With a sickening sense of inevitability Erestor watched as Glorfindel was snatched up into the sky. Triwathon had tried to dash after him, Arveldir and Parvon compelled to restrain him so that only the Galadhrim were free to fire at the creature. Fin's words echoed around his mind… 'Tell Mel… thanks for everything… it was sweet…'

It couldn't really be, could it? Glorfindel couldn't die like this, surely? No, of course not, somehow he would survive, he always did… he would ride back to Imladris in triumph and greet Mel for himself and…

He heard shouts, Arveldir giving instructions, heard his own name.

'Erestor, help Amathel with the elflings…'

'Of course.' Erestor turned to the youngling. 'Little one, let me carry you. Amathel, these are your woods, lead on.'

She nodded, tearing her eyes away from the dwindling shapes in the sky, setting off across the glade. Erestor followed, but even as they reached the open space, flame filled it. With a yell of defiance, Amathel leapt through and Erestor held the elfling tight and launched himself over the barricade of flame. He felt searing pain in his legs and retained enough presence of mind to set the elfling down before slapping at the fire that had caught in his garments; it heightened the agony briefly, but he managed to smother the flames.

'Erestor, are you all right? I mean, oh, I am sorry, I never thought, I…'

'I will be fine,' he said firmly, ignoring the pain. 'How far have we to go?'

Amathel sighed.

'Two miles, thereabouts. We can do it, I am sure,' she said. 'But I cannot carry the little one…'

'I will do that,' Erestor said. 'I thought… the others, they are not following?'

'Glorfindel… he was fighting back, they will have followed the dragon to see if they can help, I think. It is what I would have done, if I was able… He is your friend, I am sorry…'

'It takes a lot to stop Glorfindel,' Erestor said, picking up the child again. 'Come, I will tell you some of his stories as we go.'

They set off, Erestor limping and lurching along, Amathel with her good shoulder under his free arm to support him, staggering slowly towards the safety of the New Palace bolstered by tales of Glorfindel's courage.

Glorfindel was not exactly feeling courageous.

The pressure of the talons was almost, but not quite, on the point of being unbearable, and he had enough to do simply to keep breathing, to keep calm as he was dragged through the air. At least flying wasn't like falling, he remembered that terrible, agonising plummet from the end of his last life, not a happy thought to have now while he was so far above the forest…

Would it hurt less to land on trees than on mountain rock? And which was hotter, dragon fire, or Balrog flame? He hoped he would not find out, but just as he began to think he might be able to strike his sword up into the dragon's belly, it called out and opened its claws.

Glorfindel fell, hearing the scream of a dragonet behind him. He took a breath, gripped his sword more tightly, and hoped that he would not be caught before he hit the trees; the idea of being ripped asunder by dragonets made even his last death seem appealing…

Then one set of talons, smaller, reached for him, almost missed, caught him by one leg. The sudden piercing of claws sent shrieks of agony through him as he was pulled upwards. Inverted, he saw one of the two chasing youngsters convulse in the air and drop even as the one that held him tightened its talons to clutch and rip at him further. He used the pain, used his welling dread and despair to bring his sword up in a wobbling, hesitant arc that still managed to connect with the dragonet's throat as it bent its salivating jaws towards him. His yell of triumph was more of a gargle, drowned by the gush of blood from the creature as its maw opened wider in a silent shriek; his sword had severed its vocal chords. The wyrmling struggled to keep in the air, struggled to keep hold of him as it lost attitude and he plummeted with it in a terrifying drop that promised him only pain and death as the trees parted and the ground rushed up to smack into him with devastating force. His last conscious thought was that he would be back with Ecthelion at last.

And that he was going to have rather a lot of explaining to do.

'Hurry! Through here, this way! Does anyone have healer training?' Triwathon's voice was desperate as he ran, tears threatening to blind him. 'They went this way! Make haste…!'

'Erestor! Where is Erestor?' Arveldir called out. 'Amathel? Erestor?'

'They got away, Lord Arveldir, through the other side of the clearing,' Thandir said. 'Your friend was carrying the elfling… Lord – what about Glorfindel? He will be all right, won't he? Is he not the Balrog-Slayer?'

Arveldir forced down his panic. Erestor had got away, his beloved was safe, heading away from the direction of the dragons' path.

'Yes, penneth, he's the Balrog-Slayer. Let us hope…'

He bit down on the hope, for really, Glorfindel was very old, and very tired, and Arveldir found he was unsure what he was hoping; that Glorfindel would survive, or that he would find a quick death and a swift release from the horror and the pain. Either option, given how roughly Fin had been mauled, seemed to have its drawbacks.

The first thing Glorfindel noticed when he came back to himself was that he felt utterly exhausted. Well, no wonder, he reasoned; it had been a hard night, and to have ended it in an unexpected flight that had ended just as abruptly… Everything ached, everything hurt and the deep, harsh throbbing where the dragonet's talons had hooked into his thigh told him of serious damage. At least his hair wasn't singed this time, getting it twisted up out of the way had been a good idea…

He allowed his mind to wander, but not his focus. He knew the big dragon would be somewhere near, would have followed to see what had happened to the youngling; its corpse was within touching distance and he would have loved to move away… except that he'd heard that some dragons might not see still objects well, but they spotted motion far more readily… and when he looked, really looked, softening his eyes, there it was, crouched amongst the trees, black against charcoal black in the night; he could hear it breathing, a harsh, rasping, grating…

Ah. No, that was him. What happened when you ignored the pain, you forgot it still had an effect on your body… the thing must know where he was.

Why was it waiting? Why, if had had come to see what happened to the dragonet, had it not investigated? Why had it not attacked?

A high, shrill shriek and a battery of wings; that would be why, he mused idly, as another dragonet came in. It was injured, struggling to control its landing, and he could see several Galadhrim arrows protruding from its wing, its belly, its tail… The big dragon was definitely the mother, then, teaching the babies to forage, to fight, and probably wouldn't be at all happy if Glorfindel were to kill the last of her brood…

But if he didn't kill it, he was going to become a living feast for the wyrmling, and the thought really didn't appeal.

If he concentrated all his attention on his arm, he could still lift his blade…

'Sorry,' he murmured, timing his strike so that as the dragonet lunged its head towards him, the sword sheared through its neck. Hardly old enough to flame, that one, he found himself thinking as it flopped in its last throes around the glade. Well, dead now, poor thing, only trying to do what it was meant to do, not its fault if that wasn't good for elves. So if there were more little ones around…

A huge hiss and part of the landscape detached itself to turn in his direction; the mother dragon had seen her child die instead of feed, and now she was coming for revenge.

'They're all dead then, your brood? Sorry, I know, mothers love their babies, yes, but if you lot ate grass you wouldn't have this problem,' Fin muttered as the dragon uncoiled towards him, inhaling massively prior to flaming as it reared up its sharp and teeth-filled head. Not sure how nimble he was likely to be – at this point he'd settle for mobile – Glorfindel faced a difficult decision between conserving his energy and dashing in before the dragon was quite ready. Fortunately, instinct took over from thought and he found himself lurching up and diving towards the dragon in a roll that brought him up under its head and able to stab his sword up into the gullet. With a spray of blood, the creature screamed and braced backwards, snaking its neck to bring the maw into position to snort fire.

Glorfindel jabbed again and succeeded in causing the dragon to shake its head and lean back on its haunches, raising itself up to flail with its razored fore claws, catching him an agonizing blow across his already-injured thigh. He stumbled back, trying to disregard the sudden outrage of his body, the leg that would hardly bear him. Gritting his teeth and thinking, if nothing else, that he'd be back with Ecthelion soon, he brandished his sword. The dragon sneered, gathered its breath and just as it began to blast out its fire, a furious whinny split the air; Asfaloth appeared from nowhere, bells shrilling sweet and wild, drawing the dragon's attention and spinning to present his rump towards the beast. The stallion gathered all the power of his quarters and back-kicked fiercely, catching the dragon in its eye and misdirecting its burst of flame. Sudden heat and flame bathed Glorfindel who retained enough presence of mind – even as the 'Oh, not again…!' was rushing through his head – to roll to douse the flames on his garments and convert his momentum into a last, desperate strike with the sword that severed the dragon's head and cut off its flame and, equally abruptly, its life.

The decapitated body flopped and floundered in its death throes, knocking Glorfindel down before it landed with a thud across the lower half of his body, causing him to scream and swear and flail about until the pain settled down to just about bearable and he was able to take stock.

After the brief burst of fire everything now was worryingly dark, even for elf eyes. Glorfindel looked around him as best he could; just trying to raise his head hurt.

Really, though, everything hurt. His face had received a licking of flame and stung and sang out of what a mess he was going to be. His shoulder ached, his leg was numb and agonising at the same time, somehow, as if it was really hurting but he hadn't noticed yet; the weight of the dragon's neck on his legs was crushingly hard… Strange, he'd often wondered which would burn hotter, a Balrog or a dragon, and now he knew; the Balrog, every time.

The knowledge didn't help him now, though.

A snort, and Asfaloth's muzzle came into focus. The horse butted at Fin's chin and unburned cheek gently. Fin laughed, and managed to lift his hand to rub the old stallion, old friend's nose.

'Nice horsey,' he said. 'Yes, I owe you an apology; you're not past it, not over the hill. You're just the best. Thank you, my dear old friend. Going to miss you… I wish we could take horses to Valinor under the same terms that we go… you know… without the dying…'

'Talking about dying…' a voice said, a mocking, laughing, serious voice that Glorfindel knew of old, knew most recently from his prophetic dreams. 'We ought to have a little chat, Glorfindel, you and I.'

'Lord Námo!' Fin tried to sound politely interested. 'This is a surprise… busy day? Done now, off home?'

'Just one or two loose ends… there will be some new faces around the Halls of Mandos soon, sure enough. It could have been worse, though… it could have been much, much worse…'

'How is everyone? My friends?'

'Ah. Now, yes, they seem to have come through almost unscathed. At present, of course… who knows what else could happen…? None are dead yet, certainly. Elrohir, his fëa-mate's sister, she's coming home with me. It's a pity, but her husband is waiting for her and they will be glad to see each other again. Her sons will stay here.' Námo sauntered into Fin's restricted field of view, bright sparkles of light showing like an after trail as he moved, as flickers around his joints where the light of his Vala nature tried to spill out. He patted his pocket. 'You'd be surprised how little room a fëa takes up in a coat like this. I've got room for one more easily…'

'How's Ecthelion?' Glorfindel asked. 'No message?'

'Well, I didn't like to say, "I shall be talking to your Glorfindel, later," it might have worried him. He's… as well as can be expected, for one in my Halls. He's been very kind, keeping one of my other guests company, chap called Oropher… you may know him? Very sad fellow, rather guilt-ridden, but quite a warrior in his day…'

'I saw him die, yes, I know Oropher. But Thel? Still with you?'

'Well, he's got this idea that you and he can build your villa together. Personally, I think it's sweet he wanted to wait for you.'

'I do miss him. Will you tell him for me? Tell him I love him, I miss him and… I've been a bit silly but I…'

'You could always tell him yourself, of course. If you want.'

Silence as Fin took this in. Then he found himself laughing, a deep, giddy laugh that hurt and cleansed, somehow.

'Is that why you're here? Not just to say, "thank you for listening to my interruptions to your beauty sleep," but a call home?'

Námo hunkered down at Fin's side. He swept his hand across the Balrog-Slayer's face and rested his hand for a moment in the junction between Glorfindel's neck and shoulder. Miraculously, the pain melted away like snow in sunshine. Fin sighed, relaxed.

'There, now we can talk properly. Your friends will be here in a few moments, so you do not have long to decide… It's quite simple, I'm offering you the choice to stay, and recover from your injuries, be the hero again… there would be quite a bit of pain, yes, and you would scar a little… but I see you already are… then you can say your goodbyes and sail to Valinor where you can have all this healed and meet your Ecthelion at the gates when he leaves… say about three months to get well enough to travel, to make the journey to the Havens, to get on a boat… another two or three weeks at sea, then time with Lady Estë's wonderful people… or you can come with me now. A short sleep, and you'll wake up to find your Ecthelion at your side.' Námo patted the pocket of his tunic and smiled brightly. With his darker-than dark eyes, it was disconcerting to say the least. 'I've always got room for a little one…'

'I bet you have!' Glorfindel found himself smiling, but then his mood changed. 'I'd love to, really, but… I've behaved badly, I… there's this Silvan… and I have to explain…'

'Your friend Triwathon?' Námo nodded. 'You do realise you're in the clear? I happen to know that your betrothal to Ecthelion, under the rules and laws of Gondolin, ended with your death. Well, technically his betrothal to you, since he died first. And that he released you from your promises anyway once he knew you were to be re-embodied. But look at it this way; if you come with me, you will have died all over again, thus wiping out any physical connection to your body. And if you have to explain anyway, isn't it better to do it in my Halls where he can't really thump you? Or get away from you, for that matter?'

Fin managed a ghost of a smile.

'I do love my Thel,' he said. 'I have so missed him. But…'

'And he loves you; it's obvious. Oh, and it will all be very painless – well, I've blocked the pain for you. You see, you were bleeding quite badly from your leg, but when the dragon died on you, its neck put pressure on the vein… so instead of gushing out, your blood is just trickling. When your friends come, they will, of course, want to lift the dead thing out of the way… and you will just spurt your life blood all over them, my friend… half a minute, you'll be gone. Easy. Or if you want to stay, then I get in front of Arveldir or Triwathon and say, now, before you do that you might want to put a tourniquet in place…'

'It sounds very tempting… I really don't like long sea voyages… and to be back with Thel…'

'I have to take another fëa back with me anyway – checks and balances and all that – if it isn't you it will be some poor Silvan in the Healers Hall… probably an ellith with an elfling and a husband she loves… Or maybe that Parvon fellow, he'd be missed, of course, but he doesn't have any family to speak of. And nobody really loves him, poor chap…'

'When you put it like that… oh, no, you can't take Parvon, he loves Triwathon, they really should be together, if you take him…'

Lord Námo gave a minimal, elegant shrug.

'I think there's a messenger nobody would miss, but I'd rather not have him in my halls at present. Well? Not Parvon then, but what's troubling you now? It isn't really difficult, just a yes or a no… How hard can it be, Glorfindel?'

'It's just… there's one or two loose ends… I'd really like to say goodbye to some people…'

'You don't think I'd let you die a hero's death without witnesses, do you? Your friends, as I think I mentioned, are on their way.'

'And could… could we make a little stop off along the way…?'

'I'll think about it.' Námo appeared to smile. 'Oh. Company; you see, I said your friends would find you. I'll just be over there waiting. Time to be the hero again, Glorfindel! You do deserve it, you know…'