FicWad

Disclaimer: I do not own anything but my own characters, everything belongs to Tolkien the genius.

Author’s Notes: Again I meant to get this posted sooner but being such an important chapter, I wanted to make sure I got all my research and notes together to make it work well. I did see some reviews prodding me to post quickly, so I really did try for you! Real life is just busy-busy: I have a new nephew, hubby and I spent three weeks traveling Europe, and I got a raise at work, which also coincided with a raise in workload amazingly haha! Also, I acquired the newly released Children of Húrin that I used heavily in my writing of this chapter since there is a chapter dedicated to this specific battle. Thank you to Rhapsody for the beta and help in tracking down all the various references made by Tolkien of the Nirnaeth in his many volumes of books. Resources include The Silmarillion, The Children of Húrin, and the books of The History of Middle-Earth. Also as a warning for the folks who do not like gore: I do not get too graphic that it would require a change of rating of the story, but acts depicted with certain descriptions might still bother a few people. Thanks!

Chapter Fifty: Nirnaeth Arnoediad

At the edge of Glorfindel’s mind there was the weight of Elrilya’s stare and the heaviness of her emotional turmoil raged was barely contained. He felt her watch every move he made, each preparation readied that brought his departure closer. When it came time to don his armor, Glorfindel turned to her slim frame wrapped in a thin shawl.

“I remember the first time I helped you dress for battle,” Elrilya said with a faraway look in her eyes. “I only hope you are as successful now as you were then.”

“That I wish for, too,” Glorfindel said, holding her tightly against him, feeling her arms encircle him with all the strength she could muster. “I will return to you, Elrilya. I promise.”

Seemingly similar to the day before he had set off for the Dagor Aglareb, Glorfindel watched Elrilya gather his armor and sword. Again in silence she tied his inner tunic and placed the chainmail over the layered clothing. Her fingers trembled for a moment and he took them in his grasp, kissing her knuckles in assurance. Looking into her eyes, he saw the past again, but unlike the day he left for Anfauglith, there was a terrible uneasiness for the imminent battle. The campaign before had been a great success; aside from the following war and incursions that Gondolin had not taken part in had devastating ends. The death of High King Fingolfin had also left doubt in the minds of many; however, the strong will of the Noldor kept them hopeful.

As Glorfindel set to attaching his armguards and boots, he heard Elrilya move behind him to stand on a chair to begin braiding his hair in the warrior fashion. Finishing his own tasks, he remained still to revel in her touch and care. Her warm, slender fingers brushed lightly against the back of his neck, smoothing out the strands and any tangles she came across. When she finished, Glorfindel leaned back against her to feel the secure comfort of her presence while she wrapped her arms around his shoulders in a tight hold. Everything about her became so real and all the sensations felt more intense, that he did not want to forget it.

Turning and taking her hand, Glorfindel helped her to the ground and led her to the side of their bed. Opening the top drawer of the nightstand, he retrieved a worn book and handed it to her.

“Your journal?” she asked. “Why are you giving it to me?”

“I wanted you to read it,” he explained. “ I can only hope this can give you some solace in my absence… and hope.”

Despite his earlier words of reassurance as to his return, the unspoken thoughts of dread still hung around them with the possibility that existed.

“I will keep it safe,” she replied, holding it to her chest.

Quietly they walked from their home to the barracks where Glorfindel’s regiment waited for him. Glorfindel and Elrilya gave one final farewell and she left him so that he could speak with the warriors of his house before they would emerge from the barracks and onto the streets. All had come to see the full strength of Gondolin’s army off to battle, the walls and avenues were filled with crowds that marveled at the beauty and might in the raiment, and the disciplined formation of the brave leaving to do battle with the Eldar’s greatest enemy.

*
The mists of the night and early morning hid Gondolin’s forces during the march through the gate and past the Crissaegrim. Onward they moved into the Pass of Sirion where the fog finally thinned. The dark smoke and clouds that loomed over Angband in the north gave the mountain fortress a menacing appearance while the weapons and armor of the Gondolindrim gleamed and shone in the sun.

Glorfindel led his battalion, his house’s standard flying beneath the banner of Gondolin that fluttered high in the air. He led his troops to the left flank as the assembled army stretched out to fill the pass between the Ered Wethrin and the foothills of Dorthonion. No sign of Maedhros’ forces were seen, but a great cry went up by a hidden army from the nearby mountains and stonewalls overlooking the Anfauglith. Smiling to himself, Glorfindel heard Turgon’s signal to trumpet the horns for their arrival and more shouts of joy resounded over the plains and valley.

For a moment the sun seemed to blaze intensely above them, the darkness of the north appeared not as ominous and threatening as it had been minutes before. May this day be triumphant with Anar’s shining brilliance and blessing we have received, Glorfindel thought. Glancing toward the head of the army where Turgon was located, Glorfindel saw the heralds of Turgon’s house ride forth to the lords and captains of Gondolin and Glorfindel steered his horse to meet at the gathered group of his peers.

“The King orders us to stand here to protect the pass until further is known of the coming arrival of the Sons of Fëanor,” the young herald informed them. “A scout from High King Fingon is speaking with our King as to the plans of attack.”

“Very well,” Glorfindel said to himself and headed back to his regiment.

“My lord,” asked Hísienion - the commander of the archers under Glorfindel - as the golden-haired elf approached him. “Do we prepare for battle?”

“Not yet,” Glorfindel replied, dismounting from his horse, and eyed the rest of his soldiers who crowded close. “We shall wait for now and guard the pass. Despite no enemy within close sight, we shall not become complacent. We must be at a moments notice ready to assemble the ranks for the flank, because it can be a serious weakness if it is not well guarded.”

“As you have always warned us in our studies,” smiled Istuidír.

Glorfindel squeezed the lead spearman’s shoulder and looked around to see many pairs of eyes watching him intently. The Eldar of his house trusted him and followed him with a loyalty that made Glorfindel burst with pride. The elf-lord knew that some of the faces he looked upon would never see the white walls of Gondolin again, but he did not want to dwell on those thoughts. Turning away, he kept hope and triumph in his mind while he went about his duties.

*
“Many are anxious,” Glorfindel commented.

“Out of uncertainty or urge to fight?” Turgon replied.

Glorfindel kept his pace slow next to Turgon’s unhurried stride. He watched how Turgon eyed the ranks and silently gave his approval with a strong glance or firm nod of appreciation to the soldiers who looked upon him with reverence.

“Both, and many other reasons too, I believe,” Glorfindel answered. “It has been a long many years since we last met an enemy on a battlefield besides the killing of roving threats on our border patrols.”

“Patience is what all must have now,” Turgon said. “The heat of the battle will come upon us like nothing we have seen before. Morgoth will try his best to sunder the many Eldar forces, be it through his trickery or foul creatures. We must stay here until we see the signal of Maedhros.”

“Is that what the High King has ordered?” Glorfindel queried.

“He has, but mostly upon young Húrin’s council,” Turgon said, smiling slightly while he shook his head. “Ah, but he is not so young anymore. Húrin and even Huor are men now and have taken wives. They no longer are the children we knew, but have their own families.”

“Then they have learned and Húrin is leading his people well to be held in such high esteem by your brother,” the golden-haired elf added.

“Your words are true,” Turgon agreed. “The scout said there were many voices of unrest and anxiousness who wished to break upon Angband immediately; especially with the might of our Gondolindrim coming unseen. However, Húrin said we should wait for the sons of Fëanor and their signal, for we shall be that much stronger and united against our common foe. Haste can be one’s death if he does not listen to reason.”

Shouts in the front lines rang out and the trumpets sounded from Maeglin’s house that held its position beside Turgon’s soldiers. More warning horns from High King Fingon’s hidden army announced trouble and Turgon turned his attention to his army. They both knew who made the calls; the enemy had been spotted approaching and Glorfindel could see in the distance the dark line of moving bodies: swollen ranks of vile creatures moving swiftly over the plains.

“To your post! We must hold the pass!” Turgon ordered Glorfindel as they both quickly ran to their respective positions.

Swiftly Glorfindel sprinted back to his warriors, the adrenaline that had been racing through him since that morning pushed him onward and without pause. The armor on his body no longer felt heavy or constricting, all was on the impending actions of Morgoth’s monsters. When Glorfindel arrived at his flank, Hísienion, Istuidír, and Nararáto, Glorfindel’s lieutenant of the swordsman infantry, had mobilized their soldiers and were at the ready: hands rested on the hilts of swords, arrows were strung, and spears pointed toward the sky.

The herald of Glorfindel’s house, Galuhíl, held his lord’s horse steady as Glorfindel quickly mounted, and then Galuhíl climbed onto his own horse, raising their standard high. Glorfindel wanted to be seen by all under his command, so that none received confused orders. The bright, golden mail flashed blindingly below him, but Glorfindel held his gaze on the gathered elves.

“We have not yet heard from the assembled host of Maedhros and his brothers,” he shouted to them. “However, the enemy is on its way. We must stand our ground until the time we receive the signal coming from beacon located in Dorthonion. Then King Turgon will send us forth. Until then, we wait and make no move.”

From his vantage point, Glorfindel could see that they understood him. They would remain at attention and battle readiness as he ordered, and would finally strike when he gave them his leave. Turning from them, Glorfindel steered his horse to the front and watched the growing line of Orcs come closer. He could see the distorted faces twisted in sneering grins, he heard the growls and grunts of their labored sprint despite wearing only dun raiment, and the foul stench of the horde wafted upon the slight wind. Then, unexpectedly, they stopped. The monsters halted before the waters of Sirion and went no further, but the elves knew better than to let Morgoth draw them forth prematurely.

Being close to the Barad Eithel, Glorfindel could hear the hidden troops of High King Fingon amassing and preparing, and for brief moments he could see a glimpse of the Eldar and Men moving like shadows under the dark cover of the trees. Meanwhile the Orcs shifted restlessly while shouting threats and curses. Glorfindel knew that the taunts would not work; except for some elves the affect would heat their anger and hatred to the point of losing control. Hopefully their comrades would help in stifling the desires.

A melodious chorus of flutes suddenly rose over the terrible voices of the enemy: a song of truth and bravery. Glorfindel chuckled; Ecthelion’s musicians among the soldiers of the House of the Fountain had a perfect timing and would ease the hearts of their fellow Eldar. He also knew that Ecthelion gave the order to goad the Orcs in his own flair. The Noldo’s plan gave its intended result and the Orcs tried to drown out the harmonious song with jeers and their own dreadful chants, but the flutes simply grew louder.

The standstill between the forces of light and dark continued and Glorfindel felt time moving slowly by him while Anar traveled higher into the sky. Rations and water pouches were brought by in rounds for the soldiers. None moved from their ground nor gave a sign that they were relaxing from their guard since it would show a weakness in the ranks to the Orcs. Glorfindel began to wonder at their enemy’s behavior and realized they too were waiting for something or for the elves to make the first move. The battle of wills was the last thing he expected between the Dark Lord’s army and the Eldar.

Suddenly two Orcs riding on large wolves rode forward from the lines and crossed the river to stand before the Barad Eithel. One blew a horn as if an announcement was to be made and it was a terrible sound that was meant to stir one’s very soul but the Eldar did not flinch. The voice of the second Orc was harsher and vile as he bellowed across the waters to those watching him.

“The Lord of Angband sends his captain and herald to meet with the Eldar seeking to bring a battle to his doorstep. He asks for parley between us.”

“Never!” came a strong, loud cry from the Barad Eithel and a chorus of thousands of voices joined, repeating it over and over.

You have your answer, Glorfindel thought to himself as he watched the abashed Orc captain scowl, turning his back on their troops and rode back to disappear in the crowd. Out of habit, Glorfindel looked to the east; however, nothing but the smoke and clouds of the sky were present over Dorthonion. With a sigh he set his gaze back on the dark line of Orcs and monsters ahead of him.

Hours passed and the Orcs were growing more restless while the elves only seemed to grow more alike to unmoving statues. The evening was nearly upon them as Anar sank in the west. It was then that the Orc herald returned, a soldier riding at his side and without their captain, but this time they brought a huddled figure in ragged clothing and disheveled hair. Far ahead of the amassed troops of Morgoth, the herald made certain he and his companions could be well seen by the Eldar.

“Since you did not take our Lord’s first offer, we have a token that may encourage your agreement to our parley terms,” the Orc herald announced.

The herald’s soldier threw the form to the ground from the back of his wolf and dismounted. He grabbed the head of the person they had brought forth, pulling him by the hair to make his face visible and kicked out his legs to force him to his knees. Despite his distance, Glorfindel could see it was an elf: his eye-sockets empty and torn with a tortured, broken body bent and twisted from years of confinement and pain. A troubled uncertainty could be felt around the Eldar and Glorfindel could not help but worry as to what the Orcs intended to do.

“We have many more such at home, but you must make haste if you would find them; for we shall deal with them all when we return even so.”*

The herald motioned to the soldier who raised his sword and swiftly brought it down. The screams of the elf echoed off the fortress and hills as his chained hands were hewn off. Next they cut off his chained feet with the same swiftness. Without pause, as the elf withered on the dead grasses and screamed, the Orc soldier brought down his sword one last time.

The cries of death ceased, but they still rang in Glorfindel’s ears. Bile rose in the back of the golden-haired elf’s throat and he swallowed it back bitterly, his own anger rising and hatred growing toward Morgoth and his army for doing such a thing to a fellow elf.

The Orc soldier, to give his vile act more impact, kicked the bloodied, beheaded body and moved to mount his monstrous creature. Cries erupted and Glorfindel finally turned away to see a host of elves leap from the Barad Eithel after the soldier and herald. Within moments those in the colored raiment of Nargothrond killed the messengers of Morgoth. Movement caught Glorfindel’s eye and the Eldar and Men hidden in the hillsides issued forth in anger with their Nargothrond brethren. Turgon’s loud voice took his attention again and Glorfindel saw several houses of Gondolin hasten away without orders and ignoring Turgon’s drowned out commands from Fingon’s trumpets. Turning quickly, Glorfindel eyed his own group and his own fury was mirrored in their eyes, but they did not move without his lead.

“We do not go yet to battle!” Glorfindel shouted, his throat feeling raw from the smoke and fumes in the air, trying to get his voice over the noise and horns. “Our orders are to protect the pass. This we shall do until we are given new instructions.”

The banners of Fingon swiftly followed the small contingent of Nargothrond, cutting through the Orc host effortlessly after crossing the Sirion. Turgon still held his own in the pass, having stopped other houses from breaking away. Ecthelion had kept the right flank almost intact; however, Turgon needed to reorganize formations to cover areas that had been left vulnerable when those of Gondolin had left without heeding his authority.

Glorfindel hoped the rash decision of those who rode with Fingon would not be a fatal mistake. He watched the armies of Eldar and Men grow distant; destroying all that came in their path. It seemed their sudden onslaught was a surprise and had caught the Orcs off-guard; however, with the swiftness they had pressed through the Orc army, Glorfindel sensed that it was not the full might of Morgoth’s forces. The last of Anar’s rays sparkled off the faraway armor of the High King’s regiments as the Daystar disappeared below the mountains of the west.

*
Impatience was one trait Glorfindel typically kept in control, but the anxiousness surrounding the situation he and the Gondolindrim were in pushed him to the brink. At nightfall, Turgon had sent scouts out to look for the Sons of Fëanor, but they had not yet returned nor had one seen the beacon of Dorthonion lit. The drifting noise on the winds and the light of fires to the north showed that the battle still ensued at Angband, yet it was too far for them to know how it faired for their comrades.

After stretching his limbs and mounting his steed again for the fourth time that night, Glorfindel ordered torches to be lit so that he and other captains could be seen. Typically the twilight was enough for the eyes of the Eldar; however, the foul vapors and smoke of Angband had blotted out even the shine of Isil. Glorfindel felt light would be upon them soon, if it were not for the filth spewed from Angband which was thick as it rose to the skies, Anar still had to fight to be seen. The hours of the night had been slower than the evening had been; be that as it may it had been at its worst when darkness fell since little could be discerned then. Eventually Turgon’s scouts had returned with word that another host had waylaid the Sons of Fëanor, spreading further discontent among the Gondolindrim to join their cousins and the High King. Then the horns sounded and Glorfindel knew it was time.

Together the ranks moved at one pace, not losing formation. The fighting grew louder as they approached and injured men and elves lay on the ground among the slaughtered dead of both Fingon’s troops and the Orc army. The fires burning around them lit up the scene with eerie shadows and the scene was grave where Fingon’s troops were heavily decimated and surrounded.

It was then Glorfindel saw the line of skirmish and he raised his sword high, urging his house onward faster to break upon the host of Angband that was tightening the noose on the troops of the High King. The trumpets of Turgon bellowed and rays of sun burst through the clouds of smoke like arrows tearing holes through a barrier. The spearmen riders strove next to him and Glorfindel felt like the moment slowed. He hewed at the closest Orc to him, the monster falling to the ground in a heap as others collapsed from the sharp spear points driving through their necks and torsos.

One after another Orcs were struck down and trampled beneath the hooves of Glorfindel’s horse and he pressed harder until they broke to the center of the encircled army of Hithlum. Turning, Glorfindel eyed young Galuhíl who still stood beside him, the banner held tightly in his hand while his free one slashed with his sword unwaveringly. His teeth were gritted together and his brow furrowed in rage beneath the shadow of his helm. Returning to the forefront of the fight, Glorfindel saw the banner of Fingon and his personal guard in a clearing at the center. Next to him stood two Men, golden hair spilling out beneath their helmets, armored limbs fighting with the skill of the Eldar. Húrin… Huor.

Turgon had broken through as well, alleviating the pressured combat on his brother. Together they met and Glorfindel could see the joy Turgon had at seeing Fingon after so many years despite the unfortunate location of where their reunion took place. Glorfindel’s own anger and adrenaline rush paused momentarily for the leap his heart took as Huor and Húrin greeted their former fosterer, removing their helms and embracing the king of the Hidden Realm. Not now, this day is not yet done, Glorfindel told himself.

The screams of pain and clanging of metal overwhelmed Glorfindel’s ears as he dove back into the heated mêlée. The faint sense of Elrilya’s strength and hope lingered at the edge of his mind as the fighting became hypnotic. Each disgusting face was the same that Glorfindel ripped and whose dark, foul-smelling blood stained his sword and armor. They tried to assail him, but were not quick enough. Another couple foes were close; nevertheless Glorfindel knew how to fend off their near-fatal blows. The monsters’ numbers began to dwindle and Glorfindel saw many attempting to flee while the assembled Eldar and Men chased them onward.

New trumpets cut into the air and Glorfindel broke free from his trance. The sky brightened and in the distance at a quick pace came the standards of Maedhros and those of his brothers. Shouts and cheers erupted as the arrivals overwhelmed Morgoth’s forces from the rearguard. The ferocity and passion of the Sons Fëanor gave new life to the Men and Eldar, not to mention their Naugrim friends from Belegost joining with their battle axes and unmatched strength.

It seemed to Glorfindel that they had nearly won, but it was then the loud rumbling began and the ground began to shake violently beneath him and his horse. A beast breathing fire and smoke rose from the fortress walls, flying into the sky before diving down upon the Eldar below. All eyes turned upward as the fire engulfed many between Maedhros, Turgon, and Fingon.

“Hísienion! To the sky!” the lord of the House of the Golden Flower called out and the sound of Galuhíl’s horn confirmed his command and signaled others in the regiment.

The archers heeded Hísienion as he ordered them to shoot at the dragon above. A few arrows pierced between the hard scales while most hit the hellish creature’s hide without leaving a mark. The monster bellowed and twisted back down upon those who had shot him. Glorfindel saw the drake’s turn and attempted to rally his forces, however they were not quick enough. The stench of scorched flesh permeated the air and death throes rang out loudly from the archers. Glorfindel turned away, his throat tightening and his stomach twisting from the sight of men, elves, and his house’s soldiers being slain.

Istuidír arrived and ushered the surviving archers away among his spearmen, having some of them mount the horses behind the spear throwers to work together. Glorfindel nodded in his lieutenant’s direction for his quick thinking. With Hísienion dead, they needed to stay in a structured control still within their division. Now it appeared there was disarray in the ranks of Maedhros’ force and Glorfindel saw Men among the Orcs attacking the Eldar.

Hardly having a moment to comprehend the treacherous new development, Glorfindel felt the ground shake violently again and he looked to Angband, concerned that another firedrake would come from the sky. Instead, a fiery horde thrust out from the gates of Angband. They were two meters taller than the Eldar and curled horns encircled their heads while their bodies burned with fire and smoke. Whips of flame cut the sky with loud snaps and smoldering hammers pounded the ground.

A freezing cold chill ran through Glorfindel at the sight and he felt as if the ice of the Helcaraxë and covered him completely. Glorfindel knew what these fire-ogres were: he had heard the Balrogs’ description from those who had fought alongside Fëanor upon his first arrival in the east after leaving Valinor. These fiends had not been at the last battle Turgon had taken part of, but they killed many during the clash after which Turgon’s sire had been slain.

The bizarre premonition held Glorfindel hostage for a minute until a shout broke through to him. A host of men of an unknown tribe came at the golden-haired elf and tried to stab him. Glorfindel’s horse reared up, kicking out its forelegs at the attacker and dealing a deadly blow to his temple. As their comrade lay dead with a hoof-shaped cavity in his head, the other soldiers converged on the elf. Two archers shot at Glorfindel, but the arrows deflected off his shield. Another round was aimed and loosed from another set, missing Glorfindel’s horse’s armor. The creature screeched an ear-piercing cry and staggered while the men pulled him to the ground.

Glorfindel managed to jump over his attackers and roll away as they slashed the throat of his beloved steed. He was on his feet in a flash, his sword singing in the air while he stabbed his assailants. Through the haze he battled and blocked blows. As soon as he killed one, another took the man’s place. Nararáto rushed into the fray, his horse trampling those attacking his lord. Galuhíl was there by his side too, someone else had taken his banner and the young elf had taken a shield instead.

Together the three fought off the usurpers from Maedhros’ forces who had taken Morgoth’s side against them. The firedrake was screaming in pain somewhere, but Glorfindel barely heard it through his shouts and battle cries as he buried his blade deep within those that came close to claiming his life. Fear was gone; all that replaced it was adrenaline and intensity. Before Glorfindel knew it, the circle of attackers was dead and the horns of Turgon recalled him and his troops to gather closer to the main host.

Nararáto brought another horse to him and Glorfindel went to Galuhíl, but he stopped when he saw the younger elf kneeling and tightening a swath of cloth around his lower leg. Limping, Galuhíl came to his side with a sad face.

“I let one get past my guard,” he hissed back the pain. “I should have been more aware.”

“Do not concern yourself with that,” Glorfindel told him and helped him on the horse. “We will get you to one of the healers once we return to Turgon’s side. It will not overly bleed.”

Glorfindel mounted the horse and seated himself in front of Galuhíl, and then they followed Nararáto through the crowds of Orcs, maiming and stabbing foes as they rode. Glorfindel’s soldiers had listened to the horns and followed his standard to where Turgon awaited to rebuild his host. A frenzied contingent of Turgon’s royal guard was amassing and Glorfindel arrived just as they were unleashed upon a grouping of Balrogs. Behind the line of the fire demons, Fingon battled against two more, his guard falling one by one around him and the rest of his army separated or heavily injured. Huor and Húrin were struggling with their troops against a wall of Orcs to get to the High King, but they could not get through the monsters.

“Stay here,” Glorfindel ordered Galuhíl after helping him to the ground. “Meet with Istuidír when he arrives and gather together all that we can muster. We need to reform the flank.”

Nararáto nodded to Glorfindel and led his best swordsmen on horseback alongside Turgon’s guard. The Sons of Fëanor and their troops were retreating in chaos. The Naugrim were nowhere to be seen. A whip lashed at Glorfindel and he laid flat against the back of his horse as the fire lashed above his head. Glorfindel picked up a spear stuck in an Orc corpse he rode past, and veered up in his saddle again. The fire demons were not far in front of him, the heat near unbearable as he rode closer. Glorfindel aimed it at one of the Balrogs and threw it. The beast roared as it struck him in his whip-wielding arm, which gave Turgon and others a chance to launch a new assault. Yet, they were too late.

All around High King Fingon lay now his royal guard and his shield arm hung limp at his side, but the blaze in his eyes showed he was not going to give up. Suddenly another Balrog appeared and a circle of fire enveloped the dark-haired king, his anguished cries rose up above the sounds of battle. Once the fire circle waned, all saw how their lord stood still. Turgon was shouting his brother’s name even as the axe of Gothmog, the Balrog and high-captain of Angband, came down upon the High King. A bright light blinded them all as Fingon’s helm was cloven and he fell to the fire demon on his knees first, then he hit the ground.

Huor then arrived and surrounded Turgon’s troops to help them retreat to the Fen of Serech. Glorfindel rode towards his king realizing sadly that Turgon was their High King now. He had to keep Turgon moving and away from the image of his brother’s broken body being smashed by the maces of the Balrogs. As Glorfindel dismounted, Ecthelion, Maeglin and the other captains arrived and came to Turgon’s side. The young nephew was covered in the dark blood of Men and Orcs and his shield was broken in one place. Ecthelion’s shoulder had a cloth wrapped around it, a circular red stain bleeding through. Glorfindel saw all their faces flinch with each ground-shaking smash of the hammers who defiled Fingon’s body. Húrin and Huor also came to their council.

“We must not let them pass the river,” Turgon ordered. “Sound the retreat again but hold your place at the river.”

“My lord, we cannot win the pass,” Huor bowed solemnly, his face stern and serious as was his brother’s.

“Go now, lord, while time is! For in you lives the last hope of the Eldar, and while Gondolin stands Morgoth shall still know fear in his heart.”

“Not long now can Gondolin be hidden; and being discovered it must fall.” Turgon answered.

Then Huor spoke and said: “Yet if it stands but a little while, then out of your house shall come the hope of Elves and Men. This I say to you, lord, with the eyes of death: though we part here for ever, and I shall not look on your white walls again, from you and from me a new star shall arise. Farewell!”**

Turgon looked sadly upon his fosterlings, knowing what he had to do. The other captains around him bowed low, their respect for the lives of the Men who were sacrificing themselves for the sake of their own. Only Maeglin remained still, staring intently at the brothers. Finally, Turgon turned away after embracing both of them. As Turgon went onward to gather his remaining host, Glorfindel remained and Huor stared at him imploringly.

“Please, do not grieve for us yet,” Huor said. “We have still not met our end, but my brother and I have made our choice.”

“You both were like sons to us,” Glorfindel managed to say, his throat tightening.

“We know,” Húrin said, coming face to face with the elf. “And we thank and love you more than you shall ever know, now go. Remember us as we were.”

Their faces were that of grown men, but in their eyes Glorfindel could still see the children that once had been in his home. His chest felt as if it would burst but he held it down as he held the brothers one last time.

“You will be honored,” Glorfindel said, then climbed upon his horse and did not look back.

Turgon’s host was finally assembled and Glorfindel was shocked by how few there ere left. Truly, the battle had taken much from them more than he had realized. Istuidír, Galuhíl, and Nararáto stood by awaiting him and Turgon signaled their retreat. The Orcs saw their attempt to escape and a great horde pressed after them on the flanks. Glorfindel had several following at the right side on his horse’s flanks, but as he closed in to his soldiers, the remaining archers let loose their arrows and felled his pursuers. Many more followed but they kept moving, falling further back into the pass as the Men of Húrin and Huor closed off the pass to ensure their safety. The last the golden-haired elf saw of them was Húrin’s battle-axe hewing many enemies and Huor’s sword meeting flesh until the fog consumed them.


* Orc quote excerpt from The Silmarillion, “Of the Fifth Battle”, pg. 191
** Conversation excerpt from The Silmarillion, “Of the Fifth Battle”, pg. 194