Lord and Master

DarkElf at the End of the First Age

But not yet ended utterly is this fight
For as with any conflict
There are wounded to be healed
Dead to be buried
Never has killing held any glamour for me
And watching now as the Men gather to mourn
The memory of victory is remote and dull

I am distracted from my thoughts
As Elros approaches me
Demands me doff my helm and cloak
"Why are you still here" he asks kindly
"Does not your Master require you?"

"To Glorfindel I will now go, for this Westward trek
Is not for me. Is it really ended, my lord?"
I regard the sword still in my hand
Blade blackened and pitted from use and fire
"Is there now no more need for this?"

"No need for you to carry it," he said, taking the sword from me
"Your days of fighting are at an end.
Go now and weild life with as much skill
As you have dealt death. For it is this weapon
You shall ever have to weild, and it is more effective
Than steel or whittled spear.

"But you mistake me, Dínfaroth,
I ask not after your Lord, who is coming
I doubt not, after the Call of Eonwë;
I speak of your Master.
Can you not hear her calling you?"

My eyes turn toward that place I have tried not to look
Where the Valar still gather, the light is painful to dark eyes
Apart from the glory of their conference
One figure stands alone, in a posture of remorse

Hooded head lifts and a pale hand beckons
And I know in my heart a kind of fear
That makes battlefield panic seem petty;
More cruel and just seems Mercy to me
Than even Mandos' cold counsels

- Lothithil