Masquerade

Masquerade

Posted: September 2005
Title: Masquerade
Author: Orchyd Constyne
Type: FCGen
Characters: Glorfindel
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I do not own LotR or any characters, lands, or items from the Tolkien world. They belong to their respective copyright holders.
Beta: Ilye

Summary: Sometimes what everyone knows you to be is not who you truly are.

*****

Soft groans floated in the sea-scented air, falling on deaf ears as the dreamer tossed restlessly. Vacant blue eyes, usually full of life and laughter, now shimmered with distress in the moonlight. His lips moved, forming silent words, while his hands clenched the damp bedsheets.

Many believed dreams offered respite from the trials of life. Not so for Glorfindel.

In that realm of shifting visions, where Irmo ruled, the golden Elf walked through the mist and into a small sitting room. Spread out on a chaise, like a great yellow lion, was the fabled warrior of Gondolin. Golden hair in fine waves was fanned out carefully on the ruby pillows, the sapphire eyes were hard and the lines of his mouth continuously set in a self-assured, smug smile. Glorfindel of Gondolin licked his lips as he gazed up at Glorfindel of Lindon.

"It took you long enough, brother," the dead Glorfindel snapped, sitting up in one fluid movement. "I have been watching you, calling to you."

Glorfindel, his own eyes softer, brighter, sighed. "I know."

"Well?"

"I am not going to do it. I will not be you again."

The dead Glorfindel's smile became sinister, frightening -- a mirror of his darkest moments in life. Beautifully dangerous. He stood up from the chaise, his broad shoulders squared and his chin high. "We are the same, have you forgotten?"

"No," Glorfindel said quietly. "I remember everything. I simply do not wish to be what I was."

"Oh? Are you proud, then? Happy to be this... this... overindulgent tart?" the dead Glorfindel asked with amused disgust.

Glorfindel returned the smile, but his was gentler, sweeter. "This is who I am. Who I should have been."

Dead Glorfindel flicked a piece of non-existent lint from his immaculate cloak. "Yet you pull me on like an old coat when those admirers of yours flock around you. You become what you were."

He was right, of course, and it caused Glorfindel to flush with shame. "And does that make you happy? Do you find pride in the make believe curtain we have woven about ourselves?"

"What is make believe, dear one?" Dead Glorfindel asked. "This," he indicated Glorfindel's person, "Elf who rides, drinks, laughs and copulates with any willing Elf? Or this," he said, pointing to himself, "Elf who served under one of the greatest Noldorin Kings, was most loved of all others in Turgon's kingdom, defended Gondolin unto his death, and was chaste even in the face of the most determined seducer?"

"Both," Glorfindel said tiredly. "Which is the shame."

Dead Glorfindel's eyes narrowed and his smirk faded. "What do you mean?"

"You and I both know you were not chaste. How often did Ecthelion drop his trousers for your amorous affections? As for defending Gondolin 'unto your death', yes. But why did we do that? Because it *looked* heroic. We defended Turgon because it made everyone love us just that little bit more. You are no more a hero than Ecthelion was." Glorfindel crossed his arms, his voice gaining in strength and conviction. "As for me, I find peace in the bottom of a mead cup and in the warmth of a supple body. I smile and dance like a fool because if I do not, I believe I will begin to cry.

"We are not real, Glorfindel of Gondolin. I am the polar opposite of you, but I am just as false."

"And yet you are just as loved," Dead Glorfindel remarked.

"Love does not care for Truth." Glorfindel ran his hands through his hair, cut short and kept such. "Everything they admire, all that they love, is what has been *crafted* for them."

Dead Glorfindel tilted his head, his eyes dark with thought. "Why is it that Glorfindel the Hero was ever formed?"

Glorfindel's face was a mask of grief. "Because Glorfindel the Elf would command no love, no respect, no admiration. He is not witty, amusing, or heroic. All he ever was able to be was beautiful, and even that was orchestrated. So, tell me, Glorfindel Who I Once Was, what are we proud of?"

The ancient Elf with hair the colour of the sun that hung in long, glorious waves cupped the newer Elf's cheek tenderly. Glorfindel knew he had been capable of tenderness before he died, he just had not seen much need for it. Now, though, Dead Glorfindel's thumb caressed his heated cheek. "We are proud that we saved the father of your beloved Elrond. We are proud of the songs sung. We are proud of the tapestry we have created that is Glorfindel the Balrog-slayer."

"Now what do we do?" Glorfindel asked himself. Dead Glorfindel's eyes seemed to swallow him, consume him, and his heart flickered with a moment of panic.

"We may be proud of the masquerade we have created, but the dance is not done. We will continue to swap partners, whirl around the floor, and laugh the loudest."

"Once more into the fray..." Glorfindel murmured, his speech slurring.

Dead Glorfindel released him, returning to the chaise. "You will see us rise again, Glorfindel. Together we will fly; together we will always be wonderful."

The words echoed in his ears as the darkness took him and dawn broke over the sea, waking the world to a new day.

*****

THE END

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