And in darkness, light by AdmirableMonster  

Miracles

Although the sky was still marked with long traces of ugly smoke-filled clouds, a brisk wind was blowing, and the pre-dawn light was soaking pellucidly into the parchment of the heavens.  Light was returning to the world, welling up like fresh water into a long-dried-up spring.  Erestor blinked back to himself to a ferocious headache and a mouth so dried out that his tongue was sticking to the roof of it.  At first, half-dazed, his mind suggested a hangover in Himlad—a moment later, his stomach heaving, he caught the scent of blood and almost vomited.  In a panic, he pulled himself up from the dead tree he had been leaning against and looked around wildly.

The dead plain of Gorgoroth stretched away in both directions, covered in the bodies of Men, Elves, and Orcs.  

Erestor took a deep breath, relief seeping into his bones, and began to laugh, covering his face with his hands.  To be relieved to have wakened to such an ugly battlefield!  But it was not the place he had feared.

With a wince, he checked himself over.  Several of his ribs were very painful, and his arm was probably broken—when he concentrated, he managed to bring to mind the image of putting himself between Elrond and a troll’s club.  His lord had been, as always, weaponless.  Try as he might, he remembered nothing more, and a chill of unease pooled in his stomach again.  Where was everyone?  They must have retreated very hurriedly to have left him behind, although perhaps they had not realized he was still alive.  It was unlike Elrond, though.  He would try to heal a three-day-old corpse.

The first order of business was water.  He tucked the dead weight of his arm into his shirt front with a shudder of pain and got slowly to his feet, looking around.  It might have been foolish to make a target out of himself when he didn’t know who else might be on the field, but he was too tired and thirsty to care.

He limped slowly along a rocky outcropping for a little while; then, bending to necessity, began to search the nearby corpses.  He was in luck: one of the depressingly young-looking Men had a half-filled water-skin still on him, and Erestor guzzled the brackish, lukewarm water until he was nearly sick, then sat back on his heels, trying to clear his mind a little.

He couldn’t stay here, that much was obvious.  East would be deeper into Mordor, where he was unlikely to receive a cordial welcome.  West, then—as the Sun rose higher, all he had to do was turn his back to it and walk. One foot after the other.

He did not know for how long he kept walking, hungry and in pain.  The water-skin faded to a distant memory.  But eventually, almost to his surprise, he came to an end to the bodies—some part of him had wondered if he had wandered into Mandos, all unknowing.  For his crimes, maybe, he might wander among corpses for a thousand thousand years, though it would still be better than the Void and better than he deserved.

The scattering of corpses grew thin as he climbed a shallow slope, stopping entirely when he crested the peak.  The reason was apparent, after a moment—a great pyre already flickered on the white stone ridge below, and Elves and Men and Dwarves were moving wearily to add to it, but they had not crossed over the top of the little hill yet.  Erestor stood, his own black shadow pooling around him, and looked down, trying to decipher whether anyone he cared for yet drew breath.

He saw Elrond first—clad in muted grey and unarmored, he was directing the healers as they sorted out the bodies of the living and the dead.  He was weary but appeared uninjured, his face marked with ash and sweat, but not with blood.  The sight undid him, the relief so strong he had to bend over, breathing in great swallows of the filthy, ash-laden air.

Erestor would have considered himself the last person to invoke the gods in any way—not the least because they certainly would have no warm feelings towards him, of all people—so he might have surprised some of the folk below, but no one was more surprised than he was when a hymn to Oromë shaped itself on his lips and clawed its way ruthlessly out of his throat.

Faces turned towards his, one in particular.  Golden hair glinted in the strange new dawn.  Erestor’s own name floated to him on the wind, from a pair of dear lips he had never deserved.  Alive—alive.  His face was wet.