What do I do now? Yet another question among scores of questions that I could – nay, that I should – be asking you. I should be pestering and pleading and even – Valar forbid – whining to make you open up to me, but I cannot. It seems unfair and wrong of me to force such talk upon you, and you would say nothing of import if forced, anyway.
As for yourself... you will not tell me of your own accord. You are too proud, I should think.
Too proud... or else too blind or too stubborn or too unwilling. Or any number of other things, as I think I am starting to realize. I thought that I knew your situation, that I knew you, but I am beginning to grasp how ignorant I truly am.
It seemed plain to me at first, some simplicity easily seen by a scholar or a soldier who thinks in black and white. Yet now...
Now what? It would be easy – too easy, and not accurate – to call you a shade of grey in my plain-thinking brain, but even grey can be dealt with. Grey can be split, can be broken down into other, simpler things – grey is, after all, a mixture of black and white. You are not grey. No, you are something else...
And I? I cannot make you talk... but perhaps I can make you listen.
Erestor considered for a second, and turned to Glorfindel. "If I let you go now, what will you do?" He still carried some semblance of scholarly bearing, and questions – regardless of the answers – would help him to organize his thoughts.
The inquiry took the seneschal by surprise – it was something he had not thought of – and he was silent for a bit before replying, with a shake of his head, "I honestly cannot say." He could not kill himself now, as it was day and someone would see. He had no wish to horribly traumatize anyone in Rivendell. That was how he rationalized it, anyway...
Erestor's response took almost no thought. If he could not trust Glorfindel to be by himself... "Then you are coming with me." He took the blonde by the upper arm, and began leading him away.
He expected the seneschal to resist, to put up a fight like that on the rooftop, but he did not. The blonde merely followed as he was told, considering.
What does Erestor think he is doing? As far as Glorfindel was concerned, there was nothing left to the matter! What could the advisor possibly want?
They reached the counselor's rooms quickly, and Erestor directed (gesturing at the couch), "Sit." That would have seemed funny at any other time, as Erestor was quite stern about it and sounded like someone addressing a misbehaving dog.
"Why should I?" The resistance was back – Glorfindel saw no point in this, and wanted to be left alone. He thought he knew where this was going... We have discussed this already! It is over with!
"We are going to talk." The statement was blunt, delivered in a clipped, efficient tone of voice. That alone was enough to tip him off – Erestor was planning something, the seneschal knew. He could see it brewing behind the scholar's eyes.
"What about?" He smiled as he spoke, as though this were merely small talk of the sort that accompanied afternoon tea. This marked the switch to a different strategy – if he kept replying like this, they would never discuss what Erestor intended. He could be distracted with ease, Glorfindel decided smugly, if one knew how to do it.
"You know what about." The counselor was quite serious. Dead serious, in fact, and displaying a face so stoic it might have been made of granite. It bore an astonishing similarity to the face Elrond wore whenever the twins did something they should not have and he had to correct the matter.
If Glorfindel were to react in kind, the conversation would doubtless get far too deep, far too quickly for comfort. He was aware of this, and so kept the smile on his face and (with the air of a fencer, parrying an attack) shrugged. "All right then, we will. So tell me, Erestor, how did you know I was going to do it in the first place?"
This statement was less blindly pleasant than the last one; his voice made it clear that this was a duel, though with words instead of weapons, and he intended to come out the winner. Indeed, he expected it.
The dark-haired counselor blinked a moment in surprise, as it took a second for Glorfindel's statement to register. How odd of him, to just bring it up directly like that, when he had been avoiding talking openly for hours... and he was being glib. Too glib.
The counselor's eyes narrowed. He is plotting something. Erestor refused to be drawn into the ploy; he was not what they were here to talk about!
"That is not important," the dark-haired scholar declared loftily. "The question that I wish to know the answer to is what made you go up there, and why you think that there is nothing here to keep you alive."
Glorfindel's smile grew obviously fixed, and Erestor instructed, beginning to pace, "You look nervous. Sit down, have some tea."
This rather mild statement was accompanied with a look that said that the seneschal had better do as told, and Glorfindel decided to save his opposition for something worthwhile.
That did not mean that he was giving up – the blond Elf glared at the advisor even as he sat down. There was, strangely enough, a teapot and the necessary cups on the low table in front of him, but he did not care to drink. What is he doing? Erestor was up to something...
"Have some tea," Erestor directed again, more forcefully. The ball was in his court now and they were going to do this his way. He'd given Glorfindel a chance to tell him what was going on, but he was going to have to revert to more drastic tactics.
Death was not the solution to the seneschal's depression – people were not back from the dead for no reason whatsoever; if he killed himself he might even be brought back a second time. That would only make him more depressed...
Rolling his eyes, his mouth pressed into a thin line that quite obviously said that he was growing weary of this, Glorfindel picked up a teacup. He held it in an iron grip, and did not pour any tea into it, still partially resisting. "I do not see why it is necessary to discuss this. I have explained to you my reasons for doing what I did and I can assure you that I still believe in them."
Erestor laughed then, a strange cold light showing in his eyes, and the laughter was as bitter as it was unexpected. "Hah! You think that your life is bleak? Tell me, Glorfindel, what was your death like?"
The seneschal merely stared at him, stunned by this sudden change in demeanor. He had not seen Erestor like this before...
"Was it quick?" the counselor continued, almost venomously, knowing that his atypical attitude was startling Glorfindel. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and he had a few tricks up his sleeve.
The blonde merely looked at him, stone-faced and wide-eyed, as Erestor's words brought back the tortured, flame-scarred recollections of millennia ago.
The repugnant air about him veritably boiled, the heat causing the ash-laden atmosphere to ripple and weave about the scorched and deadened mountainside. The demon, too close, far too close, roared again, and the already searing air was made even hotter.
He had been fighting this thing for how long, now? He could not remember, but it had been long enough to turn his armor black with soot and reduce his shield to ashes. He was burned, too, his face red and blistering with more than exertion, more than heat. His armor felt like an oven, the mail links and plate protection painful to touch, now. The padding he wore under it was the only thing keeping it from burning the rest of his skin, and he did not know how much longer he could last.
The balrog had to be killed, he knew, and he had to be the one to kill it. He stood a chance, he had survived this long. He could feel the heat of his burning armor now on his neck and back, going through to his skin. He was roasting in this metal shell – would he survive long enough to finish the deed?
That thought and only that thought raced through his mind as he frantically ran and dodged and looked for a way to bring down this hideous fire-beast. He – a tall and mighty warrior, the greatest of his house – was so small, and it was huge, a gargantuan flame-demon bent on trying to kill him.
He doubted he would live through this, he had resigned himself to that, but he knew that what he did here on this mountain before he died affected many, many more people than just himself. He would die, but he would take the balrog with him.
And then – there was an opening! A single well-aimed thrust of his sword, and then there was a horrible gush of molten blood that spewed and scalded him as he ran back from it, baiting the demon. The fiery whip caught him, then, and his legs were burned worse than before and it hurt, but that was not what mattered.
The sword-thrust and subsequent injury had knocked the demon back, flailing against the discolored sky that was no longer blue, and it roared in pain, but when it saw its attacker running, it had lashed out with the flaming whip and had leaned back even more, trying to draw the puny being in. It was too far – the balrog had overbalanced and now was tumbling over the edge of the mountain, falling to certain death along with the one who had, in effect, killed it...
...and as Glorfindel fell into the open, soot-smeared air, he consoled himself, knowing that his sacrifice would save many other lives. He had done it. His death was useful.
"It was... horrible..." Glorfindel told him, with a shake of his head. The memories of it – the seared air and the seemingly endless fall – were as crystal clear as yesterday. His hand – the one holding the teacup – was quavering slightly, though he did not seem to notice.
"But was it quick?!" Erestor repeated, insistent and more than a bit harsh. He needed the seneschal to see his point – it was necessary if he wanted this to work.
"I... suppose..." The fall had probably only taken a few seconds, but to him it had felt nearly as long as the eternity he had spent in the Halls of Waiting. He remembered falling and falling and staring at the wounded sky through clouds of soot and dust and ash, knowing that because of him the sky could again be blue... and then the ground had hit him and he knew no more.
The counselor's tone was rueful. "Then you had it lucky."
To be continued...
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