Sorrow was his inheritance. Tears were his solace. Loneliness was his only companion.

The cold winds of winter had rendered the trees bare and devoid of their coverings. Snow shimmered on the ground below like a thousand minuscule gemstones, and the empty grey sky looked down upon the land with quiet disregard.

The rider's horse had died in the snow many days past, and soon it was claimed by it. The rider was truly alone now.

His home had burned, along with all who he loved. The weapons of the enemy had rent the armor of his companions, and their torches had turned his heritage to ash.

Nowhere, it seemed, had escaped the hand of the enemy. The rider's path was strewn with the cold, snow covered bodies of men and women who had been struck down as they fled the wanton destruction. The rider had heard that Gondor too had fallen, and now nowhere was safe.

Soon, he too would be slain. His helm and hauberk would be shattered, and his flowing locks would be stained with his own blood. Never would he hear the sound of his horn, for nobody was left to answer it. He would not again hear the haunting beauty of the harp, for there were no hands left to play it.

No more would he see the grain at harvest, nor the green leaves of spring. None would be there to gather wood for the warm red fire of a glowing hearth. It had all passed, like rain on the mountain. Like the wind on the tall grass of a meadow.

The days had gone down in the West, behind the hills, nevermore to arise from the Shadow. Like the last call of a gull, there would be no memory of it. For there were none now left to remember.

A final tear landed upon the ground, but the rider did not notice. The sound of steel sliding from its scabbard echoed off the mountains, then silence returned. A silence that would soon be eternal, as endless as the universe itself.

The rider felt the cold steel of the blade, and for a moment he drew back. But the moment was short lived, for when he remembered that he was alone his resolve was strengthened.

No orc would run its cruel blade through him. The cold hand of death was already on his shoulder, he would wait no longer.

And so he ended it all, upon that lonely mountain path. But there were none to mourn him, none indeed to honor him, for they had all fallen behind the hills, into Shadow.

I apologize if this one was a little dark. I was listening to a rendition of Tolkien's song by the same name and felt prompted to write this. Rarely is death discussed in depth, especially in the LOTR community.

Death, when it comes to mortal Men, is a tragedy. As far as I'm aware, Men in Middle Earth do not have any sort of afterlife. So once they've died, they're gone(please correct me if I'm wrong, once you get into the divinity/afterlife of Middle Earth I get a bit lost). When it comes to the Eldar, who are immortal, it is nothing short of devastating. For an elf to die means that they have given up their immortality, and thus will not experience life through the Ages of Middle Earth as other elves will. However, this is rarely reflected in fan fiction.

What I'm trying to say is that death is often skirted around, or depicted in far too lighthearted of a way. Sure, I'm not saying it has to be as grim as what I wrote above, but it shouldn't be a, "oh such and such died, but I'm with the elven/man/dwarf prince/princess of my dreams so I completely forgot about that."

In summary... just try to be careful with that. I've seen far too many cases of it and it's my hope that by addressing the issue, you guys will be more cautious in this regard(though most of you who read these do a really good job with it).