A/N: This is a character sketch, generally, I write these to get a feel for how characters will work in upcoming stories...this is cleaner than others, and I wanted to provide one on my profile. This one in particular is a rather strange monologue between him and Elrond. Elrond's interjections are in italics. Glorfindel's thoughts (if any) are in parenthesis. Set soon after his return in the mid-Second Age (est 1400 to 1600 SA).
000
Do you know why I came back, Elrond?
Hmmm. I am afraid not, but I have heard the stories, mere rumors only, of course. Many were surprised that an elf of such caliber would bother with these lands, many fear, too, what it might forewarn.
I, however, am a healer. It is not my place to presume upon another's reasons.
Rumors suggest many things, as rumors often do. Some say I came to fight Sauron personally. Others say my return heralds the return of Morgoth himself.
Neither of these, I pray, are true.
But the truth is, I don't know either. I just…did.
Ah, I see…
Lorien informed me that returning to these lands was a terrible idea, my mind has yet to fully heal, my soul has yet to mend from the destruction I had seen.
And perhaps he is right…
I still see flames, I yet walk in shadow. The Balrogs and Drakes, the nether creatures without names, when I close my eyes, they burn the city down again…
House by house, street by street, garden by garden, fire and shadow destroy the hidden city. Home lost to that blood drenched turncoat. Tuor saves Idril from his wicked hands. Ecthelion falls into his fountain. I…useless, survive that night. So many others lost, but we flee the city through the secret way, led by Tuor and Idril, hope, relief, exhaustion filling our hearts, our bodies, our minds. We are safe, we hope, but…
The demon came, it's flames unyielding, killing hundreds too exhausted to run. We thought the cold would end us, we thought, perhaps, a repeat of the endless years on the ice might be our fate, but it is to fire our world would end.
I stand on the mountain, sword in hand, flames raging within, flames raging without. Angered that he would dare attack the refugees. Angered that I, lord of a great house, had done so little to save king and friends. Angered that I, had so little foresight to see what had come.
Inflamed.
They tell me I shown like a star against the demon, my hair golden, my blade alight. I only recall the rage, the kiss of whip, the kiss of flame. The unyielding dark, and the fall, endless.
Death, healing, Mandos. There, in Namo's care, our souls are said to heal, and if not with him, under the watchful eye of Lorien in his garden. And there…
There…
I found nothing.
It should not have been that way.
After years had past, I begged for release. I begged to go. I begged…todo something. To help. To be active.
Those…no. They're not, you're right.
It was to see the lands I had come to love again.
To walk under distant starlight, to face life with all it had to offer, the sweet and the bitter, the warmth and the chill. I would rather face the monster in the shadows than pine away a thousand years, worthless, in the land of bliss.
Perhaps…perhaps I came back because a part of me knew that to overcome the demons of old which haunt me still, I must battle to protect the monsters that haunt others. Those dark things which yet dwell in the world.
Olorin…suggested it.
I'm still not sure why.
Do you know?
Mayhaps…
It might be a form of constructive therapy. Olorin…I have heard many things about him, he is willing to try techniques that others may view as madness if he believes it might help.
That's…what in Angband does that mean? A curse on you young elves and your strange new words…"constructive therapy", what kind of–
Stop. Smiling.
Smiling?
When I rambled… Ai Elbereth. What exactly did I spew?
I believe, Glorfindel, that you may have cursed us younger elves.
Do not imply that I would say such things, Elrond. It implies that I am old andwise, of all things. Only Cirdan gets that privilege.
Of course. Although…
We are supposed to be having a serious conversation, last I checked.
I have heard rumors.
Do not, or ye shall release the fiery of–
What do they call me these days, the Balrog-Slayer?
Yes.
–Indeed! Ye shall release the fiery of Glorfindel, the mighty Balrog Slayer, upon you!
Very…well put.
Stop. Your. Snickering. Elrond, you are a terrible therapist.
Did you not just raise contempt against 'such new words'?
I am leaving.
For?
Better company.
I…am sorry. I didn't think…
Actually, for lunch, considering the height of the sun.
I will join you, then.
How fortunate…
(But, thank you…It's feels like ages since I laughed like that.)