Day Shall Come Again
And there is no more battle, but where he stands; no more light but his helm in that river of dusk. He counts strokes: two score, three score. Each time his blade finds flesh, each moment of respite for those that flee, he cries aloud in the tongue of the Eldar: Aurë entuluva!
Three score and ten. There are too many hands on him, a terrible weight; and he falls, and the Orcs fall over him like night. And then he feels terror, for instead of a blow, ropes and shackles come. And he understands that his avowal is betrayed.