Dark were the days that followed, ash and smoke filled the air; the Morannon that once stood menacing as dark black teeth piercing the rock beneath it now lay in ruins beneath the feet of Elendil, and four leagues beyond it the encampment of the Alliance came to an end. It had been seven years since the Siege of Barad-dur began, and the great king of Eriador stood facing the tent that held the body of his slain son, Anarion, who by the arts of the Men of the West, was preserved until proper burial. Silently this king mourned his youngest, standing as a statue of carved marble, the wind that entered the gap where once stood the gate of Mordor could not chill his weeping heart, he looked as a tree stands amid a storm, silent, tall unrelenting to the torrents that beat all down around him. A small distance away his son, Isildur, knelt on the ground, holding the sword of his brother dearly as if he were holding a child. The sword, wrapped in a blood-stained tunic, sang no more song of blood thirst, it was muted as the youth who once held it so skillfully, and now was cold steel, with no life, no future, a relic for generations in future days to look at, and question who was it that held such a thing, only to receive no answer from their parents, who knew not the songs of old.

Beyond this private ceremony, a large green tent was erected on a small hill-side in the center of the encampment; before it flew the banners of Erenion, Oropher and the standard of Elrond half-elven. Within sounds of debate could be heard, clear Sindarin tongue lashed out at stern Quenya dialect, yet hushed were these voices at that moment; the day was a day of mourning, not strife, many fell in the last breech of the wall and the surrounding lands, now all that lay before them were the very slopes of Orodruin, its silence almost deafening, making its shadow of fear and terror all the more present. Within a harsh tongue of a Sindar King resounded,

"This silence by the forces of Sauron warns me that we linger where we should press on..."

"Thranduil, we cannot press on with the weight of these losses on the hearts of our soldiers, we must give them time to mourn."

The voice of Elrond stood out among the gathered, he had grown in stature among them, regarded as an equal to Erenion himself, even the proud son of Oropher respected his knowledge, at times. To the side sat Celebrin, pondering thoughts he had thought he would never think again: troop placement, words that would inspire hope, words that would console widows, words to cheer the despairing. Around him the debate went on, Thranduil would at times ask for his support, yet his word meant nothing to these High folk, they cared not for the musings of a servant turned lieutenant, and he thought similarly...what words of wisdom could he give to the wise? Thranduil again retorted the comment made by the half-elf with an accusing bite of tongue,

"Did you wait to mourn my Father? Or Amdir? Or the losses my people suffered in the first Sieges of the Morannon? Do not tell me Elrond that you would wait to mourn your own losses, when my troops have had to mourn theirs as they fought to the death..."

"Thranduil is right."

Surprisingly this unlooked for support came from Erenion himself, who now stood tall among the gathered, with a stern and unwavering voice he said,

"We cannot remain while the very forces around us seek to throttle us in our sleep, victory was ours this past year, yet must we come so far to think we are safe in the very den of the wolf we have come to slay?"

"But my lord..."

"I know what you would say Elrond, but the wisest choice for us to take is to press on, we cannot mourn the dead, with half our minds on battle...we press on, tomorrow, we shall fight for the slopes of Mount Doom."

With two kings against his word Elrond submitted to their judgment, and all this Celebrin watched, hearing the song of mourning outside in the blowing wind. He walked out of the tent, looking into the sky, he wondered if it was day, or if it was night, he could only see that by the firelight from the camp that many were ready for sleep; already a year they had lived in the confines of the Mountains of Ash and Shadow, their daily routines made all the more monotonous, with no sound of bird or joyful flute. Around him youths he had known to be so carefree frowned more than they smiled, they became so serious beneath the ever-present heat, which beat down on them as if they were swords being hammered in the smithies. Their bodies, when out of armor, drooped and their proud elven forms ached at the pains of war in this heartless land, before him Celebrin saw the makings of the orc-kind, deprived of light and air, he knew now how the legend was true...that orc and elf were of same descent.

He shuddered at this thought, straightened his back and went to his garrison's camp, where Alphindil strung sorrowfully at a wooden harp, signing a song of the ancient world. Others around him sat on the ground, listening intently to the lay he sung, of an elven maiden who left her safety for the love of a mortal man, a journey that took her to the very depths of the earth and into the halls of the dead, and into life again, yet lost among the fate of the eldar. Celebrin leaned upon a tree, remembering the same maiden, dancing around him, allowing him to play with her skirts in his infancy, as his mother sewed one of her dresses she had torn in her wanderings through the woods. He remembered her gentle face and star-lit eyes, and her raven hair, falling to the ground around him as she played with him, her dark tresses mingling with his own small whisps of nightshade hair. The memory made him tear in the eyes, and a small clump stuck in his throat, as the song ended, and the knowledge of her fate tore the dream away, until he returned to the present world, seeing Alphindil place the harp down and the group that had gathered head to their tents for uneasy dreams and prepare for the uncertain tomorrow. He moved over to his companion and sat on the ground beside him,

"You left out the end, mellon nin."

"I did not want to leave them with such a sad ending, better to have them dream about her return from the Halls of Mandos, than to know of her final end."

"And what of our end, old friend, what song shall we be remembered in?"

"In the song of the Twin Spears...until the ends of time."

Alphindil's gentle jest made Celebrin smile, and silently they watched the fire die out, and then returned to their own tent to sleep and dream of tomorrows, when they would dwell by the sea and the woods, when all was over and peace returned to their home in Ennor; this promise they made, to seek out a land fit for both songs, the sea and the woods.

Before them lay the great expanse of Mordor and in the distance loomed the very Mountain that caused the sky to be veiled from neither sun nor moon, darkness lay about them and the stillness was thick in the air. There stood the very forces of Mordor, marching in blocks, their crude iron clanging to the beat of metal drums, as the details of their torn and mangled visages became visible to mortal eyes. Their crude and cruel tongue sang curses and songs of cruelty, yet before them lay a bright golden host, beside one of cool steel, and banners waving in the heated wind. In the center stood Erenion and Elendil, and to either side of them Elrond and Isildur, each with a great host behind him; and to the farthest reaches stood Thranduil, arrayed in his Silvan gold, behind him stood Celebrin and Alphindil, and the force from the woods. Youths had grown in these times of war, husbands, brothers, and sons were lost in this fateful journey that led them to the very steps of Mount Doom; yet now they stood, they who had not seen bloodshed or saw it long ago, to whom war was a distant memory from a time long ago, when the shadow of despair lay heavy upon them.

Celebrin stood firmly behind Thranduil, who having no time to weep for his father, had become cold to all other feelings, and who now stood frighteningly still, as if he were already dead and the lifeless form of a body was left to follow his departed spirit. Beside Celebrin a young elf shivered in his fear, and the standard he bore wavered though no mighty gust came to do so. Seeing his plight Celebrin smiled at this most inopportune time and laying his hand on the youth's shoulder asked him

"What chaos forces this upon you young one? Surely war you have seen before this day?"

"F...forgive me Master Uial, I fear for my life now...a...all I have seen, does not compare to this...In my fear I am ashamed to be in your presence"

"Fear is the gift of the brave young one, even now my heart is fearful, for now who can say to what end we go, this is the end of the world we know...nothing will be as we left it, but changed forever, in this my fear resides... I have seen many wars, and many who were brave perish, but I tell you, now is the time to remember most, what you cherish, what you hold dear, it will be all the courage you need. Live as though your last days were near, what do you cherish young one?"

"M...my wife, she had just given birth before I left, a boy, a beautiful boy, his name is Haldir."

"I envy you, the life you will return to; you will live this through, I can see it in your eyes, father of Haldir of Lorien."

The youth smiled as Celebrin soothed his nervousness, and the beats of the iron armor clashed on, until they came to an arrows reach, silence filled the air and choked the lungs of the standard bearers, who could not breathe to blow their horns. And Alphindil stood beside his companion of long years, and silently they stood in the presence of the other, until the breath before the plunge, when a flute could be heard in the silence, a flute from a Shepard boy beyond the high mountains, so distant, so fair and faint. Taking the hand of his friend and companion Celebrin looked into the eyes of the only family he had left in the world east of Mithlond, in tears and cracked voice he said at long last,

"What ever happens this day, I love you Alphindil, I will be with you at your side as I have always been."

"You give me strength, even now amidst despair, whatever happens, I will not leave you to live a life alone in this world."

The breath was taken, the horns and trumpets blown and drums rang out as iron clashed with armor of steel, gilded and forged by hearts and minds of true sentience. Swords were drawn, and arrows let fly as generals and Kings called out as armies of orcs and trolls and men raced towards them. Thus did the final battle of those days begin, in such a way as the age before ended, unlooked for and in the fires of war.

Hours turned to days, and still the fighting continued, fire rained from the mountain of doom, and great shadows rushed into battle taking many a brave soul to fear and death. Yet for all the sorcery and power the mountain wielded the forces of the Alliance pierced through like an arrow through wood, giving way here and there yet at the pinnacle was Erenion, High King of Forlindon, and beside him was Elendil, calling out the name of his fallen son and his former land that lay once in beauty in the center of the great ocean. The star above Gil-galad's eyes shone out before the forces of men and elves, as a beacon of hope and a star before them, even as Earendil had when he fought his last battle upon the plains of Arda. Hope seemed near, and victory could be tasted, for Erenion stood on the slopes of Orodruin, and with his elven sight saw the gate to the high tower Barad-dur. He laughed as one hale for nothing stood between him and the door of Sauron, he called out to those before him,

"Let fly your arrows, let sing your swords, victory is ours!"

Then Sauron came forth.

Like a great shadow, he stood tall before the figure of the high king, his dark armor gave no glimmer, nor his helm or gauntlet. Of pure darkness he was, not fair as he had once been, all that glowed about him were his terrible eyes, lit with a great and malevolent flame. He lifted high his mighty mace, as Morgoth had to Fingolfin in an age long passed, yet fear could not be found in the heart of Erenion Gil-galad, High King of Forlindon, swiftly he dodged the blow that pierced the volcanic rock below and rose his spear to the great helm of Sauron, and Aiglos, the great spear of Erenion Gil-galad, pierced one of the mighty eyes of Sauron, and the once beautiful Maia gave out a cry, shrill and cold, freezing all to fear, even his worst of servants. Yet the fire of rage about him could not be subdued and with his hand he held the throat of the High King, and all saw the ring, wreathed in flame and blazing forth with hatred and malice. All heard the cry of the High King, whose crown and spear fell to the ground, and whose last breath was uttered in flame. All saw this happen, yet Alphindil saw his Lord and King, cry out in pain, and a flame leapt in his heart, a flame that remembered the battle cry of Turgon before he fell in his Tower upon Gondolin, and the mighty lay of Fingolfin. Within him a fire was awoken, and he left his sword in the body of an orc, and becoming fey he took up the fallen spear Aiglos, and pierced the armor of Sauron. Yet no great cry was given by the Lord of Mordor, the ring upon his hand blazed a fiery red and the great mace in his hand swept around, and landed upon its desired mark. The still body of Alphindil fell a large distance away, and no life could be seen from any sign it gave.

Celebrin cried out, having seen all that transpired, and without care for his own life, he ran through the throng of orcs and elves and men, pushing away all bodies surrounding him. And in tears he came to the body of his companion of long years, tearing at his raven hair, and the tunic he wore. The body felt cold, too cold for death or life, and the eyes that once blazed with joy and happiness were no filled with nightmarish silence. Taking up his sword he stood above the lifeless form of his companion and faced rushing orcs; holding his sword close he cried out,

"Come and meet my wrath!"

Becoming fey and uncontrolled he cleaved into the side of the first and in rage and anger he protected the lifeless form beneath him, caring not what arrow pierced his side, nor what iron cut his skin. In this way he fought on until a great wind blew him to the ground and a great shrill cry went forth with the wind. Lying beside his unmoving companion he took his hand, and wept, as all the world around him was broken, and the great tower of Barad-dur fell to the ground. As the cries of victory rang out and the orcs cired in fear, and all the world seemed to end; the world was silent for Celebrin, as he wept as he had in childhood long ago, he cried out to the form lying in his lap. In that place, as shouts of joy surrounded and trumpets rang out, and the clouds of Orodruin were broken revealing the blanket of stars above, the brightest, Earendil blared in the west. And Celebrin wept alone, holding close the cold body of Alphindil, letting all the world pass away, knowing only despair and hopelessness in this new age of the world.