Wandering Nimolith

Tobi is a good boy

I do not own LOTR or the any of JRR Tolkien's work.

In the first Age, the House of the Golden Flower dwelt peacefully in Gondolin. The heir, Alphonse Glorfindel, was golden haired like his mother, and was tall in stature like his father.

He became a great warrior, fighting in the Niraeth Arnoediad, and was a comrade of Ecthelion, who was also a servant of the king, Turgon.

In all the annuals of the age, Glorfindel of Gondolin as said to have perished in a mortal combat with a Balrog, buried underneath a cairn in the Encircling Mountains.

Here, in full account, is the tale of Glorfindel of Gondolin, begins.


The winter seemed palpable; blowing harsh it's cold bitter tongue of fury upon Gondolin. It seemed like it wanted revenge for the peace Gondolin had long endured for, and would for many years to come. The Niraeth Arnoediad had passed, only the Gondolins escaping. Nowhere in Middle Earth seemed safe anymore. What hope there was left, lay in the West.

Glorfindel looked at the scanty gathered captains, tired dark circles foreboding to come out of hiding. Ecthelion was there, shorter than any of the elves in the room, or any elfing, black hair tied in a low ponytail, bouncing behind him as he paced the small, dark, stone floored room, large paned windows facing the west, the sun setting, flaring red. Winter air crept through the stone walls, whispering its unknown secrets. It seemed a foreboding omen, the winter cold, that made everything lonely and dark, and Glorfindel's own coldness and loneness.

Most of the captain already had wives or families, apart from the younger ones, including Glorfindel and Ecthelion. He pondered at this awhile, frowning thoughtfully; his blonde hair falling like teardrops in front of his face, his long undone hair flopped carelessly onto a broad shoulder.

Why on Arda did Turgon insist that the captains have an annual meeting? One man may be called a captain, Two men an company, and three a council full of idiots, Glorfindel thought, peering again at the last remnants of the captains going away to do their business.

"My friend," Ecthelion said softly, "You seem melancholy of late. Will you not take a walk with me in the gardens? Perhaps there I may uncover the truth to this winter that is passing over your heart." Glorfindel looked at him.

Winter is now, Winter is lonely, Winter is alone.

Gondolin is alone on its mountain hill, impassable and secret, tall towers glinting in the ever fading sun of hope. Glorfindel's only anchor from the cold bitterness that enveloped the world around him was Ecthelion.

They walked in the garden, the first flowers of late winter springing up newly, green amongst grey. Glorfindel was tall and silent, bitter and ever silent as Ecthelion walked beside him, though small, seeming taller and far more wise than Glorfindel.

"Ecthelion, my friend, I have no doubt that you will find the reason for my winter."

"I have a guess, though it may be wrong..."

Silence from the blonde haired golden haired warrior.

Only the sound of the wind, heartlessly crashing upon Gondolin like a wave.

"You are troubled because you have not yet found a wife, or any that you will want to love for the rest of eternity," the black haired companion said.

Sun and Moon shining alight in the winter, breaking forth from the dark bitter night of winter. The Sun laughs, shaking his blonde hair at the black haired Moon, the clouds departing from him.

"Ah! 'Thelion you are never wrong with your guesses. You guess correctly, my friend."

"I have not found my one to hold forever yet, but Eru knows that I will find that person. For now, I can just search the people that he sets before me on my path." Moon says, wise as an owl, yet young as a child.

And so, Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower and Ecthelion of the Fountain had begun courting many of the ladies in Gondolin, each telling the horrors stories that came out of those courting escapades.

Winter passes, insurmountable, seemingly cold and desolate, but full of life and hope. Gondolin still yet stands, a bitter contest of a pawn for Morgoth to move along his board. The Moon, in his black haired glory, shines brightly with the ever brightening Sun. The last flowers of winter bloom fully, the first of spring hidden in a field of stone.