-General-
The desert of Rhûn was burning. Not from the scorching heat of the sun, nor from the searing sand. No, it burned with the fire of war. The rebellion of the western men had expanded so much that the peoples bordering the desert were affected. Those men who refused to submit to Sauron were killed, and their villages consumed by the cowardly flames of the weak-willed.
The dwarves, who still traded and lived with certain peoples of the region, were also caught in the conflict. Their numbers were no longer vast as in ancient times: the Battle of Azanulbizar had reduced their population to such an extent that it was impossible for them to defend their homes from the thousands of men besieging them. They were left with only one option… to flee.
But the men in Sauron's service would not allow their escape to be clean. They feared the dwarves would aid the rebels, supplying them with weapons and provisions. Therefore, they set ambushes for the dwarven caravans, mercilessly massacring many of the Blacklocks and Stonefoots.
Some managed to be saved by Dûrgar's dwarven forces, but others could only watch, with sorrow and hatred in their eyes, as their brothers, wives, children, and parents were murdered. They were not completely annihilated, for the rebel forces intervened in time, rescuing the survivors and taking them to the port city of the Sea of Rhûn. There, the dwarves joined the rebellion, swearing to avenge their fallen kin.
These movements did not go unnoticed by Sauron. In response, he sent a force of ten thousand orcs with the intention of crushing the rebels and, incidentally, getting rid of the persistent western dwarves. This would give him unimpeded access to Erebor, a strategic position he did not intend to let slip away due to a simple defeat.
The orc assault subjugated a large part of the rebels. The western cities fell one by one until only the port remained firm, the last bastion of resistance against the relentless assault of men and orcs.
The men in Sauron's service besieged the towns near the desert, cutting off escape and supply routes. The orcs, led by an unusually cunning captain, burned the villages near the port, leaving the rebels completely surrounded. They could not ask for help: every bird or messenger was intercepted and killed, either by orcs or by enslaved humans.
Faced with such a situation, Raizan could only clench his fists and devise desperate strategies to break the encirclement and send a distress signal, perhaps to the dwarves or the men of Rhovanion.
He was running out of options, and time was an relentless enemy. He could not wait forever for the Dragon Slayer, the one the apprentices of the blue wizards spoke of, who, according to prophecies, would come and change the course of the war.
On that sunny day, where the sunset dyed the sky red, not for the beauty of the sun, but for the spilled blood of the innocent, a raven flew over the city and landed on the balcony. There was no need to read the message… Raizan already knew what it meant for a messenger bird to arrive, even while surrounded.
…
The moon was taking the place of the sun. Its silver rays brushed against the faces of a family running for their lives. The mother carried her two-year-old daughter in her arms; the father, with his son, threw stones backward as they climbed a small hill. Desperation was etched on their faces as they saw how the stones only bounced off the armor of their pursuers.
"Please, leave us alone!" the father pleaded without slowing his pace.
As he turned to throw another stone—as useless as the previous ones—he heard a scream from his wife. With her eyes closed, she protectively cradled her daughter. The reason? Two figures stood at the top of the hill. A drawn bow and an unsheathed sword were enough to frighten her; she believed her death and that of her family were inevitable.
"Everything is fine," whispered the one with the unsheathed sword.
The voice, so serene and firm, dispelled the woman's nerves like leaves carried by the wind. With a slow movement, she looked up. The darkness of the night prevented her from distinguishing the faces of the figures, but the light of the moon and stars was enough to reveal their eyes.
One was green, the other amber. Both harmonized like summer and autumn. The woman would never forget the warmth she felt seeing those eyes, which were for her a star of hope in the midst of her darkest night.
"I'll handle this. You, protect them," said the warrior, and without another word, he descended.
The woman barely managed to follow his silhouette. She could only watch as, in an instant, the men pursuing them fell, struck down by a single slash of his sword.
Heads flew through the air and fell near the husband and son. Perhaps at another time, that sight would have caused her nausea, but not now. Now, on the contrary, she felt tears welling up in her eyes. They were not from fear or horror. They were tears of joy.
The husband, seeing her cry, ran to her and embraced her. His son, however, remained motionless, stunned, his gaze fixed on the back of the man who, not long ago, had saved their lives.
…
Aldril held one of the family's pursuers by the head. His fingers had dug into the western warrior's helmet.
"It seems my protection wasn't necessary," Tauriel said, approaching.
But Aldril did not respond. His eyes were fixed on the sea of flames burning several meters away. The village from which the people he had saved came was now a hell of fire. Inert, scattered bodies stained the earth, composing a tragic scene.
His fingers dug further into the helmet, piercing the metal. Without a word, Aldril plunged his fingers into the man's head. The man barely had time to emit a muffled groan before his skull was crushed by Aldril's brutal strength.
"Aldril…" Tauriel murmured, gently placing a hand on his trembling arm.
Slowly, Aldril's body began to relax under Tauriel's touch. He closed his eyes for an instant and sighed deeply.
"I'm fine," he finally said, turning to her. He took her hand with a delicacy that contrasted with his brutality of moments before. "I will go inspect if there are any survivors left."
Tauriel nodded, taking a step back.
"Be careful."
Aldril nodded with a slight smile, but it disappeared as soon as he turned his head and ran towards the burning village. He hoped to find survivors… but also western soldiers. He needed to unleash his anger.
Seeing him leave, Tauriel sighed. Fortunately, over time, her beloved's character had improved. The dragon blood that ran through his veins no longer influenced his emotions as it once did.
Turning around, Tauriel observed the family huddled together, embracing fervently, and the young man who gazed at her with fascination. Apparently, once her elven features became visible, the boy had been enchanted by her beauty.
But she did not care about that fascination. Her heart already belonged to only one man, and like all elves—except Finwë—she would only love one person. If Aldril were to die one day, she would soon follow him, consumed by sadness.
"Follow me," she said softly.
The family did not protest and followed her in silence. They walked to the top of the hill, where they were petrified by what lay beyond.
A forest of iron spears emerged from the horizon, held firmly by an army of dwarves marching with military precision. At the front rode a reddish-bearded dwarf on a battle boar, and by his side, Dûrgar followed closely.
The support of the dwarves had arrived, and this time it was not only the dwarves of the Iron Hills, but also the dwarves of Erebor. These two armies marched with a purpose: to save their own race and, in doing so, strike a hard blow against Sauron's forces.
**
Filthy orcs!
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