Song of the fall of Gil-Galad
Gil-galad was an Elven-king.
Of him the harpers sadly sing:
the last whose realm was fair and free
between the Mountains and the Sea.
His sword was long, his lance was keen,
his shining helm afar was seen;
the countless stars of heaven's field
were mirrored in his silver shield.
But long ago he rode away,
and where he dwelleth none can say;
for into darkness fell his star
in Mordor where the shadows are.
Had many had fallen this day? Twenty? Two hundred? Two thousand? It didn't matter. It felt like nothing would ever matter again. Gil-Galad was gone, along with so many others.
Some cried out for their victory, while others cried out for their losses. So many lost.
His eyes swam weather from tears of sadness or to keep the burning smell of flesh and spilt blood from seeping into his brain he didn't know. He couldn't feel, he was numb.
Gil-Galad was gone. His King. His cousin. His best friend. Gone.
Slain before his eyes and powerless to do anything to stop it. Forced to keep fighting long after he fell, forced to keep inflicting pain and death when all he wanted to do was fall to his knees and hold his King close. Just one more time.
All around him Elves and Men both trampled through the growing piles of the dead in search of loved ones. Of captains. Friends. Brothers. Strangers.
So different yet all the same in their pale peaceful stillness.
Elrond himself couldn't bring himself to move, nor to look for any more fallen friends. He knew where Gil-Galad lay, behind him just beyond the last disheveled hill. If he were to search, who else would he find pale and gone?
No, even his legs refused to move. Glued to the spot in a stunned sadness. Both weary and angry. Begging him to lay down in the midst of his brothers, and to charge after those few the survivors that had made him feel that way.
So instead, he compromised. He stood there. Numb and unmoving.
A glimpse of white-blond hair caught his attention, as a familiar warrior made his way across the battlefield. Even from here Elrond could see his hands shook, and a tears rained from his eyes in a steady stream. The Prince of Greenwood looked about as lost and empty as Elrond felt.
Who had he lost this battle?
How many of his friends lay slain about him?
The shimmering circlet on his head, and the sword grasped in his hands were enough to answer his questions. It wasn't the small delicate circle the prince had worn, but the thicker, and more demanding one of his King.
His father had fallen, leaving the young Prince now a King.
He turned away, physically unable to look upon Thranduils pained, young, face.
Everyone was gone, everyone he had loved. They left him. Every time.
His mother and father, gone.
His foster parents, gone.
His brother, gone.
And now Gil-Galad.
Why did they always have to leave?
A rage burned in the pit of his stomach, eating away at his insides. He knew none had done it on purpose, they didn't mean to leave him. But it didn't change the fact that they were gone. All gone.
The stars twinkled above him gaily. Once a promise of hope but nothing more than a reminder that there were beings whom had created them, yet still let everything slip away.
Elrond was fairly sure that if the opportunity presented itself, his burning anger would allow him to level and entire army on his own. But it still wouldn't be enough to make up for the loss his people had suffered this day.
"Elrond"
He knew that voice. It was usually so cheerful and lively, always accompanied by a lopsided grin and sparkling eyes. But the voice was sad, it held a downward affliction one might use when talking to an injured animal.
Perhaps that's what he was. An injured animal. Broken and left alone in the wilderness for nature to take its course with.
He turned towards the voice nonetheless, meeting Glorfindels eyes, now sparkling with tears rather than the shining light of his soul.
"He's gone" Elrond whispered. Voice soft but rough, catching awkwardly in his throat, but managing to squeeze itself into the night air nonetheless. It sounded more like the whisper of the winds rather than words, for he feared that if the words were said out loud they would become real and shatter what little pieces of himself he had managed to pull together.
Almost as if he had taken spontaneous flight the golden haired warrior reached him, pulling Elrond tightly, almost painfully against him.
Elronds breath turned into a sob, and his anger turned into despair. Almost swallowing him into its depths, but not quite able to wretch him free from Glofindels grasp.
The stars continued to twinkle mirthfully above his head, and other called out desperately for those they searched for. And Elrond clung to Glorfindel, the last one alive. The only one who hadn't yet left him.
For the first time in many, many long year Elrond whispered a prayer. A prayer, a beg, for this particularly irritating elf to not be ripped from him.
It was a prayer he didn't even so much as spare a haphazard thought for until centuries later as he watched his wife sail away from him. A prayer he later repeated that same day, as he sobbed into the Balrog slayers shoulder, begging any who would listen to not rip his friend from him like all else had been.
It was the only prayer he had repeated, and it was the only prayer the Valar granted.