Disclaimer: Tolkien made them, and he owns them. And I am very glad he did create them!
In The Dark Places That I Walk
The sound of congested breathing was the first thing to reach Elrond's returning senses. He opened his faint gray eyes and looked around. The scene before his eyes was of bloody battle. His scattered memories came together and became as sharp and clear as a dagger. He remembered being overwhelmed by orcs, and being injured by one that had slipped past his sword. He remembered that as he had fallen, Glorfindel had leapt into battle to defend him. Then nothing. Now this... where was Glorfindel?
He struggled up, his head pounding in his skull. Around him lay the scattered bodies of orcs, some killed by his hand, some downed by Glorfindel. He looked to his right, and found the orc that had wounded him lying dead in the dirt, an elven blade in its chest.
His sharp eyes then traveled through the massacre around him, until he spotted a glint of gold. Dread welled within him as he crawled toward it, as he was unable to rise, for his wound slowed him, and his head pounded with his every movement.
His dread quickly turned to fear as he beheld his friend, lying like a broken bird in a ditch. He started to slowly find a way down, but tumbled in when his precious grip upon the dirt failed him. He collapsed beside his friend and beheld in detail
Glorfindel looked as if dead. There was a gash along his neck, and his armor was twisted and blood covered. A wound was upon his chest, and the armor was turned into it, opening it further. The ground was stained with blood and Glorfindel was white with blood loss.
Elrond pulled himself to his side, and gently put a hand upon his neck, checking for life.
In The Dark Places That I Walk
The sound of congested breathing was the first thing to reach Elrond's returning senses. He opened his faint gray eyes and looked around. The scene before his eyes was of bloody battle. His scattered memories came together and became as sharp and clear as a dagger. He remembered being overwhelmed by orcs, and being injured by one that had slipped past his sword. He remembered that as he had fallen, Glorfindel had leapt into battle to defend him. Then nothing. Now this... where was Glorfindel?
He struggled up, his head pounding in his skull. Around him lay the scattered bodies of orcs, some killed by his hand, some downed by Glorfindel. He looked to his right, and found the orc that had wounded him lying dead in the dirt, an elven blade in its chest.
His sharp eyes then traveled through the massacre around him, until he spotted a glint of gold. Dread welled within him as he crawled toward it, as he was unable to rise, for his wound slowed him, and his head pounded with his every movement.
His dread quickly turned to fear as he beheld his friend, lying like a broken bird in a ditch. He started to slowly find a way down, but tumbled in when his precious grip upon the dirt failed him. He collapsed beside his friend and beheld in detail
Glorfindel looked as if dead. There was a gash along his neck, and his armor was twisted and blood covered. A wound was upon his chest, and the armor was turned into it, opening it further. The ground was stained with blood and Glorfindel was white with blood loss.
Elrond pulled himself to his side, and gently put a hand upon his neck, checking for life.