Disclaimer: Tolkien sent them into battle to die, I merely elaborate.
Author's Note: For the 'sharp things' challenge.
He felt the well-honed steel slide through him like a warm knife through butter and tried to wish himself away from this place, this battle, this agony. There was no escape.
He gripped the banner's haft with all his dwindling strength.
No escape either for the orc, who died screaming on a blade even keener than his own.
He faltered. He would fall, but the standard would not, nor the man for whom its emblazon flew; the man who stood above him now, strong hands supporting flag and fallen friend both.
"Forgive me, hiranin."
"There is nothing to forgive, Halbarad."