Ilúvatar had never seen something so chaotic in all of his life. Even all the battles, spanning hundreds of years, could not compare to the carnage he was witnessing in the here and now. Where Caoimhin's sword traveled death followed at its heal, a faithful dog and subservient as any hound. For his own part Ilúvatar never had a chance to lower his arms. He was swinging a pair of axes as though they were wings. Could lift him away from this. And when the numbers began to truly work against him a stab of lightning into the crowd usually evened the odds.
Exhaustion crept up on you.
Yet it was not the Perubs who won the day. There was that. Many of the archers were now fleeing the scene, overwhelmed by superior infantry and superior magic. Those that did not run, died where they stood, in some cases with bows cradled in their arms. An arrow nocked to shoot was burned to ash. Ilúvatar could see at least part of the reason for their success in the form of another raiding party. These men wore no colors that he could see - simple brown and gray, where brown could not be used - clothed them. They rode on well-fed horses and swung swords. Elves. They were not men, but elves.
The battle could not have ended so quickly. Nor could reinforcements have arrived. Unless Guyther feared failure...?
"Ho," Ilúvatar called in a thundering voice.
Those elves had been coming down the main avenue of the camp, now soaked with blood and dying men. Where a Perub moved, a sword was planted. Ilúvatar did not see any of his dead or wounded on the road. Though surely at least one of them had died. At this latest shout, the leader of their group looked up with his triangular blade swinging up over one armored shoulder. Narrowed eyes, as if squinting, and then a war whoop.