𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬, 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐖𝐨𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬 || 𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊

ᴢᴇ'-sᴀsᴇᴋʜ

After their break, the Fellowship—for that, Robb had realized some time ago, was what they were: the Fellowship the Valar had told him about—spent hours ascending and descending steep stairs, passing narrow bridges that crossed chasms of unfathomable depths, and trying not to fall to their deaths.

Moria truly was a maze, but Robb trusted Gandalf, who seemed to know the way well and never faltered.
That was, until they came to a break in the path they had been following. There were three passageways in front of them, dark and dank and leading to unknowable ends.

Gandalf stopped.

Robb, lost in thought and just behind him, almost bumped into him. He looked up, startled. What was happening now?

“I have no memory of this place,” Gandalf declared, leaning on his staff.

That was… suboptimal.

The Fellowship collectively sighed, grumbled, and then spread about the room, trying to find a comfortable place to settle for the foreseeable future.
Robb spotted Aragorn and Legolas sitting closely together and decided to use that chance. He went over to them, dropping down on a conveniently placed rock.

“Gimli told me that there are stories of Elves coming back from the dead,” he said, not beating around the bush. “Like the one you—“ Robb nodded at Aragorn— “told me about Beren and Lúthien. Are they...true?”

Aragorn had a sympathetic smile on his face as he went to light his pipe. “I suspect I know your reasons for being interested in such things.”

Robb quirked an eyebrow. “Well, if it’s only a suspicion, I must have been losing my wits very discreetly.”

“To answer your question: they are,” Legolas confirmed. “Few of my people return to Arda, but most have their bodies reformed. They stay in Valinor, the Undying Lands, where the Valar live, and many of my kin.”

“Glorfindel is one of the Returned,” Aragorn added. A waft of smoke emerged from his mouth.

“You would not know him,” he told Robb, “he serves as an advisor to Lord Elrond of Rivendell, on whose counsel we began this quest. Glorfindel is one of the great Elves of old. A living legend, if you will.”

“How…” Robb hesitated. “How did he die?”

There was another plume of smoke.
“Glorfindel was a Lord of the Hidden City of Gondolin during the First Age. His was the House of the Golden Flower.”

Robb blinked. House Tyrell came to mind immediately, and he wondered at the similarity. It was a coincidence, of course, the golden rose in the banner of House Tyrell and this Golden Flower of Glorfindel—but it certainly was a curious one.

“Glorfindel served under Turgon, the High King of the Ñoldor at the time.”

Legolas, at Robb’s confused glance, explained, “The Ñoldor are a kind of elves, typically skilled when it comes to crafts. I, myself, am a Sinda. There are many others: the Vanyar, Teleri, and various others, derived from them. But I digress—this is not the story.”

Aragorn nodded in thanks and continued.
“The First Age was a time of war and strife. The enemy was Morgoth, Sauron’s master, but the Elves fought amongst themselves, too. This was why Turgon kept Gondolin hidden—to keep his people safe.

“But one day, the city was betrayed and Morgoth’s army descended on it. It was made up of many unholy things: dragons, and Orcs, of course. But there were also Balrogs, great and menacing demons of shadow and flame, armed with fiery whips and long swords, and one of them was Glorfindel’s undoing.

“Glorfindel fought it bravely. Their battle led them up onto one of the many mountains that surrounded Gondolin. Glorfindel managed to wound the Balrog, and it fell backwards off the cliff. However, at the last moment, it grabbed Glorfindel by his hair and both of them plummeted into the deep abyss.”

Robb breathed in sharply. That was… dirty, for lack of better word, and an unpleasant way to die. The fall, the sheer panic one must feel at the absolute certainty that death was coming, the helplessness… Robb preferred his own death, he was sure.
It was a bit morbid, yes, but at least Robb’s fear had left his body quickly. As had the pain. And the blood. And Robb himself.

“How did he…” Robb gestured with his hand, unable to express exactly what he wanted to know.

“Adjust? Cope?” Aragorn supplied. Robb nodded, thankful for the addition.

“I don’t rightly know,” Aragorn shrugged. “That was before my time, and before Legolas’. He always seemed like a very cheerful fellow, though, not above playing a few pranks on Elrond with me and Elrond’s sons, when I was a child.” A grin flitted over Aragorn’s face at the memory.

“In any case,” he went on, smoke obscuring his features once again, “I think that when Elves reside in the Halls of Mandos after their death, their soul heals from whatever pain they went through in life. Only when that is done is their body restored—that is how it was explained to me, although I cannot say I dug deeper into the subject, nor did I ever speak to Glorfindel about it.”

Robb sighed. “Well, I can tell you—that is not how it was for me, or at least, not as far as I recall. I would feel… better, if it were so. Not as… unbalanced. As if I’d been torn apart and sewn back together wrong.”

Both Aragorn and Legolas made a face.
There was a beat of silence. It was a bit uncomfortable—neither of them knew how to respond, to react. And Robb understood; it certainly was not the easiest of topics.

Legolas opened his mouth, as if to say something, before closing it again.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” Legolas answered. He bit his lip. “It is… a personal question. Insensitive.”

Robb chuckled, looked down at his fingers. “He says, as if I have not been asking insensitive questions for the entire time we have been sitting here.”

“Those were not about our own experiences,” Legolas argued. “Only about history.”

Robb made a non-committal sound, lifting his hand in a ‘so-so’ gesture. “Ask it anyway. If I do not want to answer it, I won’t. I’m sure you will not force me to.”

Legolas still seemed hesitant, but nodded. “Very well,” he said. “I wondered what it was like to die. Lest I fall in battle I am unlikely ever to experience it, and even then, well…” Legolas tilted his head in Aragorn’s direction— “you heard what happens to us, after.”

Robb leaned back against the hard stone, one hand unconsciously coming up to his chin. “To be entirely honest…I’m not sure. I cannot tell you about after, obviously, except if this is the after and this is an elaborate hallucination.”

Aragorn snorted, a bit of smoke coming from his nostrils, and Robb grinned back.

“I don’t think so either. In any case, I can’t rightly say how much of my dying was influenced by your Valar, whether it was any different from a… normal death.” Robb shrugged.

“All in all, though, it was not too horrible. The circumstances were—” He grimaced and refrained from finishing that particular sentence.

“But I died fairly quickly. The pain faded almost instantly. By the end, I could not even see anymore, I just… heard snippets. Screams. But I couldn’t really… think about them. It very much was like falling asleep when you have been awake for days on end and there is still work to do—you try to cling to consciousness, but you’re dragged under. I remember blinking, despite not being able to see, and in the next moment, I was with the Valar.”

Legolas seemed to mull this over.

Before he could respond, however, Gandalf cried, “Ha! It’s that way.” He pointed to the path on their right. Robb perked up.

“He’s remembered!” Merry cheered.

“No,” Gandalf replied, immediately destroying Robb’s confidence in the fact that they would not get lost. “But the air doesn’t smell so foul down here. If in doubt, Meriadoc—always follow your nose.”