This chapter caused me difficulty. The next one should be better (and longer!). I'm going with one Glorfindel, since that's what Tolkien implied, though it was never outright stated that the Glorfindel who killed the balrog was the same Glorfindel who lived in Rivendell during the latter Third Age.
After the fall of Ost-in-Edhil in SA 1697, Elrond led the Elves of Eregion north and founded the refuge of Imladris—Rivendell. The settlement subsequently headquartered many of those in the Last Alliance, assisted in the battles against Angmar, and housed Isildur's heirs through many generations.
-"Rivendell," The Atlas of Middle-Earth (Revised Edition), by Karen Wynn Fonstad
Late spring, TA 2850, the Misty Mountains:
"Are you sure there's no other way across?" Brosca surveyed the rock-strewn path ahead of them with unease. Wind howled through the High Pass, clearly strong enough to knock her over if she hadn't been secured to Nórima's saddle. As it was the middle of spring, snow still coated the surrounding peaks, and the air felt like ice in her lungs. After a lifetime spent in the magma-heated chambers of Orzammar, she did not like being cold; she had been too worried about darkspawn to complain about the cold in the Korcari Wilds, but she'd hated crossing the Frostbacks, and now she didn't even have any fat to protect her bones from the chill.
"Quite sure," said Gandalf, who had decided to walk behind Nórima instead of riding up the steep path to the Pass. They had ridden hard to get there, and he felt that his loyal mount was due a rest from bearing the both of them. "There are four ways to cross the Misty Mountains, and the other three are not any better: one is the Redhorn Pass, which is very similar to this one, only less well-traveled; then there is the Gap of Rohan, which would take us far out of our way to the south; and there is Moria, once a kingdom of the dwarves, now home to orcs and worse things that live in dark places."
"Moria...That's where that war you were talking about was fought, wasn't it?" Brosca grimaced at the barren grey rock of the High Pass and with slight pressure from her knees urged Nórima forth. His hooves clattered on the stone loudly, though he wore no iron shoes as most Ferelden horses did. "The War of Dwarves and Orcs. Didn't the dwarves win that? Why do orcs still remain?"
"In the dwarvish tongue, it is called Khazad-dûm. The Battle of Azanulbizar was a victory won by terrible losses: the dwarves lost so many that they had to be burned where they lay on the field. After the battle, Thráin wished to enter Moria and reclaim it, but the dwarves of Durin's folk refused, saying that they had honored Durin's memory by fighting, and that this was enough. They feared Durin's Bane remained still in the depths of Moria, and they feared entering while it still dwelt there—as far as I know, it does to this day."
Gandalf planted his staff when they reached a bend in the path and surveyed the land behind them, stretched out like a great map: they stood high enough up that the peak of the Lonely Mountain, wreathed in clouds, could barely be seen at all beyond the dark expanse of Mirkwood. A band of orcs ranged across the northern end of the Anduin Valley, raising plumes of dust behind them that streamed away southeast in the strong wind. No other sign of life could be seen in the Valley, though to the south they could see a gleam that could be a city in the far, far distance. "Now: repeat that last phrase to me?"
"I'd like to get going sometime today," she said, but realizing he wasn't going anywhere until she answered, let his horse halt and drop his head to snatch at bright green nubs of new grass poking from a layer of snow. "All right, all right, fine. 'Isul kuthgu thaigu tasgiriki uthak...uhh...kataba bahaha kasut.' What's Durin's Bane?"
"Durin's Bane is a terrible evil, a servant of the first Dark Lord. You're not quite right; it's 'Izul kuthu thaiku tasgiriki uthak kataba buhâhu kusut.' And what is the translation?" He started walking again, this time taking the lead. His words became harder to make out over the wind, and she had to lean forward in the saddle to hear. Her still-weak muscles gave out, and she leaned on Nórima's neck, trusting him to follow his master on sure feet. The stallion did not nearly have the smooth gait of the previous days, but he picked his way carefully and did not stumble; her legs had been strapped securely enough to the saddle that the occasional lurch did not unbalance her.
"Only when the mine collapses does the miner know his true friends," she said, then repeated herself more loudly when he turned to indicate that he hadn't quite heard.
"Good! And what does it mean?" he called over his shoulder, his staff raising small clouds of stone-dust whenever he planted it.
"This language is really formal," Brosca stalled, trying to remember what he had told her not that long before. She'd never been formally educated in anything other than weaponry, except perhaps trap-making, but that didn't really count as she'd figured those out on her own. She ventured a guess: "I'm only a brand, when would I ever need to know how to approach a master miner? They'd know I'm not mining caste."
"Well, you wouldn't use that particular phrase to approach a master miner," said Gandalf. "It is a common phrase: it means that in times of trouble one learns the true nature of one's friends."
"Oh, yeah," she nodded, remembering. "That does make more sense."
"You haven't used that term before," he said, catching himself with his staff when his foot slipped on a patch of loose gravel. "'Brand.' What does that mean?"
She lifted a hand to her cheek, touching the brand that had labelled her a criminal since birth. Sometime during her incarceration, a whip had caught her face; she now had a scar running from one eyebrow to curl around her jaw, cutting right through the brand. Luckily, the lash hadn't hit her eye. Before Dol Goldur, she hadn't really minded her brand that much; she was a Warden, with all the respect that afforded in a post-Blight world. But here, there didn't seem to be any Wardens. Any dwarva she met would know her as a base-born criminal only good for sweeping streets or spreading her legs.
It had been her identity her entire life, until she took the Grey, and being a Warden meant nothing if she had no darkspawn to fight. If they didn't know what the tattooed brand on her cheek meant—no. No, all dwarva knew what the casteless were, they had to know. She didn't know what she would do if no one knew what her brand meant.
"You're not a dwarf," she said at last, lowering her hand and pressing it into her leg as a white-knuckled fist. "You would not understand."
Perhaps sensing that she was not willing to be pressed on this matter, Gandalf did not say any more. They kept to a walk, and Brosca guessed that with the rate they were going, they would have to spend at least one night in the Pass. Perhaps once they had stopped climbing, they would move faster, though she did not think so; it would be very easy to make a wrong move and slip off the path if they did not walk cautiously enough. If she was on her feet she would never fall—that is, if she was at her full strength, she would never fall. But she was not at full strength, nor even half strength, and so had to rely on a horse. She couldn't feel the Stone through a horse as she could through her boots.
If only Oghren could see me now. He'd laugh his sodding arse off. Then he'd offer me a drink. Ancestors, I would even take a dram of lichen ale. I hope these elves have something decent to drink—a dwarf gets tired of drinking water all the time!
The sun rose high behind them as Gandalf continued coaching her in Khuzdul, and slowly the path levelled out. By the time midday arrived, Brosca was sweaty from exertion and shivering from the cold, and when they had finished lunch the wizard wrapped an extra cloak around her before they started onwards.
In the late afternoon, clouds swept in from the north, bringing with them a chill wind, and as darkness fell a freezing rain fell with it. The crack in the mountain that they had found to camp in for the night wasn't much shelter; rain blew in on gusts of wind and there was no fuel for a fire. Nórima didn't fit, so Gandalf took off his tack and talked to him softly in a strange tongue, after which the horse meandered off and Gandalf brought his tack inside the little cave with them.
"What w-was that you were sp-speaking?" asked Brosca, her body wracked with great shudders. She had curled up on herself, wrapped completely in Gandalf's now-soaked cloak, but she couldn't seem to get warm. The lack of a fire didn't help.
"In the tongue of Men, it is called Grey-elven, but the rightful name is Sindarin," said Gandalf, putting Nórima's tack down against one wall, and examined her closely. "I am no healer, Miss Brosca, but thankfully we are not far from Rivendell. There resides Lord Elrond, one of the most skilled healers I have ever known, and Sindarin is the language of his people."
"W-wonderful," said Brosca, teeth chattering. "An-another language t-to learn."
"You wish to learn Sindarin?"
"I'm n-no great scholar, Gandalf, but if I want to f-f-find anything in th-that library you mentioned, I have to be able to read what it's written in," she pointed out, rubbing her arms and chest to try and warm herself. The wet of her clothes and cloak sapped all her body heat. "Stone, it's c-cold. You're a wizard, can't you warm us up?"
"I can, but I would need something to burn," he said in reply. "Fire cannot live on air alone."
"Oh! I've g-got an idea." Brosca sat up and took off her pack, which she had been keeping on her back since she'd woken up in Mirkwood. Her war-axes she set aside with care, especially Aodh, which though hot to the touch always made the air feel colder around her when she held it. Sandal, for all his skill in enchantments, had not been able to get rid of that strange effect. Still in her pack was the folded Warden leathers which she hadn't worn for what seemed an age. She loosened them up by shaking them out.
"I'd appreciate if you c-could turn your back a m-minute while I change clothes," she said to Gandalf, who immediately turned to the tack and busied himself by rubbing down Nórima's well-made saddle and headstall.
Somehow, her Warden armour had not gotten wet in the deluge. She stripped off her old, wet clothes, which had once been soft and fine but had now become tattered and worn, and tossed them aside. It was too easy to put on her leathers, even though they had been unworn for so long; she had gotten much skinnier, and now they were too loose and gathered uncomfortably in several places.
"I'm done now." With the removal of her wet clothes, she had become slightly warmer, enough that she was merely shivering rather than shuddering uncontrollably. The dry leather armour helped immensely. She spread the cloak out on the stone to dry as well as it could and set about tearing her old things into strips.
"Those won't burn well," Gandalf warned, but flicked his hand and said a word that slipped over her ears and the pile of sodden cloth slowly turned black around the edges, filling the crack with smoke before finally catching properly alight.
They spent a miserable night in that crack in the mountain, taking turns on watch, huddled close to the pitiful fire for its meagre warmth while it lasted and then close to each other to share body heat. Gandalf took the first watch, but was unable to wake Brosca for her turn: a fever made her twist and toss in terrible dreams, which she did not remember upon waking. He used what healing-craft he knew to soothe her, and eventually she fell into a deeper, untroubled sleep.
By morning the downpour had given way to a mist, which the sun would burn off fairly quickly. Gandalf roused his dwarven companion with the break of dawn, and bade her to break her fast while he called for his horse. Nórima came quickly, looking decidedly dirtier, and the wizard sternly reprimanded him for rolling in mud at a time like this.
Brosca would have made a smart remark about horses, but she felt too miserable, huddled under the wizard's cloak and eating soggy rations. Her nose was stuffed up, besides, and she hated speaking through it.
"Are you ready to leave?" asked Gandalf, giving the unrepentant stallion one last look of reprisal. Nórima nickered and snuffled Gandalf's sleeves until the wizard gave in and patted his nose with exasperated fondness. "You are a beast, my friend. Stand still, would you? That mud will only chafe unless you let me rub you down."
Presently they finished breaking their fast, and Brosca packed away their things while Gandalf saddled his horse. She felt weaker from the chill of the night, and it took longer for her to get up in the saddle and secured. Nórima, as strong and proud as ever, started at a brisk trot, jouncing Brosca horribly; Gandalf followed behind them, trusting that his horse knew the way as well as he. He muttered arcane words and snow slid off the mountainside to hide their tracks behind them.
"Do you still suspect the Necromancer has his followers after us?" asked Brosca, once he had caught up to her.
"I do," he said grimly. "He will likely hunt you the rest of your days, since I took you away from his grasp. If you had managed to escape on your own, he would have lost interest in you after a cursory chase."
"Who is he? Why is he so set against you?"
"I am a Wizard, and an Elf-friend. I have always been set against the Darkness, and he is entirely of the Dark." Gandalf gestured with his staff. "Idrinat!"
That wasn't one of the words he had taught her previously. Focusing on the language and trying to forget the feeling that her mind swam beneath a great roiling lake, she made a guess because of the context and urged Nórima onwards. "I hope that means 'go ahead' because that's what I'm doing!"
They went on through the Pass, and in late afternoon came out onto a high moor. Nórima grew more eager, and quickened his pace; Gandalf called out to him in the Grey-elvish language, Sindarin, and he slowed again to let him on. Brosca's nose started running, and it became red and chapped when she wiped it on the still-damp cloak.
"We are nearing Imladris!" the wizard said with enthusiasm as he mounted behind Brosca. "Ah, Rivendell—it has been quite some time since last I set foot in Lord Elrond's halls. They are not expecting us, for I have sent no message ahead, but we shall be welcomed, nevertheless."
"I dearly hope so!" said Brosca. "I could use a long soak in a hot bath, and a large dinner, and a grindstone to keep the edge on my war-axes."
"You shall have that and more," Gandalf promised. "Lord Elrond opens his house to any who wish a bit of peace and quiet, and the elves of Eregion have always loved any occasion to throw a feast."
The great moors they now walked on sloped shallowly up to the Misty Mountains; many deep valleys cut through them, their sides so steep that even a horse as sure-footed as Nórima would have trouble keeping his balance. But they were atop the moors, and the great-hearted stallion took to a lope at a long, ground-eating stride that he could manage for hours. They were no longer headed directly towards the sun, as they had been before they started upon the High Pass; now they headed slightly north.
They came abruptly to a deep-clefting valley through which they could hear water; Brosca looked down over the edge to see trees and mist, and a light on the far side, near the end of the valley. Gandalf turned Nórima onto a well-hidden trail that led down into the valley, marked with white stones, some of which were small, and others were half covered with moss or heather.
"Hold on, Miss Brosca," he said, and down they plunged.
Brosca never quite remembered afterward how they got down into the secret valley of Rivendell. Gandalf strode confidently ahead of them down the steep zig-zag path, and Nórima half-slid down behind him, hooves scrabbling for purchase on the loose ground. The air grew warmer as they went lower, and the smell of pine trees filled the air, a welcome change from the icy wind of the moors. The trees changed to beech and oak, and as twilight fell they came to an open glade not far from the banks of the stream.
"Ai! Mithrandir!" came a voice like molten silver, and Brosca jerked awake, looking around with bleary eyes. Her nose ran again, and she scrubbed the edge of the cloak across it, wincing at the chafe. A tall young fellow with hair like spun gold appeared from the trees, clad in white and silver, with a bow and a quiver of arrows upon his back and a gleaming sword at his hip; immediately she knew that he was not an elf as she knew them, but surely one of the ancient elves of Arlathan, with a face ever-young and beautiful. He spread his hands wide in greeting. "Mae g'ovannen, mellon. You have a dwarf with you!"
"Glorfindel!" said Gandalf. "Êl síla erin lû e-govaned vîn. Boe de nestad—she has been a prisoner in Taur e-Ndaedelos, in Dol Goldur, for too long."
"Amarth faeg!" Glorfindel cried, and came nearer at once. Brosca stared at him with wide eyes: it seemed to her that he shone with an inner light, that nobody could ever be as good or as fair as he. His golden hair hung long and loose down his back, and his eyes were gentle. "A prisoner of whom? Is it as you feared?"
Gandalf shook his head. "I must seek council with Lord Elrond as soon as I can. You are, of course, welcome to join us in that meeting."
"Le channon, but I have my duty tonight." Glorfindel bowed. "There has been no rooms prepared for you, I am sorry to say, for we did not expect you back—assuredly not with a dwarf in tow! Come, this way, you are not far from the path across the river."
They started walking, and came at length to the brink of the stream. It flowed fast and noisily, as mountain-streams did when fed with the melting snows of winter; only a single bridge crossed it, a narrow stone path barely wide enough for Nórima to pass comfortably. If he had been less sure-footed, or less intelligent and trusting of Gandalf, then he surely would have had to be led. As it was, he walked quite naturally over the arching stone, though there was no rail to keep them from falling off if they slipped. Glorfindel lit a bright lamp that had been sitting on the shore and led the way, light of foot, with Nórima and Brosca behind him and Gandalf walking slowly and carefully in the rear.
When they had safely crossed the stream, Glorfindel bowed to Gandalf and handed him the lantern. "Na lû e-govaned vîn. I must return to my duty, Mithrandir. Mistress Dwarf, I hope that I shall make your acquaintance properly when you have been healed." With that he bounded back across the bridge in three quick leaps and soon had vanished once more into the forest. Other elves that had not revealed themselves called to him as he went, with laughter and short little ditties in that bright, fair Elven tongue, and he answered with fluting laughter and rejoinders of his own, as merry as if summer would go on forever.
"It is not far," said Gandalf, and they went off again. "Some elves have over-merry tongues. But Glorfindel is a worthy fellow, great of heart and kind in spirit, and I think he shall make good on his word to see you again."
"I have never seen an elf like that before," said Brosca as they went up the path, Nórima mounting the steps to a small plateau with some difficulty. "All the elves I have known are shorter than men, and not nearly as beautiful as Glorfindel."
"I will have to tell him that you think him beautiful," said Gandalf, chuckling. "Glorfindel is lord of the House of the Golden Flower: he always loves it when someone compliments him."
Brosca drew in a breath to reply, but gasped softly instead at the sight before them. At last Elrond's house could be seen ahead of them: a beautiful place, with a stables and a forge across an open clearing, and a grand building with a wide porch. It could not be properly called a house: it was too large for that, with several floors and many rooms, with high arches and graceful architecture that would not be out of place in a palace. Beside the house they could see the beginnings of a well-kept garden, and beyond that a small wood. A terrace path led off the porch around to the garden.
"This must be Arlathan!" she said in amazement, forgetting her illness. "Such a place as this—surely this is part of Arlathan!"
Gandalf led her over to the wide front porch and helped her dismount. He said something to his horse in the singsong Elvish tongue and patted his nose with affection; the horse trotted over to the stables, where a dark-haired fellow took him within. "Welcome to Imladris, Miss Brosca."
Upon dismounting, she found that she was suddenly very dizzy and tired, and had to sit down quite abruptly on the smooth wood of the porch. "It's gotten very warm," she said to no one in particular. Grey began encroaching on the edges of her vision, and she suddenly couldn't focus on anything farther away than her hands, which lay useless on her knees. Absurdly, her thoughts focused on the new scars across the back of her hands, instead of their skeletal thinness. That one was when the Necromancer himself touched me—his fingers, such as they were, burned my hand.
"Come, Brosca!" said Gandalf, stooping to offer her a hand. She took it and let herself be pulled up, neither resisting nor helping. "The doors are not far away, and beyond that, we are sure to find a grand welcome."
"As you wish," she mumbled, and did not resist as he pulled her towards the wide doors of Elrond's house.
Neo-Khuzdul taken from The Dwarrow Scholar's supporting documents and dictionary.
Izul kuthu thaiku tasgiriki uthak kataba buhâhu kusut: Only when the mine collapses does the miner know his true friends
Idrinat: go ahead/please proceed
Sindarin taken from Sindarin 101, on realelvish dot net.
Ai: Hail
Mae g'ovannen, mellon: well met, my friend
Êl síla erin lû e-govaned vîn: A star shines upon the hour of our meeting
Boe de nestad: him/her needs healing
Taur e-Ndaedelos: Mirkwood
Amarth faeg: evil fate
Le channon: I thank you [reverential]
Na lû e-govaned vîn: until next we meet