[Garen LiLorian]

Angóre dashed down the tunnel, reflecting ruefully that he had been doing a great deal of that recently. The strap that had held his dagger slapped against his side, and his mind ran back over his conversation with the senior envoy. Even were he to live another full age of the world, he would still not understand her pacifism. With the world crumbling around her, the servants of the great Enemy ringing her in, still she refused to take the weapon from him. He wondered if that pacifism would hold even with the enemy bearing down on her. Would she not struggle then? Even a rabbit did as much. It was a path strange to him, and, though he respected her strength of will and stately presence greately, it was a path he could never give his respect to. He wondered again, this time about the aged and crippled soldier the blade had gone to instead. Was it possible the man knew the worth of the gift given him? It seemed unlikely. In all, he reflected, it had been a strange day.

Which would only get stranger. He rounded the bend in the tunnel to see his charge flung limply against the stones, breath dashed from her lungs. And the word, 'Maltóre.' He felt the strength leave his knees. Fighting raged around him, screams of the wounded and dying, and he did nothing but stare at the comatose figure. How had she known that name? The last time it had been spoken had been by the emissary of Elrond, informing him of the death of his mother. He had been struck still then as well, looking out over the valley of Imladris. When he had finally turned, all color and life drained from his features, his words had only been this; I am Angóre now. And he had never been called anything but that since. How had she known? And why, why had she spoken that name now?

The battle raged, but Angóre was no part of it anymore.