I've heard of it innumerable times.  In fact, when I was much younger, and (I hope) much more foolish, I used it to my advantage.  Approximately 471 times.  Amost exclusively to woo beautiful elven women, of course.  Oh, to be a Balrog-slayer was to be a king!  Even Gil-Galad himself used to eye daggers at me whenever my little deed was mentioned. 

"Glorfindel! Glorfindel!" they used to cry, "Tell us of when you slayed the Balrog!" And, for a while I was proud and told gladly.  But, only a little while.  It didn't take very long for the jubilation to wear thin, the songs to irritate, and the plays (sweet Valar, yes there were performances!) to horrify. 

Elrond used to smirk, "There goes Glorfindel trying to hide in his chair again!" drat him, he enjoyed it!  I never asked to be a hero, but, I got it.  However, it did take few years until I wore the look that was currently on young Master Gamgee's face.  Poor thing.  I watched, fascinated, as he subtly tried to hide behind the two younger hobbits, who were just as subtly, manuevering him back into the front. 

"Observing the competition?" Elrond must have followed my gaze. 

Curse him.  Talking in riddles! Even Balrogs knew better.

"What do you mean?" I asked. 

Elrond responded by arching his eyebrow to the moon.  I blinked, momentarily distracted.

"...impressive, is he not, Glorfindel?"

"Oh, uh, yes."

"Perhaps we should show our appreciation for his heroism," Elrond smirked.  He knew my adversion to hero worship.  It was at this point that I began to feel a little ill.  Surely Elrond could not be so cruel.  The little one was almost petrified from all the attention as it was. 

He smiled and I winced in sympathy for the torture about to be afflicted upon innocent Samwise.  Oh, but he was a poetic hero!  I must confess.  A simple halfling, untrained in warrior arts, fighting a monstrous spider to avenge his perceived dead master, defeating the creature that not even elven warriors could... Poor thing. He was practically begging for it.  I scrunched up in my seat, wincing as Elrond stood and called for a singer.  The blood draining from Samwise's face as the younger hobbits squealed joyfully was pitiful.

"At least you'll only have to listen to it for a few decades," I muttered.

It was hours later that Frodo was able to beg weariness for himself and his companions to retire.  Personally I thought it was an act of extreme compassion, especially since Merry and Pippin were calling for encores.  The elder hobbit seemed more amused than anything of his friend’s plight.  I watched as he threw his arm around Samwise’s shoulder and spoke into his ear as they walked away.  I wondered what he said, and snooping unashamedly, I slipped from my seat and moved closer.  I was fascinated by this hobbit.  He reminded me of myself, an interesting comparison I admit, but nonetheless, one I could not shake.   

“Glorfindel, you silly elf,” I sighed in exasperation as I stealthily followed the hobbits out of the room and down the hallways.  Minutes later I was walking normally, convinced that with the amount of noise Pippin was making, even a troop of orcs could have snuck up on them.  The youngest hobbit was swinging his arms in wide arcs, and short thrusts while making swishing noises.  Merry had fallen behind to glare at him. 

“Shhhh, Pippin!” he hissed, rather noisily himself. 

I smothered hysterical giggles (most undignified for an elf, Elrond would have had to exercise his eyebrows yet again) as I finally deduced what he was doing. 

Pippin, having heard that elves act out great deeds, was practicing his defeat of the troll.  The hobbit was wheeling in the hallway and menacing an irritated Merry with an imaginary sword.  I sagged against a wall, weak with repressed laughter.  Pippin stalked forward, a determined expression on his face and shouted,

“Get back, you foul thing!”

Merry flapped his hand at his cousin, “Pippin! Quit it!” and thus, provoked an attack the likes of which I doubt I’d survive seeing again.   

"Eeeeeeeiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!"

"Oww! Pippin! Get OFF!"

"Die! Die troll! DIE!"

"Pippin! Pippin! STOP IT RIGHT NOW! FRODO!! HELP MEEE!!"

The true volume and enormity of Pippin's attack could only be measured in the fact that none of the four hobbits noticed an elven lord several feet away, rolling about on the floor and howling with laughter.  Unsurprisingly, it took both Frodo and Sam to rescue Merry from his cousin.  During those minutes I managed to compose myself enough to stagger back out of sight.  Still cackling, I watched them walk into their rooms.  Sam's, I noted was the second to the left, right beside Frodo's.  Mentally marking the door, I resolved to have a talk with Samwise in the morning about all this hero business.  If he couldn't sit through an hour of songs about himself without nearly dying of embarrassment, he would definitely need it before he ventured out of the Shire ever again. 

"Help meee!" I whispered and snickered.  No wonder Mithrandir spent so much time in the Shire. 

I was up with the dawn, as usual, the next morning.  Early rising was a practice I’d picked up as a soldier and had never been able to shake (over a few thousand years a habit quickly tranforms into a lifestyle).  After liberating a few apples from the kitchen, I walked to Elrond’s stables to greet Asfaloth.  Naturally, I’d owned innumerable horses over the years, but Asfaloth was one of my favorites.  He nickered softly as I opened the stable doors.  However, that touching sound was not for myself. Greedy creature that he was, Asfaloth only had eyes for the two large, red apples in my hands.  (I’d stolen three, but an elven lord has to eat, too.)  Passing the other stalls, most of which held Elrond’s carefully selected brood mares, I patted and spoke to each.  At the end of the barn, Asfaloth tossed his head repeatedly and made high, whinnying sounds to indicate his impatience.  I pretended to ignore him, talking sweetly an old chestnut mare of Erestor’s. 

Clunk! An iron-shod hoof hit the front door of the stall in exasperation. Deigning to look up, I laughed at the expression on my old friend’s face.  Ears pinned, Asfaloth glared at me and pawed at the wood again. 

“You live in astonishing hardship, my friend.  How do you survive?”

 I soon reached the door to Asfaloth’s stall, careful to remain out of the limits of his grasping teeth, a lesson I’d only needed to learn once.  He stretched his small head towards my arms, and towards the apples.  His nostrils quivered.  Brown eyes fixed on the fruit; he nickered again.   

“Tell me, where do you think young Master Gamgee will be this morning?” The horse shot me a look of pure indifference.  He wanted his treat. 

“I wager that he will be in the garden, waiting till his master rises to fetch breakfast.  Do you agree?”  Teasing this horse was one of the highlights of my morning. 

Asfaloth snorted, and bobbed his head rapidly up and down.  I bit my lip to hold back the laughter bubbling up in my chest.  He looked ridiculous. 

“Well, since you agree, then I suppose that’s the end of the matter.  Such a wise horse cannot be argued with.”

Finally relenting, I held out one of the apples and stepped within his range, my hand held flat so that my horse would not snap off my fingers in his greed.  I’d never hear the end of it if Asfaloth did such a thing.  Imagine, Glorfindel of the Six Fingers. Sour-faced Elrond would be giggling like an elf maiden all the way to Valinor.

Snaking his head out, Asfaloth opened his mouth wide and Whoosh! Crunch! the apple was gone.  I fed him the other without ceremony, as always half-expecting him to choke, as he seemed to swallow almost without chewing.

 Flipping the latch to his door, I opened it and began to walk to back through the barn.  After a moment’s search to make sure he hadn’t dropped anything, Asfaloth followed.  I waited in the weak sunshine just outside the stable. 

“Come, come!  Quit flirting with those mares!”  It was a daily annoyance, that I’m sure was the payback for my teasing, but Asfaloth took his time exiting the stable.  He touched noses to each of the mares and danced briefly in the aisle for them, tossing his forelock out of his eyes and swishing his long tail. 

“Yes!  You are a very attractive horse!  Now come!  I do have things to do today, you ungrateful creature!”   

Pointedly ignoring me, Asfaloth trotted out into the open, head high and tail flagging.  He arrogantly tipped his nose to look down at me as I was forced to walk over to where he had stopped.  He sniffed in disdain as I grabbed a hunk of mane and swung myself aboard. 

It was a short, harrowing ride to the pasture.  Asfaloth had pretended to spook often, making giant sideways leaps and breaking suddenly into his swiftest gallop only to slam to a halt an instant later. Other elves may mock me for normally riding with a saddle, but they do not ride Asfaloth.  I have never found a more exasperating, challenging mount.   If a he were an elf, Asfaloth would have been weak and clutching his sides with laughter as I slid to the ground at the gate, and opened it with a sarcastic flourish. 

“Worthless.” I muttered as he cantered away, self-satisfied, with not a spook or bolt to be seen.  I glanced at the sun; it had just begun to rise above the tree line.  Perhaps I could soon find Samwise in the garden.