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Devil's Advocate



I desire no adulation, no praise.  I was created, succored in the gelatinous mass of my master's song, for one purpose and one purpose only - to fulfill my destiny.  I am the ultimate creation, manifested with the genetic memory of the First Ones, though I surpass their strength, their beauty and am a match for their immortality.  For this night, I will serve my purpose and pass beyond the circles of this world, directly into my Master’s presence. 
In death there is victory!  I – I alone among the fighting Uruk-hai – was chosen for this glory!  Fame is unimportant, though my name will be reviled among the conquered and revered among the conquerors when this night is over and we have crushed the defiant Edain upon their impenetrable walls. 
 
Someone, I know not whom, though we are bound by a shared consciousness, pounds the close-fitting helm down over my head and neck.  In it, I am indestructible, impervious to arrows, rocks or spears and it is not I upon whom they will ply their swords when the fools above are hurtled from their worthless fortifications.
 
My thick fingers, ordained for this purpose alone, grip the rod that lofts the flames overhead.  My comrades, their lust for my fame fogging the rain-slicked night, form a corridor and my feet, anxious for this immortality, shuffle forward, gaining momentum with each firmly planted foot.
 
Breath comes quickly, the heart fashioned for this penultimate moment, courses black blood through my engorged veins, my feet pound earth that in mere moments will quake with its rending.  Victory is in sight when over the din of triumph I hear a man’s voice – harsh, commanding, “Togo hon dad, Legolas!  Togo hon dad!”
 
A shaft pierces flesh and bone on my right side.  The roar ripped from me is not from pain, it is no more than a splinter, for I was bred without pain receptors.  No, it is the howl of the victor equipped with foreknowledge that the surety of safety atop those walls will shortly turn to a wailing cry of surrender.
 
“Dago hon!  Dago hon!”
 
Against my will, my elven eyesight is drawn upwards, up to the wall where a rain-soaked, wild-eyed man, gleaming sword held aloft as if to draw down the lightening streaking the black sky over our heads, is screaming.  A second arrow plunges deep into muscle on my left side.  It does not slow me, but my eyes are wrenched to the impassive, fair-haired archer, arrow nocked, bowstring pulled back to full draw.  A green-fletched arrow spirals faster than my feet can move, straight for my heart, but alas for man and elf, I am prepared for this eventuality.
 
The arrow strikes as with the same powerful elven strength as the kin-slayer’s draw, my feet leave the ground.  My heart clasps the buried shaft, clenching in waves of ecstasy as I am propelled through the air to land wedged between the blasting kettles of Orthanc fire.  Vision implodes, hearing is lost.  I am impervious to the rain of massive stones exploding over my head, the cries of either the triumphant or the doomed.
 
In death, I am victorious! 
 
 
 
 
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