A/N: Who sat down for 10 hours during a public holiday and wrote this in one sitting? Moi.

I know there isn't any evidence that Rivendell was attacked in canon, but this serves as an AU anyway so I tried to fit this into what we know of canon as much as possible. Enjoy the battle.

Chapter 2: Harpsong From The West

Music for this chapter: Sixteen Hundred Men, Thomas Newman

Maglor races east.

The sky wheels white with the winter sun and silver with starlight, again and again, as fair hills between the White Downs and the Chetwood pass green and yielding under silent feet.

Fifteen days, from the chalk downs southeast of Mithlond to the hill of Amon Sûl.

Six thousand years ago, with a war-horse under him and the wide fields of Lothlann stretching out before him, Maglor might have covered the same distance in half the time; but now, although he is clad in shining mail and helm, and shod in supple boots fit for battle, his worn pack holds naught but the merest of provisions, and he has to halt for other things – to rest, to eat, to slake his thirst, to ward off creatures of the night that ever haunt the edges of his cook-fires.

It does not help that the dreams return every night when he wraps himself in his cloak to catch a few fitful hours of sleep; flames from the north, a firestorm thundering southwards. He knows the dream has not come to pass, not yet; but every morning he raises dry, aching eyes to the northeastern horizon almost expecting the lightening sky to be choked with smoke.

The sun is sinking into the west on the fifteenth day as Maglor scales the western face of Amon Sûl – Weathertop, to the Periannath of the Shire-lands behind him.

He takes step after urgent step up the craggy stone, chasing the long warped shadow thrown out before him by the sun at his back, and comes at last to the crest of the hill itself, where a broken circle of stones marks the place where the tall watchtower of Elendil once stood.

Maglor is in haste, because here, on the hill of Amon Sûl, he might finally survey the lands of the north.

He halts on the shattered stones, breath coming sharp and quick, and looks northwards.

For a moment, it is as though his fears are unfounded. The last golden light of day is filtering in wide golden bars across the Weather Hills, and further on, the empty lands between the North Downs and the Ettenmoors. The land lies there still and silent, wild and lonely under the strokes of Yavanna's paintbrush.

Maglor's breath slows, and the rapid beat of his heart steadies.

Then the cool shadows of the oncoming night crest the northern peaks of the Hithaeglir, and as the darkness cloaks the shoulders of the passes, silent, crimson fire erupts into the air.

The breath catches in Maglor's throat.

The southern slopes of the westernmost peak of the mountains of Angmar are awash with flame. The fallen kingdom of Angmar, where the Witch-king had once set his throne. Even as Maglor watches, a heavy, still note of dread tolling in his heart, the flame spreads southwards, licking down the bare slopes towards the foothills below. Smoke curls upwards into the sky, veiling the emerging stars with thick, dark clouds.

The air remains had been eerily silent, for many leagues lie between Carn Dûm and Amon Sûl; but the sound when it comes washes over Maglor all at once in an unstoppable wave – a distant roar, like approaching thunder.

He waits. He waits for what he knows must follow, from dozens of campaigns against the foul creatures of Morgoth.

There, where the source of the inferno gushes like crimson-yellow blood from the wound in the side of the mountain – three glowing figures emerge, the fell, dark cores of their silhouetted forms cloaked with unquenchable flame. The distance should be too great to make out the cruel, fiery whips in their hands, or the blazing horns that crown their heads, or the slavering flames in their maws – but Maglor does not need to these to know them for what they are.

Balrogs out of the forgotten pits of Angmar, who have clawed their way up from the roots of the mountains where they had fled like cowards from Morgoth's defeat.

Maglor feels his lips curl into a snarl, as they did all those millennia ago when he first beheld Balrogs as they surrounded his father before the gates of Angband.

Hand clenched white on the hilt of the sword on his side, Maglor leaps from the circle of shattered stone and throws himself down the eastern side of Amon Sûl, dark hair flaring behind his helm like a dark pennant in the oncoming night.

As night falls over Eriador proper, the Balrogs step into the river of fire and begin to tread south towards the hidden valley of Rivendell.

(:~:)

The first warning Rivendell receives of the danger from the North comes in the form of one of the Dúnedain.

The river-scouts at Bruinen call out to him as he comes cantering through the ford trailing blood from his cloak, with two terrified children on his horse before him.

Later, when the children have been led away to be properly cared for, and the Ranger deeply asleep with the strongest sedative men can take, Elrond washes his hands of his patient's blood and steps outside the chamber, closing the door on the sound of the orderlies wrapping the stump of the man's newly amputated leg.

As Elrond has expected, Glorfindel is leaning against the corridor wall, fair face unusually grim. "Is he well?"

"As well as may be hoped," Elrond says. "His lower leg could not be saved, but there was no sign of infection above the knee. Perhaps we may hope there will be no fever."

By mutual, wordless agreement, they move out of the healing wing and up towards Elrond's study. The Ranger had been shouting hoarsely of news from the north even has he clattered over the threshold to the courtyard to swoon away into the grasp of the guards at the gate.

After the stifling stink of the invalid's chamber, the warm hearth and clear sunlight of his study comes as a relief. Elrond lowers himself into his chair with gratitude, attempting not to think overmuch of his patient below; an old man rather than a ranger, really, too old to have ridden south with Halbarad to aid their Chieftain in the southern campaign.

Estel, Elladan, and Elrohir. All three of his sons, south in Rohan and beyond, soon to meet the full might of Sauron's forces.

Glorfindel's graceful hand appears in the corner of his vision, nudging his elbow with a goblet of wine. Elrond accepts it with a word of thanks and a chagrined smile; perhaps he has been less successful in hiding his thoughts than he imagined.

"So," Elrond says, lowering the goblet and meeting Glorfindel's gaze expectantly.

"Fell news from the north, but only in the vaguest terms," Glorfindel says. "I've made rounds of those who were in the courtyard when the ranger came in; I'm told he only managed a few words before he fainted away. What words he spoke were of flame from the north, advancing through the Ettenmoors; the villages of the Dúnedain in Rhudaur are fleeing southwest."

Elrond closes his eyes briefly against the image – the northern remnant of his brother's people driven from their last, bitterly held lands. He nods. "I have pieced together much the same from our patient's delirious ramblings," he says. "But there is a phrase he used that I am far more concerned about than simple flame. He spoke of monstrous, fell things, yes – but he spoke also of whips of fire."

Glorfindel, whose bright eyes so often shine joyous and easy in the sunlight of the hidden valley, falls still. He sits with his hip casually against the edge of Elrond's sturdy oaken desk, but now there is something of memory and steel in his gaze.

"Whips of fire," Glorfindel says, with no inflection in his voice at all. "Embellishment, or description?"

"I am inclined to think the latter," Elrond says grimly.

A moment of silence, in which Elrond recalls the banner of Gil-Galad above and his sword in his hand, Elros's companies of Edain to his left and the great host of the Vanyar to the right, and Angband's gates opening ahead to pour forth rivers of gushing flame and filthy orcs, and behind the hosts of Morgoth, fell-eyed creatures with burning, cruel whips–

Glorfindel is also silent for a long moment, no doubt thinking of fire and song and a desperate battle on a mountain pass. His hand rises to push back his long waterfall of golden hair, lingering on the end of the tresses as his eyes darken.

"I wish there was no need to ask this of you," Elrond begins.

"Don't be daft," Glorfindel says, bright eyes suddenly merry again. "We must waylay them before they reach the ford, and you are needed here."

The ring on Elrond's finger feels suddenly heavy, heavier than the sapphire set into its light golden band should be.

Rivendell is many things, yes – the last Homely House west of the mountains, a place of peace, healing, and scholarly learning. It is well hidden, and the power of the Ring of Air casts a veil of Elven magic that shields it from prying eyes.

But it is no fortress. Indeed the valley had almost been overwhelmed at its founding, before the forces of Numenór came down upon Sauron at its gates of the valley and broke the siege.

"I wager Erestor is already arranging supplies," Elrond says.

"I should think he is," Glorfindel says as he stands. "He'll do a proper job of it too. Old habits."

Erestor had been Fingon's chief supply-master. Neither he nor Glorfindel speak much of it, but Erestor's role then was likely what had saved him at Nirnaeth Arnoediad; he had been in the rearguard, and had fallen in with Turgon's people beside Glorfindel in their retreat.

"I must see to the gathering of arms." Glorfindel hand moves to his hair again as he absentmindedly begins to push it back, as though preparing to braid it.

"May the grace of Elbereth be with you," Elrond says, and receives an acknowledging nod in return.

He stands there for a moment in solitude, then goes to find his daughter.

(:~:)

Tearing east without stopping for rest, Maglor crosses the last bridge aross the Hoarwell three days after leaving Amon Sûl.

He is immediately met with a sheer wall of flame.

Across the bridge, the woods on the north side of the Great East Road have been set alight, and now burn like a hundred thousand wicks, sending great splinters and sparks and tongues of flame leaping towards the sky. The sound of the firestorm thunders across the road itself, and the incandescent heat is almost unbearable; Maglor flings up a hand to shield his face from the glare.

The last he had passed this way had been shortly after the War of the Last Alliance. Maglor had not gone further east, for Elrond had made his home there, and Maglor knew he would not be welcome in Elrond's house.

He still remembers the look of horror and betrayal on Elrond and Elros's faces as Maglor and Maehdros stood there surrounded by the host of the Vanyar, the blood of the slain guards of the Silmarils fresh upon their drawn blades.

The scent of death and terror still hangs heavy here on the road as it did then on the edge of the Angfaulith, despite the scent of smoke and embers. The scent of battle, borne on the east wind.

Wild, agonized screeches rise from the wood as a burning, leathery shape staggers from the flaming treeline, barely recognizable as the troll it once was. It screams a long, drawn out note of pain as it stumbles uncaring past Maglor and into the fast currents of the river, falling face-first into the water.

The troll's whimpering turns at last to guttural gurgles as it drowns, the flames on its curled and blackened skin quenched at last.

Maglor loosens his hand on his sword. The scent of burnt flesh should sicken him, but it does not. It is too familiar.

A little ways upstream, the water of the Hoarwell still runs mostly clear. Maglor drops to one knee on the riverbank to cup the water hungrily to his lips, slaking his thirst for the first time in three long days despite the taste of smoke and sulfur.

Then he shakes the droplets from his hand and sprints away east, with the burning woods of the Trollshaws weeping flame and molten sap beside him.

(:~:)

Glorfindel does not know whether to laugh or to weep when the battle continues unceasing into the fifth day.

There had first been the scent of smoke on the air, north past the Ford of Bruinen up towards the lands of Rhudaur. Glorfindel had ridden north with two companies in haste, hoping to waylay the enemy at the river Hoarwell, but they had not ridden a half-day's journey from Bruinen when the enemy had found them.

The first attack had come not from the north, as they had expected, but east; six companies of orcs had sprung out from the higher foothills as dusk fell on the first day. They would have flanked Glorfindel's forces unseen if a scout on the right wing had not shouted a warning – a shout that brought an orc-arrow through her throat.

In the moment he shouted for his companies to turn right and meet the enemy, Glorfindel spared a thought that the orcs must have come down the High Pass; there is no other route they could have come by that they would have passed unseen. This could bode well or ill – if Thranduil and his people were battling with Sauron's forces past the eastern side of the mountains, the orcs might have been forced into the High Pass as their forces were routed below.

Or, alternatively, Thranduil and his people may be under siege – and Sauron's northern forces might have numbers enough to send a small force over the mountains to challenge the last Homely House.

The first clash of forces in the wide lands north of Bruinen had not initially gone badly. All of Glorfindel's people had been mounted, and the Orcs all on foot, and clearly not fed and watered well having just come down from the passes of the mountains. Despite the uneven numbers, the Elves had been succeeding in driving the orcs back against the foothills until a scream had risen from the rearguard in the west: a terrified, raw-throated scream of long memory.

"Balrog! Ai, Illúvatar, a Balrog!"

Glorfindel heard the flames before he saw them.

The roar of Balrog-flame is not something one forgets. Glorfindel himself had fought a host of them before Angband, then heard their terrible, flickering roar again in the fair streets of Gondolin and the mountain passes. He had heard the same roar cut off in a gurgle as he plunged his blade into his enemy's heart that day high up on the pass of Cirith Thoronath – before the Balrog's gauntleted hand had closed around his hair and pulled him down to the abyss with it.

Glorfindel sounded the retreat as dawn broke on the second day, pulling his companies back south, just a few miles, enough to stop them from being encircled by orc and flame. He had stayed in the northernmost line as the first Balrog came striding across the shrubland, setting the coarse winter grass aflame with each tread.

The orcs had swept down from the foothills and gathered anew with the Balrog at their head, and Glorfindel flung a glance over his shoulder, assessed the state of his own companies, and thought their chances about even, if they could bring down the Balrog before it reached Bruinen.

He had called across the strip of narrow no-man's-land between the forces of Rivendell and of Sauron. He spoke words of power long out of memory of the First Age, of valour and light, and of his own killing of the Balrog-captain that had waylaid the people of Gondolin in the mountain passes.

The orcs had shrunk back.

But the Balrog had laughed, and laughed, and carried on laughing, as behind it the orcs parted like a sea to two new rivers of flame.

A part of Glorfindel had trembled when he saw the two Balrogs that strode easily across the burning grass to stand at the side of the first.

But then he had raised his sword and called a challenge, and above him the banner of the golden flower of his house flared in the dawn light, as behind, the silver star of Elrond's house flew proud and bright in answer.

The fire of the Balrogs had advanced, and Glorfindel and his companies leapt to meet it.

That had been five days ago.

Five days, and every step of ground given towards the Bruinen hard-fought; Glorfindel, his throat dry, his golden helm battered, his shield arm numb, had cleaved a Balrog's head from its neck even as its war-hammer struck Asfaloth from under him.

He had heard Asfaloth scream, and Glorfindel's heart had screamed with him. Glorfindel would have died then, with six orcs leaping at him curled there on the scorched grass, if his guards had not leapt in and hauled him clear.

There had been no time to grieve his faithful steed. The fire was coming.

It does not stop coming, not even now.

Most of the warriors of Rivendell are on foot now, their horses burned or killed or moved to the rearguard, even more exhausted than their riders. The Bruinen laps at Glorfindel's ankles; they have been pushed back to the point of the ford.

He hears Lindir sing desperately beside him – young, kind-faced Lindir, who had been born after the Battle of the Last Alliance and only seen combat at Fornost as a youth.

Lindir is calling desperately on songs of old – ancient battle songs of Beleriand, which he must have only learned sung in the Hall of Fire – never with the rasp of blood between his teeth and the leaden weight of a sword in his hand.

Glorfindel raises his voice to sing with him, as do many of their ragged company, singing of star-flame and the might of the Noldor even as they are pushed back across Bruinen, even as the fires of the Balrogs send smoke to choke down the singers' parched throats, and the song falters–

A new voice arises from the west, rich, golden and ringing with power, and the Balrogs pause at the edge of the river–

And out of the smoke and the flame and the burning trees by the Great East Road strides a figure out of memory, the light of the Trees blazing ancient from clear grey eyes, harpsong in his hands and a song of triumph on his lips.

Glorfindel would have thought he was dreaming, if the very air did not shiver to this new apparition's voice.

Maglor son of Fëanor steps into the Bruinen beside Glorfindel as orcs flee up the curve of the northwest bank towards the Balrogs there.

"Hello," Maglor says quite calmly. He has stopped singing for the moment, though his left hand plays ever-cascading silver notes from his harp that seem to press the flames back towards the orc-companies. "I would advise retreating to the southeast bank. The river is about to rise."

Glorfindel stares at the golden helm, the silver scale-armour of the First Age in the style favoured by the Fëanorian smiths, and last of all at the thin-lipped mirthless smile of Maglor Fëanorion himself.

There is no time or space to think of kinslayings, of the remnant of Gondolin that had fallen to Fëanorian blades in Sirion. Glorfindel and Maglor move to the southeast bank of the Bruinen, the last of the Elven warriors scrambling wide-eyed and staring up beside them.

The first wave of orcs rally and wade into the ford, shouting foul words in the language of Sauron–

–Beside Glorfindel, Maglor tilts his head as though listening to something, a hint of pride curling at his lips–

–A roar from upstream, and Maglor, eyes aflame, raises his hand and brings it down on his harp and sings a word so powerful it sounds like thunder–

Water.

Foaming, roiling, thundering water, the river woken from sleep, flaring red and gold in the dusk light as it cleaves into the orcs at the river, burying them in foam and spray and current. Here and there in the white-capped waves the images of horses raise their heads, snorting noses and tossing manes in the maelstrom.

When the wave passes, the Balrogs on the opposite bank have retreated to the woods, standing there amongst the blazing trees with their remaining orc-host around them, watching, wary.

Glorfindel looks at the tall, dark-haired Elf beside him. He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

Maglor lowers his harp and smiles.

"Ahh, the horses were a nice touch," he says. "Elrond really has outdone himself. I only added volume, you know."

Glorfindel stares at him. The warriors around them are regrouping, seeing to the wounded, and though many stop to stare as well, the golden-haired captain and the raven-haired harpist stand mostly in a pocket of solitude.

"The songs said you'd faded away," Glorfindel says after a moment. His hand tightens on his sword.

Maglor's smile is sharp – far sharper than the last time Glorfindel had met him, Ages of the world ago at a feast in Tirion.

"I know," Maglor says. "I wrote them. You can stop hefting your sword like I'm going to kill you now. There is no Silmaril here, and we have a common enemy."

"Forgive me if I find it somewhat difficult to trust you," Glorfindel says. "There are many who regret doing so. Most of them are dead."

Maglor flinches, and Glorfindel should not be as pleased about that as he is.

The first Balrog steps out from under the trees across the river.

"I am here because the song of this Age is ending," Maglor says quietly. "I know my wrongs cannot be changed. But I am here because I will not allow the forces of Sauron to enter Imladris. I am here because of Elrond."

There is such a depth of sorrow and regret and longing in that last word that Glorfindel finds himself quite unable to retort. And now in this moment of quiet, he can see the exhaustion that pulls at the edge of the other's gaze. Maglor son of Fëanor had stopped at nothing to come here, it seems.

"Come," Glorfindel says, as the first Balrog steps into the ford, great hissing clouds of steam rising around its flaming foot. "It will be a long night, and your song will be needed."

Maglor nods once, Glorfindel raises his sword in the starlight, and although all their banners have already fallen, the companies of Elven warriors about them raise their voices in answer.

(:~:)

The sunrise is bleeding blood-red trails of light across the sky as Elrond stares down from the ridge of the valley at the smoke and flame.

The ford of Bruinen is hidden from his view by the dense woodland surrounding the hidden paths up to the valley; but now, as the light of the rising sun lances through the trees below, Elrond sees smoke and flame among the trees.

"The fords have been taken," Erestor whispers beside him.

Elrond's hand tightens on the sword at his hip. He looks on either side of him and finds faces as grimly determined as his own – the last guard at the wide ridge that marks the beginning of the valley itself, where the power of Vilya holds when he remains in the valley

"We wait," he tells them, looking up at the eight-rayed star of Fëanor – the sigil of his house also, that he had chosen for himself even after his foster-fathers had faded into song.

In the forest below, the trees continue to burn.

(:~:)

Maglor sings.

His throat is as dry as sand, and the old scars across his sword-hand ache with every strike – but he sings, and sings, and the song takes the light of the new dawn and weaves it through his fëa and that of those around him, giving new strength to weary souls.

He and Glorfindel fight as one against a Balrog, now. Maglor shouts bright notes of gold as he ducks under the cruel strike of the fire-whip, hearing Glorfindel's answering shout as the Balrog brings his axe down on his shield.

Maglor's sword makes a dart under the Balrog's guard, and Glorfindel twists away from the flaming hand that grasps for his neck as the Balrog leaps away from Maglor's strike.

"I see you've learned to braid your hair!" Maglor laughs as they advance again together, leaping over and under and around the flaming arcs of the Balrog's axe as the whip lashes the air around them.

"Not. The Time. For trifles," Glorfindel grits back, short golden braids swinging at the nape of his neck as he dodges another blow.

Glorfindel is right. Maglor risks a glance behind his shoulder, and through the burning of the trees he sees the battle for what it is – a desperate, grueling struggle as the forces of Sauron climb slowly uphill, and the Elves leap from tree to tree and through the undergrowth in an effort to slow them.

Glorfindel shouts a warning, and Maglor leans back just enough to avoid losing his head as the fire-whip lashes through the space where his helm had been moment before.

This Balrog is relentless. The other is some distance away to the south, and being strongly contested by song and blade, if the sounds from that direction are anything to judge by. There are orcs surging up the hillside below them now, where some of the Elven warriors had previously been holding them back, giving Maglor and Glorfindel space to face the Balrog alone.

Maglor looks at the axe, and the whip, and the Balrog's slavering smile – looks at Glorfindel casting down his ruined shield, at the orcs coming towards them – and knows he must get the whip out of the way.

There is no time. He makes a decision.

He calls out to Glorfindel to be ready, and barely waits for the other Elf to answer before he steps into the path of the fire-whip and allows it to snap around his chest.

Maglor screams.

The heat of the flame can be felt even through the scales of his armour; he feels the scales melting, his skin scorching underneath.

He does not struggle to break free. He must hold the whip, hold it until–

Through the haze of whip-smoke and a film of what must be his own tears he sees Glorfindel leap nimbly over an axe-strike and take off the Balrog's head.

The whip is off him the next moment and Maglor is blinking the spots out of his vision as he brings up his sword to meet the blade of the first orc that stumbles past the body of the fallen Balrog.

His wrist nearly gives way, and he hears Glorfindel's shout by his ear as Maglor draws his hunting knife with his off-hand and plunges it in the orc's throat. The orc reels back the next moment, taking the hunting knife with it, but Maglor uses the moment of calm to stagger fully to his feet and stands back to back with Glorfindel.

Then, from the south and a little down the slope, a cry: "It is making for the gates!"

Sweat pouring into his eyes, Maglor looks to his left, southwards, and sees the last Balrog break through a knot of Elven warriors to charge straight uphill and west towards the ridge above.

Maglor moves the same time Glorfindel does, and hears the rallying cry of the Elves around them. They would keep the orcs at bay and leave their captain and Maglor to pursue the Balrog unhindered.

Breath coming in gasps, burnt skin stinging with agony, Maglor races up the path, Glorfindel beside him.

The Balrog would not reach Rivendell.

It would not reach Elrond.

Maglor will not allow it to do so; not even if it means death, flame, and the eternal darkness.

He opens his mouth, and, despite the screaming of his lungs, begins to sing.

(:~:)

Elrond sees the flame rushing up towards the ridge, sheets of fire erupting from the trees below.

The battle is closer now, and he senses the evil that rushes up towards him as a shuddering cold through the ring on his hand.

But yet, in the distance, behind the roar of what is unmistakably a Balrog, a clear, strong voice rises in the morning wind.

A dear, familiar voice, which had once sung Elrond back to sleep after many a nightmare; which had sung brilliant and bright in defense of Amon Ereb, in Beleriand Ages of the world ago.

No.

Impossible.

The flame draws nearer through the trees, and so does the song.

Elrond draws his sword, and waits for it to come.

Next up: One last song.

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