Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize.
This little piece was written for netprincess, as a homage to our common favourite character.
- A Golden Light -
Smoke… Smoke rose to the sky, swirling between the tall, white towers. It could be seen from afar, from beyond the circle of mountains that had sheltered the city for so long. Now, those stone ramparts were useless: jealousy and malice had opened the gates, and let evil in.
Flames licked the steps, raced up the walls, their roars covering the screams of fear and anguish that echoed through the streets and down the Halls. Where once shone white marble and silver, they left their dark stain; where once stood a proud city was slaughter and chaos, and unnumbered tears of fear. Green trees withered in the heat, banners burned on their spires. The horns that should have sounded for celebration rang in alarm, gathering the few armed warriors towards a desperate fight.
Too long had the city remained safely hidden, so long that the shadows of Angband had grown distant; for many, no more than a frightening legend. But the evil did not forget Gondolin; restlessly it had sought to find it, to break it and bend to its will the last of the Noldor. And on Midsummer day, its goal was finally at hand.
The Noldor fought back, armed in haste and scattered; swords and armours that had been polished for a feast shone red with blood, magnificent tunics covering deadly wounds. For each elf that fell, five died from the armies of Morgoth; but still the enemy kept coming. Swarming, dark masses poured through the open gates, crashing against the shields of the Noldor: orcs, wargs, and any monster that evil had been able to conjure. Dark walls rose before the warriors, walls that never fell, and that grew stronger with each passing minute. Hands grew tired, resolves weakened, hearts broke as friends and kin died side by side.
There perished Ecthelion, lord of the Fountain, as he slew Morgoth's mightiest captain. They fell, entangled together in flame, deep into the fountain's cold waters. There died Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower. High above the city, his home burning down below, he fought against a Balrog to protect the escape of the last survivors, and gave his life to ensure their success.
Finally the screams died down, the winds extinguished the fires that consumed what was left of the splendour of Gondolin. Morgoth's armies marched out of the fallen city, abandoning it to Time that would heal the ground and wash away the memories of the carnage. Armours would rust in the rain; plants would grow, winding through the ruins, and no voice would trouble the air again. The very way to the city would be forgotten, and the silent reminder of treachery forever lost behind the mountains.
Yet one would remember.
He was there when Gondolin was taken; he fought and died that day, and dwelt in the dimness of Mandos' Halls. For all his courage and sacrifice, rest had been refused to him, and he had been sent to tread the earth where he had been slain once again. He was reborn, with the task to see the battle against evil to its end. To face another war, and shed blood once again for a hopeless cause. For darkness was yet again rising in the East, its endless greed to dominate all life driving its armies. And to fight darkness, one needs light.
A golden light.
Glorfindel.
A.N.: This is my take on the fate of Glorfindel, whom Tolkien said to have been reborn after his death in Gondolin. I wondered whether he had gone back willingly, or whether he had been torn from his well-deserved rest because his help was needed back on Middle-earth. It is possible that he returned of his own free will – but in my opinion, he could have been told to sail back, and accepted reluctantly, although he would've preferred to leave the things of the living to the living…