Full Summary: (AU) "There are few even in Rivendell that can ride openly against the Nine; but such as there were, Elrond sent out north, west, and south. It was my lot to take the Road…" Had Elrond known what fate awaited Glorfindel along the treacherous road beyond the Bridge of Mitheithel, he would never have sent the golden-haired warrior forth from the safety of Imladris…
Disclaimer: Nope, don't own it.
Part I – 'Norathon.'
A shadow passed through the brush of the forest, a silent figure draped in grey upon the back of a white horse. His back was straight and firm; his countenance, fair and proud. Yet the shade of anxiety flickered across his brow as he listened and watched and rode.
"No thalion, Asfaloth," he instructed his steed in a gentle whisper, stroking the white horse's neck affectionately. "Iant Vedui na nev." Though they were indeed near to the Last Bridge now, the knowledge did not settle the heart of Glorfindel. Their passage west had been shadowed over by the haunting presence of the Nine. The Enemy could be anywhere.
"Where have you wandered, O Dúnadan?" he lamented, but the trees had no answer to his question.
A twig snapped in the woods to his left, and within a second he had unsheathed his sword from the scabbard on his back. Asfaloth whinnied in fright, but Glorfindel calmed him with quick, soft words. The forest about them fell silent, except for the feathery cascade of falling leaves, and Glorfindel released his pent breath. There was nothing there.
The naked sword in his hand gleamed beneath the pale starlight, and his eyes caught on the yellow-bejeweled flower that adorned the crossguard. It was one of the few symbols he still bore of the life he had forgotten long ago, when the world was yet young. Glorfindel, chief of the House of the Yellow Flower of Gondolin. It was a name and a place and an age which he did not recall, save for the wreaths of fiery tongues that haunted his dreams. He did not now remember whether the choice had fallen to him or to the Valar that he should return. It should have been his part to remain forever within the Blessed Realm, within the shores of Eressëa where he would have remained in peace unto the ending of the world. It should not be his burden now to care for the fate of Middle-earth, the protection of the Chieftain of the Dúnadain, or the safeguarding of the Ring from the Nine.
Yet he had been called back to service, as if in punishment for some wrong doing of his past life. As if his deeds in Gondolin had not sufficed. Ballads were to this day sung of his heroic battle in Gondolin, of when his body was ruined and cast into the chasm. Had the slaying of a Balrog, a servant of Morgoth, not earned him peace in the Undying Lands?
'It is the duty of a warrior to fight,' he thought to himself, brushing a hand across his weary eyes. 'Perhaps my life was ended before my time. Perhaps my work is not finished. I may yet alter the fate of Middle-earth. I cannot let them stand alone.'
Upon Elrond's request, he had ridden forth from Rivendell in search of the party that was hunted by the Nine. Not by his own will would he have tread the path into the darkness, surrounded by the nightmarish servants of Mordor. Yet, as his former life had proven, sacrifices must sometimes be made. Emotions and personal desires must, on occasion, be put aside for the greater good…
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"Estel cannot stand against this tide alone," said Elrond softly, his eyes dark with worry for the man he called his son. "Imladris has long been left unprepared for such an assault. The Nine ride! Ai, Glorfindel. Aiyan mornië."
"Mellon nin," said Glorfindel. "I am here at your command. Ask of me what you will, and I shall see it done. Send riders to find Estel and the halflings. They have not yet been swallowed by the darkness. My heart would have told me if it were so."
Elrond nodded. "You are right, of course, mellon nin. My heart quails to send any forth into the peril that awaits beyond the borders of Imladris, yet three, at least, must be sent."
"One to each point of the compass, save the East," Glorfindel agreed. "Vornalph will go, if you ask it of him. Calenthil, too, can be ready to ride upon your order. Erestor would do so to serve you well, as does he always, yet I fear he is no match for the Nine. Has not Legolas arrived from Mirkwood? He is an excellent warrior."
"I would not risk Thranduil's son unless I were given no other choice. Is there none other who can ride?"
There was a pause, and Glorfindel bowed his head respectfully to Elrond. "Norathon."
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Glorfindel shivered in the deepening night and drew his grey cloak more tightly about him, sheathing his blade. As darkness encroached upon the wood, dread settled in his heart. Asfaloth snorted, and Glorfindel reined him in to a slow walk along the road that led them westward towards Estel and towards the menacing evil that had been loosed upon Rhudaur.
"Non vagor," he said to himself sternly, his voice ringing through the wilderness surrounding him. "Non draug. Rûth nin risath i fuin."
Just as the final word rang out into the darkness, the Bridge of Mitheithel came into sight around a turn in the road. Glorfindel drew Asfaloth to a halt and felt his breath quicken. There upon the Bridge stood three ebony stallions, their eyes wild, their manes tangled and sweaty, chests heaving, each bearing a hideous creature cloaked in black as deep as midnight without a star, waiting.
In the dark forest, it was as if a nightmare had leapt from a dream to stand before Glorfindel face-to-face. Though their hooded faces were but empty black cavities, he knew that their eyes—if they had eyes—were fixed upon him. The forest disappeared. The Bridge disappeared. The creatures disappeared. All that Glorfindel could see and feel was a flash of fire and pain and heat, a great Eye wreathed in horrid flames atop a black-crowned tower. The tower, too, then vanished, replaced by the face of a monstrous beast, horned and winged, flame spouting through pores in its blackened flesh, a whip of fire in its hand. It was a demon of the Abyss, a thing so foul and wretched that all who opposed it were torn down in utter ruin before the cruel, sharp power of its darkness. The memory of the Balrog nearly consumed Glorfindel, and he leaned forward upon Asfaloth's neck in a swoon.
A shrill, harsh sound filled the air, and Glorfindel returned abruptly to himself. The forest was still there, as were the Bridge and the wraiths. They were laughing, mocking him, their steeds champing and chomping at their bits.
"Flee, princeling," cried the three in voices filled with the icy chill of death. "The servants of the Dark Lord do not suffer the arrogance of reckless Elves!"
Glorfindel gripped the reigns so tightly that his knuckles were turned white with the strain. His face set with hatred and the fierce determination of a warrior. In a loud voice, he shouted down to the creatures, "Celë, saur lumbuler Mordorello! Mí essë Elbereth Gilthonielon, úvanuvalye!" The wraiths seemed stirred by his words, because their horses began to scream in fury or wild fear, and the creatures themselves fell silent and mocked him no more.
"Fool!" hissed one of the wraiths furiously. "You are none of our concern! This is not your affair!"
"Begone!" cried Glorfindel, his voice growing stronger. For the second time that night, he drew forth his blade, and the steel glistened with a deadly sheen. "Away with you, servants of Mordor! By the grace of the Valar, I cast you out!" In that moment, Glorfindel himself seemed to gleam from within with a dazzling white light, a shimmering aura that emanated from his very being. There was no horse then prouder than Asfaloth, and the white horse tossed his head and leveled his stare on the wraiths' beasts, the jewels upon his bridle glittering like stars. Warrior and steed, Glorfindel and Asfaloth stood their ground, prepared to battle honorably to the death, if it was necessary.
Unprepared for the valiance of an Elven warrior lord, the wraiths turned tail and fled into the night. A shining crown of valor seemed to alight upon Glorfindel's brow, and at a soft word Asfaloth leapt forward in pursuit of the retreating figures in black. As they thundered across the Bridge, Glorfindel reached to the brooch of his cloak and wrenched loose the glittering green beryl that held it clasped. He let the small elf-stone fall from his hand to the Bridge, where it fell into the mud that the wraiths had left in their tracks. A single thought passed through his mind as the pale gem fell from his palm:
'Utuveyes, Dúnadan.'
No thalion, Asfaloth.
(Be strong, Asfaloth)
Iant Vedui na nev.
(The Last Bridge is near.)
Ai, Glorfindel. Aiyan mornië.
(Alas, Glorfindel. I behold darkness.) – Quenya.
Mellon nin.
(My friend.)
Norathon.
(I will ride.)
Non vagor. Non draug. Rûth nin risath i fuin.
(I am a warrior. I am a wolf. My anger will cleave the darkness.)
Celë, saur lumbuler Mordorello! Mí essë Elbereth Gilthonielon, úvanuvalye!
(Go away, abhorrent shadows from Mordor! In the name of Elbereth Gilthoniel, you shall not pass!) – Also Quenya.
Utuveyes, Dúnadan.
(Find it, Dúnadan.) – More Quenya. :D