Chapter One
"A glooming peace this morning with it brings,
The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head.
Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things.
Some shall be pardoned, and some punished,"
Romeo and Juliet (Act V Scene III), William Shakespeare
Glorfindel stood with his back to the dawn, his blood stained sword still in his hands, as he looked over the battle field. Somewhere, a wounded man was sobbing and calling out for his mother. After a moment he was silenced by a merciful blade but there were hundreds more, some too close to the darkness to cry out, some clinging to the hope that the dawn would bring a friendly hand to lift them up. Instead the grey light shined past the silhouette of a solitary figure, tall against the horizon where no others stood. Blood and dirt caked his armour, dulling the once golden sheen.
How did it come to this? Glorfindel asked himself. How did it come once again to war? Sauron was gone yet here was his legacy: orcs and Easterlings and goblin-men. There were men of Gondor, of Dale and of the north lying dead. Elves too, on both sides. How did it come to swords again, to brother fighting brother?
"Fin," Erestor's weary voice called and Glorfindel turned to see the dark haired elf coming up the hill slowly, his own sword in his scabbard. Glorfindel's eyes went at once to the bandage on Erestor's arm.
"You are hurt," he said at once, reaching out after thrusting his sword in the damp ground. Gently he took Erestor's arm, frowning slightly as he tried to discern how badly Erestor was wounded. A cold hand placed itself on Glorfindel's cheek, wiping away a splatter of blood.
"A sprain, a blow came down too hard," Erestor answered quietly, the pain in his voice betrayed more hurt than such a wound should have caused.
"What is it? What else has happened?" Glorfindel moved closer, almost cradling Erestor's limp hand in his.
"I am too weak to hold my own sword against a blow, too weak to stop it jarring my arm like an elfling at practice." Tired, Erestor lay his head against Glorfindel's chest as if it was dry and clean not covered in the scum of battle. "What has become of me, Fin? How can one of the Firstborn tire like a child? Never after Dol Guldur has it taken such a toll." Erestor looked around him suddenly, lifting his head from Glorfindel's breastplate. "We stand among the dead and the dying. We have friends to bury and enemies to deal with. There are those who now have no arm to sprain and here I and bemoaning my little wound." Glorfindel smoothed back the strands of hair that had come loose from Erestor's braid, moving a hand as if he could shield him from the sight of the battlefield around them. He wished he could wipe away the pain as well, not just from the sprain but the weight of the past pressing down on them.
"Where is Lindir?" he asked suddenly, remembering that although in the fray a battle shrank to the size of your sword ranged they had other loved ones there too.
"Safe," came the answer. "In the healers' tent, helping." Glorfindel let his shoulders relax slightly in relief. Lindir was safe, and unhurt unlike Erestor.
"Who else?" Who else was alive and well, he meant to ask yet Erestor answered a different question.
"Legolas' brother is dead." Glorfindel's eyes widened before he shut them tightly.
"Matlar?" A picture of the sweet blond boy came to mind, so much like Erestor in his ways, slow to speak out and more even of temper than his older brothers, certainly more placid than his father. Legolas had once called his immediate younger brother the reason in their madness, the calm one in the storm that was his brothers.
"No, the elder, Hestlean. Celeborn is sending word to Legolas in Ithilien, and to Thranduil." A second son lost to the King of Mirkwood, a second brother Legolas would have to bury. "He is the eldest now, though I fear he may lose Matlar through grief as well. Orophin took a wound laced with poison that will not heal. Matlar and their cousin are with him but we are not holding onto much hope." Another brother for Rúmil to loose, Glorfindel thought, Haldir lay buried in Rohan now Orophin could be in a grave dug for him by a traitor.
Again, the note of weariness in Erestor's voice struck Glorfindel and he knew that he would have to find somewhere for Erestor to rest, and if possible sleep.
"Come," he said at last, picking up his sword and wiping it clean on his sodden cloak before sheathing it. "Let us go back. I would rather Celeborn's letters had my condolences as well; Legolas is going to need more than an acquaintance's sympathies. Then we must decide how to find our enemy before she escapes and this counts for naught." The thought chilled him in ways the cold mud could not. Legolas was in Ithilien, cleansing Gondor of Sauron's shadow. Yarna and Aragorn were in Minas Tirith, largely unprotected against an attack.
"We will find them," Erestor reassured him with weary confidence as he tried not to lean too heavily on Glorfindel's arm.
"I should have told Elrond to sentence her to death, regardless of the sin that would be. I should have listened to Arathorn and let him behead her instead of sending her into exile." The thought had haunted him since the first whispers of this host appeared. What they thought had been mercy, redemption for the sins of his father, had led to more deaths, more elven blood shed at the hands of their kin.
"We did away with death as a penalty for crimes," Erestor reminded him gently. "You are not at fault for being merciful, even Elrond could not foresee that it would come to this." Glorfindel was unconvinced; Erestor could not put those demons to rest with mere words.
"Tell me, who dealt the blow that brought Hestlean down?" Glorfindel asked as they neared the lines of tents. Erestor hesitated before answering.
"Three arrows, the third of which stopped his heart," he answered slowly. Arrows. All the sons of Thranduil were archers, Matlar, the second youngest, now the second eldest had been on the flank, leading his rangers, wielding a bow.
"Celeborn found the body, he pulled them out before Matlar could see. I do not know, he did not say whose they were." Let them be of Dale, or the bows of Gondor, Glorfindel prayed. Let no elf be told their arrow killed the King's son. Let no one say Matlar brought his brother down. Let no one earn my father's title, Glorfindel thought sourly. One he should have taken centuries ago, and stopped this war from happening.
"Fin," Erestor's voice broke him out of his thoughts. "Someone is going to have to lead the second attack, against her rear guard. The Easterlings did not all reach the river, there is nearly a third of the whole force still to fight. Reinforcements that did not come, we do not know the reason why."
"A lack of communication, overconfidence, or another plan we are unaware of," Glorfindel mused out loud, scanning the elves they passed for signs of friends. As much as they both wanted to enter the large healing tent to find Lindir, to see if they could help Orophin, they carried on. How many times, Glorfindel wondered, had he left his family to do his duty without even checking on them first?
The command tent was neither the largest nor grand in any way, such as the lords of men would advertise their leadership in fine cloths and decoration. One side had been pulled up to open it to all, the other three stirred in the breeze, the grey cloth tugging gently on the guy ropes. Everything, Glorfindel noted, looked grey in the morning light, the sun was not so much shining as simply lighting the scene as little as it could. A brazier stood inside the tent, spilling its errant light on the table the Men of Dale had brought. Glorfindel neared to see Celeborn bent over the table, a map open beneath his hands. Brand, son of King Bard of Dale stood beside him, as did Lani, Celeborn's Captain.
"You lingered long on the field of the dead," Celeborn said without turning. "Our enemy is not to be found among them." Glorfindel felt at once guilty that he had not come straight to the commanders, as always after a battle he needed time to clear his head from the din and shaking adrenaline that came with it.
"Valion is ranging east along the Anduin, Rúmil has gone north to cut her off before she reaches the hills and the rest of her forces," Lani told him, pointing along the map as she spoke. Glorfindel didn't glance at it, preferring to see the world as he knew it lay than as a Dale cartographer saw it from an imaginary above.
"If the Easterlings march they will push us back to the river and we will be caught between the cliffs," Brand said with a heavy frown as if he had to point out the obvious to the greatest generals the elves could name. Glorfindel paused before answering, trying to guess where their enemy would go.
"North," he said finally. "Who do we have looking north?"
"North? Towards Lórien?" Brand asked incredulously, staring at him. "Why would she go away from her allies?"
"To circle round and join them where we are not looking for her," Lani answered. "Matlar's company are scouting north, under the command of one of his Silvan captains."
"Orophin," Celeborn murmured before shaking his head. "Finding her is only half the problem. Once found, a criminal must be tried and sentenced."
"She has been tried before," Erestor answered as he took the only seat next to the table. "And sentenced. We can do so again, give a different order, or send her to Thranduil and have him deal out justice for his son." There was a moment of stony silence in the tent, a shadow passing over the two Western lords' faces.
"My brother deserves no justice," a quiet voice said, thick and strangled. Matlar appeared, his hazel eyes rimmed with red against very pale skin. "Justice is the rulings of the law, had he lived Hestlean would see the force of them. My father will not seek revenge for this, not when he fell on the wrong side of the field." Glorfindel's heart went out to the young prince, standing up as straight as he could whilst his brother lay dead and his lover dying.
"If it please you, my lord," Matlar added to Celeborn. "I would see those arrows and lay to rest any claims that it was my company who met his in the field." The sons of Thranduil grew up quickly, Glorfindel knew, and learnt hard lessons. He had known them all, to differing degrees and here before him he could see how the centuries of duty were the only things keeping Matlar standing, the only things keeping him together.
"They are not yours," Celeborn said gently, taking out three blood-stained arrows. One was broken in half, the other two missing heads. Matlar glanced only at the fletching before looking away. Glorfindel could see they were not of elven make.
Dale, Erestor mouthed silently and they both glanced at Brand.
"She bent to your law, my lords," Matlar said stiffly. "So she must again. For these crimes, my father would have no choice in the sentence though he would be loath to pass it and has never done so. Not in Amon Lanc was it passed, in the time of his father." The meaning was clear, Matlar was asking them to deal out the death judgement on their enemy when she was captured so his father would not have to.
My inheritance, Glorfindel thought again. My father's title. The name given to my kin. Matlar wanted his father to be spared the title kin-slayer, a title the Noldor had already earned.
"The judgements will be made here, the sentence passed as we see fit," Celeborn answered.
So, thought Glorfindel, the lords of Lórien and Imladris shall deal out their death and judgement, and the Elvenking will be spared the task.
"With your leave, my lords," Matlar's soft voice said and he left quickly. Glorfindel wondered if Rúmil would take the law into his own hands when he met the elf who struck his brother down.
"Glorfindel, there are reinforcements in the hills, we have swapped places with the enemy and now we are the ones trapped against the river. Whatever is decided the Easterlings are a threat that cannot be left," Celeborn said as he traced the outline of their position against the Anduin with a finger. To the north, across the river lay the Field of Celebrant, to the south the Wold and Rohan. Men called their position North Undeep, a series of valleys that backed the mighty Anduin west of the Brown Lands.
"My men are tired," Brand interjected. "They cannot march and fight again, not before they have had rest." The hint of anger in his voice at the inexhaustible pace of the elves was clear. Celeborn did not have enough troops to take the Easterlings on alone, not without the Men of Dale and the Gondorians Glorfindel had brought from the south.
"When will they be ready?" the lord of Lórien asked. "The Easterlings are fresh, they could come over the hills and chase us into the Anduin before the sun is set." The battle had been fought under cover of darkness, against Brand's wishes but the element of surprise had been theirs which made up for the lack of numbers. Now, uphill they would have no such luck.
"Tomorrow they will be ready," Brand answered. "I have lost nearly a quarter of my men, some five hundred and another seven hundred are wounded." Glorfindel watched as Erestor did the sums quickly.
"At most, we have two thousand who can march at dawn tomorrow," the dark haired elf told them. "The Easterlings have twice that number, maybe more. Eight thousand marched here under the enemy's banners, five thousand of those Men. We defeated the main part of the host, the orcs and goblins here today. Four thousand, less as many are routed, lie dead in enemy colours alongside maybe a thousand of our own." As numbers they were impressive, only one grave for ever four enemy dead yet Glorfindel knew they had only had five thousand to begin with. Five thousand, now four, two thousand ready to march.
"It will not be enough," Lani said quietly, they were all thinking the same. "Even if we all marched, four thousand could not pull off a victory uphill. We had the advantage before, now they have it against us."
"Surely we thought of this before," Brand said, by we he meant them. They had, but things had gone wrong and now they had nothing to fall back on.
"They will find her," Celeborn repeated quietly. The scouts had to find the enemy leader, before she could reach the Easterlings. Only then could they stand a chance.
"The Easterlings have the largest pass blocked but cannot move to the other two quickly enough," Glorfindel began. "Moving our forces through the northern pass would take us up to the plateau here." He pointed to the map for the others' sakes. "We can circle in behind them and force them down the ravine."
"Towards what? You would have to take the two thousand to make them move at all, any less and they would simply fight their way through instead of trying to find level ground," Erestor countered. "You cannot drive them towards the camp, not when we have none to hold it with."
"You will have enough to build defences, create a killing ground at the bottom of the pass, enough to slow them down and catch them between our main force coming from above and the stakes below." Glorfindel sighed, they needed to capture the leaders, to stop communications between the scouts but their hand had been forced the day before and they did not have the numbers.
"You would drive them towards your wounded? Men who cannot fend for themselves?" Brand asked, his thin mouth agape. Glorfindel decided that they were not going to get on well, the Prince of Dale thought too much and reasoned too little. They however needed the soldiers he brought with him. Badly.
"Out of those who could not march tomorrow, could they fire at the enemy? Could they guard a palisade?" Glorfindel demanded. "After two days could they stand again? I think your seven hundred is a little steep but we need them here. Two thousand march, seventeen hundred stay and we catch the Easterlings as they come down the slopes." Brand opened his mouth again to argue.
"Then it is decided," Celeborn confirmed before Brand could say otherwise. "Glorfindel, you march at dawn with those who can. We shall have archers on the lower slopes to harry them as they come down. Lani, you command the slopes. Erestor, start moving the wounded back towards the river, we can use the defences that the enemy made to repel us."
"I would go with Glorfindel, to command my men," Brand added. To keep yourself safe, Glorfindel thought sourly. To give yourself the safest task that would earn you the most glory. He did not doubt that he was more likely to see the end of battle than Lani, the Easterlings would be on top of her as they came out of the hills.
"As you wish," Celeborn answered and turned to go. "Glorfindel." With a quick glance at Erestor he followed, the grey morning looking even duller as he stepped away from the brazier.
"You will execute her then." It was not so much a question as a fact awaiting confirmation.
"If it needs to be done," Glorfindel replied. My inheritance, he thought again.
"Then do one thing," said Celeborn, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder gently. "Ask Brand for an executioner." Glorfindel looked back at where Brand was giving orders to his men, pointing around him with an angry scowl. He did not want to ask the Man for anything, let alone someone who would do the task no elf wanted.
"When we find her," he answered. "If you will excuse me, my lord, I must go and find my son." Glorfindel inclined his head and left Celeborn, circling back to avoid Brand before finding Erestor in the command tent again, Lani having left as well.
"The brilliant tactician," the dark haired elf said wryly, taking the proffered arm. "Celeborn is backing the rest of us against the river, splitting those left behind into three. If they flank us..." Glorfindel sighed, wrapping an arm around the thin shoulders next to him.
"If. Without Hestlean and her they have lost the two tacticians who understand our ways, we are dealing with Easterlings and the remains of an Orc host. Neither know the terrain and neither have cavalry. They will not flank you, they will fall against Celeborn under a storm of arrows and we shall be done with this war for good."
"Not until you kill her," Erestor added quietly. The war would go on, another army raised or another friend attacked until they had removed the traitor's head.
"Mayra," Glorfindel said suddenly. "Her name is Mayra and she has broken the mercy of exile given to her, as she has broken our most sacred laws. Her name is Mayra, Erestor, and we should have no trouble saying it." He ignored the shocked look he received at that. Mayra had been exiled, her name became a taboo and she was erased from memory but unlike others she refused to go quietly.
"Will you find it easier if she has a name?" Erestor asked him.
"No. Nothing will make it easier. Celeborn has told me to find an executioner among the Men of Dale or of Gondor. Somehow, that seems wrong. It is our sentence, our justice that must be given out." My inheritance, he thought again. I received my looks and my temper from my father, as well as my title and house, it is only fair that I take up his name as well.
"Turgon sentenced Eol to death," Erestor reminded him quietly. "It was Galdor and Penrod who flung him from the cliffs. It was the law, as it is now."
"I was there, Erestor." As I was there at Alaquonde. "Eol had killed another, Mayra only tried." He shivered as the memory of Elrond and Lindir lying cold in the snow, the only signs that they were still alive were the tiny patches of half melted snow by their mouths.
"Should we be rewarded for our failures?" Erestor asked him. "We have no choice in this." Glorfindel looked at him for a long moment before sighing. Erestor did not understand, how it felt to put your sword to another elf's throat and know it was your people's legacy, your inheritance. He wished Galadriel was still there, she would understand his reluctance to put the law into effect. Erestor was too young to remember Alaquonde clearly, almost too young to remember leaving Aman at all. He would not be woken in the night by dreams of a red harbour and sons running behind fathers begging them not to go down to the waters. No choice was the answer they gave when they had to do something hard, it was nothing more than a feeble excuse. Glorfindel knew they had a choice, and Celeborn was simply passing it on to him.
"As you say," he murmured. "I must see what company I can draw up to march tomorrow. You should go and find Lindir then get some rest, you are going to need it come tomorrow." They were outside the healing tents now, the gaps between them forming makeshift streets still grey in the morning light. The camp had not really slept so it was not so much coming to life as acknowledging the lack of it around them. Glorfindel smiled slightly as the pressure on his arm was removed and Erestor stood up straighter.
"I have to start moving the wounded towards the river and find a way to defend the lower slopes when you drive the hoard down on us." He still looked tired, far too tired to be given the tasks Celeborn had ordered him to deal with. Glorfindel reached out gently to try and persuade him to rest a moment, before his duty wore him out.
"Leave me be, Fin, I can do what is asked of me." A shadow crossed his thin features and Glorfindel frowned as he walked away without another word. Those words, or some derivative, always soured Erestor's face and he had yet to find out why.
"Father!" A bright voice called out. Lindir ran up to him, wrapping an arm around him. Glorfindel let himself smile and relax for a moment as he hugged the young elf back. The smell of different herbs and sterilising alcohol came off of Lindir, almost masking the sweat and blood on his hands.
"Are you alright?" Glorfindel asked him. "I should have come and looked for you at once."
"I am fine," Lindir answered. "You did not find her then?" They were all waiting for their enemy to be brought in, for the war to be over. Lindir was looking up to him for reassurances, for him to say that the enemy was gone and they could go home. Glorfindel wanted him to still be young enough to be lied to, the little boy they could keep the world hidden from.
"No, not yet." Lindir's face fell slightly and he struggled to keep up a firm gaze. He had not been through the childhood training Matlar had, he could not guard his heart from the minefield of a King's court. Glorfindel had had to learn those lessons too, in a court less open and welcoming than Elrond's.
"We are splitting into four, I am taking two thousand up into the hills to rout the Easterlings down, Lani will be waiting on the slopes and Celeborn just below her. The wounded are being moved towards the river, behind what defences Erestor can build. I want you to-"
"I am coming with you," Lindir said at once. Glorfindel knew he could not order him to stay, Lindir was one of the few uninjured survivors, they would need him along with everyone else. Glorfindel would have rather had him stay with Erestor, safeguarding the wounded and as far from more fighting as possible.
"You will stay with Celeborn on the lower slopes," he answered. That would be safer, if the Easterlings turned on them and broke through. Lindir looked like he was about to argue then thought better of it.
"I should go and start seeing how many I can gather for each company," Lindir said quietly.
"Find the commanders from Imladris and gather them in the centre of the Gondor camp. I shall summon the captains Aragorn sent with me. Then we will see who we have with us." Glorfindel gave Lindir a firm pat on his shoulder and walked off to summon the Men of Gondor.
... ...
Glorfindel sat with his back to his tent, people watching in the twilight. All day he had been finding people, naming the dead and trying to pull two thousand together from those he had brought from Gondor and the Elves of Imladris Erestor had led east. Their estimates had been a bit pessimistic, a runner from Brand came to tell him that they had another two hundred Men they could call upon. Glorfindel had sent them to Lani, knowing that she would be hard pressed on the slopes.
"Fin," a quiet voice murmured and he felt Erestor's hand on his shoulder. "You need to rest." Glorfindel shook his head, his mind was still cluttered with names and tactics, and the pressing problem the scouts had failed to solve. Valion had returned without his quarry, as had Matlar's leaderless rangers. Only Rúmil remained out. It was an unsaid fact that Mayra had re-joined the Easterlings, there was no other option.
"You go to sleep," he told Erestor gently. "You still have a few hours before we need to start moving."
"Sitting out here dwelling on the problems are not going to fix them, or put you in a good mood for the morning." Glorfindel smiled, taking the hand over his shoulder. Erestor looked even worse in the firelight, the shadows made his long face seem more sunken around his cheekbones. He was still beautiful, Glorfindel would be the first to say that, but he wasn't the bright eyed elf he had been in Gondolin, his smile no longer came so easily or so wide. Glorfindel traced the sharp line along his jaw slowly with his thumb, leaning closer to wrap his other arm around Erestor's thin waist.
"Glorfindel!" Celeborn's voice rang out loudly through the half-sleeping camp. Erestor gave him an amused smile, pushing him gently away towards the Lórien lord. Celeborn's face was drawn, his brow crumpled in a frown.
"Rúmil found her."
For a moment Glorfindel stared at him, trying to find a reaction. His hand landed on his sword at his side as he returned the scowl.
"Right." He turned with Celeborn, aware that Erestor was following as they made their way back towards the command tent. Glorfindel spun around, catching the dark elf mid stride.
"Stay here?" he asked quietly.
"No." Shouts broke off whatever argument they could have had, making them hurry along after Celeborn.
The command tent was surrounded by a crowd, mostly elves standing side by side silently. The noise came from the rabble of Men, pushing to the front and yelling their opinions loudly. Glorfindel followed Celeborn through the automatic parting their people made. At the entrance to the tent a circle of Lórien elves kept a space clear by their naked blades. Rúmil stepped forward and bowed to his lord.
"We have her, my lord," the march-warden said, spitting out the pronoun as if he was talking about a pile of filth not an elf. He turned around and Glorfindel saw their enemy for the first time. Long dark hair fell across her face, not quite hiding the pair of dark slanted eyes that glared up at them. Behind him Erestor recoiled slightly from the sheer hatred of that glare. Glorfindel repressed a shudder and held her gaze. He could not look at her without seeing Lindir's blue face in the snow, or Matlar's when they piled Hestlean on the funeral pyre along with their other casualties a few hours before. That fought the chill her hatred sent down his spine, boiling his blood in slow anger.
"Come again to serve your justice?" Mayra spat at them.
"Glorfindel," Celeborn murmured and almost stood to one side. It was Imladris law she had broken, he had to pass the sentence in Elrond's stead.
"Mayra, daughter of Branwen, you have broken the terms of your exile. You must now answer for the crimes for which you were exiled, as well as those we charge you of now. Murder, attempted and executed and treason. Do you have a defence to these crimes?" There was a long silence, even the Men waited for her answer. Glorfindel knew she could have no defence under their law, the fact that she was there showed she had broken her exile, they did not need evidence.
"My cause is right," she answered, her voice eerily quiet. Glorfindel looked away, something about her conviction made him uncomfortable. Galadriel had said the same thing, when they stared at the fires of Alaquonde. His father had said the same thing to justify the blood on his sword. They were right, their cause was just, all the reasons sounded empty.
"You have no defence," he told her. "By the laws of the elven, I find you guilty." The Men around him cheered and yelled and Glorfindel was thankful to find Brand at his elbow. He turned to the Dale Prince.
"Find me an executioner." Brand nodded, disappearing into the crowd. "Mayra, daughter of Branwen, I sentence you to death as the law decrees is fit sentence for your crimes." Glorfindel looked away, meeting Celeborn's eyes for a moment. The Lórien lord nodded minutely. Having someone else swing the blade did not settle his conscience.
"Rúmil, move her to the clearing outside the supply tent," Celeborn ordered as he began to send the crowd away. Elves melted into the shadows to leave Erestor and Matlar standing amongst the curious Men
"How is he?" Rúmil whispered as he passed his pale brother-in-law.
"He will live," Matlar answered and they all breathed out in relief. "With or without the use of his arm, we do not yet know."
"His sword arm?" The Mirkwood prince nodded glumly. It would be a blow to the youngest of the Marchwarden brothers to lose his sword arm, to be redundant. Once the three of them had guarded Celeborn's realm together, now Haldir was dead and only Rúmil still stood in one piece.
"He is alive," Rúmil repeated as he followed his rangers and their prisoner.
"Fin," murmured Erestor. "Are you alright?" The true answer would have been no, he was trying to work out why sentencing Mayra haunted him so much. "She has done terrible things, she caused a war against her own kin." Glorfindel did not trust himself to answer that.
"Let us get this over with," he muttered darkly, leading the way. Rúmil pushed Mayra down into the mud, torches lighting the night around them, throwing shadows over her dark face.
"My lord," Brand's voice called out. "None will wield the blade. Those whose company slew the Mirkwood prince did not survive the battle, the men are saying it is a curse to kill an elf. None will do it." A curse, Glorfindel thought sourly, there is, and worse than you know.
"Glor," Celeborn began but he had already drawn his blade.
"So be it." My inheritance, my Father's curse.
Mayra never took her eyes off his blade as he approached.
"Kin-slayer," she spat. "Noldo, son of Gondolin. You cannot kill an idea, not once it makes a home in your head. Will you kill me to keep your niece safe? Is that worth a death?"
"Anything is worth that," he answered. "May your time in Mandos be peaceful." He raised the blade over her neck as Rúmil and another elf held her down.
"They should have kept you in there," she told him. "Did they send you back for this?"
"They sent me back to clear the way for salvation," he answered through gritted teeth.
The blade came down quickly, cutting cleanly through the flesh and bone.
"It is done," a quiet voice said and Glorfindel realised that he had been staring at the body for far too long, Erestor was pulling him away gently. "It is done, Fin, over."
"You are a fool if you think we have heard the last of this," he snapped, throwing his sword down. "Let us go home and wait for the storm." He ignored the shocked expression on Erestor's face as he pulled away. There was going to be a storm, the likes of which Erestor could barely remember. Glorfindel looked up at the sky, the clouds that covered the stars pressed low.
"The warning bells have been sounded again, unlike Turgon I will listen."