Far and away the battle plain of Tumhalad stretched under the gray sky, scorched and ruined, torn into a quagmire of blood and filth. The dead lay piled in heaps-Elves and horses, Orcs and foul minions of Morgoth, mingled together in death. The autumn wind that had caused the proud banners of Nargothrond to ripple and snap now moaned coldly over the field, a low dirge of mourning for the lost and the dead. Mighty and terrible, beautiful in their wrath had been all the host of Nargothrond, but the enemy had been mightier still, and in greater numbers than any scout had told. The Orcs had broken upon their shield wall like the sea and been thrown back, but still they had come on, an unstoppable black tide, until at last the Elves were driven into the plain of Tumhalad and penned. Glaurung the dragon had cast his shadow over the battle, consuming friend and foe alike with fire, and the Elves of Nargothrond had fled in rout, scattering like leaves before the storm wind.

Aerandir lay in the mire, chilled and wracked with pain. He opened his eyes and lifted his head from the mud where he had fallen. For a moment he was as a child that awakens in the dark, filled with terror and not knowing where he was or what had befallen him. Where was his king, Orodreth? Where was his captain, The Black Sword of Nargothrond? How had he come to this terrible place? Then it came back to him: How Orodreth had been overcome and thrown down, and Mormegil, with a fallen Elf across his saddle, had at last sounded the retreat, calling all to him who would not be slain. Aerandir groaned and raised a trembling hand to his brow; it came away sticky with caked blood. How had he been wounded? Aerandir dimly recalled an Orc; his yellow teeth flecked with blood, standing over him with a cudgel-then darkness had fallen.

Aerandir struggled to his knees and looked about him. All around him the dead lay in mounds, fair faces frozen in death, stiff white hands reaching to the heavens for a help that had not come. He had seen battle before, but never such a slaughter as this. The taste of defeat was bitter in his mouth, but he could not find it in his heart to curse his king, who lay somewhere among the dead. It was not his folly alone that had led them to this.

Mormegil, Aerandir thought bitterly, and recalled Silwen’s words. We followed you without question, and so we were ensnared in your doom.

Aerandir could not rise, and so he began to crawl. So thickly did the dead lay tangled together that he could not help but tread on them, and the feel of their cold flesh filled him with horror. Though many were crushed, or burned, trodden into the mud or cruelly hewn by the swords of the Orcs, still there were among them many faces that he knew. But his eyes were dry, and he felt numb, and his grief and shame were so deep that he could not mourn.

Aerandir crawled on, stumbling and sick at heart, until he came to a place where many Elves had fallen with their horses. One horse still stood, burned and marked with many sword cuts. The horse sweated and trembled, but her master still sat at her feet, bowed as one who is deeply asleep, and his hand still held fast to the reins. As Aerandir came upon him he lifted his head: Alive, through some miracle, but his shattered helm and broken sword were on the ground beside him, and his face was battered and bloody.

“Who comes there?” he said, groping helplessly on the ground for the hilt of his sword, and Aerandir knew then that he was blind. Wordlessly, Aerandir came to him and grasped his outstretched hand. “Ai! I cannot see! Soron, my brother, is it you?”

“Yes, it is I,” Aerandir said. “I have searched long for you.”

The dying Elf drew in a shuddering breath, but his face was filled with joy. “Your voice sounds strange, my brother, but it is good to hear it. It is good to know you are still alive.” His voice was fading as he slowly toppled onto his side. Aerandir came to him and took him into his arms. “Tell me quickly, how did we fare? It has become so very quiet.”

Aerandir‘s voice caught in his throat and he could not speak, and in the next moment, the Elf in his arms let out his breath and died. Aerandir let him down upon the ground, and though he did not know him, at last he could grieve: For Nargothrond, for himself, for this dead Elf whose name and tale he would never know, whose voice would never again lift in song.

Weeping, Aerandir loosed the reins from his grip, closed the unseeing eyes and folded the cold hands on his breast. He rose wearily to his feet and reached out a gentle hand to the horse. The poor beast moaned in fear and shied away. “Shh, hush, beautiful one,” Aerandir said, filled with pity. “You are also wounded and weary, I know, but I must return to Silwen. Do this one, last service for your masters, and then you may rest.” He closed his eyes for a moment and leaned heavily against the horse, remembering the smell of Silwen‘s hair, the feel of her sweet, warm breath on his cheek in the dark. Silwen was sitting at her loom, or in the window, and the tears were falling on her white hands like rain, and she was waiting for him.

Aerandir climbed into the saddle and looked his last upon the field, on the fallen Elves, and the bright banners trampled into the mud, and he wept. “Forgive me!” he called to the unhearing dead. “Forgive me, my brothers, that I did not die with you. But now I must go on, for Silwen’s sake. I must live.” And he turned at last and rode away.