Only a small number of the Dunlendings had survived the battle, and few of those were uninjured.  The leader of the Dunlendings was one of the latter.  With bound hands, he stood sullenly before Glorfindel and Erestor, who wished to question him as to why the Dunlendings had not let them pass unmolested, as they had been wont to do in the past.

Erestor began the interrogation.  "We desired only to journey through this land.  We had not troubled you or your kinfolks; nor had we damaged your homes, crops, or cattle.  Why then did you attack us, to your great loss?"

"We had cause," the leader muttered.

Glorfindel spoke up.  "I know of no cause.  We do not come into your land unless we are on our way elsewhere.  We do not rob or enslave you or harm you in any way.  What then is this cause that you claim to have?"

"Is murder not a just cause?" snarled the leader.  "May we not avenge the death of our hunters who ventured into the forest of Imladris and never returned?"

Glorfindel replied calmly.  "I believe I know of whom you speak.  Was one of these hunters named 'Ceorl'?"

"Ah, so you admit you died at your hands," crowed the Man triumphantly.

"I admit nothing of the sort—but if he and his fellows had died at our hands, their fate would have been just.  For if strangers came into your land and tried to enslave your young ones, would you not retaliate?"

The Man stood silent.  For this he had no answer.

"They deserved to die at our hands, but that was not how they met their end.  They were betrayed and slain by the Southrons whom they had agreed to guide into Imladris."

Although he was uncouth, the leader was not unintelligent.  Instinctively he knew that the elf-lord spoke the truth.  Great was his anguish as he realized that he had led his people into hopeless battle to avenge an offense that had never taken place.  He paled and swayed on his feet.

Erestor reached out his hand to steady him.  "No doubt this will be little consolation, but know that the slayers of the hunters have themselves been slain."

The leader looked up.  "At whose hand did they die?"

Erestor nodded toward Glorfindel.  "At his hand and at the hands of his warriors."

The leader gave a tight smile.  "You have slain the greater part of our people, but we must perforce be grateful because you have avenged others of our folk.  Now doubly bitter is our plight."

Said Glorfindel sternly, "You yourself forced us into battle; let the Valar witness that we fought most unwillingly."

The leader nodded; there was nothing else to say. 

Glorfindel cut the leader's bonds and ordered that the other prisoners be set free.  Once they were set at liberty, the Dunlendings slipped away into the brush.

"They will be back to bury their dead," said Erestor.  "Even though it is dark, let us push onward so that we may camp well away from this scene of desolation."

"I think," said Glorfindel, "that never again will the Dunlendings attack peaceful travelers."  Glorfindel spoke truly—and Anomen would be grateful years hence, when, in the company of eight companions, he would once again have occasion to enter Dunland.

That night, though, sitting by a dying campfire, Anomen gave no thought to the future.  He was thinking of the Dunlending whose throat he had cut.  Glorfindel had not mentioned that one of the hunters had indeed been slain by an Elf.  Had Glorfindel forgotten?  Or had he merely chosen not to mention a fact that would have confirmed the Dunlending's prejudice?

Thoron noticed his brooding silence.  "You are troubled, Anomen."

"I was thinking of the death of the Dunlendings today and—that other time."

Thoron looked shrewdly at Anomen.  "Tell me, Anomen, do you think I did wrong today, when that Man had you at his mercy?  After all, I came up behind him and hacked off his head.  He was oblivious to his danger and had no chance to defend himself."

Anomen sighed.  "No, you did right."

"I am glad you think so.  Remember, Anomen, you are no murderer, regardless of what that Dunlending thought."

Anomen nodded somberly.  "I know, Thoron; I just wish that—that we did not have to do certain thinks."

"I wish so as well, Anomen.  But mark well what Glorfindel said: we were forced into battle.  The Dunlendings had every chance to break off the assault and did not do so.  They chose their fate."

Mithrandir had said something similar, thought Anomen, and he smiled gratefully at Thoron.  It suddenly came to him that he was still thirsty.  The Dunlendings were dead, and that could not be helped, but he could do something about his dry throat.  He was also hungry.  He lifted up his flask and let the water cascade onto his face and into his mouth.  Then he reached into a saddlebag and pulled out a packet of lembas.  Watching him, Thoron smiled.  Life was made up of these simple acts, the ones that must be performed no matter what the circumstances.  It was good to see that Anomen understood this.  They were warriors, but warriors had the same basic needs as other folk.

Anomen interrupted Thoron's musings.  "Thoron, I need to step into the brush for a moment.  I will be back momentarily."

Thoron laughed with such amusement that other Elves turned to look at him.

"What is so funny?" asked a bewildered Anomen.

Thoron shook his head.  "Never mind me.  I was tallying the needs of the warrior, and you reminded me of one that I had left off the list."

Shortly thereafter, Anomen, having satisfied his latest 'need', was curled up in his bedroll and sleeping as comfortably as one could when on the march.  Glorfindel was making the rounds of the camp and stopped to speak with Thoron.

"He sleeps untroubled by any dreams?"

"Yes, Glorfindel.  During his waking hours, however, he sometimes thinks overmuch—I never met an Elf with so many scruples."

"As long as his scruples do not cause him to hesitate during battle—that could be fatal for both himself and his companions."

"That is true, of course, but, Glorfindel, Anomen will never be at ease as a warrior until he has found answers to his questions."

"I know, Thoron.  I only hope that he will have the time to do so.  Like all of us, he may soon be thrown into such peril that he will need to act decisively, with no regard to his scruples."

"…need to act decisively…"  The words echoed in Thoron's head long after Glorfindel had gone to his rest.  "Would that all needs were simple," Thoron whispered sadly to himself.