His eyes were wide, as he watched Isildur hesitated. The One Ring glowed in his hand, that was not brave enough to let go and let it be destroyed.

He called upon his name again. Telling him to throw it, and be done with it. So atlast after years of battles, they could finally return home.

Yet the King of Dúnedain halted.

Instead, Isildur turned towards him with a crooked, satisfied smile. His eyes wide and dilated, glossed over with greed as he slowly clutched the One Ring tightly, as if taunting.

'Mine.'

Hauntingly, he remembered the death of his King, Gil-Galad. And of Thranduil's dear father, Oropher. Every things, every one they'd lost..

It all seemed to be nothing in the eyes of the greedy mortal.

Foolish greedy human, who bever thought of the years the elves had to live in. The times that had to pass, ages of endless war. And now that, they were this close to end it..

All these years, all these battles..

All for nothing?

So with that thought, the Lord of Imladris pushed Isildur off the cliff. He stared with an undescribable look as the man's eyes widened, as he along with the Ring fell into the pit of Mount Doom.

Destroyed.

What once was a man was now ashes. What once was a jewelry of the great evil was now gone.

Disappeared.

Red was all he can see, shrieks was all he can hear. Whence he struggled to walk, despite his injuries, as he returned. He suddenly could not feel anything, as if becoming daft. Dread and hollow filled him.

He barely realized Thranduil dragged him away, away from Mount Doom, away from the darkness.

He sensed the light. And he looked up, the sky was bright. The sun shone over him, wrapping him in a warm blanket.

Yet he did not feel safe.

No.

He did not miss the relieved faces of his kin, smiling at the light. For once  was able to see it back. They all praised and sang the songs, the joy was palpable. Tears were shed, as they thought the war finally ended.

He knew it was all his fault whence the men asked him where was their leader, and he could only utter an answer.

'Dead,' he said, hoarsely. 'Dead swallowed by greed, for I pushed him off the cliff, as he would not release the One Ring.'

It was his mistake and he knew it. He knew by the time the men were growling, and unseathing their swords, he was to be done for.

If only Thranduil had not save him, this all would have ended much quicker. Lesser pain. No more war.

No allegiances would've broke.

No.

It was all his own fault.

Had he was not being a coward, and had he would steal the Ring, he could've been the one to destroy it instead. Isildur would not die of greed. Their allegiances would not broke.

It was all for his cowardice.

He was a fool.

Thus began the war against the men and the elves. Both sides unwilling to give in, nor to understand.

Elrond would never kill Isildur, had he known this would've happen.

And so, the night of the first war once more, the Lord of Imladris looked up to the stars, with tears staining his cheeks. Asking for penance, anything, to bring back the time. To stop his past self.

It felt just like kinslayings.

Perhaps, no matter how he resisted, nor how he acted, he would still be the 'son' of the Fëanorians, with a curse of doom passed down, and brought miseries everywhere.

Elros shall never look upon him ever again.

Elrond wept alone that night. In his hand was the ring worn by the King of Dúnedain, passed from each descent, all originated from Barahir, whom was given by Finrod Felagund, the Elvenking of Nargothrond.

He broke the greatest alliance ever forged.

Eru, forgive him for all his deeds.