Lunge. Parry. Thrust and another Orc falls to his sword. He retreats, his weapon ready, keeping himself between the enemy and the Hobbits he has sworn to protect.
Another Orc moves forward and he blocks this new attack with his blade. His nerves sing as his body does what he has trained it to do: fight. Defend. Kill.
As his sword plunges home yet again, he wonders if his training was his undoing, wonders if his devotion to the martial way, to violence, blinded him to what must be done, what Frodo must do.
Honour in tatters, he fights on.
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