[Note-- I will continue to post RP threads until someone joins. When I get a roleplay going, I will delete the others that no one wants to join so as not to spam. These roleplays are open to anyone, and I do not care if you play your designated mule character or not. After this first post all characters are available besides Glorfindel.]
It was early summertime. The air felt warm, even with the sun fading to a pale glow over the western horizon. Nestled deep at the foot of high mountains animals of all kinds made ready for night. Little songbirds, quiet now, nested in high branches, and none knew or cared what at that moment was happening on the stone path below. Three elves, and a horse, met.
“I cannot foresee the best course,” confessed one elf, speaking quietly. “Although I know I have done my best. I was not alone in adopting him—sometimes it seems like all of us had—but there are no other young ones in Mithlond. He should have friends his own age to talk to. I know you have two children of your own, now…”
“Please, friend. It is I who is indebted to you,” said Elrond Peredhil. He put a hand on the other elf, Gildor’s, shoulder. “This is the right choice. Now, let me see this thing.” Gildor smiled his gratitude, but also his worry. He drew something that glinted from a pocket in his long robes. Then the very fine chain pooled in Elrond’s hand, and the elf-lord examined it. “Yes,” he confirmed sadly. “This is the long vanished symbol of the Golden Flower. I will keep it, until it is time.”
Now Gildor turned, and he called the others to him. A dark brown mare walked slowly closer to rest her muzzle on Gildor’s shoulder and, so near that it was a wonder he didn’t get stepped on by those big hooves, was a young elf. Long wispy strands of yellow hair fell in front of his face. It was his habit to always run his hand over his head to push them straight back. A pair of very blue eyes glanced at Gildor, then stared up at Elrond. Elrond knelt, heedless of the dirt sure to stain the hem of his fine robes, so both could see better.
“I’m eight in two and a half days,” said the undaunted elf-child.
“Well, that is old,” said Elrond gravely. He extended a hand. The little elf didn’t move, only watched. The hand carefully tucked the strands of stubborn pale hair behind the child’s pointed ears, where they were more inclined to stay. “I live very close to here,” Elrond told him. “With my wife, and two boys, and some other friendly elves. Would you like to meet them?” The child nodded. Elrond stood. To Gildor, “Stay for a while,” he bid. But Gildor shook his head.
“Thank you, Elrond, but I had better not. Come, Hallë—our journey is only half over.” Gildor Inglorion put a fond hand on the child’s head before turning and mounting up. He would wait until the other two were gone before departing.
“This way, pen-neth,” Elrond beckoned. The ‘young one’ jumped to follow. Only a few minutes down the path the flat stones turned more regular, and then clean, as if they were often swept. A round terrace lay open to the sky. The smooth wood was carved and painted to look like a part of the wild itself. Like anyone might, the child wondered what it was doing there. In fact, the terrace marked only the beginning.
The woman that rose from her stone bench was the most beautiful and graceful elf the child had ever seen. “Greetings, Glorfindel,” the elven lady said. “My name is Celebrían. I welcome you, with pleasure, to Rivendell.”
--
At first, the children were awkward together. “We’ve never been to Mithlond,” said Elrohir. “We know its next to the sea,” said Elladan, helpfully.
“Does your ada always let you dress that way?” asked Glorfindel. The twins wore simple brown leggings and loose shirts with shortened sleeves, and everywhere they were patched or wearing thin.
“Ada is busy. Nana doesn’t mind,” explained one of them. Glorfindel couldn’t decide which had spoken—he still could not tell the two apart. Elladan and Elrohir, in turn, were eying Glorfindel’s dark blue outfit trimmed in silvery thread. He didn’t look at all like them, and he didn’t act at all like them, either.
“Your naneth gave me these,” said Glorfindel. The polite youngster held out a napkin: in it, Celebrían had thoughtfully packed several fresh baked cookies. The twins each took one, and Glorfindel munched on a third. Instantly, they were fast friends.
--
A great and terrible voice was in the basin. Shiny rocks shot through with minerals rose up on one side, making the voice echo, and a tiny waterfall sprayed down on the other, making their area private and majestic. He was ten feet tall at the least, and soot streaked his fair-skinned face. Gold-spun hair hung in long filthy strings. His eyes, bright against the stains, blazed. “I am Glorfindel!” he shouted. He thrust his sword above his head, the silvery tip wavering in midair. Mist from the falls clung to its surface. “I am Glorfindel! Captain of Gondolin, Ondolindë, the Hidden Rock! Chief of the House of the Golden Flower and all its fell warriors…King’s Champion, Balrog Slayer! Protector of the-”
“Wait, wait! You haven’t killed the balrog yet,” protested another voice. The booming boasts came to a halt.
“What?” asked the tall warrior.
“I said, you can’t be ‘Balrog Slayer’. You haven’t KILLED it yet. Elrohir is being the balrog.” Elladan stared upward at the other young elf standing on the rock. “He’s coming now. And I’m being Ecthelion!”
“Oh,” said the pale-haired elfling, resting the tip of his sword near his boot and scratching his chin with his free hand. He was the only one of the three old enough to have a sword. He was ten—the twins were only eight. “Fine. Wait—here comes Elrohir.” Both of them quickly settled into warrior stances and the play was on.
A huge, terrible, fiery creature stalked slowly into the rock and water lair. The ground smoldered where its footsteps fell, and the air around it shimmered with too much heat. It was a demon of the elements fire and shadow.
“The balrog!” cried Ecthelion. His warrior braids whipped in the wind caused by the evil fiend. Even his strong voice barely carried above the gale. “Glorfindel! We must let the people escape through the mountains! We will hold this slave of Morgoth back together!” But, “No!” Glorfindel told him. “They need a captain. I will do this thing.” Valiant Ecthelion’s answer was to run. Straight at the balrog, in a storm.
Glorfindel, from on high, accepted it. His foot pushed off the edge of the rock, and he was falling, but running at the same time, and he thrust all this momentum behind his sword as he attacked the demon in cold trickling fury. They fought for hours, it seemed. Glorfindel moved as if caught in a dream. Hip to ankle the outside of one leg was skinned and bruised, the legging tattered, from where he had fallen hard and struggled to rise just in time. His sword hilt was slick with blood from his palms, and his skin was burned: a shiny pink in some places, and dangerous black in others. He caught hazy sights of Ecthelion moving through the smoke, like dark freeze-frames through the shutters. The inside of his throat was hot and raw.
Glorfindel’s cracked and bleeding lips brushed across the blade of his sword, right close where it met the hilt, as he leaned it against his nose and cheek. “Valar,” he prayed. The word only came out as a wisp of breath, ripped away and pitched to the mercy of the tearing winds. In it went visions of dazzling Gondolin, before the ruin, and its musical fountains of clear water. In it went pictures of bright-faced elf children, including Glorfindel’s flock, the ones that would follow their idol around in awe and play, like ducklings. In it went the long train of refugees, women and babes and wounded, fleeing through the dangerous mountain passes for their very lives and freedom.
Glorfindel’s hair hung loose about his face, in long tendrils of dark grime, but now his head slowly raised. Two blue coals flared through the smoke and heat and dust. “Help me,” he whispered.
His arms did not regain their life, as if he hadn’t been fighting for hours and days before that. But he attacked as if he were well-rested, forgetting the worldly pain of muscles and flesh, because it no longer mattered. He drove the demon back pace after pace. “Ondolindë!” He hurled all of himself at the balrog whose back was to the precipice. His sword was ripped from his hands; helpless, the golden elf was caught in a whirlwind of fire and smoke…
“Glorfindel,” came a voice, from far off. “Glorfindel!” Glorfindel opened his eyes. The soft skin of his cheek was pressed against the hard ground. He lifted his head, and tiny gravelly rocks stuck to the side of his face.
“Sorry, what?” he asked. The sky was darkening with evening.
“Nana says we must wash before dinner,” said a glum Elladan. Glorfindel groaned and lay his head back down. No sooner had Elladan flopped beside him when-
“Chil-dren!” called a woman’s pleasant voice from farther up. “Elladan, Elrohir! Glorfin-de-el!” The three picked themselves up and climbed obediently up to dinner.
The Beginning.
