Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is not mine, nor shall it ever be. Which, in all honesty, is probably a good thing. In any case, I beg that you don't sue me, because you'll gain nothing but a lot of lost time, considering that I am but a poor high school student struggling just to get through her classes and get high enough grades that she can go to the college she wants. That being said, there was no money made off of this, despite the fact that she desperately needs such.

Rating/Warnings: Teen. Rated Teen for Violence.

Category: General

Time frame: MOVIE-VERSE! Battle of Helm's Deep.

A/N: Well, this is something I've been wanting to write for a while now, but just haven't gotten around to it, seeing as I have a number of other fics higher on my list of priorities. However, this little thing just wouldn't let go of me tonight for some reason. I've always kinda wondered why you saw so many of the elves falling/leaping off of the wall top, so logically my mind supplied an answer (of sorts). So yeah...I just finally gave in and wrote this, my answers to my musings. This hasn't been beta'd, so please excuse any and all mistakes herein - they are mine and mine alone, and I take full responsibility for them. Feel free to point any out that you find. In fact, feel free to drop off a few words of your choice! I'd absolutely love some feedback on this. In any case, though, I hope you enjoy!


Fëa: Spirit/Soul

Unto My Dying Breath

My people have long lived beneath the oppressive weight of the shadow; we have dwelt long in the eternal twilight of evil. There are, of course, some who still remember the early days, those days when the world was yet young and blessed, and the Noon of Valinor was not yet spent. But they are few, and I believe that, in many ways, their grief and sorrow are the greatest.

Each of us has been taught to fight the darkness. We battle the forces of shadow ceaselessly it seems, destroying an evil, only to have a new one arise in its stead. It is a never-ending war, one that cannot be won by either side, at least until the end of time, or so they say.

Still, though, we fight. We fight for those we love, and for those who can yet still love. We are trained well in the arts of war and that of death, despite the fact that such a purpose was never intended for Eru's Children.

We are taught to fight the darkness, even unto our last breath. And so it shall be.

All around me is the din of battle – screams, howls, and the clang of metal upon metal. The scent of coppery and acidic blood fills the air, its odor so strong that one can taste it upon their tongues and feel it in their nostrils. Even this pounding rain cannot wash away the rivers of blood that water the stones and the soil it seems.

I shift my grip on the hilt of my sword, sweeping the curved blade up in an arc. The shock of metal tearing through flesh and bone quivers up my arms, but by now my hands are nearly numb, and I hardly feel the reverberations. With one fluid movement I pull my blade free and, reversing its path with a flick of my wrists, I slice down across the chest of another Uruk, sending it tumbling backward with a gurgle and a spurt of blood pulsing in time with its failing heart.

A searing pain floods my side, piercing down into my very core. I twist, pulling myself off of the Berserker's double-hooked blade, and lash out with my own sword. The edge bites deep into the unprotected skin, slicing through muscle and cleaving bone. With a surprised snort the Uruk-hai staggers backward, black blood fountaining from the deep wound in its chest. My own sword is torn from my hands, embedded in the creature's sternum, even as the Uruk stumbles back against the parapet, struggling to yank my blade from his body. He falls, and the life goes out of his murky eyes, his clawed hands still scrabbling against the gore-coated blade that drank away his life.

My hand automatically shifts down to my side, where a patch of warmth is spreading quickly over my hip and down my leg. My probing fingers find a jagged hole punched through my armor and down into my very body. Blood soaks my fingers as they pass into the wound. Strangely, I can feel no pain, even when I brush the riven flesh.

And I know; I know now what this means. I know, just as any other of my kindred know when they have received that final wound in battle, that this is my final fight – my last stand. There is no hope of return, not for me. This wound is a mortal one. I will never again see Anor raise her fiery head above the horizon, nor will I lay eyes upon Caras Galadhon, nor the golden Mallorn. Even now I can feel a dark shadow taking my vision, clouding my sight. A dark phantom brushes my shoulder, whispering my name – calling, beckoning.

But there is something I have yet to do; one final task that I would complete before the darkness utterly takes me, and my soul finds peace in a far green land.

We have always been taught to fight the shadow, to give our very lives if we must, to sacrifice all in the hopes that another may be saved because of our loss. So I do now the thing that all of us do when we know the end has come, when we feel Mandos calling our fëar to his Halls.

I vaguely feel the bite of another blade across my back, but I can no longer sense any pain, even that which must surely be radiating from this new wound. Nor do I care. Instead I turn, and allow the momentum of this final blow to propel me forward, toward the very edge of the Deeping Wall.

The world stretches out beneath me, disappearing into the endless distance. For the briefest of seconds, my dying mind recalls the swans and I wonder, for just a heartbeat, what it would be like if I could fly.

And then I am falling…falling, hurtling through the air. Down, down toward the seething masses below, their torches guttering and sparking wildly in the rain, and their armor gleaming dully in the harsh orange glow of the burning fires.

I let loose one final cry, one last challenge to those arrayed beneath me who dared to steal the life and hope of so many living things – to death.

I only pray that my body reaches the host; that it is not pierced by one of their barbed pikes while I am yet still high in the air. I only pray that this final act will mean that there is yet one less creature of the shadow left in the world.

An abrupt impact; the sharp feeling of being shaken down to the very marrow of my bones. Then darkness takes me completely, and my fëa flees to join my brothers'.