Chapter XXXVII: Unforeseen Delays

Time seemed to slow for Glorfindel as he suddenly became aware of the dark figure hurling through the air toward him. The elf saw with dismay that Niphredil would not have time to react and would be speared by one of the long, wicked looking blades. The only way to save her, Glorfindel knew, was to react for her.

Leaping a little more than a meter off of the ground, Glorfindel gritted his teeth against what he was going to do. He tucked his feet up to his chest, then, as gently as he could while still moving her, kicked Niphredil's stomach, knocking her away from him, and the blade, as well as launching him backwards.

The other Silvan gave a little cry of surprise as she took the hit; fell backward, and lay on the ground, gasping for breath. She was about to reprimand Glorfindel when Dilotè flashed past her vision, swords aimed for where the two elves had just stood.

Dilotè hit the ground and rolled, angry with herself for missing. The Silvan general was better than she had anticipated, and she never misjudged any of her targets. As she came up, she saw that the male had drawn a short sword, most likely one designed purely for reconnaissance; it would be made of a lighter material, one that would probably break more easily than most swords. An easy target.

Glorfindel lunged forward, his short sword hissing through the air toward the Drow woman, who danced back lightly, batting away his attack with one of her black blades. The Silvan continued his attack, his swings controlled and well aimed, but not good enough to penetrate the defense that the Drow put up.

Suddenly, standing above Niphredil, stood Serke'turr. The lieutenant's blade was raised high, prepared to slice off the maiden's head in one quick stroke. Niphredil held up her hand, as if to ward off the blow, but it was unnecessary; Glorfindel abandoned his battle with Dilotè and launched himself at Serke'turr, hurling the Drow to the ground.

Serke'turr hissed and rolled to his feet, waiting for Dilotè to take the Silvan from behind. Instead, the Halda'ohtar just gazed icily at the lieutenant, her look telling him that she would not be coming to his assistance.

The Silvan was on him in an instant, the glowing blade flashing rapidly in and out of his vision. Serke'turr was shocked with the ferocity and skill that his opponent wielded his blade. This 'scout' that he had been ordered to intercept was obviously more than he and Dilotè had bargained for. A seasoned warrior such as this was a rare find in Middle Earth these days, but never a good one to come against.

However, the Drow still managed to block or dodge the relentless attacks, though not as cleanly as he would have liked to. As he stumbled back, he saw his opponent raise his sword high in preparation for a blow that would surely end the Drow's life if it connected. Seeing his chance, Serke'turr swung with all his might at the Silvan's blade, which shattered with a peal of thunder.

Glorfindel swore to himself in his mind. He had known this would happen; the sword he carried could not stand up to much fighting. He shot a glance back to Niphredil, who cowered at the feet of the first Drow, the woman. He could not just give up and let her die.

The elf looked back to the other Drow, who stood haughtily, with a mocking smile crossing his face. Glorfindel felt a surge of anger at his attackers, then calmed it, settling into the fighting stance that Mordae and Celebdraug had taught him; left foot forward, back hand high, beside his face, front hand reaching out at rib level. His eyes met with his opponent, who smiled even more broadly and charged forward.

Niphredil let out a small cry and began to rise, but she sat as the other woman's blade swung slowly toward her neck, ordering her silence. The maiden bit her lip and watched as the other Drow rushed forward. She closed her eyes; she could not bear to watch Glorfindel's death.

The black sword hissed toward Glorfindel's neck, a sure kill for the swordsman. However, the elf lunged forward, striking his attacker in the nose with a flat palm. As the Drow staggered back, purple blood running down his face, Glorfindel stepped forward and wrapped his arm around the his assailant's. With a sharp twist, Glorfindel snapped the Drow's elbow, then leaped into the air, executing a full spin, lashing out with his foot at the completion of his rotation. His opponent staggered backward, dazed, bleeding, and weaponless.

Serke'turr was confused as to what had just occurred. One minute, he was about to kill the scout, the next, he was spinning in a blurry world, with a sharp pain in his arm and nose. Surely Dilotè would stop the elf now; if only for a moment, Serke'turr could certainly collect his thoughts and reorient himself.

But she still did not move to assist him. And the Silvan came onward, viciously kicking the back of Serke'turr's leg. The Drow felt himself spin, then felt his opponent's arm around his neck, constricting his airway and the veins leading to his brain.

Serke'turr gasped, black spots filling his vision as the blood-flow to his head ceased. The Drow could feel himself rapidly losing consciousness, and though he struggled, he could not loose the elf's grip on his neck and arm.

As the world began to fade, his resistance weakened, and Serke'turr felt himself turned toward Dilotè. Their eyes met; his pleading, hers cold. She mouthed one word, gesturing toward Niphredil who still cowered on the ground. Honor.

Glorfindel felt his captive's thrashing cease, and his eyes met the other Drow's. She shrugged at him, gesturing for Glorfindel to finish his job. Under normal circumstances, Glorfindel knew he would simply drop the unconscious form on the ground and deal with him later. But his eyes fell on Niphredil. Niphredil, who had never harmed anyone, who never deserved to have to witness any of this, let alone be killed, unarmed, by the scum he held in his hand.

"Look away," he ordered.

Niphredil's eyes met Glorfindel's, but they were not filled with terror or disgust with him, as he would have suspected; they glowed with anger at the thought of captivity or death by the 'Morgoth-worshipers'. Niphredil was a devout follower of Illúvatar, but nearly seeing her partner nearly killed by the most hated race of the Drow was far too much for her. She turned her head in compliance with Glorfindel's request.

Glorfindel tightened his chokehold and remained motionless until he was certain that the Drow would never be able to harm another like his Niphredil. Then, with utter contempt, he dumped the body on the ground and faced the next attacker.

Dilotè smiled at the honor that the elf demonstrated. Though there was a slight chance he could survive, it was not likely that he could defeat her as he had Serke'turr. He had to know it, but still the Silvan faced her, boldly staring his demise in the face.

"You show much skill, Glorfindel," Dilotè complimented her victim. "I am Dilotè Linta, Captain of the Drow."

Glorfindel showed no surprise that Dilotè had known his name; he had served with distinction in high ranks for the past thousand years, and someone was bound to notice. He nodded slightly, acknowledging her accolade, but did not respond.

"Let me be honest with you, if I may," Dilotè offered.

Glorfindel shrugged almost imperceptibly.

"There is no way you can escape," the woman continued. "Even if you manage to defeat me, two thousand elite Drow soldiers wait just a half- league from here. If I do not return with you in an hour, they will search for you. They will find you, and then, they will kill you.

"If you allow me to capture you, however, I can ensure that you will live, at least long enough for you to attempt an escape, which you undoubtedly will try, from what I have witnessed here."

Glorfindel shrugged again, not arguing.

Dilotè spread her arms. "So, are we going to do this the easy way?"

"Or your way?" she asked as she slowly drew her blades, a look of derision crossing her face.

All was not as it would seem, however. There was an aphorism that the Halda'ohtar had always followed to the point of doctrine.

If your enemy kneels before you, strike him down. If he stands before you, make him kneel. If he meets you with honor, treat him so accordingly.

Dilotè had always lived by this mantra. She had not stopped Serke'turr because he had not lived by the code of honor. An unarmed opponent was never killed. They must either be allowed to arm themselves how they wished – in this case, Glorfindel had chosen hand-to-hand combat – or not harmed at all. To kill an unarmed woman was the ultimate sin.

If Glorfindel surrendered, Dilotè would kill him. Surrender was dishonorable. If he fought, she would let him live.

Glorfindel knew what he had to do. To surrender would mean that Niphredil would be forced to live in captivity, a trial she would not survive. If he were to fight with Dilotè, she would at least a chance to flee northward, back to Lorien. With this assurance, Glorfindel gritted his teeth, offered a quick prayer to Illúvatar, then let out a cry to Niphredil.

"Run!"

Dilotè was taken by surprise as the elf before her charged the few meters forward and drove his foot into her chest. She flew backwards, tripping over the other elf woman, who rose and looked frantically at Glorfindel.

"Run!" he insisted.

With a tear running down her cheek, Niphredil bolted, leaving behind that which she cared the most about.

Glorfindel continued his assault, firing a double kick into the Drow. She blocked the first strike, but took the second in the face, knocking her to the ground. Dilotè lashed out with one of her blades at Glorfindel's stomach as she fell, slicing a thin laceration through his chain mail.

Still the elf came onward, driving his fist into the woman's face, causing her to drop one of her swords. However, Dilotè gritted her teeth and drove her other sword handle into the side of Glorfindel's head, knocking him off of her.

Dropping her other sword, Dilotè rolled on top of Glorfindel, pushing him into the ground. In an instant, she had his arm wrapped up in a lock and her legs wrapped around his neck. She tightened her legs for a moment, until she was satisfied that he was unconscious, then slowly released him, panting for breath.

"Well fought, infidel."

Niphredil pounded northward, not having any clear conception of where she was headed. Tears streamed uncontrollably down her face as she ran, blurring her vision and reminding her of her own weakness.

If only I could fight like Celebdraug, her thoughts chided her. If only I was brave enough to defend myself. If only...

Niphredil swiped angrily at her tears. No. It is not a matter of bravery. Bravery does not mean killing. I can still be brave.

But how could she do anything to stop the events that were about to occur? The Drow's words rang ominously in her ears. Two thousand elite Drow soldiers wait a half-league from here... Niphredil was an amateur when it came to battle, but any imbecile could determine that two thousand elite soldiers was a force to be reckoned with. Something was utterly wrong with the whole situation. Were the Drow going to sack Lorien, which was sure to be emptied by now? Were they going to attack the army as it departed?

Glorfindel. Niphredil was almost angry with herself at how her thoughts continuously returned to him. She loved him, true, but she also knew that he would want her to keep focused on the more serious dilemmas that faced her. He would tell her that he was but one life, far less significant than the thousands of others that were at stake. That was one of the many things she adored about him; his utter disregard for his own life in the face of losing other lives, his selflessness. A trait he had just demonstrated in the forest behind them, sacrificing himself for her.

Niphredil's throat tightened at that word. Sacrifice. No, she swore to herself, he is not dead. The Drow woman said she would not kill him.

A terrible thought struck the elf with such force that she almost broke pace. Then what does she want from him? They will torture him for something...

Niphredil let out an anguished cry. Then, slid to a halt as a new idea drove into her mind. Mordae and Celebdraug. Glorfindel is their best friend. They want to know where Mordae and Celebdraug are. To kill them.

The Silvan dropped to her knees. Illúvatar, guide me. Show me the path which I am to take. Give my Glorfindel the strength to tarry through whatever trials Your enemies invoke upon him. Be with Your children in their time of most dire need.

Niphredil looked up sharply as new warmth spread through her, a sense of inner peace. She rose with steady determination, not knowing why, but feeling pulled to the northeast. She began to trot in that direction, then, broke into a full sprint, the energy of her Lord pounding in her veins.

Thank You, Illúvatar.