Follow the Light Unflinchingly by sallysavestheday

Follow the Light Unflinchingly

The lake below them glimmers blue in Laurelin’s light, temptingly smooth and soft. Elenwë rises onto her toes on the lip of the overhanging cliff, her eyes sparkling, her arms spread wide. She is grinning madly, eager for the plunge. Glorfindel watches her with envy as she launches herself into the welcoming air, feather-light and brave. His fear -- of the long drop, of the possible pain of the impact, of his father’s disappointment in his foolishness -- keeps him from pursuing her over the edge, but he can hear her laughing all the way down.

She has ever been the more courageous: his brilliant, whimsical elder cousin with her penchant for risk-taking and rule-breaking, her absolute commitment to prankish humor and sly tricks, her mastery of asking for forgiveness rather than permission. Glorfindel follows her impulses with helpless devotion, knowing that, no matter what happens, she will be patient and she will be kind. It is Elenwë who teaches him his Tengwar when the letters swim on the page and his father despairs; Elenwë who draws him into the dance, winking at him as he discovers that he is beautiful and strong; Elenwë who holds him through his first heartbreak, when the one he yearns for laughs at him over his shoulder and walks away. Close as a sister, Elenwë knows all his secrets; she holds his heart tenderly in her loving hands.

Turgon is a mystery to him, but he trusts her to know her mind, to have found her bold heart’s match. If she is for Turgon, so is Glorfindel: where Elenwë’s loyalty lies, so will his own. He will not leave her alone among the Noldor, with their fierce pride and their chilly, elegant poise. Her guilty smile of relief when he tells her he has asked for a place in Turgon’s guard is all the thanks he will ever need.

He dreads Tirion, but the strength and power he has cultivated in the Vanyarin dances translate smoothly into skill with a blade, and Turgon’s captains praise him for his reach, his balance, his grace. When Elenwë teases him that his golden braid is a distraction on the training ground, he tries out his own version of her wicked wink and unbinds it altogether, letting the bright mass of his hair confound opponent after opponent until he is the undisputed master of the field. Let them not say the Vanyar cannot hold their own! He dances his way back to the barracks with Elenwë’s proud laugh still ringing in his ears.

Glorfindel grows into himself there, in the white Noldor city. There is his skill in the salle, and the respect and comfortable companionship that accompanies it. There is Turgon, whose dark humor and solemnity hide a tender heart and a deep, true passion for Elenwë: he is first an unexpected friend, later almost a brother. There is Ecthelion, fierce and proud and beautiful, his hair flowing like water through Glorfindel’s hands. And always there is Elenwë, bright and brave and loving and kind, with a place at her table for him, and ever a place in her heart.

He is not surprised that she will not stay behind when Turgon burns to go. And as ever, he will follow. He will not leave her to walk the Ice alone of all their people, carrying her child.

This time, when she plunges, Glorfindel hesitates only an instant before following. The freezing water steals his breath; he can feel his limbs growing heavy and slow. But he will not abandon her to the cold, to the darkness. Again and again he surfaces and dives, seeking her, until Ecthelion hauls him desperately onto the crackling floe and holds him down. His eyes meet Turgon’s, gasping and struggling next to him in his father’s similar embrace, and something within him crumbles away.

Idril weeps until her tears run out, then grips tightly and furiously to whoever holds her, never setting foot to ground. When Turgon cries and shivers in his sleep she creeps into Glorfindel’s bedroll, burrowing into his chest as he sings the old Vanyarin hymns, just barely within hearing. He tells her stories of her mother’s courage, of her bright, enduring love. Whatever comes, he will honor her, cherish her, protect her. It is his silent promise to his beloved cousin, gone too soon, too fast.

At the balrog’s feet on the fiery peak, with Idril and the city’s ragged refugees fleeing through the smoke behind him, he remembers the lake in Valinor, the crack in the Ice. Once he was too fearful; once he was too slow. Not now; not ever again. This plunge will be his to lead. He fists his blade, takes a great breath as the monster rears back, and leaps.