Upon the Branching Years by IgnobleBard

Betrayal

Legolas faces Glorfindel's death and the aftermath.

Knights of the Tree led the way along a narrow shelf of rock upon those soaring mountain peaks. A sheer cliff face rose higher than the city’s walls on one side, while on the other was a vertical drop into a deep gorge. Along this perilous track the fleeing Elves made their way, clinging to each other, carrying children and litters of their wounded. The light strengthened but still the sun did not rise in those towering escarpments.

Suddenly, rocks came tumbling from above into the refugees, sending some plummeting, screaming, into the abyss. Shouts of warning mixed with shrieks of terror as orcs came sliding down onto the ledge armed with clubs. The knights of the remaining houses leapt to meet them and the great eagles swooped to their aid. From the ranks at the rear of the line of civilians, the men of the Flower fought back another assault. Galdor sent an orc that swung on Legolas plunging into the gorge before he could strike a fatal blow. It was over as quickly as it had begun and everyone was still reeling from the shock when the Balrog appeared.

It sprang over the knights of the Flower positioned between it and a line of women and children. With a mighty shout, Glorfindel charged and the Balrog leaped onto the jagged rocks above. Glorfindel followed, hewing off its arm as it raised its flaming whip to strike. They bounded from one sharp peak to the next, the Balrog trying to gain an advantage of footing over the warrior, who matched him move for move. At the last, Glorfindel struck its breast a fatal wound and toppled it from the rocky path. Yet even as it fell, its grasping hand snagged the golden hair, free and loose beneath Glorfindel’s helm, and dragged him down to his death.

To Legolas the scene happened with heart stopping swiftness, yet the moment of Glorfindel’s fall played out agonizingly slow. The look of amaze and horror on his face when he went over the edge etched itself forever into Legolas’ heart. It was then, with suffocating awareness, he understood the part he had been tasked to play and that he had, indeed, achieved his obscure and detestable goal. Ulmo had told him he would know if he had succeeded and he did, oh he did, but the knowing burned his spirit like dragon fire. In the time he knew, Glorfindel had not died, but in this time he had to die. Legolas had been sent to make sure of it. He saw, as in a vision, that Glorfindel’s death would give him a chance to be more, to return to Arda in its need with the full power of the Valar behind him.

Legolas fell to his knees and cried out in wretched anguish at the horrific realization that he had been chosen to be the instrument of Glorfindel’s doom. It had to be him for only his love could have compromised him in this way. His head rang as though from a violent and terrible blow. He felt the shift in Eä as a physical wrenching of his fëa from his hröa before they merged again within him and the world settled back into place.

An Eagle dropped into the gorge and rose with Glorfindel’s broken body, placing it gently before the weeping, distraught Elves. A litter was brought forward and Legolas helped carry his fallen love until they came at last to an easier pass among the peaks. There he carried stones with the men of the Tree and Flower to create a cairn over his body.

Before the stones were laid, Legolas produced a gold ribbon adorned with seed pearls he carried in his pocket from their last night together. He braided it tenderly into Glorfindel’s bright golden hair, past caring what impression this action might create in others. When the cairn was constructed and the Elves moved on, slowly in their grief, he yet lingered, gazing upon the mounded grave as the wind blew warm and gentle through the pass. When at last he turned away he spied a small cluster of celandines growing through the rocks beside the path. He picked one and placed it beneath his shirt next to his breast before moving on.

The Elves made it through the passes of the encircling mountains, but as they traveled under Tuor’s leadership, looking for Sirion, they began to fall victim to their grief and wounds. Legolas discovered Orthul among the survivors, badly burned from the attack on the Tree. Legolas and Erestor stayed with him. They both learned how to change his bandages and mix the healing herbs which they often gathered themselves in the wild. Legolas hunted game for the cooks to turn into hearty stews to give him strength. But in the end, his body and spirit were too damaged to survive, and Legolas watched him fade, his grief at his friend’s loss almost unbearable.

That night he and Erestor sat together at the small campsite they shared with others of the Tree and watched the stars. “When will we find the Sirion?” Legolas asked him. “I wish I knew these lands better.”

“Not even Tuor or Voronwë seem certain of our path. If we don’t find fairer lands soon, I fear for us. How long can some of these people hold out when their bodies and minds are so broken? There are times I feel the grief so keenly I wonder if I will make it myself.”

Legolas looked at him uneasily. “Don’t even jest about it, Erestor. If you don’t make it there is no hope for me. I cannot bear more sorrow.”

Erestor gave him despondent look. “It is no joke, my friend. I feel my spirit diminish with each passing day. If we were not the defenders of those who are left, I’m not sure I would still be here now.”

They wandered long and their despair grew but Erestor did not fade and neither did Legolas, who was desperate to find Ulmo. He cared nothing for the plans of Eru or the schemes of the Valar, he only knew that he and Glorfindel must be together. He must have the chance to make things right with him.

After a footsore year or more within the wilds, when Legolas and many others had all but given up, they came upon the Way of Escape and discovered the charred remains of the Elves who had taken that route. Burned by dragons, their bodies were twisted in horrible attitudes that made a bitter discovery for the much reduced numbers of survivors. Yet finding this convinced Voronwë of their path and soon they reached a stream that led them to the Sirion which they began to follow with renewed hope.

One evening, as Legolas made camp beside the waters, he heard the voice he had been seeking for so long.

“Legolas, you have fulfilled your charge. With the sacrifice of him who you most loved, you have given this world hope.”

“And yet none remains for myself,” he said with a sad weariness. “Even if we are never allowed to love each other again, I implore you that I might be permitted but one moment more with him to beg his forgiveness. He died thinking I had betrayed him and this grief is more than my spirit can endure.”

“That I cannot do, but I can ease your grief, Legolas Greenleaf of Gondolin.”

Legolas felt his mind fog as though caught in a spell and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.