[Amanaduial the archer]

In the lines of marching elves nestled a few mortal men. Look at one closely: his eyes dark and clear in the shadow of the helmet's tall arch, a plume of new, finely brushed horse hair falling in a dark fountain from the top, proclaiming him as a Captain, although the title was taken from him not long ago. Indeed, all of his armour seems so fine and polished that from afar at first glance, it would seem that it was a new set. But look closer now: nicks and scratches mark it's surface, even a dent here and there. And the man is not young; his armour has seen action before, evidently, and so has the man. As the scratches mark his armour, scars adorn his face and limbs, the most notable being the long white scar across one cheekbone, just underneath his eyes; these dark, almost navy eyes seem young, boyish even, but in them is a sorrow, fresh and clear; his palms are marked with calluses. This man is used to battle.

But this battle will be like none Arthain has ever fought before. This battle will be the last, he knows it in his head and in his heart, yet he shows no fear - his hands still, his eyes calm, his voice, as he calls to the soldiers behind him, steady. He is hundreds of years younger than some of these soldiers, and his reputation does not stand clear, and never will whilst he lives...yet they will follow everything he says.

The elven troops, along with the few men in their midst, drew close to the others who have just arrived, the mortal troops of Elendil. Arthain took a deep breath, barely listening to Elrond as he began to speak, concentrating on his thoughts...his memories...the things that will get him through this final battle.

"Are you ready, Arthain?" Melost's voice was barely a murmer as he spoke to his friend. The elven captain looked every inch the nobility that ran in his veins: he seemed to glow with the light of the firstborn. As Elrond finished, he nodded brusquely to each of the captains, Arthain being one of them: the man had been returned to the status he had worked for, for this battle. Little did Gil-Galad know, the man did not expect to have to use it for any other. The captain turned to face the troops behind him and shot out a few short, quick orders in elvish.

Melost glanced at him, then did the same to the troops he was to command. Beside each of them stood Dorlas and Thelian, side by side, ready, like the two old friends, to fight to the death. The entire battle field seemed to bristle with tension and fear...and yet in that small patch, it seemed eerily calm.

"Steady..." Arthain commanded, reverting to the Common Tongue as arrows shot over their heads. "Steady..."

All waited for him to give the word. The man turned to his oldest, dearest friend and grasped Melost's hand, holding his eyes. "Aye, Mellon. Beside you, I could never be more ready." He smiled briefly, squeezing the other's hand, then whipped around, drawing his broadsword in one fluid motion and brandishing it in the air.

"For Arda!" He bellowed, then tore forward.

The battle had begun.