Chapter One: The Colt and the Elf

            Most tales begin in this fashion. ‘The grass was deep green that day. The sky was a beautiful sapphire blue. The clouds were white, fluffy, and few enough that they did not cover Anar which shone down brightly on the ravine in which was situated the Last Homely House. . . . ’ and so on, and on, and on. Ah, the beautiful scenery! Utterly boring. I am not going to trouble myself with it. I am Asfaloth, named so by Lord Elrond. If you ever paid any attention to the important tales that are told by the elves, you would know about me. I am an elvish horse. Learning about me is a lot more important than learning about fluffy clouds and sunshine. As all honorable beings are, I am truthful. Therefore, I must admit that I could not care less if the grasses were emerald or sea green (as long as they tasted good) and the sky could have been orange for all it mattered.

            I had just turned six months old, and was pondering what course my life would have taken by the time I became a yearling. Most of us elf-horses have a particular master, chosen when we are between the ages of six and twelve months, who will then personally train him. I belonged to Elrond, Lord of Imladris, but he already had three personally trained stallions (who, like me, are the preferred mounts, of course) as well as several mares. So, obviously he did not need another one. My sire, Noladar, and my dam, Vercamil, also belonged to Lord Elrond and they were always telling me how wise and courteous he is. There are too many people (occasionally elves, but usually men) who are not appropriately polite to their horses. Wise elves always know enough to be considerate of their steeds. Those few who do not are clearly unwise.

            Being one of the bravest, smartest foals born in that year, I hoped I would secure the attention of one of the bravest, smartest elves. Now, most elves are at least reasonable, but there was one she-elf who was the most self-absorbed, little twit imaginable. I had only seen her from a distance several times, until one evening when she was walking among the horses with Lord Elrond and one of his friends, a Lord Glorfindel, whom I had not seen before. He was courteous to all the horses, and my sire said he was a really brave warrior. The she-elf, however, (who’s name I fast decided was not even worthy of learning) completely ignored me. I know it is hard to believe that any elf could ignore a foal as eye-catching as I am, but she did not even look at me. Instead, she stroked my mother’s nose. Hmph! The cheek of some elves! My mother told me that if I spent less time admiring my reflection in a puddle and pretending to ignore passersby (which I do not do), I would be on better terms with elves like her. So that I am not misrepresented, I must explain that I certainly do not spend too much time admiring my reflection in a puddle. I just happened to be looking in one on the day I am recounting now (not when I met her), but only because there was a rumor galloping around the stable that one of us was going to be a present to an advisor of Elrond. I merely was practicing my dazzling prance in case I chose him to be my attendant. My sire said I should practice paying attention to what I am told, but I think he just did not recognize genuine talent when he saw it.

            But all that is beside the point. My pure white coat is so dazzlingly beautiful when Anar shines on it (and as I am obviously the most gifted of the lot), my stable mates are all jealous. They insinuate that I think too much of myself. Where they get that notion, I have no idea. But even despite that, I go out of my way not to rub it in much. That is why I hoped I would get a smart, brave master who would appreciate me properly. Then all the others of my kind would have to admit my superior abilities.

~-~-~

            The library of Imladris was usually rather quiet at that time of day, and on this occasion it was completely empty, save for a single occupant who was seated in a chair in a corner of the room, engrossed in a scroll. He was partially hidden from sight behind the ornately carved arch of a doorway which led onto a balcony beside him. The sunlight was streaming in the doorway and shining over his shoulder onto the parchment. Though he seemed somewhat troubled by what he was reading, a smile was playing with a corner of his mouth. As he unrolled more of the scroll, his smile became less restrained. Continuing to read, his eyes, already sparkling, widened slightly, and he pressed his lips together firmly. The scroll began quivering.

            A door on the other side of the room opened. Lord Elrond was of average height (for an elf), and his dark hair bore an elaborately wrought silver circlet. His eyes held the wisdom of ages past, and at this point they were glinting with amusement as he surveyed the reader (who by now was virtually shaking with silent laughter). He stepped into the room and spoke.

            “What is it this time, Glorfindel? Your hands were tied behind your back? Or single-handedly, you were fighting off entire legions of orcs at the same time?”

            Now laughing aloud, Glorfindel looked up from the scroll. “Did you know Lindir has taken to writing verse, Elrond?”

            “No,” Elrond said, “Though it does not surprise me, as he loves such things. Surely you do not mean it is not good?”

            Glorfindel gave him a disapproving look, which was not very effective since he was still laughing. Deepening his voice and arranging his expression to one of mingled excitement, awe, and solemnity he sang,

            “His golden hair blew in the wind

            From within he shone with light

            His voice echoed above the din

            As they stood on that dreadful height

            ‘Face me fiend, Morgoth-spawn

            One shall not live beyond thisday

            For though my lord-king now is gone

            His princess will not be your prey

            I am of the house Golden-flower

            Last of a noble warrior line

            Lord Glorfindel will never cower

            Before your foul and vile kind’”

            It looked for a moment as if he would go on, but then his expression crumbled and they both laughed.

            “I have fought beside you at many times, my friend,” Elrond said with a chuckle, “but I was unaware that in the midst of heated battle you stopped to sing songs of challenge.”

            “That might be because I do not,” Glorfindel replied, still merry. “I said nothing of the sort.”

            “Did you even say anything at all?” Elrond asked curiously.

            “Well, yes, but it would not look good set in verse, I am afraid,” Glorfindel answered with an embarrassed shrug, “I do not remember my exact words, but I believe I said something close to, ‘Fight someone your own strength, you hideous torch.’ Admittedly not quite as witty as I might have wished,” he continued hurriedly as Elrond arched his eyebrow amusedly at his friends’ unforeseen disclosure. “I was rather distracted at the time. The part that Lindir does not reveal is that I had just stumbled over the exceptionally uneven and rock-strewn terrain of the path, and knocked my head against a jutting part of the cliff face. That does not fit a hero’s image very well.”

            Elrond silently crossed the room and gazed at the scroll. After a moment,he brought his hand up to his chin, the very picture of a learned scholar. “Hmmm, perhaps something more like this,” he said, rather too innocently.

            Glorfindel gave him a sharp look, as he had a very good idea what was coming.

            “He pulled himself up off the ground

            Dearly hoping none had seen

            A valiant elf-lord swiftly downed

            By a wicked pebble mean.

            He staggered to unsteady feet

            Pushed his hair out of his eyes

            Woozily faced the balrog’s heat . . .”

            “Disregarding someone’s lies,” Glorfindel finished. “Your acclamation is duly noted and appreciated,” Glorfindel continued dryly to the now smiling elf-lord. “Perhaps Lindir’s verses are not as bad as I had originally thought.”

            “Then I suppose you do not mind if I read the rest of that scroll?” Elrond asked innocently, maintaining his scholarly air, but with twinkling eyes.

            Glorfindel instantly closed the scroll with a loud crunching sound, and glared at his friend, who remained unperturbed. “Highly amusing,” he said flatly. “As you will notice, I am convulsed with laughter.”

            “Well, good then,” replied Elrond innocuously. “I must ask Lindir to sing it in the Hall of Fire tomorrow night. You know how I love tales about Gondolin.”

            “Of course you do,” Glorfindel replied, pretending to be irritated, (while making certain that the scroll was out of Elrond’s reach), “but only the ones that feature me, and then you sing them for days on end. Those Terrible Twins of yours are even worse about it. It took me a month to get the last one out of my head. I all but dreamt of it!”

            “So that is why you were so eager to see them go hunting orcs with the rangers,” Elrond grinned at his friend, dropping his hand from his chin back to his side. “I must have a word with my sons when they return.”

            “I am certain you will,” Glorfindel grumbled at the elf-lord, “Since I have heard from a reliable source that it was at your suggestion they behaved so disagreeably last time.”

            “Ah, yes.” Elrond’s face turned pensive. “I must have a word with my daughter on that matter.”

            Each was only able to hold his stern veneer for a moment longer, before their expressions crumbled and they both laughed. Shaking his head, Glorfindel rose and returned the scroll (along with several others and a book), to its place on a shelf and then walked out onto the balcony, Elrond joining him. It was about four hours after midday in late summer. A breeze blew gently by, ruffling their clothes before sweeping in the open door and spinning all of the loose papers onto the floor. That, however, went unnoticed by the two elves.

            Glorfindel was observing his friend curiously. “Did you have a purpose in coming here, or were you merely bored and looking for someone to annoy?”

            “As the heir of Gil-galad, I am more tactful than that,” Elrond replied gravely.

            “Of course,” Glorfindel replied unconvincingly. “My memory must be failing me. Even as a child, of course you and your brother would never have done anything to annoy anyone. It would never even have crossed your guileless young minds. You were just such sweet little darlings . . . 

            “However,” Elrond interrupted (causing Glorfindel to appear rather smug), “I did have a purpose in seeking you out, other than to annoy you. There have recently been multiple sightings of orcs on our north-easternmost border.”

            Glorfindel frowned, mirth gone, and stared unseeing at a happily singing robin that had landed on the wooden railing. “The shadow grows stronger again. It seeks what it lost.”

            “My fear is that the Enemy will find it,” Elrond replied grimly. “Mithrandir concurs with me. He tells me that the servants of the shadow are in movement everywhere. Whether or not they find it, he is preparing for war again. And he will move soon.”

            Glorfindel sighed and they stared in silence over the valley for a long moment. A cloud briefly covered the sun and a chill breeze blew. The robin hopped off the railing and flew into a tree before resuming his song. But the song no longer seemed as happy to the two elves.

            “As I deliberated over that, it put me in mind of another challenge that is in need of solving,” Elrond continued as the cloud passed and the sun again shone undauntedly. “Your need of another horse,” he elaborated at Glorfindel’s blank look. “You know your old stallion is in no longer capable of warfare. He does not even bestir himself to assume his condescending airs of superiority when I near him anymore.”

            “I am aware of that,” replied Glorfindel, and he sounded almost irked. “But I like him.”

            Elrond arranged his expression to one of extreme patience. “I know you like him, Glorfindel, though what you ever saw in that indolent na-, er, horse,” he amended at Glorfindel’s frown, “I will never understand, but what I was attempting to tell you, is that you cannot very well command a battle from his back, and battle is coming, we both know that. I am not saying you need to be rid of him; I am merely offering you the choice of the foals born to my mares this year.”

            Glorfindel looked at him unbelievingly. “With all respect due your excellent steeds, and appreciation of your kind offer, you know my opinion of your personal horses, Elrond. I believe we spoke of this roughly a hundred and twenty years ago. I remember it well. I do recall my saying I would have nothing more to do with your horses for the rest of my immortal life. You may think my horse is stupid, but yours . . .”

            “My horses are the most intelligent in Imladris,” replied Elrond, sounding irked.

            “Your horses never use their intelligence for anything good.”

            “Unlike your horse, mine return for me if, for any reason, I fall off.”

            “That is because your horses throw you off in the first place.”

            “They are high-spirited.”

            “They think it is humorous.”

            “My horses do not bite people they mistrust.”

            “No, they bite everyone and everything.”

            “My horses do not kick people they mistrust.”

            “No, they kick everyone and everything, too.”

            “My horses are the fastest.”

            “They are the only ones who feel the need to show it off at every opportunity.”

            “My horses are loyal.”

            “So is mine.”

            “My horses are excellent jumpers.”

            “As they constantly demonstrate, by jumping into the gardens and eating the roses.”

            “They need lots of food to maintain their strength.”

            “Elrond, they eat everything!”

            “That is untrue!”

            “That is not!”

            “It is!”

            “It is n. . .”

            “Excuse me.” Both elves jumped and turned self-consciously towards the doorway. A dark-haired elf was standing there, surveying the two elves with a supremely disapproving look. Elrond recovered himself first.

            “Is anything wrong, Lord Erestor?” he asked nonchalantly. When Lord Erestor stared at him in incredulity, he realized it might not have worked ideally.

            “You are asking me if anything is wrong, Lord Elrond?” Erestor replied in disbelief.

            Glorfindel sniggered (causing Elrond to glare at him) and ran his fingers through his hair. “No need for worry, Erestor, we were merely having a friendly disagreement.”

            Erestor stared at him. “A friendly disagreement? Everyone in the valley could hear you!” He paused and stared at them with a trace of suspicion in his dark eyes. “You were discussing horses again,” he stated.

            “I do not know if our slight differences of opinion should be called discussing,” Glorfindel muttered.

            Ignoring him, Elrond grasped his chance. “Exactly, Erestor. Perhaps you can persuade our mutual friend to accept my offer of a new warhorse, as his own is too old and,” he paused, “quiet.”

            Erestor snorted, and gave him a look that barely fell short of disdain. “I am sure that any horse you offer Lord Glorfindel would have a lineage that looksexcellent when on paper, and a good horse he may be, but with all due respect, I would not accept your offer either. I learned my lesson from watching Lord Glorfindel the last time.”

            Elrond gave him a look of deepest betrayal. “But they are the best . . .”

            “We know they are the best, Elrond! But I simply do not have a death wish.” Glorfindel interrupted.

            “You do not have to have a dea-”

            “Do not start that again!” pleaded Erestor, who came as close to groaning as an elf ever does.

            “Excuse me,” a soft voice broke into their discussion. A female elf had come up to Erestor’s side. “I could not help hearing your discussion . . .”

            Erestor snorted; Glorfindel grinned; Elrond scowled at them both.

            “. . . . and I thought maybe I might be of assistance.”

            “Your judgment is always welcome, Arwen,” Elrond smiled at her. She smiled back, and stepping past Erestor, moved to Elrond’s side.

            Acknowledging Glorfindel with another smile and a nod, she suggested, “Perhaps I could suggest a compromise?”

            Her quiet words caught the avid attention of the other three elves, and Erestor’s expression conveyed that if she could end the conflict, the he would commemorate the occasion.

            “If Lord Glorfindel would be willing, he could go down and just look at the horses. As you know, my own palfrey is one of the offspring of my father’s favorite mount, and she is well-behaved, obedient and calm. Lord Glorfindel would not in truthchoose one, merely see if one is well-mannered enough for his consideration.”

            “Well-mannered is not the issue. I will be looking for one who is not a sadist,” they heard Glorfindel mumble.

            Arwen continued serenely, as if she had not heard. “I am sure among the foals this year, there will be one. That is, of course, if this is acceptable to you, Father?”

            This last was addressed to Elrond, who nodded. She looked at Glorfindel persuasively and he sighed.

            “It is reasonable, my lady Arwen.” He took Arwen’s hand and bowed. “How could any refuse such a gracious request?”

            “It is settled then,” she said cheerfully. “Now, Father, my brothers have returned, and they say they have tidings for you. Elladan said they would await you in your study.”

            “Thank you, daughter,” Elrond replied, ignoring Glorfindel’s groan of dismay and his muttered ‘Why now?’.

            “Good day, Erestor.” He turned to Glorfindel. “I will speak with you later, Glorfindel. Until then, may your search prove worthwhile.” His eyes twinkled as he swept off the balcony and out of the room, followed by Arwen who nodded to Erestor (who still looked grateful), and smiled impishly at Glorfindel.

            As soon as they were out of sight, Glorfindel leaned against the railing and ran his hand through his hair. He looked at Erestor and the corner of his mouth quirked upward slightly. “I am reminded of Fingolfin’s challenge to Morgoth.”

            “Fingolfin was bargaining with his life,” Erestor said severely. “And he lost, never truly having a chance of victory. For that matter, you and Elrond should have thought of this solution yourselves. Besides, you do not mind those horses nearly as much as you pretend. Imladris is in sore trouble if its wisest lords quibble over matters of such slight importance as this.”

            “Slight? Of course. You do not train warriors, so do not have to sit on one.”muttered Glorfindel, derisively. “Those horses have warg blood, I am sure.”

            Erestor opened his mouth as if he were about to say something encouraging, paused, and reflected on the situation. “Good luck.” He paused again, and then the shadow of a smileappeared on his face. “You may need it, Balrog-slayer.”

            Glorfindel glared at him as only an elf-lord could.

            Outside the door, Elrond raised an eyebrow at Arwen. Her look changed from unadulterated innocence to a devious grin. She gave a slight shrug. “I thought he needed more adventure in his life. You know his weakness for good horses. And Erestor is right. You should have thought of that solution yourselves.

            “I did,” Elrond said. “But he would never have agreed to it without your aid.”

Chapter Two: An Introduction Inauspicious

            When we were called in from the pasture for our evening meal, I was surprised when Raimendur, who oversaw the young horses, called all of the foals who were under a year in age, and led us away from the rest of the herd. I did not like Raimendur (as he never paid me adequate attention), but my mother insisted, so I stomped away with the others, silently vowing that if he were going to try to fit me for shoes (I had seen some of the yearlings given shoes the day before), I was going to kick him. . . . hard. And maybe bite him, too. Fortunately for his well-being, he attempted nothing of the sort, merely giving us our oats. As usual, I quickly wolfed mine. Then thinking his behavior rather odd, I decided he must be trying to lure me into a false sense of security.

            ‘Ha,’ I thought, triumphantly. “He can just try to fool me!’

            At that point, he noticed me watching him and rolled his eyes. I laid back my ears, narrowed my eyes and glared at him (I am very good at glaring at unappreciative people.) ‘How dare he roll his eyes at me? Why, the cheek of him! How dare . . . and who is that?!’

            For another elf had joined him at the edge of the field and was speaking. He was slightly tall (for an elf), and had golden-hair that matched the beautiful highlights of my coat, and caught my attention, since most of the Imladris elves are dark-haired. An ancient-looking dagger with an ornamental design of golden flowers etched into the hilt hung at his side. He also had a bow and quiver of arrows strapped to his back. It was a slightly longer bow than most, and actually, the more I thought about it, it looked quite tempting. He seemed to be deep in conversation with Raimendur, and even though he appeared to be a warrior, surely he would not notice yet if I took just a little nibble. Before I realized what I was doing, I had started sneaking closer. His back was still turned, yes, yes, yes! Not far now. Up closer, I noticed the bow was quite ornately formed with pictures of trees and leaves on the dark wood. Elves do not realize that such exquisite designs only make such things look more enticing. I snickered inwardly. I would just strip off a few of those carvings with my teeth . . . . and maybe take one of the arrows away for a future snack. I was almost there. Just six more yards. I could start by slowly severing the bowstring so that if he touched it, it would snap in his face. . . .

             Unfortunately, my mother saw me before I reached my target. I heard her stomp her forefoot just before she screeched, ‘Asfaloth! How many times have I told you not to chew on bows? Or bowstrings? And stay away from those arrows!’

            I knew better than to challenge my mother when she used that voice. Worse still, the elf turned around and saw me so now he would know to watch his back. Ugh! She spoils everything! Why, just a week previously . . . . never mind. Anyway, Raimendur looked at me, and he gave me this knowing expression. I bared my teeth and shook my head. He had not looked so disgustingly smug when I had appropriated the buckle from his belt, and I just knew he would tell nasty stories about me to the warrior. Now, mind you, I am not saying that there was not a grain of truth in some of them, but I am sure he makes them sound worse than they really are. That is just a simply disgraceful thing to do. A proper elf would have more respect for a horse.

            ‘Well,’ I thought, ‘see if I care!’ I turned around and stomped away. I did not think either of them would pay any attention, but I was not going to let him get to me. If he thought his vile decorum could shake my supreme will, he could just think some more!

            My mane was not very long yet, but I made sure that it hung handsomely on my neck as I paraded over to a little stream. There are a lot of streams that flow through Imladris, so there is always one available. I suppose it is because Imladris is situated at the bottom of a ravine, but I have never really given it much thought. Anar glared off the water into my eyes almost as soon as I reached it. I, however, had long since learned how to deal with that. It had not taken me long to discover that if I stood at just the right angle, and closed my eyes just enough, it would not bother me and I could practice all I needed. Turning, so that my side was parallel to the stream, I began to rehearse my prance.

            And if the elf-warrior was not going to be impressed with me, then I was not impressed with him either. Any decent elf can tell that a horse of my unmatched talents is a worthy ally, and anyone who cannot is beneath my notice. Yet somehow I had a feeling that there was something different about this elf, compared to the other warriors and great lords and such that I had met before. I shook myself vigorously (I was dwelling on him too much) and made certain my head was raised at the right height, so I would not kick myself in the chin as I glided along.

~-~-~

            Now Glorfindel did not in actual fact mind Elrond’s horses too much (though it might seem otherwise to those who were unaccustomed to his manner), but it was still with some trepidation that he waited while the elf in charge of the foals separated those among whom he would be choosing from the others. There were five of them; one dark grey colt, one light grey colt, a bay, a white, and a light grey filly. He could not help but appreciate the irony of the fact that they were all the foals of Noladar, Elrond’s favorite mount; the same Noladar who took great pleasure in tossing Elrond into the Bruinen whenever the chance presented itself. It had taken a good deal of strategizing (also a good deal of practice) before Elrond was able to outwit him. A loyal beast, yes, but Glorfindel suspected, uruk-spawn. At least Noladar showed some respect, waiting until no one was watching. Of course, while no one had yet seen exactly how he managed to scrape Elrond off (though it was believed that tree branches and rolling on pebble-strewn ground figured largely in the equation), those nearby at the time were privileged with the sight of the greatly respected and wise Lord of Imladris pulling himself out of the icy river, sputtering and spitting out gravel. Glorfindel himself had been treated to the surprising sight several times. It was partly for that reason that he was somewhat wary of any of Noladar’s foals. But at the same time, he also viewed it as a challenge; and quite truthfully thought that it might be rather entertaining. It would certainly never be dull.

            The foal’s caretaker was speaking now, so he shook himself out of his thoughts and tried to pay attention. “. . . . with the white sock is Narehin. He has the potential to be a good mount one day, but he strained the tendon in his right foreleg when he was born, and it will be a weakness in strenuous circumstances.”

            Glorfindel suppressed a sigh as he saw that both the bay and one of the grey colts had a white sock and he had no idea which one was Narehin. He considered asking Raimendur, but quickly discarded the idea with a glance at his companion. Raimendur did not like it when people did not listen to him, for in his opinion, the only worthwhile thing which existed in Arda was the horses. Besides that, he never displayed a sense of humor.

            Oblivious, Raimendur continued. “Ainille is the filly. She has a calmer temperament, although she will bite you if you turn your back. Not hard, just enough to shred clothing. She is the twin of Asfaloth.”

            This Glorfindel could understand. “And which one is Asfaloth? The grey with the sock?”

            “No, I just told you that was Narehin,” Raimendur replied. He paused, scanning the field, and a disapproving look flashed across his brow. “Asfaloth is the one sneaking up behind you.”

            This did not surprise Glorfindel, as it is very difficult for a horse to sneak (even if he is only a foal), so Glorfindel had already been aware of his slinking approach. Nevertheless, at Raimendur’s statement, he turned around to face him. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that one of the mares in the adjoining field was stomping and snorting as if a horse fly had flown into her ear. The foal in question jumped about a foot off the ground and his eyes went wide, when he saw he had been discovered. A pure white foal, about six months old, Glorfindel thought he had the potential to grow to be an excellent horse. His eyes were wild giving him a crazed look, but it appeared that he was trying to look intimidating. He bared his teeth and shook his head at Raimendur, before turning around and stamping off.

            As Glorfindel watched him, he felt a strange idea beginning to take shape in the back of his mind. The foal was obviously going to be trouble. He had walked over to a stream and was now prancing up and down in front of it. He did not appear to have even an ounce of common sense and certainly thought too much of himself. ‘It is not a good idea,’ Glorfindel tried to convince himself.

            ‘Just forget about it. Besides, Elrond will never let you live it down if you choose the most demanding horse in the herd again. That is if you live at all. This is a very bad idea. No, no, no . . . . .  all right, yes!’

            He turned suddenly to face Raimendur. “So, Asfaloth is his name?”

            Raimendur pulled his gaze from the bay colt (who was happily throwing his feed out of the bowl and onto the ground with his chin), and fixed Glorfindel with an inscrutable stare. “That is correct. He is Asfaloth, twin of Ainille, out of Vercamil and by Noladar.”

            “And what is his disposition?” Glorfindel asked.

            “Are you certain about this?” Raimendur returned, with an unreadable glint in his eye.

            “Certain about what?” Glorfindel attempted to look confused.

            “As you wish, my lord. Asfaloth is the most conceited horse I have yet had the privilege to make the acquaintance of. He thinks of nothing but himself, disapproving of anyone who does not fawn over him. He has also acquired a myriad of bad habits, including standing on the foot of the person trying to lead him.” Raimendur said this rather swiftly as if explaining was a tiresome task he wished to be done with, and he knew that Glorfindel had already made up his mind. And in truth, he had.

            “Lord Elrond is never, ever going to let me forget this,” Glorfindel said, shaking his head, and with just the shadow of an amused smile.

            As Raimendur continued to watch him silently and enigmatically, Glorfindel recognized that he would not be receiving much help from the reticent elf. He sighed inwardly. “I suppose it is too much to hope for that Asfaloth has any good characteristics?” he asked.

            “There have been none evidenced thus far unless you count that he has an unusually good aim with his hooves,” Raimendur replied uninterestedly.

            Glorfindel silently ground his teeth. Raimendur was not being much help in aiding him to understand the colt, or how he could earn his trust. He looked at the foal (who was still prancing up and down in front of the stream), and considered attempting to pry more information from Raimendur. He doubted it would be possible. For all appearances, it would seem Raimendur did not possess a sense of humor, but Glorfindel knew for a fact that he did. Watching innocent people get walked over by the horses in his care was an activity he found preferable to probably anything else. Certainly, Raimendur would be laughing up his sleeve when Asfaloth started pulling stunts on him (such as chewing the top off every rose in one of the gardens and dropping it in a pile by the gate, the way his previous horse from Elrond had). His eyes narrowed slightly.

            “Hail Glorfindel!”

            He had just been considering giving Raimendur his elf-lord glare when he heard his name called. He whirled around and saw a very familiar face approaching. Oh, perfect. Just what he needed.

            “Well met,” he paused. “Elladan or Elrohir?”

            The approaching elf cocked an eyebrow teasingly (‘He looks too much like his father when he does that,’ Glorfindel thought) and smiled innocently. “Why Lord Gorfy (Here Glorfindel glared. The twins knew he detested their old nickname for him.), do not tell me you do not know me. After all the time we have spent together. After all the teaching you have given my brother and I, and our father, too, when he was young. Surely you can tell my brother and I apart!

            Glorfindel scowled fiercely. Apparently, being one of the oldest elves in Middle-Earth, in addition to having slain a Balrog and returned from the Undying Lands only lent further to its effectiveness as the object of it quailed, and immediately ceased looking so annoyingly provoking.

            “Elrohir,” he enlightened Glorfindel hastily. “Elladan is still with Father giving some of the details of our trip. He said you were down here looking at his horses, so I desired to join you.”

            Glorfindel stopped scowling (Elrohir breathed a sigh of relief), and nodded in greeting. “It is good to see that you are both returned safely, Elrohir.”

            Elrohir shrugged carelessly. “What did you expect? We can take care of ourselves.”

            “Yes, of course,” Glorfindel replied tranquilly. “But might I suggest that if you wish to depict yourself as skilled in the arts of warfare, you should be careful to wash all the blood from your visage before showing yourself.” His voice sharpened. “What happened and why are you not with your brother?”

            In the background, one of the horses neighed piercingly. Elrohir hesitated, and as Glorfindel fixed him with a penetrating stare, stepped to his side and lowered his voice. “We were ambushed by mountain goblins on our return home.”

            Glorfindel looked at him sharply. “Mountain goblins? When? And where?

            “This morning. On our north-easternmost border, near the High Pass. We had pursued a small band of orcs into the pass, where they met the Beornings who dealt with them rather efficiently.” He paused, allowing an unsettling smile to pass across his face, expressing a sentiment which Glorfindel concurred with. “The activity of all of the foul creatures who serve the Enemy has been greatly increasing of late, so we were coming back to report to Father. We knew they were there, but we did not realize there were as many as there were. We dealt with them without too much trouble.”

            Glorfindel raised a skeptical eyebrow in an unwitting imitation of the elf-lord he served.

            “Well,” Elrohir amended quickly, “Elladan did most of the dealing. My horse was shot out from under me, causing my head to make unpleasant contact with a tree stump. I am afraid I do not remember much of the fight, thus my presence is not needed with Father. So after he enlightened me as to the need to remain in the realm of the living, he told me to acquire another horse. He seemed most pleased with the prospect. One might say almost smug when he told me where you were.”

            “I am only looking at them,” Glorfindel replied quickly. “And after I have finished here,” he added sternly, “perhaps a lesson in ‘Retaining Your Senses During Mortal Conflict’ would be appropriate.”

            Elrohir stood at attention and saluted. “As you command, Lord Gorfy,” he answered, grinning annoyingly.

            “Then stop calling me Gorfy. . . .”

            Elrohir did his best to make his eyes wide like a puppy’s. “But Gorfy, we called you that ever since we could talk.”

            “. . . . and help me learn about that foal.”

            “Ohh, so you did choose one,” Elrohir looked at him complacently. “I must remember to tell Erestor I was right. Let me guess . . . . Raimendur!”

            Raimendur, who had been standing off to the side talking to and stroking the bay colt, turned at the sound of his name. “Yes, my lord Elrohir?”

            “Which of these colts will likely be the most ill-behaved and generally difficult to handle when grown?”

            “Most likely Asfaloth, my lord,” he replied impassively.

            “Thank you, Raimendur,” Elrohir said, turning back to Glorfindel. “I guess that you are interested in Asfaloth.”

            “Well,” Glorfindel demurred, “I have not decided yet.”

            “Hmm,” Elrohir looked at the white foal (who was studiously ignoring him) and paid not the slightest attention to Glorfindel’s evasion, “Yes, I remember, I have heard all about him from Meglin. He likes bread, paper, and arrows, in that order. If you want to get on his good side, tell him he is brave and cunning.” He turned back to Glorfindel. “Good luck.”

            “Why thank you,” Glorfindel replied dryly. “Would you mind giving me some assistance?”

            “How?” Elrohir did not look exactly wary, but perhaps somewhat reckless.

            “Consult with me about the best horse in the herd. . . . loudly.”

            “What?” Elrohir looked at him, mystified.

            “Allow me to demonstrate.” Glorfindel turned his attention to the bay colt, and began to speak rather stridently. “Ah yes, I quite admire that one. A beautiful shade of dark bay, and . . . .”

Chapter Three: The Gauntlet is Thrown

            Well, despite what some of you may think, parading is a lot harder than it looks. I was beginning to get tired and bored. I was also getting exceptionally annoyed with the elves. They think they are such great warriors. I ask you, exactly where would they be without their horses? Do they ever think about that? No, no, no, it’s all “I have the sharper sword” and “I have the longer bow,” never giving proper credit to their poor, hardworking steeds. And then when those few, almost-decent folk who appreciate their need for a talented mount come near the best ones, do they even notice them?! No! They pay attention to lame colts, and pretentious fillies! They would not know a good horse if he kicked them in the face! Speaking of kicking . . . er, never mind. Nevertheless, I was willing to forgive them their faults and condescend to make known my exceptional talents, but were they even paying attention?! That was what was annoying me. I could hear them talking. Elves often do not seem to realize that a horses’ hearing is keener than that of an elf’s. When, of course, the horse wishes to hear. Not that I thought they were worthy of listening to, but a good horse always tries to remain knowledgeable of his surroundings (which unfortunately includes unworthy oafs). And did they even mention me?! Well, actually, great was my surprise when I heard my name. It seemed that the golden-haired elf was not entirely without taste. As a matter of fact, I heard my name more than once. I tilted both my ears back, so that I could hear them better.

            Hmmm, something about my having an “unusually good aim with my hooves.” That was from Raimendur. I snickered inwardly. Yes, he was certainly an authority on that subject. Since he had no sense of humor, and did not properly understand the merit of practical jokes, he had had a definite view of my rear hooves several times. Elves may be considered fast, but they cannot outrun horses, especially if those horses do not want to be caught. And a horse most unquestionably does not want to be caught after, say, he has been seen carefully removing all the bowstrings from the bows on the archery range. Elves may be considered wise, but I would think that after all the thousands of years they have lived, they would have figured out that it is not wise to allow horses free rein in their dwelling. Of course, they do not exactly allow it; it is more a matter of stealing your way along (as you happily hear your name being called out in a frustrated tone) and waiting until the archer’s back is briefly turned and his bow laid down . . . ah, the joy!

            At that point, I was rudely interrupted from my ruminations, by hearing a voice call “Hail Glorfindel!” I chanced a look over my shoulder, and saw another elf approaching the golden-haired warrior.

             ‘Ah ha!’ I thought. ‘So Glorfindel is his name. I remembered him now. I had seen him before with Elrond.’ If I had not been so preoccupied, I would have been amused by the chagrin evidenced by the Glorfindel’s stance. His face did not change, but we horses are expert at reading, what I believe is primitively called by some, “body language.” He was obviously taking stock of his options, fight or flight. He evidently settled for fight because he remained there and started speaking to the other elf.

            “Greetings, Elladan or Elrohir?” I froze and quickly returned my gaze to the ground in front of me, though I must admit, I was paying it no heed. I knew those names. Every horse in the stable knew those names. The sons of Elrond (for indeed, that is who those names belonged to) had something of a reputation for getting into scrapes. Instead of being content to remain in relative peace and quiet in the luxurious valley of Imladris, they actually felt the need to go looking for trouble. Unsurprisingly, they were also rather good at finding it. They were nearly legendary in the stable. Even though I had never seen them, for they would disappear for months at a time, my sire told me tales of them. They had left Imladris before I was foaled and this was my first opportunity to see either of them.

            “Their chosen mounts,” he had said, “will have numerous anecdotes to relate when they return.” “If they return,” he would always add ominously. Having once been “borrowed” by the one called Elrohir, his eagerness for battle had been somewhat diminished when he returned. Elrohir was notorious for being caught in unpredictable dilemmas, more so than his brother. I heard the son of Elrond replying to Glorfindel, and it almost sounded as if he were attempting to provoke him.

            “Why Lord Gorfy, do not tell me you do not know me. After all the time we have spent together. After all the teaching you have given my brother and I, and our father, too, when he was young. Surely you can tell my brother and I apart!”

            ‘Gorfy?!’ I snickered inwardly, and with difficulty resisted the urge to glance at them again. It never does to show too much interest in those who think they are your masters. It only feeds that foolish belief. There was a moment’s silence. I heard the noise of Narehin trying to chase someone else away from his feed and getting kicked (I knew this without turning around, because it was always Narehin). Then I heard the younger elf’s voice again, sounding much graver.

            “Elrohir. Elladan is still with Father giving some of the details of our trip. He said you were down here looking at his horses, so I desired to join you.” Ah, so it was the more intrepid of the two. Not surprising, since you had to be rather imprudent to try annoying such an obviously accomplished warrior as Glorfindel.

            Now Glorfindel spoke again. “It is good to see that you are both returned safely, Elrohir.” I rolled my eyes, unfortunately forgetting that usually made me dizzy. ‘Well,’ I thought, ‘he might be an accomplished warrior, but his observational skills are obviously not at their height.’ The wind had carried to me the smell of blood. Horses have a keen sense of smell, and blood is hard to be rid of. Elrohir had seen battle, and not long since.

            “What did you expect? We can take care of ourselves,” Elrohir replied dismissively. I snorted. How obtuse did he think Glorfindel was?

            “Yes, of course,” Glorfindel replied. He sounded deceptively calm. “But might I suggest that if you wish to depict yourself as skilled in the arts of warfare, you should be careful to wash all the blood from your visage before showing yourself.” His voice became shrewd. “What happened and why are you not with your brother?”

            Ha ha! I neighed and shook my mane. I knew it! I do have to admit, I am rather good at identifying the better warriors. It appeared that very little would be slipping by this one, but of course, I had known it all along. I heard Elrohir replying to him, but not being able to make out what was being said, I glanced at them again, and saw that Elrohir had stepped closer to him and was speaking quietly. Hmph! They obviously did not want me to hear them. I would have to fix that. And they call themselves elf-lords! Without realizing what I was doing, I stomped my foot. They continued to ignore me; their discourteousness was insufferable. My sister looked up from her patch of grass and gave me a meaningful look. I narrowed my eyes and snorted. She says I think too much of myself. I wondered what she would say when I was chosen as the personal mount of the greatest warrior in Imladris. Being a snobbish goody four-shoes, she would probably never see battle, but I on the other hand would undoubtedly be famous for my daring and intellect. I decided to ignore her, and to focus on the two warriors. Raimendur was paying no attention to them, but was stroking his favorite colt, Sailandil, the bay. He should have been paying attention to me; however I magnanimously decided to overlook the slight.

            “Raimendur!”

            Once again, I was rudely interrupted from my musings by the less-than-considerate Lord Elrohir. I stared into the stream again, but nevertheless, pricked up my ears.

            “Yes, my lord Elrohir?” answered Raimendur.

            “Which of these foals will likely be the most ill-behaved and generally difficult to handle when grown?”

            ‘What? Well, excu-u-use me, your lordliness, horses are only “difficult” and “ill-behaved” when their masters richly deserve it! I pity your poor mount. Disappointing for a son of the Lord Elrond; you have worse manners than a wolf-chieftain’s pup!’

            “Most likely Asfaloth, my lord,” said Raimendur.

            ‘What? WHA-AT?! How . . . how dare . . . !’ I have to admit, that even I, Asfaloth of the Cunning Mind, was temporarily rendered speechless by that! I swiftly re-evaluated my opinion of Raimendur. He was not merely annoying, he was truly vile. I was going to get him for that, somehow. No one insults Asfaloth and gets away with it. Well, except my sister, but she does not count.

            By the time I had recovered my presence of mind, Elrohir had turned back to Glorfindel. Forsaking thoughts of revenge, I stared at the stream as hard as I could, paying no attention to it, my entire being focused on the vexingly too quiet conversation that was taking place behind me. I caught a few words, “paper” “brave” “assistance” “horse” (Oh, that was helpful) and “demonstrate.” I have to admit, I did wonder what Arda they were talking about. Unfortunately for the comfort of my mind, my wish was instantly granted. To my immense disgust, they were not talking about me at all! Can you believe that? They were talking about that unintelligent oaf, Sailandil. Beautiful shade of bay, indeed! I tell you it, er; well anyway, this is what happened. Glorfindel began speaking, but he was not being as careful to modulate his voice as he had been.

            “Ah yes, I quite admire that one. A beautiful shade of dark bay, and good, straight legs. He appears unusually intelligent for this particular group, too.”

            I have to admit I was fuming. Great elf-lord or not, Glorfindel was simply begging to get a good hard bite. I, however, showed great restraint and after throwing a glare over my shoulder, resumed my inspection of the stream. It lasted all of half a minute. It was the mention of my sister Ainille’s good manners that finished my already frayed composure. I turned around and marched straight at the three elves, Raimendur having rejoined them. Elrohir gave me a somewhat odd look, but Glorfindel was now in a deep conversation with Raimendur about the merits of the previously unmentioned grey colt, Nolatur. I stopped about three yards away, shook my mane, half-reared and came down pawing the ground, making a truly spectacular spray of dirt and little stones. Unfortunately, I only got kicked for my trouble by Narehin, who happened to be in the way. Naturally, I kicked him back, and started walking right in front of Glorfindel. It was impossible for him to miss me. Now I may not have mentioned it before, but I am rather good at prancing. In fact, I am very good at it. That was why I could not believe it when Glorfindel persisted in ignoring me. Raimendur’s disregard of me, I could understand, being the ignorant, poor excuse for an elf that he is, but I thought that surely, any half-way decent warrior would recognize that I am a horse to be reckoned with. I did get a glance from Elrohir (and a rather nasty half-smirk), but Glorfindel suddenly stepped to the side, bumping him (unusually clumsily for an elf), and he turned his attention to Narehin, who was the current topic of conversation. Hmph! Dense elves!

~-~-~

            “In my opinion, he is the most likely of these five,” Raimendur was saying.

            “Nolatur certainly appears well-mannered,” Glorfindel said with a thoughtful expression. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Asfaloth starting to approach, with an air of deepest outrage and offense. Glorfindel felt slightly smug, but carefully kept any hint of it off his face. “However, the dark grey looks good as well.” He paused.

            “Narehin, my lord,” supplied Raimendur.

            “Of course. I do not think I will choose him, as you said he had injured his leg, but he still looks like an excellent horse,” continued Glorfindel. “Would you not agree, Elrohir?”

            He glanced at Elrohir who was giving Asfaloth a superior look. He stepped to his left, “accidentally” treading on Elrohir’s foot. Elrohir grimaced and immediately turned his attention to Narehin.

            “Yes, beautiful coat. Excellent horse. Sound hooves. Well-mannered,” Elrohir answered quickly, and then added in an undertone. “I was listening.”

            “Of course you were,” Glorfindel answered tranquilly, in the same undertone. “Despite the fact it was Nolatur who was well-mannered and I said nothing about a beautiful coat or sound hooves. Perhaps you should listen more carefully.” He raised his voice again. “Yes, he is indeed. But in my opinion, Sailandil has the most beautiful coat in the group. Bay is a rather uncommon color.”

            He had to fight hard to contain his smile, when Asfaloth strode directly in front of Sailandil, blocking their view of the other colt. It was obvious to any observer that Asfaloth was becoming exceedingly jealous of the attention the other foals were receiving. He was no longer pretending not to watch the elves, but was now trying his hardest to get their attention. He was prancing and tossing his mane in such an exaggerated way that he looked as if he were about to spring off the ground and land on his nose, yet he did not miss any steps.

            “Why do you not take that one,” Elrohir’s undertone was too innocent, and with the hint of a snicker, “Gorfy. He is so. . . . distinctive. You ought to get along just perfectly.”

            “You are as humorous as your esteemed father,” Glorfindel replied dryly, in the same undertone.

            “Why thank you. I will have to tell him all about this.”

            “Indeed. Be so good as to tell him also, that I will be rather busy over the next few days.”

            Elrohir gave him a questioning look, his self-satisfied smile slipping slightly. “Your pardon, Glorfindel?”

            “I will be making the acquaintance of my new horse,” Glorfindel replied.

            “Asfaloth, Glorfindel? You will never lack entertainment.” The smile became a grin and returned in full force. Raimendur looked as interested as he had been since Glorfindel had arrived. That is to say, not very.

            “Asfaloth,” Glorfindel answered firmly.

            Elrohir’s smile disappeared and he gaped. “You cannot possibly be serious.”

            Glorfindel shrugged slightly. “Well, as you so perceptivelyput it, I will never lack entertainment.”

            Raimendur gave the first genuine smile Glorfindel had yet seen from the reticent elf. He could not help feeling just a trifle uneasy as he viewed it. He had seen it before. The last (and memorable) time he had acquired a horse from Elrond.

            “I cannot believe it. You said you would sooner ride a warg than one of Father’s horses,” Elrohir said disbelievingly, after he had stopped staring.

            A slow smile played around the corners of Glorfindel’s mouth as he watched the colt gallop towards him, slide to a halt and rear majestically about two yards in front of him. “No, I think I will enjoy the challenge. Who can say? There might be a useful horse underneath all that arrogance.

            Raimendur’s smile became broader. Glorfindel glanced at him uneasily as Asfaloth began turning circles as tightly as he could. Elrohir grinned.

            “This will be most amusing,” he said in answer to Glorfindel’s questioning look. “Just when Father has finally come to an understanding with Noladar, and I feared life was going to become dull once more. I remember your last horse well, and your understanding with him. This is going to be hilarious.”

            Asfaloth stopped, staggered a few steps and faced them. There was fire in his eyes.

            ‘Yes, Elrohir,’ Glorfindel thought, ‘From your point of view, this undoubtedly will be hilarious.’

Chapter Four: Clash of the Titans

            Very well. I will admit that it was not so bad at first. I thought they were just stupid, tasteless idiots. Oh, how wrong I was. Yes, I, Asfaloth the Intellectual, was wrong. It does happen sometimes (on rare occasions). They knew perfectly well that I was the best horse. They were ignoring me intentionally. I did not realize that anyone could stoop so low, let alone elves, but I soon came to see the truth. I realized it when they had exhausted the topic of the many virtues of Nolatur, Narehin, and Ainille, then had moved on to Sailandil. At first I thought my ears were deceiving me. They were talking about how beautiful his coat was. It is obvious to anyone with any taste that my coat is far more beautiful than his. So to show them the error of their ways (out of the pure kindness of my heart), I stepped between them and Sailandil. And do you know what they did? They ignored me! They ignored me! The inescapable fact hit me over the head like a stack of buckets when you pull out the one on the bottom. It was deliberate!

            I was so furious I could no longer think. I decided to give them one last chance. I am very skilled at turning in small circles quickly. It comes from long practice, and no, I am not telling you why. First, I reared as high as I could. Then, directly in front of them, I turned circles so fast I stunned even myself. Finally, head spinning, I stopped. I was hardly able to focus my eyes, but I could see that they were watching me. I might have been somewhat mollified but I caught Elrohir’s words, “This is going to be hilarious.”

             ‘Oh, he thought it was funny, did he?’ I glared at the elves, and stomped my hoof. Raimendur smirked, Elrohir laughed, and Glorfindel remained unmoved. That was the last straw. If he refused to pay attention to me, I would have to make him pay attention.

            Now, as I said before, you must realize that I was still somewhat dizzy, and my understandable fury had not abated. I took a deep breath, and then before I could change my mind, darted toward the elves. Even in my enraged state of mind, I found their looks of alarm somewhat amusing. Elrohir and Raimendur darted out of my way. Glorfindel jumped to the side and turned so that I would run straight past him. But he did not count on my innate dexterity. I did run straight past him, but just as I reached him, I stretched out with my nimble lips and plucked the dagger out of its sheath on his belt. Ignore me, will you? Then I ran right on. The elves had been standing facing the dwelling-places. Their backs were to the mountainside. I headed unswervingly for it never looking back. That would be the last time he underestimated me!

            I am not sure quite how long I ran. It did not seem that long, but Anar had visibly changed position in the sky and was now sinking toward the western edge when I slid to a halt, winded and trying to catch my breath, in front of a small wooded area made up almost entirely of fir trees, mostly pines. I had run far out of the valley, I knew, but I did not know how much farther I had come. I did not recognize the area. I tossed my forelock out of my eyes, and looked over my shoulder. There was no sign of pursuit. I smiled inwardly.

            ‘Serves them right,’ I thought. ‘That will be the last time Glorfindel ignores me.’ I was clenching the dagger (which I had kept) between my teeth, but because I was unable to close my mouth, all my saliva was running down the blade and dropping onto the ground, making my mouth exceedingly dry. That would never do. I needed a place to stash it. Glancing around, I saw a maple tree (too tall), and a gorse-bush (too sparse), but under the bushes’ shadow was a small round hole, probably belonging to a rabbit.

            ‘Oh, perfect,’ I thought gleefully. I trotted over and stuffed the dagger into the hole. Unfortunately, it stuck on a tree root and jabbed the top of my mouth painfully. I jerked my head and blinked my watering eyes.

            ‘That hurt!’ I glared at the happily gleaming dagger handle which continued to sit there, unperturbed. It was too much for an elvish colt to abide. I bent my head down, grabbed the hilt in my mouth and ground down. I did not merely bite, I crushed. Then I loosened my jaw and chewed a few times before pulling my head up. There! I admired my toothwork—lovely indentations. That ought to teach it. That ought to teach that self-important elf, too.

            But now I needed a place to hide. Some of the firs were mature enough that their branches nearly swept the ground. I squeezed in among a few of these and lay down on the needles. I would take a nap. If somehow Glorfindel managed to find this place, I doubted he would see me.

            ‘May your trek be long and tiring,’ I sniggered. After all, he is not a horse, and he does not have four legs. It would take him quite a bit longer than it took me. I would be rested, and he would be exhausted. As my fancies drifted through my mind, I drifted off to sleep, feeling understandably smug. I should have known better. But I was only six months old after all.

~-~-~

            The colt stomped his hoof and Elrohir laughed aloud. He gave Glorfindel a look of supreme anticipation, which Glorfindel ignored. He found Raimendur’s smirk to be far more unsettling. But as he considered how best to go about approaching the colt, now that he had more than succeeded in getting his attention, something nagged at his senses. There was something about the colt’s stance that he could not quite place, something. . . . Glorfindel never got to finish the thought for the colt laid his ears flat back on his head and charged. Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Raimendur had already been moving away, identifying the colt’s glare correctly. Elrohir was quick to follow. But Glorfindel had a good deal of experience with this kind of horse. He waited until the colt was two strides away, and then twisted smoothly and stepped back.

            ‘Just like a sparring match or light skirmish,’ he thought. ‘Almost too easy.’ Then he felt a tug and heard the rasp of metal being drawn from its sheath. Time quickened again as his eyes widened, and he grasped at his knife, but only got a slight nick from the tip as it was drawn beyond his reach. He felt annoyance flare up within him, but pushed it away and began to evaluate the situation. After all, it was only an ill-bred, bad-mannered little foal, and he really did not know better. . . yet. A snicker interrupted his thoughts.

            “Ai, Glorfindel, if you could have seen your face!” Elrohir laughed.

            “Very amusing, I am sure,” Glorfindel replied dryly. “Would you like my advice choosing your foal before I pursue my own warg-spawn? But I assume you will be content picking your own poison.”

            Glorfindel smiled politely and gave a half-bow. “In that case, I will be on my way. May your search prove worthwhile.”

            Ignoring Elrohir’s disbelieving stare, he turned to Raimendur who was smiling broadly and his eyes were twinkling. “I would be most grateful if perhaps, you will be kind enough to assist Elrohir as well as you assisted me.”

            Raimendur bowed, not even attempting to remove the smile from his face. “As you command, Lord Glorfindel.”

            Glorfindel smiled in an almost predatory fashion and inclined his head. “I will return with the colt. Until then, may the stars shine brightly on your path.”

            Glorfindel turned swiftly and began to follow Asfaloth’s path, still ignoring Elrohir’s sputtering about his being perfectly capable of fighting on foot, and how he actually preferred it, and if he was to have one of Noladar’s bloodline, it was only fair that Elladan should have one too, and he did not wish to worry about a malevolent horse as well as the orcs. . . . Glorfindel tuned out the argument he could hear beginning about that last statement and focused on the path ahead. If he concentrated, he could barely hear the swiftly receding hoofbeats of Asfaloth, and even as he stood listening, they faded from perception.

            Shaking his head slightly with an amused smile, he picked up his pace to a light run, his eyes on the ground, following Asfaloth’s trail. It led to a lightly used path leading out of the valley. The way was steep and rocky, and though Glorfindel was untroubled by it, he approved of the colt’s agility.

            ‘Though I am most certainly not going to inform him of it,’ he thought. Reaching a flatter place, he rounded a bend and was greeted by light elf laughter.

            “O where are you going?

            And what are you seeking?

            A colt was seen fleeing,

            From you, we’re perceiving,

                        O tra-la-la-lally,

                                    He’s gone from the valley,

                                                Ha ha!”

            Then more laughter. An ancient oak grew beside the path, and the merriment seemed to originate from it. Glorfindel raised his eyes from the ground, and his keen gaze pierced the leaves and branches until he found the singer. Seated on a bough, at some height from the ground, a dark-haired elf was reclining against the tree trunk. He met Glorfindel’s gaze and smiled mischievously. “Looking for something?” he called. “Or should I say, someone?”

            Glorfindel inclined his head in greeting. This was not wholly unexpected. “My greetings, Meglin, and I daresay you already know the answer to that question.”

            “Perhaps,” the elf returned merrily. “White foals are unusual here, thus it was unforeseen when one appeared on this very path, and made off up the hill and out of the valley. He ran with surprising fleetness.”

            Another dark head appeared around the trunk of the tree, a little further up. It belonged to an elf-maid who appeared to be of kin to the other in the tree, for there was a marked similarity in their faces and cheerful smiles. “And do not neglect to mention that this foal possessed an even more unusual ornament.”

            “Indeed, Alquandil, never have I seen a horse with what seemed to possess such an odd mouth.”

            “One would almost think he had warg blood at first glance. The way he appeared to have such a long front tooth.”

            “But what tooth is made of metal?”

            “Indeed, my brother, and what tooth is etched with golden flowers?”

            They both laughed. Glorfindel could not help smiling as he watched them. “Can you tell me which way this most unusual, warg-blooded, metal-toothed colt went?”

            “Left at the fork in the trail,” Meglin replied. “And he followed the edge of the valley for some distance. Alas!” he continued with mock dismay, “then he was lost to our sight, but we suspected we would be joined by you soon. Though I am surprised Elladan and Elrohir would miss this opportunity.”

            “They so dearly love your horses,” Alquandil finished.

            “They were unable to join me,” Glorfindel explained innocuously, “Elrohir is choosing his own horse.”

            Identical, mischievous grins sprang onto the faces of Meglin and Alquandil.

            “Oh, that will never do, Lord Glorfindel,” began Alquandil.

            “After all, we have not seen them for many months,” said Meglin.

            “I am sure they will value our advice,” continued Alquandil.

            “We really must be off now,” finished Meglin. They sprang up and climbed nimbly down the tree, Meglin first pulling out a silver harp that had been hidden by the trunk, and tucking it securely under his arm before following.

            “I thank you for you aid,” Glorfindel smiled.

            “And we thank you for yours,” Meglin grinned. “Good hunting.”

            Alquandil nodded in farewell, and they ran lightly away down the path.

            Glorfindel smiled to himself as he turned back to Asfaloth’s trail. Meglin had been born but three days before the twins, and had been their friend as the three of them grew. They had always dearly loved to badger each other, and as they saw each other more seldom now, Meglin (with Alquandil following her brother’s example) would give Elrohir little peace. Hopefully, it would distract him from composing another annoying little ditty about the Brave Warrior and the Hunt for His Faithful Steed. Now all he had to do was find his new horse and retrieve his dagger before it was damaged. How difficult could that be?

~-~-~

            It was some time later that I awoke. Yawning, I stretched my stiff neck and shook my mane. Blinking my eyes several times, I glanced blearily around me before starting in surprise and leaping to my feet and out of the trees, unfortunately slamming my nose into one of the pine branches on my way up. Owwww! That hurt! Sometimes speed can have its drawbacks. I took a deep breath and glanced around. I felt a heavy weight settle into my stomach as I saw Anar slipping behind the horizon. I had been here for hours.

            ‘Calm down, Asfaloth,’ I thought to myself. ‘It is not as if it is actually dangerous to be out after dark.’ No sooner had I finished that thought than the weight in my stomach trebled in size, and a conversation on which I had cleverly eavesdropped was recalled to mind.

            ‘Asfaloth, you thoughtless, rash, disgrace to your sire’s name, have you not an ounce of sense in your head? You heard Elrohir telling Glorfindel that goblins had been sighted at the north-easternmost border and you just had to run off in the north-easternmost direction!’ I probably would have hit my head against something out of sheer frustration, but since my nose was already smarting, I rethought that notion.

            Concentrating on my bruised nose instead of my predicament helped me clear my mind. It was probably safe here. The sons of Elrond had probably cleared the area of goblins. . . . and wargs. What else was there after that? I swiftly regretted that I had asked. A story my mother had once told me came immediately to mind. When all the mothers and their foals had long been bedded down for the night, and I was supposed to be sleeping, but had instead been trying to sneak away and explore, my mother had told me a story; a story that would certainly have frightened someone not possessing my bravery.

            ‘There is a far off land,’ she said, ‘a land so evil we do not speak of it. Its name can only be whispered, and only when it must be warned of. It is called,’ Here she lowered her muzzle to my ear ‘Mordor. In that dark land, there dwells a cruel lord. He is most terrible; the Enemy of the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth.

            I shuddered appropriately.

            ‘He does not leave his land,’ she said, ‘but sends his servants to do his work for him. Goblins and wargs. . . .

            At this point, I interrupted. ‘What are goblins and wargs, Mother?

            ‘Wargs are like wolves, my son, but larger and more intelligent. Goblins are. . . .

            ‘What are wolves, Mother?’ I interrupted again.

            ‘Big dogs.’

            ‘Oh.’

            ‘But goblins are a great deal worse.’

            ‘Why?’

            ‘Because they were elves once.’

            I squealed in fright. You must remember that I was very young. It is excusable.

            ‘Elves?’

            ‘Yes, my son, but that was a long time ago. The dark lord’s teacher stole them away, and kept them in his old fastness of Angband and turned them into orcs.’

            ‘What are orcs?’

            ‘Large goblins child, and do not keep interrupting.’

            ‘Yes, Mother.’

            ‘But the dark lord, Sauron, keeps other servants who are worse still.’

            ‘Worse than ugly not-elves and doubly big dogs?!’

            ‘Shhh, you will wake your sister. Yes.’

            ‘What are they?!’

            She lowered her voice until I could barely hear her. ‘Ringwraiths.’

            ‘What are ringwraiths?’

            ‘It is difficult to say with certainty. They are terrible creatures. There are only nine, but they are more than sufficient to complete his evil deeds. It is said that they were human once, but were ensnared by promises of power.

            ‘Humans are stupid.’

            ‘They have not the years of the elves, Asfaloth. When they have dealings with the living,’ (I gasped), ‘for they are not such, they wear black cloaks and hoods. And they ride horses.’

            ‘But what horses would bear such vile creatures?’

            Here my mother looked at me ominously. ‘Horses foolish enough to wander away from their mothers when they were young who were found and carried away to Mordor.’

            ‘Er. . . . uh. . . . oh.’

            ‘Which is why it is very important that little foals do not wander away at night.’

            Needless to say, I stayed beside my mother for a whole week and a half. Well, almost. The lure of an elf-maid’s long hair proved irresistible, and since nothing happened to me, well, I need not elaborate. This was the story that was recalled to my mind, at that most inopportune moment. I took a deep breath. Well, it was just a story after all. My mother had undoubtedly told it to me just to keep me with her (of course, I could not really blame her; after five foals, the last one ending up in the lap of some wandering wizard, no wonder she wanted me nearby). It was nothing to worry about. No, nothing at all. I was not scared. I mean, what is scary about the fact that you might be attacked by once-elves; big, mean, ugly dogs; and not-humans?

            A chill wind blew. It was very cold, I decided. Yes, too cold to be exposed like this. I turned around, went back under the trees, and huddled down in the thickest part. I was cold though, not scared. I am Asfaloth of Imladris. I do not get scared. But I was still cold. This part of the wood was not thick enough. I got up and went to some spruce trees that were clustered closer together, blocking out all light on the inside. Maybe this would do.

Chapter Five: Confusticate and Bebother These Horses!

            The sun had hardly sunk behind the horizon, when Glorfindel came in sight of the fir trees. He had been closely following the line of hoof prints, which had become somewhat easier once he had left the rockier ground. When he raised his eyes from the ground and saw the wooded area, a great feeling satisfaction washed over him.

            “So predictable,” he murmured. Taking great care to walk noiselessly, he pulled his blue cloak more tightly around him; stealthily slipping away from the trail to creep around the edge of the forest, he approached the woodland from an easterly direction. The last rays of the sun had faded from the sky, and it was beginning to grow fairly dark.

            Reaching the first of the trees that were close together (an ancient yew), he swiftly scaled it, pausing only when he had gained sufficient height that it would be difficult for a horse to see him. Then, balancing easily on the branch, he jumped out of the yew and grabbed a branch of the next tree. He swung free for a moment, then pulled himself up and looked around for another one. Spotting a suitable pine, he walked as far out as he could on the branch of the tree he was currently in, and then leaped easily into the other one. Thus he progressed through the woodland, working towards several holly bushes that were clustered close together, and covered by the overhanging branches of an ancientpine. Settling himself securely onto a thick limb, he peered down through the trees, his keen gaze easily piercing the gloom and noting the details of the landscape.

            One of the first things he discerned was that the ground was quite torn up. It looked as if a herd of deer had been chased through the region or, barring that, an ill-behaved young horse had been stricken with panic and run around in circles trying to find a place to hide. Glorfindel settled on the latter. He methodically examined what he could see of the tracks. The huge clods of dirt that had been flung up and the underbrush that had been flattened clearly spoke of athunderous passage. It appeared to lead into the clump of holly bushes. His quarry was close at hand.

            ‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘so very predictable.’ Remaining perfectly still, he fastened his gaze on the holly; slowly penetrating the labyrinth of criss-crossing leaves and branches, he perceived every slit and niche until nothing was hidden from perception. There! A flash of white! Minute, but he saw it.

            ‘I have you now, Asfaloth,’ he thought, as stealing through the trees again, he managed to slip into the top of the sheltering pine. ‘Your move.’

~-~-~

            I have to confess that by this point, my chill had worn off and I was beginning to get bored. What is the point of running away if no one is going to come after you and try to bribe you to come back with food? Besides, I knew that I was in no danger from the goblins or the wargs or the not-human things. You see, I am Asfaloth. I am the son of Noladar, who is one of the greatest warhorses who ever came from Imladris. It was alreadyobvious that I hadinherited his talents at skulking and stealth. The minions of the dark lord were no danger to me. I would see and hear them long before they would see or hear me. Even elves cannot hide from me.

            ‘I truly will be a great horse for a warrior,’ I thought, ‘but only if I decide to choose one.’ That thought however, brought me back to Glorfindel. Where in Arda was he? He was supposed to follow me and apologize nicely. And maybe if I weresuitably impressed, I would give him back his dagger. . . . or not. Feeling a little smug at that, I tossed my forelock out of my eyes and rose, unfortunately slamming into another low-hanging pine branch, which cracked me soundly on the poll of my head.

            ‘I really need to practice maneuvering around trees,’ I thought, as whimpering and blinking back tears, I steadied myself and peered out through the holly bushes (which were fairly tall, hardly to be considered bushes). Nothing. No Glorfindel, no Raimendur, no Mother or sister (I sighed in relief), no anyone. I stomped my foot and snorted. Hmph! This just was unfair!

            Suddenly, I felt an odd sensation and a chill ran up and down my side. Something was different. Something had changed. I sniffed the air. At first I did not notice anything, but then. . . . metal, feathers, cloth, elf! I spun around and nearly jumped out of my skin. Ai! There was an elf. . . . standing right behind me!

            ‘He must have snuck up on me. But that is impossible!’ Oh, oh. I recognized Glorfindel. He did not look excessively happy. Of course, he did not look very unhappy either, but that is not the elvish way. He was standing there with his feet planted firmly apart and his arms crossed over his chest. He was giving me what I privately termed the “Elvish Look of Disapproval.” The problem was he was much better at it than Raimendur. He was actually making me feel slightly nervous. This could present a difficulty. No one makes Asfaloth the Brave feel nervous. Odd, that Glorfindel was doing such an excellent job of it. He was actually managing to make me feel somewhat (though I am loathe to admit it) guilty. Taking a deep breath (which was intended to calm me, but did not work), I silently vowed that if I survived this, I was never, ever going to borrow an elvish blade again. I also vowed never to underestimate an elvish warrior, particularly one who goes by the name “Glorfindel.” However, it was a little late for that.

~-~-~

            Glorfindel bit back a laugh as Asfaloth, jumping about three feet off the ground, gave a neigh that came out sounding rather like a shriek when he saw him. Instead, Glorfindel stared at him calmly, remainingas still as a stalking cat. That became harder when the colt started shaking like a leaf in the wind.

            ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ Glorfindel thought, ‘I am not a troll!’However it seemed that Asfalothdid not share that opinion. Carefully removing any traces of mirth from his voice, he addressed the young horse.

            “You know I came to the stables to choose a mount,” Glorfindel began. He made it a statement, not a question, and Asfaloth’s ears pricked up.

            ‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ whispered a tiny little voice in Glorfindel’s head.

            ‘Enough.’ The voice fell silent. Glorfindel’s gaze never wavered.

            “I have chosen you.”

            Dead silence fell. Asfaloth’s eyes were as wide as they could get, but then he closed his drooping jaw with a click and arched his neck proudly, bowed his head regally, and answered, “A talented stallion needs a skilled rider. I find you adequate. I accept.”

            The world seemed to breathe again. An owl hooted, and the wind rustled the pine needles. Glorfindel remained silent for a brief instant, concentrating with difficulty on not laughing at the colt’s airs. Standing there looking as if he were proud of some nonexistent achievement, he was so typical of his bloodline. Glorfindel smiled at that. Asfaloth twitched his ears and looked at him askance.

            “It is late,” Glorfindel spoke softly, “and time to return home. But first, where is my knife?”

            Asfaloth instantly relaxed into a too-nonchalant manner, and took a few cautionary steps back.

            “It was a gift from my father long ago,” Glorfindel continued pleasantly. “I would be most distressed if it were to be lost.”

            If Asfaloth had been able, Glorfindel was certain he would have attempted a reassuring grin and shrug. He was nearly glowing with innocence, and had a truly odd expression on his face (which Glorfindel suspected was some kind of attempt to add to the image).

            “It might be said that I am attached to it. In fact,” here Glorfindel glared fiercely at the colt, who quailed and backed up more, “I do not believe you will be going anywhere until it is returned to me.” He stared at the colt with thinly veiled menace in his eyes. That was all it took.

~-~-~

            “I have chosen you.”

            Glorfindel’s words filled the still night air. I almost panicked, but I never panic.

            ‘Think, Asfaloth, think! What do you do? Uhhhh. . . . good question.’ My inner thoughts were not being very helpful with reasoning at that time, so I just guessed. Pulling myself up as regally as I could (it would not do to have him think I was intimidated, or thoroughly taken aback, after all) I answered him.

            “A talented stallion needs a skilled rider. I find you adequate. I accept.”

            ‘There! That ought to work. My mother is going to kill me anyway, so if he does first, I will be already dead. Hmm, maybe my ghost can come back and gloat. . . ? Focus, Asfaloth!’

            Glorfindel did not move but remained completely still for a moment. Then he smiled. I found his smile quite unsettling, if truth be told, and I was not reassured when he began speaking in a disquietingly soft voice. He reminded me of a cat about to pounce on a mouse (of course, I would usually pounce on the cat then, grab its tail and swing it around, but I did not think that would work here).

            “It is late,” He spoke softly, “and time to return home. But first, where is my knife?”

            Oh. Oh, no. This is bad. This is very bad.

            “It was a gift from my father long ago. I would be most distressed if it were to be lost,” he added pleasantly.

            Widening my eyes in innocent bewilderment, I tried to look as harmless as possible, meanwhile thinking, ‘I am not intimidated, I am not intimidated, I am not intimidated, I am not intimidated. . . . oh, who am I fooling?!’

            I tried pulling my lips back over my teeth the way elves sometimes do, but he remained unimpressed.

            “It might be said that I am attached to it.”

            This is worse. This is much worse. I am hound food. He is going to feed me to his dogs.

            “In fact,” he continued, then his visage darkened and he seemed to grow larger, glaring fiercely at me, “I do not believe you will be going anywhere until it is returned to me!”

            My mind worked rapidly as I slid backward unobtrusively, though I doubted it had escaped his notice. Unfortunately, my thoughts were not very helpful. ‘I am sorry, I will never misbehave again, I will never chew on a bow, I will never almost sever a bowstring so it smacks someone’s face, I will stay in my stall when told, I will not throw mud on my sister, I will not pull the rose blossoms from the bushes, I will let the carvings stay on the walls and pillars, I will be very, very good. . .

            His glare became even fiercer (I was surprised that was even possible), and I could have sworn he was glowing. I turned and bolted for the gorse bushunder which I had hidden the dagger. Carefully removing it from the hole, I quelled the trepidation in my stomach when I felt the new design in the handle. Glorfindel might not appreciate it, but I refused to think of that. Walking as steadily as I could with my head held high, I hurried back over and gave him the dagger. He had ceased glaring and took it slowly from my mouth. He appeared pacified. Tranquil, even. I sighed in relief. Maybe I would survive this night. His visage was odd, though. Elves are pale-skinned, and so this one had been, but his face was changing color. It was turning all these different shades of red, finally settling on one that seemed closer to purple. I considered asking him if he was ill, but then, looked closer. His lips were pressed forcefully together, and his face was rigid. He almost looked as if he was about to. . . . explode.

            ‘What odd creatures these elves are!’

~-~-~

            Elladan paused on the trail and grinned at his brother. “Do you hear that?”

            Grumbling unintelligibly, Elrohir looked up from the hoof prints he was following. “Hear what?” he snapped irritably.

            “Listen.”

            Pausing, the brothers and their two companions could hear a voice, far off but still intelligible. “This was forged in Valinor before Imladris was even founded! Its craftsmanship is unparalleled! Or should I say was! If I had wanted a serrated hilt, I would have taken care of it myself!

            “I think Lord Glorfindel found his horse,” Meglin observed.

            “Metal tooth and all,” stated Alquandil.

            “I do not think he is very happy,” continued Meglin.

            “I do not think his knife is in unsurpassed condition,” smiled Alquandil.

            “So if you want your bow back, Elrohir,” grinned Meglin.

            “You had better hurry,” finished Alquandil.

            Elrohir glowered at them, and then turned to his brother who smiled annoyingly at him. “Laugh all you want now, you will most likely get a horse next, Elladan.”

            “I am somewhat fond of Noladar’s foals Elrohir, we usually get along quite well.” he answered with his infuriating grin still in place. “A pity though. It was such a fine bow.”

            Elrohir glared at him futilely, then turned back to the trail, trying not to listen to the rather disheartening, “. . . a disgrace to horse kind! I do not know what I was thinking! Lord Elrond may think this is funny, but if you step out of line once more. . . .”

             They were following much the same path that Glorfindel had followed earlier, except now there was a second, fresher set of hoof marks, at times crossing those of Asfaloth, branching off more once they were out of the valley. Then Elrohir heard Meglin’s voice behind and above him.

            O, watch where you’re going,

            I see what you’re seeking,

            You’re on the wrong pathway,

            She is not on that way,

                        O, tra-la-la-lally,

                                    She’s back in the valley,

                                                Ha ha!

            Turning around, the brothers saw their two companions in an oak tree, looking back at the Last Homely House.

            “When I get my hands on Ainille, I am going to kill her!” Elrohir scowled, as scrambling up the tree as fast as they could, the brothers looked back at the valley and were greeted by the sight of a distant grey filly crossing the bridge; the one that went to the other side of the valley.

            “Oh no!” whispered Elrohir.

            A filly that had a stick in her mouth, paused in the middle of the bridge, and the moonlight sparkled off her mane as she released it over the rushing water.

            Elladan raised his eyebrows. “You are going to have your hands full with this one, my brother.”

            “I do not care what good warhorses they make; Noladar’s colts are not worth the trouble they are to train!” Elrohir all but snarled as he climbed back down the tree. “I hope someone somewhere finds that funny, because I certainly do not!”

~-~-~

            “Well Father, Raimendur tells me Glorfindel chose Asfaloth and Elrohir chose Ainille. They are both out looking for their horses now.” Arwen said, the wind rippling her long hair as she joined her father on the porch.

            Elrond turned from the landscape, and held out his hand to his daughter, which she smiled and took, stepping beside him. “They will eventually be glad of the horses, but perhaps somewhat cross for the next few days,” he said.

            “Or months. Raimendur tells me Asfaloth stole Glorfindel’s dagger, and as Elrohir was preoccupied annoying Glorfindel, Ainille snuck up and grabbed his bow where he had laid it against a tree. He did not even realize it until he began looking for her again. Elrohir still has not learned to cling to his belongings as if his life depended on it when he is around your horses. But I am not surprised at either of them. Glorfindel always chooses the most talented and therefore challenging horse. And Elrohir is usually chosen himself rather than doing the choosing.” She sighed. “What happened, Father?”

            Elrond turned to her, his look questioning.

            “Why does Elrohir need another horse? She elaborated. “His was young. It could have beenno more than ten years of age.”

            Elrond placed his arm around her and turned back to the valley. “The shadow is growing, Arwen.”

            “I know, Father.”

            “Your brothers ride too long and far. They were tired and grew overconfident. Succinctly, his horse was shot out from under him.” Elrond sighed. “They are gone too long, too often. One day they will not return, I fear. Though I suppose that worryis partofa father’s nature,” he added, smiling sadly at his daughter.

            “You need not worry about it for a few years at least, Father.” Arwen laughed suddenly, “Look!”

            Elrond turned. A grey filly was standing in the middle of The Bridge and even as they watched she dropped a curved, gold-inlaid stick into the water. It glittered in the moonlight and fell gently towards the flowing water, coming to rest on the surface.

            “Oh, dear,” Arwen smiled impishly. “I think that was Elrohir’s bow. He is going to be engaged for some time, I think. Such a well-behaved filly. Just like all your horses, Father. This will prove most entertaining.”

            Voices drifted to them on the wind.

            “If you ever touch one of my weapons again. . . .”

            “Next time I am choosing a gelding! An old, plodding gelding. . . .”

Epilogue

            “A horse there was surpassing swift,

            His coat was white as driven snow,

            His arched neck had a handsome lift,

            He was an invinciblefoe.

            He never thought of quailing from

            (No matter the danger of the clash)

            A fight his master needed won;

            He would to the battle dash.

            Running bravely towards the line

            Of pike-men standing side by side,

            With battle-rage his eyes would shine,

            And death would from his fury hide.”

            As first I gave Asfaloth the usual cues to stop, and then pulled on the reins, I was merely amused; he continued to ignore me and went on with his rhyming. He obviously was not going to stop until all of the snowdrops had been properly slain. Looking around, I saw that some of the younger elves in my company were growing slightly impatient. This was somewhat understandable, in particular for Elrohir, as his horse would often follow Asfaloth’s example.

            “Enough Asfaloth,” I said. Instantly, the horse stilled under me, though I was uncertainwhether it was because of my words, or because he had just finished off the last row of decorative bushes. As I had foreseen, he was a remarkable horse, and progressing quite satisfactorily. Asfaloth even followed my directions most of the time, which was more than I could say for other horses who have been inflicted upon me by someone I will not, at this time, name. It will suffice to say that perhaps this person’s odd sense of humor came from his human side. Turning, I rode back to my companions, accompanied by Asfaloth’s continued chanting,

            “Thus those companions won the day.

            Gondolin’s fate would not come here.

            The goblins would be kept at bay

            So long as Asfaloth was near.”

            An excellent horse, true. But he did have one slight problem. He knew he was excellent, and reveled in talking about it. I could live with that. Despite my original suspicions, he was not Mordor-spawn or a sadist. I actually found that I truly liked him, though if he did not stop that incessant rhyming, I might soon be revisiting Mandos.

            “Asfaloth.”

            That was all that was needed. He fell silent and then stopped as we reached the others. It was just after sunrise. Elrohir was here with his horse; Elladan, of course, had come with his brother; and Meglin had insisted on watching our horses’ first trials under saddle last month, and since then had been most obstinate about continuing to observe, as he termed it, “our hilarious routine” (that might have had something to do with the fact that Asfaloth refused to budge until I had given him his morning honey bun (my horse has a serious infatuation with bread), and Ainille persisted in trying to transfer Elrohir from her back into the nearest tree). I inwardly rolled my eyes as I saw the solemn expressions on the faces of the three elves and waited. I did not have to wait long. It was merely a question of who began first. Young elves!

            “Gorfy,” Elladan began gravely (while I concealed a sigh upon hearing my ridiculous nickname again, that everyone else in Imladris seems to find extremely humorous), “I retract all that I have said about Asfaloth’s capabilities. Never have I seen flowers that massacred.”

            Asfaloth looked very proud of himself. Sometimes I think it is a good thing that he is still young enough as a three-year-old, that he does not always recognize sarcasm. I would rather not have to explain to Elrond that the reason his son would spend the next six weeks healing was because my horse had become offended and “massacred” him, too.

            “He is truly a remarkable horse, my lord.” This was from Meglin. “The way he shredded that Niphredil was unbelievable.”

            Asfaloth was acting very self-important by now, and obviously wanted to strut. Elrohir looked at him askance, realizing that Asfaloth was taking this seriously. As Elrohir opened his mouth to add his remark, I interrupted him before he could add anything damaging to either Asfaloth’s pride or his own health.

            “Your turn, Elrohir.” I said, drawing my finger swiftly several times across my throat. He took the hint and closed his mouth. Then, mounting Ainille (whose reins he had been holding), he prepared for his ride. His rides had turned out to be much more interesting than mine (especially as Ainille would sulk terribly if she did not first watch, and then surpass Asfaloth, which was rare). She would express her displeasure by constantly trying to roll, and if she were still carrying Elrohir, what did it matter? I was quite thankful that at least Asfaloth appeared to idolize me. He always did whatever I asked, and seemed to live for my approval (and any accompanying treats).

            There had been reports of greatly increased activity among the orcs and other minions of the Enemy. Oddly, there had not been much fighting, merely rumors in the earth of the amassing of legions, far off. Mithrandir had appeared again, and disappeared for long hours with Lord Elrond. When they returned, both had been unusually grave. Lord Elrond had warned me that we were on the brink of war, and so we prepared: the sons of Elrond, myself, and every other capable fighter in Imladris. No day passed that did not find us engaged in studying the arts of warfare, either on foot or on horseback. I was secretly glad that I had accepted Asfaloth, not only because he followed me without question, but because, as all of his bloodline were (though I would never admit that to Elrond), he was very talented at maneuvers. At least,he was on those occasions when he was paying attention.

            Though, as I watched Ainille furiously attacking the last remaining Niphredil bloom, and then turning and engaging Asfaloth in a fierce staring contest, I had to admit that sometimes I entertained doubts as to our steeds’ effectiveness,despite the fact that the Niphredil had been “properly massacred.”

             We were not ready for a war yet, either Asfaloth and I, or Imladris, but soon we would be, and may the Valar have mercy on those that threaten our realm.

The End (or is it really the beginning?)