There was a time, not so long ago, that Bainith felt he might have welcomed this feeling of defeat, of being trampled upon the battlefield, for his spirit to be torn asunder from the flesh that had carried him across Middle-earth on the great adventures he had already had in the short time since leaving the Shire. Now, as he clutched an intricately carved stone in each hand, feeling the pulsing of their power as he took a moment to gasp for fresh air in the smoke-filled courtyard, Bainith wished nothing more than to be back in Michel Delving harvesting potatoes, or in Tuckborough pulling apples from trees, or even helping to rake out the filth from the pony stables in Scary. A horn sounded, nearly causing him to drop his weapons, and he held ever-tighter to the rune-stones.
Every time the next wave charged at them, he tried not to think of the Shire or why Yucca should never, ever go to Moria, or how this was not the best idea, and how disappointed Zhie was going to be with him, and if he would ever see Valanyonnen again. Unfortunately, those thoughts were all muddled up in his brain as he tried to concentrate on the skills he had learned and how to draw upon his inner strength and the powers of the elements to fight off the wolves and brigands that seemed to come again and again like waves upon the shore.
Breaks were few, and the constant sounding of the battle horn was jarring. Vaguely, Bainith had been aware of a soldier fighting alongside him for a while, sometimes hustling forward to divert a group of enemies, and othertimes racing back to check on Bainith's well-being. It seemed the man must have sensed Bainith's inexperience, for he hovered a bit more than the others, and would attack the same beasts that attacked Bainith. At some point, however, the man had raced forward and Bainith had yet to see him return -- yet another worry to add to his own.
Typically, Bainith needed only dodge the blows of others, or avoid the snapping jaws of hungry predators, during this battle. That was until the troll came. At least, he thought it was a troll -- from all of the stories he had heard of Mr. Baggins's trolls, this appeared to be a troll. The armor was covered in grease and filth, and looked to be as thick as Bainith's wrist. A few attempts were made to hit the creature or find a weakness in the armor, but even the troll's skin was thick, and Bainith found that while his misses and the minor damage had no effect, they did succeed in angering the beast enough to turn his full attention upon the Elf who now stumbled back towards the building they were trying to defend.
Trolls seem large and clumsy, but they can move at an incredible speed if the mood takes them. Such was the case with this troll, and as Bainith gathered strength and called upon the power of lightning to aid him, the monster fought not with his mace or sword, but instead hunched over and plowed right into Bainith with his mighty force. The sky and ground spun together, and a pain greater than he had yet known tore through his shoulder and spread down to his hand, causing him not only to drop the precious stone from his grasp but to scream out as well. He wondered briefly with shame how many others on this battlefield had cried out to their gammers in their final moments, as the troll lifted his dazed body up and threw it into a sturdy stone wall. His back took the brunt of it, but his arms and legs fared no better as he collapsed into a heap, one hand limp and empty, the other unwilling to loosen the grip from the remaining rune-stone.
There was a haze before him, not unlike the times he had raced with the others from inn to pub to tavern, drinking too much ale and smoking heavily from his pipe. Those times, however, pain was not experienced, unless it was the pain of finding out that the bar had run out of mead. Now, it was all he could feel and all he knew, and he found himself thankful for the brigand who sauntered up to him and knocked his booted foot against his head, for it was all he needed to slip over the edge of oblivion.
