If Death is Kind by Naltariel

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Chapter 1: Dying

 

 

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.

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