The elves gathered themselves in an instant, though all of them were wary despite the chaos that was unfolding around them. Yet the Drow were retreating - slowly but surely they were falling back, abandoning their attack and fleeing the scene. Whatever Aeotha had done - and he could not imagine what she had done - it worked. They were safe for the moment. A part of Ilúvatar wondered if it was right that they were safe. They should have died against an onslaught such as that one. They should have, and would have, if not for her. Whatever Eibhear saw in her Ilúvatar saw in spades. Odd to use a gambler's euphemism, but it was how he felt.
Some of them sagged to the ground. Some were nursing bloodied wounds held together by a white hand and will alone. There were only a handful of them left alive, left moving - Pol, Fenrir, Eibhear, Ilúvatar, Aeotha, and three others. It was not the sort of party that he would have taken into an adventure like this one. Among them Fenrir alone seemed unhurt - he was staring about with unblinking eyes and a hard line to his mouth. Strange to think he'd known the fellow for so long and yet had never seen his face. Stranger still to think that his face matched what Ilúvatar had imagined while seeming at the same time to be a grotesque mockery of it.
Strange, indeed.
Ilúvatar was one of those who did not seek the comfort of the earth - or the under-earth, cold and uninviting. He would not sleep well again until he returned home. That aside, they still needed to worry about putting distance between themselves and the Drow as quickly as they could. To that end he clapped the seated Pol on the shoulder, after tucking one of his axes safely away.