When at last they reached the crest of the hill, only seven of the twelve Sindarin heroes still stood. Corthalion's left arm was scored by a gust of a dark sword, and black frost had formed along the wound.
"They dare not come higher," Gandalf panted. The glow of his staff had dimmed. "Even this faint sunlight weakens them."
Looking back from the slope, they saw the five Nazgûl pacing below. Their cloaks snapped in the wind. The red-eyed Orcs prowled restlessly in the thinning mist, but none of them crossed the line where the light fell.
Gimli knelt with a dying Elf in his arms. The warrior's skin had turned a deep, sickly blue-black, and black blood bubbled at his lips.
The Dwarf snatched a glowing stone from his pouch and pressed it to the wound. The crystal darkened at once and split apart.
"Cursed poison," Gimli snarled.
The Elf gave a faint smile. His trembling hand closed around Gimli's wrist and forced a small ring into his palm, a band carved with a leaf-pattern.
"Take it… to King Elurín ," he whispered. "Tell them… Doriath… shall never fall…"
The hilltop fell silent. Only the low keening of the wind through the trees could be heard.
They stood side by side, saying nothing, bright mail stained with blood and mist that glittered harshly where the light touched it.
Aragorn walked to the rim of the slope and watched the Nazgûl and Orcs vanish slowly back into the fog. "We must bury them," he said quietly.
Celerben shook his head, his voice roughened. "Sindarin warriors need no grave when they go back to the earth," he answered.
He bent and began to gather the scattered curved blades from the grass. Each sword was etched with its own rune-marks. "These will be carried back to Doriath," he said. "Their names will be cut into the Wall of Heroes."
Gandalf drew the staff in the ground, tracing five shallow pits at the crest of the hill. Into each they laid the broken fragments of one fallen warrior's weapon.
When the last shard was covered, a soft green light seeped through the soil. five tiny shoots thrust up at once, growing with sudden vigor into low shrubs bearing small white blossoms.
"It is their spirits that guard us now," Celerben murmured, touching one of the flowers. Tears shone in his eyes. "These blooms will guide our feet along the right road."
Gimli suddenly remembered the ring clutched in his hand. He brought it out and offered it carefully to Celerben. "He bade me give this to King Elurín ," he said.
The Elf took it and turned it gently between his fingers. "This is the heirloom of the House of Fingor," he said softly. "His grandsire wore it when he marched to one of the great battles of the First Age."
By sunset the mist had thinned and was drifting away.
They took the narrow path behind the hill and went on. The seven remaining Sindarin heroes walked foremost. Their steps were heavier than before, yet there was a new steel in their bearing.
Aragorn glanced back once at the slope where the white-flowered shrubs now grew. The seed at his breast seemed to warm a little more.
He knew then that these deaths were not an ending, but one of the gates upon the road to light.
Those Elves who had fallen for the safety of Middle-earth would, for their deeds, come at last to the Halls of Mandos.
Whether they would ever walk the lands of Arda again, no one could say. Yet their names would be written into the long tale of the world, even if not with loud songs and bright banners, then with a quiet, enduring honour that would never fade.
From the stones above their resting-place five trees would grow in time, each born from these first shrubs. Folk would name them the Hero Trees, and through the years to come they would stand beside the road between Doriath and Nargothrond, guiding all who passed that way toward the realms of light...