[piosenniel]

The End of a Day ~*~ Durelin

A soft murmur of voices was the only sound on the battlefield, sounding a beautiful sorrow amidst a field of death. The immediate celebration as the orcs fled the field had faded when they began taking care of the dead, searching through the bodies, finding familiar faces. A soft chant for all of the dead, a sweet song for those they recognized. All their hearts mourned as one, though their voices were all their own. The gentleness of the air was not broken by any sound. The carrion fowl did not dare come near elves as they mourned their dead.

Calenvása walked through the battlefield, seeing every pale, lifeless face as a familiar one. Only in their eyes did the dead still seem to live, and he looked in to so many eyes that day. He felt that if he looked close enough, he could see their souls taking flight, flying home, free from the confinement of their bodies that had walked on Eä until this day. It was astounding what could occur in one day, how many lives could come to an end in one day, how much a being could see in one day. And there were so many days in the life of an immortal…

Suddenly something made Calenvása look up, and he saw Targil standing before him. The Captain was shocked at what he saw on the elf’s face, in his eyes. His face was hardly recognizable, and there were tears running down it. It was not his face itself, Calenvása soon realized, but how it was set. And it was his eyes. The elf was a perfect model of grief, and it aged him. Targil had wisdom in his eyes, eyes that had seen so much in one day of the immortal life.

The elf led his Captain to the body of Lómarandil, and then to the body of Thorvel. He spoke of Thorvel and Lómarandil’s deaths, and how he had been nearby. He spoke of it as something long passed, an event that was lost somewhere in the long history of his life, the exact time it had occurred no longer known. His eyes would even grow distance as he recalled the moments, particularly when he came to when Thorvel had spoken. The dying elf had asked for forgiveness from Lómarandil, and gave his respect to his Captain. With forgiveness given, Lómarandil died with him. Calenvása considered it strange that Throvel would remember him as he died, but he decided he would consider it once more, later. For now, tears ran down his face, and the sorrow left him silent.

Then someone spoke from behind him. Slightly startled, Targil and Calenvása turned quickly to see who spoke. Neither recognized him, but that did not seem to matter. Tears were in his eyes, as well, and there was a look about him that made Targil’s grief seem slight. In his hands were two blossoms of the elanor flower, their beauty glowing in the Captain’s tear filled eyes. He held them out as he spoke softly, “These are for your comrades. They died for Lorien, though their home was in Mirkwood.”

Calenvása was shocked, and simply bowed, murmuring his thanks. It seemed more than enough to the strange elf. He almost smiled, but Calenvása watched the grief overcome him once more. The Lorien elf stepped forward, and kneeled upon the ground. Targil and his Captain watched as the Lorien elf placed the flowers upon the body of Thorvel. The still moist blood soon soaked into its delicate white petals. “Where does your other companion lie?”

“What is your name?” Calenvása asked. “Helkaur,” he strange Lorien elf answered. Then, though the body of Lómarandil lay right next to Thorvel’s, the Mirkwood Captain gestured out across the battlefield in all directions. “Helkaur, our other companions lie here.