[Durelin]

Lorien! For Mirkwood! Two different cries yelled by two different voices, battling for the glory of two different lands, but for the safety of one, and for the safety of all. For the first time, it seemed they all were prepared to face what could be called an ‘end’. It doubtless could also be called the end, by some, but not by all. What was each elf fighting for? Surely, though their ultimate goal was the same, they did not share the same motivation, the same concerns, or the same beliefs. When it came to any battle, the heart played an important role, and not simply as a source of what is called courage. The heart can battle with the mind, but when it comes to any other battle, it must call a truce with the mind, for both to survive.

Calenvása’s bones ached, and his muscles screamed, and his mind was numb. Not numbed by the pain. The mind numbed the pain, focusing not on the physical feeling, and barely acknowledging the concept of the pain that enveloped his body. It was felt by another being, as far as the elf’s mind was concerned. A centered pain in his right arm was the only thought that crossed his mind as he struggled to keep a hold on his knife, is grip slicked by his blood, which covered his right hand. A strange thing it was, that Men, Orcs, and Elves, all bled, and bled together on this day. A strange thing to consider, that his blood mingled with that of Men and Orcs, as he wiped blood out of his eyes. It was black, and yet it was the life-blood of a living thing. A creature, everything about it as black as its blood, but something that bled just like an elf. At any other time he would have smiled as his mind forgot all previous thoughts at the emergence of another: these monsters bled, and he would have his fill of their blood by the end of this day. But that end and what it was to bring had yet to be realized. And he did not smile, for all the blood that was shed was because of him, or so his mind had told him at the feeling of despair that had come with the sight of their enemy, seemingly waiting for them. Who had made the final choice? Ambarturion had let Calenvása do so. Had this privilege been given simply as acknowledgement of his leadership? The leadership he had scorned until a day ago. And though he felt despair, guilt, anger, so many feelings in that tore at him, responses to the result of what he considered his decision, he accepted them. The weight these feelings had placed on him in the past was shaken off by this acceptance, and by the will to fulfill the duties that came with his title, his name, his responsibility, which was ‘Captain’.

A wild slash to his right brought to him the reward of a clean cut to the bare chest of an orc that he followed with a stab to the gut. Puling out the knife blade cleanly, he was prepared to meet the man in gold armour that came at him, the blade in his hand ready to take the elf’s life. Finding brown cloth that showed from beneath the armour, Calenvása sprang at the Easterling, wounding him in the right shoulder, ruining his sword arm. He attempted one last weak, wild swing at the elf before he fell. Only an elf killed with such precision, their blades weapons designed for piercing, and for a clean and speedy kill. Their enemies, particularly orcs, perhaps should be thankful for this.

Suddenly, as if a choir sang out from above, as if the Last Music was being played, as blood was spilt and the enemy was about to overcome the righteous, and the world would come to an end with the light having the ultimate victory, a great blast of voices sounded, crying out Ai, Lorien!. Lorien’s defense was awe-inspiring, as they were full of a vigor that the enemy would never know. They fought with their hearts, and filled the Captain’s and his companions’ hearts with a new hope. The next moments were that of a dream, and the passing of time was lost in Calenvása’s mind. He was lost in a blur of joy and relief, silenced by it, and driven by it to find the end of this day. Only after the battle was over would he look upon it as something from a tale of old. And a tale it did become, worthy of a song.