Métima - Glorfindel x reader
A/N: Wrote this while stuck at a bus station in Bosnia, writing on vacay is fun hehe
Word count: 1.7K
Tags: Angst
Métima = last, ultimate, final (Quenya)
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It sounded like thunder. A deep, dark rumble ripping through the air, which was heavy and thick with smoke. The ground shook suddenly and a dark veil seemed to had laid itself upon your caravan. Around you, the people immediately noticed the menacing change in the air, some of them huddling closer together, others frantically looking around for the looming threat. You were among the latter, immediately trying to make out its source to determine the urgency of your escape.
When screams erupted from behind you, at the very end of the caravan, your stomach sank. And for some intuitive reason, you knew what it was before even turning around.
“Eru…”
There it was. Rising from the ground.
Next to you, your One visibly tensed. The grip on his sword tightened so much his knuckles turned white. You had only heard of it, heard the stories of its horror, the cold-blooded killings in the name of darkness. No survivors, nobody to truly name the extent of its might.
Although it was so very far away, its sheer size nearly froze the blood in your veins, heart seemingly having stopped beating upon its sight. It dawned on you that you were next in line. You and every citizen of Gondolin.
“Glorfindel!” You warned, chest tightening with every breath you took, along with a knot twisting your insides in terror. He slowly turned to look at you as if he was in disbelief himself. His face was drained of its blood, leaving an unnatural paleness which made your stomach churn even more. He did not bat an eyelash when he spoke.
“I… have to face it.”
“No, no, no,” you interrupted him, breathing heavily “There has to be another way- we just.. have to lead everyone through the mountains. Surely it won’t follow us there!”
As valiant and courageous as he was, you could not afford to let him go now. Not when he was the only one you had left since the initial attack.
“Y/N. This is not up for debate.”
“Have you lost your mind?! You’ll die!” You yelled, panicking at the thought of him going back.
“And leave my people in the hands of the enemy? I have to take a stand, Y/N,” he exclaimed, tears threatening to fall from his desperate eyes when he took you in; lower lip quivering at the thought of separation, your shaky hands gripping his cold armor in hopes of him staying. He laid his hand over yours, squeezing it in an attempt to steady them, to no avail. Your eyes widened, stinging with tears at last.
“There is no other way, melda, my heart..”
You knew he was right. He was a noble one, always had been. And you had been naive, believing that very trait of his wouldn’t lead to his demise. When had a noble ellon ever met a noble fate? Perhaps death himself was a noble one, needing to collect his subjects. Perhaps Mandos too believed in the mortality of the noble heart, no matter to whom it belonged.
“Promise me you will lead them to safety. Promise me-“ he choked back a sob, suddenly pouncing on you and pulling you as close as he could, deeply breathing in your scent before continuing hoarsely “Promise me you’ll survive.”
And right then and there, amidst the chaos and screams of your people, in the smoke rising all around you, in the air that began burning and clouding with heat the more it was approaching, you realized which sinister fate was upon you. It was in the way he held you, clung to you with all his might, in a manner he had never displayed before, because to him, you had always had to be treated with the utmost care. Even in the face of trying situations, he would never let you feel any uncertainty, never let out his frustrations on you, never make you feel like there was no way out, even if he weren’t sure of it himself. Now, however?
You didn’t want to believe it, didn’t want to even consider the possibility of him not returning to you, but his desperate iron grip on you told you otherwise. It all felt different. This parting felt so very different.
So final.
His fëa, which would usually emit such warmth and comfort when he would cradle you in his arms like this, enveloped you in a net of anguish and fear instead. Not answering his plea, you simply returned it.
“Promise me you’ll come back to me.”
There were no promises to be made. Yet, there was nothing else to be said. You moved to hold his face in your hands, feeling his clenched jaw, wiping the tears from his cheeks, letting your eyes wander over every part of his visage, — twisted and pained as it was, it was his. Eru, it made your heart ache in a way you had never believed possible.
“My Glorfindel..” you cried, clumsily bumping your nose with his, foreheads coming together. Your hands were still on his face, memorizing the way it fit so perfectly. Every pore, every freckle. His golden eyelashes were stuck together with tears, eyes glossy and hopeless. The face you had pledged yourself to in love, under Varda’s watchful eye in the prosperous city of Gondolin.
Another wave of impending doom washed over both of you again, reminding you of its proximity. You opened your eyes to find yourselves in the harsh reality again; people were scattered all around you, trying to flee in any and every direction. The smell of fire and smoke was heavy in the air, soldiers were shouting diverse commands at each other in vain. Everyone felt it. Death. Before you, Glorfindel’s eyes remained fixed on yours.
“My heart,” he hummed, brows furrowed in a deep frown, tears cascading down his sculpted cheeks again like rivers. “I must go.”
He laid his lips on yours, urgently. They were salty and dry, and you melted into them like you normally would, every time he kissed you.
“I love you,” you mumbled inbetween sobs, lips seeking out his, again and again, each breath burning in your throat. “I love you, I love you… Eru, please come back to me.”
When you broke apart, his lips were swollen and had a pink tint to them, which posed a strangely vibrant contrast to the rest of him. His gaze was thick with grief when he looked at you, as if he was already mourning you, mourning his home, his House.
It was an image that would burn itself into your mind for the rest of your life. An image that would cause endless sleepless nights. An image that would plague you with night terrors, bestow upon you an incurable guilt for letting him go into battle, knowing the chances of his survival. Knowing that maybe, if you had been more insistent, you could have prevented what would come to pass, ripping your heart into shreds — turning his name into nothing but a mere memory.
