Fire engulfs him; he slips into the crevasse, still struggling, maddened by pain and need. His sword yet seeks victory. He hears the cries from far away, following him into darkness: Do not fear, they tell him, and do not cease. Save me.
At last he succumbs to flame, lets it lick him clean of flesh and purpose: a perfect immolation. He no longer feels the fall or the weight of the earth tugging him downward. He embraces impact and end.
And when it's over, Glorfindel holds her, whispers into her hair: "Each death is more brilliant than the last."
