(PTII)Defenders of Middle Earth: A Middle Earth Story(Book 4)

Chapter 29: Aftermath

The dust settled in the dimly lit corridor as Khanar fell to the ground, the echo of his thick armor hitting the pavestones reverberating through the walls. Gilian collapsed, exhausted and in pain. She let out a cough as she gently touched her throat, making sure that she was uninjured. Khanar's grip had been tight, but aside from breaking the skin and leaving some painful bruises it had done little actual damage.

Gerithor, who had seconds ago been levitating off the ground, was now on his knees, his head in his hands. He was no longer the vengeful spirit that had killed the Easterling king; He was a ranger again, small and afraid. Gilian could hear his heavy breathing as he tried to make sense of what had just happened.

"That... That wasn't me Gilian. It wasn't. I couldn't control myself." His voice was subdued; She could hear a hint of fear in it. She slowly limped over to him, putting a comforting arm around his shoulders.

"Whatever it was, it's over now. And it saved us both." She could feel Gerithor trembling, all strength having left him. His injuries, though not severe, were still bleeding, and his countenance was pale. Gilian was certain that she looked the same way, and with a sinking feeling she realized that neither of them would be able to go far enough to get help.

She rested her head on Gerithor's shoulder, her exhaustion taking over. She wondered if the battle outside still raged on. She could only imagine how much blood had been shed... And if it was over, who had prevailed? If the enemy had, it was only a matter of time before they were discovered.

The thought entered her mind that it was possible, however unlikely, that both sides had decimated each other, and that she and Gerithor were the last remaining survivors. It was a frightening thought, for if nobody had survived they too would eventually die in this very corridor, abandoned and without hope.

Her ears perked up at the sound of distant voices, and a chill went down her spine. Easterlings.

"Ya'wa uno su'chama na'ar," one of the voices said hushedly.

"Ger no'a?" Another added. Gilian could now hear the clank of armored boots as the two voices got closer. She gave Gerithor a fearful glance.

"It's okay," Gerithor whispered comfortingly. "Don't be afraid." He pulled her closer and drew his sword, prepared to defend them both despite the magnitude of his injuries.

Two figures rounded the corner, and they stopped in surprise when they laid eyes on the two rangers. They were dressed in mismatched armor, some of which looked Easterling in origin. It was apparent right away that they were not Easterlings, though.

"Dale?" One of them inquired, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. Gilian looked to Gerithor, confused.

"No," Gerithor replied, his voice hoarse and weak. "Dunedain." Gilian nodded in understanding. The newcomer wished to know where they were from.

"Westron though, yes?" He pointed to his companion. "Harad. Friends of Westron."

Gerithor tilted his head inquiringly. "Enemies of Sauron?"

Both warriors nodded emphatically, and the silent one hit his forearm in what Gilian assumed was a hostile gesture. "Blood enemies," the other said.

Gerithor let out an audible sigh of relief. "We are injured," he said, pointing to his wounds. "We need help."

The Haradrim nodded. "We take you to help."

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Glorfindel wandered aimlessly down the main hall, the silence almost deafening. Now that the dust had settled, he could truly see just how catastrophic the losses had been on both sides. Glorfindel had fought in many battles and had seen much death, but not like this. Countless hundreds of bodies littered the thoroughfare, and blood ran in small rivers toward the gate. Many were the bodies of dwarves, elves, men, and orcs alike, for Death was not discriminate in who she claimed.