The Sons of Elrond fight alongside my Dunedain kindred. One kneels – Elrohir I think – while his brother stands guard above us. Gravely wounded I cannot speak, yet my eyes beg him to go. You can do no more. I am doomed. Perhaps we all are.
Even without words, understanding blooms in his eternal eyes. Bloodstained fingertips touch my face tenderly; he has known me all my life and the parting is bitter.
“Namarie, mellon-nin,” he sighs. In a heartbeat, he is gone.
In darkness descending, I hear a joyous cry ring forth: “The Tower! It is fallen.”