If Death is Kind by Naltariel

If Death is Kind chapter 1

If Death is Kind

Perhaps if Death is kind, and there can be returning,
We will come back to earth some fragrant night,
And take these lanes to find the sea, and bending
Breathe the same honeysuckle, low and white.

We will come down at night to these resounding beaches
And the long gentle thunder of the sea,
Here for a single hour in the wide starlight
We shall be happy, for the dead are free.

--- By Sara Teasdale

Chapter 1: Dying

True valor is often brought by necessity rather than desire to prove oneself.

Glorfindel remembered guarding the survivors of the city, limbs heavy because of weariness of the long battle before; his heart was pounding so hard that he was afraid it would burst open. The grief for his city and comrades, and fear for the safety of his charges would have overwhelmed his senses if not for his hard-won discipline and willpower.

“Hurry,” he whispered, agitated, urging the frightened elves in front of him to haste. They moved  too slowly, he thought; the enemies would soon catch up to them. He knew they moved as fast as they could, but it was not fast enough, and certainly not silent enough. Gone were their elven grace and nimble feet; the survivors were wounded, bleeding, some on the verge of hysterics. The soldiers were trying as best as they could to keep them moving steadily and silently.

Tuor was panting heavily, wounded, bleeding, and barely managed to stay conscious. His earlier acts of courage had taken a toll on him. Secondborn he might be, but his strength and valor had rivaled even the greatest Eldarin warriors. He was no help now, however, for even the greatest warrior had his limits and the mortal had reached his hours ago. He was leaning on his wife, who was also carrying their only child.

Eärendil was crying, still in shock, a state he held in common with several other young elves. Some of them were weeping in their mother’s embraces, others were quite, their faces paled and their eyes were haunted. Glorfindel thought of asking the adults to carry all the children, but it was not feasible. The adults were in no better condition than the young ones. Some of the civilians were in shock after the traumatic event they had just endured; the others were wounded and wearied, having fought long and hard before. The soldiers were exhausted already, and were now too busy to guard the flanks, being ready to help the refugees in this perilous path, and in alert for dangers. 

One of the boys fell and he would have cried out in pain if the golden-haired elf hadn’t clamped his hand to the younger one’s mouth, regretting his roughness. “Shh…, please be quite,” he whispered, trying to be as comforting as he could, though he was not accustomed of tending the young. He held the young elf, whom he recognized as Erestor, Rog’s only son, to his chest. The child’s wound was not severe, but it would slow him and the rest of the escapees down nevertheless, and that was something they could not afford.

They were moving along the narrow pass that was the Eagle’s Cleft while the city they loved burning below. The cold mountain wind blew fiercely though it was in the middle of summer. Glorfindel feared that it would unbalance some of the weaker ones and sent them tumbling down the abyss. Idril whispered to what remained of her people not to look down, lest their courage falter by the look of their city burning below or by vertigo. The child in Glorfindel’s arms shifted restlessly, more because of his anxiety than cold. The golden-haired Elda held him tighter, crooning words of comfort.   

They were so close to their escape, when the avalanche, or what seemed to be an avalanche, occurred.  Huge rocks were falling from above, causing some of them to fall to the chasm below while others were crushed on the path. There was screaming and crying everywhere, and the refugees were scattered in panic. Glorfindel instinctively curled protectively around the child he was carrying.

“Look!” Legolas of the House of Tree exclaimed, pointing above. Glorfindel saw with dread that the rock slide was no natural disaster, but rather caused by the fell creatures of Morgoth hurling the rocks towards them.

For a moment despair flooded him, and he thought that they had lost their hope, but Tuor, valiant as he was, shouted, “Leave all your belongings. Take your children. Legolas, continue to lead the way! Soldiers, do not stray from your positions! Run! Don’t tarry! Leave the fallen! Don’t look back!” he ordered.

It seemed at that time, that he was their king, for he spoke with a voice of authority that rivaled even Turgon himself. Everyone heeded him, those who still had their senses at least, knowing the wisdom in his words, bitter though it was to leave their fallen brethren behind. But at this time, survivors mattered most. Some of the mothers wept and refused to leave the corpses of their children who had died because of the falling rocks, a few unthinkingly jumped to the abyss following their loved ones.

Legolas and the soldiers in the front and middle swept the rocks and dead bodies from the path to make way for the others, tumbling them to the ravine, cursing themselves for their heartless treatment of the dead. Glorfindel and his men, who were guarding the rear, threatened and cursed, slapped and dragged the grieving elves, forcing them awake from their madness, as much as they loathed their brutality. It could not be helped, however, and they had learned that the hard way during the Battles of Unnumbered Tears.

“Esteliel, wake up! Leave him be! He is dead!” Glorfindel shouted desperately to one of the hysterical refugees while the elfchild in his arms crying uncontrollably. The situation was beyond control and Turgon’s captain was in despair. It was not possible for the situation to get worse, he thought to himself.

But worsen it did, for at that moment, one of the most terrible creatures of Arda appeared.

Glorfindel felt the searing heat of the fire surrounding the fell creature, heard its deafening roar, and the horrified cries of the elves. “Valkaraucë!” The earth was trembling underneath its weight and the sun was shadowed by its gigantic height. The Elf Lord turned; his heart almost stopped beating and all blood was drained from his face as he beheld one of their greatest adversaries.

The Lord of the House of Golden Flower had never believed in prayer, for he had heard the Doom of Mandos in his youth and believed it with his heart that there would be no mercy or help for the Exiles, but at that exact moment he saw the creature, he knew that the Higher Power was their only hope. “Ai, Eru, have mercy on your children, I beseech Thee!” he prayed. Have my life, but not theirs, was unspoken.

He thrust the still-crying elfling to his second in command. “Run!” he shouted.

“But …” Gwaeren protested, but stopped as their eyes met. Neither of them could mindspeak, but it was not necessary, for the heat of battles had forged their bond, and comradeship brought by pain and blood ran deeper than the familial or even romantic ties. Her husband would be horrified by her ruthlessness to leave behind her one of her fellow soldiers, but it was an order, and it was a necessary sacrifice that was not alien to war. 

Gwaeren nodded and urged the rest of the soldiers to move on, leaving her commander to face his greatest foe.

What happened after was a blur. Glorfindel did not allow himself to think or feel, for he would not be distracted by pain and fear. He only needed to stall, to stand his ground, to hold on, for as long as possible. Even so it did not mean he would not hurt the creature in his attempt.  He slashed and countered, parried and thrust all the while, taking care not to lose his balance lest he met his doom before the creature did. He did not fight to win, for he knew it was impossible; the creature was as large and strong as Gothmog, their Lord, but more clever. Despite its size and the narrowness of the path, it did not have difficulty in maneuvering itself.  

Still, Glorfindel was not Turgon’s chief captain for nothing. He managed to hew one of the beast’s arms, though with great sacrifice on his part, as the Balrog then snatched away his sword with its other hand.  The golden-haired elf remembered crying out as he came into contact with the creature’s flame; his hand was burned to the bone by the heat. With all the strength he possessed, he threw his weight against his enemy, causing it to stagger backward toward the precipice. The Balrog clearly did not expect his desperate move, and it lost its footing on the narrow passage.

Glorfindel pushed one more time, putting all of his weight on top of the monster, knowing that the only way to defeat the creature was to throw it down rather than wounding it. The Balrog let out a mighty roar of outrage as it fell and the golden-haired felt his eardrums burst from it. The pain was staggering, but Glorfindel ignored it. Then the creature’s whip slashed through the air, in its last effort to save itself. In reflex, Glorfindel grabbed the whip, fearing the Balrog might succeed in its attempt gain leverage, enabling it to rise again. It was a fatal move, however, for he was yanked toward the abyss himself.

The fire from the whip spread through his body before the impact of the fall ended his life. The agony was intense, but mercifully short. Then he knew no more.

* * *

When he regained consciousness, he saw a great black gate on a fortress in front of him. The gate was opened, revealing a hall inside, which was so dimly lit that he could not see anything. He was drawn in by some unseen force he did not know, and he entered the dark corridor almost against his will. He knew he could resist if he wished, but somehow he knew that what awaited him should he refuse the strange calling would be worse than whatever was in store for him within. 

For a moment he thought that he had been captured and brought to Angband, the Morgoth's dreadful fortress, and he shivered, silently praying and steeling himself for the ordeal that would soon follow.

His grim thought was soon disproved as he come upon a throne. An ominous figure was standing beside the gate, tall and forbidding. He was clad wholly in black velvet; the color was so dark it seemed as if it absorbed the dim light from its surroundings, though it exuded no evil. He wore a shining silvery circlet upon his brow, wrought to show a strange intricate design that must be the sigil of his office, although Glorfindel did not recognize it. His visage was that of an elf, but it did not fool Glorfindel for a moment, as the Being had the deepest and most penetrating gaze he had ever seen.  He could not suppress a cry and fell upon his knees as the eyes bored into him and his still-weary fëa hurt by the inquest.

“Fear not, Laurefindil of Los’Loriol, or who is known as Glorfindel of the Golden Flower.” The voice, as his expression, was grim.

“Where am I, Lord?” the golden-haired Elda asked, still reeling from the shock of the tall lord’s gaze.

“You are in my Hall, child, for your fëa had been separated from your hröa,” said the Being again. He walked to the still-quivering elf in front of him and bade him to stand up.

Glorfindel pondered the statement for a while and came to a conclusion. “I’m dead then,” he said, resigned.  

“You are,” said the Being whom Glorfindel surmised as Lord Námo, though his appearance was not as dark and forbidding as he remembered when the Vala of the Dead had spoken the Doom of the Noldor many years ago.

“Will I be judged then?” the elf asked with some trepidation, remembering the harsh words of the Doomsman that had sealed the fate of his kin.  

The Vala nodded, and his obsidian eyes softened as he perceived his charge’s apprehension. “Fear not, child, for we are not without mercy, and atonement will be available for those who seek it in pure heart. Come,” the Vala beckoned. Dutifully, Glorfindel obeyed, bracing himself for what was to come. Despite Námo’s reassurance, he could not help but suspect that the judgment he was about to face would be more terrible than the horrible death he had just endured.

* * *

Chapter End Notes

A/N: In The Book of Lost Tales 2, in the Fall on Gondolin, it is said that Glorfindel’s house name was Los’Loriol. Laurefindil is Glorfindel’s Quenya name. Glorfindel’s fight scene was adapted from Tolkien Gateway description of the Fall of Gondolin and Idril’s escape.

Beta-ed by Dawn Felagund. Also thanks to Ithilwen for checking the draft.

Chapter II: Judgment

The Ring of Doom was quiet, but forbidding. Aside from the Mandos' Hall, this was another place that the elves of Aman took great care to avoid. It was dark, illuminated only by light from the bright stars and few Ainu-made lamps that shone with eerie bluish glow. There were twelve thrones surrounding it, taller than any throne Glorfindel had ever seen. Each was made from finest marble and decorated with carvings of Valarin symbols that were alien to the elf. The floor on which Glorfindel stood was made from polished granite, which reflected the night sky on its glassy surface. From the rustling leaves, there must be wind blowing, but Glorfindel could not feel it. Perhaps because he was already dead.  The elf felt fear once again, especially when he remembered the harsh words of his people’s Curse. There would be no mercy on them.  

But the Valar were not present yet, save for Mandos who had brought him here. Glorfindel then took time to examine himself as he had not done after his death.

He found that he appeared to be whole in body. There was no burn marks of the Balrog’s fire that had melted his skin, nor cuts and bruises from his earlier fights. There was not a speck of dirt on him either. As for his clothing, he was unsurprised to find himself clad in plain grey tunic and leggings; his hair was unbraided. He supposed that in death one should expect to be stripped of his title and wealth. Still, he could not help but feel unsettled by his appearance. It made him feel humbled and vulnerable, especially in front of the majestic beings that would be his judges.

Suddenly he felt the presence of the twelve Valar assigned by the Ilúvatar to guard the earth and Eruhini. One by another they filled the thrones around him. Every one of them was beautiful and terrible in their magnificence; with luminous eyes that shown the depth of their might and wisdom. They shone brightly, as if their fana were mere thin silks that veiled their inner light. Glorfindel had met some of them during his childhood in the Blessed Realm, but their visage had been different then, gentler and not so overpowering. This time, they did not feel the need to conceal their presence as it coalesced and swirled around the elf. The air hummed and crackled at the mingling of their force.

Glorfindel felt awe and fear, consciously aware that he was small and insignificant in front of the Beings who had helped the All Father to shape this earth. He knelt, offering them his reverence.

 “Stand and face us, Glorfindel of the Golden Flower,” commanded a Voice from the middle throne, which Glorfindel surmised belong to Manwë Súlimo, the High King of Arda, who sat right in front of him on the largest and most beautiful throne.

The elf stood and looked up.  

Manwë had deep blue and penetrating eyes, which made Glorfindel quickly look away. The lady beside him was Varda, the Queen of the Stars. Her raiment was dark blue as the night, and her hair was the color of the moonless sky. She wore a circlet with a single star as her sigil. Her eyes were brighter than any stars, beautiful beyond words.

Lord Námo sat on the Elder King’s right, his expression still grim and unreadable. Beside him must be his wife, Vairë the Weaver. Lord Ulmo, who looked very different from the other Valar for his blue skin, sat on Varda's left. He looked thoughtful. He seemed to give a slight nod to Glorfindel, though the elf could not be sure. Perhaps it was just his imagination. The Valië beside Vairë was probably Nienna. She wore a grey dress. Her eyes were sorrowful, but also kind and compassionate. Glorfindel could not clearly see the other Valar without turning around, but he could feel their great presence surrounding him.

Lord Manwë nodded slightly, pleased by his compliance. “Let us begin,” he said. The other Valar murmured in agreement.

Despite his resolve, the gallant Lord of Gondolin could not help but shudder as he was forced to relive his life, from his childhood to his coming of age, from his first meeting with Turgon, to their budding friendship and Glorfindel’s father's decision to swear fealty to the son of Fingolfin. Harder to bear still were his memories of the Kinslaying, though he had been too horrified by the monstrous act and refused to take part it in at once, then his journey through the Grinding Ice that had claimed his father and sister’s life, forcing Glorfindel to take the lordship for his house at a young age, followed by the loss of his innocence, then his first battle, his first kill, first wound, first trauma, losing his people to death and pain without proper chance to mourn them, for he had to continue the fight else he would be slain himself.

He remembered when he followed his lord to build the hidden city, hopeful to find peace again after long hard years of battle and struggle to survive. His memory brought him back to the time when he had escorted his lord’s sister and facing Turgon’s wrath for the first time when they lost her. It was clear to him now the meaning of the deep feeling of foreboding when he first saw Maeglin and then Tuor. Finally, the hardest of all, the memory of the attack to his supposedly protected city, the horror, the panic, the fear, his grief as he was forced to leave his city to destruction to guard his lord’s family, his resignation to death as he faced the monstrous creature that was beyond his skill.

It was too much, the pain was still too fresh. He fell to his knees, weeping inconsolably as he saw again how the city was burned, ransacked, his comrades, his friends who died fighting to save the city. Oh, how he had failed his lord, his people, his father!

Still sobbing, he felt himself being drawn gently into a protective embrace. He also heard the being weep with him; the sound of their mourning echoed loudly in the silence of the place. Glorfindel felt wetness of the Vala’s tears seep through his skin, and he felt himself strangely strengthened by it.

“I’m sorry,” he said, after the tears subsided, ashamed of his weaknesses, and worse, for causing one of the Valar to weep on his behalf.

“Nothing to be sorry of,” said Nienna kindly. “Is it not my purpose to comprehend the pain of Eruhini and reflect the marring of Arda? Your grief is true, borne out of love instead of selfishness, and you honor me by sharing it with me.”

“Thank you,” Glorfindel murmured.

“You are most welcome,” replied the Valië, “but your judgment is not concluded yet. Stand, and answer to your deeds.” Lady Nienna smiled at him gently and went back to her throne.

Glorfindel winced at the words. It was not over yet. He should have expected it; he would not be dismissed so easily. He bowed his head and closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath to comport himself, willing himself to stand up. He clenched his fists, steadying his trembling legs. Then he exhaled and opened his eyes. Straightening himself, he faced his judges once again.

“Glorfindel of Golden Flower, what say you for the accusation of slaying your own kin?”  asked Lord Námo, grim in his countenance. 

“I plead not guilty, my Lord.” He had been barely past his majority when the Kinslaying occurred. He remembered how all his family, including him, had tried hard to stop the atrocities but failed. Surely the Valar would not hold their failure against him?

The Lord of Arda’s gaze bore through his eyes, searching for deceit and finding none. Glorfindel met his gaze steadily; he had spoken no falsehood and saw no reason to fear. After a while, Lord Manwë nodded, satisfied with the answer. The Lord of the Golden Flower felt his tension eased. “Continue,” Lord Manwë ordered.

Again the Lord of the Dead rose and spoke “Glorfindel of Golden Flower, what say you for the accusation of rebellion against the Valar?”

 He pondered the question for a while and answered, “I plead not guilty, my Lord.”

Lord Manwë raised his eyebrows, seemingly surprised by the response. Again his gaze pierced through the elf lord’s fëa, longer and more intense than before. It was as if there was another presence in his mind, prodding around his memories and thoughts without permission, and it was highly unpleasant. Still, Glorfindel met his gaze unflinchingly, refusing to be cowed, though it was not an easy task. The intrusion of his mind annoyed him greatly and it served to strengthen his resolve instead.

Finally the Elder King released his gaze. Glorfindel found himself sighing in relief before he could stop himself.   

“You truly believe you have not committed transgression against us? Have you no remorse at all?” the Elder King inquired once again.

“My Lord, long I have pondered if we did indeed rebel against you by leaving the shores of Aman. But then I committed no Kinslaying. I remembered your messenger had said that we were free to go, only that you would not lend us aid. I could not speak for others, but my family and I committed no crime. What we did was foolish, for you had warned us that we would never be able to face Morgoth and prevail, but we did not rebel, my Lord. Had you forbidden us directly, my father would have stayed, for although he was loyal to Prince Turgon, never would he directly disobey your words.”

“So you say the fault lies with us.” Manwë’s tone was mild, but the underlying displeasure could not be hidden.

Glorfindel flinched and lowered his eyes. “No, of course not, my Lord.”

For a long time there was no answer. The elf forced himself not to fidget, his anxiety mounting with every second. Perhaps he should not gainsay the High King of Arda, the most powerful being in Arda after Eru himself. But he could not lie either nor fake remorse when he felt none.

“Glorfindel,” called the Elder King again. The elf looked up. The Vala’s face was unreadable. “Let us proceed to our next question.”

Lord Námo spoke again, “Glorfindel of the Golden Flower, what say you for the accusation of breaking Law and Custom of the Eldar?”

Glorfindel was silent. He had lost his innocence even before he reached his majority in the frozen hell of Helcaraxë. He and Turgon were mad with grief then, having lost the people closest to them; he had lost his father and Turgon his dear wife, who was also Glorfindel’s sister. Amidst their sorrow, they had lain together; their desire to forget their pain and despair had driven them to seek comfort in each other in a way that had breached their law and custom. They woke up in anxiety and guilt, and never spoke of the night again.

Then came Ecthelion.

Ecthelion was a Sinda, a Moriquendi that scoffed the law and custom enforced upon them by the newcomers. He insisted that the Noldor were the ones who were supposed to adapt themselves to the law of the Sindarin people. Middle-earth was no Valinor. Once your spouse or beloved died, there would be no way for you to be reunited with your beloved unless you were slain yourself. The dead, if they would be reembodied, would stay in Valinor, prohibited to come back to their homeland. Likewise, the living could not sail to Valinor for the Valar had blocked the way. Should they forgo comfort and companionship, suffering loneliness and grief for unaccounted years waiting for something that was not certain? Or should they seize every day they had, for in their battle against Morgoth, who would know for certain if that day would be their last? As for the gender of their partners, Ecthelion too had deemed it unimportant, for love should not have boundaries.

It was Ecthelion who had first taught him the pleasure of the flesh, though their love for each other never surpassed that of deepest friendship. Their hearts lay elsewhere, both unreachable to them.

 “Glorfindel, what do you say for the accusation?” Lord Námo prompted again, breaking the Elda’s reverie.

“I … I … do not know, my Lord,” he answered.

“Do not know? Did you not break the law and custom of your people? We have seen it in your memory. Do you wish to deny it also? Unlike the Doom of the Exiles that you argued about, the Law and Custom clearly states that every Elda shall share his body only with his spouse of the opposite sex, and their binding will last until Arda ends.  You have shared your body with several people, first with your already bound lord and your own brother-in-law! Then you did it with several others without binding yourself to them, and all with elves of the same gender as you. After all these, you dare to say you do not know if you have violated the Law and Custom of your people?”

The tone of the voice was calm, but sent a shiver of fear down Glorfindel’s spine.

Varda looked thoughtful for sometime then spoke, "You and your kins' action also bring forth great repercussions. According to the law, since you have lain with several elves, some of whom had lain with others, and some of whom were already bound before you started to follow the ways of the Moriquendi, it means that you have several bound mates. But how do we determine who is bound to whom?”

“We should consider this matter with great care, lest we blunder,” spoke a Vala beside Nienna. Glorfindel turned instinctively. From his calm demeanor and soft, comforting gaze, the elf supposed it was Lord Irmo. The other Valar murmured in agreement.

 The Valar then seemed to converse among themselves, though they used no words. Their eyes darted here and there, their brows lightly furrowed in concentration. In few blinks of the eye, they were finished. Their expressions were solemn once more.

Manwë spoke, “We have heard and evaluated your case. Kneel and accept your Doom, Glorfindel of Golden Flower.”

The elf lord knelt, heart pounding in anxiety. He once again prayed to the All Father, though he did not know for what.

Námo spoke, his voice as terrible as the day the Exiled were doomed. “You have shown no contrition for your rebellion and your sins against the Law and Custom of your people. You also have shown unwavering loyalty to your people and your duty. You sacrificed your life so others might live. That action alone should wipe away all of your previous transgressions. But your unwillingness to repent will hinder your release from my care, for we cannot allow your disregard for the Law and Custom to mar the society of the Eldar in Valinor. Thus, I will pronounce your Doom such as this: that you will stay in my halls until I deem you worthy of release, which will occur when you have seen the error of your ways and vowed not to teach the strange customs you have followed to the elves of Aman. Furthermore, since you have tainted yourself by sharing your body with those who are not your bound mate, you shall take no spouse or lay with any elves who are untouched in this Blessed Realm. Should you attempt to disregard this sentence, you will be exiled from this land until Arda ends.”

Hearing the sentence, Glorfindel sank unto the floor, burying his face in his hands. He did not know what he was supposed to feel at the sentence, only overwhelming relief that it was over.

“Come, let us return to my hall.” Glorfindel felt Námo’s presence beside him. The Lord of Doom’s voice was softer now.  The golden-haired elf stood, feeling Námo’s hand on his shoulder.

A blink of an eye, and he was back to the Hall of Waiting, where he would stay until the Vala deemed it prudent to release him.

* * *

Chapter End Notes

Beta-ed by the fabulous Dawn Felagund. Thanks, Dawn!

Chapter III: Solitude

It was hard to reconcile the grim, forbidding voice known for pronouncing dooms with the warm comforting presence beside him. Námo had been guiding Glorfindel through the alleys in the Hall; the hand on the elf’s shoulder was gentle and reassuring. They met several beings, Maia, judging by the depth of their eyes, but he saw no other elven spirit.

“Where are we going, my Lord?” he asked warily. He had some ideas of what confinement in the Hall meant, though of course they were all mere rumours. It was said that slain elves would dwell long in this hall, and would yearn for their bodies, yet would find no respite until they were rehoused. Glorfindel could only hope he could endure it.

“We are going to your room, Glorfindel,” Námo answered, breaking the elf from his depressing thoughts. Glorfindel was unsatisfied with the answer, but reluctant to press on. After all he would find out soon what Námo meant by "his room".

The alleys were dimly lit like the main hall. There were wooden doors along the alleys. Námo explained that each belonged to an elf that resided in this place, so he or she might find solitude and peace. The Hall itself was quiet, but peaceful, and aside from his earlier bleak impression, it was not threatening. Now and then Glorfindel could hear some lamentations and songs, perhaps sung by the servants of Nienna or even Nienna herself. They brought tears to his eyes, but he did not feel grief or sorrow, for the songs were soothing, like a balm to his weary fëa.

Finally they reached a wooden door. It looked the same as any other door, but somehow Glorfindel felt himself drawn to it. Námo stopped and unlocked the door with a key that suddenly appeared in his hand, another magic of this place no doubt. The door opened, and he beckoned the elf to enter.

The elf stepped through the threshold with apprehension, half-expecting to find a cell-like chamber inside. Instead he found the chamber to be quite spacious; its size was comparable to his childhood room, though not nearly as large as the one he had owned in Gondolin. The furniture inside was simple, but homey. They appeared to be made of oak with few leaf carvings as decorations. There was a large comfortable-looking bed in the middle of the room, two nightstands with drawers, a table with two chairs on the corner, a small cupboard, and two lanterns on the wall as the only source of light in the room. The space was not as dim as the hall outside, but neither was it as bright as he would have liked it to be. It was as if the room was in perpetual twilight. Glorfindel wished there was a window to look outside, but this was far better than a dark, cold prison cell he had expected. He released his breath he was unconsciously holding.

 “Thank you,” he said to Námo.

The Lord of the Dead looked amused; it was a rather disconcerting sight. “In truth, there is no furniture and you are but a naked fëa before my eyes. This is all just an illusion, just like the body and clothes you are wearing, but it will make it easier for the Eldar’s souls to cope while they take their sojourn here.”

Glorfindel shivered despite himself for the reminder of his houseless state.

The Vala’s gazed at him sympathetically. “Despite what you think, we are not cruel, and we never seek to torment Eruhini who have been trusted to our care.”

Námo led Glorfindel to the bed. “Rest now,” he ordered softly. “When your fëa is refreshed we will talk more.”

The elf sat on the bed and nodded. The Vala went to lock the door, then handed him the key. Not expecting the gesture, Glorfindel looked up, startled.

“Regardless of how your people name it, this Hall is no prison, save to the evil ones,” said the Vala, looking amused once again. “We will not confine you to this room, you are free to roam this Hall and seek your kin and beloved ones. The key is more to your benefit than to ours, so that you can lock the door when you do not wish to be disturbed. It will not keep out me or my servants, of course, but you need not worry about that.”

Glorfindel flushed. It was easy to forget that in reality he was an unhoused fëa, and that his thoughts were open like a book to the Being beside him. It was disconcerting to be utterly exposed without any means to hide his feelings and thoughts.

“Sleep--you think too much,” Namo chided him gently.

The elf lay down on the bed, not bothering to slip under the covers, and promptly fell asleep.

He dreamed of a vast celandine field in summer, gentle breeze, and the warmth of the sun kissing his skin. For the first time since a very long time, the golden Lord of Gondolin felt at peace.

* * *

Glorfindel awoke from his sleep feeling well rested and at peace. He whispered his gratitude to Irmo for his pleasant dream and to Námo for his thoughtfulness. Perhaps staying in this place would not be a hardship, as he had previously thought. Lady Míriel did choose to stay here until the end of Arda after all, so it could not be as bad, for who would willingly stay in prison when they had committed no crime?

The golden-haired elf sat up, combing his mussed hair with his hand. He did not know how long he had slept. There was no way to mark the passing of time here. There was no window to see if it was night or day. He felt no hunger or thirst. His arms did not ache, though he had fallen asleep in an awkward position. He reminded himself that he actually had no body; this was just an illusion.

He was dead, fallen when his beloved city was sacked and his people killed.

The realization opened the gates of his memory of his death, how he had burned as he fell, the sickening smell of seared flesh and skin, the agony beyond endurance, the enraged roar of the Balrogs drowning his own scream of pain, the bone-shattering impact of his fall, the moment when he drew his last breath and his fëa cried out as it was torn apart forcefully from its house.

Even worse than that was the memory of when his city fell. Their beautiful city burned; everything for which they had worked so hard, destroyed. The sound of terrible screaming as the Morgoth’s foul creatures slaughtered them with glee, as if the Gondolidrims were no more than animals, insects. He saw children being cleaved and throttled, babies torn away from their mothers’ wombs, women raped, his people mutilated, burned, speared, crushed.

Oh, how he had failed them all! The weight of his grief made him collapse back to the bed, weeping uncontrollably.

From afar, he could hear the echo of his lamentations being sung, either by the Valië of Sorrow or her servants. It was sad, but beautiful, and most of all, it showed that Someone had heard, had understood, and perhaps, had also shared their pain.

Glorfindel clung to it as he mourned for his city and his people, holding on to hope that their pain was not in vain.

* * *

Despite his concern for his fellow comrades, Glorfindel felt no compulsion to seek them. He was content to sit on his bed, immersed in the memories of his life, both the good and the bad. Sometimes he would weep; sometimes he would laugh, though it was marred by the tears falling unbidden from his eyes. It was as if even the happiest brightest memories of his life were sullied by his pain and guilt. What would his father think of him now? He had disappointed his father utterly. The House of the Golden Flower was no more.

He tried to sleep, but he rarely found peace. His inner turmoil bred nightmares that plagued his dreams.  Thus he preferred to stay awake. At least memories could be dispelled whenever he wished, though it was not an easy task. Without the distraction of his bodily needs or other physical sensations, he felt each of his mental anguishes keenly.

There was no hunger, thirst, pain, lust, hot, or cold. He could clench his fists until his knuckles went white but felt nothing; he could bite his lips with all his strength, and felt no pain and drew no blood. He could cry, sob, and wail as hard as he could and as long as he wanted but his throat would not be sore. In frustration he tried to bite off one of his fingers just to see if he could do it. He could not. There was no smell either. He must have stayed here for days, weeks, months, or even years, and never had he washed his body, but he could smell nothing. It was as if he had lost all of his senses save his sight and hearing. But there was nothing worth seeing in the plain room, and he could only hear the lamentations of the Mourners aside from his own voice, so that too, did not help.

Perhaps this was what it meant for an unhoused fëa to yearn for a hröa. He tried to endure, but it was hard. The thought that he, perhaps, would not be rehoused for an indefinite time, possibly until the end of Arda, was frightening.

* * *

Glorfindel did not know how long he had been in the room as there was no way to tell the passage of time here, when he heard a knock on his door. The golden-haired elf did not hear it at first, so preoccupied he was in his misery. But the knocker was persistent and not a little patient. After a while, the sound registered to Glorfindel. At first, he thought that he had heard wrongly or that he was having a hallucination after his prolonged solitude in this dull place. He shook his head and tried to clear his mind, but the sound continued.

More of curiosity than a real desire to meet another person, he asked, “Who is there?”

“It is I,” the grave voice that Glorfindel knew belonged to Námo answered.

The golden-haired elf took few moments to he regain his composure. He took a few deep breaths to dispel his previous grim thought before he unlocked the door.

Glorfindel bowed his head slightly and stepped aside, allowing the Vala to enter. Námo took a seat in one of the chairs and gestured the elf to do the same, which he did after he closed the door.

“How are you faring, Glorfindel?” The voice was expressionless as always.

 “I’m … well, my Lord,” the elf replied.

Námo raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t ask the question for courtesy’s sake, child. Answer me truthfully.”

“I …” Glorfindel struggled to find a word that would best convey his feeling, but it was not easy. He wanted to tell how much the memory pained him, but at the same time he wanted to preserve his dignity. “I grieve,” he finally said.

“And it hurts you,” the Vala remarked.

Glorfindel nodded. He looked away from the Being’s penetrating eyes, unwilling to share more.

“Yet you don’t seem inclined to seek comfort either from your kin or from someone else. You are content to stay here, drowning in self-loathing and despair,” Námo stated matter-of-factly.

Glorfindel flinched at the words, “I’m sorry, my Lord,” he said, ashamed of his behavior. Once a proud lord and captain of Gondolin, and here he was, wallowing in self-pity and misery like a lovesick maiden.

The Vala dismissed his apology with a wave of his hand. “You do not need to apologize to me. It is just an observation. It amuses and confuses me that almost every elven fëa behaves like you do. In fact, despite how much you claim to love each other and are unable to part from each other while you are alive, when you come here, every one of you prefer solitude, no matter how miserable you are, until my sister and I half-coerce you to meet your kin and beloved ones. Why is that, I wonder?”

Glorfindel could not answer the question, but he did not think the Vala expected him to. The Being seemed to be merely wondering aloud. It did surprise him, however, to hear that the Valar did not know about this phenomenon more than he did. He had thought that, being Valar, they must know everything, especially concerning the matter of their dominion. He could not decide if it was a good or bad thing.

“If you were any other elf, I would let you brood for some more before pushing you to end your self-imposed solitude. However, it seems that you still have a role to play in the history of your people that is yet unfolding; thus I will have to hasten your recovery.”

“Role?” Glorfindel inquired, bewildered. “But I’m dead.”

“I notice,” Námo replied dryly.

Glorfindel stared at the Vala, not expecting the witty comeback and from one who looked so somber. 

Ignoring the elf’s surprise, the Vala continued, “In any case, you are right. While you still dwell here, you will be useless to the living. Therefore you will be released from my Hall in a short while.”

“The condition of my release is that I must as you said ‘see the error of my ways, and vow not to pass on the strange custom I followed'?” Glorfindel said carefully.

“’Tis true.”

“In that case, I am afraid I might never leave your Hall. I have no remorse for my ways of life or the customs I have adapted when I dwelled in Endorë, nor have I desire to fake it just to be released from this Hall. I have failed Ecthelion and his people in my failure to save him and protect our city. I will not betray him further by renouncing what he has taught me.”

“You prefer to stay here, in this half existence that pains you, just so you will not betray your principle and your lover,” Námo said.

“We are not lovers,” Glorfindel muttered. “We are friends. The best of friends, but not lovers.”

“Fine, your friend." The Vala seemed to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. “My point still stands.”

“As is mine. Lover or not, I care about him, and will never betray him or my other Sindarin friends who has stood beside us in the battle against Morgoth, nor will I compromise my belief.”

Námo pondered the elf’s words for a while. “I have told you that you still have a role in the shaping of Arda and, of course, the fate of your people. You truly place the importance of your principle and your friends above them?”

“With all due respect, it was not I that made the condition of my release from your Hall so complicated, even impossible, as I still cannot see how you make me feel regret when there is none,” Glorfindel countered. “Unless, of course, you break me,” he added.

The Vala looked affronted. “We are no Morgoth to do such things! How preposterous it is for you to suggest that we, the servants of Eru, will torment those who are entrusted to our care!”

Glorfindel quickly regretted his words. “I apologize for my crude words, my Lord. I spoke without thinking.”

That did not appear to appease Námo. “It is how you see us, child? That we are so heartless as to break your spirit to bend you to our will?” the Vala said, clearly disappointed.

“No! Of course not, my Lord.”

Námo looked at him with pained eyes while Glorfindel fidgeted on his seat, feeling guilty for causing the Vala distress; after all the Lord of the Doom had treated him kindly and had shown him some measure of warmth and compassion. Finally, Námo released his gaze and Glorfindel breathed a sigh of relief.

“So, what are you going to do now, Lord? Do you seek to edify me with reason about my mistakes so that I will repent?”

“You must understand this, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower,” the Vala explained. “I have never cared for any custom concerning physical desire, for they do not exist here, and as you actually possess no body, gender is of no importance.

“Furthermore, Nienna and I will be thrilled if we are able to coax you to interact with each other, even resume or build intimacies. We will be ecstatic,” Námo said wryly, “to see you entangle yourselves in an intricate love affair if it will pull you out of your self-pity; at least then you’ll show some passion. The Elven Law and Custom has always been my brother’s domain, for he deals with the living, and it was that concern that shaped your doom I pronounced.”

“Then his concern is misplaced!” Realizing he had been carried away once again, Glorfindel contained himself. “Sorry,” he murmured.

The Vala dismissed it with a shrug. “He has his reasons, flawed though you think it is.”

“Is preventing the elves from Aman from being tainted by my ‘strange custom’ more important than my upcoming role?”

“I did not foresee your fate until after your Doom was pronounced,” Námo explained. “Contrary to popular belief, we are not invincible, nor are we all-knowing. As it is, we cannot change the condition of your release, and I am not sure if Lord Manwë will want to anyway. There are some things that he highly values, and the propriety of your love lives is one of them it seems.” Glorfindel noticed there was a hint of exasperation in the Vala’s voice.  

“Since Lord Manwë will not relent and I will not see ‘the error of my ways,’ as you put it, then I’m afraid I will have to stay here,” the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower insisted.

Námo sighed, exasperated. “Perhaps what my wife will show you will change your mind. Come then, let us see what the All Father has inspired her to weave concerning you and the future of your people.”

The Vala stood and walked to the door, beckoning Glorfindel to follow him. The elf did, though a part of him wanted to decline, still resentful after their talk. Even in death he could find no peace.

* * *  

Chapter End Notes

Betaed by Dawn Felagund. Thanks!

Chapter IV:  Tapestries of Fate

Strange how death could change an elf, Eönwë thought as he beheld Laurefindil, the golden son of Alcarin, the Lord of the Los’Loriol, one of the noblest houses of the Eldar.

He had been summoned to the Hall by the Lady Weaver earlier without her mentioning why. It was rare for a Maia to be summoned by a Vala who was not his direct superior. Moreover, Vairë had warned him not to tell Lord Manwë of this meeting, which made the herald more than a little wary. Nevertheless, it was fascinating to learn about the life of an Elda, and of the greatest heroes of them nonetheless! His office as the Herald of Manwë had not given him a lot of chances to interact with the Firstborn save as a messenger. This was the first time he witnessed the life of an elf with all its tragedies and pain so intimately. 

The Maia had been fascinated by the elf ever since Laurefindil was brought to the Taniquetil to receive the blessing from Manwë and Varda as was custom for any prince born of Vanyarin blood. Barely past his majority, the youth already looked striking: his blue eyes shone with the light of the Trees and his fiery fëa, his golden hair flowed down like spun gold, braided with white gems and golden ornaments befitting a Vanyarin prince. He stood tall and proud, chin lifted high, though there was no arrogance or defiance in him, only confidence brought by his noble upbringing and self assurance of his place among his people. The young prince gave respect to the Elder King and Lady and revered the Valar as all his people did. Eönwë had been surprised when Alcarin had decided to follow his daughter’s husband to exile.

In one of the Vairë’s tapestries, Eönwë had seen how the elf grew amidst the hardship, pain and grief that had haunted every Exile since they stepped out of the security of the Blessed Realm. Laurefindil, who was now called Glorfindel, had matured into one of the most valiant and noble Lords of the Eldar. The Maia had seen the elf, battle-weary and grief-stricken, but still determined and brave whilst battling the terrible foe that clearly outmatched him in one of Vairë's tapestries.

This time Glorfindel simply looked lost and forlorn. Without his customary royal braids and clad only in a plain grey tunic that was the typical attire for the fëar of the dead in this Hall, the golden-haired elf looked humbled. His clear blue eyes were shadowed, and his shoulders were hunched. He looked whole in body, but Eönwë could sense with the spiritual ability that was natural for all Ainur that the elf’s fëa was clearly wounded and weary.

Eönwë felt a pang in his chest to see such a valiant and beautiful creature look so diminished, weighed down by his grief and confinement in this Hall. Vairë had notified Eönwë of the harsh sentence of the golden elf, and the Maia’s heart ached for him. He wished he could offer some comfort to the elf. He wondered if this was what it meant to be the Ainu of compassion like Nienna, who shared the Eruhini’s pain and eased their grieves. He had certainly never felt like this before and wondered if he would feel the same way if he had been given privilege to view another elf’s life.

 “Lady Vairë,” Glorfindel bowed to Vairë and nodded respectfully at the Maia. “Lord Eönwë.” Eönwë smiled and returned the gesture, inexplicably glad that the golden-haired elf still remembered him.

 “You have known each other I see,” remarked Námo.

“We have met,” replied Glorfindel, glancing curiously at Eönwë. The Maia was glad that there was no hostility or wariness in the elf’s gaze directed toward him, the herald of the Elder King who had decided the elf’s harsh punishment.

“Good. Then let us go inside,” Námo said, beckoning to the elf and Maia to follow him.

“Before we begin, Lord Námo, would you mind to enlighten me of the purpose of my presence here?” Eönwë spoke out in elven tongue, aware of the presence of the elf in their midst.

“You will find out soon enough,” replied the Vala, also in Quenya.

Trust the Lord of Doom to be so enigmatic, mused Eönwë. Beside him Glorfindel rolled his eyes, causing the Maia to raise his eyebrows in surprise. It seemed that the elf’s spirit was not so broken after all.

* * *

They walked through the long winded corridor that did not seem to end, twisting and turning so much that were not for the presence of Námo and Vairë, Eönwë was certain that they would be lost. The eerie voices of Nienna and her servants’ lament did nothing to assuage his unease nor the pain and suffering of the dead he could feel through his Ainur ability. He had just been through this passage before when Vairë took him to her domain to see the tapestries of the Past, but the second time through this place was as unpleasant as the first. Eönwë glanced to see if Glorfindel also shared his queasiness, but the elf seemed to be lost in thought and not paying any attention to his surroundings.  

At last they arrived at the Vairë‘s Hall. It was separated from the rest of Mandos with a grand oak door with bronze doorknobs carved with the sigil of her office. The Lady Weaver opened the door and they entered another passage, wider and much brighter than the previous ones they had just been in, lit with bronze lanterns along the way. There was no longer lament or the feel of gloom that had so permeated the Halls of the Dead.

“This part of Mandos Hall is my wife’s domain,” explained Námo to Glorfindel as the four of them walked through the passage. “It is called the Hall of Tapestries, and is divided into three sections. The first is for the tapestries of the Past, the next is the tapestries of the Present, and the last one for the tapestries of Future. Of course, as time goes by, the tapestries’ place will change, from Future to Present, and finally to the Past. It is only after all the tapestries in the Future section are moved to the Past then Arda will be remade.”

Glorfindel looked thoughtful as he absorbed the information.  “Then this Hall must be very vast to be able to keep all the tapestries of Past, Present, and Future, especially when there are so many of us to keep track of,” he said. “It might be ages before we can see them all.” 

Vairë smiled. “Well, it’ll be overwhelming indeed to see all tapestries that have happened, are happening, and are going to happen. Indeed, it is impossible to do so as tapestries continue to shift from one section to another through the course of time. What we will show you are only tapestries depicting some of the scenes from your previous life and your upcoming role, about which my husband has told you before.”

Námo turned to Eönwë, “The tapestries we are about to show also concern you, Eönwë, which is why we summon you to this Hall. It seems that your role and Glorfindel's will be closely intertwined in the shaping of Arda.”

The information was surprising to say the least. Eönwë's curiosity was piqued, but he kept his expression neutral. If he was about to be given such a huge task, then Námo should have consulted with his lord, but it seemed that it was not the case. Instead, the Lord of the Doom chose to keep this information from the Elder King himself.

They arrived at the centre of a spacious chamber. It was far smaller than the Hall of the Past where Eönwë had been earlier but no less impressive. It was circular in shape, and its size was comparable to the Ring of Doom. Its walls, as well as the floor, were made of white polished marble. The ceiling was at least three stories high and was made of glinting crystals, reflecting the light from the magnificent golden chandelier below. Tapestries were hung through the wall, with a bright lantern above each of them to enable better viewing.

Glorfindel gasped at the sight. “It is beautiful,” he whispered in wonder, “and so … so bright.”

Námo snorted, “As you can see, not all of Mandos Hall is dark and gloomy like, well, a prison.”

The elf snorted again and turned his attention to a tapestry beside him. Tapestries of Vaire were intensely realistic, like a scene frozen in time with all the details and nuances, the expressions of the characters inside clearly depicted. Glorfindel were once again gasped in surprise at the beauty of it and moved closer and examined the first tapestry in the Hall. The tapestry seemed to flare in light when the elf approached it and the lantern above it brightened, making the image more alive and vivid.

It was the scene of the elf’s birth. Alcarin was holding his second-born with apparent joy and pride, cooing at the tiny baby while combing the golden hair with his fingers. His wife, Vardilmë, was smiling beside them, tired but very much happy. Elenwë looked at her little brother with a look akin to wonder.

Eönwë observed that Glorfindel’s eyes were clouded with tears as he looked at his family’s faces with longing. “Atar, ammë, Elenwë… I’m sorry,” he whispered. He turned to Námo and asked, “What happened to them? Where are they now?”

“They have been released from my Hall not so long ago. They are walking on the streets of Tirion once again,” replied Námo kindly. Eönwë was kind of surprised that the Lord of the Doom was always looked stern and forbidding was capable of being so gentle to his charge, his own Lord certainly was not.

Glorfindel breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m glad,” he said, though his voice was still tinged with sadness. 

Vairë came to the elf’s side, her arm encircling Glorfindel’s shoulders. She led the elf to the next tapestry depicting the little elf playing with his friends. Glorfindel and several other elflings were covered with mud from head to toe; not even his golden hair was visible. Eönwë could not help but chuckle at the sight of several frogs jumping here and there in the regal living room of the House of Golden Flower, splattering mud and water on the expensive carpets, chairs, and practically everywhere. Turukáno and Elenwë, who had been assigned as the youngsters’ babysitters, were throwing them murderous looks while the elflings sat and stared at them with wide-eyed innocence. Glorfindel chuckled at the scene, “We were such monsters back then.”

They came to the next scene. This time it was Turukáno’s wedding to Glorfindel’s sister, blessed by Ingwë himself. It had been one of the most memorable weddings of the Eldar in Valinor, for it was the first wedding of one of Finwë’s grandsons. It was attended by more than a thousand elves, all from the noble families of Eldar, even some Ainur. Eönwë and several of his fellow Maiar had attended the celebration in the place of their lord. Although young Glorfindel was only present in the background of the scene, it was not hard to see why this event had been significant to Glorfindel’s life, for his sister’s marriage to the son of Fingolfin was the reason for Alcarin’s decision to follow Turukáno to the exile.

In one of the tapestries, Eönwë found where he was the main focus of the scene, when he delivered the message from Manwë, before the Noldor were ready to depart from Valinor. It was a dark time, with confusion and anger abound, even among the Ainur. Finwë’s murder, the loss of Silmarils, and the slaying of the Two Trees had roused unease all across Valinor. Eönwë had never seen the Valar so enraged as when they discovered the death of Laurelin and Telperion. Yavanna’s anguish was palpable in the air; her lament carried out throughout Valinor. Even more was Manwë’s wrath. The kinslaying at Alqualondë and the Noldorin flight from Aman despite his warning had been like throwing a torch to a dry bush. It was no wonder that they had come up with such a dire punishment for the Exiles.

Even though Eönwë had not been privy to the Valarin council, it was apparent that not all of the Valar agreed with the decision. Ulmo was the most vocal, his thunderous anger shook Taniquetil, but Manwë could not be dissuaded. Thus, there was estrangement between Valinor and the rest of Middle-earth.

They moved forward from one tapestry to another. Blood seemed to drain from Glorfindel’s face when he saw the tapestry depicting Alcarin, Vardilmë, and Elenwë’s death in Helcaraxë, crushed by a snow avalanche. He was about to weep, when Lady Weaver murmured softly, “Hush Glorfindel, they are well and alive now. Grieve no more for them.” He nodded, but remained pale, and she gently led him toward the next scene.

The tapestry depicted young Glorfindel, distraught in the aftermath of the tragedy, drinking mead with his brother-in-law who was equally in grief. Námo looked at the scene grimly and so did Vairë. Eönwë knew what happened after – Vairë had told him before -  though he had not seen the scene, and he shared the Valar’s anger toward the Fingolfin’s son. The thought of young Glorfindel whose innocence had been stripped off in such an unpleasant situation made Eönwë’s blood boiled and he clenched his fist.

“He should not take advantage of you,” the Lady Weaver voiced her contempt.

“He did not force me. I was as much to blame as he was,” Glorfindel murmured, clearly uncomfortable. “We need distraction from our pain. We were drunk and could not think straight.”

Námo glanced at the elf strangely. “Turukano did a great deal of damage to you throughout your life and still you never speak ill of him. Nevertheless, you were not yet past your majority and he should be your next of kin who supposed to take care of you. Perhaps he was not fully aware of his action when he took you but it was his fault that the situation escalated thus. Stop taking responsibility for his action.” His tone broke no argument and the underlying wrath of his voice made the elf shivered, despite knowing that it was not directed to him. Vairë noticed Glorfindel’s fear and smiled in assurance. The elf smiled back though he was still tense. 

At one point, they arrived at the tapestry with a picture of two elven lords kissing and obviously about to engage in bodily intimacy. Their bodies were flushed; their eyes were closed in rapture while their mouths devoured each other. The golden-haired one was already bare-chested and his hands were busy in unlacing his dark-haired partner’s leggings. Their hair was mussed and there were love marks all over their bodies. Eönwë stared at the tapestry in rapturous fascination. They looked so beautiful together. One was shining like Arien and the other was like the night to the day. Of why such a magnificent union was forbidden was beyond him; surely such a beautiful intimacy could not be wrong? He glanced at Glorfindel, who had looked down to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes and reddened to the roots of his hair.

“I can’t believe you'd show us this!” he said in obvious mortification.

Námo’s eyes sparkled with mirth. “It is one of major turning points of your life, is it not?”

Vairë chuckled, “It was a pleasure to weave it.”

The elf lifted his eyes warily to Námo and Vairë. Seeing there was no condemnation in their eyes, he became more relaxed; his shoulders lost most of the tension, though there was still faint blush in his cheeks. Eönwë thought he looked rather comely thus.

Some of the tapestries did not directly show Glorfindel or Eönwë. There was a scene of Ulmo speaking to Turgon, then the building of Gondolin, and Aredhel lost in the forest. Glorfindel flinched when he saw the scene, guilt clouding his face.

“Do not feel accountable over this, Glorfindel. The princess made her own choice to escape from you and Ecthelion,” Námo admonished him gently. “Besides this event will have its place in the shaping of Arda.”

“Aye, in destruction of Gondolin,” replied Glorfindel bitterly.

“Never lose hope. Eru can use even the most terrible events to the best for Arda,” Vairë said.

The next scene was no less distressing. Eönwë was flabbergasted as he saw the wrath of Turgon to his two captains for the lost of Aredhel. He had ordered them flogged in the courtyard under watching eyes of the city’s inhabitants. How cruel and barbaric! the Maia thought, wincing in sympathy at the crisscross of wounds on the elves’ backs. And to his own brother-in-law nonetheless! It was surprising to Eönwë to see Glorfindel glance at the scene without much interest.

“King Turgon was--is--one of the best commanders and rulers, but merciful he was not,” commented Glorfindel. “We were certainly not the first ones from his ranks to be punished thus for failure. In fact, I was glad that he did not spare me from the punishment, as it showed to others that he did not favor me above the other soldiers.”

This time Eönwë stared at Glorfindel in shock. How could the elf be so nonchalant about it!

The elf noticed his distress and shrugged. “It was nothing really. We have had worse in battles, and indeed we prepare for the worst. Who knows what will befall us if we are captured by Morgoth.” His expression was grim now. 

The elf walked to the next tapestry that showed exactly what he meant earlier. “This is the Battle of Unnumbered Tears,” he said, voice choked with emotion. “We were utterly defeated … We lost so many …” His eyes were again clouded with tears. Vairë embraced him, murmuring soft words of comfort as the elf wept in her arms.

Eönwë gazed at the tapestry in horrific fascination. There was so much blood. Dead, mutilated bodies of elves and men were strewn around while the vile creatures of Morgoth swung their weapons with glee. Glorfindel himself was desperately trying to hold back an attack as he guarded his king. His golden hair was matted with blood. His body was covered with numerous bruises and bloody wounds. It was a testament to the elf’s unwavering loyalty that he had remained steadfast to his liege even after the appalling punishment he had received. The Maia wondered idly what was in the cold harsh ruler that had commanded such loyalty from his people and even those he had wronged.

After the tears subsided, Vairë led Glorfindel onward. The next tapestry was equally grim. It was the scene where Eöl had been cast down under Turgon’s order while his young son watched. Aredhel was shown laying dead under Maeglin’s feet. 'Tis no wonder the elf turned dark so easily, mused Eönwë. Glorfindel was standing beside his Lord, eyes wide in shock and horror at the terrible sight he had witnessed. 

“I sometimes think that if King Turgon had not been so ruthless that day, Maeglin might not have turned out the way he did,” murmured Glorfindel. He looked away from the sight and hastily moved on to the next tapestry.

To Eönwë’s relief, the next ones was more cheerful than the previous. It was a picture of Tuor’s coming to Gondolin, his courtship of Idril, and their royal wedding. Glorfindel was a background character in all of them, but he stood out nonetheless. Eonwe felt his breath catch as he beheld the tapestry depicting the birth of Eärendil. The elven lord was clad in formal robe of his House, golden hair illuminated by candle light; his strong arms gently cradled the babe as he smiled affectionately to the newborn. Glorfindel was simply breathtaking. The Maia thought that he must be the most beautiful creature of Iluvatar.

He glanced to his side and saw the elf smiling sadly as he gazed the tapestry. Glorfindel was still beautiful, even in death. He needed no extravagant clothes and accessories to look noble. In that moment, Eönwë understood, perhaps for the first time, of Melian’s fascination with her elven husband.

* * *

Chapter End Notes

Beta-ed by Dawn Felagund. All mistakes are my own.

Chapter 5: Conversations

After he saw the elf in new light, Eönwë could not take his eyes off Glorfindel. He watched with fascination every nuance of Glorfindel’s expression in the lifelike tapestries, the twinkle in his eyes when he played with his grandnephew, his bright smile, and his anxiety and wariness when Maeglin asked for permission to leave the city. The tapestry was so vivid; it was like Glorfindel himself was inside of it, trapped inside the images of the past.

Eönwë could not help but compare the images to the elf beside him. But the Glorfindel in Mandos Hall was not the same with Glorfindel in the tapestry. He was beautiful true, but there was something missing from him, Glorfindel by his side was dimmer somehow, less … alive. Was it because Glorfindel was dead and possessed no hroa?  Death was not a natural state for a Quendi after all.

* * *

They finally came to the scenes of the Fall of Gondolin. Glorfindel trembled, blood drained from his face, and he staggered backward. Only Vairë’s support kept him upright. She once again hugged him and crooned soft words of comfort. Glorfindel made a sound of distress and hid his face in his hands. Eönwë felt his heart broke at the sight and fought the urge to weep with him.

“No more of this! I beg you,” Glorfindel pleaded.

“Hush, child, you do not have to see it now if you don’t want to. But one day you must face your memories in order to heal,” said Vairë.

“Please, not … not yet … not now,” Glorfindel begged. “I’m not ready.”

“No, not now,” Námo agreed. “Shall we move on?” he asked gently.

Glorfindel nodded. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, composing himself, though he was still pale. Námo walked briskly past the scenes of the elf’s fight with the Balrog, his death, his arrival at Mandos, then his judgment. Glorfindel fixed his eyes on the marble floor, avoiding sight of the traumatic scenes of the last moments in his life. Eönwë too, looked away, unable to see more of the elf’s suffering.

They stopped before a tapestry depicting young Eärendil meeting a young elf-maid on the shore. “That is the elfling you have saved and his future wife,” said Námo. Glorfindel smiled slightly. “My death is not in vain then. My lord’s family survived.”

“Your sacrifice is the reason Eru’s plan will continue to unfold for the sake of the rest of Middle-earth, Firstborn and Secondborn alike. Indeed, your heroic act will be sung to the end of Arda.”

Glorfindel blushed, “'Tis was nothing. Every one of us would have done the same.”

“Not every one, certainly,” replied Námo darkly. “The most trying of circumstances certainly have a way of bringing to the surface every person’s true persona.”  

The next tapestry showed the birth of Eärendil’s twin sons, then the young mariner’s decision to continue Voronwë’s mission to search for help in the Blessed Realm. Glorfindel watched in horrified fascination the scene where Eärendil’s wife flew to the air and turned into a seagull, the Silmaril upon her brow, when the sons of Fëanor sacked her home.

The next tapestry depicted the couple reaching the shore of Aman and greeted by Eönwë. “They made it. They reached Valinor,” Glorfindel gasped.

“They will reach Valinor,” corrected Vairë. “This event will not yet take place until years from now.”

 “Oh.”

“It will be my brother’s role to open the way to Valinor,” explained Námo. “But without the two of you, their journey will be in vain indeed, even when they reach this place.”

“Why?” asked Eönwë, frowning. They had almost seen all the tapestries in the room, but their roles were not clear to him yet. Glorfindel had, at least, known that his sacrifice had furthered Eru’s plan through Eärendil.

Námo did not answer. Instead he gestured for them to move onward. They saw Eärendil and his wife bowing in front of Manwë and Varda. “They are entreating for help for all Eruhini who are residing in Middle-earth,” Námo explained. “Manwë will agree. It’ll be on Eru’s command that he does. Too long has my brother held back the power he has been given and neglected the Eruhini whom he should protect.” Námo’s tone was thick with displeasure. Eönwë glanced at him in surprise. Everyone, including the Maia, had always thought that Námo was a staunch supporter of Manwë, for the Lord of the Doom never voiced his displeasure nor gainsaid the Elder King’s words.

“Being privy to the suffering of Eruhini beyond Valinor is indeed an eye-opener for some of us,” explained Vairë sadly.

She walked to the next tapestry depicting a colossal host of Elves and Maiar preparing for war. At the front was Eönwë with the most beautiful armor he knew he had not yet possessed, carrying the banner with the Valarin sigil on it. On his right and left sides were Finarfin and Ingwë, each also donned in their most regal armors while their heralds carried the banners of the Noldor and Vanyar. This time both Eönwë and Glorfindel gasped.

Námo kept moving and stopped at the last tapestry. It depicted a war of such magnitude that some of the lands were drowned in engulfing waves. None of the combatants were visible, only the flames caused by the collision between Darkness and Light. 

“As you have seen, Eönwë, you are going to be the leader for the Host of Valinor, consisting of elves and Maiar alike. You will set forth to battle Morgoth and his minions and free Middle-earth from his clutch.”

Eönwë stared at the last tapestry, wide-eyed. He had never seen himself as powerful or important. He was the herald of Manwë, true, but most of his duties consisted of being a messenger. To lead the host of his brethren and all the elves to battle the greatest foe of Arda was such an enormous responsibility that he was not sure he could carry it.

Vairë looked at him sympathetically. “Keep your faith to Eru, younger sibling,” she said kindly. “He has chosen you for a reason and He will give you the strength and ability needed to accomplish your task.”

Eönwë took a deep breath and nodded, his mind still reeling from the revelation.

“What about me?” interjected Glorfindel. “I cannot see myself in those tapestries. What is so important that I must be reborn so soon?”

“Your role Glorfindel, is more subtle, though not less important,” Námo spoke. “The Vanyar and Noldor who stay in Aman, or those who returned with Finarfin, have been long sundered from the elves who have chosen to stay on Middle-earth and, thus, have no emotional attachment to them. As for the Exiles, the elves of Valinor see them in an unfavorable light. They do not know what you all have endured. Even if they do, most of them will think that the suffering you endured was a just punishment for the Kinslaying and the rebellion against the Valar.

“Thus, Glorfindel, it is your task to convince them to leave their most beloved home, raise arms, and risk their lives to help their brethren in the upcoming war.”

* * *

As with Eönwë, Námo’s explanation took Glorfindel by surprise. The elf gasped, staring at the Lord of the Dead with disbelief.

“Lord Námo, surely you jest,” he said. “Such a responsibility! I’m but an elf, and an Exile too. Though I have never shed my kin’s blood, yet I am accounted as one of Turgon’s people. Surely they will not listen to me?”

Vairë smiled at the elf and said. “My husband does not jest, Glorfindel. Of all the elves and Men, you have been chosen by Ilúvatar Himself to carry out this task for the sake of His children who are suffering under the oppression of our fallen brother. Surely He would not choose unwisely.” 

At the mention of Ilúvatar, Glorfindel looked faint. “I think I need to sit down,” he said, bracing himself against the wall as his knees failed to support his weight.

“Aye, we do need to sit down and talk about what the revelation means,” said Námo gravely.

With a flick of Námo’s finger, a mist formed and solidified into four identical chairs, a round table with four goblets and a bottle of wine at the centre of the room. Eönwë and Námo took their seats while Vairë gently led the elf, who was staggering and pale, to one of the chairs and poured him a glass of wine.

“Here, drink this,” said Vairë kindly. Glorfindel took the goblet gratefully. He sipped it and glanced at the wine in wonder.

“I can taste this,” he said in awe.

“You can, because it is the wine for the fëa,” explained Námo, his eyes glinting in amusement at Glorfindel’s reaction.

“It tastes like nothing I’ve ever drunk before,” said the elf, sipping the wine slowly, savoring it. “It is rich, but light at the same time. Sweet, with underlying fruity tang and it is very, very good.”

Eönwë smiled at the elf’s enthusiasm. “It is wine for the Ainur,” he said. “'Tis an honor for you to drink it, for I’ve never seen it given to any Eldar before.”

“Not the living ones, maybe,” interjected Námo easily.

Eönwë gazed at him in astonishment.

“I have long since found it has healing properties for the weary fëa; thus, Nienna and I decide to use it to help them heal, though sparingly,” he explained, as if it was nothing amiss to give one of the best wines for the Ainur to Eruhini in his care.

“So do you know why I am chosen, Lord?” Eönwë glanced at the elf who looked more like the elven lord he had been. His face was regaining color, his eyes were brighter, and he looked stronger, sitting up straight in his chair, his shoulders no longer slumped. The wine did do wonders to an elven fëa. 

“Can you not guess, Glorfindel?” answered Námo. “You are the heir to a Vanyarin noble house and you are also a brother-in-law to one of Finwë’s grandsons. You are blameless for the Kinslaying and, thus, will not incur hatred from the Teleri, at least not to the extent that a Kinslayer would. You have also experienced firsthand what happened in Middle-earth during your stay there, including your city’s fall, and thus, you can tell them firsthand about the hardship you have all endured.”

Glorfindel frowned as he digested the Vala’s answer. Eönwë thought it made perfect sense, for who else from among the Exiles had such familial ties to the noble houses of Vanyar and Noldor alike?

“But I… Well, I’m not knowledgeable, much less an expert in matters of politics or diplomacy. I can’t see how I’m suited for the task aside from my lineage. And I … I…” he stuttered, staring at lap to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes.  “Can’t you choose someone else, my Lord?” he finally said without looking up.

Námo turned to Glorfindel, studying him until he fidgeted in his seat, discomfited by the penetrating gaze.

“If you fear you are the only elf to be given this responsibility, don’t,” he said. “Your kinsman, Findaráto, who is also known as Finrod, will surely aid you in this mission. He was reborn shortly before you came here, though before Eru made His will known to us, and therefore has no knowledge about the future that will unfold. You must go to him and tell him about what you have seen and ask for his help. I’m sure he will not object.”

“Oh,” came Glorfindel's response, still without looking up. Eönwë looked at him oddly, thinking how strange it was that Glorfindel, who had valiantly fought the terrible beasts of Morgoth without second thought, seemed so reluctant to take this task.

“You don’t seem to be happy about your Fate,” remarked Vairë, who apparently shared the same thought as Eönwë. I never knew you to be the kind of elf to shy away from your duty. This task, daunting though it may seem, requires far less than the sacrifice you embraced readily not a few years ago.”

Glorfindel flushed at the chastisement. “Forgive me, my Lady,” he said. “I will never shirk my duty. It is an honor beyond measure to be chosen to further Eru’s plan for the good of the Eruhini. I shall not disappoint you or my people.” He raised his eyes to meet Lady Weaver’s solemn gaze.

“I have faith in you, Glorfindel. I believe you will not let your feelings toward Turgon cloud your judgment,” said Námo. “After all, pining after him in this realm is an exercise in futility, as he cannot and will not return your regard to him.”

The elf flushed deeper and looked away. It took a few second for Námo’s words to sink in, and Eönwë gasped, looking at Glorfindel with wide eyes.

Vairë gently touched the elf’s arm, causing Glorfindel to look up to meet the Lady’s eyes, his expression a mixture of pain and embarrassment. “We know that you love your brother-in-law selflessly, without expecting him to return your affection, but you need not waste away inside Mandos. Seize this opportunity to find your happiness. Mayhap you will find your soul mate.”

Glorfindel snorted. “Soul mate? Happiness? Am I not forbidden to taint the elves of Valinor with my strange ways? I prefer males, and I can’t and I won’t change that. So I don’t see how I can find someone to love without breaking Law and Custom yet again.” The bitterness was palpable in his voice.

Námo calmly sipped his wine and replied, “In time, there will be Moriquendi who will come from Middle-earth or elves who will be reembodied. Your sentence only said that you were forbidden to mate with the untainted elves of Valinor; thus you are free to court those who arrive from Middle-earth. As for your preference to the males, I believe we can work around that easily. I could reembody you as a woman; then you will not violate the Law and Custom if you mate with a male elf.”

Eönwë almost choked on his wine. Glorfindel gaped, his eyes bulging out in shock. Vairë glared at her husband.

“Just a joke,” said Námo dryly when the elf started to protest. “I believe you are familiar with the concept?”

Glorfindel closed his mouth, then opened it, and closed it again. He swallowed and sank back to his chair, his face slightly green. Eönwë felt sorry for him, but he could not help but laugh at the elf’s funny expression. Vairë hid a smile behind her hand though she still threw her husband a stern look.

“Although the souls in our care here are not capable of dying because of a heart attack, I will appreciate it if you do not send them into an apoplexy, husband.”

Glorfindel threw an annoyed look to Námo. “No offense, but your sense of humor leaves a lot to be desired, my Lord.”

Námo let out a chuckle. This time both Eönwë and Glorfindel did not gape at the unexpected behavior, perhaps being more used to the Vala’s quirkiness. Glorfindel even dared to roll his eyes, clearly exasperated, though he did not seem to harbor any ill will toward the fun at his expense.

Despite Glorfindel’s annoyance, the joke did serve its purpose and diffused the grimness of their earlier talk.  Vairë and Námo took care to stay away from sensitive topics. Eönwë noted that they did not talk about anything pertaining to the tapestries or the upcoming roles of Eönwë and Glorfindel. They talked about wine, food, lore, and other inconsequential things with the sole purpose of making Glorfindel more at ease.

Eönwë was struck by how casual the whole situation was handled. The Lord of the Doom and Lady Weaver of Arda with a Maiarin servant and a recently dead elf, conversing and sitting around a table on comfortable, simple chairs, drinking from plain goblets, although with decidedly very good wine vintage. It was so unlike his lord, who always took great care to keep the formality as a reminder of the difference in status between him and his subordinates.

As they relaxed, Eönwë felt more comfortable in the midst of the strange company than he had for a long long time, since before Arda was made.  

* * *

At last their meeting came to an end.

A blink of an eye, and the chairs and table disappeared as if they had never been there before. It took some time to get used to, this appearance and disappearance of things at Námo’s will.

The company then moved out of the Vairë’s hall and back to Námo’s dominion.

“Thank you for your hospitality and kindness, my Lady,” Glorfindel said when they reached the door, bowing to the Lady Weaver. Vairë smiled kindly at him and patted his shoulder lightly.

“We will meet again one day and in less dire circumstances, I hope,” she said.

Glorfindel gave her a small smile. “I do hope so too. It has been a great pleasure to meet you. You have been kind and generous to me. You are … well… nothing like I imagined.” He blushed as he realized what his words implied. “Forgive me, my lady. I meant no offense.”

Vairë let out a small chuckle. “None is taken. After what you experienced at your Judgment and my husband’s perpetual grim appearance, it is to be expected,” she replied, glancing at Námo with exasperating fondness while the Lord of the Dead rolled his eyes at his wife’s remark. 

Námo beckoned Glorfindel. “Come, let us return your room. Your healing will begin soon.”

Glorfindel looked reluctant and a little bit frightened, perhaps expecting sessions full of painful disclosures and facing his personal demons. Still, he followed Námo without protest.

Eönwë watched them until they disappeared from his sight. Only then he realized that Vairë had been looking at him, smiling slightly. He blushed, having been caught staring.

“You are attracted to him,” she stated.

“Ah … I … I …” Eönwë stuttered. He looked away.

“It is certainly not unheard of for an Ainu to be captivated by one of the Eruhini. Even we, as the Valar, were and still are amazed at their beauty and complexity.  Just take care not to make the same mistakes as most of us do. For Eru created them to be more than beautiful pets to be doted on, and they are the creature of free will.”

Eönwë looked at her, startled by the grimness of her tone. Her smile had disappeared, and she looked at the Maia intently, her eyes penetrating his soul.

She released him from her gaze after a few seconds, which seemed to last an eternity. Eönwë let out a deep breath he had not known he had been holding.

“You may return to your lord now,” she said. “But think of what you have seen and heard today, not the least of your own thoughts about Glorfindel.”

“I will, my Lady.” He bowed respectfully. Indeed, what could he do but think? By Eru, he did not know if he should be grateful or not, but his future would not be easy to tread.

* * *

Chapter End Notes

Thanks to Dawn Felagund for beta!