His heavy boots crunched slowly along the pile of scree at the bottom of the hill as he trudged after the others. There was no spring to his step, no sense of the furious purpose he had possessed only hours before. He had been robbed of his relentless drive by the demands of battle and the anger that had burned inside of him like a consuming flame. For now his hatred has been assuaged, quenched in the blood of these lowest of Men. For what are the Men of this land but little more than mindless beasts? A land of Men looked down upon even by the other Kingdoms of Men. Gondor, Rohan. Fading bastions of the strength of Men, and shadows of something that once had the strength and conviction to stand against the darkness with the last King. He lost himself in thought for a moment, dwelling upon the bravery of Elendil and his followers, and of the last stand of the Men of Dor-lómin, wondering if he had been wrong all of these years. Such bravery, such loyalty to the Lords of the Noldor. His head hung lower as he thought of the blood upon his hands.
He chided himself for such sentimentality as he walked, anger flaring in him again as he thought of all that Men had ruined and destroyed, what they had cost the Noldor. Courage? Loyalty? A dog has such things. He kicked a small stone as he walked, sending it skittering away down a gentle slope. He still remembered that terrible day of defeat and death, when the few deeds of merit by Men were outweighed a thousand-fold by treachery. He remembered still the legion of dead that were left upon the field that day, the carrion crows already moving amongst the remains of the Elder Children. Morgoth, yrch, balrogs, wyrms, dragons and Men. The fell enemies of the Noldor had united against them that day and inflicted a grievous defeat, despite the valour of so many high Lords. Caranthir, Maedhros; even Fingon and Turgon had played their part that day, dispelling the doubts of the resolve of the Gondolindrim. He balled his fists in fury at the memories of his despoiled kin and remembered the words that he had spoken in his anger and pain on that day, words that followed him still and steered his destiny.
Eru Ilúvatar, by your name I swear. I will never forgive the treachery of Men and what they have cost us this day. My vengeance will follow them unto the ending of the world, and my hatred will follow them into the uttermost darkness of the void itself.
The sound of his footsteps increased in pace as he stood straighter, eyes on the horizon rather than upon the floor. All that Men started ended in blood and ruin. The honour that the Edain had won for themselves had been squandered, their land of Númenor drowned beneath the Sea. What remained of those flawed people but wandering ghosts, unable to accept that their time had ended? There were remnants still in this land and Veryacano had sought them out for council. Estarfin scowled at the thought, unwilling to see any good in the race of Men. He had been right, his actions justified. He would not apologize, would not seek forgiveness. The path before him seemed clear, as it had never been before. Lord Anglachelm had been taken by Men, and so Men must pay the price. Another crime to add to all that their wretched race had done. There could be no mercy, no restraint when dealing with such a foe. Running his fingers through his hair and shaking off some of the ashes he felt a moment of regret, as though he had left something behind that could never be recovered.
As dawn turned to morning, a blood-red sun shone over the lands. Blood had been spilled that night.
