The press was so close that Belegos could barely move his sword-arm and he was buffeted this way and that by the sheer weight of numbers around him. There were not many warriors in truth, but the cleft path was narrow and concentrated their force. He was perhaps four ranks behind the fighting troops and he noticed that the majority of those about him were of Glorfindel's House, and all of a sudden, whilst stuck in the heat and sway of the throng, he felt an immense loneliness. His thoughts turned to Eliriael, Vëon and the stranger who's care he had left them in. They were his family now, he thought, for his blood he had not seen for many years, since he was a youth.
His parents had laboured over the Helcaraxë with the Host of Fingon and had settled in Vinyamar under Turgon, yet when the order had come for the people to uproot themselves from their homes and enter the Hidden City, not ever to leave, his mother had spoken out against their Lord, her desire of freedom more than to gaze upon what she had named, "Only a memory of Great Tirion in the West." Though Belegos' father had tried to persuade her otherwise, she would not see reason, yet she accepted that for their son at least, it would be safer in Gondolin, and so it was he was left in the care of his father's sister. Belegos never saw nor heard from his parents from that day, he had not even been sure of where they had travelled to. His mother had suggested Doriath and to live under the protection of King Thingol and his Queen, Melian, but his father had expressed his concern for Thingol's dislike of the Noldor, for it was known well throughout their people. Gradually rumour had reached Turgon's folk behind the Echoriath, and Belegos, despite protestations from his father's sister, from whom he had grown more distant as he and the years had matured, ever increasingly seeking the company of his friends, had begun to believe that his family had been slain in the fall of the many Elf-strongholds of Beleriand overthrown by Morgoth Bauglir. He had loved his parents, truly, but he told himself that they were far from his reach and he could have been no aid to them. When he thought of them at times, he comforted himself in the knowledge of finding them again across the Sea.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Belegos found himself closer and closer to the front of the fight. He did not need to look about him for those whos place in the battle he took, he could feel them underfoot, stumbling over the bodies of those brave few. He could see now the numbers of the enemy too, and he was dismayed, for they were far greater than the Elven company.
Once again he was forced into the fray as a Fountain Guard was brutally smashed down by an orc wielding a large iron mace. Belegos heard the elf cry out in pain as the ugly head of the weapon connected with his helm, but it was only for an instant.
The blade he had been given was light and strong, and it flicked from his hand, darting across him in wide, looping arcs. His battle-instincts took hold of him and his movements were fluid as he hewed at arms and necks and wrists. He had never been the most gifted of swordsmen, but the blade gave him confidence and seemed a cure for his weariness. He wiped dark blood from his face as he pressed forward. Step by bloody step the elves pushed the orcs back, their superior skill, armour and weapons overpowering their foe. Belegos almost dared to smile, pleased with his work, but all around him grew dark and in an instant, dread gripped his heart. About him a new call was being taken up, "A Balrog! Ai! A Balrog has come!" they said.
Its monstrous form appeared tall and terrible as Belegos remembered. It waded through the ranks of the orcs toward the despairing host of Elves, and with every step, all was wreathed in darker shadow. It was then the orcs renewed their attack with greater vigour and all were hard pressed to withstand them for their ferocity had been kindled by the demon and the heat grew nigh on unbearable.
The Balrog's sword flashed here and there, felling all who stood before it. Belegos could see the burning light of it's fiery mane reflecting in the eyes of the orcs and for an instant he grew afraid. As his heart began to quail and all hope was to be utterly drained from him, one drew himself up before the demon. Golden was his hair and his sword was held up in defiance of the darkness. A faint light seemed to glimmer around him, at least that was how it seemed to Belegos. His attention focused elsewhere, he never heard the words that Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, shouted over the din of battle. Whether they were words of encouragement for the troops or of insult to the enemy, it was no matter. Doubt briefly flickered in the Balrog's eyes, if only for a moment.
The fight between them was relentless. Here and there they dashed, the Balrog always attempting to gain ground, yet Glorfindel would not yield, cutting him off at every step. They dueled for what seemed like an age whilst all around them the waves of combat ebbed and flowed in one direction, and then the next. Each gave the other many wounds, some more dreadful than others but it happened that Glorfindel received a great buffet from the fist of the Balrog, knocking his sword from his hand to go spinning out of reach, and he to the ground. Unaware, their only intent being the destruction of the other, they stood near to edge of the chasm, yet now the Balrog loomed above the Elf, as if to finish him in one great blow. But it never came. Blindly, Glorfindel groped around him until his hand found the familiar comfort of cold steel, some sword of a fallen comrade. It was not his own, nevertheless it was Gondolin-forged steel, the likes of which is now most rare. Up went the blade as Glorfindel stood and it buried itself deep in the belly of the Balrog. A great howl of pain and anguish was heard by elf and orc alike and all ceased to watch anxiously the unfolding of the duel. It seemed that the Balrog, mortally wounded, staggered backward towards the precipice, though it was larger than any elf and its reach longer. In one last desperate action, it grabbed at Glorfindel, finding the elf's long, straight hair.
Down they fell as Glorfindel was dragged into the abyss and all looked on in despair and disbelief. The flame of one loved by all so cruelly extinguished.
Enraged, the remaining elves renewed their fight with the orcs, now filled with fear at the faces of their opponents. All fought as if possessed, Belegos included. In a short time, unable to withstand such strength, the orcs fled, their howls echoing in the cleft. None spoke between them, they only surveyed the dead strewn across the path, and not for the first time, grief took them all.
