The Calm Before the Storm
It was strangely quiet and peaceful. More peaceful than he had ever seen in his long years of warfare, and it was making him uneasy. A memory of turmoil came unbidden.
(Flashback)
His voice tore from his throat in a strangely resonant timbre that he had never heard himself use before.
"Show no mercy for they will not reciprocate in kind! For the freedom of Arda! Forward, men, elves, forward!"
Had that really been him, Elrond, who had cried so? He wondered as battle cries and sparring movements swirled about him in a cruel parody of a ball. It was as though soldiers on both sides were interlocked in a kind of dance, moving onto the next partner as soon as the previous was down. In this dance, you did not switch partners; you eliminated them to emerge as one of the best. It was twisted, twisted in every possible way. All these dancers were good, or had the potential to be, even Sauron's troupe.
Elrond found himself carried along by the tide of moving bodies, and had no choice but to choreograph a deadly dance for himself as he went along, never knowing when it would end, only thinking to eliminate, eliminate, eliminate. His sword flashed in the sun with every movement of his well- muscled arms, almost synchronising with his armour. He knew that the absence of a helm, the sparkle of many colours, and the sweep of his partially braided dark hair marked him out to be a leader among the many elves and men around him. Any orc would want to take him down, especially since orc-blood was gradually dulling the light he reflected, and he was sullying the dance floor with orc remains as he moved with a deadly, ferocious grace, rich purple cape billowing behind him, mirroring Gil- galad's dark blue, Celeborn's silver, and Oropher's green.
As he flowed through his movements with a mixture of controlled strength and continuity, Elrond could not help but wish for peace. Like any other war-weary veteran, he wanted the madness to end. He longed for peace of mind and regular clothing. He longed to be able to enjoy the little pleasures of life again.
(End flashback)
That battle was long over. Since then, there had been nothing but brief parleys, verbal battles with the enemy, and small orc bands coming to spy on or to attack them. All had been taken down. In Elrond's mind, there was no doubt that Sauron was trying to drain them of their strength. It did not matter to Sauron that he was losing soldiers. What he had was numbers, sheer numbers, and the ability to breed more of his mutated soldiers, and his threatening, looming form that emanated evil and skilfully wielded despair on those within his reach. But the Alliance did not have the numbers to match, for although every man and elf on this side of the war was willing to sacrifice his life for the freedom of Middle-Earth, every life lost was a soldier who could not be replaced.
He tipped his head up to face the overcast sky, attempting to feel the droplets of clean rain wash the filth of battle from his face and hair, allowing them to cool his too-hot skin. This far south, the heat was to be expected, and after years of endless battle, he was almost used to it, even in full armour. Yet that was no reason to feel comfortable, or to welcome it. Running a hand over his hair, he found that the braids were undoing themselves and becoming tangled. Taking the lowest by the end, he undid the thin leather strip that held it in place, securing the strip on his belt before loosening the braid. Once he had completely freed his hair, he let the rain cleanse it further, combing it with his fingers. Then he proceeded to braid his crown back the way he favoured, two thin braids at each temple, meeting the corresponding pair and a thick one from the fringe in the middle at the back of his head, before going on to weave them together. He grimaced at the mess of wavy tangles his hair had become, irritated at what war had done, sighing resignedly. Once finished, he let his arms fall from the awkward positions, deep in thought as he stared off into the distance.
Something was not right, and Elrond was as certain of that as he was about the presence of Vilya in a pocket hidden within the layers of mail and tunic that he wore. It was not the eerie calm that unsettled him, although he did not welcome it either. Ever since Gil-galad had given him Vilya, a sense of discomfort had settled on his mind and begun to grow. He knew that Gil-galad was fearful, perhaps even certain, that something would befall himself by the end of the war. He was certain of that as well, and it weighed on his mind, burdening his soul, making his limbs dread the never- ending movement that was war, and the inevitable onslaught of acidic soreness afterwards. He knew that he could not thwart Fate, and should he survive the war and live to see all the ages of the world, he would always regret.
His keen vision discerned movement in the distance, a black, shadowy mass issuing from the Morannon, and he knew it to be Sauron's army from the sense of evil that he had long since learnt to identify. He turned back to camp to ready himself for battle, just as the rest of the army was doing, and soon the Alliance of elves and men was marching to meet their foe.
They knew Sauron waited, half-crazed by the desire to crush elves and men under his sheer power. Darkness was the way of the world, and he would be its master. They would not allow it to happen. Despite Sauron, the army marched on.
Then madness exploded around him and in his face.
It was strangely quiet and peaceful. More peaceful than he had ever seen in his long years of warfare, and it was making him uneasy. A memory of turmoil came unbidden.
(Flashback)
His voice tore from his throat in a strangely resonant timbre that he had never heard himself use before.
"Show no mercy for they will not reciprocate in kind! For the freedom of Arda! Forward, men, elves, forward!"
Had that really been him, Elrond, who had cried so? He wondered as battle cries and sparring movements swirled about him in a cruel parody of a ball. It was as though soldiers on both sides were interlocked in a kind of dance, moving onto the next partner as soon as the previous was down. In this dance, you did not switch partners; you eliminated them to emerge as one of the best. It was twisted, twisted in every possible way. All these dancers were good, or had the potential to be, even Sauron's troupe.
Elrond found himself carried along by the tide of moving bodies, and had no choice but to choreograph a deadly dance for himself as he went along, never knowing when it would end, only thinking to eliminate, eliminate, eliminate. His sword flashed in the sun with every movement of his well- muscled arms, almost synchronising with his armour. He knew that the absence of a helm, the sparkle of many colours, and the sweep of his partially braided dark hair marked him out to be a leader among the many elves and men around him. Any orc would want to take him down, especially since orc-blood was gradually dulling the light he reflected, and he was sullying the dance floor with orc remains as he moved with a deadly, ferocious grace, rich purple cape billowing behind him, mirroring Gil- galad's dark blue, Celeborn's silver, and Oropher's green.
As he flowed through his movements with a mixture of controlled strength and continuity, Elrond could not help but wish for peace. Like any other war-weary veteran, he wanted the madness to end. He longed for peace of mind and regular clothing. He longed to be able to enjoy the little pleasures of life again.
(End flashback)
That battle was long over. Since then, there had been nothing but brief parleys, verbal battles with the enemy, and small orc bands coming to spy on or to attack them. All had been taken down. In Elrond's mind, there was no doubt that Sauron was trying to drain them of their strength. It did not matter to Sauron that he was losing soldiers. What he had was numbers, sheer numbers, and the ability to breed more of his mutated soldiers, and his threatening, looming form that emanated evil and skilfully wielded despair on those within his reach. But the Alliance did not have the numbers to match, for although every man and elf on this side of the war was willing to sacrifice his life for the freedom of Middle-Earth, every life lost was a soldier who could not be replaced.
He tipped his head up to face the overcast sky, attempting to feel the droplets of clean rain wash the filth of battle from his face and hair, allowing them to cool his too-hot skin. This far south, the heat was to be expected, and after years of endless battle, he was almost used to it, even in full armour. Yet that was no reason to feel comfortable, or to welcome it. Running a hand over his hair, he found that the braids were undoing themselves and becoming tangled. Taking the lowest by the end, he undid the thin leather strip that held it in place, securing the strip on his belt before loosening the braid. Once he had completely freed his hair, he let the rain cleanse it further, combing it with his fingers. Then he proceeded to braid his crown back the way he favoured, two thin braids at each temple, meeting the corresponding pair and a thick one from the fringe in the middle at the back of his head, before going on to weave them together. He grimaced at the mess of wavy tangles his hair had become, irritated at what war had done, sighing resignedly. Once finished, he let his arms fall from the awkward positions, deep in thought as he stared off into the distance.
Something was not right, and Elrond was as certain of that as he was about the presence of Vilya in a pocket hidden within the layers of mail and tunic that he wore. It was not the eerie calm that unsettled him, although he did not welcome it either. Ever since Gil-galad had given him Vilya, a sense of discomfort had settled on his mind and begun to grow. He knew that Gil-galad was fearful, perhaps even certain, that something would befall himself by the end of the war. He was certain of that as well, and it weighed on his mind, burdening his soul, making his limbs dread the never- ending movement that was war, and the inevitable onslaught of acidic soreness afterwards. He knew that he could not thwart Fate, and should he survive the war and live to see all the ages of the world, he would always regret.
His keen vision discerned movement in the distance, a black, shadowy mass issuing from the Morannon, and he knew it to be Sauron's army from the sense of evil that he had long since learnt to identify. He turned back to camp to ready himself for battle, just as the rest of the army was doing, and soon the Alliance of elves and men was marching to meet their foe.
They knew Sauron waited, half-crazed by the desire to crush elves and men under his sheer power. Darkness was the way of the world, and he would be its master. They would not allow it to happen. Despite Sauron, the army marched on.
Then madness exploded around him and in his face.