Author note: The Prompt was Silmarillion + Zombies. I went with it. You have been warned.

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And then the waves of them came. Dior had ordered all the exits be closed. There were fires burning on every tower, enough to light the night. The undead things were coming unnumbered. Under his breath, the men cursed that they prefered Orcs. Orcs would be killed in so many ways. With these, you had to cut their heads, burn them, hack them to pieces, and you still weren't certain they would not come back to haunt you.

Sitting in the throne room, his head in his hands, the King of Doriath prayed that they would push them back. There was no light to make them recoil. There was no way to push them back, and worse, the Silmaril drew them to it like bees to honey.

In secret, he was ready to flee with it. His daughter came, then. She'd cropped her hair, she wore a man's breeches and he saw in Elwing's eyes a fierce determination.

"Let me take it, Father. I will draw them away, to the Havens. There, we will set the Sons of Feanor afire."

There used to be Seven. Now there were millions, and the first Seven could barely be distinguished from the mass of them. For all Dior knew, they might have all been killed in the first assault.

He kissed his daughter's brow before she ran down the tunnels. Then he drew his sword, shouted a command, and oil was spilled on the rotting denizens that crawled beneath the ramparts of Doriath.

How many he killed, he could hardly tell... then there was the bite, and he thought of his sons, prayed that they had ran away to the safety of the woods. And then he was one of many, one of the hive mind, and he felt the scent of his daughter's blood crawling up his nostrils.

And he went forth.