Chapter Four - New Beginnings




Year 583 of the First Age


He was crouched upon the battlefield; around him, bodies lay littered as leaves in the forest. Orcs, Elves, Men – in death, all were allies.

He had been at this spot for several hours as he searched for his knives. The last time he had seen them, they were imbedded in a pair of Orcs, but just as he had been about to pull them out, he had been pushed aside by another wave of fighting.

Glorfindel could not contemplate leaving his knives behind. The first lesson a young warrior learned was the care of arms. Always keep them polished enough so that you need no mirror. Keep them sharp enough so that at a touch, it draws blood. Never leave them behind, or you will leave yourself behind as well. Those lessons, taught at the knees of his father, remained fresh in his memories. He remembered that his father had shown him his own knives – knives of cold steel with cruel, jagged blades. Glorfindel had been allowed to touch the edge of the knife, and from that wound, he had bled profusely – an excellent example of how knives should be kept.

He remembered the first life he had taken. His sister had taken him hunting, and at her command, he had slain his first deer. The power of the moment, the sight of the blood on the knife and on his hands, had been intoxicating. How delicate life had become since then, how important. The doe, a beautiful creature with tawny skin and sweet eyes, had fallen under the cold steel of his own knives.

The knowledge of death was the price that had been paid for the knowledge of life, and it had released him from true innocence. Afterwards, his sister had tried to teach him that very important lesson. Death is the most hateful thing. Do not allow the destruction of what you can never replace. That is why one must be careful in life. But Glorfindel, who had been filled with the confidence of youth, had dismissed the idea as inappropriate in Valinor. After all, Elves were not supposed to die.

But they had.

Beginning with Finwë at Formenos, to Alqualondë, to the shores of Middle Earth itself, to the very edges of the Crissaegrim (1), the lesson had come back to haunt Glorfindel.

When he had been reborn, it had seemed like a new opportunity to take back the innocence that had been stolen from him, to walk among the Eldar with hands that had never been coated with blood. He had hoped to learn those important lessons again, really learn them. But such had not been the case, for today, he had taken his first life again.

The dark blood covered the silver blades, and he stood there, feeling the blood trickle down his hands to his wrists, and finally to his arms. It was so very warm, a strange thing, for one would almost expect Orcs to be cold-blooded. But then he was bleeding too, and his blood mingled with that of his victim. Warm blood everywhere, and his knives were not silver any longer, and like him, they were no longer innocent.

He needed to find his knives – the one thing that had changed with him. And although he was covered in so much blood that none of his features were distinguishable anymore, he would not leave without them.

Shaking his head, he began to look through the bodies again.




Early one morning, only a few days after the final fate of the last Fëanorians (2) had taken place, Glorfindel had bid his comrades goodbye. Ingil would be returning with most of his host, and many exiles would be accompanying them. With Ingil would leave Ar-Kaliel, Glorfindel’s sister. Their farewell had been bittersweet, all the more because it was their second. But brother and sister were stern at heart, and both looked forward to the future. But some of the host was staying behind, including Inglor (3) and his wife. This made Glorfindel feel much better, for at least he would not have to adjust to Middle Earth alone.

But when the time had come for him to be parted from Eonwë, Glorfindel found himself wishing otherwise. For while Eonwë would be remaining behind (4) to help the loyal Second born with their newly founded kingdom, he would not return back to the lands of Middle Earth. From Numenor, Eonwë would sail straight back to Valinor. In the herald, he had found the promise of fulfillment – something that would have to wait years uncounted before it came to fruition.

Yet the parting was not so much bitter but more sadly poignant. And perhaps due to his enhanced powers, Glorfindel had been able to keep the memories of one touch burning as a flame within the recesses of his heart.

After he left the war camp, he began to ride toward where Cirdan was camped (5). As he traveled, he passed by many groups of refugees, all fleeing from the destruction of Beleriand. Thankfully the sons of Eärendil had been found safe, or else Glorfindel’s vow would have been for naught. It was during his travels that he convinced a lone Nandorin Elf to act as his guide – not so much because he was needed but because the Elf was hungry and homeless, thus being able to accept food from Glorfindel without losing any pride.

Currently they were at the southern seacoasts of what had once been the green lands of Ossiriand. “That is the Hill of Himring,” (6) said the guide. The object he was pointing at was an island far off shore. “Lord Maedhros had a fortress there, but it was destroyed. And now that Beleriand is flooded…” The Elf trailed off and then sighed softly. “My heart grieves at the destruction that was inflicted upon these lands. But such was the price that needed to be paid.”

Next to him, Glorfindel remained silent. After watching kingdoms fall for most of the First Age, Glorfindel found that he was able to view the destruction of Beleriand with a little bit of apathy. He was sad that such a large part of Middle Earth was hurt because of the war, but a greater part of him was relieved. Beleriand was no more, but strangely, he did not mourn this fact. Beleriand had been his home for over five hundred years, but those years had been filled with much sorrow and suffering. The ruins of many kingdoms were there, from Doriath to Nargothrond to Gondolin.

Best that they start out a new age in a new land.

A low-voice greeting caused them to turn around. Behind them stood a tall Elf, whose hair was closer to white than silver.

“Lord Cirdan,” greeted the guide.

He inclined his head gravely. “Greetings to you.” He turned and bestowed a kind smile upon Glorfindel. “And greetings to you, Glorfindel. I was hard-pressed to believe the rumors of your arrival here.”

Glorfindel shifted slightly. “I have not been able to leave our camp until now.”

The mariner shook his head sadly. “’Tis a shame then. To leave so soon after your arrival…there are many here who would have been pleased to see you! Celeborn, Galadriel, and the sons of Eärendil.”

“My lord, I will not be departing with the Host,” said Glorfindel bluntly. “I am here to stay.” The guide, deciding that his presence was not needed, silently went out of earshot. Glorfindel took the opportunity to explain to Cirdan the reasons of his staying in Middle Earth.

Cirdan gave the reborn Elf a contemplative look. “The Valar have their own strange ways of looking over the Firstborn.”

A golden eyebrow shot up. “And I am one of those ways?”

“A beautiful way,” laughed Cirdan. But then sobering, “I have been alive for so long that I am not as much shocked as surprised. I had previously thought that once reborn, you could not leave Valinor again.”

“I had thought that too, but Ingwë informed me otherwise.”

“How is Ingwë? It has been far too long since I have last set eyes upon him.” The pair began to stroll leisurely along the coast.

Glorfindel smiled as he thought of the high king. “He is as irrepressible as ever, my lord. His son is much like him in that aspect.”

The mariner chuckled, his laugh seeming to be an echo of the sea. “Ingwë has been irrepressible since the day he awakened. And I assume his sense of humor is still strange?” at which Glorfindel nodded. “The Vanyar are a strange people.”

“My lord, I am half Vanyar.”

“Yes, I know.” Cirdan began to lead him towards a small cove. “I was hoping to entice you into joining me for tea.”

Glorfindel gave the Shipwright an amused look. “On the beach?”

“Of course. A friend of mine, Oropher, is already there. He is distant kin to Celeborn (7), in fact. In a few days time, he shall be leading some of his more loyal followers east, beyond the mountains.” Cirdan paused to pick up a seashell. “There is tension between Oropher and Celeborn. Too much politics and too many felled trees, as well as the fate of the Sindar.”

The golden-haired Elf looked displeased. “I am finding that politics is a constant in life.”

Cirdan chuckled. “So it is. But politics has its uses. Ah,” he said, “there he is.” Standing in the cove was another Elf, his gaze fixed on the two newcomers. Oropher was tall and sturdy, and his autumn brown hair and bright eyes seemed all the more appropriate considering his love for trees. But his features were stern and commanding, and his very posture was as rigid as the trees he adored.

As Cirdan introduced them, Oropher watched Glorfindel with steely eyes – a gaze Glorfindel returned firmly. His lips forming slight smile, Oropher inclined his head. “It is a pleasure to meet the Balrog-slayer.”

“It is a pleasure to meet one of the most loyal lords of the Sindar,” he returned.

“So you say.” Oropher turned to the Shipwright. “I have brought tea leaves.”

Cirdan clapped his hands together. “Excellent. There is some wood in the small alcove over there. We shall have a fire in moments.” Happy to have something to do, Glorfindel retrieved the wood and started a fire while the two other lords discussed the merits of tea made from the bark of oak. Oropher had procured some berries, which was a nice accompaniment to the flavorful tea.

When the fire was finally roaring, the three men sat on logs that had been swept in by the sea. The company around the fire too solemn for Glorfindel’s comfort, he looked to Cirdan to make conversation. But the Shipwright did not oblige, instead giving the golden-haired Elf an amused glance. Oropher himself was silent, and Glorfindel, feeling very young, simply felt uncomfortable. Deciding that he should help ease the tension, he thought that perhaps he should speak of something interesting. “Lord Cirdan has told me that you are going east.”

“That is correct.”

“Why?” Beside him, Cirdan looked at the sky pleadingly.

Oropher leaned forward. “Because you Noldor are a greedy and complicated people, and I prefer the more simple life of our ancestors.”

Not sure if Oropher was serious or not, Glorfindel nodded thoughtfully. “It makes a certain amount of sense, Lord Neldoron (8).” The name slipped out before he knew it, and he sent Cirdan a panicked glance as anger crossed the face of the wood lord. Thingol may have been dead for quite some time, but many still harbored a deep hatred of Quenya. Oropher, apparently, was one of them.

The smirk vanished from Cirdan’s face. Oropher himself had stilled, and ever so slowly, he leaned back. “That name,” he grated, “is in Quenya.”

It was up to Glorfindel to rescue the situation. “Why, so it is! And far more sonorous,” chirped Glorfindel.

The berries flew out of Oropher’s hand, and dimly Glorfindel watched the small red shapes make their way to his face. Good thing I enjoy berries. “I shall remember that you do not like your name in Quenya,” he mumbled.

Cirdan calmly handed Glorfindel a piece of cloth as his shoulders shook with silent laughter, and the tension seemed to have dissipated. Even Oropher’s eyes were twinkling with amusement. Apparently Oropher had not been as offended as he had seemed to be. “Ahh, so the joke is on me,” smiled Glorfindel ruefully. Unlordly behavior, indeed.

“Why, so it is!” chirped Oropher as he mimicked Glorfindel’s previous statement. Everyone laughed, this time including Glorfindel.

Reminded of Ingwë’s strange sense of humor, Glorfindel acknowledged that this was Oropher’s. This scene strangely reminded him of the merry occasions back in Valinor, where such events were commonplace.

Perhaps Middle Earth would not be so different after all.




Life did slow down. Now that the war was over, the main concern had been making sure that the refugees left Beleriand safely. There were people to feed, houses to build, clothes to mend, and countless other tasks. Glorfindel was so busy that he did not have time to think deeply about his new life. But there would be a few moments when he would return to a more introspective nature. Only seventy-three years had passed since his death, yet Middle Earth seemed wholly different.

But then again, almost everyone whom he had known in his past life was dead.

Cultural attitudes, systems of government – these had all changed. He knew, in a flash of foresight, that there would be no vast, hidden kingdoms as in the days of old (9). The Sindar and Noldor were almost one people now, and they mingled in almost everything. His adjustment would be difficult, yes, but Glorfindel knew that the difficulty lay not in the new ideas but in escaping the old ones.

He wondered what his future would hold. Morgoth was dead but Sauron remained. And while many laughed off the threat that Sauron presented, Glorfindel knew that Sauron was perhaps even wilier than his old master. It was as his sister had told him long ago. Victory breeds hatred because the conquered are unhappy. No, Sauron would not sit idly by.

It frightened him to think that from now own, his only companion would be Elrond. Ereinion had his own responsibilities, and Galadriel had Celeborn. Elros had chosen to be numbered among mortal men, and so his fate was sundered from Glorfindel’s.

And ever since Elros had departed, Elrond had seemingly vanished. When he was not at the palace, Elrond had taken to wandering the shores near the sea, perhaps searching not only for his brother but also for his foster-father. Maglor had vanished, Maedhros was dead, Elwing and Eärendil were gone, and as much as Ereinion doted on his cousin’s (10) grandson, the king was too caught up in his own affairs to watch over the young Half-Elf all the time. Like Glorfindel, Elrond had no one.

Deciding that the distance between them would need to be closed, Glorfindel resolved to seek out Elrond one night. After walking a mile down the shore, Glorfindel finally came upon Elrond standing at the waterline, his face turned toward the ocean. With a burst of realization, Glorfindel understood why it was that Elrond came here every night. Across the sea was Numenor, and high above them shined Eärendil's legacy (11).

The Elf lord approached him quietly and stood slightly behind him. The pair remained silent for a long while, until the young Elf spoke: “Elros (12) is very excited. He has grand plans for his kingdom. Everyone seems to be building a kingdom now. Cirdan, Ereinion, Elros.” Elrond’s voice grew bitter. “But Ereinion’s and Cirdan’s shall always be remembered. My brother’s will not.”

Glorfindel understood then what was bothering the young Elf. It was not so much the physical death of Elros but more the eventual fading of Elros’s legacy. Ingwë’s words came to him suddenly, the words that the high king had said when he had first been re-embodied. Placing a strong hand on the slender shoulder, Glorfindel softened his voice to be as reassuring as possible. “From the earliest days, the Vanyar have believed that lives are immeasurable. A life is like a leaf on a river. It follows the flow of the river, and it changes with the current. As it travels, it comes into contact with other lives and impacts them, and it will change and form new ones. And when the leaf finally dies, the life continues on, for it still grows in the memories of the other lives it has touched.” His eyes rained kindness down upon the Half-Elf. “Elros lives. As long as you remember him, he lives.”

Confusion flitted across the lovely face as the young Elf considered Glorfindel’s words. Then Elrond glanced up at him, and those Finwëan eyes – a sharp, piercing gray – looked upon the golden Elf lord with a new understanding. It was as if something in Glorfindel’s voice had triggered distant memories. Eärendil telling his sons of Glorfindel’s sacrifice, the respect that had appeared in Maglor’s eyes when Glorfindel’s name had been spoken, the warmth that had colored Galadriel’s voice when she spoke of the fierce Balrog-slayer. And through these memories, something new was forged between them – the debt of honor and sacrifice – something that not even death could abolish.

"Let us go home, Elrond.




Author Notes:

- (1) Where our hero met his death with a balrog.

- (2) After the theft of the Silmarils, Maedhros hurled both himself and his Silmaril into a fire-filled chasm while Maglor tossed his into the sea and wandered the seashores in despair.

- (3) See Soledad’s “Twisted Paths of Fate” for details on Inglor and his son, Gildor Inglorion :)

- (4) “Eonwë came among them and taught them [the Edain].” The Silmarillion, “The Akallabêth.”

- (5) After the destruction of the coastal cities of Brithombar and Eglarest, Cirdan established dwellings on the Isle of Balar. But after Beleriand was destroyed, Cirdan moved his people to the Gulf of Lhûn, where he established the Grey Havens.

- (6) When Beleriand was submerged under the sea, the peak of Himring could still be seen from the shore.

- (7) An idea I stole from Soledad. Oropher as another son of Elmo makes Middle Earth genealogy even more deliciously tangled.

- (8) On the name of Oropher: As I found no translations of this name anywhere, I translated this myself to be “Mountain Beech,” taking the stem “-pher” referring to beech tree and “oro-” meaning mountain. Neldoron is the Quenyan form of Oropher. “Neldor” – Beech tree, “oron” – mountain. In some texts, “Feren” is also another word for Beech tree in Quenya, but I didn’t like the way it sounded when combined. I like this meaning because it seems to make sense when one looks at the tradition of the Sindar to use tree names. This can also be used to claim that Oropher was indeed related to Galadhon,. Considering the fact that Galadhon, Galathil, and Celeborn are such tree-like names, then Oropher fits right in.

- Another factoid, completely unrelated to this story. Since I was so busy figuring out Oropher’s name, I took the time to examine his son’s as well. Thranduil, if it is a shortened form of “Tharanduil,” means “Beyond the Long River.” Taking the stems “Thar” meaning beyond, “an” meaning long, and “duil/duin” meaning river, I find this definition to be rather symbolic, especially when one takes into account Thranduil’s history of coming from Greenwood, beyond the Anduin. This would also lead credence to the possibility of Thranduil being born after Oropher removed himself to Greenwood. - (9) Imladris was hidden, but it was not a kingdom like Lindon and Greenwood.

- (10) Ereinion cousin was Idril Celebrindal.

- (11) Eärendil’s legacy: “Now fair and marvelous was that vessel [Vingilot] made, and it was filled with a wavering flame, pure and bright; and Eärendil the Mariner sat at the helm, glistening with dust of elven-gems, and the Silamril was bound upon his brow.” The Silmarillion, “Of the Voyage of Eärendil.”

- (12) Elrond’s complicated genealogy: his father Eärendil was the son of Tuor and Idril, Gil-galad’s cousin. Elrond’s mother, Elwing, was the daughter of Nimloth, Celeborn’s niece, and Dior, Luthien’s son. I have not stated whether Elrond is the older brother, younger brother, or twin brother to Elros. Take your pick. Elros chose to be numbered among men, and he became the first king of Numenor.


Previous
The Continuing Leaf Main
Main Page