On Glorfindel and surviving the Helcaraxë
Crossing the Helcaraxë is not easy. Hard does not even begin to describe the enormity of the undertaking or the torment of the Noldor upon the ice. When they reach Middle-earth, when they finally step off that barren waste dividing Arda from Aman, they are changed. Their families and friends back home might struggle to recognize them: they wear thick furs, crudely stitched together with sinew; their hair lays long and limp, dull in the sunlight and fragile in their hands; their bodies are thin, worn down to pallid skin stretched over the bones of their faces. Yet in their eyes, a pale light gleams, the light of the trees shining out of them, sustaining them just one step further.
The Sindar looked upon them with awe. These tall elves with features sharp as a blade, who did the unthinkable and crossed the endless ice desert, mighty and powerful.
Things get better in Middle-earth. They have food now and their waisted bodies fill in again with muscle. But the land is at war, and they are at war with a great darkness that crushes down on them at every turn. Conflict keeps them lean, keeps all but the barest layer of fat away. Gone are the soft curves and full faces they wore in Aman.
Years roll on. The other peoples look upon the Noldor—the fiercest fighters—the bravest warriors—the most skilled crafters—and cannot help but admire them, even if grudgingly at times. Among the Sindar, first to see them in their glory, a fashion slowly grows for slender bodies, prominent cheekbones, and sharp eyebrows.
For some, crossing the Helcaraxë changed more than their bodies. They looked after each other on the ice, called out dangerous patches, fended off strange predators, and always shared what they found. Either they all ate, or no one did. If there was not enough food for a mouthful each, they gave it to the weakest. Anyone caught taking more than their share or trying to hide a small animal they caught was swiftly punished. Even after centuries in Middle-earth, some of them cannot set aside what they learned in the bitter cold.
In Gondolin, and in truth long before then, Glorfindel makes a name for himself. Turgon sets him as a lord, and he bends himself to the duties as loyally as he had to any task given him. As a lord, he takes part in ceremonies and celebrations. He laughs with the festivities and always leaves the high table as soon as he can without giving offense after eating. He finds a guard of his house who for some reason or another must stand watch throughout the night. With nods and words of encouragement, he sends them away to be with their friends and takes their place. Standing guard is quiet and dull for nothing ill troubles the hidden city, but he cannot bear to sit longer near the tables ladened with food after he’s taken what he needs. The Gondolindrim know him as the golden-haired lord of the House of the Flower, noble and kind and always among the first to leave a feast.
He is in good company, though, as Ecthelion follows a few minutes later, waiting just long enough to not appear to flee.
In Valinor, Glorfindel does not recognize the body the Valar give him. It is foreign to him now with its curves and soft cheeks that rise into his eyes when he smiles and laughs. Only the faintest traces of his face look back at him when he gazes upon his reflection. But the body is warm and comfortable despite the foreignness, and deep down, something in him almost recognizes and remembers how it felt to wear this form in distant, tree-lit days. It is nice in a way he has not felt in a very long time.
There is some confusion after Manwë sends him back to Middle-earth. Those who did not know him in his first life, who heard only the stories, believed him to be the noble lord and balrog slayer returned. Those who’d seen him in life—and the pain in his heart is sharp when he realizes those he counted as his friends are no longer in that number and all fell while he lingered in Valinor—express doubt at first for he looks so very little like the elf they recall. It takes little time to show them he is who he claims to be: Glorfindel of the House of the Flower, Envoy of the Valar to High King Gil-Galad.
If any still hold some small doubt hidden in their hearts, it is erased by the end of the Second Age, for Glorfindel looks just as he did in Gondolin.
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It was 2am. How the hell was it already 2am? How the hell was it only 2am? Deziree should have been asleep at least 4 hours ago! Beauty sleep was a highly valued commodity when you could no longer afford Botox and the 111SKIN Celestial Black Diamond Eye Cream. Why wasn't she sleeping?!?!
Ah, that's right. She couldn't. Her stupid brain would not shut the fuck up. Every time she closed her eyes, something else reminded her of another something else, and another, and another, until her whole brain was very, very, very loud and oh-- were those tears?
The 111SKIN Celestial Black Diamond Eye Cream couldn't even save you from those. Not from the tears, or the necklace, or the kiss, or Charlotte La Bouff, or that other blonde, or--or-- Maybe she should dye her hair? Go Kardashian blonde or something. Oh my God, but the box dye! Ew! God, her life was so over!!
What would her mom say? Did it matter what mom would say? Eugh, of course it matter. It had been so long, and still, as ever, Deziree did not know who she was without mom's heavy stare and marked words.
She was basically a failure, if mom could call her something. All that practise to get a man, get money, have status, and here she was barely making her car payments and hung up on a no-name boy who was (at least in Deziree's eyes) interested in everyone and anyone. God forbid mom finds out about the buttons...
The truth was, despite her personal failings, she couldn't stop thinking about stupid Travis Montgomery in amongst how absolutely desperate she was to just fall asleep.
She couldn't help but think about that kiss, hidden beneath a dark veil in the corner of a party, or the necklace that was stuffed in a box at the back of a drawer. She couldn't help but think about the coffee, or the car ride, or... Anastasia puking in the back of said car. Ew! Way to ruin the moment again, Stas!
Deziree could only hope there wasn't another phone call to go pick her sister up tonight, because tiredness and driving wasn't a good combo, even if she could use someone's shoulder to cry on. She sure as shit wasn't going to wake up Ella at this hour.
It was 2am and Deziree was exhausted. She was hysterical. She was delirious okay?! Deziree did the unthinkable.
She picked up her phone, found his name, and hit record on what was only supposed to be a short, to the point voice note.
"Hey, this is--"
Sniff.
"--This is gonna sound really stupid, but, like, um, do you remember that, uh, that one time that you came by to pick me up because Stas was a riot and you were like hey, anytime, no problem bestie? And there was coffee and you saw my-- nevermind! Not that point. The point is-- I don't know what the point is. The point is! That-- Look, I know it's like 3am and you're probably sleeping or off, I don't know, like making out with someone or fixing a car or something but I can't stop-- I can't-- I can't sleep."
Just enough pause for a deep inhale.
"I can't sleep and it's driving me nuts and I don't even know what I'm saying or why I'm even making this voice note or-- no. No, I do. You said if I needed you I should call you and... I know this isn't technically a call but..."
And an exhale.
"But if you're awake, I wouldn't mind..."
And thus, the voice note went on for a further 3 minutes, becoming no clearer as time went on.
Whoosh.
Turns out, holding your thumb on the record button for 5 minutes is quite tiring and... whoosh! The message sent the moment her too-tired finger was released.
Gasp.
The post-send clarity was a bit too real...
Oh no! Oh no, no, no! That wasn't supposed to send! Shit!! Shit, shit, shit, delete, delete, please del-- It's fine, he's not online! It's fine, this is-- wait-- he's online, why is he online?! Why is he online at 3 in the morning?! Deleeeeete!!
Deziree's heart-rate spiked well above safe levels when the read receipt lit up blue. The only thing she could possibly do was send another voice note to make it absolutely clear that he should not listen to the first voice note! (He'd seen it, she couldn't delete it yet. Then he'd know something was wrong!!)
"DON'T LISTEN TO THAT LAST MESSAGE IT WASN'T SUPPOSED TO SEND IT WAS ACTUALLY AN ACCIDENTAL RECORDING AND IT'S NOT IMPORTANT!!!"
And another.
"You can just ignore it. Seriously! Everything is actually fine. Go back to sleep or fixing your car or whatever, just pretend you didn't even see anything. Bye! Goodnight! Fu--"
If her life wasn't already over, it certainly was now...
@but-theylovehim
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