Of Balrogs And Battles

Chapter One - The Book

A blood-curdling scream splintered the peace of the afternoon, and Celebrían flinched.  “I do wish they could slay each other quietly,” she murmured.  “What are they doing?”

Elrond gazed out over the garden.  “Need you ask?” he queried.

“Balrogs,” they sighed in unison. 

“It looks like Elrohir is the Balrog this time; Elladan is killing him,” Elrond explained.

Standing together, they watched in amusement.   The Balrog wore wings draped around its shoulders like a cape, fashioned from a semi-circle of some flimsy scarlet material artistically cut and slashed to resemble flames.  It stood on a low wall which surrounded the gardens, roaring and growling most convincingly.  Elladan valiantly attacked the creature, hacking and stabbing with his sword – which was fortunately made of wood.  

“I found them trying to drown one another in the pond this morning,” Elrond commented.

“The pond?  I wondered where the trail of mud had come from.”  Celebrían thought for a moment.  “Let me guess.  Ecthelion and Gothmog?”

Elrond nodded.  “Who else?  I hauled them both out; they were scaring the fish.”  He watched while the twins grappled together for a while on top of the wall, before falling dramatically, locked in combat, from the summit onto the grass below.  He shook his head and sighed.  “Who would have thought that Glorfindel’s sacrifice would result in an elfling’s game?” he asked bemusedly. 

“He will not mind,” Celebrían reassured him.  “He will be delighted – you know how much he loves them.  But perhaps we had better warn him when he comes home this afternoon.  I am rather more concerned about those wings – they look remarkably like my newest dress.  Just where did Elrohir find them?”  Before the desperate battle could recommence, with the roles exchanged, she stepped out into the garden.  “Elladan!  Elrohir!  Could you come here a moment, please?”

The twins raced to her side, both talking at once.  “Did you see?  I was the Balrog,  and Elladan killed me!”  Elrohir exclaimed.

“We fought, but I died as well, just like Glorfindel,”  Elladan added.

“You were both very fierce and courageous.  And I think the wings look most realistic, Elrohir – where did you get them from?”

Elrohir danced from one foot to the other.  “I knew they would be a good idea!  I asked Tasarian; she found some left-over material, and we cut them out together. It’s like your lovely new dress, Nana!”

Celebrían relaxed. She had not really thought her sons would cut up her new dress, but with the twins, one could never be too sure – they tended to get carried away in the heat of the moment.

Elladan and Elrohir ran back to the wall, the wings and sword both changing hands.  Elrohir scrambled up onto the wall of Cirith Thoronath, marching to the point where Balrog Elladan lay in wait for him before leaping up with a roar, and the desperate battle resumed.

The twins’ current obsession with Balrogs and battles lay in a particular book from Elrond’s library.  A few days previously they had discovered a volume entitled ‘Of Tuor And The Fall Of Gondolin’.  The hefty tome was far too heavy for either of them to attempt to lift it, so they had badgered Elrond’s assistant into placing it on a table for them to pore over at their leisure.  They read the tale avidly, exclaiming in delight as they came across a familiar name.  “Eärendil!”  Elladan cried, jabbing his finger at the page.

“Be careful, El!”  Elrohir warned him.  “You’ll tear it!”  They read on, about the torture and treachery of Maeglin; the forces of darkness, Balrogs, orcs, wolves and dragons; and paused, exchanging a scheming look.  There was inspiration for marvellous games here, and the gardens and grounds of their home, the maze of rooms, hallways and staircases,  provided the perfect setting for anywhere in Arda they wanted.

A small, dark, inner storeroom served as Angband, and Morgoth was torturing Maeglin when the dungeon door suddenly flew open.  “What is going on?”  cried Erestor.  “I heard someone crying!”

“I wasn’t crying!” Elrohir protested indignantly.  He was flushed and breathless nonetheless.  “El was torturing me,” he informed Erestor.

“Torturing you?”

Elladan nodded enthusiastically.  “I was making him tell me where the kitchens are,” he explained.

“Whatever were you doing to him?”  Erestor demanded incredulously.

“This!”  Elladan promptly began tickling his twin mercilessly.  “Tell me!” he insisted, as Elrohir collapsed once more into hysterical giggles.

Erestor sighed.  “I hardly think that Morgoth forced Maeglin to reveal the whereabouts of Gondolin by tickling him,” he began.  He held the door open.  “Out, both of you.  I do not think that this is a suitable game.  Find something else to do.”

The twins watched as Erestor stalked off down the hallway, and shrugged resignedly.  “Erestor can be very boring sometimes,” Elrohir commented.

Elladan nodded in agreement. “I know.  Come on, let’s read the next part,” he suggested. 

They read on, enthralled by the peril and plight of their own grandfather as he and the other refugees fled from the sack of the hidden city.  “He must have escaped, else Ada wouldn’t have been born,” Elrohir reasoned.

“Yes, but how?  And El, look here! They met another Balrog!” Elladan told him.  “And Glorfindel fought it!  ‘They were saved by the valour of yellow-haired Glorfindel, chief of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondilin,’ ”  he read.

Elrohir peered over his shoulder.  “Gondolin,” he corrected his twin absently.  “Do you think it’s our Glorfindel?” he asked in excitement.  “Or just an elf with the same name?   There’s two Legolaseses; the one in Gondolin, and King Thranduil’s son.  Is there a picture?”  There was an illustration showing a fair-haired warrior, dwarfed by a towering monster.  The face of the warrior was obscured by his upraised sword arm, but the Balrog was clearly defined, wreathed in smoke and flames, and wielding a many-thonged whip.  Elrohir read a little further, then sighed in disappointment.  “Oh.  It must be another Glorfindel.  He died, fighting the Balrog.  It says they both fell to ruin in the –” he hesitated slightly, “– in the abyss, and he was buried there.”

They looked at one another, their eyes shining.  “How brave he must have been,” Elrohir started, his voice full of awe.

“To have fought like that and saved everyone!” Elladan continued.  “Come on!”

The next few days were spent re-enacting the battle of Glorfindel and the Balrog, the fall of Turgon, the deaths of Ecthelion and Gothmog, the flight into the mountains, and the torture of Maeglin – despite Erestor’s disapproval.  More and more details were added as imagination filled in the gaps left in the tales, and props were scavenged from the storerooms of Imladris, or begged from indulgent members of the household.

On the afternoon that Glorfindel arrived home after a two-week patrol, they were fighting in a small stream that bordered the wood, as they had been forbidden to play in the pond.  Both were drenched from head to foot, and the wings hung limp and sodden down Elrohir’s back, leaving bright red patches on his tunic.  He had just wrestled Elladan to the ground, and had him pinned on his back in the shallow water, when they heard hoof beats.  They leapt to their feet.  “Glorfindel!”

“What are you doing?”  he asked in an amused voice.

“Fighting,” said Elrohir.

“Playing,” said Elladan.  They hugged him damply, delighted to see him again.

Glorfindel smiled, and sat on the wet grass beside them.  “Playing and fighting?  Why are you in the stream?”

“Because we’re not allowed in the pond anymore,”  Elladan explained in disappointment.

“And why – ”  He stopped, and sighed.  “Never mind.  Elladan, is that blood on your face?  Are you hurt?”

Elladan looked blank.  “Blood?” he echoed.

Elrohir looked at his brother and laughed.   “The dye’s run, El,” he pointed out.  “It dripped on you.”  He pulled the bedraggled wings off and squeezed the material experimentally.  The liquid that collected in the palm of his hand looked just like blood.  He looked at Elladan and they both smiled broadly.

“If you are planning to use fake blood in your battles, please warn your parents first!” Glorfindel said firmly.  “You do not want to terrify your mother.”  He pulled them to their feet, and they began to walk back to the house, the twins flanking him, and Glorfindel’s horse walking patiently behind.

Elrohir grinned.  That was why they liked Glorfindel.  He did not tell them to stop as Erestor did, but just made suggestions.  “We were being Balrogs.  Did you know that you were named after a great hero, Glorfindel?”

Glorfindel stopped, and gave them both a very odd look.  “I was?”

Elladan nodded.  “It was after the fall of Gondilin,” he began.

“Gondolin!” Elrohir corrected him.

“And everyone escaped over the mountains,” Elladan continued, ignoring his brother.  “And there was a Balrog, and Glorfindel fought it, and killed it, but he was killed as well.  Did you know that?”

Glorfindel still had a rather odd expression.  “Yes, I had heard the story before.  Perhaps we can look at it together this evening.  Would you like that?”

“Yes!”  They exclaimed in excitement.  “Your bedtime stories are even better than Nana’s,” Elrohir added magnanimously.  “Are you coming in for tea?”

“Alas, no.  I have been on patrol for two weeks,” Glorfindel pointed out.  “I am going to have a bath and change before I do anything else.  Perhaps I could join you for supper?  And it might be a good idea if you were to change too before your parents see you – you appear to be a little wet.”

Elladan and Elrohir looked each other up and down, only now realising that they were soaked to the skin, and liberally smeared with mud and red dye.  “That might be a good idea,” Elladan agreed.  “Come on, El.”  He led the way towards their bedroom, then turned back.  “Don’t forget to come to supper, Glorfindel.”

Supper was a cheerful affair, just six of them – Elladan and Elrohir, their parents, Glorfindel and Erestor.  Erestor, when he was not being boring and disapproving, was an interesting companion, and a good listener. Glorfindel spoke of his journey, and the twins talked about the stories they had read about Gondolin, pestering their father with questions on every aspect, and especially Eärendil.  “Perhaps you should ask Glorfindel,” he defended himself finally.  “He may know.”

Glorfindel looked up and studied Elrond, then nodded slowly.  “Very well.  You asked if I knew the story,” he reminded the twins.  “I do.  I was in it.”

There was a sudden clatter as Elladan dropped his knife, Elrohir his fork.  They stared at him in disbelief.  “You’re the same Glorfindel?”  Elrohir asked at last.  “How can you be?  It said you died!”

“Was the book wrong?” suggested Elladan.  He sounded vaguely disappointed.

“No, the book was right.  But Mandos sent me back – he said there was a job for me to do.”

The next question was inevitable.  “What job?”  they asked together.

“That, he did not say.  Perhaps it was to prevent the two of you from tormenting your parents so much!” Glorfindel joked.

The revelation had the remarkable effect of silencing the twins for the remainder of the meal as they considered what they had learned.   Elrohir finally broke their silence.  “Glorfindel?  We’ve been playing Balrogs.  We pretended to be you, fighting it.  Do you mind?”  He sounded worried.

Glorfindel laughed aloud, so cheerfully that the twins’ slight guilt fled.  “Of course not!  It is rather pleasant to be thought a hero, to have songs and ballads sung about me.”

“Especially when certain maidens are listening,” Erestor added with a smile.  “I saw the way Míriel was looking at you the last time it was sung in the Hall of Fire!”

“Then I shall speak to the minstrels,” Celebrían decided.  “Perhaps they should sing those songs more frequently.”  Her gaze moved to her sons, both trying to look inconspicuous.  “It is past the time you two should be in bed!  Go on.”  She shooed them reluctantly from the room.

Suddenly Elrohir darted back in.  “You will remember to tell us your story, won’t you Glorfindel?”

“I promise.  But only if you hurry!”  The threat, although empty, made them race up the stairs two at a time, desperate to hear the tale.

To Be Continued

Of Balrogs And Battles

Chapter Two – The Battle

Elladan and Elrohir were both ready for bed when Glorfindel reached their room.  They were perched on the pillows of Elladan’s bed, and Glorfindel positioned himself comfortably at the foot.   “Are you ready?”  he asked them.

They both nodded.  “Can you tell us about Gondolin as well?”  Elladan pleaded.  He cast a sidelong look at Elrohir, who took no notice.

“Of course.   Gondolin was a beautiful city, built in a sheltered valley and protected by encircling mountains.   The only way in was through a hidden passage beneath the mountains, defended and guarded by seven gates.  We thought it totally impregnable – but we were wrong.”  As Glorfindel spoke, the brushstrokes of his words painted vivid pictures on the impressionable canvas of their minds.  “It was surrounded by high white walls, and in the sunlight they shone like diamond.  The streets and courtyards were paved with marble, but for all the stone, the city was green with trees and plants and life.  Fountains played in the squares and parks.  The sound of the water and the whisper of the trees was a constant background – the city was named Stone Song, or the Rock of the Music of Water.”

Elrohir sighed longingly. “I wish we could have seen it,”  he said.  “It sounds beautiful.”

“It was.  It was built with the memory of Tirion in mind.  And on the highest level, in the court of the king, were shining trees of gold and silver.  Yet despite the magnificence, the end came suddenly.  We were attacked on the night of a special feast for the celebration of summer – the Gates of Summer, we called it.  The night had been spent in music, song, dancing and merry-making – many betrothals were traditionally pledged on that night.”  Glorfindel smiled at some distant memory.  “I still remember how happy everyone was that night.  At dawn, we gathered on the eastern walls to greet the rising sun with songs.”  He paused again.   

“We were attacked out of the darkness by the hosts of Morgoth.  The fighting was fierce, but without hope, and the city was overthrown.  I was a chieftain of the city, and a warrior in the service of Turgon, the king,”  he continued.  “I was sworn to obey him and defend him, but his last order to me was to flee the city with all who could leave, and to protect his beloved grandson Eärendil – your grandfather.  Tuor and I gathered those we could, and we fled down a long, dark tunnel.  It had been built in secret, and few knew of it.”

“Was grandfather scared?”  Elladan asked.

“Yes, of course he was,”  Glorfindel told them.  “He was merely seven, a little younger than you, and he had just seen his home destroyed and knew that his grandfather the king was dead.  But he was also very brave, just as you both are.  There were many children with us, and we had to be absolutely silent so that the enemy could not hear us.  He told the children that they were playing a game of mice, escaping from a great cat, and they all crept along without a sound.  We had fled in great haste, and had few provisions, so he said that as mice they should nibble on crumbs – and not one complained of hunger.”

He continued the tale, brushing over some of the darker aspects – the stifled cries of the injured, the muffled sobs and utter desolation of those grieving dreadful losses, the deaths of some of the most seriously wounded, whose bodies had had to be left along the way.  Some of the children had died too, their small bodies not yet able to cope with the bitter cold and winds of the high mountains.  He did not tell the twins that, either.

“At last, we came to a high pass,”  Glorfindel related.

“Cirith Thoronath,”  Elrohir told him.

Glorfindel smiled.  “Yes.  It means Eagles’ Cleft.  We were going slowly; the way was steep and narrow.  There was a wall of rock to one side of the path, and a sheer drop on the other.  A bitter wind tried to pluck us from the path, and fling the unwary into the abyss.  Then, from the head of the line a warning was shouted – orc scouts had found us.”  He paused, noticing the way both Elladan and Elrohir had edged a little closer to one another.

“What happened then?”  Elrohir whispered.

“The orcs had set an ambush for us.  But it was worse that that, they had a Balrog with them.  We feared all was lost; there were few among us able to fight.   I was carrying Eärendil; I passed him to his mother, and moved to the front.”  He paused again, remembering.  “The creature was on a ledge above the path.  I climbed up towards it – if it had leaped down onto the path, many would have perished.  We fought.  I think I knew at once that I would never be able to defeat it, but hoped that I could distract it for a time while the others passed below.   It gave off a fierce heat, and the snow all around us melted, making the ground treacherous, so it was easy to slip.  I found my arrows were useless – they burned in the air as they flew.  Because of its sword and the whip, it was difficult to come close enough to attack it, but then I became entangled by its whip.  Instead of cutting myself free, I allowed it to pull me close, then stabbed it in the chest.  It was mortally wounded, and fell into the abyss – and I fell with it.”

There was silence, broken only by a shaky breath, and the squeak of the mattress as Elrohir moved, throwing his arms around Glorfindel.  Then Elladan was on his other side as they both hugged him tightly.  He freed his arms to embrace them, rubbing the slender backs soothingly.  “Do not cry.  It was something I had to do – I was sworn to protect those people, and your grandfather – and I did,” he explained simply.

“Did – did it hurt?”  Elladan asked haltingly.

Glorfindel shook his head.  “No.  I remember falling, then nothing until I awoke, healed of all wounds.” 

They sat huddled together for a few moments.  Looking down at the two dark heads pressed against him,  he remembered again the horror of the moment, the searing pain of his burns, the stench of the creature and his own burnt flesh, the terror as he fell, and above all, the terrible sense of failure that had been his last coherent thought.  Yet now, he knew it had been worth it.  These two, their father; none of them would have existed if he had failed to protect Eärendil.   At last he stirred, and moved away a little.  “Come now, you are supposed to be in bed.  Your parents will be here soon.  You mother can be far scarier than any Balrog if she thinks I have kept you up!”

He  waited until Elrohir returned to his own bed, and kissed them both goodnight.  At the door, he turned, holding it open for Celebrían and Elrond.  “Goodnight Elrohir, Elladan.  Valar bless you.”

“Goodnight, Glorfindel,” they chorused, rather sleepily.

Later, after their parents had also wished them goodnight and kissed them, Elrohir drifted into dreams.  He reflected, on the edge of sleep, on yet another reason why he liked Glorfindel so much.  Just sometimes he got fed up with being ‘and Elrohir’.  Glorfindel was the only person who ever occasionally put his name before Elladan’s.

His dreams that night were inevitable.  After Glorfindel’s evocative recreation of the legend and the reality of the battle, his imagination, which had soaked up Glorfindel’s words like a sponge, blossomed.  He dreamed he was among the terrified, grief-stricken refugees, and could hear their tense voices amid the howling of the winds.  He was being carried by a beautiful woman, and strands of her shining golden hair escaped from her hood and blew in his face.  He had never seen her before, but somehow knew that she was his mother.  They were both clad in thick, fur-lined cloaks, yet it was still bitterly cold.  He shivered, pressing closer to his mother, and she wrapped a fold of her own cloak around him as well.  Panic-stricken cries drifted back to them from the elves ahead, and he twisted around to look.  High above them on a pinnacle of rock he could see Glorfindel, facing a terrible monster.  Screams from those around him identified it as a Balrog.

Valiant and steadfast, Glorfindel stepped forward to meet it.  He looked both beautiful and terrible, proud and resolute.  The arrows he fired at the monster kindled in the air before they ever reached it, falling uselessly to the ground, so he drew his sword, trying to move closer.  They fought long, locked in combat together. Glorfindel’s sword hacked and stabbed at the Balrog, while its blade and whip cut and burned him.  Elrohir could see that his golden hair was burned and scorched, his clothes smouldered, but still Glorfindel fought tirelessly – he was so brave, so strong! 

As he watched, the Balrog flicked its whip, cutting a livid red weal across Glorfindel’s face, but the warrior did not flinch, seeming oblivious to the pain.  The whip flicked again, wrapping itself around his chest.   At that point his mother tried to turn him away and press his face against her shoulder.  “Do not look, little one,” she murmured fearfully.  “Do not look.”

He jerked his head away and turned again, unable to not watch.  To Elrohir’s horror, Glorfindel did not struggle, did not fight;  still seeming oblivious to what was happening.  Instead, he allowed it to pull him closer, then at the last moment raised his sword, plunging it deep into the creature’s chest. Mortally wounded, the Balrog gave a roar of fury and defiance, and wrapped its fiery wings around Glorfindel, enveloping him in a deadly embrace. 

Together they plunged from the mountainside to their deaths.

He screamed out Glorfindel’s name, and finally turned away, sobbing into his mother’s neck in grief and horror, clinging to her desperately.  She tried to soothe him with reassuring words, but she was crying as well.  Then, as he hugged her tightly, she began to fade.  Very slowly the softness of her skin and her fragrant scent drifted into memory, and was replaced by damp, lavender-scented linen.  He realised that he clutched his pillow tightly, and it was wet with tears.

Shakily, Elrohir sat up, trembling, and rubbed a hand across his eyes.  His heart was pounding loudly, and he could hear a faint echo of his own fear and grief.  Elladan.  He threw back the bed covers and crossed to Elladan’s bed, knowing that his brother was still trapped in the same nightmare.  “El?  Elladan!” he hissed, shaking his shoulder.  “El, wake up!”   Elladan whimpered slightly, and Elrohir shook him again.  His twin woke abruptly and sat bolt upright, staring wildly at Elrohir.

“We had a nightmare,” Elrohir explained softly.

Elladan gulped and nodded.  “Yes.  About Glorfindel.  And there was a woman, with golden hair…”

“Our mother.”

“No.”  Elladan looked a little puzzled.   “She was my mother.  You weren’t there.”

They stared at one another, trying to work this out.  They had both had the same dream, had both been there – and yet the other had not been.  Elrohir frowned.  “It was Eärendil,” he said slowly.  “We must have dreamed what he saw.”

“Of course!   It was his mother, Idril.  And he watched the battle.”

Elrohir shivered, and climbed into bed beside his brother, snuggling down beneath the covers.  The shared warmth and presence comforted both of them, and they began to relax again.  “I saw Glorfindel fall,” he whispered.  “He was hurt.”

“I know,”  Elladan replied quietly.  “The Balrog burned him.  Do you remember when I scalded my hand?”

Elrohir nodded.  “You cried,” he reminded his brother, remembering when they had helped one of the cooks to make jam.  The heat beneath the pan had been set too high, and the pot had bubbled over, splashing boiling jam onto Elladan.  Although his hand had been plunged into cold water immediately, the resultant burn had taken several days to heal. 

“I know.  Imagine it hurting as much as that all over.  Poor Glorfindel.”

They both shuddered.  “Poor Glorfindel.”  Soothed and reassured by each other’s company, they drifted into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

It seemed to Elrohir as he awoke the next morning that there was something wrong.  A bright light shone on his face, and he blinked, squinting against the unusual dazzle.   “El?”  he murmured drowsily.  “Why is the window in the wrong place?”

He was startled to hear Elladan’s laugh immediately behind him.  “The window’s not in the wrong place, silly!  You are!”  He twisted around to face his brother, suddenly remembering the previous night – the horrible dreams, waking Elladan, sharing his bed, their discussion.

“Oh.  I forgot.”  They lay quietly, neither ready to get up just yet.  Elrohir had no intention of returning to his own bed – it would be cold, and he was much warmer and cosier where he was.

Beside him, Elladan spoke again.  “El?  I’ve been thinking.  I don’t want to play Balrogs anymore.”

Elrohir turned to face him, rather relieved.  He had been thinking the same thing, but had not wanted to mention it.  “Why not?”  he asked.

“Well – it was Glorfindel.  And he died.  It doesn’t seem –”  Elladan groped for a word – “suitable.”

“No.  We’ll think of something else.  And we can still be Morgoth and Maeglin, and the others.”  Elrohir slid out of bed.  “Come on, let’s get up.  I don’t want Nana or Ada to come in and see me here – they’ll think we’re just frightened elflings.  We’ll have breakfast, then think what to do today.”

~~**~~

It took much to startle Elrond, Lord of Imladris, but the sight that met him as he stepped out onto the lawn outside his library certainly qualified.  Erestor hurried past – and he had Celebrían slung over his shoulder.  She giggled like an elfling, and Erestor growled at her in a ferocious voice.  “Quiet, wench!  Stop laughing – you are supposed to be terrified!”

“I am sorry, my lord Erestor – I will try to appear suitably frightened.” She looked up from Erestor’s back, and gave Elrond a small wave.  He watched in utter amazement as his wife and counsellor disappeared into trees on the far side of the garden.  He stared after them, trying hard to convince himself that he had imagined the entire episode, when a slight movement near the house caught his eye.

His sons lurked furtively beneath a bush.  Then one – Elladan – darted across to a low shrub and dropped down behind it.  He was followed by Elrohir.  Both were armed with small wooden swords, and clad in the grey cloaks their grandmother had given them on her last visit to Imladris, which they fondly believed rendered them invisible.  Next, Elrohir lay on his stomach and wriggled like a caterpillar across the grass to another bush.  He turned and signalled silently for Elladan to join him.

Intrigued now, Elrond tracked their progress with his eyes and realised that they were making for a majestic oak in the centre of the lawn.  It was quite close to where he stood, and a low hedge ran towards it.  Praying briefly that none of his household were watching, Elrond bent low and scurried along the shelter of the hedge to the tree.  Straightening, he lay in wait.  Distantly he could hear the sound of Celebrían’s silvery laughter as Erestor murmured something.  He growled, and she stopped.

A faint whisper, no louder than the breath of the wind, drifted to his ears.  “El.  This way.”  There was a near-silent footfall as the twins edged towards him.  He waited.

As Elladan slid around the tree, Elrond pounced.  “What are you doing?” he demanded loudly.  They jumped, most satisfyingly, and he was certain that Elladan swore, but decided to pretend that he had misheard.  “Well?”

“Ada,”  Elrohir muttered weakly.

“Yes.  What are you doing?”

The twins exchanged a glance.  It was a look that usually boded ill for someone, but Elrond had been a twin himself.  He was wise to most of their ploys.  “Well?  Why are you skulking in the shrubbery?”

Another glance was exchanged, but this one meant that it was time to confess.  Elladan and Elrohir both dropped down onto the grass at the foot of the tree, where Elrond joined them.

“It’s our new game,”  Elrohir told him with a sigh.  “We weren’t going to tell you until it was all over.  Nana said she’d play, and she said Erestor would as well.”

Elladan joined in, explaining.  “We’re warriors.  Nana’s been captured by orcs, and we’re going to rescue her!”

The End