A Hero’s Fall

By Avalon Estel

Disclaimer: I don’t own “The Silmarillion” or anything pertaining to it. It is property of the Tolkien Estate, and this was written for entertainment purposes only.

A/N: This is my take on Glorfindel’s death. I don’t know if he was a friend of Tuor and Idril. Here, he is. I didn’t want to write the actual death, either, because everyone already knows how it happened, and I feel bad for him as it is. (hugs him)

Footsteps echoed across Cirith Thoronath as the refugees of the fallen city of Gondolin scrambled across it. Tuor led the hurried line while his wife, Idril, hung at the rear, watching everyone, her son Eärendil clasped in her arms.

“Hurry!” she cried, helping a stumbling Elf to her feet. They were all weary and hungry, and the cold was starting to get to them, though it shouldn’t have. Many had their feet wrapped in dirty strips of cloth for lack of shoes.

Suddenly, there was a loud rumbling and a jarring shudder of the mountain path as something landed against it.

Idril turned to see what it was – and screamed in terror.

It was a Balrog. The creature was massive, its form only distinguishable as a figure of shadow, white-hot flames dancing around it. It held a whip that seemed to be made of fire, glowing red in its grip.

The other Elves looked back at it. Some screamed, others stood frozen in shock.

It was Tuor who spurred them into motion. “Run!” he shouted, pushing some Elves forward. Soon, the entire procession was fleeing in a frenzy of panic, falling over each other and struggling to keep their footing in the icy mountain pass. Tuor ran in the opposite direction, trying to find his wife and child. Finally, he spotted Idril sprinting toward him, Eärendil held tightly against her chest.

“Idril!” the Man cried, taking her in his arms.

“Tuor, we don’t have time!” she said.

Tuor looked behind her at the Balrog heading toward them, lashing out with its whip, felling all the Elves who were unfortunate enough to be in its path. He resolutely drew his sword.

“Tuor, what are you doing?” asked Idril, seeing the gesture.

“I have to fight it,” he said.

“No!” she shrieked, seizing his arm with her free hand. “You can’t! It will kill you!”

“I have to, Idril!” he protested. “If I don’t, it will kill us all. My life is a worthy sacrifice for our people. It is a smaller price to pay than the one we would if we didn’t fight.”

“But you can’t, Tuor,” she whispered, tears slipping down her face. Eärendil reached up and touched her wet cheek. She looked down at him, the sorrow in her voice apparent. “Think of your son,” she said.

Tuor gazed at her. “I am.”

“I can’t let you!” she sobbed, burying her face in Tuor’s chest as waves of people rushed by them.

“You don’t have to,” a determined voice said from behind them.

“What?” asked Tuor, turning. Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower stood there, his sword drawn, a look of unwavering stubbornness on his face.

“I’ll fight the beast,” Glorfindel said, his dark blue eyes bright with anger.

“You can’t either, Glorfindel!” cried Idril.

“Do you doubt my strength, Your Majesty?” the Elf-Lord asked wryly, a smile on his lips.

“No, Lord Glorfindel, but I wish for you to live,” she said.

Glorfindel threw off court manners. He laid a hand on her arm. “Idril, I swore my allegiance to your father’s house. He is dead, but I am still faithful to you, not only as a sworn knight, but also as a friend.”

“Glorfindel…” said Tuor, his look reproving. “I can’t let you do this.”

“I will do it whether you give your leave or not, my king,” Glorfindel told him. “I do intend to triumph over it, you know.” He let go of Idril and knelt in front of them. “Goodbye, my friends.” He stood and started toward the Balrog, but a hand grabbed his wrist. He looked back to see Idril glaring at him.

“Glorfindel, you can’t do this!” she cried. “I will not let you. I command you to stay here!”

He looked at her sadly. “Someone has to fight it. I’ll be that someone.” He hugged her. “You were always a wonderful friend,” he said. Then, he wrapped Tuor in a tight embrace. “You will lead our people well, no matter if they looked down on you or not. You will be as great as Turgon was for them.” Then, he touched Eärendil’s cheek gently. “I love you, pen-neth. You shall do great things.” He bowed his head. “Farewell, my friends. Perhaps, if Illuvatar wills, we shall meet again.”

“Be careful, Glorfindel,” whispered Idril.

The Elf-Lord smiled sadly at her. “I will, my queen.”

He heard them flee as he turned to the colossal creature stomping towards him. His golden hair blew around his face as the mountain’s wind whistled around him, and waves of heat surged against his skin as the flaming Balrog moved closer. His sword flashed in the light of the fire on its body, and with a deep breath, he held his head high and drew himself up to full height.

“I will defeat you,” he whispered. “For Ecthelion, for Turgon, and for Gondolin. Whether I die doing it or not, I will defeat you.”