Retrospective by Los Gloriol

My Ignoble Battle

So distant now are these memories in my mind. A fragment; sometimes a face and then it is gone. Anticipation mounts as I strain to remember, like the smell of freshly baked bread waiting to be tasted, oh! how it taunts me. My mind yearns for the union of past and present, to know one and the other without doubt or fear. I beg to be whole. But this is an odd fascination, I find, for as soon as another thread in the tapestry of my life is woven, I wish for it to be unraveled and to forget what I have learned. 

The thought that lingers in my mind is the end. It is a peculiar feeling to have lived and then lived again. It is perhaps no different than a flower, dormant in winter only to return in the spring.  

But now as time has passed and the days lengthen to months and years, it has come to me as the words to a poet. All too well do I remember the flames and fell deeds of those creatures only Morgoth could create; their being a mockery to the true work of the Iluvatar.  There in the Eagles’ Cleft, Cirith Thornonath, I battled with that devilish Balrog of Morgoth. I countered his volley and my mail stayed his whip, while a throng of my kinsmen looked on in terror.  

It is legend, that deed I did. Songs are sung of it and whenever a courageous struggle against all odds is beheld, they shout, “Alas! ‘Tis Glorfindel and the Balrog!”, But is this deservedly so? 

Los loriol is a proud house and ever will it be; for I will never reveal the truth to my kin.  It is my mind that if they had been aware of my motivation that day, then maybe they would sing my praises no more.  

I cursed that Balrog as he overtook my men and made for the women and children. The cowardice was wholly expected; what valor lies in evil? But even as I stood and watched unblinking, a beloved Noldo of the Gondolindrim, my heart grew faint and my courage failed me and I was ashamed. I make no lies --I did not want to battle that fell beast. And if there had been another way I would have taken it. There was none among my house living that could stand against such power. But as I looked into the fraught and fearful eyes of my people, I knew what must be done. I did not do it for glory or valor, nay, it was vengeance!  It was plain to me at that moment that my doom had come as it ever did to all the dispossessed Noldoli, and I accepted it.   

Never has vengeance brought forth a just deed, a lesson learned well from Feanor.  But I had naught left to draw my strength and I thought, if vengeance could waylay my foundering courage then I would embrace it. I hardened my heart, and wrathful I became. Below burned my beloved Gondolin and all that I had cherished, be it friend or family. No word has yet been conceived to convey such loss. And I would not allow it to stand unanswered, though my strength wavered. 

My sword was wrought in the forge of my father, and in it dwelled the courage of my heart whilst I still lived in blissful Valinor. It alone had the strength to fend me against this foe. But in that unhappy meeting it was as if my sword was smelted and forged anew. For with every stroke I poured my hatred, my sorrow, all my anger and regret, until at last the end came. And it served me well. But long did it plague me even into the Halls of Mandos, and though I have reconciled, I do not think it is a thing to be raised gladly by a spirited voice. But I will never say otherwise, for in it lays the good that I could not muster that day.    

There is no shame in sorrow -- only regret.