Chasing Mirages by Russandol

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Defeats

Following an unlikely victory, a new age begins; darkness grows again slowly until it hits home.

 

This chapter fits the following B2MeM 2012 prompts:

Artifacts & Weapons - B7: Narsil
Powers & Underpowers - B7: Irmo (Lórien): nightmare
This Means War! - N41: Sauron vs. Isildur
Weapons & Warfare - I27: Mace
Archery in Arda - B6: Wood elves of Mirkwood
Emotions - G59: Hope

 

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34. Defeats

 

Mordor, Year 3441 of the Second Age of Arda

Above me, the sky was filled with acrid smoke that belched incessantly from Orodruin. I stood at the top of an ash mound, surveying the charcoal-coloured landscape. As far as the eye could see there was nothing but barren waste, broken, of course, by the darker grey band of enemy forces barring our advance, and by the tall dark spike of Barad-dûr beyond.

I spat, but the bitter, gritty taste of ashes remained on my tongue.

Sauron’s patience was surprising, but it had clearly granted him the advantage. Our elation at the victory that had enabled us to breach Mordor’s defences had died during the past seven years. The thousands of days of foul water, poor food, dust storms, fire bolts from the besieged fortress and relentless enemy sorties like the one now before us had taken a heavy toll on our army. Frustration and misery on the plains of Gorgoroth weighed us all down as we faced yet another battle.

I glanced behind me and a painful blend of pride and guilt swelled within my chest at the sight of the endless rows of fluttering banners, shining helms and raised spears. This was an army almost as grand as the host I once commanded in Beleriand. With a pang, my gaze lingered on the companies from Eryn Galen, armed with longbows as well as swords and wearing tan leather armour and helmets. The arms on their flags, three oak leaves on a starred sky, were hemmed in crimson in remembrance for their slaughtered comrades and their former King.

My hand crushed the leather grip of my shield as I recalled the giant blast of fire from the Dark Tower that had consumed Anárion and five of his men to little more than ashes, less than a year ago, and many others since. Men slain by such a cruel weapon were the fortunate ones; the surviving injured had writhed in agony from their terrible, incurable burns for days, even weeks, before death kindly released them from torment.  

Would there be no end to this hopeless war?

The harsh clang of the flat of a sword on my shield startled me. I turned to my right and glared at Glorfindel, whose smile seemed incongruously white within his begrimed face. Soot blackened everything in this place of dread.

‘No more brooding, Erestor,’ he said. ‘Today we will defeat him. Against Aeglos and Narsil none can stand.’

I nodded without joy. When he walked on ahead, I admired the easy grace with which he moved despite the heavy steel plate that protected him. Having faced Valaraucar myself, I was awed by the fact that in an identical hröa Glorfindel had been able to defeat one of them at the Cristhorn, even at the cost of his own life.

I caught up with him and took my position behind Elrond, fearful of what might happen to him. After all, it was my lord’s face I had seen contorted in the throes of death on this very slope in several variations of the dreams conjured by Irmo.

Knowing that our siege could not be maintained much longer in those hostile lands, our commanders had planned a full attack. Before charging, Gil-galad sent Elrond, his herald, to issue a final demand for surrender, including our terms.

As Elrond marched towards the distant Dark Tower, unarmed and alone, I fretted at the thought of an arrow felling him. He reached the emptiness between the two armies, met his counterpart and delivered the message from both Kings. After what seemed like hours, he began to walk towards us. I sighed with relief once he was safely back within our lines.

A long silence followed, only disturbed by the occasional crunch of feet shifting on the ash or the creaking of a leather harness. The airless oppression that hung upon the land was beginning to choke me. I squinted in the murky light at the sheer black walls of the fortress that rose beyond the enemy lines, graceful in proportions and impossibly tall, but made ugly by the pervasive shadow of fear and evil wrapped around it.

The din from Sauron’s host echoed from the ash heaps scattered over the plain, and the hasty opening of a wide passage through their ranks warned us that an answer to our Kings’ demands might be forthcoming. I gasped when the Dark Lord himself stepped forth, followed by two of his sable-cloaked minions.

O Mairon, how did we come to this?

To terrify and dominate, he had embraced the fell guise of the monster he had become. He was much taller than I remembered him from Númenor, taller even than Elendil, a faceless warrior garbed in black armour and wearing a helm whose crown was wrought of iron and gold spikes, sinuous as snakes, sharp as thorns. I could see the cold glint of his eyes beneath the hideous mask. In his right hand he wielded a sword and in his left, an iron mace.

‘Who dares invade my demesne?’ he cried, and his deep voice carried far over the parched, rugged land.

‘The free peoples of Ennor do,’ replied Gil-galad, and both kings took a step forward. ‘We demand you to surrender to our justice, Gorthaur!’

Sauron’s mocking laughter made many men in our host shiver. All stood firm, though, hearts hot with rage at the memories of Eregion and Númenor.

‘Come and fight me, my good kings,’ he taunted. ‘I shall have your heads on spikes before the moon rises. Your peoples will not stand free for long.’

An outraged clamour from our side and a jeering din and beating of shields from our enemies greeted these words. A challenge had been issued.

Gil-galad carefully set his silver shield on the ground and gripped his spear with both hands. Then he advanced, regal in his deep blue armour and seemingly unafraid. He did not look back. Elrond and Círdan stood as his seconds, while Elendil had Isildur by his side. Both armies watched intently.

My heart pounded painfully. I had sparred against Mairon enough times to dread that, barring a miracle, the challenge could only end one way.

No ceremonies or salutes were exchanged before the contest. I held my breath as Gil-galad eyed his opponent warily, both of them feinting without actually attacking. But when they finally engaged, he thrust and blocked in a tireless dance in which Aeglos, true to its name, gleamed white and lethal like a frosted icicle. I was amazed at the King’s agility and speed; his movements were at times too fast for my eyes to follow. And yet, even though Ereinion valiantly held his ground and twice beat back his foe, Sauron gained the advantage when his sword clove Aeglos’ steel-bound shaft, fatally halving its length.

Despite what later legends may say, Gil-galad was not consumed to death by the heat of his foe’s hand. Instead, Sauron’s sword found an opening and stabbed the King upwards, through the heart, killing him instantly. When Ereinion fell to the ground, Elrond cried out in grief and attempted to rush forward, but Círdan held him back by force. The Dark Lord stood above his defeated enemy, blade raised, no doubt to claim his head as he had promised, but Elendil leapt forth and blocked the downward swing.

Narsil flashed gold and silver, as its wielder attacked with a precision that belied his fury. Any other foe would have succumbed under the onslaught but Sauron parried all the blows with sword or mace, although not without effort. For a long time they fought, the clash of metal and their swift steps on the lava ash the only sounds heard under the looming shape of Orodruin. But at length Elendil became sluggish with exhaustion and Narsil’s ringing clashes against Sauron’s weapons came less often, until with a sickening sound of shattered bone the mace crushed Elendil to his knees.

The cries of dismay and horror all around brought tears to my eyes. At the same time, the mithril band about my arm radiated a triumph so vivid and wild that it almost made me cry out in victory, along with the thousands of Sauron’s exultant followers. Sickened, I gritted my teeth and fought to repel his foul joy from my mind. 

At that time, both Isildur and Elrond rushed forward, but neither of them could save Elendil from the fatal thrust of Sauron’s black sword. Elendil swayed, mortally wounded, and dropped Narsil’s tip to the ground, while still clutching its grip with his trembling hands. When he fell,  the blade broke with a snap under his weight.

Amongst a thunder of cheers from his army, Sauron again swung his sword against his new adversaries, and Elrond barely managed to deflect the blow with his blade. It must have taken Glorfindel all of his strength to restrain me.

‘This is his fight,’ he hissed. ‘You may yet get your chance.’

I was forced to watch the scene unfold, enraged but powerless. Reckless from pain at the death of his king and friend, Elrond charged at his opponent without regard for his own defences. His violent tackle unbalanced Sauron, who stumbled and fell backwards, tossing Elrond to one side as though he were a rag doll. At once, Sauron rose to his feet and pushed down with his mace on the chest of his fallen adversary to prevent him from moving. His right hand shifted his grip on his sword, ready to deal the killing blow.

‘No! Mairon, no!’ I screamed in my mind.

Sauron’s black helm turned towards me and, for a heartbeat, he stood unmoving. Then slowly he raised his sword over Elrond’s head. It was then that Isildur, mad with grief at his father’s death, looked up from where he crouched by his broken body and seized Narsil. With a roar of rage, he lunged against the Dark Lord as Sauron’s uplifted hand thrust downwards to slay Elrond. Isildur’s arm slashed wildly upwards with the broken shard.

I cried out in horror and then gasped when Sauron’s blade clattered to the ground without touching my lord. Quick to take advantage of this miraculous escape, Elrond leapt to his feet, before sinking his long dagger into Sauron’s armpit above the black chestguard, leaning all his weight behind the stroke. In a man, such a wound could be mortal.

A shriek of impotent, incredulous wrath shook the very mountain slope we stood on. The sound, greatly amplified by the surge that swept me through our link, pierced me to the bone and made my skull throb with pain. I dropped my own sword and covered my ears. A whirlpool of black wind wrapped itself around Sauron’s form before it soared up high beyond the leaden clouds. His armour, empty, crumbled to the ash with a rattle.

Stunned, I sensed he was gone. But why had he given up the fight?

Isildur picked up something from the dust, his face a mixture of revulsion and wonder. Then he discarded his finding, or perhaps only part of it, because he lifted his hand, holding a small glittering object between thumb and forefinger.

‘The Ring!’ I whispered to Glorfindel. ‘Isildur cut the Ring from his hand!’

Círdan and Elrond rushed towards Elendil’s son and began speaking, nay, arguing with him, but I could not hear their exchange in the clamour growing all around us. The Lord of Mithlond grasped him by the arm while pointing at Orodruin. I saw Isildur shake his head and close his fist before putting it in his pocket. I began to walk, then to run towards Elrond, who knelt by our dead King.

Victory was ours. Sauron’s armies, bereft of his power, faltered. Many surrendered, others scattered, and a few fought to their deaths, too proud to yield. Barad-dûr was pulled down, and its dungeons emptied of captives in a scene so similar to the destruction of Angband that I had to remind myself that I carried no Angainor, and that our foe had fled. For now.

Sauron would lick his wounds, nurse his hatred and plan his vengeance.

 

~ o ~

 

Lore masters and scribes across Endórë have thoroughly recorded the events of the Third Age. Amongst the Atani who lived through those years, Time blurred the truth of history, and hard lessons about the weakness of pride and fall were forgotten; kingdoms rose and fell and their ruins crumbled along with their hopes. Yet, their bards and poets told the legends of battles lost and won, and sang about heroes big and small, whose deeds would echo on into the distant future of their people.

As part of this tale I could add my own account, but scrolls and books abound that describe the slow lengthening of Sauron’s shadow, after the reprieve we gained by our costly victory in Mordor. To dwell upon those bleak times would achieve nothing, so I shall not repeat them here.

And yet, some things cannot be left unsaid. A few happenings sparked a brief flare of hope in my heart; others stoked my despair, not solely because of the terrible pain inflicted on the Children but also because of my anguish at watching Mairon sink further into evil and my own guilt for the part I played in his downfall.

Often I was tormented by the thought of enduring another Age of the world, the second half of my decreed banishment, bereft of everything I had once lived for. Whenever my spirits sank, I forced myself to recall the oaths that bound me. To Elrond I had pledged my loyalty; to Námo, I had sworn to fight my lover with all my strength, were he to become a foe; to Mairon, I once vowed to make him truly free from Melkor, a promise all but unattainable now.

At the turn of the new age, only a few survivors knew of the existence and purpose of the Ring. A mere two years after our victory there was widespread dismay at the arrival of Isildur’s esquire, bearing the heirlooms entrusted to him by his slain lord and telling us of the loss of the Ring. Elrond’s consternation at not having forced Isildur’s hand was partly assuaged by the realisation that, for a while, he was free to wear Vilya upon his finger and wield its full power.

So it came to pass that Imladris was blessed with the undying beauty that both Celebrimbor and Mairon had once pursued. The Hidden Valley was shielded from lingering darkness abroad, from the eyes of the enemy and the ravages of Time, while the marring of Arda within its bounds was contained and diminished.

And it was during this temporary bliss that Elrond, lord of Imladris, rightful heir of Gil-galad and king of the remaining Noldor in Endórë in all but name, found the happiness he had believed lost in the eve of battle in Mordor, and his dearest desire came true. As I promised him in Dagorlad, we feasted at his betrothal to Celebrían and again at their wedding one year later. For a time the shadow cast by Sauron and by my own losses were forgotten as I wished them both joy.

Years later, I watched him hold his twin sons in his arms, his face a study of pride and wonder, and then his daughter Arwen, who would later be called Evenstar. I found a bittersweet pleasure in telling his children stories of distant lands and of the days before the Sun and the Moon, and they never grew weary of tales of Valinor, a magical place in their imagination, as Númenor had once been for my beloved Nikteháa.

 

~ o ~

 

‘Was Gorthaur very fair when he called himself Annatar?’ a sixteen-year-old Elrohir asked once when we were gathered in the Hall of Fire, before the evening songs and storytelling had begun.

Elrohir was immensely proud of being allowed to stay in the Hall with the adults after dinner. Elladan, however, would have rather run barefoot in the garden. On this occasion, he kept squirming on his chair, and now rolled his eyes at his brother’s question.

Their father, reclined on a comfortable bench with his arms wrapped around Celebrían, glanced at me. Glorfindel winked over the rim of his goblet, as he sipped mulled wine.

Thus prompted, I reluctantly opened my mouth to answer, while reminding myself to school my face into a blank mask, but Celebrían’s voice stopped me short.

‘He was indeed most fair,’ she said, and her opal green eyes lost focus, as though staring into the past. ‘I was not of age yet when we left Ost-in-Edhil for good, but I remember him well. He used to call me “my flower,” and said that Varda herself had surely spun my hair out of her whitest starlight. More than once, during lengthy, boring feasts, he told me stories of Aman, or we played riddles and games with numbers. I thought he was kind and wise.’ A brief smile was replaced by pursed lips and a shiver. ‘Like many others, I fell for his charms.’ I noticed Elrond tightening his embrace.

‘Did you know him when you both lived in Valinor, Erestor?’ said Elrohir. He was nothing if not persistent when something caught his interest.

Glorfindel almost choked on his wine.

‘He is a Maia,’ I said, perhaps too sharply, ‘and the mightiest and most skilled of Aulë’s apprentices, a long time ago. Maiar rarely get seen or felt, unless they are incarnate like Melian once was, or like... Gorthaur.’

‘Or like Eönwë and his host during the War in Beleriand,’ added Elrohir importantly, to prove he studied his lessons. ‘Our father spoke to him. Did you not, Ada?’

I bit the inside of my mouth when I saw Elrond wince and pull Celebrían even closer.

‘I certainly did,’ he replied. ‘What is the reason for your keen interest in Sauron right now?’

‘Elladan and I must write an essay about the fall of Eregion for our history lessons, but I do not understand... If Annatar was fair and wise and powerful, what made him change?’

I stared at the flames, picturing Mairon’s proud profile in the amber sunset of Kiinlúum, then recalling his disappointment and rage on the night when I told him of my choice to return to Lindon.

‘His ambition has ever been the dominion of the whole of Ennor. When he failed to achieve his purpose with lies, he waged war,’ said Elrond. ‘He will forever be our enemy.’

‘But he lost his power when you defeated him in Mordor, did he not?’ queried Elrohir, frowning.

‘We hope so,’ said his father, looking in turns at Glorfindel, Celebrían and me.

The existence of any of the Rings of Power was a closely guarded secret. That Sauron would find the Ruling Ring was indeed our greatest fear.

‘It hardly matters, does it?’ huffed Elladan, swinging his legs. ‘If Sauron returns, the Valar can send Eönwë and his army to help us win again, like the first time in Beleriand, and he will push Gorthaur into the Void with Morgoth. Shall we go and play now, Elrohir?’

Having sated his curiosity, at least for the moment, Elrohir nodded. Both boys stood, bowed courteously and ran out of the Hall.

A tremor shook me, and I gripped my knees to still my hands. Children’s mouths speak the truth, they say, and in this case foresight was a proven paternal trait. I was unnerved by such an uncanny pronouncement and by the dreaded memory of the chasm that opened between the snarling dragons of the Moritarnon, the Doors of Night that had swallowed Melkor long ago.

Glorfindel refilled my cup and offered it to me. I drank it in one long gulp, but the warm spiced wine could not dispel the chill from my heart.

 

 

Imladris, Year 1087 of the Third Age of Arda

The first time I saw Olórin in his guise as Mithrandir, I almost laughed aloud. Later, in private, I assaulted him with queries about Aman, including the reason for being sent to Endórë.

‘Your crime must have been even more heinous than mine,’ I teased. ‘Why were you given such a feeble appearance?’

‘We came to advise and persuade, and to unite the Children in resistance against Sauron and the corruption he spreads, not to rule or dominate them. This hröa is meant to makes us feel weak and humble.’

‘It certainly does not work that way for Curumo. When I saw him, he strode around with a practised air of infinite wisdom and patient suffering,’ I said. ‘But then, when was he ever humble?’

Olórin laughed heartily and I smiled. 

‘He told us that you had all been sent as emissaries by the Valar,’ I added. ‘But why now, after they have forsaken Endórë and removed themselves from the visible world?’

‘It is by the will of Eru, who spoke to the council called by Manwë and ordained it to be so.’

I sighed with wonder, hopeful for the first time in a long time. Having felt the shackle stir with faint echoes of Mairon’s feelings over the last half a yén, I dreaded the end of our peace.

‘I was already glad to see you, old friend, but now I would kiss you, were it not for that beard.’

‘In that case I am happy I decided to keep it,’ he replied with a growl. ‘Maybe the Valar gave us these old, dry bodies to avoid that sort of temptation, after finding out what it can lead to.’

I felt myself blushing.

 

 

Imladris, Year 2509 of the Third Age of Arda

Just after dawn, the bells of Imladris clanged urgently. By the time I rushed to the main porch of the building that housed Elrond and his family, the company of riders, dirty and exhausted, had arrived in the front courtyard. Elrohir held in his arms a limp form wrapped in a blanket. Elladan was already at his stirrup, waiting to receive it in his hands when his father pushed him to one side.

‘Adar,’ Elrohir sobbed. ‘We were too late.’

‘Is she alive?’ cried Elrond. He was pale as a sheet as he took the long bundle in his arms that Elrohir handed down to him with infinite care. Only then did his son dismount, dropping to the ground like a stone.

‘Barely. When we saw her injuries, we rushed back with all speed,’ whispered Elladan. ‘One of them is poisoned, we are certain. Oh, Adar...’

Both twins, dark-haired and taller than their father, were clearly beyond weariness, their hair matted, their clothes creased with mud and sweat. Deep shadows obscured their pale grey eyes and their faces were dirty and tear-stained. It had been many centuries since I had seen either of them weep.

Elrond bit his lip as he tugged gently at the corner of the blanket, uncovering the face of his unconscious wife. His grimace of pain pierced my heart.

Arwen arrived. ‘The healers are ready,’ she said. She peered at her mother and nearly sank to her knees. ‘Oh, Elbereth!’

Elrond strode down the path that led to the building where once I had lain wounded. His children followed; as they walked away I heard Arwen weeping quietly, with her brothers on either side, each of them with an arm around her waist.

A tide of scalding rage, of guilt and shame swept through me. I almost choked with the unbearable urge to hunt down the despicable beast behind this atrocity, the being I had once worshipped and caressed. I wanted to tear down his miserable lair, crush his loathsome thralls to dust and throttle him with my bare hands.

Impotent, I had watched darkness swirl tighter around us, closing upon other lands devoid of the protection of an untainted Ring of Power. A large portion of Thranduil’s forest realm was eaten away by a canker of dread spurred by the mysterious Necromancer of Dol Guldur, whom I suspected of being Sauron returned, although we had no proof. Despite having battled and defeated the Witch-king, chief of the Nazgûl, the deceived slaves of his Rings, Sauron’s shadow kept spreading further, encroaching us and the other free realms.

Glorfindel’s patrols had been fighting Orcs and other foul beasts that swarmed along the Hithaeglir. Aware of the peril, Celebrían had ridden towards Lórien with a large escort. And yet she had been seized.

I was trembling from shock. Sauron’s evil had hurt those closest to me. I would search for and annihilate him. I would throw him through the Moritarnon. I would...

‘Come,’ said Glorfindel, placing a firm hand on my shoulder.

‘Leave me!’ I yelled, and pulled away from him. Several startled faces turned to watch us.

‘I know what fills your mind right now, Erestor. Let me remind you that you have a duty to your lord, before you decide to bolt off seeking redemption for an evil you are not responsible for,’ he said in a low voice, grasping my arm so tightly it hurt. I struggled and his fingers clawed harder into my biceps, bruising me. I deserved pain, much more than this. 

‘You know nothing about me,’ I hissed. ‘Nothing. The Valar have cursed me. In payment for my ill choices of the past, anyone I love must suffer, while I am condemned to watch their agony.’

‘I thought that was Húrin’s doom at the hands of Moringotto,’ replied Glorfindel dryly.

‘Húrin watched his kin from afar; he died and found peace at last. I am denied that release, or any other. Manwë is crueller than his brother.’

‘Maybe,’ he conceded. ‘But neither Elrond nor Manwë will be ruling this realm for the next few days or weeks. You shall. With my help, if you will have it.’

His words had the effect of a plunge in an icy stream. Naturally, he was right. The last thing Elrond needed now was to worry about a wallowing counsellor. I took several deep breaths to calm myself.

Slowly, Glorfindel released me and gestured for me to accompany him. We began to walk, heading towards Elrond’s library, the hub of Imladris’ government.

‘Thank you, friend,’ I said. ‘Indeed I need your wisdom. Any I might have possessed deserted me long ago.’

I stopped and tried to turn back. Gently this time, he took hold of my arm.

‘Let us give Elrond some privacy. We will hear news from the healers’ wing soon enough. Otherwise I will prise the boys away lest they faint from exhaustion.’

‘I doubt they will move from her side.’

‘Believe me, I have a streak of stubbornness. And the Imladris guard answers to me. You would do well to remember.’

I snorted. ‘Is that a threat? That you will have me arrested if I am unreasonable?’

‘Possibly. I would certainly avoid unauthorised trips outside the valley until further notice, if I were you.’

I lifted my hands in mock defeat. ‘I have a duty; you have just reminded me yourself. I will be too busy for excursions.’

‘Good.’

We had reached the door to the library and our light banter died. A hard lump was wedged in my throat and tears were not too far from falling.

‘I would have lost my sanity several times over the yéni, had it not been for you, Glorfindel. I am indebted to you.’

‘In that case, maybe you can let me win a bout or two every so often,’ he said, deadpan. ‘Give me a chance not to feel perpetually humiliated.’

I shook my head. ‘Not that indebted, friend.’

Despite our sadness and anxiety we both smiled, before our thoughts returned to Celebrían and her family. Together, we waited for news.

 

 

Imladris, Year 2510 of the Third Age of Arda

Elrond never lost hope. Having trained with the healers ever since we faced the bloody aftermath of the battle of Dagorlad, he tended to his wife with his own hands. He encouraged her every minute step towards recovery. But after a few months it began to be clear to everyone but him that she had been hurt too deeply to ever find joy in Endórë again.

Very reluctantly, he agreed to her decision to sail West.

On the day chosen for their departure, we wished our lady a full return to health and that she would find in Valinor the peace that eluded her here. I almost broke down when she kissed my cheek and murmured in my ear, ‘Look after them.’

Then, before the assembled company that would escort them both to Harlindon, we exchanged farewells with Elrond.

‘You will be coming back, my lord, will you not?’ I asked him, apprehensive.

‘I have not made up my mind yet, Erestor,’ he answered, rubbing his forehead. Lack of sleep was etched on his face, along with the pain that had not ceased since the day we learnt of his wife’s capture. ‘I will send word, if I choose that path.’

‘We need you back here,’ said Glorfindel, fidgeting with the hilt of his sword. He ran thumb and forefinger over his eyes to remove any trace of moisture before gazing at his lord and friend.

‘No, you do not. Erestor has been a most capable ruler for the last year and can advise my heirs. I have left instructions.’

‘Very well, leave the governance to them and return, anyway. You are needed.’

Glorfindel embraced Elrond tightly and, when he released him at last, I did the same. We both bowed to him before moving to one side. Elrond kissed Arwen, who clung briefly to his neck, and then he wrapped an arm over each of the twins, kissing first Elladan and then Elrohir on the brow. Despite his children’s irate protests, he had banned them from travelling in their company, no doubt to save them the final, most bitter parting.

Without looking back, Elrond glided down the steps and walked towards his tall chestnut gelding. Taking the reins from the groom, he mounted. He swept his gaze over his home and then let it rest upon each of us. Subdued, we all watched the solemn host depart amongst a clatter of hooves and a creaking of wheels. The journey would be slow, as Celebrían would have to travel in a cart.

 

When Elrond returned from Mithlond, we sighed with joy and relief.

He was a changed man; melancholy but not broken, because misfortune had ever tempered him. Instead of joining his sons in their vengeful spree against the creatures of evil, tragedy made him care more than ever for the safety of those under his protection. Therefore he toiled to reinforce the boundaries of Imladris, which became a haven from the troubled lands abroad. 

Elrond later confided in Glorfindel and me that it had been Celebrían who had persuaded him to stay, and that he had vowed to her not to forsake Endórë until Sauron and his minions were defeated.

For me, a mere victory in battle would not be sufficient.