As Melost fled out into the empty night, he was unaware that he was being closely watched by an interested pair of eyes. The scout was high up among the rocks in the pass Melost had blindly stumbled into. "A lone Elf...warrior by the look of him, out here on his own? Huh..." the scout thought as the scrutiny continued.
Alone, unarmed and nearing insanity, Melost ran on. The one thought his mind could grasp was that he had to put distance between himself and the pain in Arthain's last look. His ankle twisted painfully on a loose rock and he fell hard. Melost lay for a moment, stunned and dazed, his breathing harsh. He dug his fingers into the loose rocks on the path and gave himself totally over to despair. Ragged sobs, dry as the dust he lay in threatened to choke him, but he didn't care. All he longed for was death.
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Gil-galad and Elendil called a halt as they neared the River Gladden. The High King could see that the proud soldiers of Elendil's army were tiring and that they needed rest soon. Rather than bring them to shame, Gil-galad urged a halt, knowing that otherwise the soldiers would push themsleves to exhaustion in an attempt to keep up with the Elven army.
Word was passed and soon both Men and Elves pitchedheavy canvas tents, pulled out saddle-bags of dried meat and fruit, set watch and stretchedsore, aching muscles. Elendil watched proudly as his Men worked side-by-side with Gil-galad's army, the Mirkwood Elves remained slightly aloof from the rest.
Night fell swiftly as the leaders held converse inside the tent of Elendil. Isildur sullenly sat on a stool in the shadowed corner. He distrusted the Elves, especially Elrond and Gil-galad...so proud, so wise, so noble. It made him sick. His father had been seduced by the glamour of the Elves, but not he! He could see that all these creatures truly wanted was dominion over Men. Well, he would see to it that the House of his father never bowed to anyone!
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