Glorfindel

Yellow.

It was the only color he could see now, yellow and orange and red. The whole world seemed to pass by him slowly, and the sensation of falling only vaguely registered in his dulled senses.

His hand still firmly grasped his sword, his training stuck firmly in his head. He could survive as long as he had his sword with him. He would die with his sword in his hand, and he'd be a houseless feä before he let go of it.

Pity he hadn't gotten a chance to say goodbye to Ecthelion before he threw himself into what he knew was his final fight. But even as he had, he knew that he wouldn't regret it. Then all he'd known was red, and black, and yellow, and orange, and pain.

His eyes slowly closed as he slowly gave himself up to the call of Mandos, battered and broken. One last scream of defiance and victory escaped his lips and tattered throat, and an answering roar from the Balrog.

Massad hi Loth Valthen e-Gondolin?


The last line is a line from the fictional 'Lament of Glorfindel' written by Fiondil. It is translated as 'Where now the Golden flower of Gondolin?' This drabble was 176 words, and dedicated to Sophia the Scribe, as this was her request.

Here is the full version of it, along with the translation, again owned by Fiondil.

"Dannassen —

a naur a morchant dhannasser na nin.

Massâd hi Loth Valthen e-Gondolin?

Massâd hi megil e-gallon?

Massâd hi Glorfindel veren?"

"Nan îa dhannassem —

callon a choth —

na Ngûr a Dúaith ui.

Massâd hi Loth Valthen e-Gondolin?

Massâd hi megil e-gallon?

Massâd hi Glorfindel veren?

Nan Annûn fae nîn róviel

rhaw nîn gaeda hi nu chaudh

nuin nîn vithrin e-Beleriand varad.

Dan adguion, gwenniel,

a boe enni ista:

Am man manadh?"

I fell —

and fire and shadow fell with me.

Where now the Golden Flower of Gondolin?

Where now the hero's sword?

Where now brave Glorfindel?

Into the abyss we fell —

hero and enemy —

into Death and Shadows everlasting.

Where now the Golden Flower of Gondolin?

Where now the hero's sword?

Where now brave Glorfindel?

Into the West my spirit having flown,

My body lies now under a burial mound,

'neath the grey waters of doomed Beleriand.

But I live again, having died,

and I must know:

For what fate?