Many thanks to: MegilEnDae, Arianna I Dunadan, Faoiltierna and Diary'of'Fairytales for their reviews. I just love reviews :D
Faoiltierna: Thank you very much! I'm so glad you feel that way, as my main aim in this piece is to explore Glorfindel's emotions, both past and present.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the character's contained therein, nor do I profit in any way from the writing of the story. All I want is to put the pretty pictures in my head into words…
Many heartfelt thanks to Saltwater for beta reading this story. Any and all remaining mistakes are mine.
Glorfindel was exhausted, but he didn't dare sleep. To even close his eyes invited a resurgent wave of horror so strong that… the youth let out a slow, deep breath. He would not think of it.
It had been three days ago now that he had burnt his hand. Loathe to laze abed when it could bring him neither sleep nor comfort, the young captain had been trying to distract himself with… with anything which came to hand. He attended to his own duties as well as he was able to, he did his best to help Erestor and Celebrian with the many tedious piles of paperwork related to the running of the household, he struggled to make up fresh bandages for Elrond. Anything to keep from thinking about… that.
Elrond had told him that his burnt hand was healing well, but not as quickly as should be the case for a healthy elf of his tender age. The Imladrian lord had hesitantly suggested he make Glorfindel up another sleeping draught, but the blond had refused. The last had not afforded him safety from this terror and he didn't…he didn't…well; he was not yet desperate enough to try again.
Elrond had looked at him sorrowfully, and not pursued the subject further.
Just at the moment, though, the younger elf was beginning to regret his stubbornness- it was so hard to keep his eyes open! His lids felt heavy; his weariness was making him melancholy... Glorfindel dropped his face into his hands with a frustrated sigh.
There came a light step behind him, and the warm weight of Erestor's hand on his shoulder. His friend had been so very good to him these past few days. He could hear the beat of the older elf's heart and smell the sweetness of the soap he used on his hair. His voice was soft and melodic, giving the younger elf's shoulder a gentle squeeze as he spoke: "Glorfindel? Are you alright?"
"I…" the blond shook his muzzy head to clear it. "I'm fine, Erestor, just a little tired."
"Here." Glorfindel looked up blearily as Erestor laid the most beautiful red-covered book on the desk before him. He flicked the pages open, revealing an illustration the younger elf recognised from his childhood schoolroom. It was The Fall of Gondolin.
"Is this what you dreamt of, young one? Is this what you see when you close your eyes?"
The illustration was of tiny elven figures, their size robbing them of any great detail, fleeing from a city which was going up in a roaring wave of red and yellow flame. There was a Balrog perched atop a flaming building, wings extended as if it meant to pounce onto the path before the racing elves.
It did not need to come hurtling down from the clouds above; a bolt of terror and flame. It had no need to flap those dreadful wings, tipped with wicked, bony barbs, and knock them all to the ground with the force of the blast. It had been waiting, and merely stepped onto the stony path before them.
It would have been better if it had roared. It would have been better if it had cracked that frightful flaming lash above their heads, booming threats. It would have been better if it had charged. But the creature was inconsiderate of elvish sensibilities. It stalked slowly forward; its claws clicking ominously against the stone; its wings tucked neatly back. It didn't snarl, or drool, or even lick its lips, as he might have expected. It smiled, a calculating, hungry expression, and that smile chilled him to the bone…
"I hated this…the teacher read it out, and the other children all thought it was so much fun that I shared a name with one of the old heroes. But all I could think about was that he died. Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower died. I had…I had such terrible nightmares for weeks and weeks…"
The young captain accepted Erestor's handkerchief to wipe his tearing eyes. The older elf stood behind him with a hand on each of his shoulders now, a welcome gesture of comfort and support. Glorfindel wished the dark-haired elf would hug him. Erestor was so beautiful, carved as exquisitely as any statue, but shining with life and warmth. The blond couldn't pinpoint the exact moment he had developed this attraction to his older friend, only that it had been going on for some time.
"Could this not be the source of your distress, Glorfindel? You clearly identified strongly with your namesake, and experienced some trauma when first you learned of his violent death. Might it be that your wound," the older elf carefully took Glorfindel's wounded hand in his own, as if examining the burn on his palm, "brought back these memories to you?"
Glorfindel barely managed to suppress a wistful sigh when he felt Erestor's lips touch the top of his head in a chaste, comforting kiss. "Maybe. But I would have said that I am too old to be so affected by my childhood fears." He felt the colour rising in his cheeks."I am supposed to be a warrior, Erestor. I am supposed to be a competent leader- Imladris' safety is partially in my hands. I cannot fall apart over something like this…"
Erestor pressed another kiss to the top of Glorfindel's head, his warm breath stirring the younger elf's hair when he spoke. "Does it help you to know that I am deathly afraid of moths? Elrond or Celebrian will tell you, they have found me in my office, cornered and nearly hysterical with fright, on more than one occasion. Logically, I understand that they are only moths; small and harmless. But when confronted with one… Oh, but they terrify me! The beating of their little wings is more than I can bear."
"No!" Glorfindel's head snapped up, his expression one of surprise. "I cannot believe that, Erestor. You are so wise, calm, kind and patient. I cannot imagine you have such a-" he caught himself just in time, before he said something rude. Erestor moved around in front of him while he was speaking, and now he held the younger elf's face gently in his hands. His dark eyes sparkled fondly, a faint smile quirked lips, and his expression was so kind and loving that Glorfindel felt his heart skip a beat.
"You find it hard to believe I have such a silly fear? Oh, but it is true. When I was younger I was ashamed of it, because I thought that others would think me weak or foolish. But over the years I came to realise that the things many people fear might be called silly, but that doesn't make those people any less brave, or any less wise. We are none of us perfect, Glorfindel."
The dark-haired elf leant forward and bestowed a third kiss, this time on the other's forehead, just between his eyes. "Don't be so hard on yourself, young one."
Erestor heard Glorfindel's quiet, love-struck sigh as he brushed through the door. He could not help glancing back over his shoulder, a speculative smile hovering on his lips.
oOo
It was a beautiful night, with the crescent moon adrift amongst a sea of stars in a near cloudless sky. All the folk of Gondolin were arrayed upon the city walls with much laughter and merriment. They awaited the coming of the sun, for tomorrow was the great feast that they named the Gates of Summer.
Glorfindel stood with many of the other house-lords, talking and drinking 'round one of the many glowing braziers gracing the wall. He looked up at a gentle touch on his shoulder, into the fair face of his close friend, Ecthelion of the Fountain. There was, however, no smile of greeting on the other lord's face. Rather, a puzzled frown marred his countenance as he gazed out over the wall.
"Do you see that?" he asked Glorfindel, nodding at the horizon. The blond turned to look in the direction his comrade had indicated, and was instantly frowning too. Where the dark silhouette of the mountains met the night sky was a line of red, which grew as the two elves watched in dawning horror. By unspoken agreement they both began to run at the same time, dodging the many revellers as they sped in search of King Turgon. Some of their folk called after them as they hurtled past, while others were crying out and beginning to point at the ominous red glow climbing ever higher in the sky…
Matching Ecthelion step for step, Glorfindel raced past a cluster of his own men, calling out for them to sound the alarm. He noted them hastening to obey, as he silently thanked the Valar that he had chosen to wear his ceremonial armour. He even had his sword to hand, in the decorative scabbard especially made for such occasions…
oOo
"Glorfindel?"
He started awake, fingers grasping for a sword hilt that wasn't there. The movement awoke the deep ache in his palm, causing him to flinch.
"Oh, Glorfindel, I'm sorry, I should have let you sleep…" the elven youth looked up into the concerned face of Lady Celebrian. She was beautiful: long silver hair piled in queenly fashion atop her head, her eyes bright and sparkling in her heart-shaped face. Carefully, she put down the stack of parchments she had been carrying, before smoothing his hair back in a motherly fashion. The young captain pushed himself upright, blinking the sleep-haze from his eyes. It seemed he had dozed off at Erestor's desk, his head pillowed on the open pages of the red-covered book.
He had been reading the Tale of the Fall of Gondolin, wondering all the while if Erestor was right, if this strange affliction was merely a remembered horror from his childhood. It felt so much more real than that, though.
"I was just surprised to find you here, and called your name without thinking. I am sorry, young one."
"Do not apologise, my lady. I was dreaming- and they weren't very pleasant dreams. In fact, it is probably best that you woke me.
Celebrian smiled ruefully, giving his good hand a reassuring squeeze. "This will pass, Glorfindel. Never fear."
Dropping his gaze to the tabletop, the young elf sighed softly. "Aye, my lady," he murmured. "I hope you are right."
oOo
The Balrog came on slowly, hefting it's sword in one taloned hand. It was a wicked blade; the jagged edge smoking and dripping with sizzling blood. The Balrog waved its lash almost lazily, and as the sinew 'cracked!' flame blossomed along its length.
He had no time to second-guess himself, nor time to be afraid. Shouting for the refugees straggling up the rocky path behind him to fall back, he leapt forward, naked steel in hand. The Balrog laughed, a short, barking sound, and stepped forward to meet him.
The first blow let him know he was sorely out-matched; the impact of blade-on-blade threatened to tear his weapon from his hands and made his fingers numb. The Balrog was much taller than he was, and had an infinitely better reach. Worst of all, the lash needn't even touch him, for the heat of it as it swept close by his back was enough to raise his skin to blisters. Nevertheless, Glorfindel would not back down. If he was to die he would much rather do so fighting… something which seemed increasingly probable as a heavy blow glanced off his armour. Thankfully, by the skill and spell-craft of the elven smiths, the Balrog's blade was turned, though poor Glorfindel was sure the force of the blow had cracked his ribs. Even so, winded as he was, the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower would not suffer his foe to gain any ground…
Glorfindel battled with the Balrog for many minutes. To the languishing elf, however, it felt like much longer. It was a battle in itself just to draw breath; the skin on his face and other unprotected places was seared and blistered; and the strain from parrying such powerful blows was making itself known as a growing pain through his back, arms and shoulders. Yet it never once entered that noble elf's mind to retreat or surrender while his loved ones were in danger.
To his dismay he heard the din and clamour of approaching orcs, soon followed by the clash of battle joined somewhere behind him. The visceral need to help his folk lent a surge of renewed strength to Glorfindel's limbs, and seeing an opening he took a desperate chance and swung with all his might…
His blade bit deep into the crease of the Balrog's elbow, rending flesh and cutting far into the joint. How the brute screeched! For a moment it seemed that the fiend must fall back, as its whip arm flopped near-useless at its side, but then a venomous light sparked in its slitted eyes, and with a furious howl the Balrog sprang. Too well versed in warfare to be taken totally by surprise, Glorfindel managed to drive his blade into his foe's shoulder as he was borne backwards under its weight. But the monster had a grip on him now, and all the advantages of height, weight, and strength, as they grappled there upon the stony path.
His armour held yet: razor-sharp claws skidded and scratched, but failed to break through; and although the sword which beat at his side was causing massive dents and creases the metal was not rent. Still, Glorfindel felt much like some elf-child's rag-doll, tossed and shaken and battered all about. Somehow the Balrog's lash had become entangled about his legs; a source of scalding pain. It took all the wit and fortitude that the wounded elf could muster to somehow pull free the dirk thrust through his belt, and ram it home into the fiend's belly, against which he found himself pressed.
Black blood spurted, burning Glorfindel's face and hands. His own cry of pain was buried under the sheer volume of the Balrog's scream as it fell away, clawing with it's remaining hand at it's wounded belly. The dirk had pierced so deeply as to have totally vanished from sight, and no matter how it scratched and scrabbled, the it could not tear it loose. In its frenzy it had come perilously close to the edge of the precipice which bordered their way, and now it began to topple over, despite the last minute extension of its wings.
Perhaps even its wings could not save the Balrog, but they were the doom of Glorfindel. They granted it a boon, if only for a matter of heartbeats, and that was time enough to extend one of those long arms, and snag the morose elven lord's long, golden locks with those wicked claws…
He had never known such agony. Flames danced and rippled along his limbs as his skin blistered and burned. His long golden mane was ablaze, adding further hurt to the cracking sting of the whip which lashed his back and flanks. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound was forthcoming- instead he swallowed a mouthful of heat and pain, stealing the breath from his lungs and setting an insufferable ache deep in his chest.
He was vaguely aware, through the consuming haze of pain, of the sensation of falling. Somebody was screaming, where he could not- screaming his name; their desperate call rising momentarily above the din and clatter of battle. Others voices joined them; sweet elvish voices strained and hoarse from fear and pain, contrasting harshly with the brute calls and hollers of marauding orcs.
And then, as clear and beautiful a sound as he had ever heard, came the enraged shriek of a great eagle, and Glorfindel knew that his loved ones were saved. That realisation provided a brief spark of comfort in his world of agony. But his ordeal was not over, for at that moment he and the flaming monster with which he was entwined hit the hard stone, in an overwhelming explosion of bone-shattering impact.
All was darkness, and silence, but for the rasp of his own laboured breathing. Then that, too, faded; disappearing into the charcoal reek and shadow of his ruin, and that of his foe…
oOo
Glorfindel shot upright in his bed, drenched with sweat, and entangled in his twisted sheets. He had barely enough time to grab for the chamber-pot under his bed before the first heave gripped his stomach, and it was many minutes later before he dared to set the now-full vessel down.
Shaking, the youth wiped morosely at his mouth. Valar, but he had got some in his hair… His burnt hand throbbed with pain from gripping the pot, as well as the remembered hurts from his dream. He had finally accepted a sleeping draught from Elrond, too weary to carry on as he was, but it obviously had not worked…
Exhausted, both physically and mentally, and emotionally defeated, Glorfindel sat alone in the dark and wept.
Whadda ya know? Research has occurred! I spent a fair amount of time going through different versions of the 'Fall of Gondolin', from 'The Silmarillion', 'The Book of Lost Tales Part Two', etc, both before and during the writing of this chapter. Glorfindel's fatal fight with the Balrog is covered in greater detail in the earlier pieces, but in said pieces the Balrogs are also somewhat less invincible… in the version from 'The Book of Lost Tales', for example, Glorfindel soundly kicks the Balrog's butt, including chopping off one of it's arms, and then by some weird fluke it manages to grab his hair while it's falling and pulls the poor elf along for the ride. As the tale evolved the Balrogs became much harder to defeat, but we also lost a lot of the details regarding how one actually got the better of the fiery buggers. Soooo, I've tried to find a balance between bringing in some of the exciting details about the battle from the earlier versions and remaining true to the… more complete?... image of the Balrogs.
Here's hoping that it worked :S