Author's Note: Hey, guys! So, I definitely wasn't planning this story…but then I had to write it. You see, I was watching a game, and afterwards, I felt like Maglor needed another appearance. What's unique about this story versus my first one about the Rangers is that this is all based off a real game. That's right: all the details and people (save our beloved elf, of course) were just as I describe them. I hope that makes the story a bit more fun to read.

As said in the summary, this is a sequel to Rallying the Rangers. But I grant that it's been a while since that story, so I'll give a very short recap, just to refresh anyone's memory. However, I tried to not make this story super dependent on the former one; it's just a second story involving mostly the same characters.

In Rallying the Rangers, the Texas Rangers receive a visit from a mysterious and unknown fan, an elf later revealed as Maglor, during one of their games. They had been far behind, but the hope inspired by the new-come stranger helped them rally to an unbelievable comeback. That was all last season, when the Rangers were very nearly the worst team in all of baseball. This story takes place in the 2015 season—that which just occurred—making it one year later.

. . .

The Texas sky was now a navy blue, a few lone stars twinkling in the midst of the overhead abyss. But the view of the night's beauty was greatly veiled by the roof of Minute Maid Park. The stranger shook his head, his long, dark hair swishing back and forth as he inwardly cursed such a contraption as this. How could anyone play baseball properly inside? The elf knew that in the end it was just a matter of taste, but personally he could never feel right about an indoor baseball game.

And on a night like tonight, the weather would have been fairly nice outside anyway. A late September evening in Texas could hardly go wrong, even if it was more humid in this city—Houston—than others. But right now the weather was not the problem for the ever-mysterious stranger.

Amid the sea of orange shirts and signs, the elven lord's keen eyes picked out the pockets of blue and red. These brave souls were Rangers fans who had either travelled a good distance to see this important series or else people from the area with little regard for the Houston Astros. The stranger was of closest kin with the former group, having decided to take another journey across the open country and ending up here in Houston to watch a ballgame that was vital to both teams' futures.

And right now, the future of the Rangers was being challenged.

A loud smack filled the air and the stranger's eyes darted quickly to the field just in time to see a baseball shoot into the seats, drawing a rousing cheer from the home team's fans. That was the sixth home run that the Astros had hit during the game, and the elf heard a nearby blue-clad man give a long groan. That hit made the score now 9-4 in the bottom of the eighth inning. Would the torment never end?

The former lord of many remained as silent as he had been all throughout the game, but his spirit fell. Granted, he had seen worse. Last year, he had witnessed the Rangers come back from 15-1 in only three innings. But last year things had been different for several reasons. Chancing a glance down at the dugout, the stranger looked over the team and sighed. What a paradox the Rangers were!

Rather than being in last place as they had been a year ago, the Rangers were currently sitting in first with a slim lead. They had clawed their up the division for months, and finally their efforts were rewarded only last week. But a loss to the second place Astros would put the division title in doubt, making this series very important.

Yet what made the Rangers different than they had been before was about far more than their position—the team itself was drastically changed. Every single pitcher from that unprecedented comeback in which the stranger had participated was now gone. Ross had gone to the Red Sox, Cotts to the Brewers, Feliz to the Tigers, and Edwards to the Padres. The lineup was different as well. Rosales' contract had expired, Robertson was with the Angels, Arencibia with the Rays, Ríos with the Royals, and Martín and Chirinos stood in the dugout among the injured. All that taken into account, only Andrus, Beltré, and Odor remained from that fateful game's original lineup. And perhaps most importantly, Ron Washington—the team's manager for several great years—had resigned. Now the new skipper, Jeff Bannister, sat in the dugout, looking on at this nearly-lost game with steely, defiant, determined eyes, saying nothing.

But these Rangers were still the same Rangers at heart. Several current players were ones who had been absent only due to injury last year, and a couple were old friends who had at last been traded back to their true team. The stranger had not visited the players on any occasion since the game last year, but he could not deny his desire to meet some of the Rangers that had not been there during his…interruption the previous season.

Yet this was Houston, not Arlington. He could not just go down and stop the game like at home; there was no way the security here would listen, even if Bannister was as kind as Washington had been. So the stranger just sat, sending the team his silent prayers as the inning finally expired.

Now was the Rangers' last chance, and the whole crowd new it. The first player that came up to bat was Andrus, and the stranger found his knuckles whitening as he clinched the back of the seat in front of him. Andrus needed to get on base; the team only had three outs to use, and they couldn't afford to waste one.

Andrus struck out.

The crowd went insane, cheering and yelling as Andrus walked sorrowfully to the dugout. The elf actually let out a small audible sigh this time, pity filling his heart as the shortstop went to sit with his teammates, his head hanging in shame. Baseball could cruel and unfair sometimes, teaching more life lessons in one season than most philosophy professors could in their whole lives.

The second batter was the legendary Josh Hamilton. His battle with bitter fans and reoccurring injuries never ceased, and the fact that he had been able to start this game at all was a gift of grace. He took his stance in the batter's box with determination, ready to do all he could for his team.

Hamilton struck out.

Again, the air was filled with screams of pleasure as Hamilton followed Andrus' lead of returning to the dugout in dishonor. Again, the stranger wished he was able bring comfort. And then he decided that he didn't care if this was Houston; he would do all he could.

As the crowd rose to its feet to usher in what they hoped would be the final out, the elven lord made his way down the stairs toward the seats on a level with the field. Fortunately, all the standing fans made him more inconspicuous, so no one stopped him. He halted just beside the visitor's dugout, not venturing onto the field by any means, but being as close as he could be to watch what would happen, his fists and jaws clenched in anticipation.

Bannister put in a pinch hitter, the newly acquired Venable, to bat next. The stranger sent a longing gaze towards the batter, hoping that perhaps the man would catch his eye and feel the hope that was being sent his way. The stranger then clasped the railing and uttered the age-old battle cry in a quiet but firm whisper.

"Aurë entuluva."

The sound of the crowd's yelling was shattered by the crack of Venable's bat. The ball shot into right field and Venable hurried to first base. But no one really cared; there was still only one out to go. As the rookie DeShields came to the plate, the fans stayed standing, no one finding reason to doubt the inevitable except Venable, who ran to second on the pitcher's indifference. The game was surely on the verge of its end.

DeShields responded to the fans' hooting for an out by hitting the ball to the shortstop. But the Astros player couldn't get a quick grip on it, and DeShields—one of the fastest players in baseball—sprinted down the line with burning urgency.

"Safe!" the umpire called, DeShields having only beat the throw by half a second.

But it was still almost over. There was only one out to go; why get bothered by a couple of hits? The stranger, however, felt a small smile tug at the corners of his mouth. He didn't want to start hoping, but there was a tiny possibility…

Choo was up next. DeShields moved to second during the at bat, again on the pitcher's indifference. But he was on third by the time the infielders' recovered Choo's hit, a single, which scored Venable.

"Aurë entuluva!" the stranger declared, though it was drowned out by the mixed noise of Rangers fans cheering and Astros fans booing. But still, the home fans were not really discouraged. After all, it was now 9-5; that was more than enough cushion for the Astros.

Their sense of security was destroyed after Fielder crushed a single that scored both DeShields and Choo. A score of 9-7 with the tying run at the plate is not a comfortable position, and so the tension in the air thickened. Rangers fans and players cheered as a pinch runner came in for Fielder, and the stranger was not sure he didn't hear someone in the Rangers dugout give the "aurë entuluva" shout.

And, of course, the next batter was Beltré. Rangers' fans went wild, images of a homer playing though their heads, the stranger not excluded. The Rangers really could do it; they really could come back and win this game.

But Beltré didn't have an opportunity to either succeed or fail as a pitch plunked him on the hip. That ended the night for the Astros' reliever, who exited with plenty of curses as a pinch runner came in for Beltré and a new pitcher arrived at the mound. The Rangers now had men on first and second. A double would tie the game, and up to bat was an excellent clutch hitter: Moreland.

Hope was an almost physical feeling now in every Rangers fan, and the Ballpark threatened to spill over in its mixture of anxieties. Could the Rangers do it?

The stranger had every muscle coiled, his heart beating loudly in his ears. Just before the first pitch of the at bat, he dared to shout for the first time all day, his clear voice ringing out almost musically in Moreland's direction.

"Aurë entuluva!"

Amid the group in the dugout, several heads snapped in the stranger's direction, and those few players who remembered the speaker gawked when they saw him standing so near them. But the game called their full attention, so after a second of lingering looks, everyone turned their eyes back to the field to watch the game.

This was it; this was the climax, the moment of truth, the end of the line. Time seemed to slow as the pitcher wound up and fired the ball towards home plate.

Crack!

The pitch connected with the bat and bounced through the infield. The second basemen scooped it up, fired it to first, and Moreland was out. The game was over. The Rangers had lost.

What?

The stranger's mouth parted in disbelief as the air filled with the glad yells of the victorious Astros fans. But the Rangers supporters remained silent, dumbfounded. The players sadly made their way back to the dugout, looks of defeat etched on their faces that had beamed with hope only a few seconds ago. Moreland appeared more sorrowful than anyone, very slowly walking to the dugout steps.

But…this wasn't right! That rally was unbelievable—shouldn't any team that tried so hard and fought so long against all odds get the win? Yet they had lost, and now it was over. The loss was forever engraved on the rock of history and no amount of hope could fix it.

So now what? The stranger felt his hands clench and unclench, his head hung low. This was an aspect of hope that he had not highlighted when he told the Rangers the tale of Húrin last season. Indeed, this was the exact instance which had produced the cry that day would come again: when night had prevailed the battle. And all this realization did was bring the present failure onto a far more painful and personal level for the stranger, who had watched as the balgros trampled the remains of his dearest friend into that unholy ground so long ago, that brave lord's blood mingling with his banner and the mire of battle.

So was it a lie? Was hope futile and the world absurd? No, the stranger had lived through too much to buy into that. Loss hurt, but it didn't change the truth that day would come again. It might not be today, and it might be never in baseball, but it would come again.

Nothing happened by accident. Even that thrice-accursed Battle of Unnumbered Tears had proven to be but a vital chapter in the story which led to the downfall of Morgoth. Of course that had not made sense to the few who escaped it alive, but Ilúvatar was a more masterful composer than the finite Eldar. Was it not written that Eru, before the creation of Elves or Men, had said to Morgoth himself that "no theme may be played that hath not its uttermost source in me, nor can any alter the music in my despite. For he that attempteth this shall prove but mine instrument in the devising of things more wonderful, which he himself hath not imagined"?

Though he could not begin to guess how this loss would bring about the eventual day that must come, the stranger did not despair of that being underlying purpose. Even trials had meaning; even the ache of loss brought fulfillment. Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning, as some said.

With a sigh of what could be called satisfaction, the stranger made to exit with the crowds. But as he glanced past the departing fans, he saw that someone from the dugout was standing still, staring right at him. It was Andrus, who had begun the inning with a strike out.

"Is that you?" Andrus asked above the din, taking a stride closer and finally stepping onto a bench so that he was tall enough to see over the dugout's railing. The "you" wasn't specified, but it didn't need to be.

The stranger's face remained solemn, and he gave a slow nod, himself coming a bit closer to better hear what the shortstop said. Andrus extend his hand up, and the stranger shook it, all the while watching the player's expression to try to read the emotion.

"Aurë entuluva?" Andrus asked, his head cocked. He didn't ask it like he wondered if it was true—he said it as if suggesting that it was the fallback or fortress during the loss. The stranger admired the man's resilience.

"Aurë entuluva," the elf affirmed with another nod, and he even bothered to grin a bit. Andrus returned it with one of his trademark smiles, again shaking the stranger's hand as with gratitude.

"Elvis!" the manager called to Andrus from the other end of the dugout, strain obvious in his voice. "What are you doing?"

Andrus turned to face Bannister, grin still plastered to his face, and waved the manager over. "Remember what we told about that 16-15 game?" Andrus said before pointing excited to the stranger. "This is the guy!"

Bannister's face changed from a look of annoyance to one of surprise and reverence. The stranger felt his pale face blush slightly as he imaged the glorified tales that the players might have concocted about the occasion. But Bannister was as sensible as they come, displaying kind respect as he grabbed the rim of his hat and tipped it in a gesture of esteem. In return, the stranger bowed his head, and although there were no words exchanged, there was an understanding that only leaders with admiration for each other can have.

"Mitch!" Andrus called, suddenly leaping down from the bench and running into the clubhouse without offering an explanation, though the stranger half guessed the purpose. Sure enough, the shortstop soon reappeared, practically dragging Moreland behind him. Though Moreland now looked confused, he still seemed to be bearing the burden of the loss.

"What are you talking about, Elvis," the first baseman protested. "What game?"

"The one with the Yankees last year—the amazing comeback" Andrus replied, apparently having not offered a good summary of what was going on. "Your ankle was still out of shape; you didn't play."

"Yeah, I know that; I was present for the injury," Moreland answered with an eye roll. "But what does that have to do with…" he trailed off when he saw the stranger. The elf, noticing that the eyes of a rather mean looking security guard were fixed suspiciously on him, did not move any closer, but he dipped his head and addressed the first baseman.

"It is an honor to meet you," the elf said sincerely. "I'm glad to see you healthy, and your contribution has been invaluable to the team. Thank you."

Moreland was taken aback, but he smiled in response and rose to shake the stranger's hand, just as Andrus had done. "Thanks," Moreland said. "If I understand Elvis, then this team owes you for a great effort last year. Sorry I couldn't repeat it tonight."

The stranger shook his head, and in a manner that he had not known since being a commander, he set his hand on Moreland's shoulder and looked him in the eye. "Do not mourn overmuch; there must be reason."

Moreland was clearly perplexed by this statement, but then he seemed to understand. "No coincidences, I guess is what you mean," he said after giving it a second's thought.

The elf nodded. "Take heart in that fact," he commanded gently, his grip on Moreland's shoulder growing firm, but not unkind, "and remember that day shall come again. This is just one chapter of the tale that must end in day."

"Aurë entuluva," Andrus chipped in with a proud gleam in his eye at having pronounced such a lofty phrase in front of his teammate during a crucial moment.

Moreland smiled. "Thanks," he said again as the stranger pulled back. "You really ought to come to the dugout more!" the first baseman added with a laugh.

The stranger grinned a bit, but made no response of affirmation. He had been fortunate to not get in trouble last season with his antics, and doing that again would almost invite getting thrown out of the Ballpark…or arrested.

"You don't need me with you in order to win or lose honorably," the stranger finally insisted. "Just remember what promises you carry with you. The One be with you."

With those words, the lord of old dipped his head one last time and made to move on, interrupted immediately by protests from Andrus.

"Wait; nobody else has seen you yet!" he called hastily, almost making to leave the dugout to follow the stranger before thinking better of it. "Don't you want to talk with Beltré? How about Rougie and Chirinos? What about the other guys? You've got to meet Josh!"

The stranger only gave a mysterious smile, characteristic to his being and complimenting his appearance to its fullest. "You'll see me again, soon," he said softly, just loud enough for them to hear. "Day shall come again, and so will I."

And then he was gone, departing almost like a shadow, though not without having cast light on the Rangers.

. . .

Well, there you have it. I was so upset after the ending of that game that I caved to my muse and wrote this story, though I was hesitant to post it until I saw what became of the season. But what did become of the season, you may ask. As it turns out, my muse didn't stop at one story. So yes, there will be a few more in this series coming soon, as well as some other stories. Since baseball tales are not all that popular and thus get a lot fewer views, I would love for those who read the whole story to leave me some feedback! Thanks so much for reading!