"Rest in peace, friend," the words faintly reached Maeralagos' ears over the roar of battle. He turned around in shock and fear, dreading to see whom the Elven voice was blessing.
Melcildir's form blocked the upper half of the body, though Maeralagos recognized the legs and the weapons laid beside him. Durelin...
It was a terrible thing, to see another Elf dead. Maeralagos had seen it quite often enough in his time, but still, it froze his blood. He stood numb for a moment as Melcildir ran back towards the fight. The dull crash and stink of an orc's cudgel on his brow was all that managed to bring Maeralagos back. He bridled, staggering backwards, then regained his feet, drawing his sword up with an infrequent call of rage.
"Amin khiluva lle a' gurtha ar' thar!" he yelled, hewing the head off an orc, clubbing an Easterling in the neck with it as it flew off.
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" Where now are the Dúnedain, Elessar, Elessar?"
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