The Flower and The Fountain

In Loving Memory
Summary: Tuor and Idril are safely away, but Glorfindel plunges to his death after slaying a Balrog. He regrets nothing as his final thoughts turn to Ecthelion, and their next meeting. (at Cirith-thoronath before Glorfindel‘s fall)

There's a dancer in the arms of love
And he's dancing on the sky above
And the truth is that we will never know
Where love will flow

Gondolin was gone, fallen to the Dark Lord and his forces. Those that had survived the destruction had eventually gone their separate ways. Those who felt the safest way to flee the city was by the Way of Escape did so at their own peril; they were ambushed and captured, taken by the Orcs to become Morgoth’s slaves. Those that followed Tuor and Idril escaped unnoticed to the Cirith-thoronath, the Eagle’s Crest or Cristhorn, through the secret passageway the Celebrindal had created. They were saved as they had gone unnoticed by the Orcs and Goblins, but they were yet in peril of being detected whilst so close to the White City. And still there was no sign of Eärendil, who had been sent ahead with men of Tuor’s house.

Among those that went to the Cristhorn were Galdor and his men of the Tree, especially one Legolas Greenleaf who led them utilizing his night sight; also there was Egalmoth and the people of the Heavenly Arch. Loyal to their Lord, those of the Wing followed, and behind them walked the Pillar, Snow, Swallow and the remnants of the Fountain. Of the Harp and the Mole there was none or too few, and no man of the Hammer of Wrath would ever leave their Lord, who forever dwelt in Gondolin. Of the King’s house there also was none, for all had fallen with their liege. In the rear of the company strode Glorfindel and those of the Golden Flower.

Anguish filled the heart of the golden lord, his soul wrenched in two by what he had seen at the great fountain in the King’s Square. Quietly he trudged behind the little band of escapees, blindly following them with nothing but a vague idea of where they were headed. Glorfindel cared little about where they were going, or what they would find when they reached their destination. There was little comfort for him now that his love had passed into the Halls of Waiting. The joy was gone from his face; he no longer cared what troubles would assail him. All Glorfindel was aware of was the emptiness that was filling him where love once resided.

A shout from ahead was able to draw Glorfindel’s attention. Gazing forward, he heard Tuor proclaim the finding of Eärendil and call forth some men to help aid those who protected his son from a cavalry of Orcs upon wolves. Remembering the compassion Ecthelion held for those of Huor’s line, he stepped forward, silently offering his services.

Upon seeing the golden Elf approach him, Tuor was tempted to decline the offer for he too still felt the sting of Ecthelion’s passing. The Man was unsure if it was fitting for Glorfindel to join him after suffering so much already. His son, however, was in peril and Tuor would not see another fall again that night if he had the power in him to prevent such an end, especially that of his own flesh and blood. With a curt nod he accepted, and the pair set off with a band of men to help their brethren.

They made quick work of the cavalry, making sure none would make it back in time to inform the brunt of Morgoth’s forces of their escape. Onward the Golodhrim trudged again, never stopping until it was full morning and they had reached the foothills of the mountains. Only then did Tuor allow the band to rest, and rest they did for they were weary from traveling. The meal they made was light, and they quenched their thirsts in a nearby brook before some took to sleep; others, like Tuor, remained awake and alert for any sign of trouble.

“Mother Idril,” Eärendil spoke once he had tired of playing by the brook. He was unaware of the eyes of his father and Glorfindel upon his person. “I would we had good Ecthelion of the Fountain here to play to me on his flute, or make me willow-whistles! Perchance he has gone on ahead?” The young child did not hear the choked sob Glorfindel sounded nor the saddened eyes of his father that turned away.

Idril was nearly in tears at the sound of her son’s voice. She had not the heart to tell him what she had heard of the Fountain Lord’s fate, but tell him she had to. “Nay, dear Eärendil. Ecthelion will not join us on this march. He will never leave Gondolin, for he has fallen to save us. He has fallen into my father’s great fountain, and he will never surface again.”

At the sound of her words, Eärendil began to weep bitterly. The son of Tuor had great love for the Lord of the Fountain, who often took the time to tell him stories of days in Valinor and Nevrast. “I care not to ever see the streets of Gondolin forevermore.”

“You shall not again,” Tuor announced in a saddened voice, “for Gondolin is no more.” The son of Huor turned away from his weeping child to fix his gaze upon Glorfindel. The golden Elf had wandered away from the family, unable to bear hearing the name of his lover now that Ecthelion was gone. Knowing the need his friend must have been in, Tuor stepped closer to Elf‘s side. “Glorfindel?”

“Leave me be, Tuor,” Glorfindel whispered, his back to the Man. His golden hair hid his face from prying eyes; he did not want others to see the pain he was in.

“Nay, I will not. You are suffering. Please…” Gently Tuor took hold of Glorfindel’s arm, and maneuvered the blond until they were standing face-to-face, yet still Glorfindel refused to raise his head. Moving slowly so as not to provoke any struggle, Tuor enveloped him in a firm embrace seeking to give comfort to his grieving friend.

Glorfindel was tempted to pull away, not wanting the comfort Tuor was freely giving. But he found he lacked the heart to do so and instead pulled Man Man closer. Burying his face into the strong shoulder, the golden-haired Elf sobbed uncontrollably such as he had never done since he was but a child. He cried for Ecthelion, for his lost love and for himself. He cried for all the times they had shared, and all the times they would not. Great heaving sobs left Glorfindel’s shoulders shaking; none of Tuor’s soothing words nor the gentle rubbing strokes of his hands could calm them.

“Hush now, meldir,” came Egalmoth’s voice in Glorfindel’s ear. “Hush now, there was nothing you could do. He died to save us, to save you.” He too felt the sting of losing someone he loved, but unlike Glorfindel, Egalmoth had been spared the sight of Rog falling in battle. No matter how valiant their last stand was, such a thought did not lessen the anguish of losing one so cherished. Egalmoth knew this, and had come to Tuor’s aid to offer Glorfindel support.

“Knowing such does not dull the hurt,” Glorfindel whimpered against Tuor’s shoulder, echoing the Arch captain‘s thoughts.

“I know, meldir.” Egalmoth leaned his head against the curve of his friend’s shoulder, one hand joining Tuor’s in gently rubbing Glorfindel’s back. “I know it well.”

For a time none of them spoke. In silence they stood, two giving comfort to one, two feeling the loss of half of their hearts and souls. From a short distance away, Idril watched them in silence as she comforted her son. The night had been difficult for her as well, for she had lost her father and nearly lost her son. Yet the one she loved lived yet, and Idril could only imagine the torment the two elven lords were experiencing.

It was Glorfindel who broke the embrace; straightening his back, he squared his shoulders and wiped the last of the tears from his eyes. “We must press on,” he said, wincing at the slight tremble in his voice. “The more wery, ry, the more time Morgoth’s forces will have to find us.”

Hesitantly Tuor agreed, for Glorfindel spoke the truth. He was, however, still worried for his friend. Nonetheless, they needed to move if they wished to flee undiscovered. Clasping Glorfindel once on the shoulder, he shouted for the band to rise and move on. Soon the party was walking again, making their way through the narrow paths of the mountains as quickly as they were able in their tired and disheartened state.

Glorfindel again strayed behind to stay with the remaining members of his house. He was quiet on the march as he followed those of the Heavenly Arch before him. Up ahead glimmered the silver mail of the remainder of the people of the Fountain even in the approaching night, but Glorfindel dared not look upon them. Instead, he kept his azure eyes focused on the rising cliffs about them, straining his senses to find any sort of danger than might present itself. He was startled by an unfamiliar voice speaking next to his elbow.

“Lord Glorfindel?”

Turning, Glorfindel found himself staring into the gray eyes of, judging by his mail, a warrior of the Fountain. The man was younger than the elven lord by some two, maybe three hundred years. Glorfindel had the distinct impression that he had met this person before but could not place when or where. “Yes?”

“My name is Calendir, my Lord.”
alenalendir…” Ah, so this was the youth that had stumbled upon his rooms with a letter for Ecthelion all those years ago. He managed a small smile when a faint blush stained Calendir’s cheeks.

“I trust you remember me, my Lord.”

“Aye, that I do.”

Calendir was at a loss for what to say. Over the years, after that fateful day at the House of the Golden Flower, he had become more observant of the comings and goings of his Lord in order to discern whether or the not the rumors he had so blatantly ignored were true. It wasn’t long until he discovered that they were not lies, yet Calendir began to wonder why Glorfindel and Ecthelion did not let the whole of the city know of their relationship. It took a bit more time before he realized that their love was deep and something with which they wished to share among themselves, but something they would not hide from those who discovered the fact.

“My Lord…I’m sorry.”

Glorfindel stopped walking momentarily at the sound of distress in the younger eEf’s voice. Resuming his walk, he eyed Calendir, noticing the other Elf’s gaze fixed upon the ground. “For what?”

“For…for what happened. I know how much my Lord meant to you.”

“Do you now?”

Calendir nodded slowly. “After that day, I began to watch the pair of you. I wasn’t spying,” he hurriedly added. “I was curious rather. During my…infatuation, I had heard rumors about you and Lord Ecthelion. I wanted to see for myself if they were true.”

“And?” This youth intrigued Glorfindel. He had never had the chance to speak with Calendir since the day of their unexpected meeting. Now that he was here, speaking to the boy despite the dire circumstances, he could understand why Ecthelion spoke kindly of him. Glorfindel could see that, deep down, Calendir was a kind soul, but was often misguided by his emotions until something set him right. There was nothing evil about this Elf, he was just misunderstood at times.

“I realized that what you and Lord Ecthelion shared,” Calendir continued, “was something few would understand. Love is a concept many experience, and learn painful lessons from. What you shared was love, but at the same time it transcended it. I can’t explain it well.”

The Flower Lord did not miss the small sob Calendir tried to hide whilst speaking his last words. Though the youth no longer harbored any sort of lustful love towards the former Lord of his house,stilstill held deep respect for Ecthelion. And it pained him just as it did Glorfindel to lose someone so fair and kindhearted. “Thank you for your words, Calendir.”

“You must be grieving, my Lord.” Calendir could see the pain in Glorfindel’s eyes; he did not miss the almost faint fluttering of the golden-haired Elf’s hand over his chest.

“He made me swear uldnuldn’t follow him to Mandos. I told him I wouldn’t, and I’ll keep my word. But, Elbereth, it’s so difficult. I’ve known him almost my entire life; I don’t even remember what it was like before the day we met. And now to be without him…” Glorfindel was glad for the gesture of comfort Calendir offered as the younger Elf placed a hand upon his arm. The pair walked on in silence, quiet understanding passing between them.

/Ecthelion, why did you leave me to go on in agony? I promised you I wouldn’t follow, but you do not understand how torturous this is for me. For most of my life I’ve known nothing but of the love you gave. My world was you, you and only you. And now you’re gone and I am left alone. This isn’t the same when I was a child before I met you; this is worse. This is worse than the cold of Mandos’ Halls. Not even the Halls of Waiting can compare to the icy grip of loneliness. Vanimaer…I miss you, more than you can possibly imagine./

Glorfindel gazed down over the edge of the narrow pass the survivors of Gondolin were crossing. It would be so easy just to slip off the edge, just one small step was all it took. But he was bound by the promise he made; he swore he would not take his own life. Instead, he was to live alone, praying to the Valar for either release or the return of the one he longed for. Glorfindel sighed; he had never known the immortality of the Elves could be a curse, until now.

Galdor’s voice came to him as a shout in the dark. Peering through the night, the Flower Lord was able to make out the forms of his friends battling with Orcs that had fallen upon them. From above came a rumbling, then the crash of rock against rock close to his side. They were being assault from the front and above, with the women and children ordered toward the rear.

It seemed as nothing more than a small skirmish to take place, but then flaming heat and sheering light came from behind. Yet more Orcs arrived, attacking the men of the Golden Flower and Shallow, and behind them was a Balrog, who watched the scene unfold with a malicious expression.

“About and defend!” Glorfindel ordered, drawing his sword. “You!” he called, grabbing a warrior of the Swallow by the arm as his men moved forward to confront the enemy. “To the front with you. Inform Tuor and Galdor that be are being attacked from behind. Quickly!” The Elf complied, rushing through the band of women and warriors to deliver his message. Hefting his sword, Glorfindel prepared himself for the onslaught to follow.

Thick darkness encompassed the cliff pass, obscuring even the sight of Legolas of the Tree. While the narrow ledge became a battlefield, the relentless hail of rocks from above did not cease. The Elves prayed for a sign, a savior, anything to aid them. Just when they believed all would be lost, the clouds parted and the moon shone as much of its light upon the Children of Ilúvatar as the high walls of the path would allow.

“Praise Tilion!” Galdor shouted amid the din of battle whilst felling one of his foe. Yet the battle was far from over, and the Elves were still in need of assistance. Suddenly the hail of rocks from above ceased, and a great shadow crossed over the cliff.

“The Eagles!” The shout echoed through the survivors of the fair elven city as Thorndor led his people to the aid of the Firstborn. With their talons and mighty wings, they chased away many an Orc, flinging most into the Thorn Sir far below. The Golodhrim were in their debt from that day forth, and poured more of their strength into the fight.

When all seemed to be going well, it all went wrong. From the deep shadows past the rear leapt the Balrog; over the men of the Golden Flower he jumped until he was towering before the women, children and the injured. Some he scoured with his fire whip, more he would have killed had it not been for the bravery of one Elf.

“Lord Glorfindel!”

Calendir’s shout, and that of his men, was ignored as Glorfindel pressed forward, placing himself between his foe and the women, his golden armor gleaming brightly in the moonlight. For a moment no one moved, nor did they dare breathe as they observed the sight before them, a sight Eärendil would never forget for the rest of his days.

There on the narrow ledge stood a Balrog of Morgoth, hurseursed body wrapped in flames and pitch blackness as if the night itself were trying to make him invisible to all. His wings fanned out around him, his fire whip burning brightly in his hand; his eyes, two piercing, flaming points, stared in hate at the Elf before him. And Glorfindel returned the stare with equal hatred in his azure eyes, for this creature was the same as that which had taken his lover from the world. The Lord of the Golden Flower stood before his foe determinedly, golden armor seemingly ablaze in the night. His golden hair flowed in the wind that whipped through the mountains, appearing as a golden fire sparkling from his shoulders. Who would be the victor in this battle none knew for sure.

Neither moved until the faint clamoring of a stone falling sounded. With a furious roar the Balrog raised his whip, making to swipe the Elf frhe phe precarious perch. But Glorfindel was faster, hewing and hacking at his foe with hatred and strength he did not know he possessed. Screaming in pain, the Balrog leapt away and onto a boulder, but Glorfindel followed, determined to see the beast fall in death. None could follow to his aid, yet all could see the deadly combat that was taking place.

“Back to the shadow from whence you came!” Glorfindel cursed as they combated. “I’ll not have you lay a hand on these people!” His sword, blazing like silvere, ce, clanged loudly off the beast’s iron helm and leaving a sizable dent therein. The creature’s black fires heightened in his rage; the Balrog attempted to again throw the Elf off the ledge with his whip, but the thick metal of Glorfindel’s armor, forged by the fallen men of the Hammer, protected him against the lashings.

Amidst the rain of fiery blows, his sword swung again. The Golodhrim below stifled the sound of the Balrog’s shriek from their ears as the creature’s whip arm was slashed through the elbow. Glorfindel made to strike again, but his sword missed, embedding into a shoulder as the creature leapt in rage at him. Searching for a weapon, his hand closed around a knife hanging at his belt; pulling it free from its sheath, he raised the knife before his face to defend.

The blade sunk deep into the belly of the beast, who shrieked again in rage and agony. The Balrog, reeling in blind pain, fell backwards off the rock towards the narrow Thorn Sir. In a last attempt to fell his enemy, he reached out, grasping hold of golden locks, and pulled one of the most loved of Gondolin’s people down into the darkness with him. A wicked grin of triumph momentarily crossed that monstrous face at the vain attempts of the Golodhrim to save their friend. And with such thoughts, the spawn of Morgoth plunged to his death, leaving the waters of the Thorn Sir to run black for some days afterwards.

“Glorfindel!!” Seeing his friend fall, Tuor sank to the ground, pressing his body flat as he reached out to try to grasp the golden-haired Elf’s arm. Their hands met for a brief moment but it was not enough as the dark swallowed Glorfindel, separating him from his friends and companions. Stricken at losing two of his closest companions in one day, anguish swept over Tuor as he released a scream of torment, the sound echoing through the mountains as the people of Gondolin mourned the passing of a much loved one.

~~~~~~~~~~

Cold wind whistled about him, both pushing him down and buffeting him upwards. His wounds were not grievous, and he was unable to feel the cold but he knew he would soon. Below, the Balrog shrieked in his agony, the hideous sound echoing maddeningly in the recesses of the cliffs. The sound, however, did not reach his ears through the howling of the winds. Even if they had, he would not have heard them; all Glndelndel was able to hear was his name being yelled from above, all he could see was the faces of his friends growing smaller the lower he plunged.

The drop was longer than he had originally thought possible; he almost wished it were over. Azure eyes gazed up, catching the anguish that washed over Tuor and Idril’s faces. Glorfindel cursed himself for being careless and allowing the Balrog to surprise him when the beast grabbed his hair. But at least the rest of the survivors, led by Tuor, Galdor and Legolas would make it safely away before brunbrunt of Morgoth’s forces noticed. Wherever they went, he wished them the best.

/Vanimaer…I promised you, didn’t I? You begged me not to follow you to Mandos, and I didn’t. I swore to you I wouldn’t take my own life, that I would fall by a hand just as cursed as the one that felled you, if not the same hand that took your life. Balrogs are the bane of the Elves, but we shall forever be known as the slayers of the mightiest of the beasts. It is not a title I would prefer to have. I would prefer to have you./

He shivered as he relived the events of just hours ago. Had it really only been one day ago that Glorfindel had excitedly walked, nearly danced, into his chambers to prepare for Tarnin Austa? This year’s Gates of Summer were to have a double meaning for Ecthelion and he. This year, as they had promised, they were to be bound, married before their friends.

Everything had been set accordingly. Idril had graciously handled all the preparations for their ceremony whilst Tuor took over her normal duties of setting straight the events for Tarnin Austa; Rog had saw to the forging of their bonding rings personally, and had confided in Egalmoth how excited he was; Turgon had requested to be the master of the ceremony, delighting in the joining of two of his closest friends. There had been little the past few days Glorfindel and Ecthelion had been allowed to do but rest, for the people of their houses insisted on such and their chief advisors had promptly taken over their duties. Therefore they had spent their days happily in each other’s company, or in that of Eärendil‘s, who had been feeling neglected with his parents thus occupied.

/Why did it have to go so wrong? Why now? Elbereth, there must be a reason!/

But there was none that ouldould think of, and even Glorfindel could not bring himself to blame Maeglin. Of all his faults, the son of Eöl did not knowgothgoth would attack them that night. He had known such an attack would come soon, but could not have predicted when Morgoth deemed the time to be right. And it would have done no good; Tuor had dealt with Maeglin accordingly, presented him with the same fate that had befallen his father. No, Maeglin was the sole recipient of all of the Golodhrim’s anger and the cause of their grief, but he was gone now and there was little they could do against him.

A glimmer caught Glorfindel’s eye during his fall. The glimmer seemed to follow him into the abyss of Thorn Sir, twinkling in the scarce moonlight. Reaching out, Glorfindel closed his hand upon the light, feeling something small and cool nestling into his palm. Bringing his hand close to his face, he slowly pried open his fingers for a glimpse. Tears erupted in his eyes upon seeing his lover’s pendant; the delicate chain had snapped upon his pull from the rock face.

/At least, vanimaer, there is a piece of you still with me. I beg the Valar to be merciful and at least allow me to keep this last gift from you. It is all I have left, my fair one. It is all of you I have left./

Closing his eyes, the golden-haired Elf closed his hand about the pendant, resolving himself as he felt the increased pull of the earth the closer to the Thorn Sir he became. He did not feel the shallow waters embrace him, almost as if the waters of the Christhorn were trying to save him from his inevitable fate. Nor did he feel the heavy impact he made with the murky earth below, for Mandos had already claimed him. The Vala hparepared him, taking Glorfindel in his grief. All above on the ledge heard the din of his armor against the Thorn Sir, and despair filled their hearts again at losing one so fair and dearly loved.

~~~~~~

Tuor, unable to stem the tears streaming down his face, watched as Thorndor descended into the Thorn Sir. Moments later the King of Eagles emerged again, bearing the body of Glorfindel. Wet was his golden hair and clothing from the waters, one hand tightly clutching something in his fist.

“Dearest Glorfindel,” the Man wept as he took the body of his friend from Thorndor. “Such a fate should not have befallen you. I know not the Valar’s purpose in all this, but I hope that you have now found peace in your short-lived grief.” Leaving his son to be orteorted by his wife, Tuor carried Glorfindel away to find a suitable resting place. The time was dire and the people needed to move on, but the Man would not suffer leaving the Elf in the open.

Upon locating a suitable crevice, Tuor proceeded to clear away the ground to make a cairn for the golden Elf. Those left of the Golden Flower joined him readily, their tears nearly blinding them in their work. So too did Galdor, Legolas and Calendir join them, the youth of the Fountain aiding Egalmoth who would not suffer to sit idly by in such a time despite his injuries. When the ground was cleared to Tuor’s liking, he moved to place Glorfindel amid the cleared ground and thus noticed his clutched fist as the others gathered stones for the burial.

“Ecthelion’s pendant,” Tuor whispered after prying open Glorfindel’s stiff fingers. With fresh tears, he folded the blond’s hand closed again, and placed a tender kiss upon the brow. “May you find some measure of peace now, my dear friend.”

The people of the Golden Flower wept at the completion of their work, their tears never to be dried nor to rto return to their faces. They had lost not only their home but their beloved lord. Never would they see his fair face again, his kind smile and rich laughter. Forever would they mourn his passing.

Erestor would remember that day for the rest of his life. He never spoke of the empty sadness he felt that day to anyone. But he wouldembeember the golden Elf, along with his lover, who often cared for him. The memory of the day in Idril’s garden, as well as others, would be etched into his thoughts forevermore. When he passed Glorfindel’s stone cairn, he would scribble an epitaph unnoticed. Only Thorndor, during his faithful guarding of the resting place, would know what the Elf, then a child, had written in his tears and grief as he followed the other Golodhrim away from the ruined city of his birth.

“In loving memory.”

Fair and tall, loved by all who knew him, he was Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin.

TBC...