Memory One “Glorfindel!” The voice of your cousin's husband rang through the empty halls of Imladris, to where you are sitting in a tree by the fountain in the garden, reading a book.
“Up here, Celeborn,” you call back, closing the book on your bookmark and hopping down to the ground, landing in front of the former lord of Lothlorien. “What's going on?”
“Just got the word that Legolas is almost here, thought you might want to help greet him,” Celeborn says, grinning at you.
“By greeting him, do you mean all right and proper like Elrond or Galadriel, waiting for him to come to us, and we being all formal and treating him like an honored guest,” You ask. “Or do you mean changing into our greens and go sneak up on him and see if we can surprise him, treating him like family?”
As way of response, Celeborn pulls his robe off over his head, revealing clothes more suitable for sneaking through the forest. “We should definitely greet him the proper way, befitting the young king of Ithilien,” he said with a bright grin.
You grin back and remove your robe as well. You usually wear your hunting gear under it, just in case the urge strikes you to go wandering afield. You both carefully fold your robes, and, tucking your book carefully within them, lay them just inside the door of the hall.
“Is he riding or on foot?” You ask.
“On foot.”
“Then let us walk swiftly to not keep him waiting!”
Memory Two
The Halls of Mandos were both everything you've ever been told, and yet so very different from what you expected. The dead were there, yes. Those who had died from violence as well as those who had died of grief. But these were no dark caves with luminescent souls floating about, focused on their pain and the lives they had left behind.
The Halls were light, and airy. The feel was welcoming and homey in a way that you had tried for in your House in Gondolin, but now realise you hadn't even come close to duplicating. The souls, rather than floating around, sad and lonely, were communing with one another, exchanging stories and sympathy as enemies became friends and family once again. At least, in the part of the Halls where you are.
You know there are other parts. The quiet wing where the souls that needed extra time and extra healing from the twisting they had ungone in life. The Maiar of Nienna attended them closely, speaking softly and letting them know that, despite what had been done to them, what they had done because of it, was not their fault, was not being held against them, that they were worthy still of calling themselves Elves, and eventually being reborn. Driven by your desire to help others, you find yourself there from time to time, helping as you can. It is a strange feeling when one recognises you as the person who had cut them down. They were so grateful.
You are coming back from that wing when you receive a summons, delivered by one of the Maiar that served Manwe. You bow respectfully, and are a little taken aback when the Maia bowed back. “Lord Glorfindel. You are respectfully asked to come see Manwe, at your convenience.”
At your convenience? Being dead rather opened up one's social calendar, so you smile back. “Now is quite convenient, if that is fine?”
The Maia nods and holds out his hand to you. When you take it, you feel yourself move quite quickly through the Unseen Realm, coming to stop in the Tower of Winds, Manwe's home. You blink and look around, but your eyes are quickly drawn to the Lord of the Valar himself. To your surprise, he isn't alone.
All the Valar were present, though they stood back, most of them, to let Manwe take the lead on this event. You can not even conceive of what is going on. You bow respectfully and are again shocked when they bow slightly in return.
Manwe smiles at you, stepping forward, becoming less imposing, and more approachable as he does so. “Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, Prince of the Eldar, Balrog Slayer” You wince slightly at the last one. It is a popular new thing to call you, among the inhabitants of the Halls. Ecthelion did it first and actually killed more than you! Yet it was yours old friend who started it, it seemed, because he somehow felt your act was in some way mysteriously more impressive than his own. You don't understand it, honestly.
“Lord Manwe,” You start, but before you can mention all of the Valar's titles, the other raises a hand and shakes his head.
“We are not here to talk about me,” Manwe says with a laugh. It is a bright laugh that lights up the room and lifts everyone's spirits. Even Nienna looks a bit lighter for a moment. You are enthralled. “Your noble actions in life, combined with your reluctance at the Exile, your refusal to be involved with the kinslaying, and for furthing the purposes of the Valar in saving Tuor, Idril, and their son, have come to our attention, Glorfindel. In life you were of great corporeal and spirtual stature, and your self-sacrifice has only enhanced that.”
He smiles again. “Were you aware than the Maiar of Valinor who have come to serve in the Halls of Waiting consider you an equal?”
You blink. “I am but an Elf, my lord. Fortunate to have the abilities that I do, but no better than any other, to be sure.”
Ulmo and Tulkas both laugh, but then Varda smiles and you only have eyes for her. The Star Kindler. Her beauty is indeed too beautiful for words, and you felt your throat dry up. After a moment you turn back to Manwe, still stunned and speechless.
Manwe, husband to Varda, laughs again, like a cool breeze on a too warm day. “She has that affect on people. However, what we are asking you, Glorfindel, and no other, is if you would consent to being re-embodied now, rather than waiting.”
Again, you are stunned. Sure, the way they layed out your past deeds did sound impressive, but there were others who have done as much, perhaps more, were there not? Surely one of them should have this great honor? “May I ask, for what purpose, my lord?” To be reborn early would be a great honor, surely there was a reason?
Manwe nods, “Not just yet, but in the grand scheme of things, soon, we will ask you to go back to Middle Earth, to help the Elves there, to be our emissary where we cannot act openly. There will be others, but you will be the Symbol.”
“So that the others may do their work unimpeded,” You realise. “If I am the one that the forces of discord focus on, it leaves them free to act.”
“You are known as Glorfindel the Wise for good reason,” Manwe says, his blue eyes twinkling.
You don't know about that, but you do your best. And that is what they are asking of you. How could you possibly say no to that. “Very well, I accept.”
Memory Three It was almost dawn, a time of hope. The remnants of the proud city of Gondolin crossing Cristhorn, Glorfindel and what was left of the House of the Golden Flower, bringing up the rear. Behind them lay the ruins of their home, the brave elves who fought to protect them, the dead who did no survive, and their king, buried under his own Tower.
Balrogs, orcs, and firedrakes had attacked, let in by Maeglin, who wanted to surplant Turgon, seduced by Melkor, and jealous of Tuor. Now was not the time to dwell on how they all missed those signs, though. Not until he had gotten the survivors to safety.
He looked over at the few left of his House. They had tried to hold the Great Market, but had come under vicious attack. It was only because of the people of the House of the Harp who had turned away from their coward of a leader and come to their aid that any survived at all. Only a small number of those brave elves remained now.
The first of the survivors entered the pass, Tuor and the remainders of his House leading the way. A movent to the right caught Glorfindel's eye and to his horror he realized it was an orc. No, not one, but more and more as they sprung their trap on the tired elves who had made it this far.
Glorfindel raised his shield, the rayed sun on it now battered, but still shining in the moonlight, and called for his people to turn and fight with a roar of their battle cry.
There were far more orcs than one would have thought possible, and it hurt his heart to know that these were once good elves, or at least were decended of them. But each he killed sent them safely to the arms of Namo, where they would be taken in and perhaps in time, healed.
“Balrog!” called someone on the left. Glorfindel couldn't make out who in the clamor of noise. Nevertheless, he spun and left the defense with a nod of confidence that they could handle this. They nodded back, accepting their duty. He loved his people deeply, for this among many other reasons.
He sprinted across the rocky ground to where the fighting was even fiercer, the Balrog crushing his people with every swipe of its cruel claws. He could feel his blood heat at the sight of it and he charged at it, dodging its attack and pushing it back a step.
Dimly he could hear a cheer, but he was so focused on the Balrog, as they exchanged blows, it was a few moments before he realized that the Great Eagles had come to their aid, there in the moonlight. He smiled grimly and fought harder, keeping the Balrog out of the fight. Without it there, the fight was in the favor of the Elves and the Eagles, and he was bound and determined to keep it away.
Most of the light around him was from the Balrog. It was a greasy, unpleasant light to Glorfindel. He fought harder, his once proud mantle, embroidered by the elves of his house and gifted to him, lay in tatters; his damascened armor was covered in mud and ash; his sword was pitted and scarred.
Back, back he pushed the Balrog. Or perhaps it was falling back to lure him away from his men where it could then destroy him and demoralize them. No, that last blow hurt it, hewing off the Balrog's whip arm at the elbow.. He was overcoming it. He summoned every ounce of strength in his body, there on the pinnacle, and stabbed the Balrog through the shoulder. The Balrog grabbed him, holding him close, and Glorfindel scrambled with his left hand to find his dagger, plunging it into the Balrog's belly. The Balrog shrieked and fell backward, and for a moment Glorfindel thought it was over.
Then it reached out with its remaining long clawed arm and grabbed his hair, pulling him with it as it fell into the abyss behind it.
His last thoughts were of his House, and of those they had fought to protect, and he prayed to the Valar that they would be safe now.
“Then Glorfindel leapt forward upon him and his golden armour gleamed strangely in the moon, and he hewed at that demon that it leapt again upon a great boulder and Glorfindel after. Now there was a deadly combat upon that high rock above the folk; and these, pressed behind and hindered ahead, were grown so close that well nigh all could see, yet was it over ere Glorfindel's men could leap to his side. The ardour of Glorfindel drave that Balrog from point to point, and his mail fended him from its whip and claw. Now had he beaten a heavy swinge upon its iron helm, now hewn off the creature's whip-arm at the elbow. Then sprang the Balrog in the torment of his pain and fear full at Glorfindel, who stabbed like a dart of a snake; but he found only a shoulder, and was grappled, and they swayed to a fall upon the crag-top. Then Glorfindel's left hand sought a dirk, and this he thrust up that it pierced the Balrog's belly nigh his own face (for that demon was double his stature); and it shrieked, and fell backwards from the rock, and falling clutched Glorfindel's yellow locks beneath his cap, and those twain fell into the abyss.”
Glorfindel | Perky
Themes: family, kinship, rebirth, battle
Memory One “Glorfindel!” The voice of your cousin's husband rang through the empty halls of Imladris, to where you are sitting in a tree by the fountain in the garden, reading a book.
“Up here, Celeborn,” you call back, closing the book on your bookmark and hopping down to the ground, landing in front of the former lord of Lothlorien. “What's going on?”
“Just got the word that Legolas is almost here, thought you might want to help greet him,” Celeborn says, grinning at you.
“By greeting him, do you mean all right and proper like Elrond or Galadriel, waiting for him to come to us, and we being all formal and treating him like an honored guest,” You ask. “Or do you mean changing into our greens and go sneak up on him and see if we can surprise him, treating him like family?”
As way of response, Celeborn pulls his robe off over his head, revealing clothes more suitable for sneaking through the forest. “We should definitely greet him the proper way, befitting the young king of Ithilien,” he said with a bright grin.
You grin back and remove your robe as well. You usually wear your hunting gear under it, just in case the urge strikes you to go wandering afield. You both carefully fold your robes, and, tucking your book carefully within them, lay them just inside the door of the hall.
“Is he riding or on foot?” You ask.
“On foot.”
“Then let us walk swiftly to not keep him waiting!”
Memory Two
The Halls of Mandos were both everything you've ever been told, and yet so very different from what you expected. The dead were there, yes. Those who had died from violence as well as those who had died of grief. But these were no dark caves with luminescent souls floating about, focused on their pain and the lives they had left behind.
The Halls were light, and airy. The feel was welcoming and homey in a way that you had tried for in your House in Gondolin, but now realise you hadn't even come close to duplicating. The souls, rather than floating around, sad and lonely, were communing with one another, exchanging stories and sympathy as enemies became friends and family once again. At least, in the part of the Halls where you are.
You know there are other parts. The quiet wing where the souls that needed extra time and extra healing from the twisting they had ungone in life. The Maiar of Nienna attended them closely, speaking softly and letting them know that, despite what had been done to them, what they had done because of it, was not their fault, was not being held against them, that they were worthy still of calling themselves Elves, and eventually being reborn. Driven by your desire to help others, you find yourself there from time to time, helping as you can. It is a strange feeling when one recognises you as the person who had cut them down.
They were so grateful.
You are coming back from that wing when you receive a summons, delivered by one of the Maiar that served Manwe. You bow respectfully, and are a little taken aback when the Maia bowed back. “Lord Glorfindel. You are respectfully asked to come see Manwe, at your convenience.”
At your convenience? Being dead rather opened up one's social calendar, so you smile back. “Now is quite convenient, if that is fine?”
The Maia nods and holds out his hand to you. When you take it, you feel yourself move quite quickly through the Unseen Realm, coming to stop in the Tower of Winds, Manwe's home. You blink and look around, but your eyes are quickly drawn to the Lord of the Valar himself. To your surprise, he isn't alone.
All the Valar were present, though they stood back, most of them, to let Manwe take the lead on this event. You can not even conceive of what is going on. You bow respectfully and are again shocked when they bow slightly in return.
Manwe smiles at you, stepping forward, becoming less imposing, and more approachable as he does so. “Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, Prince of the Eldar, Balrog Slayer” You wince slightly at the last one. It is a popular new thing to call you, among the inhabitants of the Halls. Ecthelion did it first and actually killed more than you! Yet it was yours old friend who started it, it seemed, because he somehow felt your act was in some way mysteriously more impressive than his own. You don't understand it, honestly.
“Lord Manwe,” You start, but before you can mention all of the Valar's titles, the other raises a hand and shakes his head.
“We are not here to talk about me,” Manwe says with a laugh. It is a bright laugh that lights up the room and lifts everyone's spirits. Even Nienna looks a bit lighter for a moment. You are enthralled. “Your noble actions in life, combined with your reluctance at the Exile, your refusal to be involved with the kinslaying, and for furthing the purposes of the Valar in saving Tuor, Idril, and their son, have come to our attention, Glorfindel. In life you were of great corporeal and spirtual stature, and your self-sacrifice has only enhanced that.”
He smiles again. “Were you aware than the Maiar of Valinor who have come to serve in the Halls of Waiting consider you an equal?”
You blink. “I am but an Elf, my lord. Fortunate to have the abilities that I do, but no better than any other, to be sure.”
Ulmo and Tulkas both laugh, but then Varda smiles and you only have eyes for her. The Star Kindler. Her beauty is indeed too beautiful for words, and you felt your throat dry up. After a moment you turn back to Manwe, still stunned and speechless.
Manwe, husband to Varda, laughs again, like a cool breeze on a too warm day. “She has that affect on people. However, what we are asking you, Glorfindel, and no other, is if you would consent to being re-embodied now, rather than waiting.”
Again, you are stunned. Sure, the way they layed out your past deeds did sound impressive, but there were others who have done as much, perhaps more, were there not? Surely one of them should have this great honor? “May I ask, for what purpose, my lord?” To be reborn early would be a great honor, surely there was a reason?
Manwe nods, “Not just yet, but in the grand scheme of things, soon, we will ask you to go back to Middle Earth, to help the Elves there, to be our emissary where we cannot act openly. There will be others, but you will be the Symbol.”
“So that the others may do their work unimpeded,” You realise. “If I am the one that the forces of discord focus on, it leaves them free to act.”
“You are known as Glorfindel the Wise for good reason,” Manwe says, his blue eyes twinkling.
You don't know about that, but you do your best. And that is what they are asking of you. How could you possibly say no to that. “Very well, I accept.”
Memory Three It was almost dawn, a time of hope. The remnants of the proud city of Gondolin crossing Cristhorn, Glorfindel and what was left of the House of the Golden Flower, bringing up the rear. Behind them lay the ruins of their home, the brave elves who fought to protect them, the dead who did no survive, and their king, buried under his own Tower.
Balrogs, orcs, and firedrakes had attacked, let in by Maeglin, who wanted to surplant Turgon, seduced by Melkor, and jealous of Tuor. Now was not the time to dwell on how they all missed those signs, though. Not until he had gotten the survivors to safety.
He looked over at the few left of his House. They had tried to hold the Great Market, but had come under vicious attack. It was only because of the people of the House of the Harp who had turned away from their coward of a leader and come to their aid that any survived at all. Only a small number of those brave elves remained now.
The first of the survivors entered the pass, Tuor and the remainders of his House leading the way. A movent to the right caught Glorfindel's eye and to his horror he realized it was an orc. No, not one, but more and more as they sprung their trap on the tired elves who had made it this far.
Glorfindel raised his shield, the rayed sun on it now battered, but still shining in the moonlight, and called for his people to turn and fight with a roar of their battle cry.
There were far more orcs than one would have thought possible, and it hurt his heart to know that these were once good elves, or at least were decended of them. But each he killed sent them safely to the arms of Namo, where they would be taken in and perhaps in time, healed.
“Balrog!” called someone on the left. Glorfindel couldn't make out who in the clamor of noise. Nevertheless, he spun and left the defense with a nod of confidence that they could handle this. They nodded back, accepting their duty. He loved his people deeply, for this among many other reasons.
He sprinted across the rocky ground to where the fighting was even fiercer, the Balrog crushing his people with every swipe of its cruel claws. He could feel his blood heat at the sight of it and he charged at it, dodging its attack and pushing it back a step.
Dimly he could hear a cheer, but he was so focused on the Balrog, as they exchanged blows, it was a few moments before he realized that the Great Eagles had come to their aid, there in the moonlight. He smiled grimly and fought harder, keeping the Balrog out of the fight. Without it there, the fight was in the favor of the Elves and the Eagles, and he was bound and determined to keep it away.
Most of the light around him was from the Balrog. It was a greasy, unpleasant light to Glorfindel. He fought harder, his once proud mantle, embroidered by the elves of his house and gifted to him, lay in tatters; his damascened armor was covered in mud and ash; his sword was pitted and scarred.
Back, back he pushed the Balrog. Or perhaps it was falling back to lure him away from his men where it could then destroy him and demoralize them. No, that last blow hurt it, hewing off the Balrog's whip arm at the elbow.. He was overcoming it. He summoned every ounce of strength in his body, there on the pinnacle, and stabbed the Balrog through the shoulder. The Balrog grabbed him, holding him close, and Glorfindel scrambled with his left hand to find his dagger, plunging it into the Balrog's belly. The Balrog shrieked and fell backward, and for a moment Glorfindel thought it was over.
Then it reached out with its remaining long clawed arm and grabbed his hair, pulling him with it as it fell into the abyss behind it.
His last thoughts were of his House, and of those they had fought to protect, and he prayed to the Valar that they would be safe now.
“Then Glorfindel leapt forward upon him and his golden armour gleamed strangely in the moon, and he hewed at that demon that it leapt again upon a great boulder and Glorfindel after. Now there was a deadly combat upon that high rock above the folk; and these, pressed behind and hindered ahead, were grown so close that well nigh all could see, yet was it over ere Glorfindel's men could leap to his side. The ardour of Glorfindel drave that Balrog from point to point, and his mail fended him from its whip and claw. Now had he beaten a heavy swinge upon its iron helm, now hewn off the creature's whip-arm at the elbow. Then sprang the Balrog in the torment of his pain and fear full at Glorfindel, who stabbed like a dart of a snake; but he found only a shoulder, and was grappled, and they swayed to a fall upon the crag-top. Then Glorfindel's left hand sought a dirk, and this he thrust up that it pierced the Balrog's belly nigh his own face (for that demon was double his stature); and it shrieked, and fell backwards from the rock, and falling clutched Glorfindel's yellow locks beneath his cap, and those twain fell into the abyss.”