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DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING OF ANYTHING. DONE. PLEASE DO NOT SUE ME.
"Do you much like Imladris?" Glorfindel asked distractedly one evening as he led Faramir, newly arrived, down to the libraries.
"Oh yes, very much, and the libraries are splendid! Thank you so much for allowing me access to them, I do need a rather quiet and secluded place to work sometimes." the man replied energetically, hurrying his shorter, wiry frame along twice as fast as Glorfindel's tall broad one to keep up.
Soon they had reached the library, and were settled at desks, Faramir already beginning to pore over old manuscripts.
"You really ought not to trouble yourself with staying, Lord Glorfindel." he offered in that small but powerful voice he had, not even looking up, eyes still roving across the page as if he were reading while speaking.
"It is no trouble, besides, I promised your wife I would stay, since apparently you have a habit of falling asleep on your desk at unseemly hours of the night."
"Then I implore you to stay, for my dear wife has a rather excitable temper." he chuckled before falling silent, lost in some ancient poem.
The light was rapidly receding in the large, empty halls. Glorfindel obligingly lit several candles, not for himself, no, but for the busy steward who he was sure would appreciate them.
No, Glorfindel never lit candles for himself.
Never.
He much preferred the light of the moon, for it was a harmless, friendly light. He would almost always keep his windows open, or at least the curtains back, to let in the silver light, illuminating the room just perfectly for his needs. On moonless nights, Glorfindel went down with the sun.
The golden-haired warrior lay down the tome he had been half-heartedly skimming and let his chin rest on his arms, slumped onto the table, Faramir too engrossed to notice.
His eyes were drawn to the candle, the flame flickering some ways in front of him.
It was dangerous to look at fire. More dangerous than to gaze into the eyes of a dragon.
It was hypnotizing, dancing, mocking.
It knew you didn't stand a chance against it.
No one else really understood what fire was. They were cautious around it, yes, but they never really understood.
It was a monster.
Men and Elves shivered at the mention of a Balrog or Dragon, more from the weapon the creatures wielded then from their sheer size.
Without fire, A Balrog is nothing more than a powerful troll. A Dragon can do no more than smash, devour, enchant.
They are manageable without fire. It is not the Balrog that gives the fire its power, but the fire that gives power to the Balrog.
Somehow, no one understands that. They compare fire to water, they say that in large uncontrollable amounts they can cause great harm and damage, but in small amounts those elements are under their control.
With water, that is so. Water can usually be controlled. Without it the world would die. Water is important, it is sacred, it is pure.
Fire is not like that.
A drop of water is harmless. Even a bucket. Nay, many more buckets, and it would still be harmless.
The smallest ember can burn down a house. A village. A forest. A civilization.
They are fool's enough to think they can control it. They can't.
Fire is not on anyone's side.
Fire does not know mercy. It does not know pain. Nor fear. Nor courage.
Fire simply is. It burns. It cannot be repressed.
Somehow, no one else understands that.
Glorfindel used to try and warn them, warn them of their impending doom.
But somehow not even the wisest of them can understand.
He was always 'Glorfindel Balrog-slayer', the elf who leapt at fire without fear.
When he had leapt at fire without fear, he had died.
All those who fancied themselves brave enough to face fire, they would die too.
Even Lord Elrond, renowned for his patience, would get impatient with Glorfindel over the 'rather silly measures' he tends to take around fire.
'It is only a candle, Glorfindel, it cannot hurt you. Besides, we are being very careful.'
That is what he would say. But very careful wasn't enough.
Fire was not fit to dwell among living things. It should have been cast into the void.
Even Erestor, blessed and respected for his wisdom, wit, sarcasm, and healthy work ethic, the elf who could understand Glorfindel the most, even evenings with him would come down to the small pale elf snapping, 'I will light as many candles in my study as I see fit, oh mighty Balrog-slayer!'
He used to caution, remind, hover over and around, fidgeting nervously, beseeching those around the candle, the hearth, the lantern to step back.
They would nod. They would acknowledge him.
But they never really heard him.
Long ago Glorfindel began to press his lips tightly together and quietly step away from the flame, leaving it and the elves nearby to their own devices.
Watching. Painfully watching.
Glorfindel used to wonder how the Valar could be so cruel, those terrible, fateful times when they took a step back, when it seemed they ignored the children of Iluvatar in their greatest hour of need, in their greatest hour of peril.
But Glorfindel understood why now. He was forced to do the same thing, to take a step back, usually squeezing his eyes tightly shut, forced to let them shape their own dooms.
No one understood what danger they were constantly putting themselves in.
Glorfindel realized, sickeningly, that this would probably never change.
Houses, villages, forests, civilizations would never stop burning down.
Fire would win in the end.
It always did.
"Oh!"
Glorfindel was jostled out of his thoughts as Faramir dove forward frantically, barely catching in time the candle he had accidentally knocked over with his arm.
A stunned silence filled the room.
Faramir's hands, gripping the candlestick tightly, were shaking uncontrollably as the steward stayed frozen there, body sprawled over his desk, breath coming in heavy gasps.
Glorfindel realized his hands were shaking too.
"I..." Faramir managed after a few moments, "...do not like candles so well, would you mind it terribly if I were to..."
"Not at all." Glorfindel finished as he found his voice again, heart still beating wildly.
Silently they each picked up the candles around them.
And silently they each blew them out, cupping their hand around the flame to keep it from jumping.
They said nothing more as the silver moonlight spilled through the tall windows Faramir hastened to open, illuminating the manuscripts scattered about, but Glorfindel didn't need words to know.
This man knew what fire was.
This man knew it and feared it the way it ought to be feared.
Maybe there was hope left for this land after all...
~fin~
I've always felt that way about fire. I've never had any traumatic experiences with it, only ever suffering minor burns, but that fear has always been there, that deep respect which nobody else seems to understand. Maybe that's why I'm drawn to the character if Glorfindel so much...but I don't know, I was just thinking about my own feelings and experiences with fire-phobia, and wondering what it would be like for dear Glorfy.
I hope everyone has wonderful day!
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Thanks for reading,
~Thurin