Chapter 21: Glorfindel.
Pressure weighed down upon Glorfindel, the heaviness of the granite boulder like an iron bar slowly pressing down over his chest, pushing him into the ground. He thought he was sinking...and then he closed his eyes and felt the ghouls in the air above, their empty skulls, the teeth grinning in their bony jaws and the thin skeletal hands that stretched towards the bright spirits of the elves...He felt Angmar's attention rest upon him, and the hunger...
You understand now, Glorfindel of Gondolin. Glorfindel of Imladris. You see that fear is not, after all, our greatest weapon. You see now how we might vanquish you forever.
He heard someone calling him but it seemed far away and he was very cold.
I will devour you.
He blinked stupidly and his fingers scrabbled for his sword but it was too far, and he was confused and dazed. A crushing weight was on his chest, his arms and he could not feel his legs...He moved his head slightly and that hurt, so he stopped.
Slow, heavy footsteps reverberated through the ground and he felt it in his sore and crushed ribs, his broken limbs. The edge of a thin black shroud fluttered at the edge of his vision and then heavily spurred boots stopped before him. The tip of a long sword rested on the earth near his face, dark runes were wrought about it, and sorcery… He was so very cold...and fear crept into his heart.
I have you now, Glorfindel of Gondolin, of Imladris. How bright your fire...
He heard Elrohir shouting somewhere away to his left but he could not turn his head. He knew he faced death. Not death to be reborn. But absolute death. And he could do nothing. He tried to turn his head again, strain to see, but could not. He felt their hunger then. They were starving, cold, never able to feed, never replete, always the terrible hunger. He reached, pushed his broken body, shoved away the crushing pain, stretched again for his sword and his fingers just touched it...but it was too far and then the heavy spurred boots were there and a long blade tipped the edge of his own sword and flicked at it so it skidded out of reach.
The booted foot lifted and then pressed down on his neck, crushed the air from his throat, and he could not move.
Your burning light...how warm it is...And I am cold.
Suddenly the deaths of Men seemed so brave, so stupidly courageous and he thought of those who had fought with him, how they had thrown themselves recklessly into danger, knowing there was no rebirth, no Halls however cold...
A scrape of steel as a knife was drawn, the sound resonated, discordant and dull. It reverberated through the rocks that were piled upon him and jarred his teeth and bones. Light glinted bloodily on the short dull blade that came into his view now. Cold, dark sorcery wound about it with spells of Unmaking. A morgul blade.
This is my end, he thought. He wondered where was Elrohir, and Saeldir. He hoped they had escaped but knew they would not. The tower had fallen upon them and he thought many of his archers, his brave warriors, were crushed as he.
It is indeed your end.
The thin black shroud fluttered and the Nazgûl stood so close that his shadow fell across Glorfindel. Angmar stooped and the empty hood came close to Glorfindel's inert form.
You despair.
A cold observation.
Not..true, he replied. I yet have hope.
You fool yourself. There is none.
Angmar leaned towards him, and the morgul blade touched him; he felt the notes of his Song unravel. As the tip pierced his skin, gently, so gently, a long note was pulled from his heart...that was Idril, her hair like spun-gold lifting in the wind. The heart-note was tossed aside carelessly like it did not matter. Blood seeped from the cut as the blade drove a little deeper. The proud memory of Turgon standing in his plumed helm before the gates of Angband, dissipated in the wind. ...Fingolfin... Fingon, his silver-blue banner streaming out. One after another, the precious memories spilled onto the mud and the Nazgûl's iron shod foot ground them into nothing, flickers of light that were washed away...each one gone forever...
There will be nothing. Every memory gone. So useless. I will take my time over killing your body. Watch the blade as I carefully, lightly, gently pierce you…And your soul will leak out, slowly. Until you are quite empty...then I will crush you. I will gather up your soul and devour it...You will not even be a memory.
Glorfindel clung onto his name though air was a thin stream in his lungs for he could not inhale for the heaviness of the rocks upon him and the foot that pressed upon his neck. He watched his own blood trickle onto the dried and cracked leather of the boot.
I will remember, he told himself, I will not forget Gondolin's silver peal of bells from the high towers at sunset...the blaze of the sun of the peaks of the Mountains…I will not forget her, hair like spun-gold…
But it was hard to remember and he could not think of her name. The morgul blade was ice in his flesh - it was not deep, for Angmar was true to his word and gave in to his sadistic pleasure, prolonging the death for as long as he could. It was so cold, like ice, like his blood was freezing in his veins, and the light of his spirit leaked from the wound like blood, pooled under him where his cheek was pressed into the hard and stony ground.
And then, from far off a Note sounded, like a clear bell…he heard it and wept for reminded him of his name. I am Glorfindel, Laurëfindessë. I am of the House of the Golden Flower.
It came from the North.
Let this be Námo, he prayed, My lord, I beg you call my soul to you before these Nazgûl seize me…although this was not how it had been before. The wind tore at the sound, threw it back towards the cold North, but through the rushing air the Note grew. But it was too late for Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower. Pain lanced through him, tearing memory, peeling away the notes of his Song, each astra, unravelling his threads and the morgul blade pierced and cold like ice speared his heart. He felt his face was wet and he did not know if it was rain or tears. Or blood.
0o0o
When the rain had stopped and the thunder clouds tore apart to let the starlight and moonlight in, Elrohir had been standing amongst some of the archers ranged upon the tower whilst the others fired from below. He had been firing blazing arrows down onto the old fortress and hoping to strike one of the Nazgûl's black robes when one great winged reptile wheeled and swooped low. The Nazgûl riding it tilted its empty hood to look down upon Elrohir where he stood. Moonlight gleamed on the hide of the great winged basilisk, and its huge wings whumped the air.
Rávëyon. Why do you fight?
Swiftly, one after another, images were thrown open before him; Elladan bleeding out the blue light of his fëa into the marshes of Phellanthir, Elrohir himself on his knees before Angmar, head thrown back to expose his own throat to Angmar's blade, and long black hair trailing behind him.
My lord's willing sacrifice.
And then the darkness of his memories… In the Orcs' den, searching, the dark tinged with red light, demonic. A cry of agony and the oily darkness sliding round him as he eased himself forwards, Aícanaro in one hand before him. A grunting, panting, growing louder as he approached and an Orc pounding into the limp body before him, a pale breast, tangled yellow cornsilk hair...and then instead, twisting in chains a lithe supple body stretched too far and in agony, with long, long hair and painted skin…
Eru help me, he cried, shoving away the dreadful images that merged one into the other so he watched his mother's rape, lusted after the Wood Elf, and desired him all the more for the wracking agony of his torture.
My lord will help you. He will give you everything your heart desires ...Everything. Just give him the Ring.
Instead he fired an arrow. It sped upwards, glancing off the smooth silver hide of the beast.
You will come. Soon you will join us.
The Nazgûl steered its beast suddenly upwards and it soared into the sky and for a moment hung there like a falling star. Then suddenly it folded its wings and plummeted, dropped like a falcon speeding down, down, down towards the ancient tower. Elrohir stared at it for a moment and then realised its intention.
'Jump!' he shouted to the other archers gathered on the tower. 'It's going to crash into us!' He grabbed one of the nearby archers and dragged him as he leapt from the tower and rolled forwards just as the huge basilisk crashed into the tower. There was a terrible thundering rumble and rocks and stones splintered and crashed down as the tower broke asunder and masonry tumbled down upon the Elves below.
Elrohir hit the ground heavily, felt the air thumped out of his lungs and gasped. But he had no time to lie there and collect himself for he knew the Nazgûl were gathering.
He staggered to his feet. The dust was thick in spite of the wetness of the earth. The archer he had dragged with him was sprawled on the ground groaning but scrambled awkwardly to his feet, bow clasped in his hand.
Other archers were pulling themselves from the rubble when suddenly all around them, the dreadful winged lizards were dropping out the sky and landing with earth-pounding thumps on the ground. Slowly, one by one, the Nazgûl emerged from the shadows. Guttering firelight glinted on old and ancient broadswords wrapped about with spells and sorcery, and the runes seemed to writhe horribly upon the iron blades.
Aícanaro hissed, power blazing through the hilt and the red jewels in the hilt glittered like eyes. Elrohir felt the burn in the palm of his hand and clasped the sword. The dark runes that wound about the blade seemed lit, molten and poured over the blade for it had fed on the blood of its enemies and was powerful. He breathed hard, glaring at the Nazgûl. 'I will slay you all!' he declared defiantly and lifting Aícanaro high in both hands, he led the charge.
The Nazgûl responded with their own charge and broke upon the remaining Elves like a dark tide, the edges of their black robes seemed to dissolve into black smoke which coiled and twisted about like serpents and grew thicker as if they fed on the fear of the Elves who fought them.
Elrohir was aware of Saeldir launching into battle alongside him. For a second he wondered where was Glorfindel. Then the clang of swords resounded through the ruins and an ancient broadsword met Aícanaro, parried and slid along the thirsty blade until it broke free. He threw himself at the Nazgûl, battering their swords, whirling and kicking out where he could, seeking the weakness, hoping to strike a blow through the armour to strike the wraiths themselves, for this is what was needed for Aícanaro to work its own dark sorcery.
Aícanaro hissed in wild delight and struck and thrust at the Nazgûl. Blades clashed and clanged and slid off one blade to meet with another. They were strong and old the Nazgûl and cursed indeed, but slowly the Elves were beaten back.
Elrohir pivoted on one foot and kicked hard, his foot meeting old armour and the Wraith staggered back and then hurled forwards. But as it raised its sword, Elrohir suddenly caught a glint of golden hair. Glorfindel lay half crushed beneath a fall of rocks. His sword lay just out of reach for Glorfindel's fingers scrabbled weakly at the dirt. But he was truly trapped beneath the rocks and could not free himself. Elrohir had just enough awareness to duck as the Nazgûl brought its blade sweeping in a wide arc where his head had been. But he dodged around the Nazgûl to see a tall figure standing over Glorfindel. Darkness seemed to cling to it and an iron crown spiked the air. Angmar.
Horrified, Elrohir hauled Aícanaro around and clanged against the iron armour of the Nazgûl before him but his feet slipped treacherously on the wet mud and he crashed to his knees. He saw the WitchKing lift an iron-shod foot and press it upon Glorfindel's neck. Glorfindel's eyes were closed and he did not move again.
The WitchKing turned his empty hood towards Elrohir and fiery light lit his iron crown. Give me the Ring. Give It to me and I shall spare Glorfindel of Gondolin, of Imladris.
In Angmar's thin bony hand was a blade that did not reflect the light but seemed to swallow it. A morgul blade.
'Glorfindel!' Elrohir gasped and with a cry, he scrambled to his feet. A burst of crimson power flooded the length of Aícanaro and burst upon the blades of first one Wraith and then the other. The ancient swords wrought about with power and sorcery met Aícanaro head on and sparks flew into the darkness like cinders. Aícanaro sang in Elrohir's hand, quivered and flashed. He swung high and fast and came down again against the Nazgûl blades, and then one dark-robed Wraith swung his own sword beneath Elrohir's raised arm and there was a searing pain and warmth.
Khamûl. Somehow he knew it was Angmar's cruel lieutenant.
Rávëyon, why do you fight us? Only we understand. Give us the Ring. Which of you has it? If you give it to us my Lord will bestow such greatness upon you...You will have your gift, your yôzâira.'
Yôzâira? Gift of Longing, gift of desire. His gift? Sauron's gift…
…Long, pale gold hair streamed down around it…Ah! Eru…He almost cried out for the lust that flared and ignited in his loins and the shame that blazed in his heart…But this flat-bellied, lean hipped figure was absolutely male and around the pale skin that was already marked with blood, was a shape painted onto the skin, a wild whirl of colour and abstract… The sound of a lash against flesh cracked and a muffled cry made him jerk and pulse with desire.
Do you not yet know?
Khamûl actually seemed amused, he tilted his empty hood slightly and regarded Elrohir. And then it struck Elrohir with such force he was rocked on his feet...the same gesture he had seen in Legolas. That light tilt of his head, inviting, his long hair sliding over his shoulder, conscious of its effect, of its eroticism, knowing how it would inflame, knowing how he seduced with the firelight sliding over the pale gold…
He staggered backwards. 'No,' he said firmly. 'You are wrong. And I am not yours, will never be!'
Khamûl laughed, a horrible grating sound like fingernails on glass and Elrohir stepped away again.
Then we will take Glorfindel of Gondolin's soul instead for we will have our revenge. And we will still take Ash Nazg from you, him…whoever. We have you all.
Then the wraith screamed and forced its hideous face into his and its jaw dropped open so he could see the teeth, and nothing else for a moment, and then eyes, pale and burning, and so hungry.
Elrohir sprang away and again felt the slide of steel against his flesh. He whirled around and two-handed, railed against his enemy, his sword clashed against the deadly blade and he struggled, pushed hard and then tore back and swung to meet the other two Nazgûl broadswords again. He furiously rained blows upon his enemies, Aícanaro struck and struck again blindly, instinctively, but he felt himself slowly pressed back and knew that the elves were being beaten back.
He saw from the corner of his eye that one of the Nazgûl's hideous winged beasts alit upon the pile of rubble under which Glorfindel was buried. Another was scrambling clumsily over the rubble towards him. Elrohir's heart sank. Even if Glorfindel still lived, and he had not moved since he tried to reach his sword, he could not escape and Elrohir would not reach him.
The great lizard waddled and crawled towards Glorfindel. The tall figure of Angmar seemed to beckon it onwards when suddenly a figure leapt into its path and plunged a blade towards the creature's throat. Saeldir! It clawed frantically at the air, tearing at the ramparts and wailing terribly. But it was not a fatal blow and the beast now hurled itself towards Saeldir. Its long serpentine neck stretched towards the Elf, weaving its eyeless head, its lipless mouth snapping. Saeldir lifted his sword then and struck one more blow, striking right through the sinuous neck and the beast thrashed wildly, like a snake, rearing back and clawing at the air. Saeldir hung onto his sword but was thrown back and forth like a rag and finally the beast clawed at the blade in its neck and swiped at Saeldir. He was thrown against the walls and lay sprawled at an awkward angle, and did not move.
Above, the huge circling shapes of the remaining Nazgûls' winged steeds dived and swooped over the few Elves left fighting upon the cold hilltop.
Now there were Orcs clambering over the ruined walls again, knives glinting in their teeth as they scrambled over the rocks and stones, and hatred in their mad yellow eyes. For the first time in a long, long while, Elrohir was afraid. They must have defeated Tindómion and Galdor and they had overrun Amon Sûl.
He heard a Note, on the wind from the West. This is the end, he thought. This must be how Námo calls. But I have not made my Choice and I do not know which Way to go. But the Note grew and rang like a deep, clear bell that called to his blood and he turned his head at the same time that Khamûl turned his empty hood towards the sound. But where the Nazgûl seemed to hesitate and quail, Aícanaro thrummed with its own incipient power now like it heard a clarion call to arms.
He struggled to his feet and saw that the Orcs were looking about in fear and crouching and that the Nazgûl were agitated.
And then a white blur leapt over the crumbling walls and landed amongst the Orcs with flying hooves and teeth that crunched down on bone. Asfaloth tore into the Orcs, kicking and biting. A warrior was astride him, striking at Orcs left and then right with a long white sword that glittered. A long black plume of horsehair streamed behind him and his helm clasped his face like cupped hands. Armour moved with him, sinuous and mobile as fish scales, it glittered and shone, seemed to drink the starlight and shine it back ten times as bright. He seemed like Eärendil himself, so bright he was. The long white sword smashed into the Orcs and they fled. Then other horses leapt the walls and followed Asfaloth, pivoting and striking with front hooves and rear. There was Annael upon a dappled grey horse and striking left and right. There was Galdor too, and other warriors from both Imladris and Mithlond followed.
The Nazgûl shrieked and sped towards Asfaloth but the strange warrior pulled the horse about and halted, simply waiting as Angmar strode towards him. Asfaloth stood stock still, pawed the ground once and tossed his beautiful head so his mane flowed long over his proud arched neck. They shone brilliant in the starlight and it seemed that Eärendil had paused in his voyage through the night and the light of the Silmaril itself poured upon them. The warrior let his sword point downwards and both he and Asfaloth looked towards the approaching Nazgûl. Behind them, the Orcs were scrambling away from the fierce blades of Galdor and his men and horses. But the Nazgûl gathered behind Angmar and it seemed to Elrohir that time slowed.
Angmar raised his sword on one hand and in the other was a morgul blade. Blood dripped from the blade. Glorfindel's. A drop slowly slid along the blade and hung trembling at the tip for a moment, and then dropped, splashed and pooled on the earth.
Asfaloth charged.
Behind them, Galdor turned from his pursuit of the Orcs and raised his sword and followed. Elrohir lifted Aícanaro in fury at Glorfindel's fall and joined them.
Great hoofs beat upon the earth as Asfaloth charged and the warrior raised his sword; it seemed to catch the starlight and glowed. Angmar gathered his Brethren about him and they became Darkness, pierced by the glint of iron swords. Horses broke upon the Dark like a wave, crashing through it and the warriors slashed down with their swords, the horses turned and lashed out with hooves, though their nostrils flared with fear and their eyes rolled. Still they followed Asfaloth as the men had followed Glorfindel. A globe of light seemed to shield Asfaloth and his rider so the skulls of the Nazgûl were illuminated, their stretched and elongated jaws open and screaming as if the light itself hurt.
The Nazgûl shrieked and their long robes stretched into coils of darkness, reaching and twisting about Asfaloth and the stranger, but the helmed leader merely touched it with his sword the poured with the light of Eärendil, and, shrieking into the Night, the Nazgûl fled.
tbc
