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Ai! 'Tis Glorfindel and the Balrog (A Glorfindel vs Balrog sampler)
General readers, feel free to skip; this is kinda like a reposting of sorts of some bits and pieces of the whole Glorfindel vs Balrog, as I've written in. This is really some bits of things for a friend of Lissea's.
First to explain; the Glorfindel vs Balrog thing, for me, is one of those scenes that's extremely heroic and extremely horrific, and very bittersweet. It's also one of two major canon Tolkien scenes that I've had dreams/nightmares of (the other being Maedhros losing his hand: http://zhie.livejournal.com/316405.html). (I've had a number of dreams with the characters, but these are the two that have precisely followed canon.)
I can't seem to find the post from the Glorfindel one, but basically, I'm pretty sure I was sick that time, too. (I have the strangest dreams while sick.) Essentially, I kept dreaming the same sequence over and over: fighting the balrog, taking it down, making the mistake of turning, and being pulled off the cliff. And then falling. And I'd wake up just before hitting the bottom. The majority of my dreams are viewed as if from someone else's perspective, so while having the glorious golden hair and really cool sword and armor were awesome, the repeated falling, not so much. The dream repeated between seven and nine times before I finally just decided to get up.
The thing about my dreams is, they're so vivid. I have the type of dreams where a) I often think I'm really doing whatever it is and b) think I'm actually whoever I'm seeing the dream through. This is both awesome, and also, TOTALLY UNCOOL when a balrog is trying to kill you over and over again! But, enlightening.
The following is a smattering of things that have been partially inspired by the bits Tolkien describes, and partly from that veryterrifying interesting night of dreaming.
---
From 'Unforgivable'
She was fierce and frightening, and had within her the wrath of Morgoth himself, and the desire for revenge, for all of the other balrogs who had joined her on this mission had since perished in the fighting. Her shadows cast over the crowd standing against the mountain and everything froze.
She scanned the crowd as fire spit and flames jumped from her body. Then, she found it – found the one she was looking for, and Erestor took a step back towards the mountain.
He fought, not by choice, but for survival. He fought, in fear, and not for long nor well. He fought, and he fought not to look at those who were watching him, for he hoped they did not see the look of fear on his own face.
And then, he fell, but not far. The dust was in his eyes and the shadow was cast over him. Then, suddenly, as suddenly as it had appeared, it was washed away. A bright light, pure and comforting, enveloped him, and Erestor looked up and saw before him Glorfindel in all his splendor. Armor gleaming, sword raised high, and foot upon the band of the whip, Glorfindel held the whip from being retracted. His boot burned, and the stench was almost unbearable as the fumes of burning flesh reached Erestor’s nostrils. He feared for what would come next, for what was fated.
And in that moment, as he looked up and saw Glorfindel for that final time, Erestor finally saw him for what he was. Beautiful and dangerous, kind and wonderful, strong and giving and forgiving, and glorious, in looks and in mind and spirit. He felt the loss before it came, the grief before the grieving, and he knew he was looking upon him in his final moments. As Glorfindel leaped forward and gripped the horn of the beast to steady himself, Erestor began to weep for a loss he had never anticipated.
---
The scene from Unforgivable is a follow-up to a scene from 'Recovery', which was written a long, long time ago. I probably need to edit that story a bit, but this gives a different yet similar perspective, of Erestor recalling the event some six thousand years later.
"I do not recall seeing such a scar on an elf before," said Haldir.
"It is from fire, and those of fire do not fade," Erestor told him. Sadly, he added, "You may have one yourself, penneth. On your back, where your wound was cauterized."
Moving his fingers from Erestor's scar to his own, Haldir shuddered as he noted for the first time the length and width of it. "It never goes away?" he asked.
"Perhaps yours will," Erestor said, "for mine was not made by fire alone, but from flame and shadow."
"It was the balrog that made this?"
"I was an easy target with my back to that demon, and he lashed his whip around my leg. I thought I surely would be pulled into the abyss. In that moment, I had a thought." He shook his head and gave a somber sort of laugh. "I thought, 'Not me. Anyone but me.' I was so selfish, I did not care who it was, as long as I left with my life." Stopping suddenly, Erestor bowed his head and drew a hand to his face. It took Haldir some time before he realized that Erestor was crying, and his chest ached at the sight of one of the strongest elves he knew trying to hide his tears.
Pulling himself up enough to crawl the few feet to the counselor, Haldir leaned himself against Erestor and put an arm around him. "Please, Erestor, forgive me," he whispered. "It was wrong of me to ask you." Haldir's free hand reached down to push the cuff of the pants back over Erestor's ankle, but a hand stopped his own.
"I felt something jerk me toward the edge, and then, it stopped. When I turned, I saw Glorfindel with one foot atop the whip of the balrog, holding it down. He brought his sword down, slicing off the end of the whip, freeing me. Do you know what his last words were?" Erestor paused and took a deep and ragged breath. "Of course you do not know. He said, 'I am Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower and Lord Guardian, Warden of the Sixth Gate. I am chief protector of this city now. You have to fight me first.' The next moment, he had somehow raced up the whip and jumped across it, up to the foul creature, and he-" Erestor's voice cracked, and it was some time before he began again.
"He always makes it sound like a simple duel - a glorious battle between elf and demon. He never mentions the smell of flesh burning or singed hair, of all of the blood that was spilt. I don't know if he remembers that part of it, or if he intentionally forgets it, but it stays in my mind, clear as a calm lake in the summertime. As he fought, the rest escaped, but I was frozen in my place. I think I might have run, but I could not. My ankle was so badly wounded that I could barely crawl. So I hid best I could, and I watched." The emotional storm seemed to have passed for the counselor, and Haldir withdrew himself slightly now that Erestor was looking at him once more as he spoke.
"Do you recall that I said previously to consider the source of information? There is a chapter in the Quenta Silmarillion - a book that, contrary to popular belief, was not written entirely by one elf. I am fairly certain of the validity of the majority of Chapter Twenty-Three, because the words are my own. It is… mostly accurate."
"Mostly accurate?" pressed Haldir.
"Mostly in that 'they' who buried Glorfindel was really 'me', because how stupid would it have been for everyone to have stood around while Glorfindel and the Eagles took care of the balrog and the orcs instead of fleeing. I was too weak to walk, but when Thorondor brought up Glorfindel's body, I could not have it left for scavengers to find, and so I piled rocks over him best I could. He does not know that is how it happened.
"I asked then to have them fly me back into the city before being taken to what was left of the elves of our city, and did the same for Ecthelion, though instead of rocks, I placed over him the stones that had been knocked away from his fountain. I wish it could have been more, but it was the best I could do. It was a very bad day," reflected Erestor at last. "I still do not know how they could fight them, how they found within the courage and strength to battle such foes."
---
Now, I obviously can't have just Erestor's view of things, so Glorfindel had to weigh in on the event...
From 'Whispers', drabble entitled 'Fall'
Funny, how little I remember of it. I can still hear the confusion, the panic as it shadowed us and beat its wings with menace. I drew my sword, I shouted at it – what, I barely recall, some insult I am certain, to attract the attention away from all others and put its focus onto me.
And then... there is nothing, as if erased from my mind. The accounts I have read mention the horrendous burning, my clothes and hair on fire. Minstrels have sung of the battle, how hard and long I fought, how brave I was. What I do recall is very dreamlike, when you awake and barely grasp the threads of sleep, except for one thing. I will never forget the fall.
To offer a balance for the angst of the balrog fight, I designed a coping mechanism for Glorfindel: Humor. The following scene from 'Little Balrog' is supposed to give the reader the idea that Glorfindel has written some highly fictitious accounts of what Balrogs are and are not sometime in the late Second Age. This idea actually came from my brother, who was in the Army and served in the Middle East. While there, he and his company had a large notebook they passed around and wrote in called 'the book'; it was total fiction accounts of the lives of those in the company. I borrowed the idea here.
Orophin took the small volume and opened to a random page. The title, displayed upon the top, read, ‘Balrog: Friend or Foe?’. “Whoa... this is great... I had no idea there was anything on this topic here!”
“Shhh... library,” warned Glorfindel, despite the fact Orophin was speaking softer than he had. He rushed Orophin up to the front to one of the clerks. “He wants to check this out and we are terribly late, so, just under my name perhaps.”
The clerk took the book and opened the cover, then frowned. “Master Erestor,” she said, calling over her shoulder, “what should I do if there is no space left on the check-out card?”
“Just put another in.” Erestor was standing up, which was causing Glorfindel to look slightly panicked. “If it has circulated that many times, though, perhaps we should have another copy made. Some sort of tactical guide?” he asked, coming closer.
The clerk had just stamped the new card and closed the cover, so Glorfindel grabbed the book from her hands. “Thank you, really, we must hurry, I appreciate it, great, thanks.” He turned on his heel, only to have Erestor standing directly in front of him now. “Garh! How did you get here so fast?” he wondered as the book was yanked from his hands.
Erestor examined the outside of the book warily. “Is this what I think it is?”
“No,” answered Glorfindel quickly, trying to snatch the book away. Erestor turned away, blocking Glorfindel’s attempt with his shoulder. “Maybe.”
“Fin!” Erestor had just opened the volume and shook his head at what he saw. “We have been over this before! I do not need your unsolicited manuscripts in my collection!”
“But look at the circulation!” Glorfindel finally managed to retrieve the book and displayed the record. “It goes out all the time!”
“I have discarded this thing eight times! How does it keep getting back?”
Glorfindel shifted from one foot to the other. “You really need to remember to lock the doors at night,” he mumbled as Erestor stole the book back.
I sneak other lines here and there into things, but those above are the largest chunks. Because they're all tied together, it's hard to have just one piece without seeing the rest, or at least, the largest pieces of that puzzle.
Also including this little drabble, not about the balrog, but about Glorfindel as the warrior. Because I think it gives a better image of what the balrog would have seen, or something like that.
From 'Whispers', drabble entitled 'Sun'
“Of the metals, gold is far more precious. Why, therefore, covet silver above it?”
“Silver is like the stars,” explained Erestor. “It reminds us where we came from, and who we are.” He watched his friend polish his armor, damasked in fine detail. “Why gold, then?”
“I suppose it reminds me where I came from. My house, for one, the sun, for the other. I do not have such memories as you,” Glorfindel reminded Erestor. “My days of youth were spent beneath Anor, not the blessed jewels of Elbereth.”
Erestor nodded. “Dangerous, though. Your armor does not camouflage you. You stand out among the sea of silver.”
“Yes, I know,” said Glorfindel. “But then, there are a million stars, and yet still only one sun.”
First to explain; the Glorfindel vs Balrog thing, for me, is one of those scenes that's extremely heroic and extremely horrific, and very bittersweet. It's also one of two major canon Tolkien scenes that I've had dreams/nightmares of (the other being Maedhros losing his hand: http://zhie.livejournal.com/316405.html). (I've had a number of dreams with the characters, but these are the two that have precisely followed canon.)
I can't seem to find the post from the Glorfindel one, but basically, I'm pretty sure I was sick that time, too. (I have the strangest dreams while sick.) Essentially, I kept dreaming the same sequence over and over: fighting the balrog, taking it down, making the mistake of turning, and being pulled off the cliff. And then falling. And I'd wake up just before hitting the bottom. The majority of my dreams are viewed as if from someone else's perspective, so while having the glorious golden hair and really cool sword and armor were awesome, the repeated falling, not so much. The dream repeated between seven and nine times before I finally just decided to get up.
The thing about my dreams is, they're so vivid. I have the type of dreams where a) I often think I'm really doing whatever it is and b) think I'm actually whoever I'm seeing the dream through. This is both awesome, and also, TOTALLY UNCOOL when a balrog is trying to kill you over and over again! But, enlightening.
The following is a smattering of things that have been partially inspired by the bits Tolkien describes, and partly from that very
---
From 'Unforgivable'
She was fierce and frightening, and had within her the wrath of Morgoth himself, and the desire for revenge, for all of the other balrogs who had joined her on this mission had since perished in the fighting. Her shadows cast over the crowd standing against the mountain and everything froze.
She scanned the crowd as fire spit and flames jumped from her body. Then, she found it – found the one she was looking for, and Erestor took a step back towards the mountain.
He fought, not by choice, but for survival. He fought, in fear, and not for long nor well. He fought, and he fought not to look at those who were watching him, for he hoped they did not see the look of fear on his own face.
And then, he fell, but not far. The dust was in his eyes and the shadow was cast over him. Then, suddenly, as suddenly as it had appeared, it was washed away. A bright light, pure and comforting, enveloped him, and Erestor looked up and saw before him Glorfindel in all his splendor. Armor gleaming, sword raised high, and foot upon the band of the whip, Glorfindel held the whip from being retracted. His boot burned, and the stench was almost unbearable as the fumes of burning flesh reached Erestor’s nostrils. He feared for what would come next, for what was fated.
And in that moment, as he looked up and saw Glorfindel for that final time, Erestor finally saw him for what he was. Beautiful and dangerous, kind and wonderful, strong and giving and forgiving, and glorious, in looks and in mind and spirit. He felt the loss before it came, the grief before the grieving, and he knew he was looking upon him in his final moments. As Glorfindel leaped forward and gripped the horn of the beast to steady himself, Erestor began to weep for a loss he had never anticipated.
---
The scene from Unforgivable is a follow-up to a scene from 'Recovery', which was written a long, long time ago. I probably need to edit that story a bit, but this gives a different yet similar perspective, of Erestor recalling the event some six thousand years later.
"I do not recall seeing such a scar on an elf before," said Haldir.
"It is from fire, and those of fire do not fade," Erestor told him. Sadly, he added, "You may have one yourself, penneth. On your back, where your wound was cauterized."
Moving his fingers from Erestor's scar to his own, Haldir shuddered as he noted for the first time the length and width of it. "It never goes away?" he asked.
"Perhaps yours will," Erestor said, "for mine was not made by fire alone, but from flame and shadow."
"It was the balrog that made this?"
"I was an easy target with my back to that demon, and he lashed his whip around my leg. I thought I surely would be pulled into the abyss. In that moment, I had a thought." He shook his head and gave a somber sort of laugh. "I thought, 'Not me. Anyone but me.' I was so selfish, I did not care who it was, as long as I left with my life." Stopping suddenly, Erestor bowed his head and drew a hand to his face. It took Haldir some time before he realized that Erestor was crying, and his chest ached at the sight of one of the strongest elves he knew trying to hide his tears.
Pulling himself up enough to crawl the few feet to the counselor, Haldir leaned himself against Erestor and put an arm around him. "Please, Erestor, forgive me," he whispered. "It was wrong of me to ask you." Haldir's free hand reached down to push the cuff of the pants back over Erestor's ankle, but a hand stopped his own.
"I felt something jerk me toward the edge, and then, it stopped. When I turned, I saw Glorfindel with one foot atop the whip of the balrog, holding it down. He brought his sword down, slicing off the end of the whip, freeing me. Do you know what his last words were?" Erestor paused and took a deep and ragged breath. "Of course you do not know. He said, 'I am Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower and Lord Guardian, Warden of the Sixth Gate. I am chief protector of this city now. You have to fight me first.' The next moment, he had somehow raced up the whip and jumped across it, up to the foul creature, and he-" Erestor's voice cracked, and it was some time before he began again.
"He always makes it sound like a simple duel - a glorious battle between elf and demon. He never mentions the smell of flesh burning or singed hair, of all of the blood that was spilt. I don't know if he remembers that part of it, or if he intentionally forgets it, but it stays in my mind, clear as a calm lake in the summertime. As he fought, the rest escaped, but I was frozen in my place. I think I might have run, but I could not. My ankle was so badly wounded that I could barely crawl. So I hid best I could, and I watched." The emotional storm seemed to have passed for the counselor, and Haldir withdrew himself slightly now that Erestor was looking at him once more as he spoke.
"Do you recall that I said previously to consider the source of information? There is a chapter in the Quenta Silmarillion - a book that, contrary to popular belief, was not written entirely by one elf. I am fairly certain of the validity of the majority of Chapter Twenty-Three, because the words are my own. It is… mostly accurate."
"Mostly accurate?" pressed Haldir.
"Mostly in that 'they' who buried Glorfindel was really 'me', because how stupid would it have been for everyone to have stood around while Glorfindel and the Eagles took care of the balrog and the orcs instead of fleeing. I was too weak to walk, but when Thorondor brought up Glorfindel's body, I could not have it left for scavengers to find, and so I piled rocks over him best I could. He does not know that is how it happened.
"I asked then to have them fly me back into the city before being taken to what was left of the elves of our city, and did the same for Ecthelion, though instead of rocks, I placed over him the stones that had been knocked away from his fountain. I wish it could have been more, but it was the best I could do. It was a very bad day," reflected Erestor at last. "I still do not know how they could fight them, how they found within the courage and strength to battle such foes."
---
Now, I obviously can't have just Erestor's view of things, so Glorfindel had to weigh in on the event...
From 'Whispers', drabble entitled 'Fall'
Funny, how little I remember of it. I can still hear the confusion, the panic as it shadowed us and beat its wings with menace. I drew my sword, I shouted at it – what, I barely recall, some insult I am certain, to attract the attention away from all others and put its focus onto me.
And then... there is nothing, as if erased from my mind. The accounts I have read mention the horrendous burning, my clothes and hair on fire. Minstrels have sung of the battle, how hard and long I fought, how brave I was. What I do recall is very dreamlike, when you awake and barely grasp the threads of sleep, except for one thing. I will never forget the fall.
To offer a balance for the angst of the balrog fight, I designed a coping mechanism for Glorfindel: Humor. The following scene from 'Little Balrog' is supposed to give the reader the idea that Glorfindel has written some highly fictitious accounts of what Balrogs are and are not sometime in the late Second Age. This idea actually came from my brother, who was in the Army and served in the Middle East. While there, he and his company had a large notebook they passed around and wrote in called 'the book'; it was total fiction accounts of the lives of those in the company. I borrowed the idea here.
Orophin took the small volume and opened to a random page. The title, displayed upon the top, read, ‘Balrog: Friend or Foe?’. “Whoa... this is great... I had no idea there was anything on this topic here!”
“Shhh... library,” warned Glorfindel, despite the fact Orophin was speaking softer than he had. He rushed Orophin up to the front to one of the clerks. “He wants to check this out and we are terribly late, so, just under my name perhaps.”
The clerk took the book and opened the cover, then frowned. “Master Erestor,” she said, calling over her shoulder, “what should I do if there is no space left on the check-out card?”
“Just put another in.” Erestor was standing up, which was causing Glorfindel to look slightly panicked. “If it has circulated that many times, though, perhaps we should have another copy made. Some sort of tactical guide?” he asked, coming closer.
The clerk had just stamped the new card and closed the cover, so Glorfindel grabbed the book from her hands. “Thank you, really, we must hurry, I appreciate it, great, thanks.” He turned on his heel, only to have Erestor standing directly in front of him now. “Garh! How did you get here so fast?” he wondered as the book was yanked from his hands.
Erestor examined the outside of the book warily. “Is this what I think it is?”
“No,” answered Glorfindel quickly, trying to snatch the book away. Erestor turned away, blocking Glorfindel’s attempt with his shoulder. “Maybe.”
“Fin!” Erestor had just opened the volume and shook his head at what he saw. “We have been over this before! I do not need your unsolicited manuscripts in my collection!”
“But look at the circulation!” Glorfindel finally managed to retrieve the book and displayed the record. “It goes out all the time!”
“I have discarded this thing eight times! How does it keep getting back?”
Glorfindel shifted from one foot to the other. “You really need to remember to lock the doors at night,” he mumbled as Erestor stole the book back.
I sneak other lines here and there into things, but those above are the largest chunks. Because they're all tied together, it's hard to have just one piece without seeing the rest, or at least, the largest pieces of that puzzle.
Also including this little drabble, not about the balrog, but about Glorfindel as the warrior. Because I think it gives a better image of what the balrog would have seen, or something like that.
From 'Whispers', drabble entitled 'Sun'
“Of the metals, gold is far more precious. Why, therefore, covet silver above it?”
“Silver is like the stars,” explained Erestor. “It reminds us where we came from, and who we are.” He watched his friend polish his armor, damasked in fine detail. “Why gold, then?”
“I suppose it reminds me where I came from. My house, for one, the sun, for the other. I do not have such memories as you,” Glorfindel reminded Erestor. “My days of youth were spent beneath Anor, not the blessed jewels of Elbereth.”
Erestor nodded. “Dangerous, though. Your armor does not camouflage you. You stand out among the sea of silver.”
“Yes, I know,” said Glorfindel. “But then, there are a million stars, and yet still only one sun.”