FIC: The unknown soldier, LotR, PG
Title: The unknown soldier
Rating: PG
Word Count: 440
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: All characters and situtations from The Lord of the Rings belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. They are certainly not mine.
I do not know what Sauron promised our leaders, nor do I care. Our adversaries are fair and beautiful, angels of death looming in the bushes. I fight them, draw my sword, prepare my arrow. They fight for a good cause, they say, against Sauron the oppressor. For years we could not leave our own country, with the soldiers of Gondor waiting for us, hunting us down because our skin is not fair but dark as the orcs’.
We do not like fighting with them side by side; they stink and are treacherous. They will kill you if you turn your back or lie down to sleep without a weapon near at hand. Sauron does not care, and our leaders are too scared; death is truly everywhere.
I lie down next to my companion; we have fought many battles together. I do not count how often we have saved each other’s lives. The one thing we count is our money - two more weeks and we will have enough to buy a small farm for us and our wives. He has two sons, three and four. They will play together in the yard, and we shall have dogs and kittens and sometimes we will go and take them to the oliphants.
I am sure their cause is just; perhaps more just than our leaders. I do not wish to win, nor to lose; two weeks is all I think. I do not mind to kill, it is my trade. When I was young they used to haunt me, faces with terrible grins. Now nothing I see is more terrifying than the smiles of our allies; we see them cut the enemy’s throat and know it could be us.
I have always known I was mortal, but it is not until I see my friend lying face down on the battlefield that I know what that means. No farm for us, no father for his kids, no husband for his wife. I scream.
In my life I have slain many foes, and many died from my hand that day. I do not know whose hand was guiding the sword that slashed through my skin, but I know I will not live to see the morning. I think of their just, their noble course; I think of my friend and his wife. We had already picked the spot of our farm. We should have expected death yet thought ourselves immortal. Two weeks’ time, our hope, destroyed in one second.
They say the enemy is cruel, but I do not remember who the enemy is. I close my eyes, I do not care.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 440
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: All characters and situtations from The Lord of the Rings belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. They are certainly not mine.
I do not know what Sauron promised our leaders, nor do I care. Our adversaries are fair and beautiful, angels of death looming in the bushes. I fight them, draw my sword, prepare my arrow. They fight for a good cause, they say, against Sauron the oppressor. For years we could not leave our own country, with the soldiers of Gondor waiting for us, hunting us down because our skin is not fair but dark as the orcs’.
We do not like fighting with them side by side; they stink and are treacherous. They will kill you if you turn your back or lie down to sleep without a weapon near at hand. Sauron does not care, and our leaders are too scared; death is truly everywhere.
I lie down next to my companion; we have fought many battles together. I do not count how often we have saved each other’s lives. The one thing we count is our money - two more weeks and we will have enough to buy a small farm for us and our wives. He has two sons, three and four. They will play together in the yard, and we shall have dogs and kittens and sometimes we will go and take them to the oliphants.
I am sure their cause is just; perhaps more just than our leaders. I do not wish to win, nor to lose; two weeks is all I think. I do not mind to kill, it is my trade. When I was young they used to haunt me, faces with terrible grins. Now nothing I see is more terrifying than the smiles of our allies; we see them cut the enemy’s throat and know it could be us.
I have always known I was mortal, but it is not until I see my friend lying face down on the battlefield that I know what that means. No farm for us, no father for his kids, no husband for his wife. I scream.
In my life I have slain many foes, and many died from my hand that day. I do not know whose hand was guiding the sword that slashed through my skin, but I know I will not live to see the morning. I think of their just, their noble course; I think of my friend and his wife. We had already picked the spot of our farm. We should have expected death yet thought ourselves immortal. Two weeks’ time, our hope, destroyed in one second.
They say the enemy is cruel, but I do not remember who the enemy is. I close my eyes, I do not care.