Glorfindel in Imladris
Chapter 7
Dagorlad
... a cool breath, a musty smell of old books...
Ashes on the wind, and fires burn below the surface, parching the air and the throats of the soldiers who followed Gil-galad's banner to Dagorlad. Glorfindel remembered the sight of the colourful pendants, blackened by the foul airs belching forth from Orodruin. He recalled also the smell of blood scorched on burning rock and the scent of fear and hatred. His armour fit like a second skin, and his sword was stuck in his hand, caked with black blood drying. He was soaked with it, and the stench of it was great, but not so great as the battle-lust that fueled his body to leap and swing, and raised his voice to call orders to his battalion. They scythed through the ranks of Sauron as farmers would turn down an over-planted field.
The battle before the Black gates had spread, and the fighting had come even to the very foot of the Mountain of Fire. Lava and smoke leapt into the sky, and tonnes of ash poured down on the combatants, overcoming not a few with heat and deadly debris. The choking rain cut down Orc and Elf and Man regardless of the banner behind which he fought. The ground was slimy and they crawled over the dead to reach the their enemies.
... voices of passers-by, chattering gaily and music echoes in their minds...
Glorfindel had been given command of the smallest of the battalions of Elf soldiers, for he was a valued leader and Gil-galad had trusted him hold his flank. Such a commander as he could do much with this body of fighters, and Glorfindel lead well, cutting through the vans of the enemy and making clear the way for Elendil and Gil-galad's main forces to reach Orodruin and threaten the body of Sauron himself.
Great losses were suffered, and at a time of pivotal climax, Glorfindel found his battalion decimated, but fighting still, and the captain of the archers of Mirkwood stood by his side. That was Thranduil, king of the Green Elves of Mirkwood, and his archers had not obeyed his commands to stand and fire, but had charged into the fray and been destroyed. The elf was bitter with grief and fought like a possessed thing, avenging his folk upon every orc or black-clad man that crossed his path. He stood close to Glorfindel, and the Elf-lord could see the frustration and loss in the fair features of the Green Elf.
The fighting was at a lull, and enemies were drawing back to regroup. Glorfindel signaled for his men to rally behind him, and he spoke to Thranduil: "No blame have you, Thranduil! Your archers were trained well, and fought valiantly! The tactics of the forest and those of the plain are different. Your men bought us the passage of Udûn."
"Aye, with their lives," responded Thranduil grimly, but Glorfindel could see in him gratitude for his words, and the elf's confidence returned; he lifted his head and tightly gripped the knives with which he fought, forsaking the long-handled swords of the Eldalië. He was a sight to behold! leaping into battle with a cry and coming forth unscathed, so lithe and quick was he; his knives seeming with deadly intellect to seek the chink in armour and the bare throat. He wore only leather and linen, and all the blood that stained his garments belonged to his enemies. Glorfindel was glad he was in his company.
Together they fought to the point of the army, converging on that one place where the Kings fought side by side, surrounded by their sons and honoured guard. Gil-galad hailed Glorfindel and saluted him with his spear. Aeglos shone in the dim light like a torch, and the stains of many opponents did not tarnish or mute that fire. A gulf of some distance still separated them and as Glorfindel gave orders to form and join the vanguard, a black hour arrived.
... acrid odor of burning leaf, sweet and musky...
For seven years had this war been fought, and many fair elves had lost life, and many good Men had ended. He has seen the party of the kings wither, and had witnessed the death of Anárion and the mourning of a brother who bore his body to their grieving father. Now that brother, who was Isuldur, fought by his father Elendil's side as Sauron finally came forth, breaking the siege.
... impatient moonlight glistens on dusty armour, and the spear that leans idle in the corner gleams with life though no living hand wields it...
There in that dark time did Glorfindel see the end of Gil-galad. Going forward to grapple with his foe, Gil-galad had been taken in the black hands of Sauron and he burned in that heated grip. All the elves wailed as his spirit fled, brushing past their minds like a breath of wind from the sea. Glorfindel's heart was enflamed, and he left his command in the hands of Thranduil and carved his way to the fore, only to find Círdan standing and Elrond kneeling, holding the remains of the Last High King of the Elves, heedless of hurt to his own flesh from the burning. Glorfindel dosed the fires with his cloak, and reverently did he lay down the body of Gil-galad. The battle was not over, and Sauron was ravening still.
Cries of despair sounded anew from the throats of Men as their own king was crushed beneath Sauron's mighty mace, and the breaking of Narsil was a shriek that filled the ears of all present on the field of battle, rising ever higher and shrill...
……
Horns of the morning were sounding in Imladris, wrestling Glorfindel back from the recollection that held him, that had taken him out of the reckoning of Time. He was still in the dark corridors of Memory, and he shook himself and hastened to prepare for the council.
He wondered what other memories the day's discourse would bestir, and also what other prophesies would be fulfilled or foreseen. It would be another day of great conflict, even if no blood was spilt. He came to a clear stream and drank the waters that flowed sweetly from the springs of Imladris, rinsing the taste of ash from his mouth.