(AN: Peter Jackson really said 'f-you' to the people of Gondor, Rohan and Arnor who died at the Battle of Pelennor Fields by having an army of invincible ghosts show up to kill everybody, which NEVER happened in the book. All the Dead Men of Dunharrow did was route the Corsairs from their ships, and then they were dismissed. This, ladies and gentlemen, is my ode to all those who died at the Battle of Pelennor Fields, whose names were not important enough to be remembered by Peter Jackson.)

(Also, this is kind of an exercise, at least literary, for me. It's easy to get caught up in the 'splendor' of battle, charging through with your sword in hand, light at your back and whatnot. But the reality is that people die in battle, and it is bloody and painful. That's something also I wish to capture in my literature as far as this story is concerned.)

(Enjoy)

Farewell to Rivendell

The morning of February the 20th, 3019 T.A.

Thirty hooded Men rode into the stables of Imladris. Their leader, the Dunadan Halbarad, dismounted from off his horse and made his way up the steps to where he was being expected. It was dark, the morning was still a great ways away. All of Imladris, which Men call Rivendell, was illuminated with soft, glowing lamps. He needed them not, for even in the dark, the keen eyes of this Dunadan warrior could see almost as far in the day.

The one who met him at the top of the steps was one that Halbarad knew very well. Older than the stones of Fornost Erain, or even the colossal fortresses of Gondor, here was one who was, all at once, as ancient as two ages and a half, and yet as near to him, Halbarad, as if he were an uncle. For such was Elrond Peredhel, Lord of Rivendell and brother to Elros Tar-Minyatur, the father of the Dunedain.

"Mae govannen, Lord Elrond," Halbarad greeted, using the language of the Eldar. Out of respect, he inclined his head slightly. Elrond repeated the gesture.

"How many?" he asked.

"Thirty," Halbarad returned. It was hardly enough, that much he knew. Something was amiss in the Shire, ever since a whole sortie had abandoned the watch on the borders and on Tyrn Gorthad late last year. The Dunedain needed to remain here, in their ancient land. Yet the summons had come: 'Aragorn has need of his kindred. Let the Dunedain ride to him in Rohan!'

Elrond's face fell in realization. This would not be enough, not against the millions that Sauron was surely bringing to bear down against Gondor and her allies in the South, to say nothing of what he would do here in the North. Already it seemed that the days of Gondor were numbered, and with them, the last defense of the North-lands would be gone.

"You must go now," Elrond said. "To the land called Rohan. Go in haste! Find Aragorn, son of Arathorn, your lord and kin. Tell him that the days are short. If he is in haste, remember the words of the Seer..." His voice trailed off in thought, or perhaps memory. As herald and commander, he remembered how vividly the tall lord of Minas Ithil raged about the traitors and how they had defied him.

He furthermore remembered the words spoken in the days of Arvedui, the last lord of the Dunedain to bear the title 'King of Arnor', if only of one-third of Arnor. The time of that prophecy was now upon the Men of the West, for good or for ill.

Elrond turned aside to those who had gathered behind them, the elves of his household, all of them lords of renown, some greater some smaller, but all of them worthy warriors in their own right.

"Who now shall go forth to war with the King of Men?" Elrond asked.

"I shall," Elladan said.

"So shall I," added his brother, Elrohir.

"Then go, my sons," he said. "Gather your weapons and armor and prepare to ride forth for war."

They both nodded and departed, off to retrieve their gears of war. Halbarad turned to Elrond and nodded curtly, then departed in turn. He himself had to return to his Men and inform them that they would not be staying over-long here in Imladris. Of course, that was always a disappointment. Even for the Dunedain, Rivendell was a place they enjoyed visiting.

For Halbarad, at least, it was a memory both pleasant and sorrowful. It was pleasant for him to be in a place untouched by the evil that had taken the world, the evil that he guarded against vigilantly for many years. It gave him a kind of guilty pleasure, unlike the Periannath, the Halflings, that he could see a place where the vigilance of Men had, in a very small manner, contributed to its safety and the inhabitants were grateful for it.

But that joy was mixed with sorrow as well. For he knew that, eventually, it would all come to ruin. Just as Fornost Erain, Amon Sul and, to a relative degree, Annuminas, the once great cities of Arnor, now lay in ruins, so too would Rivendell one day fall, and one day soon. For the Elves knew that the Shadow was gathering strength outside the beauty of their lands; Elrond referred to it as 'the long defeat.' There seemed to be no hope left for the race of Men: Gondor, the last shield against Mordor, was limping towards its doom on one foot. The strength of Arnor was reduced to a few straggling survivors of a once great and noble kingdom, ones that, unlike their liege-lord, could not stand before the might of the Ringwraiths.

Halbarad sighed, regretting the foolishness of Arvedui and of so many of the Dunedain of Arnor before him. By their actions, the time of Arnor had come to an end. In dangerous realization, he empathized with the King's Men of ancient Numenor, those who regretted the decision of Elros Tar-Minyatur to accept the "Doom of Man."

As he passed down the stairs, he saw a figure appear from out of the shadows. It appeared only for a moment, smiled at him, and then with a wave of hair that looked like midnight upon the waters of the Baranduin, turned and walked down the corridor. Halbarad walked after the figure, until it reached a place where there stood a great monument, shaped in the likeness of Elian, the Queen of Arnor and wife of Isildur. In her arms was a great sheet, upon which, symbolically, she passed on the heirlooms of Isildur to her son Valandil, and then from father to son down to Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Upon the sheet, carved from the same stone as the statue, was a great thing like a spear wrapped in a black cloth.

Before the statue stood a woman, the likeness of Luthien Tinuviel returned from the dead.

"My lady!" Halbarad said, kneeling before she who would soon be his queen.

"The days are short indeed," Arwen restated. Her gaze was always to the south, as it had been since December of last year. For when one's heart is separated by distance, any little space of time passes slowly. "Either our hope cometh, or all hopes end."

Halbarad kept his head low, but he agreed in his heart. There was no second chance for what was to happen, what was to come in this war against Sauron.

"Give my best wishes to my lord," she said. "And this." She lifted the black-swathed thing from off the statue and handed it to Halbarad, who took it in both hands. He bowed again, then returned to the horses. The sons of Elrond would likely be finished by now, preparing their horses and would, at this moment, be ready to ride. There would be no time to enjoy the beauty of Imladris, so he mounted his horse, assembled his thirty Dunedain, and made ready to leave.

"Namarie, Elessar." Arwen breathed, her eyes looking out into the South.

(AN: What do you think, so far?)

(The name 'Elian' is from Last Alliance, my made-up name for Isildur's wife. Everything else you may see in this story is Tolkien's, and I don't claim ownership over that epicness.)