Blinded and choking. A cloud of smoke. A beast aroused by the prospect of fresh flesh. From within the confines of its brittle cage the ghastly warg howls. Dark soil stained with blood, littered with bloated corpses. Broken bones. Festering wounds. Torn throats and sliced bellies and crushed skulls speak of the evil that surround his prison. A eerie pit, reminiscent of the coldest and most hollow planes of Mordor.
"Don't go."
A corpse shifts from within the pile. Vacant eyes stare outward, blankly, at the dark ceiling above. Was his fate always to die, anonymously in some foul place? Would anyone remember his name, or the feats he'd accomplished, or the love he felt? Had his sacrifice been a noble one, or a pointless exercise in futility?
"Please. I beg of you."
Dull fingers twitch. His eyes come into focus. He can't feel anything below his waist and his throat is burning. He tries to call for help, to let out a scream for mercy, but it comes out as a gasp. Still, the stench of lifeless bodies, keep him demoralized. He struggles, tries to sit up but his muscles are on fire and he hasn't had a drop of water in ages. He hears a sound in the distance, the clank of metal as it moves within the corridor.
"Please! You should go with us!"
A small figure enters his limited view. Dressed head to toe in evil armor that clearly had belonged to a larger orc, with a large, rusty sword in his hand. His bony hand... Radanir chokes out a gasp, tries to get his attention. The jailor stops, looks around from beneath the visor of his helmet. He sees something, not him, but something, and with a single stroke the jailor ends another's fading life, his blade plunging into their body and granting them their final rest. He tries to scream, to draw his attention toward him, but the Orc pretends not to hear. He wanders away, his footsteps fading with his passing shadow.
"You mustn't leave. This is not our war."
Would anyone remember his name, or the feats he'd accomplished, or the love he felt? It takes him hours to pass, his eyes glossing over as he exhales one drawn-out breath. His legacy may end in this light forsaken prison having fought under a host of Men. Like all races who come to face their last hour be it mortal or otherwise: his final thoughts are of home. Of the family he grew up with. Of the vibrant waters and verdant fields and the elf-maiden he had vowed his life to. In the years to follow I will be forgotten, my face a mystery and my name an enigma to them. My own people will eventually grow ignorant and live their own lives distant from these lands and in time their eyes will not wander back at Middle-Earth. My departure to the halls of Mandos would be one of regret if this is truly my darkest hour.
