Chapter Nine
Glorfindel made his way into the less accessible rooms of Imladris, ancient armories that stored the weapons used in the Siege of Mordor, no longer needed in such times of peace. His hip had felt strangely light for weeks after he’d stopped wearing his sword, and he’d put it away. Though he was a powerful warrior and had rarely been wounded in battle (not including his death at the hands of the Balrog), he never enjoyed fighting, so he was glad to finally leave his blade in its sheath.
He found his way to one of the armories – and was surprised to see the door standing ajar. Careful and suspicious, he stepped silently into the room. Another Elf stood by the opposite wall, grasping awkwardly the hilt of a long sword.
It was Lindir.
“Lindir, what are you doing?” Glorfindel asked, merely confused.
The young harpist turned to him in shock and dropped the sword. It clattered loudly against the stone. “Lord Glorfindel!” he gasped.
“Why are you here?” Glorfindel asked quietly. It puzzled him to see the dark-haired Elf in such a place.
“I didn’t touch anything,” Lindir said quickly. Then, he looked down at the sword. “Well, I did touch something, but I didn’t hurt anything.”
“I don’t mean to sound scolding,” Glorfindel replied, taking another step into the room. “I only wish to know why you came here.”
“I was curious. I wished to know the feel the of a sword in my hands.”
Glorfindel closed the door behind him and picked up the sword, hanging it back up on the wall. “Never wish to hold a sword, harpist.”
“I meant no harm – “ Lindir began.
“And you caused none,” Glorfindel replied. “But one such as you, a musician, should never feel need to carry a sword.”
“You carried a sword,” Lindir countered.
“That is because I’m a warrior,” Glorfindel retorted.
“And why are you here, Lord Glorfindel?” the younger Elf asked, sarcasm in his voice.
“I wished for some solitude.”
“But here, of all places?” Lindir asked.
“I come here after I’ve had particularly bad nightmares,” Glorfindel said.
“About what?”
“Battles.”
“But one as brave as you?” Lindir asked incredulously.
Glorfindel smiled wryly. “I’m afraid so.”
Lindir sat down on a pile of shields. “Can you tell me about some?”
“I’d rather not.”
“The valiant Glorfindel Goldtress fears to speak of his warrior days?” Lindir taunted.
“Ha. It was these golden tresses that got me killed the first time.”
“Now that is interesting,” Lindir chuckled. “How did that happen?”
“Well, when that Balrog fell, it clutched my hair and dragged me down with it,” Glorfindel said, grimacing at the memory. He could almost feel the wrench of its burning claws again.
There was silence for a while as Glorfindel brooded and Lindir absorbed his words. Then, Lindir asked, “Why are you reluctant to speak of battles, if you are a warrior?”
“War, no matter how glorious your ballads make it sound, is a terrible thing,” Glorfindel said. “You sing of the heroes and their heroic deeds, but you do not sing of the bloodshed, the death, the destruction.” He pinned Lindir with a hard stare. “I fight, harpist, when it is needed. In times of war, though I think violence is the greatest wrong of all, one must protect their people and guard their homes.”
“I see,” Lindir said.
“No, you do not see. None who have lived in such peace could ever see. I’ve lost friends in battle that were dearer to me than myself. King Gil-galad, for one. Did you know that despite his military renown, he despised war from the bottom of his heart?”
“I did not know,” Lindir replied, his eyes dropping to the floor.
“Though many Elves look down on Men, know this, Lindir. Men are many times worthy creatures. I feel that killing them is like kinslaying. Just because they are not of your race does not mean they are evil. Even Finrod befriended men. And war, no matter how just the cause, is a horrible thing. To kill another living creature is like killing oneself, unless they are Orcs, or a creature as foul. Yet it hurts me to kill Orcs, for they were once as we are, and were captured by Morgoth and tortured into the loathsome things they are.” He looked at Lindir pointedly. “Do you understand?”
Lindir nodded.
“Do not always believe your ballads and songs, Lindir,” Glorfindel cautioned. “And may you never wish to hold a sword again.” He smiled at the minstrel. “Your hands are far too fair.”
Lindir returned the smile.
And that night, he only sang of peace.