Everything is burning, smoke coats the air making each breath burn as he rushes towards the middle of the city. Bodies of enemy and friend alike fill the streets and those still standing remain locked in fierce battles. A few orcs attempt getting in his way that he slices down with ease, his mind set on reaching the fountain before it is to late. The majority of his guard has already withdrawn into the further recesses of the city, yet he had stayed to hold the foul army off for as long as possible. It was not until he had heard the roar of a mighty beast that he had turned in horror to see Balrogs burning and destroying everything in sight on their way towards the palace. He had instantly took off in that direction, alarms screaming in his head as he knew that is the place that his King and dearest friend were holding off the foul things.
Though as he finally reaches the city center, Ecthelion's once pristine fountain laid before him he realizes he was much to late. Many of the fountain guard lay dead upon the street and in a panic he sweeps his gaze over them in fear of what he may find. Relief flashes through him only briefly when he spots dark hair cascading over silver armor leaned against one of the buildings. Though when it collapses he feels panic surging through him once more as he fights his way towards his best friend. Dropping beside the elf, he can now see the stains of blood that coat the armor and the unnatural angle of his arms.
"Ecthelion," Glorfindel whispers in horror as he takes in the pale visage that struggles to look up at him.
"G-Glorfindel, my dear friend. I fear my fight is coming to an end, Gondolin has fallen and so has it's King," the dark haired elf mummers bringing tears to the golden elf's face that he harshly wipes away before shaking his head.
"No, it is not true. We can still fight, we can get out of this."
With a sad smile Ecthelion rests his head against his friends shoulder, ragged breaths resonating into Glorfindel's very soul. "I have accepted my path Glorfindel, and this is where it ends," he whispers causing a sob to break through the warrior as he all but cradles his dying friend, "It does not have to be for you though."
With what little strength he still harbors Ecthelion looks sternly into the broken blue eyes staring down at him, "Idril and a few other elves have fled towards the hidden pass, I do not think they have enough warriors amongst them to escape. You must find them and get out of here."
"No, I won't leave you. I will fight until I die by your side," Glorfindel growls, the very thought of leaving his closest friend behind churning his stomach in a sickening manner.
"Please, Glorfindel. If we can not save the city, Idril and the others must be saved. You are the only one who fairs well enough to do so. You must do this for me. Promise me you will escape and live on for the both of us," Ecthelion pushes, the sad smile never leaving his face despite the sobs overtaking his friend.
Closing his eyes Glorfindel forces himself to breath past the grief taking it's hold, grief for a city and friends lost. Finally opening them he gives his friend a curt nod when a deafening roar echoes through the city center snapping both their heads towards a towering Balrog, it's size and flame mightier than any they had seen. Unsheathing his sword, Glorfindel stands with determination and he stares down the beast moving towards them.
His eyes widen in surprise when Ecthelion moves to stand beside him, nudging his shoulder slightly as he is unable to use his arms. "Go Glorfindel, now," he orders in a tone that the golden elf has never heard before.
"But-"
"Go!" Ecthelion shouts, than before he can stop him, the dark haired elf is rushing towards the flaming creature leaving Glorfindel frozen in shock as he watches his dear friend use the last of his strength to ram the pointed edge of his helmet into the Balrogs breast. With a pained growl the mighty being stumbles back and trips over the edge of the fountain, unable to stop it's descent as it falls into the cool waters.
"Ecthelion!" Glorfindel shouts as he watches his friend disappear as well, moving quickly with every intention to aid him; though in his heart he already knows it is to late. Before he can get much closer a hand closes around his bicep causing him to turn with wide eyes as he takes in the face of one of his frightened warriors.
"My Lord, the city is overrun we must retreat! Those who still draw breath have converged below the steps to the high pass we must hurry," the warrior shouts shaking Glorfindel from his stupor as he forces his mind to think only of Idril and her young son. Though as he quickly heads towards the edge of the city with the few warriors who still are capable of escape, he finds his eyes casting towards the glorious fountain one more time now brought low by destruction and death. He vows to keep his promise to his friend and without another thought turns away from his burning home.
Glorfindel awakens with a gasp, tears building behind the blindfold and his body aching fiercely. Sobs threaten to rack his body as his mind replays the moment he lost not just his city, but his closest comrade as well. The only thing keeping him from completely breaking down is his resolve to not allow the orcs to see him so weak. He garners strength were he can find it, forcing happy memories to the forefront of his mind; recalling all the new friends he has made since his re-embodiment. Though this thought sends another sharp jab to his heart as he realizes he may likely never see them again. Lord Elrond will be left without a trusted seneschal, the twins will no longer have a warrior to learn the art of swordsmanship from, and Erestor will no longer have a friend to confide in.
Hating his weakness, Glorfindel gets the sudden urge to curse the Valar for allowing such things as this to happen in a world they created. Has he not done his part? Been a faithful soldier and friend in both lives? It is not that he is upset with his current fate but more the impact it will have on those who have grown close to him. Only three days stand between him and a horrid death that he would rather not think about, but in that time will anyone be able to save him? And will he even be worth saving?
His wounds burn fiercely while the poison still swirling in his system causing his bones to fill as they are filled with ice. Each grating breath is agony upon his lungs as harsh coughs threaten to engulf him, it certainly does not help that his ribs are battered from the orcs that decided to visit him in the night. Above all else he is tired. An exhaustion he has never felt before fills his entire being, begging him to rest though the feat seems nearly impossible with nightmares plaguing him near constant. Even in the waking world he can still see images of the past in the inky black that consumes him and suddenly the prospect of having to see the vile faces of the orcs that captured him seems almost a welcome thought.
He can hear as they scuffle about the camp as the sun begins it's rise into the sky, but even it's warm rays do little to ease the chill consuming him. A dark part of him almost hopes the poison will run it's course and kill him before to much damage can be done, but the thought seems unlikely. The poison does not seem the kind with the intention to kill but rather weaken and bring discomfort besides, they would not be so careless as to let him die a much more peaceful death than they have planned. The thought brings him little comfort aside from the small amount of hope he clings to that he will be saved before that time arrives. The only other chance he has of avoiding such a fate would entail revealing the location of Imladris, something he is determined to take to his grave.
He's pulled from his thoughts by a coughing fit that leaves his lungs rattling and short gasps of breath to slither down his aching throat. By the time it subsides his entire body shakes from exertion, energy he does not have quickly being sapped away. For a split second he believes unconsciousness may consume him as his senses begin to waver, though a sharp pain to his torso quickly pulls him back to awareness with a small shout.
"Are you ready to tell me the location of Imladris, filth," the orc captain snarls above him, and Glorfindel has the sudden urge to scream in both anger and despair. Can he not be spared just a few hours of peace so that his body will not shut down by this endless torment? Though he does not let his thoughts show as he clenches his teeth angrily, spitting growling words towards the foul creature.
"The only way you will ever see Imladris, is if your head is severed from your body by my kin and returned as a trophy."
The captain merely laughs and footsteps signal the approaching of more orcs as he is forced from the ground and onto his still bound feet. Unable to support himself, much to his own disgust, he is left all but dangling in their clawed grips as they hold him upright. Though he still has enough energy to tilt his chin high in defiance, determined to show these orcs no sign of weakness least they take more pleasure from his torture.
"It seems we get to have some more fun then. I will admit you are must stronger than I anticipated but you will break," the orc sneers a hand suddenly reaching up to wrap his hair and tugging harshly. The orcs holding him release their grab causing him to all but fall to the harsh ground, were it not for the clawed fist holding tightly to his golden waves. His eyes clench shut behind the blindfold as the sharp pain his skull echoes with that of the past. Humiliation also wars within him as he is then dragged quite easily through the dirt, his thrashing and shouts of anger doing little to help. Before long he can hear the bubbling sounds of the stream and is left with little warning as he is thrown into the cool waters by his hair. He splutters while attempting to shake the droplets from his face, shivers filling his body. Even when he crossed the Helecaraxe, the cold did not plague him as it does now. The ice in his bones seems to consume him as the chilled water bites into his skin and stings his wounds.
Before he has anytime to adjust to the harsh temperature hands wrap around his throat and his head is forced beneath the gentle current. They hold him firmly in place as he fights and thrashes his already aching lungs burning something fearsome as they beg for air. He is not sure how long it is until he is pulled back up to the surface, gasping in breath past all consuming coughs that do little in the attempt to provide oxygen to his lungs. Than he is shoved down once more, and again, and again; until the world seems to fade away into nothing more than a desperate attempt to draw in breath. In a striking thought, he is drawn back to his nightmare and can't help but question if this is how Ecthelion felt in his final moments. Lungs tight and nose burning as water consumed him until nothing was left but pain. Did he struggle to reach the surface or accept his fate in a fair more noble manner than Glorfindel is now? For he can stop his bodies desperate fight to escape the clawed grip on his throat every time he is submerged. After an unknowable amount of time his mind grows dizzy and the discomfort begins to fade as the lack of oxygen begins shutting down his muscles. Even the sounds of orcs laughing above him grows distant and far away; and if it were not for the blindfold he's sure his vision would be just as fuzzy as the world around him.
Then, he is hauled from the waters and dumped rather harshly upon the shore. Coughs leave him breathless and do little to help his ailing lungs as he desperately attempts to draw in breath. Though they must receive some as his senses begin to sharpen once more and he can hear the annoyed sigh of the orc captain above him.
"Someone get the antidote before the poison kills him, seems his body is to weak to handle it," it growls mockingly, making Glorfindel wish he had the energy to insult the creature back. As it is he has barely the strength to draw breath and can not stop the hands that grip him and force liquid down his throat. It burns like fire down his abused throat and when the hands retreat he can do nothing but lay on the ground as he continues to gasp for air.
"I guess I went a little to rough on you, I'll just have to resort to other matters," the captain chuckles as he grabs the warrior once more by the hair and begins dragging him back towards the camp. Glorfindel has no strength to struggle, even as he is once more strung from the tree and left handing limply from his bound hands. His head hangs low against his chest as the orcs disappear, for how long he does not know but prays it will be enough of a reprieve to allow his weakness to fade and even a small amount of his strength to return. In a silent plea, he prays if it is to be that Elrond finds him it will be soon. For he is not sure how much longer he can hold on, at this pace he will surely be dead before his three days is up.