-The year 3434 of the Second Age-

Gil-galad looked down at the foot of the Black Gates, pained to see so many heroic men die. The battering ram was now surrounded by scores of bodies, and despite this grim omen, each replacement squad headed into the sights of the orkish archers, grim-faced and ready to die for Elendil's cause.
Elendil's cause.
Elrond appeared, and began to report on the progress of securing Narchost, but it was clear that Gil-galad's thoughts were elsewhere, and the elvish captain turned to see what so occupied his king's mind.
Two groups of elves, hefting broad, rectangular shields, were advancing across the battlefield. They were grouped closely, and the shields obscured the warriors underneath completely. In utter synchronization, the two patrols halted, not far outside the reach of the Morannon archers.
Another group of Númenoreans went to man the battering ram, and though they took two valiant swings at the monolithic gate, they were slain. The goblins on the wall hunched and watched for more vulnerable humans, completely oblivious to the shielded elves to their left and right. No replacements came.
In a single deft motion, the broad rectangular shields were cast aside to reveal not only a dozen elves, but a brace of sturdy ballistae. With a single thunderous crack, the ballistae launched a pair of pronged shafts, each hooking over the parapet of the Morannon.
Elrond looked to Gil-galad, a rare smile upon his face, as the elves at the ballistae began to rotate the cranks, straining the tethers between the machines and their projectiles.
Scrambling to spread themselves from the midpoint of the wall to both sides, the orcs created a deadly gridlock in the center of the gate. Meanwhile, several orcs tried futilely to pry the silver claws of the projectiles from the top of the gate, and were instantly run through with burning silver arrow-shafts.
As the cranking of the mighty ballistae intensified, the hinges of the Black Gate began to groan under strain. A ragged cheer came from the more optimistic soldiers of the Alliance, with a particularly boisterous cry of, "Death to the craven orclings!" erupting from Círdan. Still, Elrond's steely gaze was riveted upon the Morannon. The battle was far from over, and perhaps far from even its turning point. A crack of rending metal came from the left side of the Gate, and another cheer swept the valley, but still Elrond stayed focused. Something was wrong.
The orcs were moving to the sides, ducking anathore-impregnated arrows, but they were not firing upon the ballistae. They were draining away, and off of the Morannon.
In a shock of realization, Elrond turned to shout a warning to Gil- galad, but it came too late.
There was a grunt of wood and steel from the far side of the Gate, and a ball of flame ascended into the sky.
The valley was deadly silent, save for the shuffle of the horrified soldiers, and the hiss of the nebulous mass of lava that barely cleared the wall and sailed into the west-side ballista.
With a squeal of heated metal, the weapon of war disintegrated into a bizarre spectacle of twisted wood and metal, ringed with burning elves. The line of the double-pronged projectile singed into many pieces, and went limp. The claws stuck over the gate, but they and the ballista were as useless as a severed hand.
"Forward, everyone!" cried Elrond. "Shield the ballista!"
In a rush of gray armor on the other side of the battlefield, Aratar's grizzled face showed itself to Elrond, and he rescinded the order, realizing that his troops could do nothing to supplement Aratar and the Númenoreans. Not now.
Even as the crank rotated with desperate speed, Elrond recognized its futility. Even now the catapult on the other side of the Morannon was doubtlessly being reloaded with its burning ammunition, possibly brought from the floes of Orodruin itself.
Círdan and his men were scurrying frantically about the molten wreckage of the west-side ballista, and the Ringbearer was using Narya's power to deaden the flames, as if he could yet aid the immolated elves entombed inside the chrysalis of rock.
Elrond, for all his resourcefulness, was now at a loss, as useless as a coddling infant in this dire situation. Then, as he looked upon Círdan's despair as he snuffed out the last of the flames through Narya, an idea came to him.
He gripped Vilya, the Ring of Air, close to his body and concentrated with the easy and simple flow of thought that he had utilized when healing Rumìl and Vorion. The elf's eyes and ears closed, and his mind opened to a universe of inconceivable possibilities.
"Nikerym!" commanded Gil-galad. "Bring word to Isonduil that his unit is to be set in a cupping formation for."
The king's voice dropped as he saw that Elrond's eyes were closed. His lips worked soundlessly, as if he were in a trance.
"Elrond!" shouted the elven-king, but his captain did not respond. He called once more, but even an attentive elf would not have heard him through the cutting howl of this wind that suddenly begun to blow across the valley.

Valourië reeled, her eyes burning as if they had been set alight. The Nameless Blade flew from her grasp, and her first thought was of retrieving it, despite Isildur's death.
Stenciled in vivid hues against her eyelids was the image of Caromyr preparing to deal Isildur his death blow. Her mind contorted and fought with itself, for what she had seen was an act of sorcery that neither duplicitous Easterling nor royal Númenorean could have conjured.
Caromyr's saber was raised, and as the chieftain did so, the clouds grumbled and a splinter of lightning slipped from the sky. She prodded the memory with tenderness as her sight returned, but she could make nothing new of it.
Valourië's slender fingers close around the grip of the Nameless Blade, and she opened her eyes to a stinging yellow Mordor dusk, and to yet another peculiar sight.
The Númenoreans, all except herself, had been slaughtered. So, too, had the Easterlings, with the exception of a single pikeman. He now circled, wary of some invisible foe, fingering his pike nervously.
Suddenly, a voice came as if from nowhere, bellowing "Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!" The Easterling's copper codpiece detonated in a spray of gore and miscellaneous organs.
Appalled, Valourië limply grasped the Nameless Blade, fully expecting to be next. Instead, a squat form materialized before her, that of a dwarf, spattered with blood and shards of armor and bone. A broad two- handed axe hung at his side. He gave her a friendly nod, and proceeded to thread a slim silver chain through a thick ring of rich reddish-gold. Centered on the ring was a large black pearl of surpassing smoothness and perfection. Clasping the chain about his neck, the dwarf bowed deeply and proclaimed, "Durin at your service."

Elrond's mind burned and his thoughts crystallized, for his will was a pinnacle within him. On the outside, in the corporeal world, that pinnacle was no less awesome.
A vast cloud was gathering on the far side of the Morannon, a cloud of ashen waste, of dust and shattered stone. As the cloud solidified into a cyclonic funnel, the shrieks of many orcs were heard as they were lifted from the ground and torn apart in the wind, their severed limbs circling ever higher until they were flung into the air by the raging current of the storm.
Elrond extended his hands into the air, and though he felt the winds within him and understood the ebb and flow of every current, the scouring chips of dust did not bother him.
The cyclonic windstorm grew tall and stout, impregnated with dozens of squalling goblins, who were quickly forsaking their weapons and fleeing the might of Vilya's wrath.
Then, with a grinding crunch, the soldiers of the Last Alliance witnessed a goblin-engine, a catapult of great size, lifted slowly into the storm and crushed within its depths. Burning in the core of the tempest was the engine's payload of molten stone, spinning and raining igneous pebbles down upon the intrepid fighters.
Forgetting their awe, the elves manning the last ballista began to work the crank, and the gate howled with the metallic agony of a wounded beast.
Gil-galad stared at Vilya, at the sapphire glowing with a feral beauty that he had not beheld in his many years, and at Elrond, his face blank and expressionless against the searing winds.
A figure darted by Gil-galad, cackling maniacally as it bore a full urn of anathore down to the gate. Watching the dust swirl in Círdan's wake, Gil-galad shook his head and speculated on the Ringbearer's purpose.
Círdan leapt nimbly over a jagged boulder, cradling the jug of anathore against a shoulder. Throwing a wink at the incredulous onlookers, he approached the Black Gate. Having no time for awestruck staring, the elf halted for a moment near the foot of the Morannon, and heaved the heavy urn into the wind. Narya glinted as he brought his hands back down, and ran for his very life. The vessel never once touched the ground, but was instantly picked up by the tempestuous winds and drawn into the cyclone, where it was nothing more than a flyspeck.
Círdan's silvery hair blew across his eyes as he threw himself behind a boulder, just as the fireworks started.
Touching the snaking coil of dull red lava, the urn exploded into a nova of green flame, and soon the blazing anathore was being drawn within and without the great storm, like pumping blood within the body of a mighty demon.
The heat made the air howl and the rocks shatter, and the army receded from the infernal storm, even the crew of the last ballista.
The funnel of the storm slipped onto the surface of the Morannon, and instantly the iron was melted and torn, sucking like boiling wax into the belly of Elrond's beast. A great howl escaped the gate as it felt its mortal wound, and the spiked slab toppled and twisted forwards across the vale. The southern Númenoreans were knocked to the reverberating ground by the great impact of the gate, and even Gil-galad, to the north, stumbled and grasped for a boulder to hold to.
No one, neither elf, nor man, marked the appearance of a new force at the flank of the army. That is, not until Durin's lighting made Elrond's storm complete.

The blue-green glow of the anathore-laced wind pierced Elrond's eyelids and drove him from his trance. It was all that the elf could do to stay standing, buffeted by the chaos of the dying storm, and sapped by his own exhaustion.
Gil-galad stared at him, the elven-king caught vividly in his regenerating sight.
"Do not tarry, good king!" cried Elrond. "Lead them on!"
Gil-galad turned away and was swept along with the current of his charging troops. The Alliance soldiers were tramping over the once mighty edifice, and pouring into the vast, flat valley of Udûn. Ahead, Gil-galad could see Isonduil trying to restore order to some of the troops as they approached a new force of orcs, a blending of many goblin tribes. Before them were all breeds of goblinkin, from the orcs of the Misty Mountains to the black uruks of Gorgoroth.
Isonduil's troops fanned out, and moved in as if to swallow the orcs, who were receding back across Udûn, yet not in true flight, despite the superior Alliance forces.
Suddenly, Isonduil's elven-eyes detected a disturbance on the horizon: dozens of red plumes crisscrossed through the filthy air. Countless Easterlings were making their way through the pass of Isenmouthe and into the depression of Udûn, no doubt alongside many Southrons, allies of the Easterlings of the Eye.
"Greetings, master elf!" came a gruff voice, and Isonduil looked left, right, and then down to find a diminutive form scampering alongside him.
"What is this?" exclaimed Isonduil in astonishment. "Do the dwarves of Khazad-dûm now send their folk into the very mouth of Sauron?"
Durin looked up earnestly at the towering elf, and replied, "Aye, for though some of our kinfolk have taken to begrudging the elves, those of my regiment see otherwise."
Durin bowed quickly, and then resumed his pace aside the elf. Isonduil, though somewhat flustered by this development, introduced himself.
"I am Isonduil of the Greenwood Kingdoms. And by what name are you called, master dwarf?"
"I am Durin III!" exclaimed the dwarf, bursting with pride at the opportunity to display his heritage. "I am the lord of Khazad-dûm and the realm of Dwarrowdelf, and have been for many years. Aye, since the reign of Celebrimbor himself!"
Isonduil turned to him, hopeful suspicion gleaming in his eyes. "A dwarf-lord of Celebrimbor's day? Then, would you not be."
Durin nodded enthusiastically, and raised the golden ring toward Isonduil.
"I'd like you to meet my friend, master elf!" he cried. "This is Kórgur, the Ring of Thunder!"
Still hesitant to share in the dwarf's enthusiasm, Isonduil asked, "And this ring, Kórgur, holds sway over the very elements?"
"When the elements permit me to do so, yes," responded Durin. "But, lord elf, I've yet to see a war won with such a sparkly gimmick! Come!"
Isonduil nodded. "You have brought warriors of Khazad-dûm, then?"
"Aye, yes I have," replied the dwarf. "But, follow! Time is wasting, and there are orcs aplenty for the slaying!"
The dwarf-lord brandished his axe and stared fearlessly into the orcs, a mass of dark and fiendish countenances, spears waving in the foul air, scattering crude orkish jeers across Udûn's barren vale.
Behind the unlikely companions, dwarf and elf, lay Gil-galad's force. Hardly touched by the arrival of Durin's axe-men, the elven-king gripped Aeglos coldly and realigned his forces into a lethal spearhead formation, in order to open a wedge in the ranks of orcs, Easterlings, and Southrons.
Abruptly, the king felt an impulse compelling him, a force of will that he could not deny. "Círdan!" he called, and the Ringbearer attended.
"Círdan," commanded Gil-galad, "I want you to lead the charge."
Círdan appeared puzzled at first, and then apprehensive. "And where shall you be, sire?"
"I shall go in first," replied Gil-galad.
"What?" exclaimed Círdan. "But that's suicide!"
Gil-galad shook his head. "I shall not die today, friend. Not today."
"Lunacy!" Círdan spat, as Gil-galad poised his spear and departed the formation. Drawing his serrated sword from its scabbard, Círdan faced his newfound legion of warriors. It had been many years since he had commanded a force of any bulk, but he did not fear.
Ahead, Gil-galad charged relentlessly across the unvarying terrain of Udûn, shifting occasionally to dodge a whistling orkish bolt. The uruks snarled and jeered at their attacker, his allies still many yards behind him. Clenching his teeth and clutching Aeglos's sweat-slick grips, he thrust his body into the unyielding mass of orcs.
The goblins prodded him with their lances, and the elven-king parried them and snapped their brittle shafts with the Aeglos's blade. He felt the familiar thrum of the moving razor edge, and took heart in it as he felled orc upon orc, hardly pausing to check himself. As fast as the fiends poured around him, he whirled and with a singular arcing cut, marked all of them with his blade. They fell, twitched, and were still.
Gil-galad was dimly aware of a lusty cry of, "Khazâd ai-mênu!", which was taken up by hundreds of gruff voices. Unpausing, he sliced a nearby orc's spear short, and drove the point of his weapon into the unarmed brute's chest. As he raised Aeglos towards the heavens, it seemed as if its clarion ringing was amplified and refined, and sang out like a voice from old, back to the very time of the forging of Aeglos. Gil-galad caught snatches of song, and though the orcs around him did not know a word of elvish, they sank back from the mighty king, and were silent.
Lowering Aeglos, Gil-galad charged once more, and though he was direly outnumbered, no goblin wished to be the first to fall to his spear. Retreating from him, he barreled across the plane, impaling uruk after uruk, and staining the blue-white iceblade black with blood.
The savage war-cries of Durin's dwarves came close to him, and the elf fought his way back towards them, in hope of aid. Seeing Isonduil, valiantly battling a Mordor orc, the elven-king joined his side and finished the beast.
"You're in too deep, sir!" cried Isonduil. "Control yourself!"
"These things are necessary," replied Gil-galad. "Is not Fingolfin still remembered for such deeds?"
Gil-galad was forced to pause while he gutted an orc who strayed too close, giving Isonduil time to ponder his statement.
When the orc was slain, Isonduil replied, "Aye, Fingolfin is remembered, but is not also Ar-Pharazôn?"
Gil-galad's noble brow furrowed, for he did not quite understand the meaning of Isonduil's assertion.
"Isildur, they say, has deserted," he explained. "He has cast Aratar orcslayer from his post in his wrath. A man named Maglaur has up his reins."
Shaking his head in vexation, Gil-galad replied, "Shall such things never cease?"
As the sounds of Southron and Easterling cries reached his ears, Isonduil said, "We best return to battle."
"Aye," replied the king, and they were off.

Elendil pressed his hand to the desolate ground before the twisted Morannon, drawing it up, he crumbled the packed earth in his hand, and looked out over the deserted wasteland of bodies piled upon bodies. In some places, the mat of limbs was so thick that the ground could not be seen. Carrion birds were already gathering, some perching atop Narchost, biding their time until the fury of war had abated.
"Hail, King Elendil!"
Elendil wiped his hands free of the dust. His plan to pry open the Morannon with the double-pronged ballistae projectiles had failed miserably, and at the cost of many lives. He forced himself to look again to the spot where the ram still stood, where the bodies were thickest.
"Hail, King Elendil!"
He brought his gray head up, a lone figure in this war-torn landscape. Alone, he thought.
"Hail, King Elendil!"
Not quite. Elendil rose from his kneeling stance, and faced the newcomer.
"Hail, King Elendil!"
"Yes?"
The newcomer was, curiously enough, unarmored, wearing a dirt-soiled robe. The Tree of Gondor was rendered upon the breast of the robe, and four and three stars were tattooed upon the man's palms: the Seven Stars of Gondor. Elendil studied the man's face, the moist, beady eyes, and the coal-black goatee, ever surer that he had never seen him before.
The man cleared his throat and brought out a hefty scroll, unrolling it and beginning to recite.
"O most illustrious Elendil, monarch of Gondor, slayer of the orc- fiends and conqueror of the Sundering seas, I am Emissary, and I bring great tidings to you--"
Halting the bombastic flow, Elendil asked, "Where do you hail from, good Emissary?"
Emissary grimaced in irritation, and resumed his recitation.
"I am Emissary, and I bring great tidings to you from your loyal cities. I have traveled many days and nights along the fringe of the Land of Terror, from--"
He cleared his throat loudly.
"From noble Osgiliath--"
Emissary paused for a few moments, to let this fact sink in. Elendil was somewhat bemused at the man's blatant disrespect, but he found this incongruity to be more interesting than angering.
"From noble Osgiliath, and the court of Anárion the Radiant. For much time, our city has been besieged by the dread servants of Sauron, enemy of Mankind and Elvenkin, servant of Morgoth the Devourer, slayer of-- "
"I know all this," interrupted Elendil once more, to Emissary's increasing irritation. "What news is there?"

As Emissary went to read further from the lengthy scroll, Elendil snatched it from his grip and repeated his question. Defeated, Emissary answered with diminished pomposity.
"Fine. The orcs have retreated from Osgiliath, and show no signs of returning. Anárion plans to drive an army forward along the Path of Morgulduin, and recapture Minas Ithil. If you wish to stay him from this path, I must return immediately."
"No," said Elendil, "that shall not be necessary."
The king paused for a moment more, staring wistfully across the ruinous valley.
"Fine, sir," said Emissary. "Shall we move on to the front?"
Elendil shook his head in reply. "For now, we shall stay at this place, and honor the dead."
"Ah," responded Emissary, with faint distaste. "But," he queried, "would your battle-skill not be more useful on the front of Udûn?"
"The wheel of war has been set rolling," said the king, "and now none can stop or sway its motion."
Emissary was clearly dubious, but he did not challenge Elendil's judgment.
"Tell me, sir," asked the Gondorian, "Gorthulad.'Sauron's Plain'. since this place is no longer his, shall it still be called such?"
Elendil looked thoughtfully at the younger Gondorian, surprised by this insight.
"You are quite right, Emissary. No longer shall this place be Gorthulad."
"Perhaps, 'Elendilad', 'Elendil's Plain'?" suggested Emissary, and Elendil could not discern just how much of this suggestion sprung from sarcastic or sycophantic tendencies.
Looking around at the pale, withered foliage and the shattered boulders, and the strewn, mangled corpses, Elendil said, "This plain is not mine, and I would not accept it were it offered to me. No, this barren land shall become a cemetery for the men and elves who fought and died upon it. Here, beyond Mordor's borders, they shall not be despoiled by the spiteful wretches that live within. Here," he said, stretching his hand across the horizon, "here we shall honor them. This land is now 'Dagorlad', the Battle Plain, and let the name of Gorthulad be stricken from all record. Sauron's dominion in this place shall not merely be canceled, it shall be erased."
Emissary nodded thoughtfully, and then turned sharply, to find a dark figure crouching before him, many feet distant, but still easily discernible from the landscape.
"What is this thing?" asked Emissary, as the blackened being let out a wheezing cough. Elendil drew nearer and with a pained expression turned away.
"Let us leave this place," said the king. "Perhaps I am needed on the front after all."
Emissary nodded assent, and the two hurriedly set off across the Desolation of the Morannon, and to Udûn.
In their wake was left the charred creature. Isildur's armor had protected him from the explosive bolt of electric fire, and aside from the shallow slash of an Easterling arrow upon his cheek, he was unwounded, at least physically.
"Father," he murmured, as he dragged himself up, forcing strength into his drained bones, tormenting himself with hopeful visions of Valourië.
He had searched each body. She was not one of them.
Isildur had succeeded in his initial task, but it was a hollow comfort. His father had finally and willfully abandoned him. From what he had heard the messenger say, Anárion was to once again stand at the hero's helm, to once again draw Tritharon, sister-blade of Trithalos, and write another chapter for himself in the annals of history.
Isildur despaired, he despaired as he had not in his flight from Minas Ithil, as he had not when Ar-Pharazôn's guard had run him through. Those many times had been fearful and terrible occasions, but this was different.not just of greater intensity, but different in its basic nature, he felt his resolution hardening beneath the hurt of these many unfortunate circumstances.
He did not crumple and cry upon the site of his abandonment. Instead, he rose and gripped Trithalos with bitter determination, and took the first step of one thousand, the first step into Mordor and to Udûn.

Celebrían paced through the recesses of Elrond's sanctum, basking in the warmth of the sunlight, yet never allowing herself more than a moment's pause. The beginnings of a new poem were forming in her mind, and to let them stagnate would be terrible. Struck by a sudden clarity, she went to Elrond's desk, found an unmarked scrap of paper, hastily dipped her quill in the waiting inkpot, and set the nib to the paper. She wrote:

"Gil-galad is an elven-king. Of him the harpers gladly sing: The last whose realm is fair and free Between the Mountains and the Sea."

Celebrían paused, absentmindedly running the feather of the quill between her fingers, and reviewing what she had written. It was good, that was true, but it also came along a short and direct route from the heart. Its words were attractive, and also quite true. Good. She wet the nib, and once more went to writing.

"His sword is long, his lance is keen, His shining helm afar is seen; The countless stars of heaven's field Are mirrored in his silver shield."

The elf-maiden smiled, for her talent had not failed her. Though only two stanzas had she yet set to paper, dozens more were bubbling through the mire of her subconscious. Finding a scroll, she unrolled it and copied the stanzas to it, titling it, "The Lay of Gil-galad".
A shadow fell across the page, for a figure blocked the doorway. Celebrían turned, and the elf, realizing his error, moved from the shaft of light. Now not so harshly backlit, the elf-maiden could make out the lean features of Silwaën, an elf of Imladris, and Elrond's aide. He had been left in Imladris as a safeguard, in the remote possibility of an attack by the agents of Sauron or some wild force. For a time he had spoken of creating a more organized force, known as the Imladhrim, to defend the elvish keep, but he had eventually dropped the issue. Though an officer, he was gentle in nature, and like all elves, held a love for living things.
"Milady?" inquired Silwaën.
Celebrían pushed the scrap, scroll, and utensils aside, replying, "I am unoccupied. What matter brings you to Lord Elrond's sanctum?"
"There is a visitor," replied Silwaën, his voice tinged with uneasiness. "He is a friend of Elendil, so he claims."
Celebrían remembered Elrond's warning, and wondered how to handle this. She had shared Isonduil's message with no one, though she had no notion of deliberately concealing it.
"Milady?" asked Silwaën, at the elf-maiden's hesitation.
"Bring him here," replied Celebrían. But, as Silwaën went to retrieve the visitor, Celebrían called him back. "Show him here," she admonished, "but fetch also your bow. Recede into the shadows as best you can, and keep him ever in your scope."
Puzzled but obedient, Silwaën nodded and left the sanctum.
In the interim time Celebrían, pondered over the next stanza of her poem. The interruption had disturbed her concentration considerably.
Presently, Silwaën returned, and at his side was the caller. He was tall and dark, his skin burnt and leathery, as if roughened by flame. His eyes were bright, burning with an unhealthy inner shine. His hair was soot- gray and matted, his body clad in many iridescent-black plates, interlocking like an insect carapace. A lump of apprehension rose in Celebrían's throat, but it diminished somewhat as she saw Silwaën back silently into a darkened corner, and draw his bow with the silent glint of a steel arrowhead.
"What business have you here, in Imladris?" asked Celebrían of the stranger. His eyes stilled in their roving and focused on her with an unnerving intensity.
"I have come for the sons of Isildur," he replied, in a voice of a false and strangely inhuman timbre. From the corner, Silwaën looked to Celebrían for guidance, and she offered a slight shake of her head. This man was no knight of Elendil, but there might be valuable information that the patient mind could yet glean from him.
"I see," the elf-maiden responded. "And what business have you with Isildur's heirs, pray tell?"
"I have come for them," repeated the man.
"We cannot admit a wanderer into their chambers. I am sorry, but you shall now be escorted from our borders--"
"But I am no mere wanderer!" roared the man, his face lit with fury. "I am Elendil's knight! I go with him, and advise him! You must obey!"
Shifting her eyes a degree from the raging man's tortured countenance, Celebrían nodded to Silwaën. The huddled elf drew back, and loosed a bolt of steel fury.

"To our victory!" cried Círdan, raising his chalice of miruvor. Elendil nodded and raised his cup to Círdan's.
"Victory is not ours yet," Elrond pointed out.
"Then, to the victories of this day, to the clearing of Udûn, and the sealing of Isenmouthe pass!"
Elrond smiled politely and raised his cup, too.
"To the undying friendship between elves and men!" added Gil-galad, with a jovial grin. The three clinked their chalices and reseated themselves at the long table.
Brushing a stray drop of miruvor from his lips, Elrond declared, "Now, to business."
"The business I'd like to know about," interjected Durin, "is what's going to be done with Mordor once Sauron has been cast out of it."
This issue had occurred to none of the elves or men sitting at the table. It had caught them all off-guard, and Durin turned that to his advantage.
"You know, there's bound to be some mighty ores hiding in such a land. I say that part of it should be given over to the dwarves of Khazad- dûm."
"No," said Gil-galad. "We shall cleanse this realm the orc and troll. Once it is empty, we shall leave it so. This place is unfit even for mining."
Elendil considered this, and spoke carefully. "Gil-galad, son of Fingon, the men of Númenor shall assist you as best we can in your cleansing of this wretched realm. I also agree that the Mordor should not be exploited, whatever resources it may hold. But, I do not believe that these plains should be deserted, to fester in our absence. We should set a guard in this land, erect fortresses amid the boulders to monitor the orcs and make certain that the power of this place is never again turned to foul purposes."
"Bah!" cried Durin. "You've gotten superstitious, good king! This land is savage, but when evil no longer calls Mordor its home, we shall find it no more ominous than the halls of Khazad-dûm! My home is shadowy, but not sinister, master Elendil!"

"Calm yourself, Durin!" exclaimed Elrond. "This is a matter worthy of discussion, but not here, and not now. I wish to know of Vorion first."
"What is there to know?" asked Elendil, bitterness filling his voice. "The Nazgûl took him away. He is no doubt slain."
Círdan looked aghast, for he knew not of this tale.
Elrond courteously acknowledged Elendil's statement, but was forced to counterpoint it.
"King Elendil, you dispatched scouts to comb the area after the Úlairi came upon us?"
"Yes, lieutenant, under Ar--under one of my captains."
"I see. Then, if Vorion's body was not recovered, why do you think him dead?"
Elendil paused. "I think so out of hope, perhaps. But, to what would they bring him but torment and death?"
Elrond considered the king's words, and cupped his chin in the rough palm of his hand, considering the implications of Vorion's disappearance.
"So it would seem," the elf said. "But, somehow, it does not ring true. Vorion, son of Vorimir, was not taken for simple interrogation."
"Elrond," interrupted Gil-galad, "I have not been accustomed to such reliance upon intuition from you. Tell us, what brings you to this conclusion?"
Elrond shook his head in frustration, for he could not answer.
Hearing a whisper-soft scuffling at the side of the tent, Elrond sprang from his seat and peered into the Mordor night, black as pitch. Torches dotted the ashen wilderness, and it seemed as if the encroaching darkness was doing its best to squeeze them from existence.
Returning to his seat, the elf remarked, "There was nothing."

Concealed behind the corner of the meeting tent, Isildur hunched in solitude. When he heard Elrond return to the table, he noiselessly made his way off into the night.
His tent was cold and dark, his provisions arranged randomly around the austere dwelling. As the flaps fell closed behind him, he slumped onto his cot, half-expecting Valourië to materialize once more from the darkness. She did not come to him.
His saliva tasted bitter in his mouth, and he unpacked a ration of cooking spice from his supply chest, chewing a mouthful and finally spitting it into the dirt on his floor. The prince covered his face in his hands, trying to sort through the nebulous mass of thoughts stored inside his head.
The tent flaps opened once more, and Isildur did not uncover his eyes; he merely prayed for the gentle rustle of Valourië's robe.
"Isildur," came her voice. His prayers were answered.
"Valourië," he replied. "Why have you come?"
"You were within a hair's width of death today," said the maiden, swimming in the murky shadows. "It was your first time."
It was not a question, but he answered it anyway. "Yes."
"What did you think of when the blow came?"
The unreality of the conversation consumed him. He was no longer surprised by her audacity.
"I thought of my life," said Isildur. "I thought of my greatest accomplishments." He sighed and blinked fitfully, clearing the film from his eyes.
"And." prompted Valourië.
"I am a royal Dúnedain of Númenor, High Prince of Gondor, and successor of my father, Elendil the Tall. This is my accomplishment in life."
"You have been Elendil's heir from the moment of your birth," Valourië pointed out.
"Precisely," the prince replied. "Since then I have founded the city of Minas Ithil, which has been conquered by Sauron, demoted one of my father's commanding generals to the rank of footman, deserted my given post, and endangered the lives of countless Númenoreans." Isildur paused. "Well, at least I can right Aratar's demotion. I shall recommission him when next I can."
"No," whispered Valourië. "You shall not."
"What do you mean?" he demanded, the authority of his voice all but sapped.
"Aratar is dead," explained Valourië. "He fell before the Gate of Mordor. A orc-marksman scored a hit upon him."
A moan of despair escaped the young prince's lips. "Oh, curse the fate that brought me to this! Since my entrance into this world, I have visited nothing but disgrace upon my friends and allies! All goodwill I have squandered in my arrogance! Thank you, good maiden, for showing me my errors."
Isildur reached for his helmet, and put it on. Trithalos was drawn.
"What are you doing?" Valourië inquired.
"I go now to repay my debt," declared the prince. "I go now to death upon the battlefield, as Aratar and many others have before me."
"No!" cried Valourië, seizing him. "You will not! Do you dare to take the weakling's course, the path of the fool? To go to an inglorious suicide? Have you learned nothing?"
"It is best to let Anárion rule in my stead," retorted Isildur. "For, as all know, he surpasses me tenfold in wisdom and skill. I shall tarry no more, for come morn the worms of war shall have eaten me through! Let the battle-maggots tear me beneath their cruel blades! I am ready!"
"Isildur!" shouted the girl. "Speak sense! Wasting your own life will not repay your debt for Aratar's, but compound it!"
Shaking his metal-skinned head in despair, Isildur murmured, "I can find no redemption in my lifetime, though I may plague this earth for an age."
"Are you yet damned, Isildur?" asked Valourië.
The prince did not answer.
"Then, you may yet be redeemed! Now, desert this craven foolishness."
She gently grasped Trithalos' blade, and brought the sword away from him and into her calm grip. "Peace, young prince," she intoned, "for the road to wisdom is not walked with urgency. Find peace."
Isildur silently resheathed Trithalos and laid his helm aside.
"You warn against haste, but I feel that action is needed, good lady," Isildur stated, calming his quavering voice.
"I cannot decide for you," she replied.
As she spoke, the faint cry of many horns blew across the camp, and Valourië rose hurriedly. "For now, other matters call upon me with greater importunity. I bid you farewell." And, with that, she departed.
"No!" cried Isildur after her. "Tarry for but a moment longer!"
The swiftly receding figure gave no heed to his words, and he called more loudly, no doubt alerting many of his Númenorean underlings. He did not care.
Finally, he resorted to force. "I command you to return!" he bellowed, and he saw that Valourië was at last observing his authority. As she returned, she shot him a fiery look.
"You command me?" she asked.
Isildur rolled his eyes and amended his bid. "I request that you return for a minute longer."
"Better," she said, "but I still refuse."
Fighting back his imperial rage, Isildur returned to his tent and paced up and down, considering his next decision. In the end, it was obvious, and he set out to consummate it.

"Bah!" shouted Durin. "What do you know of mining, elf?"
Gil-galad slammed his fist down, and replied, "I know enough of Sauron's works to realize that Orodruin cannot be safely tapped! You have been in Mordor for less than a day, so do not speak as if it is your birthplace, dwarf!"
"You'd be quick enough to change your mind if I suggested that we plant a forest here!" the dwarf retorted, Kórgur bouncing wildly against his chest as he waved his stubby hands in the air.
"The dwarves have no right to decide the fate of this land!" replied Gil-galad. "You'd do well to remember that your warriors have been little more than a supplement to our own forces!"
At this, Durin jumped up and pointed an accusing finger at Gil-galad, but before the dwarf could utter another word, he found himself facing the mediating form of Elrond.
"Enough!" cried the lieutenant, waving Durin back to his seat. "None of us can decide this matter," he declared. "When Sauron is at last vanquished, we must hold a council to bring a just verdict. Until then, it would be best to forget it. What say you, good king?"
Gil-galad considered this. "I agree. All realms who have entered themselves into the roster of the Last Alliance must be fairly represented in this affair." The elven-king looked to Elendil for approval.
"The marshals of Gondor and Arnor shall be summoned," proclaimed Elendil. "And so too shall we enforce the decree of the council, whatever it may be."
"Very well," said Gil-galad. "So, the races of elves, men, and dwarves shall elect the fate of the Dark Land, but until this council is convened, let us speak no more of it."
As Gil-galad's announcement came, so did the braying of many horns across the campgrounds. Elendil was first upon his feet, and Elrond looked to him.
"The sounding horns are those of Gondor," explained Elendil.
"I recognize their voices," replied Elrond. "It is their direction that confounds me, for do they not ring from the south?"
"You are right!" cried Elendil. "Quickly, all! We must be off to meet them!"
Gil-galad, Durin, and Elendil departed the meeting tent, mounting their swift steeds and setting off to the south. Elrond, meanwhile, went to fetch Círdan, who had retired from the meeting earlier.
As the two elves were returning to their mounts, they came across Isildur.
"Hail, lieutenant Elrond!" called Isildur to Elrond.
"I have no time for talk, Isildur," he responded, brushing the prince's appeal aside.
"Then I shall travel with you," replied Isildur. "After all, it would be most grievous for me to hinder you."
"Most grievous," replied Elrond, in a rare moment of sarcasm. Círdan, beside him, chortled, but hushed under Elrond's stern look.
"Travel with us, then," said Elrond, "but do not try to steer us from our path."
Isildur nodded and mounted his steed, breaking into a gallop alongside Elrond.
"I wished merely to apologize," he explained.
Elrond sighed. "If you wish something of me, ask it. We are all allies here, and there is no place for grudge-holding."
"I desire nothing of you, master elf, save your forgiveness," exclaimed Isildur. "Truly. I wish only to offer my humblest apologies."
Elrond looked suspiciously at the prince, but finally relented.
"I forgive you," the elf said. At this, the young prince grinned, but he received only Elrond's typically severe expression in return. Turning his steed away, Isildur reminded himself that he had done all that he could for now.
"What do you suppose that was all about?" asked Círdan, when Isildur was suitably out of earshot.
"I do not know," Elrond responded. "But I doubt that it shall prove important."
Buffeting Elrond's cocoon of indifference with his sardonic grin, Círdan shrugged and turned back to the horizon.
The horns' clarion call once again sounded, closer and clearer. Ahead of them was, indeed, a host of Gondor, and from it emerged Emissary, now mounted, and beside him a countenance that none needed to guess at.
Elendil approached the second rider, who had shucked off his helmet to reveal a proud and handsome face, crowned with a head of light-blond hair.
"Anárion!" called Elendil. "Your messenger told of a plan to besiege Minas Ithil. Has it been aborted?"
"Not so!" replied Anárion, brimming with his impassioned love of battle. "We ride from the conquered South! Minas Ithil has fallen to our blades! Isildur's city is ours once more!"
"Excellent!" said Elendil. "What area have you yet to route, if any?"
His brilliant blue eyes glittering with fervency, the prince replied, "Orcs still swarm about the Barad-dûr, and some groups are yet scattered across Gorgoroth. My scouts tell me that Nurn is in tatters. We must deal with them after the Barad-dûr topples."
"What would you suggest?" interjected Elrond. "An assault upon the fortalice at sunrise, after a regrouping of troops?"
"Sunrise?" chuckled Anárion. "Would you like to hold a few meetings and discuss strategy over mead, too?"
"Ai! Don't forget the lembas, eh?" called Círdan.
Irritated by his comrade's frivolity, Elrond interrupted with, "So, you suggest a more immediate assault? How long shall it take you to coordinate your troops?"
"My troops coordinate themselves," retorted Anárion. "We shall strike out for the Barad-dûr with all speed. You and your elves may come at your leisure."
"We shall bring our full force down upon the Dark Tower," Gil-galad assured him. "Isonduil's unit shall be recalled from the Crevice of Gorgoroth. So, too, shall Elrond's standing legions be raised from the camp."
"Many thanks, Gil-galad," replied the prince, with a wink. Turning toward Barad-dûr in the east, though, Anárion paused, and for the first time seemed visibly uncertain.
Reapproaching his father, he indicated one of the riders and asked, "Do my eyes cheat me, or is that a dwarf?"

Under Udûn's contaminated sky, Isildur sparred with an imaginary opponent, thrusting Trithalos to and fro in the oft-rehearsed maneuvers that he had learned in childhood. He had learned them from Aratar.
Feeling the biting guilt of the old man's death, Isildur choked it back down and parried an imaginary blow. His feet danced automatically, along premeditated tracks, retreating a little and then pressing forward against his foe.
Elrond had been unreceptive to his apology, and though the prince's first reaction was to feel bitter and rejected, once again, he stemmed that self-destructive train of thought. As hard as it was to force himself to see, Elrond's skepticism was fully justified. Each thought stung him like a slash from his own sword, but he bore the wounds, knowing that it was what Valourië would have expected from him.
He had, through his arrogance, sent Aratar to an undue death. He had, through his insolence, shamed his father in the eyes of Gil-galad. There were too many transgressions to list.
As he swung his sword in an arc around his body, he caught a glimpse of his own face in the reflection of the blade. Rough and unshaven, bright green eyes, matted dark-blond hair. The visage of a prince.
That night, battling with unseen foes within and without, Isildur vowed to find redemption for each and every sin that stained him, to lift clean each mark of condemnation, to one day see himself white as snow and as blameless as the most honest of men. He would have set things even, with no deeds of ill or noble nature to his name.
After then, he could begin his true accomplishments. Slowly, he would win back favor in the eyes of the elves and of his fellow men. Gradually, but surely, he would bring himself closer to Aratar's avengeance.
Isildur smiled wryly as he realized that the old man had never inspired him as fully in life. It was an irony that the aged knight would have appreciated.
With an onrushing and a clattering flurry of hooves, an elvish runner sped by the prince, covering him in soot and gravel. Though he called after the rider, his words went either unheard or unheeded. Isildur squinted into the elf's murky wake for a moment, and then returned to practice.

"Secondary vanguard, ho!" Anárion called. "Fall back to the rear of the echelon!"
The Númenorean shieldsmen complied, retreating to the corner of the formation. Bringing out Tritharon, Anárion brandished the weapon regally, drawing a cheer from his loyal troops. Tritharon was forged in the same furnace as Trithalos, and was much similar in design. Its handle was cast in the shape of the White Tree, but it was silver rather than gold. Likewise, the blade was gold rather than silver.
Thrusting Tritharon fiercely back into its burnished scabbard, the prince donned his helm and set out for the fanglike pinnacle rising from the dust. Distant masses of orcs swarmed about the base of the Barad-dûr, and already their braying voices could be heard shouting raucous battle- chants. Anárion flashed a snow-white grin through the steel grill of his helmet. It would be a day to remember.

"Lord Elrond! Pause for a while?"
"I've no time," replied Elrond. "You'd best await my return from the battle."
"But, sir!" protested the runner. "I bear grave news from Imladris!"
"Halt," commanded Elrond. "Very well," the elf-lord conceded, "tell of these events, and quickly!"

"There has been an attack upon the city," announced the elf, and the fidgeting troops fell still and silent.
"An attack?" Elrond prompted. "By whom?"
"A spy of Sauron," the runner responded. "A man who claimed to be a friend of Elendil, Amandil-son, to gain entrance to the keep. He felled Silwaën of the Rangers, as well as Haelith, lady of Gondor."
"The lady Haelith is slain?" exclaimed one of Elrond's archers.
"Also, my lord," continued the elf, hesitantly, "the maiden Celebrían was injured during the incident."
"Injured." murmured Elrond. A light of regret danced in his eyes and was gone.
"Of what nature are her injuries?" he inquired.
"The intruder used a magically imbued bodkin as his weapon," explained the runner. "As it pierced Silwaën's heart, his blood was frosted and life was pulled from him. The intruder fell upon Celebrían and cut her throat, but as her flesh froze, so was the blood frozen, and she did not bleed. Our clerics attended to her needs, and she is expected to survive her wound with nothing more than a scar."
"It is a wound that she should never have had to feel," remarked Elrond. Turning abruptly, he began to move toward the east, his troops trailing. "There are things to be done, good elf," he called back. "I thank you for your felicitous passage from Imladris to my camp, and of the delivery of this news."
"Many times are you welcome, Elrond, Eärendil-son! I will await your return at the Udûn-outposts!"
Saluting the lieutenant, the elven-runner wheeled his stallion around toward Isenmouthe pass.

Maglaur crept stealthily along the edge of the trench, and finally peered up. Ahead of him was a black stake thrust deep into the stale Mordor earth. At his side was Ohtar.
Squinting, Maglaur murmured, "Anárion's going in."
"Yes," Ohtar replied. "But don't expect anything less than a challenge, even if we are second-in-line."
Maglaur stared back at the troops which were once Isildur's.
"I hope I can out-perform a prince," the commandant muttered.
Ohtar scoffed loudly. "Isildur was an idiot."
Maglaur looked at his friend with a fusion of shock and amusement. "That's treason!" he exclaimed.
"So is deserting your troops and disregarding the sovereign's mandate," Ohtar pointed out. Maglaur's expression indicated his tacit agreement.
"Well," he said. "I concur. Our prince and future regius is an idiot."
Ohtar grinned. "What do you say? Traitors forever?"
On Maglaur's right hand was a scar. In fact, it was more of a welt, broad, jagged, and pale. It terminated at the end of his palm.
As the two men executed the hand-clasp of the Alliance, one might see that Ohtar bore a similar scar. As their palms met, the scars aligned perfectly.
Together they recited an oath forged in childhood, the only time of unclouded simplicity.
"When I triumph," intoned Mauglar, "you shall exceed me."
The echoing recitation came. "Where I falter, you shall succeed me."
Mauglar uttered the line of momentous finality. "When I am slain, you shall avenge me."
The ceremony completed, Ohtar glanced once again over the ridge and exclaimed, "By Seraglioth's ashes! Anárion's gone off without us!"
Mauglar lowered the visor of his sallet and charged from the ravine, whipping a tail of Númenoreans behind him. In his wake followed Ohtar, who muttered under his breath, "Long live the traitors."