"Nearly a year had passed after the siege of Fornost. A year where hîr Círdan called his host to arms. Many of my kin answered the call, both warriors and healers alike. I as well, paid heed to the call of arms. A hundred and thirty warriors and healers of my household went along, even my dear wife, Finlothiel. Oh how beautiful she looked, in her light travelling garb. It looked as if she captured the light and beauty of the stars itself so that she could wear it!"
"Ah, my excuses. I should better stick to the subject... We were nearing the year 1975, the decisive year in the wars against Angmar, when a horn sounded from the southern gates of Míthlond. An Elven rider brought us the news of an enormous fleet of Gondorians was sailing towards the Grey Havens, and they would arrive in a month or less. The news spread like a fire that blazes a forest in a dry summer. So the Elves would finally march again to bring death and terror upon the enemies of the Free Peoples..."
"To look upon those of my kin gathered in and outside of Míthlond was truly a marvellous sight to behold. Even though the gathered host was but a fraction of what we beheld during the days of the Last Alliance, the sight still overwhelmed all that looked upon it. Several thousands of Elves were gathered, our expertly crafted armour shone bright in the sun, our superior weapons glimmered when the moon kissed it with its gentle light. And more came each day! Even the Dúnedaín or Arnor, who were driven from their homes, took up their arms and joined us. Many felt we could impossibly be conquered, though I, among several others, could not help but feel this slight feeling inside. It told us of great pain and suffering, more than we could imagine..."
Naegilrond halted in the middle of the page. Writing about this event made him think deeply of those days. Sighing heavily, he dipped his quill in the inkwell, and wrote one last phrase of that chapter. It said nothing more than this: "Would this war truly be worth such a sacrifice?"
