Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead,
Dear as the blood ye gave;
No impious footstep here shall tread
The herbage of your grave;
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While Fame her record keeps,
Or Honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps.Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone,
In deathless song shall tell,
When many a vanished age hath flown
The story how ye fell;
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
Nor Time's remorseless doom,
Shall dim one ray of glory's light
That gilds your deathless tomb.
The Bivouac of the Dead
by Theodore O'Hara
The golden elf came slowly back to consciousness and eventually his eyes opened onto bright light once more. Not a dream. Not just a terrible nightmare. A great sob heaved itself from his chest and he collapsed. If it were not for the surprising amount of strength in the arms that held him he would have fallen to the ground, but the Vala did not let go.
Nienna held Glorfindel, stroking through his hair as his tears soaked through onto her skirts, bundled as he was like a child on her lap. She cried also, but made no sound. Her tears being a part of her as she wept for his grief that she might in some way help him to heal.
There were no words for how Glorfindel felt. All of his memories had flooded into him of The Fall of his beloved city. He recalled eerily with great clarity each and every face he had looked upon that night. The sounds and smells assaulted his senses as he was forced to re-live and recall the screams of terror of the men, women and children who had finally run screaming into the night from the horrors that pursued them. The orcs had cut them down as they fled, not caring to save any but had even rent the bodies limb from limb of those who had fallen. They defiled and pillaged as they ransacked through the houses and streets, shouting gloatingly at each other as they found another hoard or another family who had tried to hide from sight until they could find a time to slip out unnoticed. He recalled with horror, his gorge rising, coming upon a group who had cornered and corralled one small group of young elves and had torn clothing from them, raping them even as they were dying.
Glorfindel leaned over from Nienna and retched dryly, not having anything in his stomach yet in his new life. He slipped onto the ground and dragged himself down to the water's edge, splashing his face. He rolled onto his back and wrapped his arms about his chest in a vain attempt to quell the tremors which ravaged through him.
His memories went on unraveling, it seemed that they were destined to play out whether he wished them to or not. He recalled rushing into the King's Square. All of the guards of the House of the king were there. Many had fallen and they were engaged in battle in earnest with a mighty number. He had little hope in their success. He rallied his own soldiers and was about to charge in when Tuor had come upon him. Staying to hear him he had been told that Turgon had fallen, that they needed to retreat. The city would fall and there was now only hope in escape.
It was then that he had seen what was before him and his chest had tightened. Ecthelion staggered into view, followed by the enormous figure that he recognised from the Nirnaeth. Gothmog, Lord of all balrogs was chasing him down, whip flicking perilously close. His arm was badly wounded and even from this distance he could see that it was a grievous injury from the way that it hung loosely at his side. He shouted hoarsely and he had looked up, their eyes meeting across the square. Time had stood still in that instant as the creature had closed in the last of the distance between them before the central fountain.
Glorfindel's cry had rent itself from his lips as he went to rush forward to give aid, but Tuor's grip had been strong and he had been joined by Eglamoth who's force was great. They held him back from the battle and shouted to him of things he did not hear as he could only watch with pain filled horror as the events unfolded. Too quickly for anyone to have crossed the distance and too many of the enemy to have cut through in between the pair as they fought. He couldn't tear his eyes away if he had wanted to.
Ecthelion gave a mighty swing of his sword and Gothmog's whip connected with it. Glorfindel watched as the sword fell, both arms now rendered useless and it was a matter of seconds before the inevitable came. He was almost blinded by tears as he saw the spiked helm driven into the creature's chest and both fell into the fountain behind them, steam billowing around and obscuring them from view. The arms about him had loosened a little as their owners stood shocked and the Lord of the Golden Flower had fallen onto the flagstones in his grief.
It was then that Glorfindel's thoughts faltered, darkness claiming him and he knew nothing for a time within the gardens where he now lay. His mind grew blank as it protected itself and his broken heart from the pain.
