A fic of two hundred words, written for the “Fixed-Length Ficlet” challenge at LOTR_community.

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Old Forlong did not lie to his men. Though he lacked the foresight of his lord, he knew the likely outcome of this fight. The armies of Gondor would be trapped on the plain between the mountains and river, their path of retreat blocked by the corsairs.

He had always felt as a father to his people, and what father would order his sons to march to a needless death? Though many were willing to go, in the end he chose only two hundred, the oldest of his soldiers. Grey-bearded and grim, they shouldered their axes and set out for Minas Tirith.

“So few? Only two hundreds?” Lord Denethor glared like a stoat with its foot caught in a snare.

“Yes, sire.” Forlong deemed that the less he said, the better.

“I expected a full two thousand or more.”

“They were all that could be spared. We had word of the corsairs.” He hoped that his sunburned skin hid the flush of shame. Despite his many years, he was not well-practiced in lying.

“And you need to guard your borders.”

“Yes, sire,” old Forlong replied. The lie was bitter on his tongue, but not as bitter as speaking the truth.

~*~

'Forlong!' men shouted. 'True heart, true friend! Forlong!' But when the men of Lossarnach had passed they muttered: 'So few! Two hundreds, what are they? We hoped for ten times the number. That will be the new tidings of the black fleet. They are sparing only a tithe of their strength. Still every little is a gain.'
--Minas Tirith, The Return of the King