By the Stars of Elbereth Gilthoniel
Summary: In the wake of High King Gil-galad's death, Lord Glorfindel must uphold the late king's final wish.
Author's Note: The story starts right at the end of the War of the Last Alliance after the breaking of the Siege of Baradur. While this story is technically AU, I do not (to my knowledge) change any of Tolkien's canon events. This does play into a future story idea, which is also designed around Tolkien's canon events and characters.
Disclaimer: Anyone you recognize from Tolkien's books (Glorfindel, Elrond, Gil-galad, etc.) are not mine (obviously), and the lands of Middle Earth are not mine either. I only take credit for my original characters and events. I will try to accurately describe Tolkien's places and characters according to the books (But I will claim Author's license to add what character description is lacking in the books ;).
Chapter One - The Fall of Gil-galad
Gil-galad was an Elven-king. Of him the harpers sadly sing; the last whose realm was fair and free between the Mountains and the Sea.
His sword was long, his lance was keen. His shining helm afar was seen; the countless stars of heaven's field were mirrored in his silver shield.
But long ago he rode away, and where he dwelleth none can say; for into darkness fell his star in Mordor where the shadows are.
Each clang of sword against sword and club against armor scraped through the blackened landscape. Burned and bloodied rubble littered the expanse of earth; the ruins of a last defense broken just hours before. Smokey pyres lit the battlefield, blanketing any rays of sun or moon and suffocating those who yet breathed. The heat heightened choking stenches of smoke and burning flesh. The sky itself seemed to be stained with blood and darkness. Occasionally a small, hopeful breeze shuddered through the battlefield.
New fear drove elf and man alike even as each charge seemed more fruitless than the last. Orcs poured in countless numbers from the tunnels of Baradur, once barricaded by siege. A siege that had lasted seven years, until this day; a siege that should not have been broken. All knew the end was nigh upon them. Seven years of death, sweat, and tears, yet all together did not rival this day. Today was a day of endings. Either the Last Alliance would prevail, or the last free children of Iluvatar would perish under the lieutenant of Morgoth. There would be no other chances.
Gil-galad, the High-King of the Noldor, leader of the forces of the Last Alliance, steadied himself against the onslaught of orcish arrows, vainly attempting to rally his elven warriors. The cries of the wounded and fallen tortured his ears, the metallic smell of blood mingled with rotting flesh, and he forced his eyes to survey the sights as he crouched behind his once silver polished shield.
A body slammed into his shield, driven back by the power of an orc's volley. The High King rushed ahead with his shield, covering the body of the other elf as best he could. The downed warrior was already struggling to staunch the bleeding from his chest. Propping up his shield, Gil-galad worked quickly to tear his cloak and press it against the worst of the arrow wounds. He ripped back the warrior's Greenwood hauberk and fumbled with the straps of his chain mail to get closer to the source. He could not yet remove the arrow, for he had no way to close the wound.
The warrior's hands were shaking as he frantically tried to help Gil-galad stop the bleeding. But the younger elf's light was already dimming, his movements growing weaker. There were no healers nearby, as they were already stretched thin across the front lines. The High King attempted to rip another piece of his tunic, but a sudden hand on his wrist halted him. The young Mirkwood warrior stared out at something the Gil-galad could not see, terror and pain etched on his features.
"Stay with me, young one," he begged, "Help will be here soon!"
A shuddering breath was the only response as more of the young warrior's red blood filtered through Gil-galad's stained fingers. The sound of battle grew closer, the orcs had stopped their volleys.
The High King pushed back the warrior's hair and pressed his fingers into the pulse at the neck. It was weak and rapidly failing. Gil-galad's eyes roved the field for any help, but already too many were downed, the others had charged ahead.
He looked into the staring eyes of the young warrior as his breathing quickened…and stopped. The hand on his wrist went slack. Gil-galad felt his heart drop as he reached forward to close the warrior's eyes, "Be at peace, young one. May the Halls of Mandos grant you short stay."
The king closed his eyes as grief and anger warred against his heart, yet another fallen among the undying race, one of too many.
Red blurred his vision as he raised his dreaded spear, Aeglos, and charged into the fray. Immediately, the High King was surrounded by the stench of orcs and the clanging of weapons. He plunged his spear through the chest of one with a sickening crunch; then swung his shield up to block a sword strike. Then he yanked his spear back and used it to slit the throat of the orc he had blocked. Both fell to the dirt. Gil-galad rushed forward to engage another. He drew alongside his warriors and friends, shouting encouragement, though he suspected the worst was yet to come.
Gil-galad scrambled atop a piece of rubble to analyze the fight. His forces were stretched in one long line as they barely held their own. They looked as though the tripled ranks of orcs were going to absorb them. The High King glanced behind him, to his coming wave of reinforcements, relieved to see them awaiting his signal. His trusted friend and greatest commander, Glorfindel, mounted at their head.
The High King waited for the right moment, when the orcs ranks had all emerged from the tunnels and his forces began to lose ground, before giving his orders.
"Fall back, company!" he shouted above the yells and screams, "Cavalry forward!"
Elrond, Gil-galad's loyal herald, relayed the orders with the horn swung across his chest. Soon the signal was repeated down the lines of the Last Alliance. As one, Elves and Men grabbed their wounded and fell back as Glorfindel's cavalry charged forward and decimated the lines of orcs. Gil-galad allowed himself a moment's rest before leading the next wave of foot-soldiers in behind the cavalry.
Faces blurred through his vision as time progressed and the fighting became mindless. For a moment, Gil-galad fought beside Elrond before the natural course of battle swept them apart. Soon he found himself fighting back-to-back with the young elven kings Amroth and Thranduil, both of whom had lost their fathers, and gained their titles, in the Battle of Dagorlad.
After the charge, the last Alliance finally gained the upper hand. Gil- galad caught a glimpse of Prince Isildur wandering among the wounded men of Arnor. High King Elendil of Gondor and Arnor fell into step behind his remaining son. The father put a hand on his son's shoulder and squeezed it lovingly. The son covered his father's hand with his own before turning to speak with him. The High King of the Noldor sighed as an unexpected pang of sorrow and longing touched his heart. He turned away from the touching scene.
Gil-galad, at the encouragement of Glorfindel, stopped to rehydrate and eat some lembas bread as his troops reformed their ranks. His tengwasanar, a gift of the Valar that allowed him glimpses into the minds of enemy leaders, told him the enemy would attack again soon. He was about to find the other leaders when his heart stopped. Terror swept through the ranks of the Last Alliance. Gil-galad saw the threat as if through the eyes of the enemy.
Sauron himself was joining the battle. Gil-galad's heart dropped in his chest. Here and now their fates would be sealed, one way or another. Gil-galad shouted to the leaders of the free peoples the news, and they joined him at the front lines.
The armies stood face to face in a sudden silence. The elvish armies far outnumbered that of the orcs and Haradrim, but this battle would not be won by numbers. Not if Sauron himself stood against them. The fallen Maiar had not been seen in combat for years now, his arrival could turn the tides of success with a few swings of his burning club. And everyone knew it.
The Noldorian elves' armor glinted in blue and silver, joined from the realms of Lindon, Eregion, and Rivendell. The woodland elves of Greenwood and Lorien raised their bows in unison, a sea of green, brown, and blond waiting to unleash their tsunami. On the far side of the battlefield stood the sons of Numenor, led by Isildur himself, their armor of dull steel and carved iron a formidable sight.
Opposing these three armies stood the remnants of Sauron's previous army, ringed around the tower of Baradur. Gil-galad thought he could smell their breath in the stagnant air.
Boom, Boom, Boom.
The noise echoed and shook the rocky land that had been their battlefield for years. The black gates at the impenetrable base of Baradur swung open to reveal darkness. The darkness was briefly illuminated as the booming footsteps grow closer, a small pinprick that separated into fiery elvish script.
The One Ring.
A collective breath rose from the armies of the Last Alliance as Sauron himself emerged from his stronghold. Then all fell into chaos. Horns were blown, commanders shouted, and hooves pounded all across the plain.
The Last Alliance had superior numbers, yet they lost ground to the brute force of Sauron's advance.
Gil-galad fell into stride with Lord Glorfindel of Gondolin, an old friend and mentor, who was now on foot. He hoped that Glorfindel's powerful elven steed, Asfaloth, had only tired and not…anything worse. The powerful warrior bore but a slice on his cheek, and blood not his own stained his hands and golden hair with rust. The ancient Vanyar's bright eyes retained a calmness Gil-galad had only ever seen among the Maiar in younger days. There was a moment of silence, of decision, as the friends locked eyes. Gil-galad readied Aeglos and his silver shield, and Glorfindel raised his gleaming sword, tightening his pointed helm. Together they charged the Dark Lord.
The High King waded through orcish enemies, one by one striking them down. Determination and resolve flooded his veins and pounded in his temples. They approached Sauron from behind. The fallen Maiar gleamed black and gold against a reddening sky. The One Ring glimmered on his finger as he swung his massive burning staff for another devastating blow to the Last Alliance. He towered alarmingly above his elvish attackers as he turned to face this new threat.
Glorfindel fell first. Sauron's burning staff slammed into the Vanyar's chest as he attempted to fend off the orcs surrounding Gil-galad. The High King's heart rose to his throat at the resounding crash as his friend's body skidded backwards through a pile of orcish armor left from a burning pyre. His body fell, heavy and blackened, at the base of a protrusion of rock. Pieces of his breastplate lay scattered among the ashes. Gil-galad could not see any movement, no rise and fall of the Vanyar's chest; he stepped towards Glorfindel's body. Dread and fear racing through Gil-galad's veins.
A sword sliced through his left arm as soon as he turned, ripping him back to his own position. Gil-galad quickly side-stepped the next blow and plunged his spear into his attacker with the sickening squelch he tuned out. Worry could be a fatal mistake. But nothing could have stopped Gil-galad's continual glances at his fallen friend, nor the rising anxiety with every breath. After a heart-stopping few minutes and five dead orcs later, Glorfindel gasped a heaving breath and pushed himself up and onto his side with a groan Gil-galad felt more than heard. The fight had taken him too far away.
Gil-galad felt sick as Glorfindel collapsed onto his back, revealing the extent of the wound. The red and black burn still bubbled. It looked as though the burning staff had melted through even the chain mail. Gil-galad was sure if the staff had lingered one moment longer it would have burned straight through Glorfindel's torso. As it stood, the second- and third-degree burns reached from his stomach to his throat, a perfect imprint of Sauron's staff. If Glorfindel survived, he would carry that scar for the rest of his life. But without medical aid, Glorfindel's chances grew slimmer.
Gil-galad wanted more than anything to rush to Glorfindel's side, but, as he turned back, the elves following him hesitated. The High King realized that, if he even appeared to falter, his men would give into their own fear. His confidence was the only thing holding them steady. Gil-galad quickly scanned his small troop of elves and locked eyes with Elrond. The High King fought a shutter of relief when his faithful herald fell back and rushed to Glorfindel's side, already pulling a bottle of silvery Miruvor from his healing satchel. Gil-galad and his men rushed forward once more.
The armies of Men rushed to give aid when they saw the charge of the elves. Elendil himself joined Gil-galad, and they worked to distract the Dark Lord. Elven and mortal warriors strained to hold off the ranks of Sauron's army as their leaders wrestled to secure ultimate victory.
The battle seemed to rage for hours, yet only minutes passed. The Last Alliance suffered loss after loss, but then, so did Sauron's army. It was only a matter of time. Gil-galad could sense the end approaching, though by whose death he was determined to decide.
At long last, the High King sighted a weakness in his opponent's armor. The plate under Sauron's arm was loose, leaving his underarm and side only partially protected. Gil-galad lunged with his spear and drove Aeglos deep into the Dark Lord's torso. A flame of triumph sparked in his veins as the icy spear, met with Sauron's heat, hissed with steam.
It would have been a killing blow, if only Sauron's heart had been the source of his life. But it only wounded the Dark Lord.
He roared in pain and struck out at Gil-galad's throat.
The burning grasp seared into his tender skin, melting the fair tone into garish red, singeing the gold and silver streaked brown hair. The High King of the Noldor gasped for breath and found naught but flaming pain. Panic flooded his body. He could not breath; he could not escape. He wrenched his body around, but Sauron's grip held. The fallen Maia's black, soulless eyes bored into him and laughed at his victim's struggles. Black spots danced across Gil-galad's eyes pain, desperation fueling his escape attempts. His mind felt detached as his body started to go limp.
He knew this was the end.
And only one memory filtered through the slowly fading world.
Even his vision dimmed, Gil-galad's green eyes sought Glorfindel's bright ones. Elrond was fighting to hold him down. The Vanyar's face spoke of anguishing pain and grief as Gil-galad whispered the words, "Remember your promise."
Glorfindel nodded an affirmation. The view was suddenly ripped away as Gil-galad felt himself thrown to the side, he hardly felt his own body crash into the rocks. It felt as though his mind was hovering above his own body, watching the action but not comprehending it.
Gil-galad's body rolled twice, and he almost lost the small hold he retained on consciousness. He refused to let go just yet. Only the smallest amount of air flowed through his crushed and burning throat. All he felt was pain, and all he smelled was his own burning flesh. Gil-galad's spirit begged for a release, but he held on with every last ounce of his strength.
In a matter of moments, Gil-galad saw Elendil succumb to a similar fate as his own, falling back on his sword as his body crashed against the rocks.
Narsil was shattered, the hope of men was gone. But the battle was not over yet.
Through fading senses, Gil-galad watched Isildur take the shattered sword from his father's body and leap at Sauron.
And all of it was over.
Sauron crumpled into himself, and the One Ring fell to the ground, emitting a blinding flash of light. The army of darkness fled from the sudden brightness.
Gil-galad let out a sigh of relief. The darkness was defeated, his people would be safe again. A white light began to overlap his vision of the battlefield.
He saw his oldest friend's face in the remaining aperture, tears streaming down his ash-covered cheeks. Gil-galad could see the Vanyar's mouth moving, alternating between sobs and desperate words, but Glorfindel would soon realize that nothing could save Gil-galad now. The dying King felt his oldest friend squeeze his hand, a final parting as he saw Glorfindel's tears come like waterfalls.
But Glorfindel's face was suddenly replaced by gleaming white towers, blue sky, and ocean waves. His spirit flew past into the Halls of Mandos and came to rest. Friends and family that had passed before gathered around him. There he saw his father and mother, and his younger sister. He saw Gil-Túrë. The joy that filled him suppressed his regret and grief.
Gil-galad was finally and truly home.
To be continued...