Memories of the Dead
Men and Elves alike speak proudly of the great battles at the close of the Third Age of Middle Earth. They tell you of the deeds of the King Elessar, of Gimli Gloin's son, of Gandalf the Wizard, of the great company of Elves that brought aid to Men one last time. Of Théoden King of the House of Eorl, and Legolas of the Woodland folk, and Eowyn, White Lady of Rohan, and her defeat of the Witch King of Angmar.
But I was there, and I defy those who tell of them as golden, shining days for Men and Elves. They were days of muck and mud, of rain soaking through armour as you watched friends and brothers fall beneath monsters you would not think to see out of the realms of nightmare. We were not heroes, fighting out of love for Middle Earth or any that lived on its pastures. We fought out of hatred, murderous hatred for the snarling, twisted fiends we saw before us, and of fear, that one day we might only be remembered as those who failed, by the enslaved and tortured descendants of the children we could not save.
I was there. And I say it was a time of terror, and shame, and hate, and blood, and misery, and rain, and pain, and grief. But most of all death – and when is death ever golden and shining and glorious? For death, whether 'tis in battle, or in bed, is a sorrow, and sorrow is grey and like mud, that will not be cleaned away.
I survived – a grieving Elf among the joyous Men of Middle Earth, and I was sickened by the death and pain they took such pride in, though their dearest companions lay dead, their comrades' lifeblood mixing with the muck beneath their dancing feet. For as Elves are creatures of the moonlight, children of the soul, Men are of the Earth, burning bright in rage and joy, human and wholly of the body.
Truly I am glad that the Age of Men is upon us, and Elvishkind no longer have a place in the shining woods of Lothlorien, and the beauty of Rivendell. For those places, no longer to be feared by Men, will remain as a monument, to what used to be, and what will be again.