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She was born under a southern sun, on the plains of far Harad. Torn from her mother in infancy, she was taught under the lash to rise and kneel at the whim of small, squeaking Men she might have crushed like flies had she known her own strength. She walked among the multitudes as a queen in scarlet silk, her tusks bound with gold, and yet poorer than any under her shadow, for she was a slave of the Haradrim, themselves slaves of Sauron.
She learned to trample and kill, to carry shrieking warriors on her shoulders into battle, to bear the sting of arrows, the torture of marches without rest. The trumpet of her voice shook the woods of Ithilien, driving the Men of the West before her, and her footsteps on the Pelennor were thunder.
There she died, far from that southern sun, brought down by archers of Morthond. Of the great beasts that perished she alone was left in peace, neither burned nor cast into a pit. Her bones weathered in the green grass and spiders spun a shroud for the fallen mumak, a slaughtered innocent who knew not for whom she fought, or why she fell.
(...but more drabbles to come.)
Written for the Toilanddrouble 'Animals' challenge to write 200 words featuring Tolkien's animals.
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