Title: Sorrow

A/N: Companion piece to "Mine", from Elrond's point of view. I'd originally meant the first ficlet to be a stand alone piece, but this idea just kept nagging at me until I finally quit procrastinating and wrote it. *grins* Enjoy, and review; it keeps my muse happy.

Disclaimers: None of the characters belong to me; I'm just borrowing them for a while.

"No."

The single word renders me frozen with shock. I cannot believe what my ears have heard; Isildur cannot have just refused to destroy the thing that has imperiled Middle-Earth for so long. Before I can speak, he turns and begins to walk away.

"Isildur!" I shout, a small part of me hoping that the tone of my voice will give him pause. It does not. I step away from the edge of the fiery chasm and quickly make my way to his side, stepping in front of him and blocking his path. "Do not do this--" I begin, but a surprisingly brutal blow to the side of my head cuts my words off and sends me against the tunnel's wall. Isildur flexes his empty hand once and strides away without a single backward glance. Ignoring the pain, I get to my feet with a half-formed idea of how I might stop him, but he is already gone.

I have no idea how much time has passed when I finally stagger out of the cave and descend the mountain's steep incline, so slowly that it seems as though an eternity has passed before I finally reach its base. As I raise a hand and drag it across my face in a vain attempt to clear it of sweat and ash , I pay little attention to the brief glances sent my way by a few of the surviving warriors. I only vaguely see the lines of hardship etched into their countenances, or the anxiety in their eyes. I barely hear the groans and strangled cries of agony from those who have been wounded, and I ignore the throbbing of my own exhausted muscles. The only thing which I am acutely aware of is the sound of Isildur's spoken denial in my mind, echoing repeatedly. With the torturous, lingering ghost of a sound comes the memory of the chill, almost contemptuous expression he wore as he possessively curled his fingers about the Ring and strode away from the fires of Mount Doom. The recollection instantly brings the hollow ache of betrayal. More than that, it forces me to truly acknowledge that Isildur's decision, above all else, has enabled a terrible darkness to remain in this world. This knowledge descends upon me with an almost crushing weight and halts my footsteps. For a moment I gaze upon the stained gray sky, and a painful question rises to my lips.

"What have you done?" The bleak query escapes, though I know that I will receive no answer. No answer, save for the sorrow that wells within me.