The Past is a Foreign Country
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Author: AC
Series: Folly of Starlight
Website: http://www.ithilas.com/fos.html
Synopsis: The Witch King of Angmar proves a lesser adversary than
Glorfindel’s personal demons
Pairing(s): Glorfindel/Elrohir assumed
Rating: NC 17
Not mine, no harm intended, the sheep are lying through their teeth!
Thanks to Emma for the beta job.
Comments are always cherished (elrond@ithilas.com)
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“The past is a foreign country. They do things differently there –
but why is the past so different from the future? Why do we remember the
past, but not the future?”
-- L.P. Hartley, The Go Between
[Tuile 20, 1975 years into the Third Age of Middle-earth, the Valley
sanctuary of Imladris]
Part 1:
A soft breeze rustled the delicate, hand-woven curtains, the distinctive,
subtle fragrance of tree blossoms permeating the room. Yet the somber
and agitated mood of the chamber’s occupants hung heavy in the air, more
befitting the heat of Laire’s long days. The Lady Celebrian sat on an
embroidered stool, her brow knitted in obvious concern. Her elder son stood
beside her with an expression of disapproval. Both watched as the younger
Elrondion fidgeted restlessly on the edge of his bed, a large gash on his
back currently under the silent attention of Elrond’s most trusted advisor.
“If you continue to squirm, it will only prolong the time required
for me to stitch your wound, and add considerably to your pain,” Glorfindel
sternly barked.
“’Tis only a scratch,” Elrohir retorted with feigned indifference.
He tried to glance over his shoulder at the blond elf, but winced noticeably
at the sharp needles of pain which immediately shot through his flesh. “The
orc who wielded that blade fell in his next heartbeat, his blood staining
my sword.”
Ignoring the vain boasts of battle, Celebrian reached out a hand and
patted her son’s knee. “Do as he says, Elrohir. Why must you always ignore
the advice of your elders? There was once a time when you would listen
to Glorfindel, and it was your brother who would exasperate us all. How
I long for those days at this moment.”
“Stop speaking of me as if I were still a child! Elrohir snapped back.
Elladan slowly shook his head, crossing his arms across over his chest.
“She will, when you stop acting as one! Your wound was sheer carelessness,
and a distraction to us all. ‘Tis a miracle it was not worse.”
Glorfindel dabbed at the newly-closed wound none-too gently with an
astringent herbal oil as Elrohir sucked in a sharp breath. “Your brother
is correct – you should be more careful.”
Elladan glared accusingly at his twin, his eyes narrowing to slits.
“He was showing off for the Galadrin,” he said with a taunting tone.
“Why would you feel the need to prove something to one from my parent’s
realm?” Celebrian queried with confusion. “They know the bloodlines which
flow through your veins, and hold you in respect without question.”
“I have no need to prove myself to anyone,” Elrohir curtly affirmed,
his eyes blazing in his mother’s direction. He shifted around on the bed
and faced Glorfindel. “Anyone,” he repeated with obvious purpose, before
turning his gaze toward the floor.
Glorfindel shuddered slightly, despite his impressive self control,
for not only did he understand Elrohir’s response, but he knew that Elladan’s
accusation was sexual and not political in nature. He had seen with his
own eyes on more than one occasion how his former lover had shamelessly flirted
with the stoic captain from Lothlorien. He had wondered if Elrohir only
did it to cause him pain, to torture him for breaking off their relationship
despite the younger elf’s desperate pleas. With the pain of his fea rivaling
that in Elrohir’s flesh, all he could do was sigh and remain behind the mask
of safety his office provided. “There, your wound is clean and bound. I
will make a poultice for the bruise on your shoulder, and you will be ready
to rest for the night.” He allowed himself one guilty look at the younger
elf’s taut, sculpted shoulders, remembered the smooth texture and intoxicating
taste of that unblemished skin. His heart breaking as it had on so many
occasions in this age, he tore his gaze away and handed his former lover
a green robe. “It will take a few minutes to mix the herbs and warm them,”
he offered, his voice mechanical in its forced lack of emotion.
In the silence of his bitterness, Elrohir snatched the robe from Glorfindel’s
hand and carefully slid it over his shoulders.
Celebrian rose, and fussed with her younger son’s garment, then turned
away and took one of Elladan’s hands in hers. “Let us leave your brother
now,” she urged. She caught Glorfindel’s gaze as he bowed slightly to
her, a slight smile gracing her lips. “He is in the best of hands,” she
cryptically offered.
Momentarily the prisoner of his guilty conscience, Glorfindel felt
his heart skip a beat. <<By Elbereth, she knows,>> he realized,
panicking silently. Yet he somehow sensed naught but approval in that unspoken
suggestion. <<Too late it is granted, My Lady,>> he sadly thought.
<<And yours is not the only approval required.>> Clearing his
throat, he turned his attention to the jars of herbs and oils he had spread
out on the bedside table and the making the promised poultice. “So, was
your brother correct? Were you trying to impress Amdir?” he warily asked
with a surreptitious glance back at the bed.
“What business is it of yours?” Elrohir shot back indignantly, wrapping
the robe more fully around his body. A twinge of pain slowed his motions,
but he held back any outward sign of reaction. He would not give Glorfindel
the power of knowing he was correct, in more ways than one.
Although stung by both the retort and its tone, Glorfindel knew the
twin was correct. Elrohir’s heart had ceased to be his personal prize long
before. “I serve your father,” he calmly began, staring into the pestle
in which he mixed his herbs. “I serve all your family. Any foolish actions
which may lead to your pain, and that of your kin, are therefore my business.”
Elrohir laughed derisively, his tone one of pain rather than mirth.
“I may have been foolish in my youth, but I have most certainly learned
from my mistakes. I will *not* repeat them.”
The arrows of insult and blame hurled at him pierced his heart to the
core, but Glorfindel absorbed them without external reaction. “Then I am
gladdened,” he coolly replied. He completed his nursing in awkward silence,
then sat back on his stool. “See to it that you get a full night’s rest,”
he sternly ordered. “I trust Amdir will not distract you before the dawn.”
“Only in my dreams,” Elrohir venomously spat back.
------------
Glorfindel stared out over the valley from the window of his private
chamber, Ithil’s ethereal glow bathing the newly-blossomed leaves with
kisses of silver hue. However, his heart felt as black as a starless night.
<<Why do you blame him for finding interest in another?>> he
sharply chided himself. The apparent focus of Elrohir’s affection was one
of the Galadrim, an “exchange” from Lothlorien, sent to learn from Elrond’s
court and in return bring some of the wood’s ways to the valley. Amdir was
blond, as was Glorfindel, but his features were more delicate. He seemed
to lack Glorfindel’s silent strength, preferring to more openly flaunt his
prowess in a decidedly haughty manner. He appeared to hold Imladris clearly
inferior to Lothlorien in all ways, and voiced his disdainful comparisons
whenever Elrond himself was carefully out of earshot. It grated on Glorfindel’s
nerves, yet he admirably held his tongue. He only voiced his indignation
to Erestor in private, and his wise friend had made the insightful observation
that none of the Galadrim, save the Lady Galadriel herself, had ever seen
the Blessed Lands. They who lived under the trees of Middle-earth lacked
the innate sorrow and graceful acceptance of those who had once beheld the
Two Trees of Valinor. “They know not the sorrow of the Exiles, nor the beauty
of what was lost forever,” Erestor had sagely pointed out.
<<You know not the beauty of what is lost to me forever, my friend.>>
Glorfindel sighed weightily, tears of regret rimming his eyes. He quickly
swiped away the dampness. After all, it had been his decision to end his
ill-begun relationship with his Lord’s son. In those first giddy days of
love’s innocence they had consummated their relationship daily, hidden away
in the privacy of Elrohir’s hand-made flet. But when they had returned to
Imladris from Lothlorien, stealth and restraint had been their constant
and most unwelcome companions.
Once back within the valley, they found solace in the sweet taste of
each other’s flesh barely one night per Ithil’s cycle. Sorties were pure
torture, as even when they were together they could not risk being found
out, instead laying but a few feet apart in chaste repose, Elladan unknowingly
acting as chaperone. Months apart turned to seasons, their passion starving
on the meager sustenance of stolen kisses. Elrohir wished to toss caution
to the wind, to openly declare their love to all who would listen, including
his father. In his heart, Glorfindel wished for nothing less, knowing that
his love for the younger elf was true. But his secret pledge to the Valar
remained a wedge ever present between them, no matter how much he wished
to push it aside. He was openly reminded of his responsibility – now considered
as much as curse as a promise – a thousand years into this age, when his
old friend from Valinor, the Maia Olorin, arrived in Middle-earth in the
guise of an old man. Mithrandir had, by his mere presence alone,
reminded him of his pledge to Manwe and his true mission in Middle-earth
– to protect the line of Tuor, not to find his selfish pleasures therein.
Crushed by the weight of his guilt, Glorfindel consciously began to
find excuses for not spending time alone with his paramour of nearly a millennium,
instead volunteering for any and all missions which would remove himself
from the torment that had become Elrohir’s presence. The fall of the great
forest of Greenwood under the shadow of Dol Guldur provided a convenient
excuse, as Glorfindel frequently took upon himself the responsibility of
leading all parties to and from Lothlorien, especially those including Celebrian
and her daughter, the precious Evenstar. Every trip to the secret wood seemed
to take longer to complete, and in jealous confusion, Elrohir had accused
Glorfindel of taking a lover there.
How supreme the irony that now Glorfindel suspected Elrohir of the
very same thing.
The sound of a throat clearing suddenly caught his attention. Glorfindel
turned toward the noise and found one of the Lady Celebrian’s attendants
standing in his doorway. “A thousand apologies for the intrusion, Lord
Glorfindel,” the raven-haired elf maiden began. “I come on the order of
my Lady. She wishes to speak with you in private.”
Glorfindel swallowed hard, dreading what the topic of conversation
might be, given their exchanged expression of earlier hours. “Of course,”
he acquiesced with a slight nod of his head. “I live to serve my Lord and
Lady.” <<And fulfill the burdens placed upon me by the Lord and Lady
of the Valar, my own heart be damned.>>
Part 2:
Glorfindel hesitantly entered through the parted velvet curtains the
elf-maiden dutifully held aside. A memory of Hrive’s chill still visited
the valley on certain morns, so the change had not yet been made to the
more delicate draperies of warmer days. Yet he held no illusion that these
opaque curtains would shield either his heart from what he assumed were
accusations by his Lady, nor hide her words from curious or carelessly close
ears. He stopped just inside her private sitting room with held breath,
waiting while Celebrian stood at the picture window at the far end of the
room, her silver hair cascading down her back like the falls of the Bruinen.
With a loud clearing of his throat, he reluctantly announced his arrival.
“My Lady, you wished to see me?”
Turning in a fluid motion, she smiled as her gaze met his. “Please,
sit,” she suggested, gesturing toward a pair of high-backed chairs set near
the center of the chamber.
“With your leave, I prefer to stand,” Glorfindel uneasily insisted.
“As you wish.” Celebrian glided to the nearest chair and sat upon its
cushion, her eyes never wavering from their inscrutable study of other’s
nervous expression. “Glorfindel, I would speak to you openly, as a counselor
and trusted friend.”
“I am honored by your confidence,” Glorfindel offered with a respectful
bow, her calm demeanor not assuaging his guilt-born nervousness in the slightest.
Sighing, Celebrian finally broke her iron-fast study of the other’s
face, lowering her eyes toward her hands as they wrung in her lap. “The
folly of my younger son’s heart deeply concerns me. I do not understand why
he wastes his time pursuing Amdir in such an obviously frivolous manner.
‘Tis merely a dalliance, and a dangerous distraction, as recent days have
shown.”
Despite the fact that he was no longer under visual interrogation,
Glorfindel instinctively turned away, lest she raise her gaze and see
the torment of his heart he knew was reflected in his eyes.
“Despite the passing of this age, he is still the same brash child
who gave us such fits in Lothlorien in the years before his majority,”
Celebrian continued. “Elrond oft says, with great exasperation, that he
sees much of his brother in our sons.”
A moment of silence passed, then the soft sound of wood gently creaking
and the barely perceptible patter of slow footsteps made Glorfindel’s heart
skip a beat as he knew Celebrian drew closer.
“But his follies affect more than himself,” the lyric lilt of Celebrian’s
voice offered from barely an arm’s distance behind Glorfindel’s back.
“They cause pain immeasurable to others.”
Glorfindel squeezed shut his eyes, silently willing the inescapable
not to happen. As he feared, he felt a hand grab his shoulder and without
words urge him to turn around. Resistance would only delay the inevitable,
the unthinkable, the baring of his heart, his fea, naked and guileless before
one whom he knew he could not fool. His gaze lingered on the floor, until
a single finger gently raised his chin, and with it, his sight.
“He especially causes pain to you,” Celebrian whispered, her eyes empathetically
reflecting the pain in his heart.
He felt the unwelcome heat of crimson color settling in his cheeks,
despite his many centuries and myriad experiences. “My Lady –“ he whispered,
his voice trailing off in his guilt and shame.
To his surprise, Celebrian merely smiled, sweetly, sincerely, with
no hint of judgment, blame, or disapproval. “I do not need my mother’s
special insight to see what is in your heart, and in both your eyes and
his. His heart belongs to you, and yours to him. It has since the days
of his youth.”
Somehow Glorfindel found his voice and instinctively protested. “Do
not think that I would pursue a child –“ he began. <<But I did not
resist him enough,>> his guilt silently finished.
Celebrian smiled more sweetly still, releasing the steadfast chin.
“Your honor is intact, dear friend. I know that you honored your role
as tutor to my sons, but I also know the persistence of my offspring, all
three of them. I do not doubt that it is you who were pursued, and that
it was for that very reason that Elrohir and his brother were sent to my
parents’ realm. The change I saw in my younger son upon returning home
with you was unmistakable. At first I must admit I was surprised, but
after witnessing how he had grown under your tender care, whatever form
it might have taken, my heart was filled with naught but gratitude.
Glorfindel wanted to ask what exactly the lady meant by those words,
but somehow could not bring himself. Part of him did not want to know
what she knew or suspected. Instead he turned away again and paced several
steps closer to the door. “My Lady, I cannot speak of this with you, my
shame is too great –“
“Your shame? Since when is love ever to be the subject of shame?”
“’Tis complicated. Lord Elrond would not understand—“
“Perhaps *he* would not, but *I* do. You forget that I am used to ‘complications’
in love. I know well the ghost that still remains between Elrond and me.
Our bed is crowded by his presence even after all this time. You know of
whom I speak.”
Turning back to face the lady, Glorfindel’s eyes were filled with knowing
compassion and empathy. “My Lady, I am so sorry –“
His unnecessary apology was halted by a raised hand. “There is no need
for sorrow, as I knew well I had not his heart when I agreed to be his
wife. Perhaps a naïve part of me once believed we could find love with
each other one day, but I have long since abandoned that foolish dream.
The bonds of respect, trust, and our children are strong enough for us.”
“But do they bring you any comfort, any joy?”
Celebrian’s smile turned slightly sad. “Some… enough. Do not think
me unhappy, Glorfindel. But when I saw the light of true love in my son’s
eyes – a light *you* kindled there – I knew what pure joy was, if only through
him.” She gently captured Glorfindel’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “Why
do I no longer find that light in his eyes, or in yours? Why has it been
replaced by the veil of sorrowed longing?”
With a hint of a regret-filled smile curling the corner of his lips,
Glorfindel wrapped his free hand around their conjoined fingers. “My heart
cannot be my master -- my lord. My actions answer to a higher authority.”
“Elrond would never come between you, even if he knew—“
“I mean Lord Manwe, my Lady. My presence here in Middle-earth, in your
court, in your life, is ordained by Manwe and decreed by Mandos. To serve
the line of Tuor is my charge, with which I presented myself to your husband,
when first I returned to this land from the Blessed Shores, and it has
not wavered to this day. Once pronounced, the dooms of Mandos cannot be
recalled.”
Celebrian appeared to study his face with probing intensity, then completed
the interweaving of their hands with her free fingers. “There is more
to this charge than you admit to, my friend.”
Glorfindel thought to deny it, but realized that the probing curiosity
of the daughter of Galadriel could not be averted with any success. “Not
as I originally swore. Lord Ulmo, the protector of Tuor’s line, he who
ended my term in Mandos’ dark halls, visited me in dreams, ere Mithrandir
came to these shores. He let it be known that the term of my service to
him, and the House of Tuor, in Middle-earth is to last until the last heir
of Earendil sails West, as is their right.”
“But that is a vow which can never be fulfilled,” Celebrian urged.
“So long as the kings of Arthedain and Gondor flourish, the blood of Earendil
flows through the flesh of Middle-earth.” She pondered this for a moment
further, her face taking on an expression of horrified concern. “Ai, you
have been tricked, or worse, by the Lord of Waters, for the heirs of Elros
can never set foot in the Undying Lands, as the rebels of Numenor themselves
discovered.”
A true smile blossomed on Glorfindel’s face for the first time in many
a day. “The Lady of the Stars would never allow one of the Eldar to be
so doomed without hope, as you suggest. Thus I remain so long as the line
of Elrond graces these shores. Your family holds the key to my future.
<<As well as the key to my heart.>>” He paused, then gave Celebrian
a serious expression. “None know besides you, the Valar, and I suspect
Mithrandir, although we spoke of it not, and so it must remain. I would
not influence the most important decisions of your husband or your children
– whether to pass into the West or no – merely for my own selfish wishes.
That would be the ultimate betrayal of my oath of service.”
“And none shall ever hear it from my lips,” Celebrian solemnly affirmed.
“But I still do not see why the desires of your heart must be forsaken
for the oaths of your flesh?”
To Glorfindel’s supreme relief, the need for an explanation he was
certain he could not provide was ruled moot by the unexpected interruption
of Celebrian’s lady-in-waiting.
“My Lady, a thousand pardons,” the maiden nervously began, bowing respectfully
from the curtained doorway. “Your Lord would see Glorfindel immediately,
in his library.” With this announcement she disappeared behind the curtain
once more, and her swift footsteps could be heard receding in the hall
beyond.
<<Thanks be to the Lady,>> Glorfindel silently prayed.
“By your leave,” he offered, with a low bow of his own, extricating his
hands from the other’s.
“We will speak of this again, you and I,” Celebrian insisted. “Until
then, know that if you reconsider your stubborn self-restraint, you shall
have my fullest blessings, now and until the end of Arda, so long as my
son returns your desire – as he still does even now.”
“He is young, and free of fate’s decree. I am neither,” Glorfindel
sadly offered, turning towards the doorway.
“We all have our fate, but that does not have to rob us of opportunities
to enjoy what choices are given to us in the mean-time.” Celebrian called
out to the elf lord as he moved through the curtain. “Glorfindel, remember
that to deny passion is to deny life. You and my son have been given a
choice, an opportunity which I was not. Do not squander it, I beg of you
both.”
With her plaintive words ringing – stinging – in his ears, Glorfindel
rushed across the stonework to what he assumed would be yet another occasion
to exercise the oath that bound him to his lord, and his loneliness.
Part 3:
“I have spoken with the emissary from Mithlond,” Elrond explained, nervously
pacing across his library with his arms folded behind his back. “Even now,
the combined host of the Havens and Gondor prepare to march toward Fornost.
‘Tis said even the Periannath have sent their finest archers in service
to Arthedain’s dead king.”
“You wish for Imladris to join in the alliance,” Glorfindel correctly
surmised.
“Yes. There is not time to send for aid from Lothlorien or Mirkwood,
so we will offer every bow and sword that we can spare.” Elrond suddenly
ceased his pacing, paused, glanced down towards the floor and sighed loudly.
Glorfindel watched in silence from near the doorway, where he had stood
since entering the room a few moments before. He understood well the burden
which rested upon Elrond as ruler of the valley, having witnessed the myriad
sacrifices Elrond had made for his country, his kin, and all of Middle-earth.
“My Lord, what is it you would have me do in preparation?”
“I would have you prepare yourself to lead the company of Imladris,
as I would trust no other with this task.” Elrond turned to face his long-time
friend and most trusted confidante. “I find myself struggling with this
decision, nonetheless, for I cannot foresee your safe return with certainty,
and I cannot fathom my court without your sage counsel.”
“Then I will do my utmost not to place you in such an unpleasant situation,”
Glorfindel gently joked. He bowed slightly to his lord, his expression one
of confidence and calm. “I gladly accept this charge, and will not fail
you. I have always served the House of the Swan, and I ever shall, with
all my strength and reverence. Arvedui of the House of Arthedain was your
kin, as is the Captain of Gondor. They, too, deserve my service, which I
most willingly place at their disposal. We shall leave with the dawn.”
“Take all who can be spared,” Elrond instructed, any hint of emotion
banished from his voice. “Leave behind only enough to protect our immediate
borders. Some of the maidens are manageable with a bow – that will aid our
defenses if need be.”
“As you wish.” A panicking thought exploded through Glorfindel’s mind.
Elrohir would most certainly seize this as an opportunity to show off his
prowess in battle, if not in a vain attempt to impress his former lover
then to spite him. The results would be disastrous at best, tragic at worst.
“My Lord, the twins will wish to honor their father and their house and join
the battle, as is their right. But it would break your lady wife’s heart
if, Varda forbid, both her sons – both your heirs -- were to fall.”
“What would you suggest?” Elrond inquired with a raised eyebrow of interest.
“One should remain behind,” Glorfindel calmly offered, moving several
steps closer to his liege, desperately hoping he had succeeded in masking
both his true intent and his emotions.
Pursing his lips, Elrond nodded in agreement. “’Tis sage advice, as
always, my friend, but one would never leave the other behind. How can
I decide which remains and which arms for battle?”
The blond elf lord silently counted to five before answering, lest he
seem too eager in his solution to the problem. “If I may be so bold, I
will suggest an answer for you. Elrohir has been… distracted as of late.
I fear his mind is far too muddled for battle.”
Elrond pondered this for a moment, his expression distant and troubled.
“I have seen it myself, ‘tho I know not the cause.”
“I have some suspicions,” Glorfindel dared to say.
Meeting his friend’s gaze, Elrond smirked slightly. “But none that you
would share. No matter, I would not have you breech whatever confidence
my sons have placed in you. You have always been their most trusted advisor,
in a way a father can never hope to be. Especially to Elrohir. You and he
have been close practically since he was weaned.”
Wincing at Elrond’s innocent yet piercingly insightful comment, Glorfindel
nervously wrung his hands together. “Nevertheless, it removes the responsibility
from your hands, and theirs. If he asks for a reason, claim it is because
his wound still needs time to heal properly.”
“He will know that is a lie. His flesh would be whole before you reached
the plains of Fornost.”
“’Tis all a lie, My Lord,” Glorfindel sadly admitted. Lies upon lies,
to himself, to Elrohir, to all others in their lives, so many they outnumbered
the glimmering dew drops of Telperion Varda had placed in the sky all those
ages before. One more would be like a single teardrop shed into the Great
Sea, nothing more. “What matters is that your sons will abide by your orders,
even if they do not understand or agree with them.”
All that mattered was that Elrohir would be safe, regardless of Glorfindel’s
fate. He could live with his beloved’s understandable wrath – he could not,
however, live without him.
[Several hours later]
Somewhere beyond Glorfindel’s sight, the lonesome hoot of a tree-perched
owl punctured the silence of the forest’s mantle of darkness. He had been
sitting cross-legged, for the passing of untold moments in this, his “secret
place,” the one he had shared with Elrohir in far happier times past. It
was here on this natural blanket of verdant moss, hidden behind the modesty
of a ring of young trees and tumbled boulders, that he and the younger elf
had met for their forbidden trysts. On nights when Ithil rested and was absent
from the sky, they would meet here in the still and silent hours before
the dawn and indulge their flesh in the delirium of desire. None knew of
it but they, their own private world, untarnished by the politics of the
court and the prying eyes of the elder twin. If he had come here this night
seeking some semblance of peace, he had been sorely fooling himself. For
the memories were especially vivid and tormenting this night, in this place,
only amplifying his pain.
“Glorfindel!”
The sound of his name suddenly bellowed out by a not-unexpected voice
caught his ear. He did not even consider hiding, slipping away unnoticed
into the forest, because this confrontation had been ordained from the
moment he set his plan into motion in Elrond’s library. Instead he stood,
brushed the fallen tree flowers from his robes, and awaited the inevitable.
Elrohir roughly pushed aside the branches of two trees and glared at
the elder elf. “How dare you!” he spat, his eyes blazing with the fire of
his grandsire’s silmaril. “Do not deny that it was you who manipulated my
father into banishing me from the battlefield.”
“Your father is not one to be manipulated,” Glorfindel coolly explained.
“He makes his own decisions.”
“You deny you had a hand in this? We both know he holds your counsel
above all others.”
Glorfindel could think of no lame excuse to make in his own defense,
so remained silent, his gaze nervously flitting from tree to tree as he awaited
the next barrage of accusations.
“Why can you not be honest with me?” Elrohir implored stomping to within
a breath’s distance away from the other’s face.
“Because the truth is not always the best response,” the elder elf answered.
Elrohir laughed, his tone hollow and bitter. “Why did I expect you to
answer other than a riddle?” The laughter ceased, his expression turning
sorrowed and pained. “Why are you doing this to me? Are you trying to protect
me, or punish me?”
“Does it really matter?”
“Nay, as I will not suffer either without a fight!” The anger died away
in a single breath, replaced by the beseeching of his broken heart. “I
would fight by your side, even if you would ban me from your bed. Why must
you take even that small glimmer of hope away from me?”
There was nothing Glorfindel could say which would not damn him, betray
him, reveal his actual feelings. In truth, he ached to kiss those tender
lips again, to stroke those tight, ticklish thighs between which he had
found such bliss. To forget honor and duty, and the Valar be damned, to
have free will if only for a single sweet moment of madness. But, alas,
his chance for such follies had long since passed, and to indulge them now
would only confuse them both and make their necessary separation more torturous
still.
“My loyalty is, as it has ever been, to your father and his forebearers
before him. I would protect your family to my last breath.”
“What good is protecting me when you torture yourself – when you torture
*me*?” Elrohir lunged forward and tried to capture the other’s lips with
his, but was rebuked by quickly outstretched arms. Blinking back tears, he
stepped backwards, tripping slightly as his knees buckled under him in a
haze of disbelief. “We have wasted nearly a thousand years. Will another thousand
years pass before you realize the folly of your damnable dedication to what
you believe is your *duty*?”
Glorfindel sighed under the crushing weight of his guilt and grief,
the long-missed sensation of the other’s solid form still tingling through
his aching fingers. “I have accepted my duty, my fate. Yours still
lies before you. Do not be so eager to bind yourself to my doom.”
“Sharing whatever doom you think awaits you would be as the Blessed
Lands compared to spending the remainder of this age absent from your arms.”
“The decision has been made. I leave in the morn, and you shall remain
here and protect your mother and your home. Honor the importance of that
responsibility.” Glorfindel forced a slight smile to his lips. “Honor your
father’s wishes.”
“I would honor my love for you above all else.”
Glorfindel felt his heart rise into his throat, threaten to burst under
the power of its furious beating. For a single moment he nearly succumbed
to the pleading of his heart’s desire. But the moment passed, and with
it, any hope of recapturing what had once been. “Why must you make this
difficult for us both,” he whispered, his voice tremulous in the strained
struggle for self control.
Stepping forward once more, Elrohir raised a hand to the blond’s face,
gently brushing the back of his fingers against one high cheekbone. “You
wish it to – ‘tis in your eyes, your voice, your face. Ai, I feel it in
your skin as you tremble beneath my touch. Why can we not go back to the
way we were? None knew then, none need know now.”
“The past is a foreign country, pen-neth,” Glorfindel explained sadly,
slipping in his use of his affectionate nickname for his former lover as
he stepped backwards out of the tormenting contact. “The world was different
then – *we* were different then. This is a new time, with new expectations
placed upon us that we cannot ignore. We cannot go back. It was wrong then
-- *I* was wrong.”
“No, it was *not* wrong,” Elrohir shouted angrily in his frustration
and pain. “I will never believe that – never!”
“Honor your father’s wishes, as I shall, in the morn,” Glorfindel calmly
suggested, his heart breaking, his very fea shattering into a kaleidoscope
of pain, regrets, and longing. If Mandos had appeared at that moment and
offered him another place in the Timeless Halls, he would have surely considered
the offer.
“Honor – how that word sounds like poison dripping from your lips at
this moment,” Elrohir spat. “You once worried that because of our relationship
you would bring dishonor to us both. How ironic that you have finally succeeded.”
With a final, accusatory glare, he stalked from the grove, leaving the elder
elf to wrestle with his personal demons.
Part 4:
Glorfindel surveyed the slumbering silence of the valley from a lonely
balcony, Elrohir’s damning words of an hour before still echoing in his
ears. The rest of Imladris was comfortably abed, either partaking in the
peace of Irmo’s gift of dreams, or finding sweet succor in the arms of another.
He would enjoy neither this night. The ancient elf had found little to enjoy
in his life, as of late. It made him miss the Blessed Lands all the more
keenly. Above all else he missed the peace of Irmo’s gardens of Lorien, the
silent solace of the pale lady Este, even the sympathetic tears of Nienna
for those in Mandos’ realm. How his life strangely felt like the gloomy darkness
of the Timeless Halls as of late
For the briefest moment he wondered what fate would befall him if he
openly challenged the orders of the Lord of the Waters. But to what end?
Did he not wish to follow Ulmo’s charge with every fiber of his being –
to serve the House of Elrond and protect it from all harm? How could he
do that in good conscience and still follow the desire of his heart? If
he allowed their relationship to continue, Elrohir would never consider
taking a wife and begetting heirs. If he learned of the terms of Glorfindel’s
“sentence,” his decision whether to sail West or not would be swayed, and
perhaps that of his twin as well. If Elrohir continued to consider Glorfindel’s
life more dear than his own, he might unnecessarily risk himself for Glorfindel’s
sake. How could any of these be other than a transgression of his vows?
“I see that sleep eludes you as well, my friend,” a familiar voice interjected
from an adjacent hall.
Glorfindel spun on his heels to find Erestor smiling at him. “Why are
you finding no respite tonight? You are among the few to remain here in the
morn.”
Erestor slowly strolled onto the terrace and cast his gaze over the valley
below them. “Perhaps that is why.”
“You are not the only one with regrets at remaining here.”
“Aye, the protests of Elrond’s younger son could be heard across the
mountains when his father broke the news,” Erestor joked.
“Humor the meddling nature of a doting tutor, and keep him under your
eye, and in your confidence, if he feels the need to voice his frustrations
further,” Glorfindel asked earnestly, hoping he had wrapped his request in
a reasonable ruse.
“We have always looked after the best interest of Elrond’s children,
you and I,” Erestor agreed without any hint of suspicion. “I will double
my efforts in your absence.”
Glorfindel reached out a hand and gratefully grasped the other’s forearm
in thanks. “I pray you will not have to strain yourself with this burden
for long.”
The elves turned in silence and stood side by side against the railing,
soaking in the stillness of the closing stanzas of night’s poetry. Erestor
cocked his head to one side and stared at the mountains, his expression distant,
as if peering through the rocky crags to the other side, to the secret wood
beyond. “Perhaps once Angmar is vanquished, the Lady Arwen will return home.
It has been far too long since she has graced these halls.”
The blond elf was taken aback by a certain telltale quality in Erestor’s
voice he well-recognized – it was how he sometimes spoke of Elrohir when
he was not careful to mask his true emotions. “Your interest in the Evenstar
is far more than the concern of a member of the court, my friend,” he empathetically
urged.
With a visible shudder, Erestor guiltily jerked his head to the other
side and stammered most uncharacteristically. “I… I would not… I cannot…
you would never dare to speak a word of this to anyone… *anyone*!”
Reaching out a hand, Glorfindel affectionately squeezed the agitated
elf’s shoulder. “Your secret is safe with me. Not even Morgoth himself
could pry it from my lips.” He loosened his grip and smiled. The idea of
a match between Erestor and Arwen Undomiel pleased him greatly, for selfish
as well as selfless reasons. “Does she know how you feel?” he gently probed.
With an expression of abject horror, Erestor backed away from Glorfindel
and shook his head. “Nay, nor shall she ever know. I would rather die than
disgrace her or her family in that way. She shall never know of the profanity
of my desires. ’Tis my own shame to bear.”
“How can you be so certain that she does not share your feelings? She
has had a great affection for you since she was a child. You were always
her favorite tutor. She would listen to you when my words fell on ears of
stone.” The supreme irony of this conversation brought both pain and promise
to his heart. “Why do you deem your feelings ‘profane’?”
“There is a better chance that Ithil would fall from the sky than the
Lady would consider me as more than a trusted friend. But I would not allow
even the slimmest glimmer of hope to blossom in that regard. I serve Lord
Elrond, and he has placed his complete trust in me, as he has in you. I will
not betray it, not at any cost, and certainly not over something as foolish
as my heart. Lady Arwen deserves a mate of blood far nobler than mine. Surely
you above all others would understand what I mean.”
Resisting the urge to succumb to the suffocating blanket of paranoia,
Glorfindel realized that Erester drew his conclusions from Glorfindel’s well-known
record of service to the House of Elrond, nothing more. With a weighty sigh,
he stepped closer to his long-time friend and wrapped an arm around his shoulder,
turning them both to face the east, where the tell-tale silvering of the
sky heralded Anor’s imminent ascension. “I understand, mellon-nin. I understand
well.” <<More than you can ever possibly know.>>
--------------------------------------
Anor ascended into the vaults of heaven, and with it arose the citizens
of the valley. Many donned battle armor and readied their horses, others
steeled their hearts against the possibility that those they loved might not
return. As the golden lantern cleared the treetops cloistering the Bruinen,
Glorfindel and his force assembled by the stone gateway, Elrond and Celebrian
overlooking their departure as those who remained behind thronged the overlooking
balconies and terraces. Glorfindel fidgeted in his saddle as Elrond addressed
the assembly, the words of encouragement blurring with the sound of his own
rapid heartbeat. His eyes frantically surveyed every overhang, each window,
hoping to spy one last vision of Elrohir’s face, but as he had expected, and
dreaded, the younger Elrondion seemed to be spurning the send-off by conscious
choice. He closed his eyes and drew strength and resolve for success from
the sweet visage whose image was forever burned in his mind’s eye.
The sound of hoofs nervously pawing at the ground caught Glorfindel’s
attention. He glanced briefly to his right, toward where Elladan and his
horse held their position, with several elves between them. Glorfindel scowled
to himself – Elladan’s horse was uncharacteristically restless, and the twin’s
body language was no less tense. Already donning his helm, much of his face
was shielded from Glorfindel’s study. His own horse snorted slightly, and
he affectionately stroked the white steed’s neck. “Courage, Faensul,” he whispered
lowly. He pondered the fact that the horses had sufficient wisdom to doubt
the success of this sortie.
Raising his eyes, he watched as Lady Celebrian studied her son,
her expression reflecting uncertainty, then alarm, as if she noted something
amiss, or, even more disquieting still, she had been graced by some
prescient vision from the Valar. But before long, her face took on a calmer
demeanor, a slight smile tinged with a hint of sadness returning to her
face, and she raised a hand to her heart and bowed slightly toward her son.
A rousing cry rang out among the cavalry, and Glorfindel collected his
thoughts, bowed to Elrond, and directed his horse to turn around and lead
the way out of the gate and into uncertainty. As they galloped down the
narrow roadway which threaded along the ridge down to the Fords of the Bruinen,
he raised a hand to his heart and cupped his fingers around the hardness
which imperceptibly bulged the overlying linen and leather. It had never
left his flesh from the day it had been gifted upon him, a pale blue stone
carefully held captive in a silver setting. The mounted stone and his vivid
memories were his greatest treasures, all that remained of his days of
greatest joy. <<You are with me, pen-neth, no matter the passage
of days or length of my travels. I shall see your beauteous face again,
in this life, or my next, by the Valar’s grace.>> Surely the Lady
would not begrudge him this one small pleasure, this one glimmer of hope
which would have to succor and sustain him in the travails which were to
come.
He had faced a fire beast of Utumno and slain the foul monster in the
name of Gondolin, and his oath to protect the Line of Tuor. The King of the
Ulairi was surely no greater a foe, but perhaps no less so in his own manner.
Squeezing the stone as it rested comfortingly against his chest, his expression
grew more determined, all hint of fear receding from his flesh like the
outgoing tide. He would triumph, he *had* to triumph, to protect Imladris,
his adopted home, and he who owned his heart.
Part 5:
[The deserted plains between the Weather Hills and Fornost]
Six morns before they had left Imladris, galloping down the Great East
Road with hope and dread intertwined in their hearts. Abandoning the road
at Weathertop, they had continued their purposeful ride across the lonely
plain toward Fornost. Both Elf and horse were daily pushed to near exhaustion,
desperately trying to reach the battle before the tide turned either for
or against the Host of the West.
The weary band briefly rested near a small grove of trees, sharing water
and the palpable yet unspoken, nervous anticipation of the battle to come
amongst themselves, and with their steeds. Most of the elves had shucked
their helms from their heads, allowing the crisp, spring breeze to blow through
their helmet-matted hair. But one elf rested apart from his brothers-in-arms,
more unnerved than the rest, his crest still adorning his head. He surreptitiously
stole glances at his comrades from under his long lashes, raising his water
skin to his lips for a slow sip. He uncomfortably shrugged against the leather
and metal armor which awkwardly bound his chest. Although he and Elladan
were strikingly similar in appearance, in some ways they were far from mirror
images. Their musculatures had become somewhat specialized in their majority,
not so much that anyone would observe a noticeable difference, but enough
that one’s armor felt strangely foreign to the other. It did not help that
his brother’s steed had a different gait from his own, and both rider and
ridden were obviously uncomfortable with their foisted arrangement. For not
the first time since leaving his home, Elrohir sincerely regretted drugging
his brother’s wine and then placing his limp body in his own bed.
“Back to the chase!” Glorfindel’s familiar voice suddenly rang out from
the far side of the host.
As the other elves sprang back onto their barely-rested horses, Elrohir
lagged a moment in his weariness. His wounds had only just healed from his
last skirmish, and in rare moments still bothered him with phantom pains.
With a less than enthusiastic sigh, he stowed his water and climbed back into
his brother’s saddle, paused for a moment, and without thinking, pulled his
brother’s ill-fitting helmet from his head. He raked his fingers through
his dark hair, and with the helm tucked under one arm, adjusted the leather
tie which held his braid back from his face. He wished he had allowed himself
the luxury of using his own hair ties, but he knew his plan would only work
if he kept to the details, as trivial as they might seem to be. Glorfindel
would not be easily fooled, and he did not put it past his former lover
to send him back to the valley if his true identity were discovered before
the enemy was engaged.
Swallowing hard, he closed his eyes, ruing his decision once more, then
opened his eyes and discovered to his horror a piercing, storm-hued gaze trained
on his face, eyes which now flashed with a fury he had not seen since his
childhood. <<Ai! I am caught,>> he realized, watching as Glorfindel
rode toward him at full gallop, his helmet precariously hanging on the horn
of his saddle, the sea of confounded comrades instantly parting around him.
With heart in throat, Elrohir sat upon his stolen steed with an expression
of false composure, grasping at one desperate, final thread of hope that
his ruse had not completely come unraveled.
Glorfindel reined in his horse just an arm’s distance away, his simmering
rage illuminating his noble features with an internal fire. “You should
have remained at home, as your father ordered,” the elf lord slowly spat,
softly enough for none to hear but them both. “If your new lover is worthy
of the honor of family’s trust, he can stand without you in battle.”
Elrohir stood his ground, with his words as well as his horse’s position.
“’Tis my former lover’s obstinacy which brings me here.” His eyes searched
the other’s face for any hint of a chink in the emotional armor with which
Glorfindel had inexplicably clothed himself these agonizing past years.
“Just because you now refuse to lie with me does not mean that I would be
so quick to forget the love we once shared and the trust we had once earned
from each other. I will do as I have ever done, and follow my heart before
my House. Today, as in battles before, I am willing to sacrifice all for
both.”
To Elrohir’s surprise, Glorfindel’s expression turned to one of the greatest
sorrow he had ever seen, then just as quickly morphed back to its original
semblance of bitterness and rage. “You have no idea what it means to sacrifice
for your House, Child. No idea.” With that chillingly hostile retort ringing
in the twin’s ears, Glorfindel turned his horse and began to gallop away,
calling for the troops to fall into formation as he rode. Roughly brushing
a single tear from the corner of his eye, Elrohir slid his brother’s helmet
over his head and joined in the rear of the receding elven band, his heart
only prevented from cleaving in two by the pressure of his brother’s armor
binding his chest.
Several hundred paces ahead, a flock of eagles suddenly circled overhead,
catching the elves’ attention. Glorfindel halted, his comrades instantly
following suit. One of the majestic birds swooped lower, landing on the outstretched,
leather-wrapped arm Glorfindel offered. Elrohir watched in wonder as the
eagle and his beloved appeared to share words, Glorfindel nodding in apparent
understanding of whatever the messenger of Manwe had revealed, then lifted
his arm upward, gently helping to launch the bird skyward once more. Tightening
the reins of his horse, Glorfindel circled to face his troops and raised
his voice like a clarion call. “The Host of the West has routed the forces
of Angmar!”
A loud cheer erupted, but Glorfindel ceased all celebration with an urgent
wave of his hand. “Even now, Earnur leads the pursuit, as the Witch King
retreats with all who remain of his black hoard, back toward the safety of
Carn Dum. He must not be allowed to reach Angmar!” With heels jabbed into
his horse’s sides, he whirled around and rode like the very wind, his blond
hair flying behind him unfettered, a spitting image of his steed’s wild white
mane. The remainder of Imladris’ host followed closely behind, Elrohir’s
heart in his throat for the entire remainder of their ride.
-----------------------------------------------------
They galloped northward across the desolate plain for the better part of
the afternoon, keen elven eyes strained toward the horizon as they rode,
in anticipation of some sight of the victorious host of Earnur and the routed
remainder of the Witch King’s band. “Ai! They ride like the Eldar!” a voice
amongst them rang out as the Edain were finally spied. With renewed purpose
the elves rode on, closing the gap between them and the riders of Gondor
before long.
As Anor sank lower in the western sky, the elves rounded a low ridge and
flanked the black forces, the battle-wearied and bloodied cavalry of Gondor
let out a rousing cheer of welcome to their allies from Imladris. Swords
sang and arrows flew, spears finding their mark as well, piercing the cold
heart of many of Angmar’s remaining brood. The ground became darkened and
slick with the stain of the intermingled blood of Adan and Eldar, Orc and
Wildman. Final victory was within Gondor’s grasp, when a piercing, blood-chilling
shriek filled the air and emptied the hearts of mortal men.
Whence he came, none could say, but now He reigned over the field. Robed
in black, his face was framed in a heavy hood and hidden behind a mask of
black iron. His night-black horse snorted loudly, pawing the bloodied grass
beneath his hoof.
Not a soul moved, so absolute was the power of his petrifying presence.
A collective breath was held, as He rode straight towards Earnur. Despite
their loyalty to their lord, the Men of Gondor submitted to their fear and
recoiled from his foul presence as he rode on at full gallop. His face grim
and without hint of fear, the prince of Gondor held his ground, his nervous
horse twitching visibly beneath him. Finally the steed’s sage panic overruled
the prince’s foolhardy pride, and both horse and rider swerved aside as the
Witch King passed.
The Lord of Angmar halted and laughed icily at his opponent’s retreat,
as Earnur struggled in vain to regain control of his now galloping horse.
But the Nazgul’s evil humor was cut short in its track when Glorfindel broke
away from his troops and rose straight towards him.
The ancient elf stopped a steed’s-length away from the dark enemy, neither
elf nor horse demonstrating the slightest hint of fear. All watched in wonder
as Glorfindel held his ground before the King of the Ulairi, but none more
so than Elrohir. Glorfindel had always had a special, indescribable fire
in his eyes, the same as he had seen in his grandmother’s gaze. Erestor had
explained it as the legacy of all who had dwelled in the Blessed Lands in
the days before the Rebellion, a reflection of the Valar-born luminescence
of the Two Trees. But now the golden-haired lord simply became luminous from
tip to toe, glowing as Anor, or Ithil, both and neither. His light stood
in sharp contrast to the dark void which seemed to exude from the faceless
hood, a virtual chasm into which all light seemed to fall – except Glorfindel’s.
His was a light of such purity that the shadow of Angmar’s could not profane
it – born in the Blessed Lands, extinguished for an age at the hand of the
firebeast of Utumno, only to be rekindled brighter still upon his rebirth
from Mandos’ Halls. In this moment, Glorfindel far surpassed even Galadriel’s
inherent, ethereal aura. His breath stolen from his chest, Elrohir did not
know whether to worship him or love him more than life itself, although he
now realized that he had done both since his days in the cradle. Elrohir
had been raised on gripping tales of Glorfindel’s unequalled valor, of how
he faced the Balrog and died by happenstance, being dragged into the abyss
by his golden hair. Even in his wildest childhood fantasies had he never
envisioned witnessing Glorfindel facing another such monstrous foe.
The evil lord shrieked once more, curdling the blood of all within earshot,
and as the final rays of Anor faded behind the distant hills, he turned
and fled northward, disappearing in the gathering gloom. Earnur finally
managed to regain control of his horse and swiftly rode to Glorfindel’s
side, obviously eager to give chase. But the elf lord raised a hand and
stayed the prince’s progress. “Do not pursue him,” he loudly announced,
his clear, lyrical voice ringing out over the plain, in sharp, healing contrast
to the Witch King’s terrifying cry. “He will not return to this land. Far
off yet is his doom, and not by the hand of man will he fall.” A harsh
mask of vengeful hate settled on Earnur’s face, yet he did not disobey the
sage counsel of his ally. Instead, he gave a reluctant nod, and gathered
together his troops, ordering them to make camp and tend to the wounded.
A hard-fought victory had been won, and a much-deserved celebration was
to be their reward this night.
Part 6:
Flickering campfires dotted the expansive plain, the once-somber battlefield
now home to a strange duet of raucous, mannish songs of celebration and more
ethereal elvish hymns of thanks dedicated to Elbereth the Ever-white. Glorfindel
had forgone the well-meant invitation of Earnur to join the reverie, instead
turning his gifted hands to tending to the wounded among the Edain and Eldar
alike. “There,” the elf lord comforted his current mortal patient with a
smile, “your arm will heal before returning home to your wife.”
“And my son, who was born the morn I left,” the bruised and battered man
weakly offered, studying his newly-bandaged forearm in wonder.
His smile growing, Glorfindel gently grasped the man’s shoulder and met his
battle-wearied gaze. “He will grow up to be proud of his father, and the
prince whom he loyally serves. Dream of your son this night, and take strength
from the promise of the bright future you have helped to secure.”
“’Tis your bravery which won the field, Lord Elf,” the Adan humbly spoke.
“Whatever future my son and I will share I owe to you and your host.”
Glorfindel rose to his feet, his smile waning in secretive sorrow. “Nothing
is owed to me. I ask you instead to remember the hand of friendship and kinship
Imladris ever extends to Gondor, and make certain your son, and your son’s
sons, remember as well.”
“My Lord, your tent is prepared,” an elvish voice suddenly announced from
behind them.
The elf rubbed a hand across his forehead, the strain of the past few days
suddenly settling in his flesh in an unavoidable way. His meager bedroll
spread across the hard ground would seem as the plumpest of pillows this
night. “I must first see to it that Faensul’s legs are rubbed with liniment.
He has been ridden far too hard these last days.”
“As have all our steeds, my Lord. Ellad – Elrohir has already seen to it
that the horses have received as much care as the soldiers.”
With the knowing smile of a satisfied teacher, Glorfindel nodded in understanding.
“It seems he at least remembers one of the lessons I taught him in his youth.”
He paused, glancing upward at the cloudless firmament. “The Lady’s jewels
seem especially brilliant this night,” he softly offered in reverent awe.
“Perhaps she joins in our celebration.”
The attendant elf craned his gaze skyward as well. “’Tis no wonder the First
Ones sang their original songs in tribute of their beauty.” He lowered his
eyes and with palpable awe in the presumed experience of the ancient elf,
asked in a hushed whisper, “They say Lord Cirdan was born at Cuivienen, that
he remembers the lands that were lost and the days before the Great Journey.”
“Those days are long past indeed,” Glorfindel forlornly agreed. Staring northward
at the seven stars of the great Valacirca, he somehow felt an unexplainable
sensation of hope in his heart, and shame and sorrow at how badly he had
treated Elrohir in their recent dealings. <<”I will do as I have ever
done, and follow my heart before my House. Today, as in battles before, I
am willing to sacrifice all for both.” >> His former lover’s words
echoed accusingly in his head, taunting him with a slender sliver of hope.
Might he, as well, be able to satisfy both the unwavering bonds of his sacred
vows and the sole desire of his heart? Would the Lady be his champion in
the heartless court of Mahanaxar, the great stone circle of the Valar, if
his insolence brought the unbridled wrath of Ulmo, or Mandos, upon him?
As if in answer, a brilliant bolide winged its way eastward, piercing the
very heart of the stellar sickle. His heart buoying upward in the heady current
of confidence, he allowed himself a momentary glimmer of hope, hope that
he might be able to, as Elrohir had sagely spoken, serve both his heart and
the House of Tuor. “Where has Elrohir staked his tent?” he hurriedly inquired.
“I wish to thank him for anticipating my orders.”
“I last saw him beyond Earnur’s tent, speaking with the Galadrin.”
Just as swiftly as hope had blossomed in his heart, it threatened to be ripped
from his grasp once more. “See to his comfort,” Glorfindel absently ordered,
gesturing toward the mortal still seated near his feet before rushing away.
His heart pounding in his chest, Glorfindel hustled through the joyous throng,
silently praying to the kindler of the stars that he could prevent what he
feared was inevitable.
As he dreaded, his swift steps were not fleet enough, and brought him to
his destination in time to see Amdir lead Elrohir inside a small tent, their
hands intertwined in an unmistakable way. Glorfindel stopped dead in his
tracks, his heart pounding in a furious drumming of dread and despair. <<Pen-neth,
no, I beg of you,>> he sorrowfully pleaded in silence, the words dying
in his throat.
As if in answer to the unspoken imperative, Elrohir paused briefly, turning
his head toward Glorfindel. At first his expression was one of sorrow, Glorfindel
noted, and he watched as the young elf’s visage metamorphosed into one of
resolute anger. Without a word, Elrohir disappeared behind the cloth
doorway to join Amdir.
Glorfindel blinked away a solitary tear from his eye, then turned on his
heels and slowly, forlornly, headed in the direction of his own tent, blessedly
distant. <<He has chosen. I should rejoice for his chance at renewed
happiness.>> But he knew with a certainty mirroring the prescient wisdom
of Manwe himself that Elrohir would find naught but disappointment, and pain,
in the end.
As he had discovered for himself this night.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Ithil slowly rose into the eastern sky, spreading its silvery, shadow-casting
shimmer across the slumbering encampment. Once-brilliant campfires had long-since
dwindled into dying clusters of ruby-red coals, the sounds of merriment now
replaced by the sonorous drone of snoring. Yet the welcome relief of sleep
eluded at least one among the host, the eldest of them all. Glorfindel uneasily
lay in his tent, his fur bedroll loosely wrapped around his body. Yet the
fur provided no warmth to melt the fist of ice which seemingly gripped his
heart. His anger had simmered to the boiling point during the long, lonely
hours alone – anger directed at himself, the Valar, Elrohir, and the entire
kingdom of Lothlorien, in an illogical chain of blame, regrets, and disappointments.
So deep was the concentration with which he wallowed in the sea of sullen
self-pity that he did not notice a familiar form appear unexpectedly inside
his tent.
“Glorfindel,” a long-missed voice softly spoke.
The ancient elf lord jerked up into a sitting position, the fur falling away
from his naked flesh – naked save for the pale blue stone which ever graced
his neck. There before him stood Elrohir, wrapped in a travel cloak, his
loose, dark hair cascading around his neck and shoulders in a most enticing
manner. Recovering his breath and his tongue, Glorfindel found his mood was
still ruled by anger. With a rough tug, he pulled the bedroll over his flesh,
covering his body as well as shielding his true emotions from himself, if
not from the temptation which stood before him. “Why do you disturb my privacy,
son of Elrond?” he gruffly barked. “Has the Galadrin tired of you? Or is
it you who have grown bored with him already?” To his surprise, Elrohir showed
no hint of insult, instead standing rock-fast before him, a hint of a smile
decorating his countenance.
“There is still one battle which remains to be fought this night,” the younger
elf quietly, calmly, explained. “One long-time, loathsome enemy to vanquish.
One far more foul than either the firebeast of Utumno or the King of the
Ulairi.”
“Of whom – what -- do you speak?” Glorfindel cautiously inquired, his brow
tightly knitted with palpable concern.
His smile blossoming fully, Elrohir took a single step forward and opened
his cloak, allowing it to silently slip from his shoulders and fall to the
ground, exposing his taut, naked body to the night and his former lover.
“Your damnable pride.”
Glorfindel gasped as Elrohir stood before him as breathtakingly beautiful
as he remembered, his proud, turgid flesh beckoning him as nothing else he
had ever known. “By Elbereth, you are a vision more lovely than the Blessed
Lands,” he whispered in reverent awe, a slight tremble of interwoven need,
desire, and hope coloring his tone.
Closing the distance between them, Elrohir sank to his knees on the edge
of the bedroll and pulled it open, exposing the blond’s now equally excited
form to his gaze, and his touch. “I have thought of none but you since the
last time we touched,” he huskily whispered. “No moment save this.” Straddling
the other’s lanky body, he planted his hands on the ground on either side
of Glorfindel’s head, and lowering his body, erotically ground his blood-swelled
groin into the other’s mirrored need.
With a loud, guttural moan, Glorfindel willingly submitted to the erogenous
homage Elrohir’s lips paid to each morsel of his skin. He willingly lost
himself in the moment, part precious memory and part disbelieving wonderment.
Each kiss felt as veritable lightning, every delicate nibble an open invitation
to be completely devoured in the long-missed fire of mutual desire. With
grateful reverence, he soaked in each sweet sensation, somehow even more
magical than he remembered. He was afraid to open his eyes lest he discover
he was only lost in another cruel dream. But this was far more vivid than
any dream which had haunted him these long, lonely years. A gasp of surprise
flew from his lips, replaced by a moan of the most exquisite pleasure imaginable.
He felt the weeping tip of his eager need pressing against a long-forbidden
doorway, then a slight downward thrust drove him past the tight gateway.
His eyes flew open, only to be rewarded with the reality of what his flesh
had felt. “Pen-neth –“ he whispered hoarsely, trying to push against Elrohir’s
chest to prevent him from completely impaling – profaning -- his virgin flesh.
“I will love you this night with all my heart, but not like this –.”
His protestations were ceased in the force of a claiming kiss. “Is this not
your greatest desire? Of all the pleasures which you have denied yourself
in this age, is this not the one which you most regret?”
“Aye, but I would not take this from you --.”
His face framed by his long, wild locks, Elrohir smiled secretively. ”You
cannot take that which is most freely given.” In a single, fluid motion,
he sank down upon other’s flesh, enveloping Glorfindel within him in that
most preciously personal of ways. Clasping the other’s hands in his, he pushed
against them to steady himself, and rode the ancient elf with a mastery which
shocked – and thrilled -- Glorfindel to the core.
Despite his long-standing reservations and his more-imminent fears, Glorfindel
finally lost himself in the moment, and before long cried out his release
to the night, his beloved’s name upon his lips and in his heart, the rest
of Ea be damned this eve, the Valar themselves included.
Part 7:
In the silence of love’s satisfaction, Glorfindel held the long-missed, familiar
form to his chest, tenderly stroking the silky, dark mane. Closing his eyes,
his fingertips lightly danced across flesh he still knew better than his
own, despite the painful passage of wasted years apart. With a weighty sigh,
he silently chastised himself for his folly, a slight smile of relief and
thanks gracing his features. His fingertips absently drifted over the skin
of the twin’s back, but he froze in panic at what he found – or, rather,
did not find. The skin was as perfect as the first time he had touched it,
those many years ago in Lothlorien. Absent was any hint of roughness, despite
the fresh scar he knew had to be there. He could no longer ignore the horrifying
thought which had initially crossed his mind, but which he had, in his overwhelming
need, so readily banished from his brain.
Roughly pushing away the pretender in his arms, he scrambled to his feet,
his expression reflecting a greater fire than the pits of Utumno. “This is
a dream, or worse,” he barked angrily, blinking his eyes in an attempt to
see beyond the illusion.
The vision of Elrohir merely smiled in return, slowly rising to face the
irate elf. “What is a dream, and what is the truth? Does your heart or your
mind reign supreme?”
Although now knowing without a doubt that he was in the presence of a higher
power, he found only all-enveloping anger within his heart. “Show yourself,
if you have the decency. You owe me that much.”
His wish was instantly granted. The dark hair lightened to a silvery hue,
the features becoming more delicate and illuminated with a peaceful inner
glow. There before him now stood the very personification of sleep itself.
Glorfindel’s eyes narrowed to slits of suspicious recognition. “Irmo. I should
have guessed as much. Ai, I ask the Lady for a sign, and she sends me a trickster
instead!”
“Do not blame the Lady for your own short-sighted stubbornness,” the Lord
of the Blessed Gardens admonished. “You received the sign you required. ’Tis
your own fault that you still allowed your pride and your self-doubt to stand
in your way.”
Glorfindel stood in puzzled silence for a moment. “T’was not my pride which
stood between us when he took the Galadrin’s hand. He had made his choice,”
Glorfindel slowly spat. “Who am I to turn him from that path?”
“You know that path will not bring him the love he deserves. You do him no
favor by allowing him to succumb to his rash decisions – decisions brought
on by your ill-conceived refusal to return his love.”
Sinking to his knees, Glorfindel wrapped his bedroll around himself, sat
down upon the hard ground, and sighed in sorrowed defeat. “The days for tutelage
are long gone, Irmo. He is no longer a child.”
“Neither are the Eldar, but it seems they have not grown so wise as to no
longer need the Valar’s wisdom from time to time,” Irmo playfully teased.
The Vala knelt beside the tortured elf stroking his golden hair much as one
would a small child’s. “Glorfindel, you can have that which you most desire
– it is still within your grasp, but for how much longer I cannot say.” He
framed the sullen features with his fingers, and with a piercing, brilliant
gaze mirroring the power of the once-magical Trees, tried one final time
to break through the fateful fortress Glorfindel had built around his heart.
“Go to him, now, with the Lady’s blessing, and mine.”
The elf lingered with held breath, as a fleeting glimpse of hope dared glimmer
before him. Just as quickly as it had arisen the spark was extinguished,
the damnable words of Ulmo and Mandos echoing in his mind. Shaking his head,
he broke both their shared gaze and the contact of the Vala with his face.
“He is the son of my lord. He was my charge in his youth, and now he is still
under the protection of my oath.”
“He is foremost your love,” Irmo pressed, rising to his feet. “Until you
understand that your vows of service and love can be one and the same, you
are doomed to a prison more impenetrable than the Timeless Halls. You and
you alone hold the key to finding the happiness you – and he -- so desperately
desire, and so richly deserve.”
He extended a hand to Glorfindel, and urged, “Go to him, now, before it is
too late.”
Several excited heartbeats thundered through his chest before the elf took
the offered hand and rose to his feet. Wrapping the abandoned travel cloak
around his naked form, he smiled sweetly and bowed with reverence. “Give
the Lady my eternal thanks, and my humblest apologies for ever doubting her.”
Irmo smiled in return. “You only doubted yourself.” In the blink of an eye,
he faded from view, his one-time presence now seeming no more real than one
of the dreams he gifted upon the weary.
Wiping any lingering vestiges of dreams from his eyes, Glorfindel hastened
from the tent, hoping to taste a reality far sweeter than Irmo’s imaginings
before Anor’s return.
------------------------
After finding Elrohir’s tent empty and his bedroll unused, Glorfindel wound
his way through the camp back to the Galadrin’s private quarters, praying
that somehow he would not find his beloved in the arms of another. As he
arrived outside the small, skin tent, Ithil reached its peak in the heavens,
and illuminated the silhouettes inside the tent with painfully perfect detail.
There was his beloved, kneeling behind another’s arched back, the unmistakable,
rhythmic, forward thrust of hips crushing any lingering gleam of hope which
might have remained in Glorfindel’s heart.
<<Ai, I have wasted too much time. He is lost to me forever.>>
With the full weight of every century of his lengthy life crushing down upon
him, he turned and fled the damning tableau, part of his heart forever left
behind on the desolate plain.
He had only barely wandered out of elven earshot when Elrohir reached his
final release, and thus never knew that the name breathlessly groaned from
the twin’s sweet lips was none other than his own.
The End
Notes:
1) “The Heirs of Elendil” (Peoples of Middle-earth: 193) states that
during the reign of Malgevil [1144-1349] “orcs again became a menace, and
invaded the lands of Arnor. The Ulairi or Ringwraiths began to stir again.
The chief of the Ulairi comes north and establishes himself as a king of
evil men in Angmar in the far north regions. The Witch King makes war on
the realms of the Dunedain, which are disunited.”
By this time, the Dunedain had fractured into three groups or states
(largely over disputes of succession) – Arthedain (including the great city
of Fornost), Cardolan, and Rhudaur. Arthedain was the strongest and was
the longest to survive as a stronghold against Angmar. There were a number
of skirmishes among the states, especially after Rhudaur was taken over
by the evil Hillmen of Angmar.
The last ten kings of Arthedain were:
Malvegil [died 1349 TA]
Argeleb I
Arveleg I
Araphor
Argeleb II
Arvegil
Arveleg II
Araval
Araphant
Arvedui [died 1975 TA]
Arveleg I (with help from the Grey Havens) repelled the forces of Angmar.
For the next fifty or so years his forces watched over the Great Road and
Weather Hills (including Weather Top). At some point during this time, Angmar
began harassing Imladris. In 1409 Angmar attacked Arthedain, killing Arveleg
as he stood defending Weather Top. It was at this battle that Amon Sul
was destroyed. His young son, Araphor, repelled the enemy with help from
Cirdan’s forces. Peace settled over Arthedain for a while, due to the help
of Cirdan as well as Elrond (who is said to have brought troops from Lothlorien).
See Appendix A of ROTK for more information.
During the reign of Arvedui, the dwindling strength of Arthedain proved
unable to repel the incursions of Angmar. In the autumn of 1973, he sent
word to his distant kin in Gondor that his land was “in great straits, and
that the Witch-king was preparing a last stroke against it.” [LOTR Appendix
A: 1026] King Earnil sent his son, Earnur, to Arthedain’s aid, “with a fleet”
and “as great strength as he could spare.” However, before they arrived
at the Grey Havens in the winter of 1974-5, the Witch-king had overrun Arthedain
and Arvedui was dead.
Before his kingdom fell, Arvedui sent his sons to Cirdan’s care. He
and his last troops hid from the Witch-king in the wilderness beyond Fornost,
eventually finding himself caught in the frozen wastes of Forochel. In
March 1975 Cirdan sent a ship to rescue him, but it became trapped in the
ice and Arvedui drowned. The palantiri of Annuminas and Amon Sul were lost
in the process.
That spring, Cirdan’s troops joined the Host of the West (as Earnur’s
army was termed), and a force from Imladris (under Glorfindel’s leadership)
also fought in the Battle of Fornost, and utterly routed the Witch-king
and his forces. According to the tradition stated in LOTR, there were also
Hobbits at the Battle of Fornost. Marcho and Blancho Fallohide received
permission from the King of Fornost to migrate and found the Shire in TA
1601. They were charged with the upkeep of the Great Bridge and whatever
minor duties the King might call upon them to fulfill. It was out of loyalty
to the King that they sent “some bowmen to aid the king, or so they maintained,
though no tales of Men record it.” [LOTR: 4-5] Appendix A [1018] further
explains that to “the help of the king they sent some archers who never returned;
and others went also to the battle in which Angmar was overthrown….” Since
the Hobbits would have been foot soldiers rather than part of a cavalry,
they would not have been part of the pursuit of the Witch King as he later
fled toward Angmar, and thus not witness to the event where Glorfindel faced
him down. This is why I have barely mentioned Hobbits in this story, even
though they were said to have part of the alliance.
Some details of the battle are given in Appendix A of LOTR. The Host
of the West ambushed the Witch-king from the Hills of Evendim, and forced
his force into retreat towards Fornost. However the main body of Earnur’s
horsemen had snuck around the hills and now attacked from the north. In
the chaos that ensued, the Witch-king gathered what remained of his force
and tried to flee northwards back to Angmar. However, before he reached his
stronghold,
the cavalry of Gondor overtook him with Earnur riding at their
head. At the same time a force under Glorfindel the Elf-lord came up out
of Rivendell. Then so utterly was Angmar defeated that not a man nor an orc
of that realm remained west of the mountains.
But it is said that when all was lost suddenly the Witch-king himself
appeared, black-robed and black-masked upon a black horse. Fear fell upon
all who beheld him; but he singled out the Captain of Gondor for the fullness
of his hatred, and with a terrible cry he rode straight upon him. Earnur
would have withstood him; but his horse could not endure that onset, and
it swerved and bore him far away before he could master it.
Then the Witch-king laughed, and none that heard it ever forgot the
horror of that cry. But Glorfindel rode up then on his white horse, and
in the midst of his laughter the Witch-king turned to flight and passed
into the shadows. For night came down on the battlefield, and he was lost,
and none saw whither he went.
Earnur now rode back, but Glorfindel, looking into the gathering dark,
said: “Do not pursue him. He will not return to this land. Far off yet is
his doom, and not by the hand of man will he fall.” These words many remembered;
but Earnur was angry, desiring only to be avenged for his disgrace. [LOTR
Appendix A: 1026-7]
After the Battle of Fornost, Aranath son of Arvedui became the Chieftain
of the Dunedain in exile, and his son, Arahael, was fostered in Imladris
(beginning the tradition which carried down through Aragorn).
According to the Atlas of Middle-earth, it is almost 600 miles from
the Grey Havens to Imladris, and approximately 310 miles from Imladris
to Fornost (by the most direct route). If it took Glorfindel three days
to travel from Weathertop to Imladris (about 210 miles), it would take
about five days to travel to Fornost, slightly more to travel even further
north to where Earnur had chased the Witch-king. From the description of
the events of the battle it appears that Glorfindel knew somehow not to
travel directly to Fornost, but to head the Witch King “off at the pass.”
Eagles seemed the most canonical explanation.
2) In “Another Day” [http://www.ithilas.com/fos/anotherday.html]
Elrohir gave Glorfindel a necklace made from a pale blue agate:
There within his fingers he held the very same river-carved agate
whose loveliness he had admired, along with the loveliness of the one who
had discovered it, only a few days before. He turned it over in his hand,
appreciating the delicate latticework of silver which now firmly encased
it. “You had it mounted as a pendent," he noted with hushed tones.
"Yes -- I told the smiths to make it sturdy, yet the most beautiful
thing they have ever wrought," the young elf proudly explained.
"They have assuredly succeeded in both aims, then." Glorfindel held
it up to eye level by the well-made silver chain which threaded through
the eyelet at the top of the setting and carefully examined the handiwork
both front and back with his free fingers. "It is indeed lovely, and one
of a kind to be sure."
3) In “Building a Mystery” [http://www.ithilas.com/fos/buildingamystery.html],
Glorfindel revealed that he had kept the necklace:
"When did you take to wearing my gift again?" Elrohir quietly
whispered, trailing a tender path of barely perceptible kisses along the
other's neck.
Sighing in physical satisfaction tinged with the uneasy emotional vulnerability
of the moment, Glorfindel curled his arm more tightly around his lover's
shoulders, twisting his neck momentarily out of the other's grasp to place
his own consecratory kiss upon the dark, passion-matted plaits of the twin's
head. "I never truly stopped wearing it. It always accompanied me on any
campaign, any field of battle. I wanted to have something of you close to
me, in case I did not return to see your face again. It became my constant
companion, again, some months ago, after you and I spoke of second chances.
When Legolas last departed Imladris."
4) In “When I Give” [http://www.ithilas.com/fos/whenigive.html]
Glorfindel and Elrohir spoke briefly about the circumstances surrounding
their breakup:
"She once spoke of you to me, many, many years before she departed,"
the ancient elf huskily breathed, carefully retracting his fingers in a
clenched fist, lest he fall victim to the baleful crying of his soul to claim
another, more intense, taste of touch.
Surprise muted by the distracting veil of smoldering, yet unspoken,
desire painted across the twin's features. "What did she say?" he softly
inquired.
"She knew of my desire for you, even though I never spoke of it to anyone,
but you." Noting the sweet rosed hue of lost composure tint the edges of
the pale cheeks, Glorfindel smiled sadly, his sorrow fueled by memories of
what he had once been his, and what could not be so. "I do not know if she
was aware of what had already passed between us, but she gave me her blessing
to pursue you in earnest -- if that was your wish."
A choked sound of sincerest emotion flew from Elrohir's lips. "She said
that? I cannot believe it."
"You should. Your mother loved you without reservation, as she did all
of her children. You were her life." Daring a fleeting surrender to his
long-suppressed yearnings, Glorfindel tenderly brushed the back of a single
finger against the younger elf's cheek, the responding tremble in the other's
skin further expanding the dull ache of his undeniable need. "She told me
that 'to deny passion is to deny life'. She would never wish her children
to live without passion, without love, as she had chosen to do."
The sorrow and pain in Elrohir's twilight-hued gaze deepened as the
unfolding of the very night itself. "Yet you did not come to me afterward,
and she never spoke to me of this. Why?"
Breathing out a defeated sigh, Glorfindel allowed his finger to fall
away from the delicately sculpted cheek. "By that time, your fancy had turned
elsewhere."
"My *fancy* had been rebuked without warning, and *forced* elsewhere,"
Elrohir heatedly countered.
Glorfindel turned away, unable to withstand the depths of distress reflecting
back at him from that much beloved face. "I believed it for the best --
at the time."
5) Irmo, one of the Feanturi, is the brother of Mandos and Nienna. The
name means “Desirer” or “Master of Desire.” His wife is Este, the pale lady
of dreams. As the master of visions and dreams, he and Este provided rest
for the Valar and Eldar in the Blessed Lands. He is also a source of visions.
He is more commonly named Lorien, although this is strictly the name of
his realm in Valinor. Its gardens are said to be the most beautiful in Arda,
and the water of its fountains refreshed all who visited. According to Foster
(304), Lorien has “lakes, many flowers, and silver willows; it is a place
of soft beauty, and its dominant color seems to be silver.” One of the
frequent visitors to Lorien was Olorin (Gandalf), who was a student of
Este, Irmo and Nienna. It was from them that he learned great compassion
for all beings in duress and pain.
6) From what is said in The Silmarillion and LOTR it is evident that
Glorfindel was an “Eldar 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 his kinship with Turgon and allegiance
to him, and had no part in the kinslaying at Alqualonde.” [“Glorfindel”,
POME 380] Tolkien pointed out that Glorfindel had notably “sacrificed his
life in defending the fugitives from the wreck of Gondolin against a Demon
out of Thangorodrim, and so enabling Tuor and Idril daughter of Turgon and
their child Earendil to escape…. This deed was of vital importance to the
designs of the Valar.” [“Glorfindel”, POME 380-1]
After his time served in Mandos’ Halls, Glorfindel spent many years
in Valinor, “in reunion with the Eldar who had not rebelled, and
in the companionship of the Maiar. To these he had now become almost an
equal, for though he was an incarnate (to whom a bodily form not made or
chosen by himself was necessary) his spiritual power had been greatly enhanced
by his self-sacrifice. At some time probably early in his sojourn in Valinor,
he became a follower, and a friend, of Olorin….” [“Glorfindel”, POME: 381]
Because of his time spent in Middle-earth, and his battles against the powers
of darkness, Glorfindel would have been “an eminently suitable companion
for Gandalf. We could then reasonably suppose that Glorfindel… landed with
Gandalf – Olorin about TA 1000. This supposition would indeed explain the
air of special power and sanctity that surrounds Glorfindel – note how the
Witch King flies from him, although others (such as King Earnur) however brave
could not induce their horses to face him.” [Glorfindel, POME: 378]
The essay “Glorfindel II” has Glorfindel returning to Middle-earth in
the Second Age to help Elrond in the war with Sauron. I take this second
line of reasoning as canon in this series.
When Frodo sees Glorfindel for the first time “it appeared that a whiter
light was shining through the form and raiment of the rider, as if through
a thin veil.” [LOTR 204]
Frodo later asks Gandalf about this:
“I thought that I saw a white figure that shone and did not grow
dim like the others. Was that Glorfindel then?”
“Yes, you saw him for a moment as he is upon the other side: one of
the mighty of the Firstborn. He is an Elf-lord of a house of princes. Indeed
there is a power in Rivendell to withstand the might of Mordor….” [LOTR:
217]
Gandalf also explains that “here in Rivendell there live still some
of his chief foes: the Elven-wise, lords of the Eldar from beyond the furthest
seas. They do not fear the Ringwraiths, for those who have dwelt in the
Blessed Realm live at once in both worlds, and against both the seen and
the unseen they have great power.” [LOTR 216]
Tolkien explains these passages in light of his essay on Glorfindel’s
time in Valinor: “We can thus understand why he seems so powerful a figure
and almost ‘angelic.’ For he had returned to the primitive innocence of
the First-born, and had then lived among those Elves who had never rebelled
and in the companionship of the Maiar for ages…. It is indeed probably that
he had in Valinor already become a friend and follower of Olorin.” [Glorfindel
II: POME 378]
7) A timeline of relevant events follows. Non-canonical events are italicized.
139 TA Twins born
172 TA Elrohir gives Glorfindel the necklace
179 TA Elrohir and Glorfindel consummate their relationship
c. 1000 TA Shadow falls on Greenwood the Great, which becomes known
as Mirkwood; Thranduil leads his people northeast, deeper into the Great
Forest, eventually creating an underground fortress.
c. 1050 TA The Istari arrive in Middle-earth
c. 1100 TA The Wise discover an evil lord has set up at Dol Guldur (thought
to be one of the Ulairi)
c. 1300 TA Angmar is founded
1356 TA Dunedain of Arthedain repelled a major attack from Angmar
c. 1375 Imladris begins to be besieged by the evil Hillmen (under Angmar’s
influence)
1409 TA Angmar invades Arthedain. Cirdan and Elrond help turn back the
invasion.
1851 TA The Dunedain of Arthedain win a victory over Angmar with the
help of Cirdan and Elrond.
1975 TA Glorfindel leads the army of Imladris to battle the Witch King
of Angmar
2714 TA Elrohir and Glorfindel resume their relationship
8) “The Distance That the Dead Have Gone” hinted at the circumstances
surrounding Glorfindel’s return to Middle-earth. The following excerpt
serves as a reminder of the basic premise:
"We both have seen many of our people slaughtered upon the field
of battle, yet still place our trust in the Lady who loves us all, and the
Lord of the Waters, to whom we both owe debts without measure."
Legolas appeared visibly surprised at the naming of Ulmo in this context.
"I have heard that he favors the House of Tuor, and thus Lord Elrond in
turn, yet I knew not that he watched over you in like manner."
"Watches over me, indeed, but asks much of me in return. It was by his
request that I was released from the Dark Halls of Awaiting, and it is at
his request that I continue here in Middle-earth to honor a pledge I swore
upon the field of battle -- to honor and serve the House of Huor just as
it made sacrifices supreme for the sake of my King and my home." …
Although he had not lived through the tragedy himself, Legolas knew
enough of the laments of ages past to recognize the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.
"They name it Unnumbered Tears because they say no heart nor tale could
contain all its grief."
"Nor could the Sundering Sea itself hope to accommodate all the tears
shed in its name. It was there that Ecthelion of the Fountain and I, we
blessed as Turgon's chief captains and most loyal of subjects, both found
our fates forever intertwined with that of the House of Huor." The solemn
shutter of pained memory locked across the ancient lord's gaze, the passage
of centuries not dimming the sharpness of blood-burned images in his mind's
eye. "The field was lost, the blood of both Eldar and Faithful Man freely
intermingling in pools both dark and viscous. Fingon, our High King, brother
of Gondolin's lord, lay crushed and battered, slain by the hand of Gothmog,
Chief of the Flame Demons, himself. Our resolve did not wane, and we would
have fought until none still stood had not saner voices ruled the day. The
House of Hador stood firmly with that of Gondolin, even unto the hour of
certain defeat. Hurin and Huor bade King Turgon to flee, whilst they gave
their own lives and that of their troops to buy our retreat. Turgon at first
would not be moved, but Hurin spoke of Gondolin as the last possibility
of the Eldar to strike fear into the heart of Morgoth, and Huor beseeched
Turgon with a prophecy that from their joined houses would rise a star who
would be the hope of both kinds of Iluvatar's children." Glorfindel paused
a moment, hoping the prince would understand of whom Huor wisely spoke.
Legolas did not disappoint the elder elf. "Huor begat Tuor, of whom
the legends speak, who in turn sired Earendil, the Star of the Dawn and
the Dusk." An affection-drenched smile lit his face. "The Lord of Imladris,
and of my heart, sprang from that noble line."
"As did the lord of my heart as well," Glorfindel reminded them both,
"Although I had no way to know that at the moment the Hadorians traded
their lives for ours. How could I believe that I would be so gifted by the
Valar as to find the solace of love and the purpose of protection in the
combined lines of my King and the best of the Second Born? Yet Ecthelion
and I were both rendered speechless by the selflessness of those brave,
mortal brothers. The tears were made to wait until we returned to the security
of the white walls, yet nothing could stem the flow of our grief as he and
I guarded the flanks of Gondolin's retreating host. As we marched, in silence
and in sorrow, each of us made in solitary secret the same solemn pledge
-- to await the coming of the promised heir of Hador's line, 'tho we knew
not how or when such an heir might find his way to our city. It was not
until Tuor's arrival at our heavily guarded gates, a generation of men later,
that Ecthelion the Fair and I admitted one to the other that we had indeed
found peace with the same pledge of service."
The golden haired lord became lost for a moment in the swirling sea
of densely packed memories, a crinkle of smile teasing upward the corners
of his lips. "One of us was destined to lose his heart, and afterwards his
life, while the other had to pass through Mandos' care before finding the
reward of passion's domain. The Lord of the Waters indeed grants wonders
beyond measure, yet demands much in return. So was the balance of joy and
despair borne by Tuor at Lord Ulmo's decree."
Now that the details of the ”unplanned codicil to the original terms
of Glorfindel's servitude” that Ulmo visited upon Glorfindel in a dream in
the beginning of that story have been revealed (at least to Celebrian),
the following passage in that story should make more sense:
The smile on Glorfindel's face flashed keenly brighter. "You and
he may indeed meet one day, face to face, when you pass over sea."
"I shall ask you to introduce us." Momentarily lost in his own thoughts,
Legolas missed the curiously sorrowed expression suddenly painted across
the elder elf's face.
The astute reader should now understand why the uncertain nature of
the final fate of Elrond’s sons in canon will be visited later in this
series….
References:
Robert Foster (2001) The Complete Guide of Middle-earth (NY: Bantam
Books)
J.R.R.Tolkien (1996) The Peoples of Middle-earth (Boston: Houghton Mifflin
Co.) [Dwarves]
J.R.R.Tolkien (1987) The Lord of the Rings (single vol. ed.) (Boston:
Houghton Mifflin Co.)
Karen Wynn Fonstad (1991) The Atlas of Middle-earth (rev. ed.), (Boston:
Houghton Mifflin Co.)
J.R.R.Tolkien (1980) Unfinished Tales (NY: Ballantine Books)
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