The Halls of Mandos, usually a sanctuary of profound, quiet reflection and the gentle hum of countless spirits awaiting their destined path, were, at this moment, anything but silent. A newly arrived, rather vexed spirit was making his presence, and his grievances, known with a vibrant energy that only a newly-reformed Noldorin Elf could possess.

Glorfindel, his spirit now shining with the pure, untarnished light of Valinor, stood amidst the ethereal forms of other elves, a golden beacon of exasperation. His focus was entirely on his old friend and fellow Lord of the Fountain, Ecthelion, who floated before him with a serene, almost beatific smile playing on his lips, a testament to his own more peaceful, if equally violent, demise. Ecthelion, having grappled with a Balrog himself, listened with the infinite patience of the Mandos-bound, his head slightly inclined as Glorfindel continued his impassioned, and distinctly un-Mandos-like, tirade.

"I am telling you, Ecthelion," Glorfindel declared, his voice, though a spiritual echo, resonated with the full force of his lingering annoyance. "It was the hair! The foul creature, that monstrous flame-beast, actually pulled it! Gripped it, I tell you, just as I was seeking to gain leverage for the final thrust!" He ran a translucent hand through his now perfectly unbound, impossibly lustrous golden hair, a gesture of pure, unadulterated frustration. "Had I but tied it back, secured it properly, as you so often suggested for those skirmishes in the Valleys of Sirion, for those damp patrols near the Gate of Finrod, perhaps—" He broke off with an exasperated, very un-elven sigh that seemed to ripple through the very fabric of the ethereal hall. "Perhaps I would have had that crucial extra second! That fleeting moment to reposition my blade, that vital advantage! Instead, I was momentarily distracted by the sheer indignity of it all!"

Ecthelion's faint, knowing smile widened into a full, gentle grin. "My dear Glorfindel," he began, his tone calm and steady, infused with a wisdom that had ripened in the timeless halls. "Are you truly suggesting that the mighty Balrog of Morgoth, a creature of primordial fire and shadow, was brought to its end, and you to yours, by a... hair entanglement? Such a thought would surely amuse the Valar, if not Morgoth himself."

Glorfindel threw his hands up in a gesture of pure, elegant exasperation. "It was not defeated, was it? We both perished in the fall, a mutual, if somewhat undignified, plummet into the chasm! And yes, I am absolutely suggesting that in the brutal, chaotic heat of battle, every single variable matters! Especially when one is grappling with a creature composed of ancient malevolence, fire, and shadow, and, apparently, possessed of a deeply uncivilized penchant for follicular assault!" He paused, his blue eyes, which had been flashing with righteous indignation, softened slightly. "I should have tied it, Ecthelion! You always said I should! Your insistence on practicality, your measured approach to even the smallest details, it truly was commendable." He then gestured around the tranquil, luminous halls of Mandos. "And now look! Here I am, recounting the embarrassing specifics of my demise and arguing with you in the Halls of Mandos, when I should still be among the living, fighting in Gondolin, or at the very least, enjoying a well-earned rest before this particular stop!" He shook his head, a wry amusement finally touching his features. "Though I suppose it does afford us the opportunity to converse once more, old friend, without the clang of steel or the roar of dragons. Still, my point stands. Next time, for certain, it is a warrior's braid, pulled tight and secured, without question."