Chapter 2. Glorfindel of Rivendell

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The Three Goats Inn on the road from Cameth Brin to Penmorva, evening of October 26, 1347.
Written by Gordis
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Hegga was a new maid at the Three Goats Inn, hired only about two months ago. Broggha’s men had all but devastated the countryside around Penmorva and there were very little stores left in the village of Penn for Hegga’s big family to hopefully survive till the next harvest. After young Kviggr left for Arthedain to become King Malvegil’s mercenary, Hegga’s hopes for marriage were utterly ruined. Now there were so few young men left in the village, most went to swell Broggha’s enormous band. So, after much deliberation, Hegga’s parents decided to send their daughter away to her cousin, Gwynn, who worked as a maid at a roadside inn north of Morva Torch.

There was much more to eat at the inn than back home, but Hegga soon found out that the landlord was not going to give her anything but board and lodging for all the hard work she was doing for him. If maids wanted some money, explained Gwynn with a wink, they had to earn it themselves. Hegga was old enough to understand what her cousin meant, and she shriveled at the thought. Most customers staying at the inn were rough, baseborn men, vagabonds and traders, and the idea of spending a night with one of them made Hegga sick. Sure, there happened by some guests of quality on occasion, but, as her cousin said, those were unlikely to fancy the inn maids. Many a customer winked to her suggestively, attracted by her fresh face, milky throat and plump breasts, but still Hegga turned a deaf ear to immodest words and slapped at prowling hands. At nights, she dreamed of a fair prince who would come and rescue her.

This evening it seemed to her that her dreams had come true. Cheeks aflame and breath coming in short gasps, Hegga peered from behind the counter into the dim common room.

The slow autumn rain was beating on the roof. The large downstairs room of the old inn was half-empty. The winter was approaching and travelers on the road were fewer, much to the landlord’s chagrin. There were only a company of southbound horse-traders drinking their fill of ale at the central table, two masons going north to seek work for the winter, and a lone traveler sitting quietly in a corner furthest from the hearth, a bottle of wine and the untouched plate of mutton in front of him. His figure was concealed by an unadorned dark-blue cloak that he kept on, despite the heat in the room. The hood was up, leaving his face in deep shadows. He put his sword on the tabletop in front of him and stretched his long legs under the table. The glow of the fire played on his travel-worn leather boots – the only detail clearly visible about the stranger.

“What do you make of him?” Hegga whispered to Gwynn, once the other returned to the counter with a platter of empty mugs.

“Which one?” asked Gwynn, yawning. She had been busy again last night and had little sleep.

“The one in the corner! What do you think he is?” prompted Hegga excitedly.

Gwynn studied the stranger for some time, then shrugged. “He is not SOMEONE, for sure,” she said with contempt. “There is not a single trinket of silver or gold on this one, not even a bit of embroidery. His sword is unadorned, in a plain leather sheath. His boots are old. I bet he has not a spare coin in his pouch.”

Hegga giggled in reply. “Then you are wrong, Gwynn,” she whispered triumphantly. “He is SOMEONE all right. I know who he is, because he told me. I was the one who took him upstairs to show his room. He is an Elf!”

“An Elf?” asked Gwynn, wide-eyed. “Are you cracked or what?”

Still giggling, Hegga dragged her cousin to a larder to tell her the story.

“It was like this. He came from the South on a big gray horse – a fine animal, they say in the stables. I took him to his room, Number Three on the first floor. He had his hood on, and I could not see his face. He thanked me and I was going to leave when he turned to me and laid back his hood.”

“Oh, Gwynn! I stood dumbstruck and peered at him like a dimwit. He is the most handsome man that ever walked in Middle Earth! He has most striking blue eyes, like the sky in spring, and his hair is like a shining golden river, falling unbound down to his waist. He smiled at me, he did! When I found my voice, I asked him, “Are you an Elf, sir?” Then he laughed. “You are perceptive, child,” he said kindly – and his voice was like music – “Indeed, I am of the Firstborn.” And he told me his name and where he hails from. I looked into his eyes, and I knew it was the truth. His eyes… I am a simple village girl, and I don’t think I can put it right, but his eyes are old – as if he had seen countless ages of Men, wars long forgotten, victories and defeats… and he looks so young otherwise… no more than thirty!”

Gwynn shook her head. “I don’t believe an Elf would stop in our inn, rain or no rain. No one ever sees them. I sure saw none in all my life. Perhaps they have all gone over the Sea.”

“But he is an Elf!” cried Hegga. “He said so himself. And I have seen his ears. Have you heard that all Elves have pointy ears?”

“Yes, that I have,” replied Gwynn.

“Well, his ears are slightly pointed – not so much as the tales tell, but still much more pointed than yours, or mine, or any Man’s.”

“WellÂ… if he is an Elf, as he says,” said Gwynn dryly, “you won’t expect him to fancy you, a lowly mortal, would you now?”

Hegga blushed furiously. “I hope you are wrong,” she said. “I told him I have always loved stories about Elves and even heard a song about HIM from a traveling minstrel last year, a song how he slew a fiery demon! He smiled and said that he would tell me all about it and even sing me some songs if I come to his room after supper. He has a knee-harp with him!”

“Perhaps he will do just that, sing you some songs… and nothing else,” replied Gwynn acidly, an obvious envy in her voice. “Make sure he pays, will you?”

“Oh Gwynn, you must be joking!” cried Hegga in outrage. “I love him so very much already! Money? I will never ask for money from him!”

Gwynn knocked thrice on her forehead to show what she thought about Hegga’s wisdom. She made her way to the door of the larder, then turned abruptly.

“You said he told you his name,” she said. “What is it?”

Hegga blushed again and announced proudly:

“Glorfindel. Glorfindel of Rivendell.”

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The Three Goats Inn on the road from Cameth Brin to Penmorva, morning of October 27, 1347.
Written by Gordis
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It was already past noon when they started looking for Hegga. At first, when Hegga failed to be on time for her morning chores, Gwynn made no fuss, out of kindness, allowing the poor girl to sleep after her first night with a man, but by the late morning it became evident that something was wrong.

Hegga’s long-cold body was found in the bed of room Number Three, her throat neatly slit from ear to ear. Surprisingly, there was very little blood. The weapon that did the deed was thrown carelessly nearby. It was an ornate Elven dagger adorned with runes and golden flowers. As for the customer, Glorfindel by name, who stayed in the room overnight, he was long gone.

Gwynn, yesterday’s envy forgotten, only congratulated herself that she was not the one the Elf took a fancy to. “What is the world coming to these days?” she wailed. “Elves taking village maids to bed and killing them! Bloody perverts they are, may Njamo eat their rotten souls! So no one here is bold enough to avenge the poor girl?”

“Where are those Rangers when you need them?” roared the innkeeper. “They mill around by the dozens when all is fine, but when something goes really wrong, who knows where to find them? Is there anyone here who is willing to man the pursuit party?”

The horse traders argued that they had their own business to attend to and hurried along on their way to Cameth Brin, venturing only to warn the authorities there about the happenings at the inn. The masons promised to do the same at Penmorva. A frightened and disheartened group of stable boys wandered for some time in the rain, careful not to venture too far from the inn. And that seemed the end of it, if we don’t count the horrible stories, ever growing in the telling, that spread far and wide over the land.

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In the woods west of Penmorva, October 27, 1347.
Written by Gordis
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A lonely hooded traveler rode along a narrow path in the woods. The overgrown path led North, avoiding Penmorva and presumably striking the main road to Angmar west of this city. This suited the traveler well, as he was hurrying along to outpace the news of his night’s work.

The rider grinned again, remembering the silly girl with the milky throat and full breasts who came enamored and trusting to his room last night. He heard and smelled human blood running hot and strong in her body. The way the blue veins could be traced beneath her white, almost transparent skin aroused him greatly. So he took his time killing her and drinking her blood. He held her in his arms, feeling her life force seeping out of her, feeling her body becoming as cold as his, seeing utter terror in her innocent blue eyes… With a parting kiss, he bid her to send his greetings to old Namo – greetings from Agannalo. He never missed to ask this favor of any of his victims. By now, his name must be well known to the Vala… The traveler laughed aloud at this thought. He was not counting to see old Mandos – ever – so let Namo get impotently frustrated, for all he cared.

During his unnaturally long life, the traveler was known under many names, but “Glorfindel” was not one of them. In the forgotten West, his noble parents gave him a sumptuous name, Silmatan, the Jewel of Mankind. And indeed, with his handsome Elven-like features, golden hair and blue eyes, he deemed himself the jewel of the House of Hador. His mother and close friends called him Silmallaire – the little jewel… But it was long ago… in the short mortal years before the Ring. Now, for already two thousand and seven hundred years, he called himself Agannalo, the Shadow of Death.

At mid-day, the sun rose above the pines lining the path. The traveler threw back his hood and waved to the watery autumn sun, so different from the fiery orb of Far Harad, as he would to an old friend. Still, even the weak northern version of the fiery Arien hurt his eyes, so he pulled his hood back over his head right after sending this mock greeting.

Soon after, the gray stallion started to show signs of tiredness. The sly horse, always at his tricks, pretended to get lame, but Agannalo’s will overrode his and they continued on. The nazgul frowned – he was concerned about the horse. Twenty years ago, Agannalo bought the gray in Harad and called him after a certain pesky wizard – Mithrandir, the Gray Wanderer. The name was given in jest, but proved prophetic. Over the years, there was never a place that the Gray Wanderer could call home; there was only a succession of roadside inns, unfamiliar stables, and endless nights in the wild with only the starry sky for a roof. Now the stallion was growing old and eager for small comforts. Agannalo carried a vast supply of oats, apples and a warm blanket for the horse. Thankfully, he needed none himself.

Just before sundown the rider finally stopped. This time the Grey was pretending no more – he really was exhausted. Agannalo fed the horse, put the blanket over his back and started a small fire. Not a real one, of course, but just a semblance of fire that gave some greenish light and almost no warmth. The Gray was grateful even for such a substitute, though – he never overcame his fear of the dark.

Soon Agannalo was sitting near the fire with his harp on his knee. The Gray stood nearby, munching quietly and listening to the haunting melodies of the songs long forgotten by mortals.

This evening the tunes were sad. Agannalo stopped feeling kinship with mortals very long ago, so killing them was as natural for him as squashing midges was for humans – no remorse, no second thoughts. But there was one thing that saddened him deeply – the loss of the Elven dagger with golden flowers he had to leave near Hegga’s body as the evidence. He found the dagger while digging for treasures in the ruins of Ost-in Edhil and kept it for many lives of men. The dagger was of little use to him, as it burned his hand as if by hellish fire. But it was a wondrous piece of craft, with runes and golden flowers running along the razor-sharp silver blade, and Agannalo, ever a collector of high art, grew quite fond of it. Perhaps it was indeed from Gondolin… And now he lost it in a silly joke! Maybe the real Glorfindel would never hear of it…

One thing was cheering, though. He would see his Captain again. Agannalo was surprised that he started to miss his comrades and his captain so much. The Nazgul King had a vicious temper when annoyed, and Agannalo had a knack of annoying him constantly. But still he looked forward to meeting the Captain again… soon, very soon… once he got to Carn-Dum.