Respite
A brief respite. Five hours to tend the wounded, to bury the dead. Dawn will find them on the blood-drenched soil of Dagorlad again.
The High King sinks down on his cot, his heart heavy, his body weary. He knows his fate. He knows his duty.
His herald kneels in front of him. Gently he divests his lord of his armour, cleaning and caring beyond the bounds of his own fatigue and despair.
A last touch before the long way home.
Hands reach for a pale face.
Lips meet in fleeting moments between destiny and dream.
“Thank you, mellon nîn.â€