Deific Flame

By Bejai

"Sauron's host were already approaching when Celeborn made a sortie and drove them back; but though he was able to join his force to that of Elrond they could not return to Eregion, for Sauron's host was far greater than theirs . . . [they] would indeed have been overwhelmed had not Sauron host been attacked in the rear; for Durin sent out a force of Dwarves . . . and with them came Elves of Lórinand led by Amroth."

- The Unfinished Tales

Chapter 2: Din-horde

"Lord Amdír, may I have a word?"

"Of course, my friend," the King of Lórinand answered and slowed his pace so the younger lord could catch up. He studied the boy as he approached, and noted with a stir of distress how easily his young face settled into heavy lines of care. The weight of his heritage, Amdír thought with a sigh.

He had welcomed the dispossessed family into his realm nearly four centuries before, but out of duty, not love, even if he did remember with fondness Galadaran's young, sweet chatter in the tranquil air of Nenuial. Though he could not help but respect her, Galadriel's presence had given him pause, but long years and old debts compelled him to embrace Celeborn's children despite his concerns. Thus he had been pleasantly surprised at the joy both Galadaran and Celebrían had given him. Though neither were children anymore, they had given him the chance to be a father for the first time in his life.

They had embraced his friendship, for they had been deeply shaken by the revolt at Eregion. Word of it had reached Amdír's ears, but in the skewed, muddied way of scandal and rumor, and for a time the rumors had slayed the entire family. When they arrived, mercifully safe, Celeborn had not been with them. He would not come through Khazad-dûm, Galadriel had said curtly, and for a time Amdír let the matter be, not wishing to become embroiled in the politics of their complex marriage. But long counsels with her had revealed a deeper truth.

Indeed, Celeborn had publicly refused to pass through the dwarven realm. It had, apparently, been a matter of shouting and ire in the streets of Eregion, a performance for all to see. Many of the citizens of Eregion had witnessed it, and gone away to tell others how far the couple had fallen. It had been both truth and ruse, for it had allowed Celeborn to remain, disregarded by the new powers in Eregion, and had made Galadriel's departure seem a harmless fit, a wife angry and spurned. Thus, Galadriel watched and prepared in the East while Celeborn watched and prepared in the West, and neither was watched by anyone else.

Surprise had always been a powerful stratagem. Indeed, it was the only weapon they had; it was fortunate that they had prepared it. When Celebrimbor had arrived two hundred years earlier, bearing the tale of his shame, he had expressed both surprise and gratitude that Lorien was already so well prepared. "Only days since Sauron revealed himself. You are swift, my lord," Celebrimbor had said. Amdír had not had the heart to tell him that the warded borders, that the warriors, that the weapons had been prepared for over two centuries.

"And how goes the talan building, young amrath-thavron?" Amdír asked, shaking himself from memory, hoping that the light of a well-beloved smile would break the clouds from his foster-son's eyes.

"Very well, my lord," Galadaran said, and an impish grin transformed his face. For a moment, it did not matter that his father was long absent and his mother newly -- strangely -- tormented; rather, he radiated the joy of spontaneous song. "Most productive."

"Ah," the lord answered, amusement warming his voice. "Productive. And your . . . diligence in the matter has nothing to do with a certain young elleth, I assume?"

"No!" Galadaran answered, though amiable embarrassment colored his face. "Or . . . not entirely. It is quite interesting work, quite rewarding. And if Nimrodel delights to teach me the art, well . . ." he shrugged bashfully, awed that the Valar had seen fit to bestow so great a favor.

"Interesting work. Rewarding work. Of course; I understand completely," the king said, and commanded his face into a mask of solicitous solemnity. "And have you thought of a name for your lofty abode?"

"I hadn't until now, but you just gave me an idea. What say you of 'Circled Mound of the High Street?'"

"Cerin Amrath," Amdír said, folding the words in his sonorous baritone. "Yes, I like it." Then he looked placidly away to hide a decidedly un-kingly quirk of mischief. "And we shall have to call you 'Lord Mound' ever after. Ai, by Mandos, lad, breathe," he continued with mock alarm as he pounded his companion's back.

"'Lord Mound?'" Galadaran answered hoarsely, sputtering through a laugh that had caught him unaware. "I would never live it down."

"Oh, indeed?" Amdír asked innocently. "I supposed you are right. 'Amrath' then. Or 'Amroth,' to give it a lilt." He paused and shed his jesting demeanor. "It suits you," he continued quietly. "I've seen you walking the branches like a wild spirit born of the starlight, master of the wandering paths between heaven and earth. Your father used to do the same thing in the forests of Doriath, you know."

"I do," Amroth answered, and his voice held a note of longing. "He taught me."

Amdír nodded and grunted a noncommittal assent. It hurt, a little, these reminders that the boy he loved was the son of another. It was usually easy to pretend that it was not so. "Amroth," he said, and smiled faintly at the boy's delighted acceptance of the name. He tried it again. "Amroth, your father taught you to walk in his paths. You do him credit; proud indeed he must be to call you son. But there are other roads, equally beautiful, equally right. Some quite a lot less difficult, some more. Find your own way, my child, and rejoice in it. My heart tells me that you will."

"Yes, my lord. I understand," Amroth answered, though his eyes were troubled and it was clear that he did not.

Amdír smiled, and squeezed the boy's shoulder companionably. Then he dropped his hand pulled himself back -- he was a king, a friend. Not a father. "Forgive me. First I tease you, then I wax philosophical, and entirely override what you intended to say. You asked for a word?"

Galadaran blinked, and for a moment struggled to follow the abrupt change in his mentor's mood. "Ahh, yes. Indeed." He shook his head, and the cloud of care descended again. "'Tis regarding Eregion. We've all felt it today; Mother, Celebrían, and I. Evil is moving and we must act." He lifted his chin. "Forgive me, lord; I should say that I will act, with your leave and assistance or without it."

So the peace was ended and the ever-changing world would change again. Amdír nodded crisply, ancient instincts of blood and war sharpening the edges of his mind and hardening the walls of his heart. The second age and its sons would march to war at last. A farmer-king could weep for the losses of the past; a warrior-lord had no such luxury for the future.

"You shall have both my blessing and my aid," he answered. "Where is Galadriel?"

---

Father . . .

Celeborn gasped and jerked awake, overwhelmed by the cresting din of dwarven feet pounding in syncopation to elvish songs of war. Momentarily disoriented, he reached for his weapon as he sat up, even as he realized that he was in the midst of a large contingent of elves. Elrond's army. Eregion's refugees, his memory promptly informed him, ignoring the apparent inconsistency between sight and sound. He groaned and pressed his hand into his aching eyes; there was no inconsistency, merely mirages and dreams undulating balefully in the heat of the day.

They were caught up against the south side of some nameless mountain, lit by the mid-afternoon sun. Around him elves were stretched upon the ground in groaning, writhing rows, blood congealing in the dust beneath the wearied feet of healers, who were careful to avoid the cast-off entrails and spare parts of their patients. Or former patients, Celeborn amended, noting another row that did not move at all, save to add members to its growing tail.

Just beyond were the sounds of a war-camp: the nickering of horses, the grind of whetstone on blade, the cheerless murmur of warriors beyond hope. And in the distance, the stench of an approaching din-horde; Celeborn could feel the earth cringing under the slithering plague of their foul footsteps.He grit his teeth and pushed himself to his feet, cursing the red darkness that abruptly leeched away the world as his heart labored to catch up. He breathed through it and ignored his reeling head; after a moment, his sight returned.

"My lord," a healer said, catching his arm. "This is not wise." Celeborn did not know the elf, but recognized him as a part of Elrond's contingent. The elf was crossed with the spilt blood of unnumbered wounds from the bodies of unnumbered souls; rendered flesh had hardened beneath his fingernails, and gray crescents of exhaustion and grief shadowed his eyes. He wore a sword at his hip -- unusual for a healer, but not for one who expected that he would die in a hopeless defense of his patients' lives. Celeborn mustered a passable smile for the faithful elf.

"Where …" Celeborn cleared his throat, dismayed by the barren rasp of his own voice. "Where is Elrond?" he asked, pitching his voice lower and achieving a marginally better result.

The elf gave him a somewhat glassy-eyed look of longsuffering. "I'm certain Lord Elrond would agree with me," he said, deliberately misunderstanding as he tried to muscle his errant patient into a more acceptable position; preferably horizontal. Celeborn shook off the healer's hand and narrowed his eyes. It was not a look many could withstand.

"I will not allow you to wander through the camp looking for him," the elf said with a sigh. "But if you lie back down, I will send a messenger for him."

For a moment, Celeborn considered pulling his not-insubstantial rank on this young and very junior healer, but another wave of dizziness assailed him, and he nodded in defeat. He was aware of several pairs of hands easing him to the ground, and a murmured request to find Elrond as quickly as possible. Someone pressed a cup to his lips, and he swallowed a mouthful of warm, acrid water before consciousness slid crossways out of his grasp.

Father, hear me. Ai, Elbereth, let him hear me. South and East, soon. Be prepared.

"He tried to stand?" a voice asked, wavering into distant focus.

"He did stand, my lord. He was up before we could stop him," another answered.

The first sighed. "I wish he had not done that. He is bleeding again, and I will need him before the end. I will need them all before the end; we are going to have to have as many of these wounded as possible up and fighting soon enough. The last battle for their lives, I fear." The voice faltered into regretful silence. "Did he say what he needed before he lost consciousness again?" it continued after a moment.

"No, my lord. He merely asked where you were."

"Delirium?" the first sounded defeated.

"He was muttering about dwarves. But when I spoke with him he seemed reasonably coherent. Indeed, there was purpose in his eyes."

"Very well. Celeborn!" Elrond called softly, and touched the wounded elf's brow as he focused the skill of his Maiar blood. It was a touch the likes of which Celeborn had felt before, from a queen long departed in a land long gone. He coughed and blinked, for though a part of his heart distrusted the divinity that had betrayed him in his youth, he had no strength to ignore the call. Elrond smiled wryly down at him, though it did not reach his eyes. "You should be resting, old friend," he said gently. "What is so important?"

The half-elf moved his hands to the lord's wounded side as Celeborn collected his fractured concentration. Elrond sighed as blood drawn by an orc's wild thrust seeped through his fingers. Celeborn's armor should have held, but weeks of battle without time to renew strength -- of both metal and flesh -- had taken their toll. His weary sword a moment too slow, his last defenses a shade too fatigued, and the beslimed orcish blade had first punched through a chink in metal and then found a purchase in flesh. The foul hand that had wielded it had been quickly hewn off, followed almost immediately by its accompanying head, but the damage had been done.

Celeborn twitched in pain as Elrond began re-dressing the wound. "What is our situation?" he gasped.

Elrond lifted an eyebrow. "Indulge me," Celeborn commanded, and Elrond shrugged fluidly.

"We are caught in a broad valley just north of Eregion," Elrond said quietly. He was mindful of the sudden attention of the healers and some of the less-agonized patients, and had no wish for them to hear this. "A mountain is at our backs. The minions of evil lurk in the shadows at our flanks, and the main army of darkness advances at our front. The battle is paused; the orcs stand in a seething line in the shadow of the mountains, jostling forward by degrees as the shadow lengthens."

"I assume that we are . . ."

" . . . in the last place to be touched by shadow before nightfall?" Elrond continued. "Yes. The twisted creatures can not bear the full force of today's bright sun, and so in the light of the day is where our exhausted armies wait, far outnumbered and unable to escape. Darkness will bring death."

Celeborn nodded grimly, and struggled to sit up.

"Nay, lord, rest now," Elrond said, easily restraining the older elf before moving to rise from his knees.

"Wait," Celeborn whispered, catching his tunic. The lord looked quizzically down upon him.

"Help me stand."

Elrond frowned. "No."

"Mandos take you, Peredhil," Celeborn said tiredly. "I need to see a map."

Elrond rocked back to his knees, his eyes calculating. "Very well, you wily silver fox. You have my attention. Glorfindel!" he called. The twice-born Vanya had been prowling the perimeter around Elrond, and now came to stand beside his lord and friend. A quick glance spoke enough: Unwise? his eyes asked. Necessary, Elrond's returned.

"A map," Glorfindel said. "You want recent troop movements as well?"

"Yes. With as much speed as you can muster."

"What do you see that I do not?" Elrond asked when Glorfindel was gone, but Celeborn did not answer.

He had unfocused as the other two spoke, balanced in the light between waking and dreams, though his body urged him to succumb to the sunshine and follow the heat into healing. Beneath his back, Middle Earth reached upward and sang mournfully, uncommonly upset. Arda Marred! It cried, Arda Marred! and blamed itself again for the elven blood sinking into its heart. Celeborn was abruptly angry at the Valar for leaving the earth with the mistaken impression that it was healed, for cutting away the knot of disharmony while leaving tendrils of discord where they could grow and fester into a seething, black mass of orc, orc who marched under banners of flesh, and --

--sweet Elbereth, that was Celebrimbor stretched across those poles. How many others? Dozens? Hundreds? Oh, Manwë, how long did they live like that before they died? Gilthoniel Fanuilos, let not my father be among them. Oh, Varda, ai, Valar . . .

"Celeborn," Elrond said wearily, "your tendency to drift away is not inspiring confidence in me."

"Tell me, Elrond," Celeborn said, returning to himself, "for you are a master of lore. Can you think of a story more cruel than this: to leave a war half won, to destroy one world and permit the spawn of evil to escape to another, to require children to see the horrors so nearly defeated, and then insist upon our groveling worship for the appearance of their favor? Is this divinity?"

Elrond shook his head in bemusement. "Today of all days is not the time to air your grievances with the Valar. Some sunny, peaceful afternoon when you are not bleeding and I am not losing we will drink tea and discuss faith and blaspheme. But for today, if you have any groveling in you, that is the course I would recommend. Or, if you require more concrete action, get up and look at the map you demanded."

"Has anyone ever told you that there are moments when you sound eerily like Elu Thingol?" Celeborn growled, and pushed himself upright before Elrond could react, a spark of hope and a blaze of rage animating him beyond his strength.

Elrond scrambled to his feet and steadied the reeling lord. "Breathe in, breathe out," he murmured, and helped Celeborn into a clean tunic before handing him his sword. "Glorfindel has set up a map under the healer's pavilion. We've attracted a fair amount of attention. If you're going to do this, you might as well kindle a measure of hope in our people while you're at it. They look for a sign. For the love of everything good and fair, do not stumble."

Celeborn grimaced, then straightened. "I am fine; I can walk," he said, and put action to words.

---

The three lords and their various lieutenants leaned over the map while scouts filled in the blanks with their hard-bought knowledge; if one lord leaned more heavily on the table, no one mentioned it.

"We are here," Glorfindel said, tapping the map, "in this valley in the north of Eregion. Oddly nameless, apparently."

"We did not name it because we did not," Celeborn snapped. "I hereby declare it the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Happy?"

Glorfindel ignored him. "There is a deep contingent of orc pressing us from the northwest, a "V" just here. Seven thousand spears, or perhaps ten. The main contingent is coming up from the south, directly through Eregion and up this valley. Forty thousand orc, at least. The situation is better to the east. Better, is, of course, relative. A thinner line, more scattered, roughly hook shaped. The terrain is worse for them, but it is also worse for us. Call it six or seven thousand..

"What of our forces?" Celeborn asked, and crossed his arms across his ribs to mask a spasm of pain.

"I brought five thousand," Elrond said, "but took heavy casualties. Approximately three thousand fight-ready. And my count puts the uninjured refugees at between fifteen hundred and two thousand."

"Calandil?" Celeborn said, turning to his second.

"Four thousand capable of fighting, my lord," he answered. "Total injured pushing four thousand, most badly."

At the last, Calandil was unable to stop himself from glancing pointedly at Celeborn. He had followed his friend, as he ever had, against the din-horde that had pounded on Eregion's borders. The land had not been designed for war and defense -- no mighty walls, no towers, no hidden caves. Thus their meager host had been the only hope of the escaping civilians; a living levee against a bloody tide. It had not been enough, as both had known it would not be, and he had half-carried his wounded leader in the last, desperate push toward Elrond's army as Eregion fell.

"Doriath, Sirion, Eregion," Celeborn had whispered hoarsely, the smoke of the flaming land coating his voice. "Ai, forgive me." Calandil had not had any words of comfort to give. Action alone had marked his devotion: hands to carry, a sword to defend, a wordless retreat to bring the survivors to safety, if only for a little while.

"We stopped counting the dead," he continued.

Celeborn nodded. "Supplies?"

"Poor," Glorfindel said. "We came lightly equipped for speed, and most of the refugees have little more than the clothing on their backs."

"Nothing to be done about it. Is anyone familiar with the terrain north?" Celeborn asked.

Elrond shrugged. "I surveyed it for Gil-galad just after the War of Wrath. Mountains, rivers, deep canyons."

"Places more defensible than this slaughterhouse?"

"Yes. It would be hard going, but there would be places to dig in parts of our forces, places to hold lines while the civilians escape, then withdraw and dig in again. But this is moot, Celeborn. If we had only our forces, perhaps we could punch through north and east, and plan to lose half. But with many thousand civilians and injured besides? Suicide."

"There is one piece on the board you do not see," Celeborn answered, and reached forward to draw an invisible line in the mountains. The silver elf smiled faintly. "My son is coming with the army of Lorien"

Elrond's eyes widened. "You are certain of this?"

"Yes. He has been reaching for my mind all day. I know not if he will arrive in time, nor if his arrival will make a difference, but he is coming. I have seen his army in the deep of Moria, and the cursed dwarves he insists on befriending are at his side. They come, Elrond. He says they will strike the enemy from the south and east, soon."

"If Galadaran and Durin can draw off some of those forces, make us a hole . . . perhaps," Elrond mused, his gaze fixed on hazy possibilities. "You said your son was reaching for your mind; have you been able to reach his?"

"No," Celeborn admitted. "He is the child of the second age, and has never fought a major battle, much less led an army. His tension is wrenching his mind between armored and overstimulated, and I am . . . somewhat wearied. I may have the strength enough to reach him once, but I want to be sure the message is the correct one."

"Where to strike?" Elrond asked.

"When to withdraw," Celeborn answered. "I would not have our rescuers expose themselves a moment longer than necessary."

"Perhaps you are somewhat over-invested in that decision?" Elrond suggested gently.

"You may speak to me on this when you have held your own child in your arms, and not before," Celeborn returned with ire.

"Peace," Elrond said, willing to concede, and turned his attention away. "Glorfindel, we must be prepared to move this entire host at a moment's notice. The soldiers, the refugees, the wounded, everyone."

"What of the dead?"

Elrond grimaced. "Leave them, and any others who die as we flee."

"My lord," Glorfindel said softly, "the bodies will be eaten, or defiled. There is not a single member of our host who does not know at least one of the fallen, and there is not a single one of us who can guarantee that death is not our fate."

"You think I do not know it? But I will not spend lives or time in defense of the dead." Elrond passed his hand before his eyes; it did nothing to banish images that would haunt him until the world ended. "We must look to the living, or there will be no living left. See to the preparations. Swiftly." Glorfindel nodded and glanced at Calandil, who nodded in return. They withdrew, along with the others.

Elrond turned back to Celeborn, who had swept aside the map and now sat heavily on the table. Elrond gave him a twisted smile and joined him. He studied his palms, stained with blood and grime, ribbed and callused. They rasped dryly as he rubbed them together, and were unchanged when he turned them upward again. There was much to say to the lord at his shoulder: I'm sorry I was not in time, sorry I could not do more, sorry I failed to kill Annatar when he stood unprotected before me outside Lindon centuries ago. He said none of it.

"Will this work?" he asked instead.

"Valar willing," Celeborn answered sarcastically.

"I wish you would not do that," Elrond said tiredly.

"It will work," Celeborn could have said, but didn't.

"I must ask, though I know it will make little difference," Elrond started dully, but Celeborn was already shaking his head. "Will you please return to the healers?"

"I will submit to your will when we have extracted ourselves and my son is out of danger, but not before," Celeborn answered, and climbed doggedly to his feet. He offered Elrond his hand. "Come, let us finish this."

---

These orcs are young, Galadaran thought as he wrenched his sword from another body and swung it upward, a crimson arc to parry another blow. It was a disturbing thought, and one he did not wish to have. He did not want to have pity for these twisted creatures who leered at his through disfigured faces, but begged for death with eyes that were so nearly elvish. He did not want to wonder if they longed for a distant snatch of song, not while he stopped their hearts. And he dared not wonder if Eru wept for them as children, not when he feared that he might find desecrated pieces of his own father clutched in some clawing, filthy hand.

With a cry he threw his latest assailant back and pivoted, disemboweling another. "Neatly" disemboweling, a sword instructor would have said, and utterly neglected to mention the spray of blood amid putrid, twisting guts, and the gore that covered to the wrists, then elbows, then shoulders.

"Lad!" a voice cried behind him, and he spared a part of his attention for the dwarf king who fought to his side. "The battle is turned against us. We will be o'er run afore the hour is ended. A hopeless battle, and for naught. Your land is taken, your people are dead. We must save vengeance for another day!"

Galadaran lifted his face to the darkening sky. 'Twas twilight, the time most blessed of the elves -- and the time most favored by orc. Not an accident, that the singer of dissention had turned beauty to terror. The night was clear and cold, and Eärendil dawned low in the sky.

He quested outward again into the night, searching. It would have been better if his mother had done this reaching of the mind; it was a skill that he had not fully mastered in his mere score of centuries. He had asked her, before he departed, as she had helped him pull on his armor. "Will you tell father we are coming?" he had asked, and her hands had paused. An infinitesimal hesitation, a mere beat in the conversation. Yet it spoke much. "Mother?"

"I cannot," she answered, reaching again for her son, her fingers buttressing him against the swords and arrows of the horde.

Galadaran's heart had clenched within his breast. "Is he dead, then?" he asked, lightly, almost casually.

"I know not," Galadriel had answered, not meeting her son's eyes.

"How is that possible?"

"Distances are measured by more than miles, my child," she said, enigmatic as ever. He had dropped his gaze to her hands, and impulsively caught them in his own. Beneath his fingers he felt two bands, one visible, one not. One, the gift of his father, the other, the doom of Celebrimbor anguished.

"I understand," he said wearily, and knew well the mighty clash of wills that must have transpired when she placed the second upon her hand, a terrible blow enough to fracture his parents. "Aye, I understand. But I shall never understand either one of you." Galadriel had turned her hands in his then, holding them within her own. She kissed them, his broad, strong hands that once had scare been able to wrap themselves around her finger.

"I know," she said. He watched her face for a moment. Most others would only have seen her tranquility, but he knew her better. Pride and anguish, strength and fear, Middle Earth, and now, the Sea -- all was written clearly in the soul he loved so well. How could he not feel it? She was his mother.

"If father yet lives, I shall find him," he promised, and kissed her hands in turn.

"Eru go with you," she may have whispered, or perhaps not, but he heard it all the same.

Now, briefly harbored from the storm of battle that raged around him, he dropped his head and shook it in frustrated rage and denial, for it seemed the dwarf was right. Of his father and the hosts of Eregion, he had neither felt nor seen the faintest stir. Tortured bodies and leaping flame were all that remained.

"Forgive me, child," the grizzled dwarf said gently, forgetting, in the way of mortals, that the fair youth beside him was many centuries his senior. "But dying for the dead avails no one."

Galadaran raised his eyes to answer and startled, for the storm of war broke over them again. Beside him, Durin roared, his axe flashing in the starlight, and Galadaran leapt forward to impale another orc. He breathed in and his heart beat, and before it could beat again his father was suddenly, miraculously there.

This was the presence that had watched over him as he slept, that and comforted him in fear, that had guided his hand, that had filled his head with strategy, and warmed his heart with song and raced him through the trees and laughed and taught and loved.

In one blinding moment, his father flooded his mind with the full force of his personality. It was overpowering, painful in its abruptness, and barbed with a raw edge of weariness. Then Galadaran felt Celeborn's horse shifted roughly beneath him and Celeborn's focus splintered in the accompanying burst of agony. But strangely, Celeborn could still feel the earth beneath his son's feet, the sword in his hand as he fought beside the dwarf. His son had stayed with him -- inexpertly, roughly, but with a tenacious endurance that his father could not muster for himself.

You are hurt, father.

I am fine.

"Push them!" Galadaran roared to his valiant little troop. "Only a few moments more!"

"We're nearly through," Elrond said, pulling his horse up beside Celeborn. "A minute more, that is all we need." The horse turned a circle and Elrond kicked her forward again into the fray.

"Calandil!" Celeborn shouted across the field in alarm, standing in his stirrups. "Watch your left!" Calandil's force regrouped and turned against the enemy attempting to flank them.

"Lord Amroth!" an elf called, and Galadaran disengaged for a moment, turning toward the elf that had called his name.

"Our scouts have spotted Elrond's army," the elf continued. "North. Just north, and desperately pressed. They may be able to escape through a pass into the mountains if we can hold the attention of these orcs."

"Well done," Amroth said. "They are escaping, those that live."

Amroth? Celeborn asked.

It is what they have been calling me. Galadaran answered, glancing north.

"We must withdraw!" Durin shouted." Amroth, we must withdraw! We're nearly surrounded!"

"Courage! A few moments more!" Amroth answered.

Go.

You're not through the pass.

"Stop daydreaming!" Durin roared, shaking an orc off of his axe. "That one nearly had ye!" Amroth winced, but not on his own account.

We are through! Go!

"We are through, my lord!" Calandil said, his horse heaving. "Just you, and I, Glorfindel, and Elrond remain. And the dead."

"And the dying," Celeborn answered.

"For them, it will be over soon enough. Let us pray that the Valar do not already count us among them. Ride!"

It is enough, my son. A hole we needed, and a hole you have made. We escape north. Withdraw, Galadaran, with the thanks of many -- and with my love. Deliver it to your mother and sister when you see them again.

Father! Galadaran cried out after him, but he was gone, and the world constricted to only one bloody field of carnage. The echo of lethargy that had filled his limbs lifted, for the exhaustion had been his father's. He was not yet certain what news he would tell his mother, for he understood now something that he had not before.

It was far simpler to face the world thus alone. And lonely

---

Translations:

amrath-thavron - high street builder; literally "upstreet builder"