Some Futile Hope by Luxa

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Part Two: Chapter One

Elrond comes to Celeborn's aid and, in the process, experiences his first battle.

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Second Age, May 12th, 1695. 6:40 P.M.

"The scouts are returning, my lord."

"Good," said Elrond, pausing in his clothes-washing to give his full attention to the messenger. "What have they reported?"

"They said they would rather speak directly to you," replied his messenger dutifully.

He had been afraid of that; this meant serious news. He vehemently wrung out his undershirt before telling his messenger, "Bring them here."

"But, sir," objected the messenger. "You are washing!"

"Other generals do it," said Elrond calmly. "Why not me? Oh, and bring-"

"Lord Glorfindel, I know," replied the long-suffering Elf before scurrying off.

Elrond sighed and returned to his washing, a process he enjoyed, as it gave him time to reflect on the day's march. All non-commissioned soldiers washed their own clothes and cooked their own food (which was given to them in rations), keeping a general sense of cleanliness about them even on the march, which, given their haste, had been long and exhausting. Most commissioned officers did the same, and Elrond had followed suit, deciding that, if he ended up alienating his soldiers somehow, it wouldn't be through a series of small, haughty gestures. He wanted to show them (them being everyone, his soldiers, himself, even Ereinion) that he wasn't just pretending at being a warrior or a soldier.

It was a few short minutes before his messenger returned with three of the scouts, Glorfindel closely behind.

"Tell me what you saw," said Elrond, finishing the shirt he was cleaning and wiping his hands dry.

"We saw the army of Sauron," said the leader of the scouts flatly. "He is already engaged in battle, right at the borders of Eregion."

"Who's holding him off?" asked Elrond. "Celebrimbor?"

"Not as far as we can tell," answered another scout.

"We think it may be Celeborn," added the third.

Elrond and Glorfindel exchanged looks, and Elrond suddenly had to suppress the urge to laugh. "It looks like my own words have come back to bite me," he said. "Not that I mind."

"His army is small," continued the first scout. "But are fighting valiantly. Still, they will not be able to hold off the orcs much longer."

"How soon can we reach them?" asked Elrond.

"Within a day's march," replied the scout.

"Then we shall ride to meet them," said Elrond decisively. "Ready the troops, and we will go as soon as possible. Scouts, alert all the captains. Glorfindel..."

"Yes?"

"Stay with me for a minute."

The scouts departed, and Glorfindel looked at Elrond with what Elrond was fairly certain was poorly disguised pity.

"You have done the best anyone could expect," said Glorfindel. "Better. You will b-"

"Battle is not about skill," said Elrond. "Not when you are in the thick of it. Even I know that. Let us be quiet for a moment, so we may steel ourselves and even pray to Elbereth that we may come out of this alive."

Glorfindel nodded. "Right now you seem to me a king of old," he murmured, and Elrond was grateful.

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Second Age, May 13th, 1695. 4:20 P.M.

Battle was exactly what he expected it to be.

Battle was far worse than what he expected it to be.

It was terrifying to head an army, to be the first one to charge, to know you were the easiest target for an archer. And yet, he was not hit. Miracles or luck or the normal fare of battle, he did not know. He doubted he ever would.

He had never seen an orc up close. He had never thought about it before, to be honest. He had heard such in-depth reports of orcs, had known about them since he was a child and Maedhros would cry against them in his sleep, he had even been on the outskirts of a battle where they were slain, that he had felt as though he knew everything there was to know. But he had never seen one up close. He had never smelled their stench or heard their footsteps or watched their eyes narrow in hatred as they mutated bodies lunged to kill you.

Not until he drove one through with his sword.

He had always thought that when he killed for the first time, he would take the time to watch his victim die.

He did not. He pulled his sword out and continued fighting. There was no time for acts of futility in battle. There was no time for weakness.

Soon, blood and smoke clogged his nostrils and blurred his vision, but to stop fighting was to die, and Elrond could not let himself do that.

When they battle ended, when the enemy was driven back, Elrond looked up at the and saw that it was past nightfall now. He glimpsed the Evening Star before returning his gaze to the battlefield and the aftermath he must now face.

Second Age, May 14th, 2:31 A.M.

"You came to our rescue," said Celeborn, granting Elrond a tired smile. "For that, I am forever thankful. We would never have survived without you."

"And thank you, for being able to hold them off for so long," replied Elrond, struggling to throw off the exhaustion that Celeborn must be feeling tenfold. "Still, we did not succeed. The orcs still surround Eregion, and they will not easily give up."

"Celebrimbor will be able to hold them off," replied Celeborn evenly. "I have but a small portion of his army. He will hold the gates for as long as possible."

"And how long is that?" asked Elrond.

Celeborn did not answer.

"I am not asking you a rhetorical question," pressed Elrond. "How long is it? Give your best guess."

Celeborn sighed. "Against an army that size, Celebrimbor could hold out for a year, maybe more. It depends."

"We cannot take them," said one of Celeborn's advisors bitterly. "There is no way, not with the losses we sustained today. Sweet Elbereth, I doubt an army twice our size could take them."

"Lord Elrond," said one of the generals quietly. "What do you command?"

Elrond took a deep breath and paused, thinking. It would not do to make rash decisions right now, so soon after battle.

"We will make a semi-permanent camp close enough to Eregion to come to its aid when the need arises. Until then we will protect as many surrounding villages we can and gather our strength. Any Elves that come to us for refuge will be taen in, and, if possible, trained to fight."

"We will not return to Lindon?"

"Do you think the High King would be pleased if I returned with naught but a false victory?"

"This is not about pride, Lord Elrond," said Celeborn angrily. "This is about keeping as many Elves as possible alive."

"I know what it is about," replied Elrond cooly, barely keeping his temper under check. "I did not mean to say that I cared for honor or glory, only that if we were return now we would have hardly put a stop to the Dark Lord's minion's reign of terror. The High King, as well as myself, could not live in the shadow of this failure. I have seen firsthand the horrors of war and the destruction it brings; I will stop at nothing to stop it."

There was a stunned silence.

Elrond looked down and smiled grimly. "Forgive me, Lord Celeborn. This has been a trying day. I have never fought in battle before, and it tries my endurance. I should take my leave of you now, to reconvene in the morning."

"No, Lord Elrond," said Celeborn. "It is you who should forgive me. I underestimated you."

"You're not the only one," was all Elrond said before heading off to a fitful sleep.