A Deceitful Peace (Glorfindel x Reader)
The last of the Orcs fell from your blade. Your fellow soldiers who had barely survived finally got a chance to breathe. The city had fallen. Gondolin was gone. Its lords, gone with it. Yet, a small party persevered. A party that stood as the last defense for the fleeing survivors.
Death was looming on the shoulder of those who finished slaying the last of the enemy’s host. Fighting a battle they had already lost but it was worth it for all those who had a chance for a better life.
Next to you soldiers collapse with their blades too heavy. A dozen bleeding wounds and staggering breaths betrayed how little life was left in their bodies. Maybe it was a small mercy from Mandos that they had survived this long. Beyond the tolerance of the elven body.
Smoke and ash make those last breaths painful. Your fellow soldiers cough miserably. Wet, uncontrollable coughing fits that lead to increased blood loss. The city is engulfed by flames. It is clear that your pyre was set by nature itself.
However, you do not allow yourself the relief of a welcomed death like others. Your blade is no longer clutched in your arms and you take off your quiver that held a couple of arrows. With practiced motions, you take off your now knife-less bandolier.
In a trance, you make your way through the bloodied fields that were once your home. Your carelessly untie your hair pulled back in tight braids. Particles of ash fall off as your hair frees into the air. Weaponless, unguarded, uncaring you walk. There is a possibility that there may be lingering enemies but with your end so close you do not care. You would rather die on this journey looking for him than spend your last breath weary of cursed ones.
On the way, you stumble as a face stares back at you. Your friend’s face. Beheaded. Speared. Rog stares at you. His body was nowhere to be seen. Even in the most gruesome scene, your dearest friend’s expression holds no fear.
With trembling hands, you struggle to pull off your friend’s head from the spear. Your hands slip with the blood that does not stop. Your tears make it hard to discern anything. Heavy sobs wreck your body and your knees start to buckle. Your friend…you close your eyes and a sharp wet squelch is followed by a new weight in your hands. Your feet stumble back with the sudden force and weight.
You find the nearest unmarred surface and take off your cloak. It is battered with blood and singed with fire in many places. You rest your friend’s head there. With a gentle hand, you close his eyes. As you close yours in a prayer.
“May the halls of Mandos give you peace my friend.” Your prayer is short. You fail to muster any grand words. Your throat hurts making it hard to swallow your sobs as you for the last time on Middle Earth, kiss Rog’s forehead. ‘I too shall follow you soon.’ you promise as you wrap his head.
‘Wait for me here. There is someone else I need to find.’ You whisper to your friend’s dead body as you gather the courage to stand up.
So, you start again. Walking among the simmering fire of burning halls you had dined in. You walk until the Sun finds itself on the Western edge of the world. Darkening skies do not halt you. Blood flowing from your wounds does not stop you.
The sight of an uneven cliff does.
You do not know how you know where he lies but you do. For all the pain in the world seems to have gathered under that one cliff.
Forgoing the last remnants of your armor you feel a weird sense of numbness settle over you. A determination. Your last task on Middle Earth would soon free you. The last labor that you would fulfill even at the cost of denying Mandos.
The journey begins. You do not equip yourself with a torch. You do not need it. It would aid little for the dark that gathered around you. The climb down is easy. With all your sense of reservation gone, there is little to fear of jagged rocks.
Moon is up in the sky by the time you reach the bottom of the cliff. It reeks of blood and ash like the rest of the valley. Your steps don’t falter. For a moment your traitorous mind wonders. It wonders if by some miracle he survived.
But then you find him. And you are struck by the peace on his face. A calm you’ve never seen on the faces of any of the exiled. Moon shines on his golden hair the same way it did when Gondolin had been unstruck. When his smiles were still within the reach of a small joke.
Death was peaceful. It was deceitful. He looked as if he slept in the ways of men. A dream playing behind those closed eyes. But elves do not dream with their eyes closed. They do not sleep in the pool of their blood.
You rush to him. You pause when your hands trying to cradle him feel a softness. A softness you realize to be his brain. Grappled with horror you sit there as you realize the truth. Death was deceiving. For all the peace it held. It also carried pain and so much of it. For once it felt more of a doom than a gift many called it to be.
Your beloved’s glorious golden head was dyed red. Bruises from his fall were now in your clear view. Scorched skin from his battle.
Your chest feels hollow. It would be so much more easier to let go. To succumb to the summons of Mandos right here. You rest Glorfindel’s head in your lap. Your hand trying to caress his face stops. It is bloody. You clean your hands on your tunic as you allow yourself to touch your beloved.
“I’m sorry,” tears form in your eyes. “I’m sorry,” you plead but none answer. You do not know what you apologize for but your heart rips into pieces. You have wronged him. Somehow you wronged him. He should not be dead. You shouldn’t have let him die.
His eyes remain closed. None of your apologies bring him back.
Pulling out a solitary flask of water you carry, you wet the torn-off piece of your tunic. And then with light motions clean your lover’s face. You wipe away all the blood, ash, and dirt. You sit there and braid his hair for the last time. For a moment it is easy to fool your heart into thinking of it as an untainted night.
Later in the early hours of the morning, you carry him on your back. All the way to the city, you trek with your lover. Denying death with the steep slope that felt so effortless on the way down. Your own injuries as flaring and your vision swims with each step.
Soon you find yourself crawling with one hand holding on to your beloved as the other holds on to the sharp jutting-out rocks. Scratches turn to blisters which turn into torn skin soon followed by bloodied fingers.
Dark of dawn stretches longer than ever as you struggle with the last of your trek. Your clean hand still holds on Glorfindel on your back. His body is cold. Colder than ever. Your own limbs start feeling an unrelenting chill that seeps into your bones.
“Rog awaits us.” You tell the unresponsive weight on your back. Maybe you were going crazy.
Your knees give away as you finally pull yourself to the top. The city…you made it. A coughing fit racks your body as you struggle to carry Glorfindel to where Rog rests.
The submerged lands of Gondolin hold 16 graves. Tales do not mention them. Few of the living know of them leave for the Vala of death and one elleth.
They are dug by battered hands. A last resting place for the fallen. 16 before death claimed the creator of those graves. A creator whose body lies unsheltered in an unfinished grave.