Something comes flying over the ridge and fries its way through the air and knocks the Balrog back several steps. It kills a few of its own allies, staggering backwards. Celegorm stabs it on a run by and turns around for another round. They still don't know for sure how much you have to damage these to drive them off. They still don't know anything that'll kill them, though something is now leaking from the scalded not-skin where Miles hit it. 

"Son of Fëanor," it says. Morgoth speaks Quenya, so it shouldn't be shocking that his servants would, but he still wastes a second wondering where they learned it. Or were even minor Powers born knowing all languages? Would they know Miles' tongue? Did Morgoth know of planets? 

He'll ask Curufin later, if he survives, or Mandos if he doesn't.

In the meantime, it's talking which means it's not currently slicing anyone's skin into ugly ribbons, so ..."It's not that hard to tell us apart," he says. "Tyelcormo. The one with the giant dog companion. I would have expected everyone who knows my tongue to know my name."

Miles hesitates - there are too many tactical and diplomatic unknowns for him to be sure he should shoot at the giant monster again while it is attempting to communicate.

"You might misguess what your house is known for," it says, "thief and murderer."

"No," Celegorm says comfortably, "I assumed Morgoth knew about that. HIs brothers kicked up quite a fuss about it. They were angrier with us than with him, I think - but then, we're mere incarnates. As soon as we stopped gratefully eating scraps from their table, they started looking for more pliant pets." It's nodding. Their cavalry circles up again, warily. 

"You hate the Valar."

"Cheerfully."

"It seems we have some interests in common, son of Fëanor."

He'd probably have kept this up - it's kind of fun - if the Balrog had just used his name. "Unfortunately," says Celegorm, "I know perfectly well that your master heard our Oath. I am utterly and irrevocably committed to destroying you, and we both know that. And I want this shuttle. So you can fight, or run."

"We'll release your brother."

...hell. This is going to be one of those fights, isn't it.

He charges at it again. This will almost certainly get him killed but it's much better to die fighting a Balrog than refusing to negotiate your brother's release with a Balrog. 

Miles has a guess about the emotion underlying that charge. He tries another plasma bolt on the Balrog, since the first one seems to have had a nonzero effect.

The whips lash out and knock everyone in the area back twenty feet. Celegorm lands lightly; that was probably for the best, because it's not really fair to ask this of the horses. There's going to be a long, ugly burn across his torso but he can't feel it at the moment. The plasma bolt knocks it back again, and it spins around and charges at Miles. 

Celegorm is slower than a Balrog. Huan is more or less apace, but nipping at a Balrog's heels will cook his face and claws. "Most dead are from the burns," he calls, "don't let it get that close to you -"

He keeps hitting it with plasma bolts, one two three four five, standing his ground. He doesn't think he can outrun it.

He does think he can switch to nerve disruptors the very moment it is in range.

Miles' weapons are ripping pieces out of it; it's thrilling to watch. He's not sure it'll save them. The thing gets hotter at the site of every injury, glowing white, whips still ripping through everyone in their path. One of them catches Huan in the side and throws him over a hill. Celegorm feels the hit, and the landing, and the burns, more acutely than his own.

Miles, the idiot, is still standing there. In that armor he'll cook alive.

In this armour, he doesn't feel the heat at all -

And now it's in nerve disruptor range.

A crackling blue bolt splashes against the Balrog's chest. Direct hit. A human would drop dead on the spot, but this creature is huge enough that he might have to get it right in the head or spine; he's already lining up the second shot before he even sees what came of the first.

He watches. 

Weapons that can level cities, he reminds himself. 

Knowing that is a little different than seeing it.

The Balrog collapses. Then it explodes. 

Now Miles ducks down behind the ridge.

Tactical analysis of Balrogs: Plasma bolts do superficial damage. Getting them in the head or chest with a nerve disruptor works, but he can't be sure which was the key shot or whether it was the combination that did it. Also, they fucking explode.

He stands up. He can't hear, and he can't see, but Huan can do both and is already circling to check on everyone. Two of the horses are dead. Two more, and two Elves, critically iljured. Miles is presumably fine. Miles could probably take down everything short of Morgoth. Miles can presumably get his shuttle now. It'd be nice if his vision would come back. The fact his eyes don't hurt is probably a bad sign; a superficial injury would be extremely painful.

With Miles, maybe we could rescue Nelyo, he thinks.

Standing up was perhaps a bad idea; he'd expected his vision to return sooner. Huan is whining worriedly. He sits back down.

When things have been quiet for a few seconds, Miles gets up and crosses the scorched battlefield to his shuttle. If these people were human, he could give them emergency care. He probably can't risk it as-is, not without some kind of analysis.

Now he has his shuttle. Okay. Mission success. Great.

He stands at the top of the ramp, surveys the damage, and wonders whether he can get everyone - and their remaining horses - up the ramp and into the shuttle to be returned home. He really doesn't want to try it without Tyelcormo's help, but if the other option is just leaving them here...

He can hear out of one ear! That's more than half as good as hearing out of both ears, because he can confirm that his voice is working properly and isn't going to make anyone nervous that he's dying. 

He isn't, of course, but the thing about the burns is that plenty of people walked away from a fight with the Balrog only to die a short time later and this will of course be at the front of everyone's minds.

"Miles?"

'Are you all right' seems like a stupid question...

"Yes?"

"I want to move. If the Enemy knows they do - that - when they die - and I'm uncertain if that was an effect of the weapon you used or something that will happen every time - then he'd be stupid not to have a backup force whose job it is is to go in if the Balrog goes boom -"

"Nerve disruptors don't normally make things explode. Can you all get into the shuttle? I can fly you home from here."

"Let - let me ask the horses." Huan is at his shoulder and being reassuringly stabilizing. Time to try giving standing up another go.

So he can communicate with animals... now is not the time to start missing your horse, Miles.

They've been extraordinarily patient with all of this, really. It is impossible to appreciate enough the trust and loyalty that it took to charge a Balrog repeatedly, on command - at least the Elves knew that breaking formation meant much higher casualties. The horses just take his word for it. 

That hurt, he tells them. We lost some people and I'm sorry. We killed a Balrog. Well, Miles killed a Balrog. But he's going to teach us how. And it smells funny and it'll move and it's worse than a ship - and we hated the ship - but we should get on, now, so he can take us home.

Not his most convincing speech. But they're as exhausted as he is. 

He tells Miles as soon as he's won agreement. "Yeah, okay. We have - we have a couple people who can't walk, I think."

"Can they be carried...?"

"Yeah, carefully. Probably not you, not for the horses, Huan says you've stopped having a smell again and it's stressing him out. You can delegate people, if they're standing around and not being useful." 

Right then. Miles has a well-defined problem in front of him and the resources with which to solve it.

He retracts his faceplate again now that battle is not imminent, and commences getting everyone onto the shuttle. There are a few grav stretchers in the back, suitable for moving particularly bad cases if necessary, but they're human-sized and elves... aren't. If the critically injured happen to be particularly tall - well. Are they?

His presence isn't speeding this up, and he still can't see. So he walks a couple horses up the ramp and sits with them on the shuttle, frustrated. The horses are equally frustrated. One has a broken leg. That's hell on horses. In Aman they'd have asked one of the Valar to intervene directly - too slow to heal, otherwise. It's not really fair, he thinks, that you suffer because the Valar are mad at us. They could still intervene and help you out - which, obviously, helps us - I'm sorry, though. Not really fair. Don't worry about the smells; it's Miles, we can trust him. He killed a Balrog, you know. 

Huan is whining very worriedly; Celegorm offers his wholehearted permission for him to go do something useful rather than sitting here with them, but for some reason this doens't lessen Huan's anxiety.