Here is an odd little story that was written on a whim
The day started as any other in Gondor, the golden rays of the sun slowly making their way above the horizon, their light hidden from view by the dark clouds sent by the Enemy. Leaves fluttered in the breeze, grass grew straight and strong. One blade of grass, in particular, prided itself in being the tallest in all of the Pelennor Fields. It felt invincible, in the prime of its life as the morning dew evaporated, leaving it refreshed. If it had eyes, it would’ve cast them about to behold the lush green carpet that is its kin. Healthy, happy, it all seemed more than a blade of grass could want. The slow changing of its surroundings was the least of its worries.
Then, it started. Long before the birds stopped their singing, long before the squirrels halted mid chatter, the earth trembled. At least, so it seemed to our favourite piece of vegetation. This trembling brought a sense of foreboding upon the blade, as though incredibly vile creatures were nearing. The very thought of them sent shivers up the length of its stem. It wanted nothing more than to sprout legs and run far away. But it is not the fate of plant life to have such a choice. Wanting to distract its distressed thoughts, it turned towards the white city, hewn out of the mountainside. That place was filled with strange creatures that walked upright, it recalled. Shouldn’t they be scattering? Running away from whatever evil was surely coming? That would certainly be its reaction if it had legs! Or, could they not feel the tremor? If only it could warn them! The blade spent the better part of the calm before the storm, or in this case, battle, pondering ways in which to warn the creatures.
Since then, days have passed. To think it had been so innocent in a time so recent it could be counted in hours. It now lay on its stomach, ( or rather, where its stomach would be if it had one) stained with blood of both orc and man. Death was near, it was sure of it, not due to the trampling during the battle, not even due to the poisoned blood of Sauron’s foul servants (Or , to the blade, hideous, disfigured creatures that should never have been created, reeking of evil), but the terrible darkness and grief caused by the Lord of the Nazgul. It wasn’t accustomed to such putrid hate emanating from any single source, filling all who neared it with terrible fear. This was too much emotion for such a simple life form to bear. And so it began to loose its energy, the vital strength drawn from its roots in the soil of Middle Earth.
The horrors it had seen, it shivered now at the memory. Hideous things, so unnatural, like pawns in a game of chess controlled by some unseen evil. These pawns, they weren’t meant to be, they simply weren’t. Their blood poisoned the ground where drops fell, slowly destroying life as their master’s hatred bore deeper. At least it had understood one thing. The strange creatures in the carved mountain had known about this, and yet, they had not run. Instead, they had fought! This had been an entirely new concept for the blade of grass, it was used to bending under it’s foes, or tolerating their nibbling wordlessly, keeping the pain to itself. Never had it thought to fight, not that it could, but the concept amazed it, that some creatures cherished their way of life enough to die for it. And in the end all for naught, it thought bitterly. There were so many lost, so many of the two-legged creatures died, and from what it could tell, quite horribly. Their blood spilled onto the earth, staining the green field a rusty red.
Just as the blade was about to give up on life, (a life not worth living as far as it was concerned if it meant living under those vile things), the blaring of a horn broke through the din of the still ongoing battle in the city. It wasn’t a screeching, ear-splintering shriek like the horns of Sauron. This horn emitted a pure sound, untainted by despair and filled with determination, a sound which encompassed all of Middle Earth in one clean note. With it came more of the fighting two-legged creatures mounted on four legged ones, horses it thought they were called. The riders let out defiant yells, obviously meant to boost their confidence and lessen that of their enemies. Then, as one, they started to move forward, thousands of hooves hitting the earth simultaneously. The blade of grass shuddered, but this time a glimmer of hope filled it. The opposing sides clashed, light against dark, life against death, with a terrible clang of steel. The newcomers, known to us as the Rohirrim, pushed back Sauron’s horde, avenging the spilled blood of their fellow Men.
Thundering hooves, clanging steel, shouting men. Something awakened in our dear little piece of flora, and with determination it had never felt before, it made a decision. It could not help in the fight for Middle Earth, but perhaps its survival could lead to some good. With that, it mustered all its strength, and heaved. It had never felt so heavy before, but it continued, pulling itself until it stood. Wavering, it threatened to fall over again, but somehow managed to steady itself, more by strength of will than anything else. In the excellent posture it prided itself in, it stood straight and tall, reaching skyward as a banner for the Men of the West. A banner which took pride in every slain orc, every inch of land gained, a living breathing banner, a true symbol of the strength of Middle Earth.