Aurë Entuluva by StarSpray

'I bow not yet before the Iron Crown, nor cast my own small golden sceptre down.' - Mythopoeia

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The airs of Mordor were foul, putrid and poisonous. Gil-galad's throat and lungs burned with each gasping breath as Aeglos flashed in the dim light. Ahead he could see smoke and fumes pouring from the peak of Orodruin, and rivers of fire running down its slopes. At his side Elendil cut down an orc captain, Narsil shining with its own, cleaner flame. Over their heads dark clouds and smoke mingled and roiled; lightning flickered deep within them. Around them on the plains of Gorgoroth the battle raged. The taste of blood filled Gil-galad's mouth; Aeglos' shaft was slick with it. He was weary and ached down to his very bones.

And then there he was: Sauron himself, tall and clad in black armor, armed with a heavy war hammer—trying to become his old master even now. Gil-galad grit his teeth and tightened his grip on Aeglos. The hammer rose as Sauron stepped forward. He said something, but over the clamor of battle around them and the roar of Gil-galad's own blood in his ears, the words were lost. The ground trembled beneath their feet. Something small and golden gleamed on Sauron's finger.

Sauron desired still to be Morgoth, but Gil-galad was not Fingolfin, who had charged the gates of Angband alone and in despair. He stood now with an army at his back and hope shining somewhere overhead, beyond the clouds and smoke that hid the sky. In step with Elendil, he charged forward to his last fight as Sauron raised his war hammer.

It was not a fight they would survive, but it was one they would win.

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