-------
The glittering mass of Noldolin warriors charged, in no clear formation. At the head of their assault was Etchelion, the Chieftan of their House. Against them strove Gothmog Lord of Balrogs, with none but his troll-guard about him.
The foes met. Gothmog roared, laughing, and brought his axe down in a wide arch - sweeping aside a dozen Elves and rending their bodies horribly. Stepping forward, booming laughter echoed from within the cloud of smog that surrounded him - but it turned to a scream as Etchelion stabbed skyward and Orcrist found Gothmog's gullet.
Putting a hand to the wound, Gothmog swung out with his black axe, but Etchelion dodged the wild attack. Striking again, he cut the arm of Gothmog and tongues of fire ran from it like fountaining blood. But Gothmog Lord of Balrogs not yet spent. He turned about and smote Etchelion with his empty hand, turned to a fist. The crippling blow sent the Elf-Lord sprawling across the Court, gritting his teeth in agony. For though his mail was not undone, and had resisted the strength of Gothmog, inside his body was broken. But this duel was not yet finished; standing, he took Orcrist in hand and ran towards the Balrog-Lord. Gothmog swung fiercely, but Etchelion spurrned the axe-blow and turned it aside. A gout of flame issued from within the cloak of darkness that was Gothmog Lord of Balrogs, but it availed not. Etchelion was the nimbler; leaping aside, he cut again and rent open the leg of Gothmog. Again the Balrog-Lord screamed in anguish as his inner fire was revealed to open air and eye.
Then Gothmog leaned forward out of his dark shade, and his terrible face was unveiled; horns like a ram but a face like a bull, there was no beauty in it. Opening his maw, Gothmog spoke, "You fight valiantly, Youngling. I shall enjoy adding your name to those of the fallen!" Etchelion did not answer him, but swung his blade outward faster than a striking snake. Gothmog roared in terrible anguish, and the stones were rent.
But no aid came to either combatent. For the troll-guard of Gothmog Lord of Balrogs had been slain or driven off; but a great press of Orcs had come up and were holding the Elves at bay.
And so alone they stood, Etchelion Lord of Gondolin and Gothmog Lord of Balrogs, fighting to the death in the courtyard of the High King of the Noldor.
-------
The spearmen brought himself back to reality and ducked as an Orc swung at his head.
Why must I have a penchant for such misfortune? The Elf thought. Sidestepping the feral swing, he ran cold steel through the Orc. But another replaced it, which he swiftly beheaded.
The fighting had reached it's fervour with the coming of Gothmog. The phalanxe of the King had been beaten back, and all those remaining in the City were there in her defence. There was Galdor with his curved blade, cutting down Orcs faster than lightning. Tuor stood taller than any Men before him, and those there were reminded of Hurin his uncle; for he fought with a great battle-axe, hewing Orc and Troll and Wolf alike. And with each fallen he shouted aloud, greater than any other save Hurin himself, "Aurë entuluva! Day shall come again!" And Glorfindel Lord of the Golden Flower commanded the phalanxe himself, and it seemed to some that a white light was in his eyes. But greatest of all was Turgon King of Gondolin. In his left hand he bore the banner of his House, and in his right was Glamdring his blade. It seemed that no Orc-chieftan or brigand could harm him. In that hour of mighty deeds, there were many; those left of the Houses of the Harp and the Mole fought the bravest. For they alone had been proved to have had both treacherous and cowardly leaders, and those left alive had chosen to fight for a better memory of their people.
The spearmen found himself lost among the fallen, and there on the field of battle he found his friend the archer. The Elf had a grievous wound, the mail upon his chest rent open horribly. A great burn was beneath it, and he had lost much blood as well as his helmet. Stooping low, the Elf bowed his head and grasped the hand of his friend. But he stirred, and though blinded in one eye the fading Noldo turned his head and saw his friend. And he spoke, "Do not weep, my friend; for I am not Beleg Cuthalion or some other great fallen hero...though I go to meet them. I was but an archer of the House of the Arch." But with this he fell still, and his eyes closed. But he spoke once more, "What is your name, spearman?" And he answered him, "Thranduil. I am not of this City...I was friend to Thingol of Doriath in the younger days and lived there for a time. And yours?" The bowman was quiet for a moment, and returned, "Legolas of Gondolin. I was an archer." And with that he died.
Edited by mike_, 10 June 2008 - 07:28 PM.