A lament echoes through the halls of Imladris, haunting and heartrending, for their grief is still so near. Elrond is arrested in his chronicling of the diaspora of the elves in the days since the Last Alliance, struck by memory now bittersweet. Hope is never meager, even when it is mere.
And it had been mere, the might of Sauron so great, the Ring of Power on his wretched finger. It had taken all of the High King’s strength, alongside Elendil of the Dùnedain—man and elf fighting together until the bitter end.
Elrond looks to the ring on his finger. Vilya. Gil-galad had placed it in his hand before their final offensive, a far-off look in his eye. Perhaps he had known then, what victory would cost. The King had closed his hand around Elrond’s, hiding the brilliant sapphire in his herald’s fist. I know you will see what is right.
He had so loved Middle-earth, giving his last so that darkness would not overtake it. Elrond is writing again before he knows it, committing his friend, his king to memory undying.
Gil-galad was an Elven-king.
Of him the harpers sadly sing;
the last whose realm was fair and free
between the Mountains and the Sea.
His sword was long, his lance was keen.
His shining helm afar was seen;
the countless stars of heaven's field
were mirrored in his silver shield.
But long ago he rode away,
and where he dwelleth none can say;
for into darkness fell his star
in Mordor where the shadows are.
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