Summary:  An elf is caught in his worst storm ever.

Written for the ALEC "Stormy Days" challenge where it won third place.

 Thanks to Fiondil for the beta.

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I remember the first real storm I ever saw after the death of the Trees in Valinor. How I watched fascinated by the thrill and the terror of the bright loud unknown, hurrying and striking around me. The sky had grown black much like the horizon darkened before me this day as the Host of the West waited before the gates of Angband. I heard a great rumble in the distance which drew ever closer and more raucous like the pounding of the hooves and metal-clad feet marching menacingly toward us. I recall sudden claps and loud booms as if in portence of the swords I now see, clashing shields and rending armor. The hail pelted us as we ran for the shelter of the house, but there is nowhere to run from the arrows pouring down upon us now. My armor deflects and I duck beneath my shield, but that is when the swords and spears come at us from the front and sides, striking us like the lightning which cut the sky and felled the trees in grandfather’s orchard. The ever-present rain would at least cleanse as much at it washed away, but the rush of wetness I feel now only cleanses dirt from my armor as it washes my strength away from me. Soon I lie utterly spent in the dust, moistening the parched soil with my life’s blood, like the gentle lingering rains caressed the plants after the storm had passed. As my own sky darkens once more, I hear the keening wail of my grandson’s grandson as he drops to the ground beside me, grasping my hand, calling to me. The winds used to howl through the trees making a sound like his shrill cries. I strive to tell him not to worry for it is just a storm and it will soon pass, but I cannot form the words. Perhaps when the calm returns, we will walk amongst the trees and I will show him that all will be well once again.