilk to loathe cowards above all, he may have fled a base one.
A whisper rises among the ranks. Reinforcements, they say, where are the reinforcements? He struggles to entertain the notion that any may be coming. He raises his bow another time, drawing the string back to his ear. His fingers are bruised, even beneath gloves, from the continuous motion of drawing and loosing the arrows. His fingers tremble when the arrow lodges itself into the eye of an approaching warg, the beast releasing a pained yelp before falling beneath the trampling feet of orcs that care not for its corpse.
The archer pauses in his continuous movements as he realizes what is happening. Their reinforcements are not coming, and if they are, not quick enough. Yet, this force will be overrun if they do not flee. He is not given long to linger in this thought or to let his gaze dart from the face of one ally to another--out of the corner of his eye he sees a lumbering form approach and with speed. He does not have time to nock an arrow, so he throws his bow across his back.
Bruised and aching fingers fumble with the hilt of the blade, but he pulls it free of its sheath in time to block the harsh blow that comes from the sword of the orc. His shoulder aches in pain as he pushes the creature back with a shout, and then races forward to finish it off with a hard blow of his own.
He flicks the thin blade free of the orc flesh as he raises his gaze to look out across the plains. The chill settles in his chest as all he can see are oncoming, imminent foes. Thousands of them, marching and racing to see the blood of the Free Peoples spilled. The shout of a captain in the ranks behind him to draw swords comes too late--the enemy is upon them.
They break through the line, and those of the army of the Alliance scatter like mice among the plains. Some are slain by the sword. Some fall in their flight to arrow or javelin. He himself turns quickly on his heel to return to his post with the other elven archers from Gil-Galad’s Host, but something catches his eye. A movement. And then a scream; ear-piercing to him, who recognizes it as an elvish cry for help.
He turns and sees an elf--one he knows and recognizes, one he has fought alongside before. Baradion, a Silvan elf of Oropher’s Host. The archer’s eyes widen in horror when he realizes why the ellon is crying for help. Baradion is being carried away by two orcs, mocking and jeering at him for his attempts to flee with the rest. The elf twists and shouts but cannot get free, and then he meets the eyes of the archer across the blood-soaked field.
“Nimlachon!” he shouts. “Nimlachon!” Baradion’s screams are barely audible to the Ñoldo, with the blood rushing in his ears from the heat of battle, the only repellent to the cold. “Do not let me fall to them! Please! Take up an arrow in my name!”
Nimlachon stops in place as the intent behind the Silvan’s request sinks in. His hesitation is challenged as Baradion slips in his desperate attempts to stay upright, now being dragged further along the plains. “Please!”
The archer sheathes his sword and collects his bow once more, nocking an arrow and drawing the string back taut. There is a tremor in his movements that goes deeper than ache or cold, and now he is aware of how shallow his own breathing is. As Nimlachon trains his gaze on Baradion, still struggling to get free, he notices the ash trickling down upon the fields. He hears the clashing of swords and the cries of the dying all around him, a cacophony of war that he must try and block out to keep his focus on his target.
Another elf falls a few feet to his right. He hears a loud cry in Westron as a few brave souls rush further still to face the orcs despite the certainty of death that they face. He keeps his eyes on Baradion, the elf’s face twisting in pain and fear--his breathing becomes fainter and faster as he wonders if even he will live to see the bloodshed and the death come to triumph or if it will all be for naught; or if he will die first--another sickening twist of an orcish blade into an ally--
He looses the shot into the cold wind.
Everything goes silent.
The swift thunk of the arrow as it hits its mark is enough to leave a corpse in its wake.
Nimlachon lowers his bow, staring out over the field to the now-abandoned body of the elf, for the orcs had no use for him dead. A single arrow protrudes from the body, one that was certainly to be recognized as the arrow of another elf. As the realization trickles into cold dread, and then to guilt that leaves him ill in his stillness, he is left wondering. Why had he asked that of me? Why could he not release his own feä to Mandos?
The rushing of blood in his ears brings him back into focus as he hears shouting once more. Amidst the screams of battle and loss, he can make out a cry from behind him. The archer turns, his cloak fluttering with the motion, to realize that now, all too late, the reinforcements of the Last Alliance have arrived.
