Chapter Text
There was beauty in death, Isildur realized as he beheld the battle below him on the shores of the Glanduin. Even though the roaring floods muted the sounds of clashing steel, there was a grace to the elf's movements that was undeniable. The green-clad figure ducked and weaved like a leaf in a storm, felling orcs in precise sweeping motions. Already, the ground ran black with blood.
Three, five, six monsters lay unmoving before the elf lunged between two orcs and broke through the horde. In a flash of nimble feet, he was off again towards the woods in the North. Fending off another attacker from the left with an effortless parry, he was leading the parade away from Isildur's perch.
He was going to succeed, he- Isildur's breath caught in his throat as he witnessed an orc with a plumed helmet gesture angrily at the others. A heartbeat later, no fewer than half a dozen longbows were taking aim at the fleeing figure. The urge to shout a warning to the lone elf flowed across his skin like an icy tide. His fingers itched to help, but reality was a harsh mistress. He was weaponless. Exhausted. Injured. In no state to help anyone. Still, he leaned forward as if to interfere.
"Run, c'mon, run," he whispered, bringing a clenched fist to his mouth.
The elf had almost reached the shadows of the mighty oak trees when the orc's arrows conquered the skies. They descended on him like a murder of crows. Four missed as the elf tucked himself into a long diagonal roll behind a fallen tree trunk, only to come up half a second later.
Then, the elf stumbled.
Gone were the dancer's elegance, the floating steps of his gait. Isildur realized with mounting horror that the other two arrows were protruding from the elf's body. The lower one must have speared the left leg and snapped off, judging by the limp, while the other was lodged firmly in the left shoulder. It looked horribly painful and Isildur grimaced as the elf almost fell. The figure seemed to hesitate, then turned around and hefted his sword higher.
In the waning light of the setting sun, his short hair gleamed a burnished gold. His elegantly curved sword shone like a star against the oncoming darkness of the orcs. Isildur was too far away to discern the man's expression, but he could read the determination in his stance, facing the horde head on. The pain was hidden in the rigid line of the shoulders and the crimson stain of blood spreading down his leg.
As the fight began anew, Isildur abandoned his post on top of the cliffs. Why, he did not know, but a nameless craving to be nearer to the action had taken hold of him. His muscles felt like dead jellyfish as he slinked down the mountainside, slipping and sliding behind a thicket of brambles at last.
The ring of steel on steel reached his ears, the grunts and shrieks of the orcs. In contrast, the elf fought in silence. If he understood the jeers and curses of the orcs, he didn't react to them. However, up close, Isildur could see the cracks in the elf's facade. The swirling blade seemed a beat out of his lethal rhythm and the elf was loosing ground even as he was again surrounded. His boots slipped into the waters of the raging river, causing him to cast a glance over his shoulder.
His gaze met Isildur's across the floods. Grey eyes like an oncoming storm widened in realization and for half a heartbeat, the elf faltered. Surprise was plain on his youthful features.
An iron hammer smashed into his side, folding his frame in half and throwing him another step into the water. He waivered on his feet.
Clarity struck Isildur at the same time as the elf seemed to come to a decision. His leg bent beneath him, surrendering his body to the waves, but Isildur saw that it was the right leg. A deliberate move, then, though the advantage gained was yet unknown to him.
The elf had to know that the river didn't offer escape or salvation. In fact, the water slowed his next swing and an orc's boot kicked the blade from his hand. Another orc lunged for the elf and prevented him from diving into the river, ripping him back by his boots. Even as the orc was gutted by the elf's dagger, others piled onto him in a never ending cascade of bodies. Water splashed and Isildur lost sight of the elf for a few heartbeats.
By the time he could detect what was happening again, the confrontation was over. The elf was dragged onto the muddy banks and pressed face-first into the ground. Although he struggled, it seemed a token protest compared to the ferociousness from before. Oily black claws wrenched his head back by his hair, but the elf didn't seem afraid. Instead, his eyes unerringly found Isildur's, then flicked to two boulders in knee-deep water. The cold calculation warred with contained desperation, a gaze that pulled Isildur in like the tide. One could drown in those grey depths. Before Isildur could even think about his actions, he'd nodded.
Gratitude drowned the desperation, then the elf closed his eyes. The tension in his frame seemed to ease slightly even as a hunchback of an orc raised a serrated knife to deliver the death blow. Isildur thought it would be over, but the orc with the helmet threw the smaller one aside at the last possible moment. The blade met earth instead of flesh.
"Not yet! Our Lord wants to have a word with the herald," he sneered. Shrieks of laughter accompanied the leader as he delivered a savage kick to turn the elf over onto his back. They held his arms, raised a blade to his neck and forced him to his feet without care for his injuries.
"Walk," the leader hissed as he leaned in close to the elf's mud-cacked face, which was bowed in apparent submission. Perhaps it was his own desires, but Isildur thought he could see a steely glint beneath the docile demeanor while they pushed and prodded him forwards, away from the river.
With baited breath and a hammering heart, Isildur observed as the procession faded into the Southern woods. He counted to three-hundred after the last sounds had faded and only the rushing waters and birdsong kept him company. Then he finally got up and surveyed the river. A section of large stones seemed viable to ford the currents, but it was a long and arduous process in the descending darkness.
Solely the evening star bestowed his light on Isildur as he finally knelt in the water and reached between the boulders. His fingers grasped a leather cord almost immediately and he pulled out the treasure the stranger had sacrificed his life for. A silver ring glinted in the moonlight, whispering softly in the breeze.