Author's Note: This may or may not be the same Glorfindel that rescued Frodo. There is much debate about the reincarnation of Elves and whether or not it is possible. Also, I do not know if Glorfindel would have spoken Sindarin, but he does in this story (unless I used Quenya…I'm bad at telling the difference, but I'm pretty sure it's Sindarin). This turned out to be longer than I thought it would be, but I didn't know where to cut if off for a second chapter, so it's one long chapter instead.
Prologue:
"There was a dreadful pass, Cirith Thoronath it was named, the Eagle's Cleft, where beneath the shadow of the highest peaks a narrow path wound its way…[the Gondolin Elves] were ambushed by Orcs…and a Balrog was with them…(page 243, J.R.R. Tolkein's The Silmarillion)"
"Valor of the Golden Flower"
The Balrog rose up before the Gondolin Elves, a demon of flame and shadow, its heated breath washing over them. It roared, the low rumbling of a furnace, and waves of heat rolled out of its mouth. Bony wings stretched behind it, nearly brushing the rocky cliffs nearby. One clawed hand was gripping the mountain, a glowing whip was in the other.
The fleeing Elves froze, hearing the high-pitched cackling of Orcs approaching. Fearful eyes swept the desolate land, from the gray rock cliffs to the fiery demon before them. Then one Elf stepped towards the Balrog, climbing up the rock face so that he was on a thin ledge level with the demon's head.
It was Glorfindel, the golden-haired lord of the house of the Golden Flower. A naked sword was in his hand, the silver blade reflecting the red and black of the Balrog. The demon raised its whip, the tail hissing above its head. It struck down, and the Elf cried aloud and held up his own sword in defense.
The blade shone with a cold silver-white fire as the whip curled around it. Glorfindel twisted the blade, slicing through the coils that trapped his weapon. The Balrog snarled and quickly pulled his whip back, snapping it forward again. Glorfindel moved his sword in a sweeping arc to counter the whip, deflecting it before it could touch him. He heard the sharp twang of bowstrings and turned slightly to see several Elves holding off the approaching Orcs.
But that quick glance away from his enemy was a mistake. The flaming whip had descended so quickly and quietly he had not seen or heard it, and there was no time to counter the attack. He leaped to the side nimbly, trying not to lose his footing, but the tongues of the whip lashed across his side, burning swiftly through his gray-blue tunic and biting into flesh.
Glorfindel staggered slightly, the pain of the cut surprising him. Always before had he escaped injury in battle, counting on his senses and fleetness to keep him safe. This time his senses had failed him, but his agility had kept him from being caught up by the whip and thrown into the abyss below.
The Balrog grumbled its disappointment and snarled heatedly, sending a burst of hot air into Glorfindel's face. It snapped forward with the whip again, hoping to end this battle. However, the Elf was far from vanquished. Trying to ignore the searing pain in his side, he ducked as the whip whistled by overhead. He raised his sword, letting the reflections of the Balrog's flames in it be banished by the sun's rays.
"Lasto beth daer! Mathon ne galad!" Glorfindel shouted as the Balrog raised its whip again. His sword suddenly blazed with light, and the Balrog shied away unwillingly. The power that seeped from the light to the sword through the Elf and into the rocky ground was something the demon had never encountered.
The Orcs screeched encouragement to the demon as they pressed forward, seemingly ignoring the arrows that cut down their ranks. Their harsh cawing apparently did strengthen the Balrog's resolve, and it straightened with a shudder, flexing its bony wings.
For a moment, they were frozen in place, a fiery demon with a ram's horns and embers for eyes, and its opponent, a lone Elf, surrounded with a bright, pure light. Behind the Elf, Orcs and Elves battled each other to determine the fate of the Gondolin Elves.
Then a rumble shook the air and the Balrog's whip snapped sharply forward, arcing through the sky, the tongues disappearing in the light around Glorfindel. The Elf swept his sword downwards, cutting at the hissing whip before it withdrew. He could hear more Orcs approaching behind him, and the Elves were crying aloud, both in defiance and desperation. The Balrog seemed to laugh at this, deep grumbles of smoke and cinders.
Glorfindel glanced quickly back at his kinsmen, careful not to be caught unawares by the Balrog. His people would fall if no help was to come. And help seemed a long ways off. The least he could do was to destroy the demon that perched so tauntingly before him. He hoped that its defeat would strike some fear into the Orcs' minds and kindle a spark of hope for the Gondolin Elves.
He parried the Balrog's next attack, but the demon struck again so quickly he could not block it. As the whip was retreating, the tongues lashed out again, this time snapping across Glorfindel's shoulder and sword arm. He nearly dropped his weapon at the pain, and the light faltered for a second, before he managed to lift his sword again. Agony pounded from his wounds, burning a rush of Hellfire through his veins and as the Balrog raised his whip again, determined to finish this battle, he leaped.
He hit the Balrog's chest soundly, plunging his sword into the demon's throat. His momentum knocked the Balrog backwards, off the cliff and then they were both falling, the Elf fighting to cling to the Balrog's hide. Glorfindel heard a despairing cry from the Elves who saw them drop from the mountain's edge, watching their leader fall.
As they fell, spiraling down into the abyss beneath the mountains, a clawed hand slashed open the Elf's back, and he screamed. He pulled the sword free and whirled it backwards, cutting the beast's hand, before slashing forward at the Balrog's open, snarling mouth. The demon shook its head, roaring with pain and anger, blinded by the light that still shone around the Elf. Its whip was hissing through the air, but if the Balrog were to wield its weapon, it took the risk of hitting itself. Instead, it grabbed for the Elf that clung to its fiery skin, stabbing his sword blade over and over into the demon's chest and face. The Balrog felt its claws tear into the Elf's leg, felt the blood that spilled from the mangled limb, heard the cry of anguish that ripped from Glorfindel's throat.
Glorfindel dragged his mind from the pain-filled bog it wallowed in, forcing his eyes to stay open again the pain and the heat, forcing his hand to keep its strong grip on the sword. He raised the weapon a final time, and drove it with all his strength up into the Balrog's open mouth, pushing until he could see the shining tip of his sword poking up from the Balrog's face. The light was dimming in the demon's eyes as Glorfindel yanked his weapon free, feeling his own strength falter as he stabbed his sword into the demon's mouth, pushing as far forward as he could. The Balrog let out a strangled roar and bit down on the Elf's arm as he pulled back, raking cuts down Glorfindel's forearm and wrist.
The Balrog's wings were hanging limply, no longer flailing wildly through the air. Its whip dropped from its grasp as its eyes darkened. Glorfindel watched this with a distant satisfaction, even as he felt pain overwhelm him. He clutched his sword with both of his hands, even as the strength drained from them. The Balrog dropped away from him as he gave up his grip on the demon's hide. Darkness took over his vision, ancient words whispered in his ears, softly singing a Deathsong.
*****
Thorondor the Eagle-lord and his kin arrived just as Glorfindel and the Balrog ended their battle. His eagles swept down upon the surviving Orcs, screeching their war cries, talons ripping. But Thorondor's sharp eyes caught the glint of fire and light in the shadows below the mountains. He dove down along the mountainside, until he reached the falling form of Glorfindel. Beating his wings heavily, fighting to slow himself down, he gently closed one talon around the Elf's waist. When he was sure his grip was secure, the eagle streaked up towards the open sky, ignoring the Balrog that dropped behind him to disappear in the darkness.
The Gondolin Elves were saved, even though many of their numbers were lost. When Thorondor rose out of the abyss, they gave a great cry at the sight of Glorfindel's dead body. The Eagle-lord placed the Elf on the pass and left the Elves of the House of the Golden Flower to bury their leader. Then Thorondor flapped aloft, calling to his eagles, who followed him, their wings rushing overhead as they soared over the mountains.
Epilogue:
"Then Thorondor bore up Glorfindel's body out of the abyss, and they buried him in a mound of stones beside the pass; and a green turf came there, and yellow flowers bloomed upon it amid the barrenness of stone, until the world was changed (pg 243)."
Translation of Lasto beth daer! Methon ne galad!: "Hear the great word! Feel the light!"