The Last Breath of Lenwë

The cool air carried the whisper of leaves, but beneath their gentle rustling, a deeper silence lingered—a silence heavy with sorrow. Emlithor rode at the head of the column alongside Denethor, their cavalry slowing as they followed the path laid by their Nandor guides. The grim expressions on the faces of those who led them foretold the tragedy they were about to witness.

Greenwood the Great loomed before them, its ancient trees casting long shadows in the fading light. The once-vibrant forest was subdued, its vitality dampened by the pall of death and despair. The stench of blood and ash lingered faintly in the air, and Emlithor's heart sank further with each step.

"Be prepared," one of the guides said quietly, his voice barely audible. "The sight is not for the faint of heart."

Denethor tightened his grip on the reins, his face pale but resolute. Emlithor reached out and rested a hand on his friend's shoulder. "We'll face it together," he said firmly, though his own heart was heavy with dread.

The clearing where the survivors had gathered was a grim scene. Injured elves lay scattered across makeshift bedding of leaves and cloaks, their faces pale and drawn with pain. Some clung to life, others had already passed into the Halls of Mandos. Nandor healers moved among them with quiet efficiency, though their eyes betrayed the exhaustion and despair they felt.

At the center of the camp, beneath the spreading branches of a great oak, lay Lenwë. His once-proud figure was now frail and broken, his breathing labored. The leader who had guided his people with wisdom and courage now clung to life by a thread. His son, Denethor, dismounted quickly and rushed to his father's side, dropping to his knees.

"Father," Denethor said, his voice trembling. "I am here."

Lenwë's eyes fluttered open, and a faint smile crossed his lips. "Denethor," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "You have returned."

Emlithor approached slowly, his heart aching at the sight. Though he had not seen Lenwë since their parting near the Anduin long ago, the elder elf's wisdom and kindness had left a lasting impression. He knelt beside Denethor, his presence silent but steady.

"I feared… I would not see you again," Lenwë continued, his words faltering as pain wracked his frail body.

"You should have called for us sooner," Denethor said, his voice breaking. "We could have prevented this."

Lenwë shook his head weakly. "The fault is not yours, my son. The darkness came swiftly and without warning. We fought as best we could, but they were too many… too strong."

Emlithor clenched his fists, anger rising within him at the cruelty of the orcs who had brought such suffering. Yet he forced himself to remain calm for Denethor's sake.

Lenwë's gaze turned to Emlithor, and his dim eyes seemed to brighten briefly. "Emlithor, my old friend. You came… as I hoped you would."

"I would not leave you to face this alone," Emlithor said softly. "Your courage and kindness have shaped the lives of many, including my own. It is my honor to stand by you now."

Lenwë's lips curved into a faint smile. "You honor me, Stormbow. My people owe you more than words can say."

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the clearing in a soft golden glow, Lenwë's strength began to fade. He reached for Denethor's hand, gripping it with surprising strength for one so near death.

"My son," he said, his voice firmer now, as if drawing upon his final reserves of strength. "Lead them well. Be the light they need in this dark time."

"I will, Father," Denethor vowed, tears streaming down his face. "I will honor your legacy."

Lenwë's gaze softened, and he let out a long, shuddering breath. "Remember… the Anduin. Our home…"

His hand went limp, and his eyes closed for the last time.

Denethor let out a quiet sob, bowing his head as grief overtook him. Emlithor placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, his own heart heavy with loss. Around them, the remaining Nandor mourned quietly, their sorrow filling the air like an unspoken lament.

When the initial wave of grief had passed, Emlithor rose and began to survey the camp. Of the 10,000 Nandor who had stayed behind, only half had survived. Most were injured, their bodies and spirits battered by the relentless onslaught of the orcs.

"We'll take in as many as we can," Emlithor said to Denethor, his tone resolute. "Your father's people will not be abandoned."

Denethor nodded, wiping his tears. "Thank you, my friend. I will never forget this kindness."

As the night deepened, the elves began the solemn task of honoring their fallen. The survivors lit pyres for their kin, their soft songs of mourning echoing through the forest. Emlithor and Denethor stood side by side, their grief shared in silence.