(AN: First time writing anything with this PC, or in Middle Earth in general, so excuse the possible lore mistakes. Also, English ain't my first tongue, so excuse any spelling errors! C&C welcome!)
A strange, fell breeze howled through the ruins of Arnor's heart.
Outside, figures of crimson red shuffled between the large tents, huddled over small fires that had been set up the day before. They were cooking boar, it seemed.
Cedmon drew another arrow from his quiver. He was running short, that was certain. The night's venture had been less successful than he had hoped. Orcs were an easy target, most of the time. He could pass between their ranks without raising much alarm, and a swift shot between their leader's eyes was more than enough to cause chaos.
The men of Angmar, however, were of a different ilk. They were whipped into shape by iron, it seemed, their will steely and unflinching. Death was a preferable end to failure. The Elf had to adjust.
It took him three hours to sneak past the outer camp at the base of the bridge, and he was merely a few dozen meters from his goal. The fog, however, rolled in that night. Thick like curdled milk, it was. He could make out the fires, and he used those to orient through the gloomy ruins, with moderate success. A few times he stumbled upon Angmar's watchmen, and each died quietly. Sneaking was never his forte, but only a fool would pass up such a chance to gain the upper hand. He was close now. With a silent sigh, he pressed on between the shattered remains of the house, trailing behind a pair of men that were heading towards the camp's heart. Sweat ran down his fingers and onto the feathered end of his arrow. His heart pounded like a hammer onto blazing iron.
Cedmon took a deep breath, drew his hand onto his cheek, and let go. The shot found it's mark, felling the first of the watchmen with a satisfying thud. It's sister followed soon after, burying itself into the thick bone of the other man's skull.
He listened closely, eyes darting around the scene before him, but no alarm was raised. Cedmon let out a sigh of relief.
Continuing, he soon reached his target.
The tent loomed over the rest of the camp, nestled atop one of the ruined bastions of Annúminas, crowned by a large, iron-trimmed sigil of The Witch King, seeming as if cast down judgment upon the lower, crimson robed servants.
Finding refuge in a nearby tower, Cedmon clambered up the mossy stone steps, and took shelter behind it's topmost window. There, perhaps ten meters from where the Elf stood, was his target.
He first heard of the Iron Captain two weeks before, from the ramblings of a dwarf near the town of Trestlebridge, over a keg of ale. Grungi was a little off the rails, but Cedmon learned to find snippets of truth in his madness. It was such truth he brushed out, a rumor of a tyrant that came from the North, a carrier of the fell flame of Angmar. If he were allowed to head further south, the Angmarian expansion would reach the lower lands near the Brandywine by the end of the month. The Rangers of the North commissioned many men to assist, and the elf was among them. To him, he was simply doing his part.
Cedmon felt the feathered end of the last arrow in his pack, and swiftly drew it across his bow. He took aim, slowly zeroing in on the Captain's head. He could not miss, not now. His eyes went shut, he felt the bow in his hand, his focus narrowing that of a pinhead. Finally, he let go. A familiar whip of the arrow was heard, but no screams came. No sound of a body hitting the floor. Even later, he knew not if it was luck on the Captain's side, or just Cedmon's faulty aim, but he missed. His last arrow struck the tentpole not thirty centimeters from it's marked. Moments later, the horn roared, waking the camp, and Cedmon felt the palpable dread that engulfed the misty air around him. "I can still win this." He thought to himself, drawing the twin curved blades from his hip. With the grace of the Elder race, he lept from the tower, landing with a timely roll. He could hear his heartbeat pounding on his eardrums. His muscles tightened to the point of snapping. From then on, things blurred. He parried one blow just to receive two more, and with each his breath grew shorter. Cedmon remembers bruises and gashes along his ribs, the gnawing pain at his side, and the feel of Angmar blades puncturing his flesh. The whirlwind continued. The Elf gave as good as he got, cutting and thrusting with his blades around him. And in that malestrom, he saw an opening. With a lunge, he remembers plunging the twins into the Iron Captain's chest, and the maddened cry the man let out as life left him. Or perhaps the cry was his own, he knew not. He just remembers plummeting downwards, then feeling as his body was pulled beneath the waters of the Great Lake.
And then?
Silence.
