Gerithor looked down upon the city below. Massive fires burned uncontrollably throughout most of it, and he could see hundreds of orcs pouring through the streets. Despite all of the destruction, he could see that about a hundred brave elves still held fast in the city square, like the last beam of sunlight to shine over the horizon before nightfall. The call of their horn was enough for him to know that they were still putting up a fight, and he nodded to Kalan.

"Sound the horn of Nogrod," he said with a grim smile.

"Aye aye!" Kalan replied with enthusiasm as he signaled to a lone dwarf bearing a great ram's horn. The dwarf blew a long, deep note that rang out through the hills, rivalling the horn of Rivendell that had also just sounded from the eastern hills. The two horns blew in harmony, filling the valley with their call.

"To Cirdan! To our brethren! Defend the North!" Gerithor cried as he raised his longsword into the air.

"Defend the North!" The other rangers echoed, their shout striking fear into the hearts of their enemies.

"Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!" The dwarves bellowed as they followed the rangers in their charge. The thunder of their armored feet as they charged shook the very ground, and they moved with surprising speed down the hill.

Still, they could not keep up with the long-legged rangers, who were already nearly to the gates. Several of them stopped to loose their longbows, but they quickly regained ground as they fell back into place. Gerithor led the attack, his men close behind.

He could now see Rivendell's warriors pouring down the hills to their east as well, and he allowed himself a primal grin as he thought of how fearful the orcs most likely were now. The elves were silent as they charged, almost unnervingly so.

The gates were wide open and foolishly left unguarded by the orcs, and Gerithor and his men rushed into the city with no resistance. They quickly made their way through the abandoned camp of the orcs, and soon emptied onto the main street.

The orcs that were bringing up the flank of their army didn't notice the rangers until they were already among their ranks, cutting down orc after orc. So great was the fury of the rangers that not a single one faltered in their charge, for they were determined to follow their leader into the fray.

Gerithor rushed ahead, his longsword swinging to and fro. Wherever it landed, another orc met its fate. Though many attempted to resist the blade, the ranger's strength was so great that their blades were broken and their shields were hewn in half. Gerithor did not know why, but some inhuman fury drove him forward, fury that was out of even his own control.

They soon broke through to the elvish defenders, for none could stand against the Lastborn of the Dunedain and his loyal rangers.

The appearance of the rangers rallied the defenders, and they pushed against the enemy with renewed vigor. Soon the orcs were once more in full retreat, but they were met by the heavy axes and stout shields of the dwarves on one side and the keen blades of the elves on the other, completely cutting off their escape.

There was little resistance, for the orcs were disorganized and in full panic. Many dropped their weapons immediately, some of them screaming for mercy and whimpering pitifully as the defenders surrounded them. The rest were cut down where they stood, and before long any who fought back were dead, their bodies littering the ground.

Gerithor approached a small group of them that had surrendered, his sword pointed toward the largest orc of the group.

"You. Give me one reason why I should let any of you live," he growled. Several of the nearby elves drew their swords in synchronization and lowered them over the orcs' necks.

"Oi dint kill no-one, oi promise!" The orc squealed, holding his hands in front of him in a begging motion.

Gerithor's eyes narrowed, and he kicked the orc's blood stained sword lightly. "Explain that."

"Oi... oi tripped, yeah! Oi was a runnin and tripped, and nasty Tark blood was everywhere!"

Gerithor gave the beast a sharp kick to the side, causing it to cry out in pain.

"Oi meant nice Tark blood! Oi swears!"

Just then one of Gerithor's rangers approached, his face filled with sorrow.

"Here to report, captain," he said, his voice breaking slightly.

Gerithor didn't know why his kinsman was so distraught, but he knew it couldn't be anything good.

"Report Athlas," he said, his attention momentarily drawn away from the orcs.

"I spoke with Lord Glorfindel, who was in command of the defenders here. He said..." the ranger looked down, struggling to continue. "He said that Flicker is dead. That he died in the initial attack."

At the ranger's words Gerithor's stomach churned, and his fists unconsciously clenched. Something inside him snapped at that instant... Whether it was because Flicker had been one of his closest friends, or because he had finally lost too many people to be able to bear, he did not know. But something had been welling up inside him for some time now, hidden just under the surface and waiting to explode.

He let out an angry shout and quickly swung his sword, beheading the orc that was kneeling before him. The other orcs cowered in fear as the blood of their comrade spattered onto them. But Gerithor did not wish to show them mercy either. He struck again and again, each strike more powerful and more hate-filled than the last. Tears streamed freely down his face, for he could no longer hold in the pain he felt inside. Each swing of his blade brought back the memory of those he had lost. His mother, his sister, his father, his childhood friend... and now Flicker. Anger filled his heart, and he could not stop his frenzied attacks... nor did he want to.

A hand on his shoulder was the only thing that pulled him back to reality. He turned to see the other ranger looking at him in fear.

"Captain, what was that??" He asked, his voice quivering.

Gerithor felt weak now, and his legs felt as though they wouldn't support him much longer. He covered his face with a bloodied hand, unwilling to meet the other ranger's gaze.

"I-I don't know what came over me. I apologize that you had to see that."

"But captain... why were your eyes glowing?"
===========================
Glorfindel strode through the still-smoldering rubble, his eyes traveling back and forth in search of survivors. He was no stranger to war, but there was always something particularly tragic in his mind about an elven city being destroyed. Perhaps it was the purity of them that made the contrast so striking, or the almost ethereal architecture... Either way, every time the battle-hardened warrior had the misfortune of having to see such a sight his heart grew heavy.

The wails of elves who had found deceased family members traveled through the still air, filling him with even more sorrow. As he came upon the body of a warrior he kneeled beside it, taking the elf's hand in his.

" No galu govad gen an i ar  echui." (May blessings follow you into the next life.)

After a moment of silence in memory of the unknown warrior, Glorfindel rose and turned back towards the tents that were being erected in the town square to house the wounded. There was still time to save the living.

============================

Several hours passed before Gerithor's grief subsided, at least temporarily. By the time he stood once more from the crumbling stone he had been sitting on he could see fires burning into the twilit sky, funeral pyres for those who had died in the battle. He approached the docks, where small boats were being sent off into the sea. Many of the elves preferred this way of sending their loved ones away over a pyre, and Gerithor could see that even far into the distance there were boats, a single candle lighting their passage into legend. Like a thousand stars upon the water they made their passage over the horizon, to Valinor in the West.

He heard uneven footfalls behind him, and when he turned he saw Caledorn, much to his own surprise. In the past, he never heard the stealthy elf approaching, but now his wounds were significant and he no longer tried to hide them. One entire leg was bound in a cast as well as his left arm, and one eye was covered with a bandage. 

"I did not expect to survive," He said in response to Gerithor's expression. "I am lucky to be in one piece." 

"I'm glad to see that you made it, my friend," Gerithor replied, embracing the warrior. He was careful not to hurt the elf as he did so but Caledorn flinched anyway. 

"As I am happy to see that you survived the dragon," he said. "I suppose that evens our score on that count."

"Not exactly," Gerithor replied, managing a slight smile. "I'll have to tell you the tale in detail another time. We succeeded, but not in the way you'd imagine." 

"Sounds like quite a story behind that!" Caledorn said as he sat down gingerly on a nearby crate. "What happened here wasn't nearly as glorious." 

"You held the city, you could not have done any more than that." Gerithor rested a hand on his friend's shoulder. Instead of replying Caledorn merely nodded slightly and stared out at the sea. The two battle-hardened companions shared a moment of silence as they watched the boats; they both knew that they did not want to discuss the battle. 

Gerithor took a deep breath as he contemplated the future. This was just the beginning. If Sauron was nearly able to bring Mithlond to its knees, what strength did he have in the East? Gerithor did not know, but he did know this: There would be much more fighting, much more loss, before Middle Earth would be safe again. The dark hand of Sauron stretched its shadow over all the land, and soon all would know to fear it.