1. fire
He couldn't squeak. He couldn't speak. He couldn't even scream for help. He was frozen, like a statue made of ice in the midst of haunted eyes and shivering hands. Only, the heat thawing his shock into panic was curling from the hulking mass of red and black, scalding him back to reality.
He shivered half-consciously. Weak cries and feeble screams around him made the blood in his veins thrum like harp strings struck by a harsh hand. He was no hero, he knew. It was an unspoken fact, suspended in the air, never crossing the lips of the people surrounding him, but he knew it. He could've saved them all. Could've stopped Maeglin. Could've destroyed Gothmog.
Could've saved Ecthelion.
He was no hero. But why was his hand reaching for the hilt of his sword? Why was he pulling it from its sheath? Why didn't he run, let someone more worthy, more brave step towards the snarling creature and save them all?
As if a match had been struck and a flame had burst forth from his heart, he raised his head and his sword.
He would not let himself falter. No, could not. He was no hero, as he knew all too well. He wasn't as brave and confident as his fellow captains, as steadfast and loyal as Ecthelion, as wise and cool-minded as Tuor. He was not a hero, not in the least.
But neither was he a coward.
The hard grimness of determination etched its way across his cheeks, into the lines of his hands, and behind the paths of his thought. With a roar like a mighty lion's and a swing of his sword, Glorfindel leapt towards the Balrog, golden hair streaming and eyes blazing bright, brighter than the stars, brighter than the approaching dawn, brighter than the fire that consumed him from head to toe and from heart to soul.