Gone with the Wind by Sleepless_Malice

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Smoke and Fire

[Chapter Summary] Glorfindel relives Gondolin's fall.

[Warnings] Vivid description of injuries and burns, violence, character death

this chapter is unbeta'd (due to the simple lack of a beta reader)

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Chapter 03 – Smoke and Fire

 

 

In the Gardens of Lórien

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No matter how much his curiosity was sparked to take a look himself how their conversation went, Irmo had refrained by blocking the vision from the part of his gardens where they spoke, waiting patiently for the Elder King to return.

“Given the amount of time thou hast spent in my gardens,” the Master of Vision said stepping onto the pathway from behind a tree, “I assume thou hast succeeded?”

Startled, Manwë looked up from where he had halted. He had no idea for long the Master of Dreams had watched him so lost in thought had he been. “To some extent I think I might,” he nodded, trying to keep his voice under control. In fact, he was a little surprised by Irmo’s curiosity and had not suspected that he would approach him on his way back. “I have spoken with him, although he had been reluctant at first.”

“And?”

Manwë raised a delicate eyebrow but said nothing for long moments – usually he was accountable to no one, but the matter with Laurefindil could be seen a little different than anything else. “As I have suspected,” he finally said, “it is not his death that troubles him, not the situation he is in right now - but endless grief for his people, mingled with a massive amount of guilt still occupies his heart. Actually, the elf thinks he is responsible for Ondolindë’s fall, that he had failed those he loved most dearly; he cannot remember his own fate. In fact he remembers nearly nothing. I have already told him, that those he had protected are safe, but he needs to know the truth, he has to see the entirety of the fall and his death to fully recover. Otherwise he will not be of any use.” The thought alone that he will return to Middle-Earth again to face the darkness again, elicited an uneasy feeling deep within him. The fates of all were long set, and there was nothing he could do against it – but he was not supposed to like Ilúvatar’s decisions. Many he had mourned, often in the past he had contemplated with the Firstborn’s destiny.

Manwë’s words did make sense, Irmo had to admit, but still he hesitated. “Dost thou deem it wise?” he asked, knowing what dreadful images his dreams would bring the already troubled elf.

“Alas, ‘tis is the only chance we have,” the Lord of the Winds replied, although he knew there was a second, much more intimate possibility to erase the elf’s sorrows. But he remained quiet on this matter. “And we must take it, otherwise he can never fulfil the future we have foreseen. I fear nothing will ever change if we keep the information from him forever and you, best of all, know about the power of dreams. ”

“So be it.” Irmo responded. He was not entirely convinced, but he did as we was told, unblocking the mental link he had with the golden-haired elf.

If the decision he had made once Irmo had agreed upon his suggestion, was wise or not, he could not exactly tell, but he proceeded nevertheless.

“Fare thee well, Master of Visions,” Manwë said with mastered indifference, and not a moment later he vanished, dissolving like a gentle breeze of spring, pretending to return to his towering halls high up in the clouds.

 

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Laurefindil had lost all sense of time when he awoke under the weeping willow, strange voices dancing through his head, unfamiliar scents tickling his nose. Had it only been a pleasant dream, given to him by the garden’s keeper, had he truly come after all those years? The elf asked himself as he rose to his feet, fatigue still paralyzing his mind – until his gaze fell to the lavish blue cape made of the finest silks available. Immediately, all the silent riddles were solved and a smile tucked at his lips – this was no mere dream, and his heart leapt in joy despite his exhaustion.

The Vala’s touch seemed to linger on his skin, soft like the salty breeze from the sea that danced through his golden hair, innocent but so electrifying at the same time. With his mind reeling, he returned to his little cottage embedded in lavish lavender fields, embraced by coldness as he opened the wooden door that lead inside. So many things he wished to do, so many thoughts that occupied his mind – but all this had to wait. Laurefindil was too exhausted to stand, or think, swaying into the direction of his little bed where he lay down immediately and sank into slumber, with keen eyes watching him from the nearby chair.

 

 

>> ‘The city falls’ said his own voice in his mind, vibrating through every muscle in his body as he ran. The white city was lost, Laurefindil knew it as he saw the black smoke rising high into the air. Covered in blood of his own kin, in blood of orcs and other foul creatures he made his way over dead bodies, fighting the dread to the back of his head. There was no time for grief nor was their time for sentiment as his, no their life did depend on fast action. Many of his friends were slain, that much was certain, only very few would survive the fall – if any at all, eyes unseeing looked up at him as he stalked across the dead.

High up into the mountain the small group of survivors made their way along the narrow path that lead to the never-ending peaks and pinnacles; Tuor, Itarillë and little Eärendil among them, and a few other warriors of his house. Black smoke blackened his sight, and burned his lungs with every heavy breath he took. Desperately, he struggled not to choke on the sick air heavy with burnt flesh.

‘Run,’ he had screamed – or at least attempted to upon their dreadful plight over Cirith Thoronath, the Eagles’ cleft as the first orc sprang right into his way, ambushing their flight. “Itarillë, RUN”

Laurefindil clenched his teeth, oh he was exhausted, his armor lying heavy upon his bones – he tried to sound brash and strong, just as it always had been, but nausea and dread distorted his voice.<<

Rather vividly the elf’s sleep was; his entire body trashed against the heavy sheets and desperately he screamed the words aloud, encouraging the fleeing to proceed in the most heart-breaking manner. Eye-lashes fluttered open and then close again, and arms swirled through the air as he fought the invisible enemy. Soothing words filled the room and momentarily the struggle ceased.

 

>> The peak towered high over the rest of the mountain range, reaching past the dreadful clouds, piercing through them like a pinnacle. Narrow the path had been that lead beyond the peak, facing the abyss on one side, while sharp rocks hung into the air from the other side. Only a few warriors the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower could recruit, most had lost their lives already defending their homes and the city. The sorrowful whine of another arrow filled the air, but neither Laurefindil nor his men could locate the archer behind the sharp rocks to bring him down, but soon his attention was diverted to another, yet more dangerous matter at hand.

Grim eyes met his own, flames arising from the foul creature of Angamando’s pits that had followed them on their flight up the mountain ridge. Somewhere in between dreadful images of his friend’s death in the middle of the King’s Square mingled into his train of thoughts as he rose his brandished and blood covered steel against the Valarauka, who let his fiery whip dance high through the air. Their safety was all that mattered, but they needed time to escape the foul creatures.

And then the first stroke fell, and the golden-haired elf’s world went blank, flames burning into his flesh.<<

 

When his gaze fell onto the dreadful creature in his dream, Laurefindil’s eyes widened in shock and horror, a visible shiver running through his entire body. He could see the dream as clearly as ever possible, see all that was yet about to come to pass.

The horror had just begun.

“I know .. “ he softly whispered not to wake the sleeping elf. Oh how he wished to ease the pain the elf had again to endure, to hold him tight, do anything at all; oh he so much wanted to, with a fervent desire - but what were the options? There were none – almost, none which would not be deemed entirely inappropriate. With utter care to avoid any noise he moved the chair forward until his invisible hands were able to hold the elf’s own in comfort.

Tears slowly began to tickle down Laurefindil’s face and there was nothing he could do against it. “Laure, calm down,” he tried in a soothing voice, knowing all too well, that his words were spoken in vain.

 

>>Horrible and large eyes looked down at him with glee, before the Valarauka sneered, revealing the sharpest row of teeth within his mouth: ‘Your world will burn’, and shortly after, he raised his whip high in the air again. The words curled through his mind, endlessly and black like smoke, heavy and sick. The aftertaste of burnt flesh made him gag, but his world went blank when flames of hell lashed down on him.

He let out a scream even more piercing than his last one, when the whip of fire wrapped around the elf’s skin. Screams, deriving from each direction, filled the air, his own mingling in the dreadful sound.<<

Just as Laurefindil screamed in his dream, he screamed aloud in a tone that easily could scatter glass or more. This entire body jerked upwards, driven by pain and anguish and the hold the Vala had around his hand tightened in return. He saw naked worry in those bewildering blue eyes now, worry that soon would turn into despair and anguish. Many tears he had shed the day Ondolindë had fallen into shadows – now tears began to fill his eyes once more.

>> Golden skin sizzled when the whip of fire stroke again, and the stench of burned flesh filled his lungs until no scream would escape his throat anymore, dread poisoning and swelling from his lungs to his heart. He could smell the stanching tang of her singed golden hair where the flames had caressed the delicate skin. He moaned in pain, and then again – before he focused again on the Valarauka who laughed right into his face, threatening with his fiery whip: ‘Elf-scum.’

Red. There was so much red. Blood and flames, flames that burnt everything to the ground with their never-ending hunger, black smoke veiling the white city in darkness. Brandished steel clashed against the foul beast, fighting for disdaining fortune, though all hope was lost. Severely wounded he already was as the last blow hit him hard, and with the last remaining strength he fought Morgoth’s foul creature towards the edge, his golden sword and armor gleaming against the flames. The fire blazed around him, dancing shadows of bright red flames that seemed to be everywhere, above him, around him, beneath him. Vicious, threatening, scorching.

Just as the Valarauka tumbled over the edge, a mighty hand arouse and gripped a fistful of golden strands, and both fell into the abyss. The air he breathed with his last intake of air was hot and searing, burning his lungs as it filled them, clogging his respiratiory system with acrid smoke that was so foul and acidic, that Laurefindil’s guts cringed.<<

 

Absently, and ever so delicately, he freed one hand from the elf’s hold and wiped away the countless tears that fell down Laurefindil’s cheeks, ignoring his own as both his hands were occupied. So much dread the Firstborn had to endure, so much pain, so much grief and sorrow, caused by Melkor’s foul deeds, whom he had released many millennia ago.

 

>> As he fell and consciousness left him, dark clouds appeared against the sky, drawing closer; the eagles had come, their chief leading them towards the mountains. Orcs shrieked in the distance as he fell, and fell and fell into ruin, black smoke and brightly burning flames surrounding him. He saw himself falling into eternity, strangely detached from his body already, orcs following down through the smoke-veiled air and then, it grew deadly still as if his mind and body was enwrapped in something that swallowed each sound.

Spiraling downwards he saw himself fall, so far down that he feared to crush against the spikey rocks at the mountain edges. He screamed and closed his eyes in dread, and when he opened them again, large wings blocked his visions upwards and he felt strong claws against his chest, and cold wind blew across his body – and then everything around him went black as if night had fallen within a second. No orc screeched, no elf spoke – only silence filled the heavy air until his gaze fell onto a stone-cairn right below Cirith Thoronath built by Tuor himself and other men from his house to cover his dead body. Soon tiny yellow flowers began to wither in the harsh surrounding amid the blankest stone in memory of the elf who lost his life there, watched and guarded by the mighty eagle until the world was changed.<<

 

 

When he awoke, he was covered in sweat, panting and more exhausted than he had been before he fell asleep. Images of soaring eagles, fire and orcs, blooming flowers raced through his mind as he failed to follow them, and for seconds it felt as if a hand reached out to squeeze his hand, but the room was empty as it always was, and Laurefindil dismissed the illusion as figment of his troubled mind. Still, despite all the death and horror he had seen in such a vivacity in his dream, he strangely felt at ease deep inside. Whole again, complete, the first time since he had awoken in the Halls of Awaiting.

“So it is true, then” he whispered to himself, his mind caught in astonishment.

‘I have told you so,’ came the immediate response in his mind and his eyes snapped open. What trickery was this again? But the voice decided to remain silent this time, and Laurefindil was thankful for those who had finally decided to show him his own fate and Itarillë’s survival.  

For many days he was not seen wandering the Gardens of Lórien, and in silence Irmo began to wonder if the memory had been too much for the elf in his care. In silence, and unseen, the Vala stepped before the window of the little house and relief filled him when his gaze fell on an elf who was deeply lost in reverie.

 

 

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