Fic: Embers (Lord of the Rings/Silmarillion)

[keep_counting]

Title:  Embers
Characters/Pairings: Glorfindel & the Balrog
Rating PG13
Warnings: Character death
Genre: Angst/Drama/Suspence
Word-count:  398
Disclaimer: I own nothing in this story and is not planning to make any profit from it
A/N: Short vignette, possibly first in a series
Summary: Glorfindel meets his end atop Cirith Thoronath.

 

 

Embers

 

The world is a brightly lit place of colours, hues of the sunset. Orange and red are battling with the strange violet that is slowly taking over his vision. It is beautiful, in its own strange way.

Then Glorfindel breathes in and the ash and smoke is a threatening pull, filling his lungs like acid and he heaves for air that isn’t there, coughs and splutters and wonders if the red smearing the ground is his blood or the fading rays of a dying sun.

Somewhere that must be close, but sounds far off to his ears, a roaring sound is heard, like a thousand lions are charging at once. Violet and black intermingles, dancing and intertwining like old friends, lovers happy to see each other. It’s all he can do not to close his eyes, the smoke finding way in there as well. He can smell burnt flesh and like the blood it must be his. It cannot be anyone else but his.

The sound of children’s laughter echoes through the ground and a low bell chimes in tune with the heavy footsteps approaching. It is all he can do not to curse out loud, wondering what it will take for the blasted thing to die.

“ Lord Glorfindel? Lord Glorfindel…”

The child’s name is hovering on his tongue, something not-quite remembered. It’s exasperating when such small details utterly escapes him.

“Yes?”

“Is it true that Balrog’s have wings, my Lord? Can they really fly?”

“I know not, little one. I have yet to meet one. But if I do, I will be sure to give you an answer.”

There is a billowing cape of smoke and shadow following the thing in its wake, but if it will enable to let the beast fly, Glorfindel cannot say. His ears are ringing and the blood – the life – is leaving his body. And he cannot let his people down. The thought makes him rise from the ground again, sword clenching in a hand that should be too weak to wield it.

I do not fear the darkness, merely what is laid in its wake.

“Die, demon.”

Amidst shadow and flame, Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower falls from the mountain, the Balrog following him into the abyss of death. The fire burns out, leaving only ash in its wake: a wall of embers and stolen light.

 

 

 

Comments

[foxrafer.livejournal.com]

wonders if the red smearing the ground is his blood or the fading rays of a dying sun.
a wall of embers and stolen light

This is really beautifully done. Atmospheric, both visual and visceral. Lovely piece.

[keep-counting.livejournal.com]

Thank-you so much!