LOTRO: Death of Agawaer

In the ring of Isengard, Agawaer held one hand to the side of his cracked and dented breastplate. He was so splattered with Orc-blood that he looked as if he’d painted himself black, and his once-mighty blade, Angroval, had been bent and chipped to the point of uselessness. Heaving, wheezing, dripping sweat and gore, he bent down and curled shaky fingers around the sword of a fallen Uruk-Hai.

He had come to Isengard a prisoner.

It seemed ages ago that he had ridden south to Dunland with the Dunedain rangers of the Grey Company, his brothers in arms, staunch warriors all. Now…Agawaer squeezed his eyes shut, pushing the memory of that black night away.

They had journeyed far, all of them, fighting battles and making allies all the way, and in the end it had been due to their efforts that the Free Peoples had found allies among Dunlendings. The Dunland clans were warring among themselves even now, as Sarumen pitted those who had pledged fealty to him against the few who did not.

His face twisted. It had been the treachery of one of those clans that had landed him here, here in this pit where he was expected to work until he died. The clan leader, the Brenin, had welcomed the Grey Company with open arms, given them guest-right and fed them from his own table. He’d promised arms and armor and strong warriors to the cause…only to plunge knives in their backs. The traitorous swine had shipped Agawaer off to Isengard as a gift to his new master, a token of his allegiance. What had become of his friends, Agawaer did not know.

He ground his teeth in helpless fury. And he…his deeds had been many long before he’d found himself chained in these infernal pits. From the darkest hills of Angmar to the frozen wastes of Forochel he had fought underneath a dozen banners for the freedom of Middle-Earth, and his name had become a scourge that even the mightiest Uruk-Hai and strongest troll had come to fear. Time and again he had been a thorn in the side of the Enemy, fighting on against all hope even as the strength of Mordor grew. He could already see the final battle on the horizon, and Agawaer felt enraged at the knowledge that he would not be a part of it. There was still so much to do. So many were still counting on him.

And the traitor Brenin owed a debt in blood. If Agawaer had one regret, it was that he would not live to settle that score. In full. With interest.

No, he chided himself, gasping for breath. That doesn't matter now. I have done more to set back the plans of the Enemy than any other. I bought Frodo and the others the time they needed. I have fought the good fight. I have finished the race. I have upheld my honor and my oath, and must find solace in that.

Would history remember him? Probably not, but glory was not why he did it. For Agawaer had been one of the select few privileged with the knowledge of the secret mission of Frodo Baggins, and with that knowledge he had worked tirelessly on the Fellowship’s behalf. Gandalf had entrusted him to draw the Dark Lord’s ire, to fight the battles that had to be fought while the Hobbit and his friends made their perilous journey. If the chronicles would remember anyone, it would be them. And his name, the name of Agawaer, would be lost for all time, gone down with his story and his deeds into dust and shadow.

Middle-Earth would remember the name of Frodo Baggins a thousand years hence, but none would tell tales of him.

And if he was wrong, what then? Would some scholar romanticize his struggles? History remembered the battles, but not the blood. Agawaer would not have his tale told with sugar coated over it, for to do so would be a grave injustice to all the friends and comrades he’d lost along the way.

And there had been many. So, so many. Men, Elves, and Dwarves who’d followed him into battle only to be cut down by arrow or spear or the crooked blades of Orcs. Even now, Agawaer felt the weight of that terrible responsibility.

The prisoners with whom he’d attempted escape looked at him fearfully. It had been a fool’s errand from the start, to attempt such a thing. Isengard was nigh-impregnable, and yet he’d had to try.

He’d stolen up on one of the guards while they slept, cut his throat and taken back the armor and sword that had been stolen from him. The Orc had woken just long enough to realize what was happening before he’d bled to death. How Agawaer had enjoyed the surprise and horror on his ugly face!

Yet his victory was fleeting. Six-and-sixty captives had followed him out of their cells when the blade of Angroval had cut through the crude iron bars. Less than half that number had survived long enough to get out of the pits and into Isengard’s ring. Now, it would be only a matter of moments before Saruman’s teeming hordes surrounded them and cut them to pieces.

And yet…an idea began to form in his mind. It might not work. It probably wouldn’t work. He was clutching at straws like a drowning man, and yet this was all he had.

A man who might once have been a Rohirrim looked at him with despair in his eyes. The fellow had been strong and sturdy once, but now he was so thin that his ribs could have been used as a xylophone, and his skin hung like an ill-fitting garment to his emaciated frame. “Agawaer! Help us!” he cried. “What do we do?”

“This way!” he responded, motioning with an arm. “Follow me! Don’t stop!”

They broke into a run as the roars of enraged Uruks grew louder behind them. Soon the Orcs would spill out of the pits like ants from an anthill. They needed time, but there was no time.

Unless…

Agawaer led his small band in a dead run, hoping he remembered the location correctly. Lives were depending on him. Lives were always depending on him.

Then he saw it, and joy and relief washed over him. There it was, in a soot-blackened corner, half-buried under rubbish and the grisly remains of dead prisoners. Agawaer forced himself not to look. Those had been gnawed upon by the Orcs.

A small sewer grate, a tunnel used for waste disposal. The inside of it was crusted over in layers of filthy and the stench made him gag, but it was their only hope.

With frenzied strength, he shoved the rubbish aside until the grate was clear, and a swift swing of the Orc-blade sheared the bars away.

“Get in,” he said hoarsely.

“But…but what about you?” one of the men asked. “You must escape with us!”

A small, sad smile split Agawaer’s face, and he clasped him gently on the shoulder. “No, brother,” he said. “I cannot. My place, my end, is here.”

“But-“

“The Orcs will soon be upon us, and if they are not distracted, they will see where you have gone and will be waiting to slaughter you on the other side of that tunnel.” Agawaer gripped his blade tightly. “Go,” he said, in a voice both gentle yet firm. “Get away from here, my brothers. Make the most of the chance I have given you. Escape. Go back to your wives and children and families. Live.”

“You can’t!”

“I can, and I shall.” Agawaer closed his eyes briefly. “I will not allow any more innocents to die in this accursed place. It must be me who does this, and no other.”

“But you will die!”

“I know,” he said quietly. “But death is the soldier’s trade. I made my peace with it a long time ago.” Then, without warning, Agawaer bent the ruin of Angroval over his knee and snapped the sword off at the hilt. The enchanted blade broke with a burst of sparks like tiny flaring stars.

Agawaer handed the hilt to the man who’d spoken. “I ask only this: when you are well, give this to Gandalf. Tell him…” His throat tightened for a moment, forcing him to pause. “Tell him it was an honor.”

“The Wizard? How shall I find him?”

He grinned. “You won’t. Mithrandir will find you.” The noise grew closer, and he grimaced in both pain and frustration. “Go, now,” Agawaer said hoarsely. “There is no more time. I shall keep them busy.”

The prisoners began to shuffling into the cramped space in single file, and he breathed a sigh of relief when the last of them had hurried through.

Then Agawaer began to run.

And yet he ran not to freedom, but straight toward the oncoming host. A single battered warrior against untold thousands.

He couldn’t kill them all. He’d never even come close, and he knew it.

But I can take as many of them with me as I can.

Agawaer knew where to find the stockpile of explosives that Saruman had been hoarding for the coming war with Rohan. He’d seen them being stockpiled while he’d labored under the overseer’s lash. Now, they would be the tool of his final vengeance.

An arrow whizzed by his ear. The Orcs were hot on his heels, and in seconds, they’d roll right over him like a crashing wave. Agawaer ran as he’d never run before: in the spur of the moment, he ripped off his cloak, allowing the tattered fabric to catch the flames of a brazier as he passed it by. The heat turned the steel of his gauntlets to a cherry red, and the pain was excruciating.

Close. He was so close. If an arrow or spear felled him now, so near to his final goal…he couldn’t bear the thought.

The enemy was closing in all around him in a massive circle of yellow eyes and leering, hideous faces. Their numbers seemed infinite, and yet Agawaer smiled. The more he lured after him, the more he’d destroy in his final act of defiance.

Words rose unbidden in his throat:

“You think you scare me, swine!? I am Agawaer the Red, High Captain of Gondor! I slew more of your kind than there are leaves on the trees! I vanquished in single combat the goblin-king Nishruk and put his stronghold of Minos Eriol to the torch! I pulled down the fortresses of Urugarth stone by stone! Fikthrug and Gazrip, Gurzrum and Gurstaz, there is no end to the warriors who met their end upon my blade! I even laid low Mordirith himself, the False King of Angmar and the Witch-King’s most powerful servant! You desire to suck the marrow from my bones, but I will deny you!”

He was smiling as he wrapped the fiery remnants of his cloak around an armored fist, heedless of the way it seared his fingers. Smiling as he closed the distance and launched himself in the air. Smiling as he drove his blazing hand through one of the wooden barrels, igniting the explosive powder contained within.

Smiling because he could go to his death with pride, knowing he’d done all he could. He had come here a prisoner, but he left a warrior.

At long last, he could rest.

The force of the blast shook the very foundations of Isengard.