On the night after the coronation, the wind was cold. Fires still burned in the north; their light could be seen, flickering on the far reaches of the horizon, but they provided no warmth. A figure stood on the ramparts of the keep at Hithlum, where the ceremony had been held, more solemn than joyous. The wisdom of having so many of the rulers so near the great darkness to the north, given what had happened– what was happening– was questionable, at best. But their luck held. For now.

A conversation between two kings of the Noldor.

The truth was, she should have been dead. The spear that was now leaning against the wall behind her should have killed her. The healers had told her that they had never seen someone survive such a wound, especially without the aid of elvish medicine, as she had been for the first days after the people of Brethil had found her. 

“Tell me…” the exhausted king said, looking directly into the commander’s eyes. He was covered in grime, soot and dirt, ash and blood, mud and sweat. His eyes were haunted. The War took its toll, after all, the very ground itself turning against them. The ruby light of the flames only served to reveal their hollowness. “The forces here. The orcs. Never before have I ridden against a host who parts and flees at the very sight of me. Why do they do so now?”