Drabble Thirty: Painting


Elrond strayed alone through the halls, moonlight streaming in through the open windows, the breeze whispering through his raven hair. He knew not where he was going. His wanderings had taken him to his sons' rooms, and he had stood gazing down upon their peaceful faces, assuring himself that they were well. His daughter's graceful presence no longer filled the valley, for she had travelled far across the mountains, to the home of her grandparents. She was safe within the borders of Lórien; and yet he could not rest.

A dim light caught Elrond's eye, and he turned in surprise. A candle sat flickering upon a low table in the darkness, casting a shadowy glow upon the mural that covered the wall, and at the mere sight, his grey eyes fluttered closed, and a sigh escaped his lips. He could see it all.

A bright sword, glinting in the shards of light that flowed from the stormy sky; bodies lying stricken on the muddy battlefield, and one figure, fallen but defiant, and the light of Elendil in his eyes. The banner of the Tree flying wildly in the moaning wind, encompassed in flames before at last it fell, the blue and silver fabric sparking into fire. And Sauron, deceiver, Dark Lord and Maia, wreathed in smoke and cloud, his mighty mace raised to kill.

Elrond did not need a painting to remind him of what he had seen so long ago.