Some Futile Hope by Luxa

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Part Two: Chapter Three

Elrond fights in battle again, and sees a banner he never wanted to see.

Second Age, May 20th, 1697. 2:10 P.M.

"We have no force to withstand them."

"I know, Glorfindel. The council has been telling me this for the past two weeks," replied Elrond. "But here we are, staring a marching army in the face. We cannot run; they will only come after us."

"There are thousands upon thousands of them, and we have only a small number of that."

"Again, I know," said Elrond, his eyes trained on the black smudge in the distance that marked their doom. He horse whinnied beneath him, and he patted it absent-mindedly with a worn glove.

"Just making sure," said Glorfindel, smiling tightly. "You are right, of course. We have no options here."

"Ereinion will be beside himself with grief," said Elrond softly. "But it will only cause him to lead his armies all the better."

Elrond glanced at Glorfindel after he said this, but the blonde warrior's eyes were focused on the approaching orc army. They spent the next hour or so in silence, the archers waiting for Elrond to give the word, the cavalry, now only a hundred or so, sitting restlessly behind Elrond. Behind the cavalry were the foot-soldiers in all their bedraggled glory, exhausted and tired of war. Elrond could not give them the rest they so sorely needed; instead they faced their death in a hopeless battle.

"What is that?" asked Elrond suddenly. "What is on that banner?"

"I don't know," said Glorfindel, squinting. "You must have better eyes than me."

Elrond's heart dropped like a stone as the banner came closer with every step.

"No," he whispered. "It...it cannot be."

"What?" asked Glorfindel, alarmed.

Behind them, sharper-eyed Elves were murmuring to each other, trying to figure out what they were looking at.

Elrond's mouth was dry, and he was finding it difficult to swallow.

"It's a body," he said, his voice devoid of all emotion, his mind reeling. "It's an Elf."

"Elrond," said Glorfindel. "Do you think it's..."

Elrond did not reply.

Celebrimbor. His Celebrimbor. His last family, his cousin in heart if not in blood. Over a thousand years of love and trust and each of them coming to terms and confiding in each other over their ravaged, ruined families.

Dead. Not only dead, but broken.

The army just kept marching. The orcs just kept coming, and although Elrond could not yet see the malice in the eyes of the Enemy's herald, he could feel it.

Celebrimbor's body eventually was fully visible, limbs twisted at unnatural angles and blood staining the batter body. He was held onto the banner by means of several ugly black arrows piercing his body. Elrond hated to see the huge, gaping holes they had caused and the dried blood still on the corpse.

Maybe it was because he was already thinking of his past, or because of the obvious pain Celebrimbor had been through, an image of Maedhros, proud, scarred Maedhros flashed through his mind. Terrible to behold in battle, orcs running in fear of his face, the pain of his torment ever visible if you dared to meet his eyes. Maedhros, who had eternally stood watch so Maglor could raise the twins.

Maedhros and Celebrimbor, Elrond's two tragic heroes. He didn't want any more heroes. He wanted his loved ones to stay alive and safe and where he could reach them.

"Glorfindel," Elrond said. "Don't you die on me."

"I do not see a Balrog, my lord," said Glorfindel. To others it would have seemed a joke, but Elrond knew him better.

Glorfindel did not joke about Gondolin.

"I will dry my eyes after this battle," said Elrond. "And I will need to. But now, we fight."

"I take it you, too, do not intend to die?"

"No," said Elrond. "Not now and not ever."

Sauron was ill-prepared for the assault he met when he unfurled his new banner; he had expected it to create dissension in Elrond's ranks, to cause hesitation. He did not expect Elrond to lead his army with an inner fury that had not been seen since the red whirlwind had left Himring. There was no fear in the eyes of the herald who charged him that day.

 

Second Age, May 20th, 1697. 5:40 P.M.

"My lord!"

Elrond wrenched his sword out of the carcass of an orc and looked up, breathing heavily. He had lost his horse sometime earlier; yet another loss to mourn.

"You are not one of mine," said Elrond. "Unless you are very new. Who are you?"

"I have been sent to inform you that Amroth of Lórinand has come to your aid," said the messenger, ducking to avoid the swing of a sword. "Merely by coincidence, it seems, but for the good of all. However, I have been sent ahead; Amroth and our men are on the other side of the battle.

"Good," said Elrond. "We may be able to retreat soon then."

"My lord?"

"My men cannot win this battle," said Elrond pausing to kill an orc directly behind the messenger. "If there is a chance we can escape, we will not take it. Even in my rage I will not send my soldiers to senseless deaths. Will you be able to hold them without us?"

The messenger, surprised, hesitated. "I am no strategist, but our forces are large. We can likely hold them off."

Elrond sigh, relieved. "Tell Amroth that I readily accept his help, of course, and by the chance that we do not meet during or after the battle, thank him profusely for me. Now go, before you get yourself killed."

"Yes, my lord."

Second Age, May 20th, 1697. 7:12 P.M.

The were Dwarves in this battle. Elrond could not say when they got there, only that they were there, and they were fighting the orcs. He shouted his thanks and extreme gratitude to one bearing a runner's crest and hoped it got to Durin, as his next course of action was to order a retreat.

"Elrond!"

"Glorfindel!"

"I am glad to see you kept your promise!"

"And you!" called Elrond, riding on a horse he'd found escaping from the battle. He'd always had a way with horses.

"Well, what are we waiting for? Run!"

As Elrond galloped away from the battle, he let the rushing wind take care of his tears. There was still no time to mourn.

 

Second Age, May 21st, 1697. 11:49 A.M.

"They are still following us."

"Of course they are," said Elrond. "But not all of them. Amroth and Durin's Dwarves came at exactly the right time."

"They did indeed."

Elrond and his council were talking and walking at the same time; Glorfindel was out collecting the Elves who had scattered in their escape from the battle. Judging from the Elves that streamed around them, they still had most of their forces, although they were being forced north, away from Lindon.

"We cannot run forever," said a council member.

"We will run as long as we have to," replied Elrond shortly. "I have said this already."

"But-"

"It is either run or die," said Elrond. "Which would you rather do?"

 

Second Age, May 22nd, 1697. 3:12 P.M.

"Lord Elrond!"

Elrond had managed to gather most of his forces in the night, although they were still in disarray, their energy vastly depleted. They were still able to keep ahead of the orc detachment that followed them, although Elrond wondered for how long.

"Yes?"

"We have found a valley," said the scout breathlessly. "It goes deep, and there is but one way in that we can see. One of the scouts nearly slid into the entrance, it was so hard to find. There are no conventional paths in, and, if you so wish, we should be able to get everyone in and block the entrance before the orcs find us."

Elrond's heart leaped. This sounded like exactly what they needed; but was it really? "What about food and water?" he asked. "Is there any game?"

"There are forests that must be full of game," said the scout, and Elrond could see the longing in his eyes. "And the waterfalls...I do not think that this place has been touched by any sentient creature before now."

"It is a shame that we must do so," said Elrond. "Please, show me this paradise."

And a paradise it was. The scouts were right; the entrance was hidden. Elrond thought that they would only be able to get two or three Elves side-by-side, and he worried that this valley might not be big enough. The tunnel, which was rock and would be difficult to destroy, even by an entire orc army, went on for a fair bit before it opened up into the valley.

Elrond sucked in a deep breath. "Perfect," he said. "This is perfect."

Glorfindel, who, of course, had come with Elrond to view the valley, smiled. "You think so too?"

Elrond cast his gaze at the deep valley, thick, green trees blanketing the ground, waterfalls creating an almost constant hum of natural beauty. Elrond could scarcely take his eyes off it.

"Valley of the cleft," he murmured. "Imladris."

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