Yay! I finally decided on a name for this story. I've decided to call it Oltho Baras which should (I hope) translate to something along the lines of: To Have Fiery Dreams.
Thanks to everyone who reviewed Chapter Two. I just love reviews ^_^
Disclaimer: don't own, don't profit, etc.
Many heartfelt thanks to Saltwater for beta reading this story. Any and all remaining mistakes are mine.
Glorfindel was cold. It was not something he'd ever experienced before. Oh, he'd felt the sensation of a cool breeze against his skin; the shocking thrill of plunging headfirst into an icy stream. He had never, though, felt the discomfiture of actually being cold. Even beneath the soft covers of his bed, his skin had rippled into gooseflesh, and when he looked at his hands and arms he saw their normally golden-hue had became a blotchy purplish colour. The tears which continued to spill sporadically down his cheeks felt warm against his skin, and his body had been seized by a bout of violent shivering.
It seemed a lifetime ago that his feet had last been both warm and dry. The constant slush which soaked into his boots made his feet ache bitterly at best, and numb at worst. . His heels had long ago rubbed to blisters, and more than once he had fallen, tripping over feet he could no longer feel. His hands suffered similarly, despite the fact that he was wearing gloves, and his face was stung by the howling wind, which at times blew forcefully enough to physically move him backwards.
How he longed to simply lie down and rest awhile! Never before had he been so tired; never before had he even imagined it was possible to be this bone-weary. There was nowhere, though, to rest, unless he lay down right there on the snow and ice. He had seen others do so; seen the torn, irritated skin where they had had to pull free of the clinging frost. His own fingertips had not escaped unscathed.
There was nothing to be done but to keep placing one foot before the other, just keep going, because there was nowhere to stop and no chance of succour until they reached the end of these Valar-forsaken ice fields. He in particular had to keep going; had to put on a brave face. As he found encouragement in the broad back of his Lord Turgon before him, unbowed even before the fierce assault of the elements, his own folk found support in stoicism. He could not let them down.
When they finally arrived on the other side, he promised himself, he was going to be warm again. He would bask in the heat of a cheerily crackling fire; savour the sensation of a belly full of hot food – and bathe! Oh, even if a tub wasn't a possibility, a wash with a rag and some hot water would seem like the most decadent luxury…
The weary youth started, blinking open eyes red and sore from weeping. He wasn't sure how long he had been sitting huddled and shivering beneath his covers, battling with his increasingly heavy eyelids. He didn't want to go back to sleep – he'd had his fill of horror for one night - but knew that it would inevitably happen if he stayed in bed.
A bath! That might make him feel warmer. Glorfindel disentangled himself from his blankets, shivered at the cool breeze caressing his exposed skin, and headed for the small room adjoining his bedchamber. Within was a large enamelled tub. He'd never actually used it before. Like most of Imladris' warriors he typically bathed in the streamlets and pools beside the training grounds. If Imladris' maidens were rumoured to regularly spy on these post-training activities, he'd never yet caught them at it – although he was sure he'd heard the odd giggle from the bushes on more than one occasion.
As the dawn's first inquisitive tendrils found their way through the chamber's small window, Glorfindel gratefully accepted help into the tub's blissful heat from the servants who had filled it. One obliging fellow helped the young captain to wash his dirtied blond mane, the soap he used filling the room with the sweet scent of rose and geranium. He could hear the others moving about his main chamber, their conversation reduced to a soothing murmur as they tidied and prepared to lay out his breakfast.
Glorfindel was wholly unused to such attention. Proudly independent, he normally loathed allowing another to perform such menial tasks on his behalf. But the big, black kettle used to heat water for the tub was simply too heavy for him to lift one handed.
With the heat of the water soothing the tension in his body, and the gentle fingers of the elven servant massaging his scalp, Glorfindel nodded off.
oOo
Lamplight reflected upon the rolling waves and the stone quays, much as it had just hours before when those same quays were pristine and tranquil. They were eerily serene now; eerily and wrongly serene, for it was not the stillness of a peaceful night which gripped them now, but the stillness of death. Pools of blood, looking like great puddles of spilled ink in the erratic lighting, were everywhere. Worse still were the bodies lying unnaturally still on the cold stone. Some of them were burned.
Glorfindel had never seen a dead elf before. He imagined few of his fellows had either. There were the stories, of course, of terrible things happening out in the dark world beyond Aman, before the elves had come across the sea and within the protection of the Valar. They had never seemed real to him before today. That wasn't to say he had thought them untrue, but they had seemed so far removed from the reality he knew that they may as well have been.
As an elfling listening to such tales, he had received a much… neater… impression of violence. No tale he had ever heard mentioned looking into the eyes of a fellow elf as he lay dying. Not the pain you could see in his eyes; the horror and fear as he realised that his life was ending. Not the terrible anguish that could be conveyed in a death-cry, or in the keening over a loved one's hacked body. Not the awful smell of spilled viscera.
No tale had ever described what it felt like to have warm blood flowing over your hands.
oOo
Glorfindel surged awake with a revolted cry, bath water slopping everywhere. The servant, who had been carefully rinsing off his hair, yelped with surprise as the blond scrabbled to rise from the slippery tub. Bright agony flared in his injured palm as his hands compulsively gripped the rim.
The youth was forced to pause as a series of dry heaves gripped his thankfully empty stomach. In the low light of the bathroom he thought he saw the dark stains of blood on his hands and swirling in the tepid water of his bath. His nausea trebled, but when he raised his hands they were unblemished, if shaking. Soap had caused the water to cloud somewhat, but it was wholly devoid of blood.
"Captain Glorfindel?" the servant asked, evidently much concerned. His touch was gentle as he laid a hand on the younger elf's shoulder. "Are you well? Should I send for Lord Elrond?"
"I-" Glorfindel ran a shaking hand through his still-soapy locks. "No." He took a deep, shaky breath, then another, more calmly. "No. Help me finish here first."
The servant nodded, but the way he anxiously bit his lip as he resumed rinsing the soap from Glorfindel's hair belied his concern.
oOo
"Erestor?"
The dark-haired elf looked up to see Glorfindel standing before his desk. Startled, he began to rise. The younger elf looked awful. His once golden-tanned skin was pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes. His snug fitting breeches and simple long-sleeved linen shirt couldn't disguise the fact that he had lost weight, but what struck Erestor most of all was his beloved's expression. His eyes, normally a bright and beautiful window into an equally bright and beautiful soul, were dark and haunted.
"Glorfindel." The older elf was unsettled by the other's appearance. The blond didn't just look tired, he actually looked unwell. Such a thing was all but unheard of in Elvish households. Erestor rose and moved around his desk to take Imladris' youthful captain by the elbow. "What brings you here, young one?"
"Please," Glorfindel's voice was low and strained, as if facing a daunting and deeply unpleasant chore. "I need you to help me discover more of Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower."
oOo
He was perhaps Glorfindel's age, perhaps a little younger. His clothing marked him as a tradesman of some sort; a shipwright, not a fighter. Even if he had been a warrior he was no threat to the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower – not with one hand pressed tight to his belly to prevent his insides spilling through the neat slice a Noldor blade had made from hip-to-hip. It had happened right before Glorfindel's very eyes. The aggressor, an elf wearing the livery of Feanor's house –his lord's uncle and ally – had simply run the other through because he stood in his way. That elf was already gone, moving swiftly away down an alley, and Glorfindel even took a few steps in pursuit, but soon faltered, deciding instead to go to the Teler, who had sunk down with his back against the wall.
"Here," he said in the most comforting voice he could, "Let me see that." Somehow he managed to keep his voice from shaking. One glance told him that this wound was far too grievous for him to deal with, and there was no one else about to send for a healer. Hoping desperately that someone else might come; he did what he could for the poor elf, applying pressure to the wound and trying to make him comfortable. But all the while distressingly warm blood continued to well from the wound. It soaked the rag that Glorfindel had torn from his shirt to hold against the cut, and trickled across his fingers and the backs of his hands. No matter what he did it wouldn't stop, and still nobody came…
oOo
The young captain of Imladris lay on his belly on the floor between two book-laden shelves, listlessly scanning the pages of an ancient-looking tome. Erestor, likewise seated upon the floor a little way apart, gave a small smile of greeting as Lord Elrond and Lady Celebrian approached. Elrond's brow was furrowed with concern as he looked meaningfully to their young friend, who'd apparently not noticed their coming, and he sighed heavily:
"How is he?"
"Exhausted," Erestor replied, "-and heart-sick."
"What is it you're doing?" Lady Celebrian asked, kneeling down in a rustle of skirts to better view the collection of aging books at Erestor's side. Her deft fingers sorted quickly through them, tracing the titles on the worn and battered covers. "Why, all of these seem to be histories of Gondolin. Do you really think that's wise? It was the story of that city's unfortunate fate which so distressed our dear Glorfindel in the first place…"
"It was Glorfindel's wish, milady." Erestor replied simply. "It seems these dreams about his demise have awakened a burning curiosity about his namesake in our young friend. We have been searching for any information regarding Glorfindel of Gondolin, as he lived, not as he died."
"There isn't much," Elrond mused, stroking his chin in thought. "I know that he was said to have the close friendship of Ecthelion of the Fountain and King Turgon both, and was also dear to the King's daughter, my grandmother, Idril. He was obviously a military commander of some prowess, for he had led the forces of the House of the Golden Flower in Turgon's cause even before the building of Gondolin-"
"He had served Turgon even in Aman," The three older elves turned to view their own Glorfindel as he wearily pulled himself into a sitting position. "- and came with him across the ice." The youth's voice was soft and somewhat diffident.
"It is possible," Elrond agreed, nodding. "Many of Turgon's closest advisers and most faithful vassals had been with him since-"
The Lord of Imladris' voice faded away into silence. He, like his lady and Erestor, was looking at Glorfindel, who in turn was staring at the floor. He seemed wholly unaware of their presence, lost in contemplation of something other than the carpeting at which he was gazing.
"He witnessed the kinslaying." That damning pronouncement was little more than a whisper. "He couldn't ever forget the feeling of elven blood on his hands."
oOo
Author's Notes time! Yep, Glorfindel of Gondolin was originally from Aman:
'Now Glorfindel of Gondolin was one of the exiled Noldor, rebels against the authority of Manwe, and they were all under a ban imposed by him.'
However:
'From what is said of Glorfindel in The Silmarillion and The Lord of the Rings it is evident that he was an Elda of high and noble spirit: and it can be assumed that, though he left Valinor in the host of Turgon, and so incurred the ban, he did so reluctantly because of kinship with Turgon and allegiance to him, and had no part in the kinslaying of Alqualonde.'
Both quotes are from: J.R.R. Tolkien The Peoples of Middle-Earth: The History of Middle-Earth Volume 12, Chapter 13, page 380.
The freezing cold dream/ flashback-sequence is, of course, meant to be the crossing of the Helcaraxë, the frozen wasteland that the Noldor following Fingolfin had to cross in order to reach Middle-earth: "Led by Fingolfin and his sons, and by Finrod and Galadriel, they dared to pass into the bitterest North; and finding no other way they endured at last the terror of the Helcaraxë and the cruel hills of ice. Few of the deeds of the Noldor thereafter surpassed that desperate crossing in hardihood or woe."
J. R. R. Tolkien The Silmarillion 1977
Chapter Nine Of the Flight of the Noldor p 90.