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Elrond halted for a moment on a narrow mountain path to cast a look at the hidden valley deep below where he had brought the refugees from Ost-in-Edhil. He wondered what he should call it. He had had a vision and knew the place would eventually become an Elven stronghold, just as important as Lindon was now, and its rule would be entrusted to him. It was Nenya, Galadriel's ring, that had granted him that moment of foresight; the vision had come while he had been wearing it, though it had been vague and brief. Now the ring was again on Galadriel's hand, and she was sleeping peacefully in one of the tents that the Dwarves had erected for them in the valley; though Gil-galad was still concerned about the evil wound she had received, and still insisted on watching over her recovery. There was much more work that needed to be done before their sanctuary was truly established. But right now, Elrond had to leave it and attend to other matters, and hopefully retrieve something precious that had been lost to them.
A grunt reminded him that Narvi was standing by his side, probably wondering why they had stopped on their ascent. Narvi was the only companion he had chosen for this errand, though many more Dwarves had remained in the valley to help the refugees to settle. Elrond nodded silently in acknowledgement and continued walking toward the mountain pass.
The way back to Eregion was uneventful but toilsome. Elrond may have rested his body briefly during his stay in the valley, but his mind had found no rest there. It was ridden with tormenting images of the recent past, and his heart was heavy with grief. He could not bring himself to talk, not even out of courtesy to Narvi. Still, the expression on the Dwarf's face was soft and compassionate, and Elrond knew that he understood, and was not offended by silence. They walked all night and caught the first glimpse of the ruins of Ost-in-Edhil by the light of the Moon. They sat in a forest clearing under the stars, still in complete silence, and waited for the first light of day before they approached the desolate city.
Strong wind had blown overnight and dispersed the black smoke which had risen from the burning towers for days during the siege. Now the early morning sun shone uncaringly on the broken remains of the city that had once been the jewel of Elvendom. Elrond did not expect to meet any orcs beneath the city walls: their army had moved on days ago under Sauron's command, and he knew that not even some odd group of scavengers would linger here where the bright sunlight threatened to burn their skin. Still, out of caution, he asked Narvi to take the lead and bring them closer to the city by way of an old Dwarven tunnel. When they left it, they found themselves on a clearing marked by ancient monuments north of the walls. From there, they proceeded carefully to the site of the battle.
It was almost unbearable for Elrond to walk through the battlefield, to wade in the mud that had mingled with the blood of Elves and Orcs. The light of the new day shone on the silver and golden ornaments on the armours of the fallen warriors, and on the dark pools beneath them and the silt that had caked on their motionless limbs. Elrond passed by the dead, leaning respectfully to close their glassy eyes and whisper a prayer for the safe journey of their fëa.
"I share your grief, master Elrond," Narvi said quietly. "I regret that we could not come to your aid sooner."
He had already told the Elven leaders about the ancient evil that prince Durin, now king Durin IV, had to face in Khazad-dum, and Elrond could not hold it against his old friend that he had delayed coming to Eregion in order to protect his people. Balrogs of Morgoth had been the bane of so many of Elrond's forebears and kin in the days before the breaking of Thangorodrim; and as soon as Elrond had learned about Durin's encounter with one of those terrible foes, the last remnants of his bitterness and anger disappeared.
Now they reached the portion of the wall that had been breached by a ravager. The place where Vorohil had dropped from his horse, wounded by many arrows; the place where Elrond had knelt by his side and strength and hope abandoned him; the place where the High King called on the surviving Elves to form ranks one last time.
*
The leader of the orcs, Adar, was cunning. Watching the battle unfold under the walls, he must have seen how Gil-galad charged in to save Elrond from the hill-troll, Damrod; and perhaps he was also knowledgeable enough about the Elven nobility in Lindon to know that there was a close bond between the High King and his herald. He realized he could use it to his advantage. Having nearly choked Elrond to death, he now lifted the peredhel's limp body from the ground. Exhausted and barely conscious, Elrond desperately clutched at Adar's scarred arms, but was quickly overpowered, and the orc leader pressed a dagger to his throat.
"Surrender, or I'll kill him!"
The words were directed at Gil-galad, who at that point was the only Elven warrior still standing on the battlefield, wielding his spear, Aeglos, almost effortlessly, cutting down the enemies in a deadly dance. At the sound of Adar's voice the king halted. Elrond closed his eyes, wishing he was already dead, loath to see his king suffer the indignity of surrender for his sake. He only heard a thud as the king dropped his weapon on the ground. When he opened his eyes again, he saw two orcs greedily reaching out their hands to grab the famed spear – and then letting go of it with a scream of pain.
Elrond had read of such occurrences before. The lore spoke of Elven objects whose very purity made them deadly for the host of Morgoth. The magic of the Eldar was woven into them, so that even touching them tormented the servants of darkness. Sometimes even the Elven ropes could burn the hands of orcs. There were weapons that could not be claimed or used by the enemy; but until that moment, Elrond hadn't realized that Aeglos the Snowthorn, Gil-galad's spear, was one of them.
Elrond could tell from the way Adar's grip on him tightened that the orc leader was provoked, angry that his children could not seize the spear. Yet when he spoke to Gil-galad again, his voice was cold and deadly calm. "I have changed my mind. I want you to break it. Break your spear, Elf, if you want your charge to live."
The king did not hesitate. For a split second his eyes met Elrond's, and all Elrond could read in them was concern, was Gil-galad's overpowering urge to keep his dearest friend alive. Nothing else mattered to him at that moment. He got hold of his faithful spear again, swung it with his mighty arms and smashed it against a rock protruding from the dried-up river bed...
*
The shards of Aeglos were still lying on that very same spot, glistening in the morning sun. Elrond took off his cloak, spread it on the ground, and reverently gathered in it the pieces of his king's broken spear. There was so much that had been lost forever in the sack of Eregion, he thought. Could it at least be possible to save this one object? Elrond knew that Gil-galad would need it in the hard and bitter wars to come.
He wrapped the shards in his cloak and handed the bundle to Narvi.
"Now that you have seen it, do you still believe it can be reforged?"
"Trust in the Dwarven craft, master Elrond," Narvi said firmly. "Remember that we are of the race that in the past made the Nauglamir for Finrod Felagund, and a helm for Maedhros at Azaghal's behest." Then he continued less solemnly, with a gentle smile in his eyes. "And be sure that our king Durin will let me choose among the finest smiths of Khazad-dum to help me with this task. We will not fail you. And when Aeglos, your High King's spear, is reforged, I will see to it that it is delivered to him, in the hidden valley where your people are now recovering."
"Imladris," said Elrond, as the name was finally revealed to him. "I will call it Imladris. And it will be a place of healing, for all of us."