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Khalad's eyes shone with eagerness and the light of his kin. For so long it had been extinguished, ever since his flight from Pelargir. Yet a passion burned in him, a pride and joy over his people. Not only would he see the Eldar in their splendour, he would once again walk amongst Númenoreans; hear the speech of Sindarin, watch their grey eyes stare into his with the greeting that they used. He would once again see the might of ranks upon ranks of soldiers, as tall as trees, the sun reflected by countless armours and weapons.
And he would fight amongst them. The answer that Melost gave him was proof enough for him and he needed nothing further to ease his worries. He would march along them and those around him would no nothing save that they walked with a kinsman of theirs, one whom they would fight and perhaps die together with. The next time he drew his sword, Khalad promised himself, would be to thrust it into the enemies of his people.
The eagerness of his youth had now grown strong in him and the thought of possible death did not bother him. Oh yes, he knew that he might die; but he thought only of the death of a hero, slain when his mightiest deeds had been performed and his name had become immortal through song. And he thought of his own song; of past disgrace and fall from nobility, yet a return to previous glory and beyond because of the deeds he would perform on the battlefield.
And then, the thought entered him, he would see Pelargir again. Hear the birds as they shrieked when flying high in the air, unharmed by any man. He would see the white buildings as he approached and he would enter its gates proudly, head held high. Any who would dare to stop him would halt at the sight of his uniform and the awards upon his chest; the awards given by a King to his loyal soldier.
And it seemed to Khalad that the future was not a foe anymore.
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