The Other Balrog-Slayer

"You’re moping again, my son."

Ecthelion of the Fountain shrugged, not paying attention to either the speaker or his words. He was sitting in an elm tree in one of the gardens of the Reborn situated in an outer region of Mandos. Well, to be truthful, he was hiding. He had recently been re-embodied and his memories of his former life were only just returning. He had been listening to one of the Maiar attendants recount to him something of what had passed after his death and had heard all about Glorfindel of the Golden Flower. The Balrog-slayer. The Savior of the House of Turgon.

And not a word about his own deeds.

"Do you hate him?"

Now Ecthelion looked about, realizing that the voice was far closer than before and found himself staring into the grey eyes of Námo, Lord of Mandos, calmly sitting on a nearby branch. The shock of seeing the Doomsman of Arda sitting in a tree was so unexpected and the sight so incongruous that Ecthelion yelled and fell out of the elm — into Námo’s arms. The tree’s branches rustled in distress and even as the Lord of Mandos was putting Ecthelion down he laid a hand on the trunk and sent the elm words of comfort. Ecthelion, meanwhile, clung to Námo’s other arm, his senses reeling.

Námo placed a gentle hand on the ellon’s brow. "Easy now. You’re safe."

Ecthelion gulped and nodded, still pale and shaken. Námo gently forced him to sit on the ground under the elm.

"Drink this," he commanded softly and gave Ecthelion a goblet full of a clear liquid. It was water, but sweeter than any he remembered drinking before. His breathing slowed and color returned to his face.

"That’s better," Námo said with a satisfied nod. "Now, you still haven’t answered my question."

"Qu...question?" Ecthelion echoed, still in shock.

"Do you hate him? Do you hate Glorfindel?"

But Ecthelion couldn’t get his brain past a certain image.

"Y...you were in the tree!"

Námo raised an eyebrow at that, his expression amused. "And a lovely tree it is, too," he replied, patting the trunk. The elm’s branches rustled in delight at the Vala’s attention and he smiled. "My sister, Yavanna, does good work." He looked down at the elf and his expression became more stern. "Now, answer my question."

Ecthelion gulped. "They don’t even mention me."

Námo did not speak, merely looked upon the recently reborn elf impassively.

"Well... that’s not strictly true," Ecthelion amended somewhat reluctantly. "But I hardly rate a line in any of the ballads. They all seem to center around Glorfindel."

Námo sighed and settled into the chair that appeared at that moment behind him. Ecthelion blinked, still sitting on the ground, and wondered if he dared to ask for a chair for himself. Námo hid a smile.

"Most of those who died that night in Gondolin are never mentioned in the ballads. Some of them performed deeds of valor no less stunning than your own. Yet no one saw and no one remembers. Did you attack Gothmog simply so you would appear as the hero of your own ballads?"

"Of course not!" Ecthelion yelled, rising in anger. "How dare you..."

He stopped, acutely aware to whom he was speaking, and gulped once more. He knelt slowly, appearing pale and sick, never looking up. Námo didn’t move, willing to let Ecthelion take as much time as he needed to collect himself.

"Ávatyara nillo, herunya."

The words were barely spoken above a whisper and with such a sense of despair that Námo closed his eyes. This was going to be harder than he had feared. "Are you sorry for yelling at me or sorry you don’t have enough ballads sung about you?" he asked with a wry smile, deciding on a different tactic.

Ecthelion looked up in surprise and the expression on the Vala’s face forced an involuntary giggle from him and before he could stop himself he was laughing so hard he had to lean against the tree for support. "Both, I think," he finally said when his laughter slowed.

"So do I," Námo replied, pleased that this Child was not so far-gone in self-pity not to see the humor of his question. "Now answer my question."

Ecthelion sighed and closed his eyes. Damn Vala was persistent if nothing else. All he wanted was to be left alone. Why couldn’t they just leave him be? Since becoming re-embodied he’d hardly been allowed out of anyone’s sight, as if they were afraid he might do something stupid. What did they think he would do? Kill himself?

"Yes."

Ecthelion opened his eyes in confusion. "Huh?"

Námo sighed. "Yes, we were afraid you might do yourself an injury when you found out about Gondolin and Glorfindel."

"But why would..."

"You are in a vulnerable place right now, child. Your emotions are too new and too raw. The slightest upset can be taken to extremes. Would you normally have hidden yourself in a tree if you were upset when you lived in Gondolin?"

Ecthelion blushed and shook his head. What Námo said was true. One would have thought he was an elfling the way he’d been acting lately.

Námo smiled. "In many ways, you are. You’ve been reborn, Ecthelion. Do you not understand yet what that means?"

Ecthelion gave the Lord of Mandos a sorrowful look that was heartbreaking to see, tears beginning to fall down his face. "It...it means I can ne...never go back."

And then the tears began to fall in earnest and he sat there weeping as if he would never stop. Námo rose and pulled the ellon into his embrace and held him, rocking him gently. These Children were such a marvel to him. In spite of being given a second chance to live, to remain in the Blessed Realm in peace, so many of them, even those Noldor who had defied the Valar, wanted desperately to return to Endórë, to return to a world grown dark with evil. It never ceased to amaze him and he wondered briefly how Eru saw these wonderful, exasperating, Children.

Just as I see all my other wonderful, exasperating, Children, came the whisper of a thought, laced with gentle humor, from beyond the circles of Arda. Námo suddenly felt a wave of love that threatened to drown him in an ecstasy he had not felt since leaving the Timeless Halls, but instead left him feeling refreshed. Ecthelion gave a low moan and shuddered as he clung more tightly to Námo and the Vala realized that the ecstasy he had felt had washed over the elf as well, though he suspected not as forcibly, else the poor ellon would have suffered gravely, his hröa unable to hold that much divine love all at once. He clasped the elf more closely to him and crooned soft words of comfort.

"Fear not, hinya. You are safe. Shh. No harm will come to you."

"Wh...what happened?" Ecthelion’s voice was strained.

"Shhh." Námo carefully eased the ellon’s memory of the divine encounter and felt a sense of approval from the core of his being where Ilúvatar ever dwelt. "Feeling better?" he asked kindly.

Ecthelion nodded and stepped away, looking somewhat embarrassed. He was not sure what had happened and already the memory of his experience was dimming to a more acceptable level. When he tried to recapture the sense of divine ecstasy that had nearly consumed him, his fëa shied away from the memory and he suspected that the Vala standing before him had something to do with that. In retrospect, though, he decided it might be for the best.

"Good," Námo said. "Now back to my original question, which you’ve been avoiding."

Ecthelion stared at the Lord of Mandos in disbelief. Why was he being so insistent?

"Because the question is important."

"To whom?" Ecthelion could feel himself getting angry again. "You? Why would you care if I hated him or not?"

"Because I do, child," Námo said mildly, sitting back down in his chair. "You are recently released from Mandos, but not from my care, not yet. Therefore, your well-being is of importance to me. And so I ask you again, Ecthelion of the Fountain, do you hate Glorfindel?"

Ecthelion shook his head. "No. I don’t hate him. Why should I? He has done nothing to warrant my hatred, only my respect."

"And yet..."

The elf looked down, his expression rueful. "And yet. I do admit to feeling jealous. I suffered no less than he. I fought no less bravely than he. Yet, no eagle swooped down to retrieve me. No one placed my broken body in a grave. No one sang dirges over me."

"No one did any of those things for Turgon, either, or, for that matter, anyone else who remained behind in the city. Gondolin became your tomb and the winds echoing from the Echoriath became your dirge. Now all is drowned and Beleriand is no more."

Námo’s expression turned grim at the memory. Many had come to him that night, broken, frightened, angry and confused. The worst were the children. Turgon had been nearly impossible, grief-stricken and guilt-ridden beyond reason. He slept even now with four Maiar in constant attendance to keep his fëa safe, his judgment postponed until such time as he was strong enough in spirit to bear it.

Ecthelion looked upon the Vala’s face and quailed. He remembered the look on the faces of the Valar as he stood in the Rithil-Anamo and Námo’s had been the grimmest of all. He felt himself sinking to the ground before the Lord of Mandos, unsure if the Vala’s displeasure was directed at him or not. Námo realized what effect he was having on the ellon and relented, beckoning to the elf.

"Come here, Ecthelion," he ordered quietly and the elf stood up and faced the Vala, who suddenly seemed much larger than he had before or perhaps Ecthelion had somehow grown much smaller, for Námo pulled the elf into his lap and held him as if he were indeed no bigger than an elfling of twenty. He stroked the ellon’s hair and willed him to relax, which Ecthelion did, sighing.

"You have nothing to fear from me, child," he said gently. "All judgments have been rendered, all debts paid. You are free to follow your destiny as Eru originally planned. I do not want you to begin your new life being jealous of another. Can you not rejoice that, because of Glorfindel, the House of Turgon survived? Your deeds are indeed great and you should be proud of the part you played, but if no one had ever known of them, what is that? Be content that Eru knows of them, as he knows of the deeds of all the nameless unsung heroes who died that night. He is proud of you, as am I, as is Manwë."

He kissed the ellon on the brow and Ecthelion found himself weeping. "I’m sorry, I’m sorry."

"Shh. I know you are, child." He let the elf weep himself to stillness, gently rocking him. Ecthelion felt himself falling asleep, his fëa suddenly weary, and struggled to stay awake. He even went so far as to pull himself out of Námo’s embrace, but the Vala held him close again and Ecthelion allowed himself to succumb.

"That’s it, my other Balrog-slayer," Námo whispered. "Sleep and be content. You have Ilúvatar’s love, and mine, and that is all the glory you need or should ever desire."

And Ecthelion of the Fountain, Slayer of Gothmog, Hero of Gondolin that is no more, slept in the arms of the Lord of Mandos, and was indeed content.

****

Ellon: (Sindarin) Male elf.

Ávatyara nillo, herunya: (Quenya) "Forgive me, my lord." The person forgiven is in the ablative, while the matter forgiven would be in the dative.

Endórë: (Quenya) Middle-earth.

Hröa: (Quenya) Body.

Fëa: (Quenya) Spirit/Soul.

Hinya: (Quenya) My child, contracted from hinanya.

Rithil-Anamo: (Quenya) Ring of Doom; translation of the foreign word Máhanaxar, which is derived from Valarin.