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Glorfindel hated the moon.
Granted, hate might have been too strong a word, but he had no love for the cold orb that appeared in the sky among the softly twinkling stars as they left the Helcaraxë. Whereas the light of Telperion had always given him a feeling of warmth and comfort, especially during the mingling, this light would only ever remind him of hardship and the bitterness of betrayal.
As he stood looking upon it, his heart full of grief and dread, the impassivity of its countenance chilled him. The light began to blur and he turned away, wiping tears from his eyes.
It was nearly impossible for him to process the battle they had just experienced, not only because it was his first but also because of the sheer horror of it. The enemy was nothing he had ever imagined to exist in Arda. Beasts which walked upright, carried weapons, shouted to each other in an ear-splitting, guttural language that twisted his insides to think upon. Orcs they named them, a fitting epithet for the foul, hideous forms of the things that had attacked in great numbers, without mercy, as the Elves entered Lammoth.
His people were already on edge from the echoing, strangled screams that seemed to come from every direction, surrounding them in a surreal, strangely illuminated landscape. The moon’s light created weird shadows the stars did not, disorienting and confounding their weary minds. So it was that Glorfindel and his fellows were completely unprepared for the Orcs that assailed them. After all they had faced, to be greeted with the sound of screams and the fires of Morgoth’s host sweeping to meet them was almost more than the young Elf could bear.
Despite the swiftness of the attack, Glorfindel had not shrunk from the battle nor run away. Not that he’d had much choice to do either. It had all happened so fast. Since the Elves had come to Middle-earth with the intent of bringing the fight to Morgoth, it shouldn’t have been a surprise, he supposed, to find themselves almost immediately ambushed. Before they left Aman they had forged weapons of war for this reason. Weapons none of them had ever used, to be sure, but Glorfindel and his companions were skilled hunters who knew how to wield both blade and bow. The pursuit and killing of an animal to fill one’s belly was, however, a much different proposition than killing to guard your own life and those of your comrades.
Was this now what his life was to be? Watching friends and loved ones perish before his eyes upon the blades of the enemy? He and Argon, while not fast friends, had grown up together. He was Turgon’s brother after all, only a few years younger than the two of them. Certainly no more experienced. Yet he had fought his way through the enemy’s troops like a true warrior, felling the Orc Captain with a single stroke of his blade before being killed himself. Glorfindel could still see the Orcs descending on him, the brutality with which they took their vengeance. He shuddered.
It didn’t help that the Elves, having won their first victory, were now celebrating with the last of their wine around their camp’s fires, filling the air with their excited voices and victory songs. Even Turgon and Fingon were joining in, though less boisterously due to the loss of their brother. The whole scene made him feel ill.
He wandered into a grove of trees just beyond the light of the campfires. Perhaps it was foolish to leave the safety of the company in a strange land with untold danger, but he couldn’t find it in his heart to care. He still had his sword at his side, though he would have gladly left it in his tent if he was brave enough to endure the congratulatory claps on the back from his fellows for his own part in the killing.
Within the grove, the song of the trees filtered the the eerie screams into far distant echoes. The moonlight filtering through the branches seemed a little less harsh as well. It helped clear his mind to smell the familiar scents of earth and leaf. Glorfindel went down on one knee and ran his hand through the short, hardy grass and fallen leaves. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, thinking of his days in the forests of Aman.
I wish I was home.
A song drifted through the branches on the wings of a gentle breeze. It was so subtle at first that Glorfindel didn’t recognize it as music. It seemed to blend in so seamlessly with the wind it was like they were one and the same, but then he detected the hint of a melody deep within. He opened his eyes. There was no change in what his eyes could see but there was definitely something different in the grove now. A presence, calming, nonthreatening.
“Who are you?” he whispered.
The breeze caressed his sweaty hair, ruffled his blood streaked tunic. Then it moved backward, away from him. Not like it had changed direction, for there was no other touch upon his person. A few feet away an outline appeared in the moonlight, a sort of vapor that coalesced into the figure of a tall man with dark hair and shining eyes. He wore robes of pale blue and carried a sword at his waist. Upon his head was a silver circlet with a sky blue gem at its center.
“I am Eönwë, herald of Manwë. My Lord knows your people have reached Middle-earth and sent me to monitor their progress for a time. Sensing your sorrow, I followed you here.”
“My heart is troubled for the death of Fingolfin’s son, Turgon’s brother. Did you see?” Glorfindel stood, brushing the grass and dirt from his knees.
“Yes, I observed the battle. You fought bravely,” Eönwë said with a grim smile.
“I fought like a cornered rat,” Glorfindel scoffed. “Argon had true courage.”
“Argon acted rashly and with anger. Like you, he has never been to war. Though he comported himself bravely, he ultimately lost himself to bloodlust. You are different, Glorfindel. You hold no bitterness against those who abandoned you, nor do you carry the rebellion of the Noldor in your heart.”
“My decision to follow Turgon was made freely and of my own will. I do not regret it. Yet I was ill prepared for what has happened to us and for this night’s battle. Now that I have had a taste of what awaits us here, I fear for my people.”
“This fear and sorrow is what moved me to make myself known. I see in you the temperament and skill to become a great warrior and commander should you so choose.”
“After what I have witnessed of Morgoth’s followers, I would gladly accept your wisdom and guidance that I may protect my friends and people from Morgoth’s wrath.”
“Then I myself shall teach you. Expect to see me again.”
Glorfindel watched him fade from sight. The sounds of the night crowded in again and he heard from the camp Turgon shouting his name. He took one last moment to breathe deeply of the cool night air before going to join his fellows.
~***~
After their victory, the Elves did not linger in Lammoth but moved further south into Hithlum on the advice of Sindarin travelers who told them of Fëanor's people making their settlement on the north side of Lake Mithrim.
As the company moved toward this new land, the moon seemed to follow them. Since there was no way to mark the time in this new place the Elves had no choice but to consider the time when the moon rose to be a new day. They walked under its shadow and Glorfindel remained apprehensive, keeping his sword with him at all times.
Whenever they made camp, Glorfindel would slip into the trees or move a distance away from their encampment where Eönwë would appear to him. They spent many hours discussing the uses and methods of weaponry, how to find and exploit weakness in the enemy, how to rally weary troops. From him Glorfindel learned how to wield sword and bow to their best effect. He learned that knowing when not to take up arms was just as important as having the ability and heart to fight. After their sessions he returned to camp sore and tired from their sparring but lighter of heart for Eönwë’s calming presence.
Several days after the battle, the Elves awoke in amazement to another light in the sky. Much brighter than the moon, this light was bright as a ball of fire, such that it hurt their eyes to look upon. Glorfindel welcomed this new light, which illuminated the landscape and colors in a way he had never experienced before. The once dark sky, teeming with Varda’s stars, was now a dazzling blue that reminded him of the sea and his pleasant days at Alqualondë, drinking in pubs on the quay or riding the swan ships to the surrounding islands.
This light gave off warmth that the Trees of Aman could never match. Though the days remained cool, the chill of the Helcaraxë finally left his bones and the horrors of his first days in Middle-earth faded at last from his spirit.
That evening, as the new light dropped low in the sky, he wandered under the eaves of a woodland near their camp. There he found Eönwë sitting with his back against a tree, one knee up, a harp by is side. The Maia noticed his change in mood and gave him a smile of greeting. “You have changed, Glorfindel. For the first time I begin to sense hope in you.”
“For the first time since we came to these shores the shadow upon my heart has lifted. Would that the new light would shine its warmth upon us every day as the cold light of Ithil shines at night.”
Eönwë laughed. “Anor will shine again tomorrow, have no fear. These lights will help guide the Elves and will also serve to keep the minions of Morgoth at bay for a time.”
“I am heartened to hear that, especially the last part. My people could use the respite of peaceful days.”
“Would that we could give you more, but this path you have chosen is not an easy one.”
“If I had known just how difficult it would be I would, perhaps, have made a different choice.”
“No, Glorfindel. Out of all your people you made your choice for the right reasons, love and friendship. When we make our choices based on these we can never be wrong.”
Glorfindel sat beside him, picking up the harp and idly plucking a tune on the strings. He gave a sigh and set it aside. “What will happen to us, Eönwë? Do you know?”
“Only a little, and nothing definite. Hold on to your courage, Glorfindel, as events play themselves out. It is said not even the wisest can see all ends.”
Glorfindel gave a wry chuckle. “And I am hardly the wisest.”
“You are still young. Your wisdom will come with age,” Eönwë assured him.
“That is both encouraging and daunting,” Glorfindel said with grin.
Eönwë smiled and laid a friendly hand on his arm. “I’m glad I revealed myself to you. It is difficult to know when and with who to share our knowledge. Sometimes, like you, we must let our hearts guide us.”
Glorfindel found himself inexplicably reticent at the fondness in the Maia’s benevolent silver-blue eyes. The hand upon his arm was warm and comforting, in Eönwë’s usual manner, but the feelings it stirred within him were new and untried. It was much like his unexpressed feelings for Ecthelion, but also very different. He swallowed and averted his eyes.
“I see you brought a harp instead of a sword this time,” he stammered, not knowing what say. “So will there be no sparring this evening?” He chanced a look at Eönwë’s face. The gleam in the Maia’s eyes was now unmistakable.
“Perhaps of another kind, if you are willing to accept my guidance once more,” Eönwë said gently.
Glorfindel could not say the suggestion was unwelcome. Yet he was as inexperienced in intimacy as he was in battle and did not know how to articulate the feelings welling up inside him. He could only nod dumbly and rest his hand on top of Eönwë’s, an apprehensive but hopeful look in his eyes.
Eönwë leaned in and kissed him and he returned the gesture with endearing earnestness, awkward yet determined. When they parted, Eönwë caressed his cheek and the obvious tenderness in his gaze made Glorfindel shiver with desire. Following Eönwë’s lead, they began to undress, taking the time to worship each newly unveiled swath of silken skin before moving on to the next. Eönwë’s strong, sculpted torso was no more beautiful or powerful seeming than Glorfindel’s athletic form, but the young Elf could sense the muted power in his lover’s touch. It excited him to know that the same hands that could command a hurricane could feel so gently insistent upon his impassioned flesh.
They lay upon a carpet of lush grass under the swaying trees as the light left the sky, making love in the dreamlike twilight that followed. The rush that bore Glorfindel aloft, then floated him like a feather on a breeze back to earth, was a song he would bear within his heart ever after. When he finally made his way back to camp that evening he discovered himself to be almost as happy as he had been in Aman.
The sun continued to rise and set and the company continued, unmolested, into Hithlum. The news of Fëanor's death reached them and some among them cursed his name for the bitterness of their long sojourn and loss of their people. Fingolfin and his sons established their settlement on the south side of the lake since many no longer wanted to mix with Fëanor's people, nor did they have any love for his sons.
For Glorfindel’s part, he ignored politics, preferring to spend the cool, idyllic days roaming the woods with Turgon, Ecthelion and their new Sindar friends. He came to love this ever-changing land which cycled from life to death to rebirth and back again. In many ways Middle-earth was like Aman, only here the climate and land changed with the seasons. Glorfindel and his companions spent many happy times together at Lake Mithrim, hunting, camping and enjoying the peace they all knew in their hearts could not last.
Whether with his friends, in his solitary wanderings, or meeting with Eönwë, Glorfindel spent so much time in the forest Turgon started teasing him that he was more Sindar than Noldor at heart. Glorfindel could not disagree. He thought he would ache for Tirion with its soaring towers and crystal fountains, and for a time he had. But he also discovered that a simple life in a rough cabin, fishing and hunting and watching the sun rise and set beyond the lake to be to his liking as well.
One evening Glorfindel made his way to a clearing in the woods where he and Eönwë often met. The Maia appeared to him as he had first seen him and Glorfindel instinctively knew their time together was at an end.
Eönwë smiled and stroked his cheek. Glorfindel leaned sadly into the touch, his heart troubled. “You know what I have come to say.”
“I do,” he admitted. “I knew our time together would be fleeting but it’s still hard to see it end.”
“For me as well. I have other tasks of Manwë to attend to and you are now a Captain and Lord over your own House. Yet we may meet again one day, should Eru will it.”
“I hope he shall. To thank you is too inadequate for all you have done for me so I will fare you well with this.” His lips met Eönwë’s in one last heartfelt kiss. When he opened his eyes, the Maia was gone.
That night he slept alone in the clearing, under a full moon’s light he could no longer scorn as dreadful.
It wasn't long after that Turgon and his followers moved to Nevrast. While Glorfindel was sad to leave the lake and forest, he had always loved the sea so he welcomed the change of scenery.
Vinyamar grew steadily and the Noldor again befriended Sindar living in the region. The city became a trading hub for ships moving up and down the coast, making the city prosperous. Vinyamar was never attacked and Glorfindel always wondered if their good fortune was aided in any way by Eönwë, but the Maia did not reveal himself again. Much to his disappointment.
Still, Glorfindel maintained his people’s readiness of arms as he’d been taught. He and Ecthelion drilled their troops regularly and guarded Turgon’s fortress. Though the city was at peace for many years, Glorfindel always believed they would be called to the fray again at some point and was steadfast in his insistence that they remain ever at the ready. He did not worry overmuch about the future, choosing instead to enjoy the fruits of their labors and the blessings of their patron, Ulmo.
One day as he took his customary early morning walk along the beach, far from the palace, he heard thunder from a clear sky. This part of the beach contained a small cove strewn with rocks and driftwood brought in by the tide. The sound seemed to echo all around him but the pink and gold of the sunrise spoke of a clear day ahead with few clouds.
Within a semicircle of rock caused by the erosion of the cliff face that met the beach stood a burly man with ruddy skin and bright yellow hair. There was no sign of a boat nearby and Glorfindel wondered how he could have gotten here since the beach was closed off on this end. When the man spied him, he let out a thunderous laugh. That dispelled at least one mystery.
“Come closer, Glorfindel. You need not fear me. I have been waiting to speak with you.”
The man was bare chested and sported a thick golden beard. His yellow hair was braided in two braids that hung down his back and were fastened together with a leather thong. Though his appearance was formidable, his deep blue eyes sparkled with mirth.
“How is it you know my name? I’m sure we have not met before,” Glorfindel said cautiously.
“No, we haven't. Yet I have heard much of you and was pressed to come see for myself.” His sharp eyes looked Glorfindel up and down. “I must say your looks don’t match your description.”
Glorfindel felt himself blush, with embarrassment or anger he wasn’t sure. Who was this uncouth stranger to speak to him thus?
“You are much more beautiful than I expected,” Tulkas clarified.
Now Glorfindel was left speechless. He simply stared for a few moments, making the stranger’s eyes crinkle with a wide smile, followed by another thunderclap of a laugh.
“All right, I will stop teasing you, despite how much fun it is to see you caught off guard. I am Tulkas. We have not met but I believe you know my name.”
“The Vala that chained Morgoth!” Glorfindel said, awestruck.
For the first time the smile on the man’s diminished a little, and in his eyes lightning flashed. “Yes, well, for a time. Eönwë asked me to seek you out. He could not come himself but said he wants you to complete your training.”
“He taught me much of weapons and battle. What is left for me to learn?”
Tulkas answered by seizing Glorfindel’s arm and flipping him so that he landed on his back with a grunt. “I’m guessing something to do with reflexes,” he said with a shrug.
“I assure you, they are better when I’m not assaulted without warning,” Glorfindel grouched as Tulkas gave him a hand and pulled him upright.
“An unexpected attack will always be unexpected,” Tulkas said. Glorfindel found himself missing Eönwë’s wisdom.
“I don’t think I will ever be able to hone my skills well enough to compete with a Vala,” Glorfindel said, rubbing his hip.
“Perhaps not, but won’t it be great sport to try?” Tulkas gave another booming laugh and reached for Glorfindel, who wisely leapt aside before the Vala could grab him.
“You’re a quick study. I like that,” Tulkas said with a satisfied nod.
“Why now?” Glorfindel asked, staying more than an arm’s length away.
Tulkas never stopped smiling but his eyes took on a serious look. “Turgon is making plans to relocate the city at the suggestion of Ulmo. While the new city will be safe and hidden, Morgoth will stop at nothing to seek your people out once he has destroyed the sons of Fëanor.”
“If Ulmo says this place is well hidden, why should Turgon think otherwise?”
“Despite your strength of arms, Morgoth continues to create designs even we cannot comprehend. Eönwë thought it best to make designs of our own.”
“Why can’t the Valar simply lock him up again? You defeated him once.”
“Personally, I would love nothing better, but the Valar have decided the price of our intervention is too steep. Also, that we must give the Noldor their chance to defeat Morgoth. No matter how stupid that idea may be.” He said the last under his breath but Glorfindel heard it clearly.
“I don’t doubt that our quest may be doomed to fail but we have no choice but to try.” He wasn’t sure if he sought to convince Tulkas or himself.
“Which is exactly why I have come. Are you willing to take my instruction as you did Eönwë’s?”
Glorfindel felt himself blush, remembering the most pleasant of Eönwë’s instructions. Tulkas laughed and before he knew it, Glorfindel found himself seized again and clapped on the back by the deceptively swift Vala.
“Perhaps we can work up to that,” Tulkas said with a wink.
In many ways Glorfindel’s times with Tulkas were the same as his times with Eönwë. Only where they had met in the evenings in the forest, he and Tulkas met at dawn on the seashore. Despite a rocky start, with constant bruises and pulled muscles, Glorfindel learned from Tulkas how to use leverage and cunning to best a larger, stronger opponent. He learned that a weapon wasn’t always needed, or even an advantage, in close quarters and that thinking a move or two ahead of an adversary could save him a lot of pain to both his body and pride.
He found himself also drawn to the Vala in much the same way he had with Eönwë. Though the two were different in temperament they were very much the same when it came to competitiveness and fighting prowess. It wasn’t long before Glorfindel discovered that their wrestling matches stirred familiar feelings. This time it was he who seduced Tulkas, not that the Vala needed much urging. They spent many happy mornings thereafter making rough and tumble love on the beach to the rhythm of the pounding surf.
All too soon their time also came to an end when Turgon made the announcement of their exodus and he was tasked to help organize the transport of the armory. He went to the beach his last morning in Nevrast to say goodbye, but Tulkas never came to him. And so, with a heavy heart, he made the journey to Gondolin.
He once told Eönwë that he didn’t regret his decision to come to Middle-earth, a small lie that grew bigger with the passing of the years. Eönwë had been right about him, he was different, and while he never let himself fall to bitterness and despair he found himself thinking of his youth in Aman and missing Valinor more as time wore on. He fought bravely in each battle he faced, using every technique and counsel he’d been given, but the deaths of the innocent were more grievous to his spirit than any wound he ever received upon the field.
In the end, the day came when their safe haven was betrayed and Morgoth unleashed an unstoppable force that not even his skill and training could overcome. He saved many lives and was on the very brink of victory, having used the moves Tulkas had taught him, to defeat and send a Balrog tumbling into the abyss. For the first time he felt joy in victory, not simply grim satisfaction, only to have it cut short when his foe managed to drag him to his untimely death.
One minute Glorfindel was falling and the next his eyes opened to find himself in the Halls of Mandos. Seeing the gloomy darkness of the Halls was as close as his spirit had ever come to desolation. The Doomsman's visage was terrible to behold as he motioned for Glorfindel to follow. Glorfindel quailed even as he obeyed, not knowing what fate awaited him now. It was as jarring as his first steps into Lammoth, under the strange, cold light of the moon. Yet just as he had not demurred then, he did not now, nor did he carry bitterness in his heart for any punishment Namo might mete out.
They moved through utterly silent corridors, jet black and perfectly smooth, until they reached a bright red door. Without a word, Namo pushed it open and bade him enter.
Without hesitation or fear, Glorfindel stepped through. A bright light assailed him such that he was struck momentarily blind. When his eyes adjusted he found himself in a garden more beautiful than any he had ever seen. He didn’t recognize even half of the flowers and greenery surrounding him. The sound of fountains, their musical song mingling with that of the birds in the trees was instantly soothing and comforting. On the path ahead he saw waiting for him both Eönwë and Tulkas, their beautiful faces lit with welcoming, loving smiles.
“Welcome to Lórien, Glorfindel,” Eönwë said. “Namo has agreed to let you serve out your time here with us.”
For the first time since he had agreed to follow Turgon, Glorfindel’s heart drummed with the excitement of a new adventure.