Amid the ruins of the central battlefield, Carnford's officers and soldiers busily cleaned up the field. They needed to collect the bodies of their own soldiers and bury them properly; count the bodies of enemy commanders and confirm their identities; gather up scattered weapons and supplies; finish off enemies who had not quite died; and round up the prisoners.
The body of Gron, Corps Commander of the Hound Corps, had already been found and carried away. Several officers responsible for clearing the battlefield stood where Gron had fallen, looking at the mess of bloodstains and signs of struggle on the ground as they spoke in low voices.
"This Gron... looks like he went through one hell of a fight before he died."
"Yeah. Look around here—claw marks, blood everywhere. It was brutal."
"Wonder which warrior killed him. Taking down a Sauron corps commander would be a tremendous merit."
"Who knows? The battlefield was such a mess. Probably some unknown brother ran into him and fought him to the death. Shame there's a sea of people out there—we'll never know who it was."
They did not know that the man who had truly killed Gron was lying quietly on this corpse-strewn battlefield at that very moment, not far from where Gron had fallen.
Thomas lay quietly upon the freezing snow, still in that same sideways position. His expression was so serene, so peaceful, even carrying the faintest trace of a smile.
It was as if he had not died on a battlefield at all, but had simply been too exhausted and fallen asleep in the snow. His eyes were gently closed, as though he were having a beautiful dream.
The Sauron Army Uniform on his body was tattered beyond recognition, smeared with blood and mud, no different from the corpses of