Stories of Arda Home Page
About Us News Resources Login Become a member Help Search
swiss replica watches replica watches uk Replica Rolex DateJust Watches

Elf, Interrupted: Book One: Glorfindel Redux  by Fiondil

1: Here At the End of All Things

Dying did not seem to be the worst of it, as far as Glorfindel was concerned. The blaze of heat that was the Balrog burning his skin off had been bad, true, and he flinched even now at the memory, but on the whole the process of dying had, for him, been mercifully short. There had been no time, really, to think about it, and then it was over.

He remembered falling, the Balrog’s weight upon him, its flames enveloping him even as he continued to fight. He knew a moment of despair at the thought that he had failed his charge to see Idril and young Eärendil to safety, and then the rocks came up and met him and then....

He found himself standing in a dim hall. That was all he really remembered of it. If it contained anything but himself, he could not afterwards say. He only knew one thing — he was no longer in Gondolin.

"NO!" he shrieked in defiant anger. "Let me go back! I have to go back!" He ran towards a door at one end of the hall and tried to open it, but there was no knob on this side. It was smooth and featureless. He pounded on it, shrieking, mindless of anything but the absolute need to return to Gondolin, to see his king’s final orders through. The door remained obstinately shut.

"Glorfindel, Glorfindel, what ever are we to do with you?"

The voice was dark and melodious and Glorfindel recognized it. His screaming stopped and he slid to the floor to sit with his back against the door, shivering with fear.

Fear he had not felt when facing the Balrog.

Fear he had not known when crossing the Helcaraxë.

He looked up through his tears to see Someone standing there looking down at him impassively.

He was tall, taller than the tallest elf, his raven locks long and braided with gems. There was a circlet of silver upon his brow. His eyes were a piercing grey, the shade of wet slate. His velvet robe was the dark blue of a winter sky under which he wore a knee-length tunic of black watered silk trimmed with grey pearls. The sleeves were slashed and under them Glorfindel could see a shirt of whitest lawn. His feet were shod in leather boots that disappeared under the hem of the tunic. He wore no jewelry, save for a single ring on his left hand, an uncut emerald set in mithril.

Glorfindel sat on the floor trembling, awe beginning to replace his earlier anger. He had last seen this Being standing on the shore of Valinor uttering his Doom to the Noldor as they made their way North. He had been much younger then, a member of Turgon’s household, with little knowledge of swords or battles. He remembered the awe he felt at the fell words that Námo, Lord of Mandos, had uttered under the star-strewn night that had replaced the Light of the Trees. He vaguely remembered wanting to go back to Tirion, not wishing to defy the Valar, but Turgon would not budge nor did he give his followers leave to return if they wished. Glorfindel had felt the eyes of the Vala boring into him as he trudged past after Turgon, the guilt he felt weighing heavily on his fëa.

Now that feeling had returned and he quailed at what he was sure would come of those who had defied the Valar. He did not expect to find mercy, nevertheless he found himself attempting to kneel before the august person standing before him, tears streaming down his face, despair in his eyes.

"I’m sorryimsorryimsorry. Pl-please let me go back, please..." He was crying so hard now he could not speak and he did not know what else to do. He refused to look up, shame at his behavior flooding him. He was the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin, one of Turgon’s most trusted advisors and a proven warrior, and here he was blubbering like an elfling and crawling on the floor like one of Morgoth’s slaves.

He felt rather than saw Námo move towards him, crouch down and pull him into his arms. "Hush, child. Shhh. You cannot go back. Your time has come to face the doom of the Valar. Shhh. I know you’re frightened and your fëa is weary yet from battle, but I promise you all will be well."

He felt himself being rocked gently as Námo continued to croon soft words to him until his weeping stilled and a kind of uncaring washed over him. He could not go back, his doom was already decided. Nothing mattered anymore. He didn’t matter anymore.

"It matters more than you think, my son," the Lord of Mandos said softly, kissing the elf’s brow gently. "And you matter a great deal, Child of Ilúvatar, never doubt that. Rest now."

He felt himself being lifted up and then lowered upon a couch. He tried to make sense of what was happening but he was too weary. Námo stroked his face and he felt himself succumbing to the Vala’s ministrations.

"Sleep now, child. Let your fëa find rest. Your doom is not yet at hand."

Glorfindel sighed as he let go of all thought, letting the darkness of death take him at last.

****

Fëa: (Quenya) Spirit, soul.





        

Next >>

Leave Review
Home     Search     Chapter List