Orcs and Easterlings fled from that great battle, north and east and
west. Some fled across Dagorlad; Gimli and I pursuing them,
across the plains and into the Dead Marshes. Yet when the last
remnants of Sauron’s armies were slain we lingered, watching lights
flickering across the fens. The candles of the dead, their faces
glimmering in the water. Elves and men, dead faces in the water,
victims of the last great battle here.
And this is where my
grandfather fell. His grave is now swallowed
by the creeping marshes. I think I begin to understand your
nightmares, my father.