[Gwathagor]

In the recesses of his mind, the warrior-elf wandered again under beneath the leafy boughs of ancient Doriath. Motes of dust swam in the shafts of waning sunlight that shot down through the forest canopy, and silent song-birds flitted to and fro among the trees. Elven songs floated through the air, reaching him as if from a great distance, and he knew that they were sad songs, though he could not catch the words. And then he saw the singers, riding slowly and purposefully through the silent trees, and, as he wondered that he had not seen them earlier, he realized that the whole forest was full of a great host of mounted elves, armed with spears and with bows. A few sang softly, and some looked back, but none wavered.

Then he stood beneath a mighty, spreading oak, and he saw that he was clad in armor and a rich cloak of a forgotten hue of deep azure. At his side he wore a royal sword, and on his back was slung a great battle-axe. With him, beneath the oak, stood a fair elf-maiden, whose blue garments matched the shade of his cloak, the corner of which she held in her hand, turning it over and over, examining its hem.

Then she spoke, and, though he knew he dreamed, he heard the voice as clear and as musical as the day he had first heard it by the Mouths of Sirion.

"I know that you must leave." She looked up at him. Her shining eyes took his breath away. He had forgotten how clear they were.

"I must, though it kills me. We have been summoned; the Day of Wrath has come, and we must do our part."

"I know, and I will learn to bear your absence. I must, though it kills me." She smiled softly, and looked away west at something unseen, tears forming in her eyes and voice. She let the corner of his cloak fall.

The warrior-elf, who stood a head taller than her, gazed down at her tenderly. She braced herself and turned to him again, looking him up and down. "You look splendid; the finest of Doriath's warriors. You will return to me?"

"As soon as I may. As soon as we have driven out the Darkness, then I will return; and no sooner." His look was stern and sad, but his eyes were gentle. "I swear. I will not forget you."

"No, you won't. I have seen to that." Here she produced an intricately carved silver locket, which hung upon a fine silver chain. "This locket has my name and my emblem carved inside it. My blessing and spirit will be with you until you return. Until then, we will still have our memories...and you will have this."

He took the locket from her outstretched hand. She stepped beside him and leaned against his shoulder. He put his left arm around her, as she continued. "It will not open to any key, but only to the speaking of my name. Try it."

Then (and he knew that still he dreamed) he held up the locket in his right hand and then spoke aloud the name, her name, the name of the one he had lost so long ago.

"Elloth."

The locket opened, and the vision vanished.

A new vision took its place, and it was as barren as the former had been idyllic. The singing of the elves gave way to the sounds of clashing arms and the smell of blood. The mists of memory cleared, and he found himself on a wide plain. All around him was a great elven-host, with spears and swords in their bloody hands, their hair ragged and their eyes blazing. Looking down, he found that great mounds of slain orcs lay about his feet, and that in his left hand he held a longsword, and in his right a battle-axe. Both were stained black. Suddenly, a great cry went up from the elven host. It was answered by harsh yells and jeers, and another wave of orcs drove into their ranks. As the elves surged forward to meet the enemy, he found himself caught up in the center of the battle. He began instinctively to slash and hack, left and right, now whirling, now ducking, now leaping forward, following the rhythm of battle. Blood spattered his face and hands, but he gritted his teeth, narrowed his eyes, and continued to face each new threat as it came at him. Ever he cut his way forward, leaving in his wake a broad swath of fallen enemies. Even the other elves began to give way before his fury. Soon, he had left them all behind; he stood alone in a sea of orcs, with a growing circle of dead and dying spreading out about him. He fought on, careless and alone, possessed by the wrath of battle.

Great drums rolled, the earth trembled, and, in increasing numbers, the orcs began to flee from the field of battle. Only when he discovered that there were no more orcs, did he look up and realize that the elven-host had taken up his name, cheering him on. "Gilthalion! Gilthalion!", they cried. Then the earth quivered again, and they found themselves in the presence of gods. Silence swept over the host, and Gilthalion Gwathagor awoke in a wooden chair in the Shire, 6000 years later.