A three chapter story set during “The Hobbit.”

Chapter 1.

A peaceful morning in the Last Homely House.

“Tell them, Elrond. All of them.”  

“I cannot, Erestor. I could not, even if I were completely sure of what I have only glimpsed!”  

“Why don’t you talk to Mithrandir first, then?” Erestor shifted impatiently on his chair, chafing to be gone. As if there weren’t enough things to worry about, with the house full of unexpected guests and Midsummer’s celebrations, all of a sudden Mithrandir and his friends had become an additional problem. A little problem, Elrond had said, in a voice that suggested the problem might become the size of Caradhras.  

“I have a feeling that some things are better kept secret…For now.” Elrond shook his head, uncertainty clear in his voice. Erestor sighed. He had learned to trust the half-elf’s wisdom, even when it sounded like folly.   

“It shouldn’t be too difficult,” Elrond continued, smiling encouragingly from the other side of the desk. “Elladan, Elrohir and Glorfindel must have arrived by now. They shall be craving a bath, some food and rest, as it is their wont after long patrols. And then, you can convince Glorfindel to look after Estel during the celebrations. The children will be playing together, well away from the adults’ tables. Tomorrow morning Mithrandir and his friends will be on their way, and that will be the end of it...” Elrond was obviously trying to convince himself, and doing a good job at it.   

“So let me see if I got it rightly,” Erestor summed up resignedly, preparing to leave. “Mithrandir represents the greatest risk, so they should not meet…”  

“Under any circumstance,” Elrond confirmed, paying no attention to his chief counsellor’s sceptical frown.  

“I agree that it would be better if he avoided the dwarves,” Erestor continued with a shrug, “but if that’s not possible, well, they’re too busy with your food and drink to pay attention to anything else.” He snorted softly at Elrond’s raised brow. “At least that’s what Cook suggested when I met him earlier today and…” he deliberately left the sentence unfinished with every intention of provoking his friend’s suspicions.  

Elrond’s sudden frown implied that he worried for his cherished wine, and Erestor did not intend to inform the Lord of Imladris that the dwarves had privately dismissed it as tasteless and light, and had instead settled for the thick, cloudy, bitter and dark-coloured ale the Dúnedain from the Angle sent every year in token of friendship.  

Given that those unrefined descendants of the Men of Númenor, too, made liberal use of their own gift whenever they happened to be in residence, Erestor had come to the conclusion that the Dúnedain’s annual present mainly aimed at seeing to their own preferences. It was clear then that the dwarves’ opinion regarding Elrond’s highly prized wine matched the Númenorean’s –strange though it might seem. But then, mortals were strange creatures, he concluded, shrugging minutely and turning his attention back to the business at hand.  

“… And that leaves the Perian as our last concern, then.” Elrond seemed to have moved past the wine issue and was closing the conversation, although Erestor knew him better. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the key to the cellars goes missing sometime today,” he told himself.  

“Mithrandir says he is very curious, and deeply interested in songs and ancient tales,” he offered aloud in an attempt to show that he had already carried out the necessary research. “I suspect that he has heard enough songs and tales in the past days to fuel his interest…”  

“I doubt that places him beyond your scheming –er, diplomatic skills, my friend.” Erestor cast a sharp look at Elrond’s face.  

“He’s enjoying this,” he thought accusingly, seeing the teasing grin in the lord’s face. “Of course it does not, young one,” he answered haughtily. “I already was a diplomat when your forefathers first set foot upon the Ice…”  

“That is why I would not trust anyone else but my chief counsellor with this delicate matter,” Elrond smiled gleefully, falling into unknown depths of shameless flattery. “You taught me all I know about the subject, after all, and I can think of no one better qualified than you to manage this circumstance successfully. You just have to keep him away from Mithrandir, the dwarves and the perian for one day. They will be departing tomorrow, after all…Come in, Elrohir,” he added, waving at the slightly open door and leaving Erestor to ponder how to deal with this last shot.  

“Good day, Adar, Erestor… Am I interrupting?”  

Erestor turned to greet the younger lord. Of course the twins would arrive in time for the Midsummer’s festival, he thought. And with time enough for a thorough bath, he noted with relief, glancing briefly at Elrohir’s stained and worn-out clothes.  

“It is good to see you home, Elrohir. Before you report to your adar, be informed that we have unexpected guests around and, as a consequence…”  

“I overheard you.” Elrohir’s serious face lit up with a brief, knowing smile that always reminded Erestor of a smug duck playing at being king of the pond.  

At times, though, it also reminded him of Celeborn.  

“Away from Mithrandir and the perian and at a safe distance from the dwarves. We can manage that, can’t we?” Elrohir continued, obviously pleased with himself, patting the chief counsellor’s shoulder as he entered the room with purposeful, confident strides. He greeted his adar with a warrior’s arm grip and took seat before Elrond’s desk.  

“Of course we can; and we shall,” Elrond answered as he filled a couple of goblets with a ruby-coloured wine from a crystal carafe set upon a beautifully carved side-table. “This is a serious matter, though,” he added, casting a warning look towards his son. “Erestor volunteered to carry the weight of it, but we all must be ready to give him a hand,” he said, offering a goblet to his son -who accepted it greedily- and the other to Erestor, who refused it with a dignified shake of his head and a piercing look Elrond knew portended revenge. Well, he had not exactly volunteered, after all, Elrond admitted, taking the goblet to his lips to hide his smirk.   

“I must go and see to what our guests may need for the next part of their journey,” Erestor said in a cold voice, walking to the door at his calm, composed pace. He paused briefly before reaching it, as if on second thoughts, and barely turned his head. “And I’d better checked the wine supplies for tonight,” he let fall then, enjoying the fleeting wince that crossed Elrond’s features as he left the study.  

“What is this all about? Why is he making such fuss?” Elrohir glanced from the closed door to his father’s suddenly worried face.   

“Oh, you know, unexpected guests, and unexpected circumstances, above all, always make him like this,” Elrond answered, forcing an unconcerned expression and waving his hand in dismissal. “And then, you all being back at the same time… but tell me about your patrol, my son, what news from the Trollshaws?”  

“Well, apart from the fact that they are now three trolls short up there, but Mithrandir must have surely told you all about that…” And with a surprised shake of his head, Elrohir launched into a detailed account of the scouting trip that had led them to the north-western marches for over a moon. He was about to recount how they had almost shot Glorfindel’s patrol, due to a most unfortunate misunderstanding, when a familiar voice flew gracefully in from the yard below.  

“Erestor! Why on Arda is the house full of dwarves and where did they sprout from?”  

Elrohir cast a weak smile to his father. His brother was obviously venting his frustration upon their father’s chief counsellor.  

“There are thirteen, Elladan, they are your adar’s guests, and they sprouted from the road half a moon ago, in the company of Mithrandir and a Perian…” Elrohir remembered having heard his father admit on occasion that Erestor’s voice at its coldest would freeze a dragon’s breath.  

“Well… see to it that I do not step upon any of them…” was the grunted, thoughtless, exasperated answer.  

On the other hand, Elrohir thought amusedly, Elladan’s obtuseness when annoyed was also legendary. Checking the height to which Elrond’s brows had raised, he settled back comfortably and made ready to enjoy a confrontation that would have an only too predictable result.  

“There’s not much chance of you stepping upon our guests, since the guests’ chambers are well apart from the family wing,” Erestor’s sharp retort came swiftly. “Something you would, no doubt, remember clearly if only you spent a bit more time around, my lord!”  

Elrohir flinched at this, and risked a brief look at his adar’s now pensive face. “Hit back, Elladan! that was unfair!” he thought, fervently hoping that his twin’s temper would not let him down.  

And it didn’t.  

“Erestor…” It was a menacing growl that would have frozen a lesser Elf in place, one of Elladan’s best performances indeed.  

“The healing rooms are over there, and the patrols’ headquarters and baths are beyond the training fields...the stables, it is clear that you’ve already found by yourself.” Erestor’s sarcasm, though, knew no boundaries once his prey had been singled out.  

“Erestor!” The growl had now changed into an outraged yelp. Elrohir needed not see the menacing scowl Erestor was sporting at that moment.  

“Now go and get yourself cleaned, stitched and rested, and do not show yourself around until you again resemble the well-behaved elfling that I helped raise, or face the consequences!”  

“So what is Mithrandir doing in the company of thirteen dwarves and a Perian?” Elrohir asked in an unnecessary loud voice, hoping to distract his adar from what he feared would result, down in the yard, in a lecture on their too frequent and quite reckless campaigns abroad.  

“He says that he intends to get rid of the dragon in Erebor, with the help of the Perian… take this,” Elrond said, offering a piece of cloth to his son, who had just spewed his wine. “The dwarves have a map,” he added after a moment, trying to sound more convincing.  

“And why not use him to overthrow the Necromancer, too, while on their way to the Mountain? King Thranduil would be very pleased…” Elrohir grumbled, shaking his head in disbelief. Mithrandir had actually finished off three trolls on his own some nights ago, but a dragon…  

“We have other plans,” Elrond answered distractedly. “Is your brother seriously injured? Why wasn’t I informed?” 

“Only in his pride, Adar, do not fret.” Elrohir could not help a short laugh as he remembered the incident. “And young Halbarad lived to learn from his mistake. Never let go of your arrow when your captain gives the sign for lowering your bows! I’ll rather go and give Elladan a hand,” he added, chuckling helplessly.  

“Enlighten him about these particular circumstances, too, and the measures we have devised. I doubt that Erestor found the time to do it…”  

“Keeping him away from Mithrandir, the perian and the dwarves. I will, Adar. By your leave.”  

Elrond hardly heard his younger son’s parting words, lost as he was in his thoughts. There was no reason why they wouldn’t succeed, he considered rationally. “We’ve already kept Estel from all of them for half a moon, and they will be gone tomorrow…” He was trying to reassure himself, yet he had a nagging feeling of impending disaster. “I’ll better go and save what’s left of my wine,” he told himself aloud. “That’s as good a reason as any other to go checking what’s going on in my house,” he reasoned, finishing his goblet and heading for the door of his study with the satisfied look of one who has reached a wise decision.

***  

Glorfindel had known better days, both in his present and in his previous life.  

“At least I wasn’t shot by one of my fellow warriors…” he groaned aloud, as his horse dutifully took the way to the stables at a measured, cautious pace.  

“Glorfindel! Did you stray on purpose, or you just had another argument with your horse?” The stable master went out to meet them, patting the horse’s head affectionately. “Do not mind, patient one,” he told the steed. “It takes him some time to admit that his horses have better sense than himself…”  

“So this is where you get all those strange ideas from?” Glorfindel complained, dismounting and patting the horse’s sweating flank. “Tell him; tell the Thâronil where your good sense led us…“ His back still ached, and he was glad to stretch his long legs after that ride and that unexpected fall…  

“Your patrol arrived some time ago, short after Elladan and Elrohir.” The stable master’s voice interrupted his musings.  

“And what happened to their horses? They were full-size when we parted,” Glorfindel joked, pointing at the group of ponies that grazed peacefully in the enclosure.  

“No, those are Mithrandir’s friend’s,” the stable master laughed at the idea. “The dwarves and the perian’s,” he added tactfully, seeing Glorfindel’s questioning glance. “Elrohir told us that you met them on their way here, before the incident with the trolls... Come, good boy, let us brush you up,” he crooned the somewhat subdued horse, which was following him obediently.  

“He never follows me without an argument”, Glorfindel thought grudgingly. He had sent his patrol ahead as soon as they had entered the valley, hoping that some time alone would help him cool down and make some points clear with his self-opinionated mount, but he wasn’t sure that his words had entered the horse’s thick skull. And now he was following the Thâronil like the most dutiful steed in Arda!  

“I see,” he grunted. He wondered what else Elrohir might have told the stable master. It was not as if he had actually met Mithrandir’s friends, he thought moodily. About half a moon ago, two of his scouts had found out that three trolls had descended to the forest, not far from where the twins were supposedly leading a group of very young Dúnedain on their first scouting mission. As the scouts fled to warn Glorfindel of the danger, they had run into Mithrandir, who had assured them that he would take care of the trolls, and had kindly asked them to send word to Lord Elrond of his impending arrival and that of his company. After hearing this, the scouts had ridden even faster to inform their captain. Torn between helping the wizard and warning Elladan and Elrohir, Glorfindel had finally decided to ride up in search of the brethren and their company of newly minted rangers and…  

“What happened exactly, Glorfindel?” The stable master could hardly contain his amusement, seeing the seneschal massaging his back distractedly and wincing in pain. “Forget that I asked!” he added hurriedly at the murderous look the outraged warrior threw his way. “Elladan wore a scowl just like yours,” he commented, to nobody in particular. “Come, Asfaloth, I bet you earned your meal…” he addressed then the horse, ignoring the glare that the offended seneschal was throwing their way.  

“Yes, you go and spoil him! Don’t come to me complaining when that daft lump tries to eat your hair, or steps upon you while you are cleaning out his hooves!” Glorfindel warned him.  

“Oh, is that all you did?” the stable master’s voice held a tinge of incredulity and Glorfindel shook his head, waving his hand in dismissal at his horse’s outraged neigh.  

Of course that wasn’t all; he thought darkly, wincing as his sore back reminded him of the disastrous adventure. In a moment of folly he had agreed that it would be a great idea to explore the Trollshaws jointly, to see if some new threat was forcing the trolls down south. It had turned out a bad choice, doing so while in the company of such young and impressionable rangers.  

“At least I do not have to explain to Elrond why one of his sons has an arrow wound in his shoulder,” he told himself gloomily. Nor, if it came to that, was he obliged to explain how his horse had dismounted him most unceremoniously only a day ago. Or to entertain a band of dwarves and a perian. All he needed now was a good bath and a day’s sleep, he decided, and to forget that shameful patrol. “And make sure that everybody else forgets about it as well. Elladan shall help there,” he mused grimly, walking away with a stiff gait. He was not the only one who had thoroughly disgraced himself during that eventful patrol, after all.  

“Glorfindel!” He had successfully eluded the flow of busy elves engrossed in the preparations for tonight’s festivities, but the voice reached him just when he was about to get to the refuge of the Houses of Healing. With a tired sigh he considered the available escape routes and, seeing none, he turned slowly and resignedly.  

“Gilraen! What can I do for you?” The young widow walked briskly towards him with a hopeful look upon her beautiful face. “Who is this fine young lord?” he added, pointing at the frowning, dark-haired colt that lagged reluctantly behind her.  

“It’s me, Glorfindel, Estel!” the child claimed, pulling a thick strand of dark hair from his face and looking up hopefully, his annoyance immediately forgotten.  

“My, Estel! I swear you have grown since I went away! Do you think he will ever stop growing, my lady?” he asked Gilraen dramatically, enjoying the child’s delighted squeal. “Shouldn’t you be learning to carve –er, write your Cirth under Master Erestor’s kind tutoring?” he added then, casting a puzzled look at the sun’s position.  

“The thing is,” Gilraen sighed, looking charmingly embarrassed, “that the house is full of guests, as you may know, and Erestor thought that he’d rather keep track of things personally and…”  

“And?” Glorfindel extended a long arm and caught the restless child before he stepped on a delicate garland someone had carelessly left by a nearby tree. He suspected where that conversation was leading.  

“And Lindir called a rehearsal within the hour,” she continued in a lower voice, blushing slightly, “and then I was expected to help Bainloth decorate the gardens, and the Hall of Fire, for tonight’s celebrations…”  

Like the rest of Imladris residents, Glorfindel knew that he could not refuse anything to that shy, strong, brave young woman who always wore a sweet smile and never complained about her fate. He bowed to her with his right hand to his heart. “Be at ease, my lady,” he offered seriously, but with a merry light twinkling in his eyes. “Estel and I shall lay low in the wild until this threat is driven out. Do not tarry, now,” he added in a conspiratorial voice, “for it is well-known that Master Lindir shows no mercy to those who are late…” With a grateful bow and a heartfelt smile, Gilraen kissed briefly her son’s head and hurried back towards the main building, her skirts billowing behind her.  

“Well, Estel,” Glorfindel said, scooping the boy with a well-practiced movement that made him grunt, as his back kindly reminded him of previous exertions. “What are we going to do with you?”  

“I thought that we were going to the wild…” The boy settled gladly upon the tall elf’s shoulders, his voice sounding only slightly disappointed.  

The golden elf resumed his way towards the Houses of Healing at a slower pace. “That was a manner of speech,” he explained cheerfully.  

“An elven manner of speech?” the boy asked with genuine curiosity that made Glorfindel laugh out loud.  

“Well,” he smiled. “In a way. You would not want to miss tonight’s festival, would you? Let us go see if your brothers want to take part in this adventure, first,” he suggested, bending slightly so the child’s head would not hit the lintel.  

“They might want to drive out the threat…”  

“Nothing escapes your attention, Estel, does it?” Glorfindel laughed again as he greeted a couple of healers who were busy decorating the entrance with wreaths of fresh flowers and leaves. They pointed to a room at their left with a merry wink. “But yes, I am sure they would like that,” he added, pushing the door open.  

“…At least your leather jerkin prevented the worst damage, but still, I fear I do not understand it, Elladan…”  

“There is nothing to understand here, Paurlong. I got shot and that’s the end of it.”  

Elladan was sitting on a bench, undressed to his waist and facing the wall opposite the door, while a healer, whom the twins had long ago dubbed heavy fist not exactly because of his soft touch, studied an arrow wound in the elder twin’s shoulder with a critical eye. Elrohir stood by them, apparently offering useful insights.  

“Look –you are injured!” Estel’s fascinated voice made the elder twin start, and then wince.  

“What a nice horse you got there, Estel!” Elrohir greeted them with a wide smile. “Be careful not to fall from it!”  

“I am a great rider, Elrohir,” the child pointed out proudly from top of the seneschal’s shoulders, “Glorfindel is teaching me.” At this, both twins doubled up in laughter, and the exasperated healer lifted his hands from the wound while waiting for his patient to recover his composure.  

“What are you doing here, Glorfindel?” the healer demanded in annoyance, looking at the glaring elf-lord.  

“Oh, he surely wants to show you the glorious bruise that must be shinning somewhere south from where Estel is sitting now,” Elladan offered between laughs, while Elrohir tried to wipe the tears that streamed down his face.  

“Does it hurt, Elladan?” Glorfindel placed two fingers upon the reddened, torn skin around the newly reopened wound and pressed vindictively.  

“Ouch!”  

“Thought so…”  

“May I touch, too, please?”  

“May I finish my job?” The healer’s menacing voice chimed in, just as Estel bended dangerously over to inspect the wound, too closely for Elladan’s comfort, and searched Glorfindel’s face pleadingly.  

“Of course, my friend,” Glorfindel straightened up suddenly and, with a quick twist of his long arms, he lifted the child off his shoulders.  

“He is all yours,” he smiled pleasantly at Elrohir as he passed the squirming bundle of knees and elbows on to the surprised elf’s arms. “The house is full of strangers, so I need not remind you of what you are supposed to do. Watch your back, Elladan!” he added, patting again the wounded twin upon his injured shoulder as he made for the door with proud strides and a smug smile upon his face.  

“Can we go camping? Glorfindel said that we would be laying low in the wild…”  

The mighty warrior did not wait to hear the disgruntled answer, and he closed the door carefully behind him. A good bath, Glorfindel told himself, anticipating the relief the steaming water would bring to his strained and sore muscles. A short trip to the kitchens and a good sleep,” he promised himself, shaking his head in anticipation. It was good to be at home.  

TBC  

Perian: Sindarin for Hobbit

Thâronil: The “stiff-grass giver.” A friendly name for the stable-master.

Asfaloth: To avoid more OC than necessary, let’s assume that Glorfindel would give his horses the same name, as I’ve seen other authors do.

Paurlong: “Heavy fist.” A graphic name for a healer.

Chapter 2  

The verses of the song come from the chapter “A Short Rest” in “The Hobbit.” The whole story is a gap-filler for that that chapter, actually…  

With friends like these.  

Erestor spent most of the day patrolling the halls and corridors of Imladris, a prey to a growing irritation. It was widespread assumption that Elves disliked change and thus strove relentlessly to keep the tides of time at bay. Why was then so difficult for some elves to stay put in the same place for a single day, so that he could keep track of their whereabouts easily?

Mid-afternoon had come and gone by the time Elrond’s chief counsellor, all of his charges finally accounted for, could sit at the kitchen’s table to enjoy a quiet goblet of wine while exchanging news with Cook.

“Everything in order, out there?” his friend asked gleefully. Erestor shrugged, casting a grudging look around. Everything was in order in there. The tidy kitchen resembled the armoury of a well-equipped host, efficiently arranged for a definite assault.

“Of course it is,” he said haughtily, and then sighed. “At least I hope so.” He had not been able to check on the preparations for Midsummer’s festival, as it was his wont. Not until midday had Glorfindel finally retired to his chambers; and it had taken Erestor’s best efforts to convince Elladan and Elrohir to take Estel somewhere well out of sight, at least until Anor set and he would be more easily confounded with one of the few elven children who roamed the halls, the stables and the workshops almost constantly.

“The perian is already late for his mid-afternoon’s treats… Never before have I seen one so small with such a noble appetite,” Cook laughed. “No lembas, of course,” he continued, pointing at fifteen neatly packed bundles upon one of the side tables. “But still, I managed to fill their packs with sustaining, long-lasting food that should serve them for a long stretch… if Master Baggins behaves properly!” 

“I thought I glimpsed his furry feet under the thick mists Mithrandir likes to shroud himself in, out there in the gardens! He may be too blinded by his fumes to make it down here,” Erestor joked. He had managed to persuade Mithrandir, after some dedicated glaring, that the front garden was, after all, a suitable place for spending the rest of the day.

“You do not know him, my friend!” Cook chuckled. “He would find his way in a dwarf’s pit if he thought there was food at the other end...”

“Then it is well and good that they take him along, since they are headed for a dwarven pit, if I heard rightly,” Erestor observed amusedly.

“I’ve always said that Mithrandir was very wise –for mortal measures” Cook nodded, raising his goblet and drinking to the wizard.

“If mortal is his kind, indeed,” Erestor muttered, savouring the wine thoughtfully. He had seen enough of the wizard in the past ennin to harbour some well-founded doubts concerning his true nature. He was about to ask Cook about the daily gossip when a contest of clear voices caught their attention.

“Since it is not found where it should be, lad, it is plain that it is missing…”

“I do not understand how that can be; I swear it was there when I last checked…” The kitchen door opened and Erestor could see that one of the arguing voices, the high-pitched one, belonged to the perian. The other was Tuluniben’s, the butler’s youngest assistant. “Although you are obviously right, Master Perian,” the young elf conceded merrily. “Good day, Master Erestor,” he said then, bowing to the house’s chief counsellor. “Cook, the dwarves want more ale and…”

“And, let me guess, you are come to help young Tuluniben, Master Baggins?” Cook waved kindly at the perian, who had bowed courteously to Erestor and waited respectfully by the door, peering around not too discreetly.

“No, not actually, Master Cook. I was on my way here and Master Tuluniben asked me if I had…”

“I cannot find the key of the cellars, Cook,” the young assistant interrupted, looking concerned. “Did you see it?”

“Maybe you forgot to put it back in its place last night, after you and your friends finished practicing? I seem to have heard many a Tra-la-la-lally; the valley is jolly, ha, ha, ha… until very late,” Erestor offered seriously. It was traditional among the youngsters to come up with the silliest and most childish songs to sing during Midsummer’s festival. Mithrandir and his friends had actually experienced that custom on the day of their arrival, when they served as casual targets for Tuluniben and his friends’ practice session.

“I did not, my lord,” the young elf shook his head repeatedly, blushing furiously. “I know, for I’ve been using that key quite often today,” he added, now turning purple. “Pitchers of cold ale mostly, you know…”

“The dwarves are exceedingly thirsty,” Cook explained to none in particular, looking around as if he expected the key to show itself. “Come, Master Baggins, I want your opinion...” he beckoned the perian to one of the side tables and lifted the cloth that covered a large tray.

“They are thirsty, indeed, and hot, too,” the butler’s assistant continued. “Even after they left that sitting-room in the guests’ wing and moved under the fig-tree…”

Erestor shook his head with an irreverent snort, still caught in pondering the missing key.

“Has Elrond been around?” he asked Cook. Suddenly, Tuluniben’s last words settled in, and Erestor gave a start. “You said the dwarves moved where?” he asked frantically to the young elf.

“Under…Under the fig-tree…”

“The fig-tree.” Erestor blinked. “You mean the big one, the one in front of Lord Glorfindel’s chambers?” 

“Well…yes…I mean…I know not of any other fig-tree…”

“You are right.” Erestor was fighting to regain his composure. Of course there wasn’t. Gildor had brought the seeds from one of his trips to Edhellond, many years ago, and after seeing the tree’s mighty roots making their way through the house’s light foundations and into the halls, Elrond had decided that one fig-tree was more than enough. “So the dwarves have moved under the fig-tree…under Glorfindel’s windows…” he said flatly.

“He is with them. And they want more ale…” Tuluniben put in helpfully. Another voice chimed in eagerly before Erestor could come up with an appropriate retort.

“Lord Glorfindel is here? Is he arrived?” Erestor turned on his heels to see the perian almost dancing in excitement, a piece of cake in his small hand.

“Why do you ask?” he inquired with forced courtesy.

“Gandalf told me that Lord Glorfindel fought in the battle of Fornost, where, as you may know, we hobbits sent a company to the King’s army. I wondered whether he would mind making an account of that battle…I mean, I would put it down while he spoke, of course,” the perian explained verbosely. Erestor looked at him blankly, as if he could not believe what he was hearing. Thankfully, the young butler’s assistant shook him from his trance.

“Shall I bring…”

“No!” Erestor cut him brusquely, taking control of the situation. “You go find the butler and report the loss of the key to him. He keeps a second one for these cases. I shall go and see if Lord Glorfindel is available for a conversation with you, Master Perian. Meanwhile, I believe that Cook will be glad to hear your opinion about his honey-cakes…” he cast then a meaningful look to his friend, who had been laughing quietly during the whole exchange.

“Of course, of course,” Cook reacted quickly, beckoning to the perian. “Try these, Master Baggins; the honey harvested around Midsummer is like no other!”

“And do not go anywhere, Master Perian!” Erestor added, a bit menacingly in the perian’s opinion, if one were to judge by his startled expression.

As Tuluniben scurried along the corridor, Erestor decided that the kitchen’s back door would save him a flight of stairs and a lot of turnings, so he made his way to the end of the larder, among barrels of flour, shelves of pots containing dried herbs, fruit preserves, racks with dried meat and wooden boxes filled with salted fish, until he reached the almost hidden back door through which heavy or large goods were hauled.

He reached out to lift the wooden latch which kept the door closed from the inside and then stopped his hand half-way, watching in fascination as a piece of oak bark appeared through the crack between the door and the doorframe.

“Easy… now up, up!” the voices were muffled by the heavy door, but Erestor was quite sure of what was going on at the other side, so he stepped back, folded his arms across his chest and observed the piece of bark patiently as it pushed the latch -first tentatively, and then with more decision- finally open.

“See, you almost got it! Well done, Estel! –er, good day again, Erestor,” Elladan’s triumphant grin froze in his face. “All children learn to do this,” he added, a bit defensively.

“I did it, Erestor, did you see me?” Estel, on the other hand, seemed not at all impressed by the pronounced frown in the counsellor’s stern face.

“I saw you, indeed…But surely all children learn to do it properly, Elladan?” Erestor pointed out dryly. “You need a shorter piece of bark, Estel, and a tad thicker, and you must hold it firmly, see?” He cut off a bit and then placed the piece of bark back on the child’s hand. “This way. And then, all you need is one sharp stroke upwards. The trick is in the wrist,” he added, patting the child’s shoulder affectionately. “I thought you would be practicing Estel’s skills at hiding,” he said then to Elladan.

“Oh, but we already did!” Estel had been wandering around the halls in all secrecy for half a moon, delighting in hiding from the guests while at the same time stalking them. He was a sensible child, and he had soon understood the need for stealth. “The dwarves did not even notice me!” he added proudly.

“The dwarves have…“ Elladan began, almost apologetically.

“I know, I know. I was going there, now. Go to the waterfall and remain there until the celebrations begin, will you, Estel?”

“I promise, Erestor,” the child nodded seriously. “But we are hungry...” he said, nodding towards the kitchen with a hopeful look in his big eyes. Elladan could not hold back a chuckle at the look in Erestor’s face.

“Let us see what we can do to fix that...” Erestor cast a quick look around and then motioned for Estel to lift the hem of his tunic. He walked to a barrel next to the door and scooped a handful of small, fragrant apples that he placed in the boy’s makeshift bag. “You cannot go in there,” he explained. “The perian is with Cook. But this should last you until the celebration begins. “And now, off you go, will you?” he grunted, pushing both Imladris heir and the future Chieftain of the Dúnedain out of the kitchens and following them outside. “Where is Elrohir?”

“He joined the dwarves and… Glorfindel…” Elladan winced, and then continued hurriedly. “Did you actually tell him, Erestor? I had the impression that he was totally unawares…”

“I… He overheard us,” Erestor sighed, rolling his eyes and groaning. “Though not enough, it’d seem. Go, I’ll take care of this… ” He waited for a moment there, until he made sure that Elladan and Estel were heading to the waterfall that fed the ponds serving the forges. It was a secluded place, behind the workshops and surrounded by trees. “Estel shall be safe there,” Erestor told himself as he walked briskly to the raucous laughs and hoarse voices that came from not so far away, hurriedly sketching a strategy in his head, in case it wasn’t too late.

He discovered the feasting party as soon as he turned the corner of the main building. The dwarves had dragged a couple of benches and a table from the northern terrace -along with their barrel of ale- and were obviously enjoying themselves thoroughly. Erestor counted nine beards and a golden head around the table, engaged in what sounded like a contest of growls and howls accompanied by some erratic table-hitting with their cups. Perched on the bent trunk of the old fig-tree sat Elrohir, following the rhythm with his feet. He had a cup in his hand and a pleased smile upon his face. As he approached the cheery group Erestor noticed that Glorfindel was singing along with the dwarves, and he wondered briefly whether the annoying Elf had learned those harsh rhymes in his current or in his earlier life.

“Erestor! You are most welcome, my friend!” Glorfindel’s voice regained its smooth, silvery quality to greet the chief counsellor. Erestor noticed that his long hair was still wet and carelessly tied back, and that he was barefoot and wearing loose, informal clothes, as if he had just climbed down from his chambers to join in the merriment. “The ale is too warm, I fear, but we sent Tuluniben searching for a cask fresh from the cellars…”

Erestor bowed slightly at the nine beards turned to scrutinize him. “I am sure that he will be back soon,” he offered with the slightest smirk. “Now, I fear I must deprive you of Lord Elrohir’s company,” he said pleasantly, casting a warning look to said lord that cut any objection before it was even thought of.

“It’s a pity, you were almost ready to join us in the chorus,” Glorfindel grumbled as Elrohir descended from the tree and left his empty cup upon the table, thanking the concurrence with a graceful bow. “Are you sure that you cannot do without his presence?” the seneschal insisted, obviously as unaffected as Estel by Erestor’s more menacing glares.

“Since you seem to have forgone your repose, Lord Glorfindel, I would very much appreciate the chance to inform you about a special duty Lord Elrond wants you to perform for him today,” Erestor answered tightly. “As soon as you are finished here, of course,” he added coldly. “I’ll see to your ale, masters,” he said to the dwarves, bowing briefly and pushing Elrohir before him while behind them the howling resumed with the same enthusiasm.

“What were you thinking?” Erestor stopped Elrohir as soon as they were out of sight and shook him in exasperation.

“What are you talking about?” Elrohir seemed completely clueless. “Estel is with Elladan, isn’t he?”

Erestor watched him intently and then shook his head in disbelief. “Tell me something, Elrohir. What exactly did you overhear this morning?” he asked in a strained voice.

“You were saying that he had to be kept away from Mithrandir, the dwarves and the perian,” he repeated defensively.

“Yes. And you assumed that we were speaking of Estel…”

“Of course!” Elrohir interrupted Erestor triumphantly, Celeborn’s smug smile again on his face.

“Of course? Why would we make such fuss about keeping Estel hidden from strangers when it is usual occurrence that he is kept from strangers?” Erestor was clinging desperately to the last threads of his much worn-out patience.

“That’s what I told Adar, actually,” Elrohir answered, a bit annoyed by the whole situation. “Calm down, Erestor,” he added then with a friendly smile, patting the counsellor’s shoulder consolingly. “Everything will turn out right, it always does. Besides, Estel is a very obedient child. You do not have to fret about every single detail…”

“Of course not,” Erestor snorted, shaking his head and breathing deeply. He could distinguish a lost cause from a long distance, and this one was smiling smugly right before his face. “Come,” he sighed, waving to the younger twin to follow him to the kitchen back door. It was his fault, after all. He had not taken time to consider what exactly Elrohir had overheard. “Know what Elrohir?” Erestor continued without looking back. “If your adar finally agrees to depart temporarily, I think I shall go with him. I’ll be more than reassured to know that your brother can count on your bright wits to help him manage Imladris in your adar’s absence….”

“Where is Adar going?” Seeing Erestor’s mood, Elrohir chose not to take the sarcasm into account.

“To his early grave, thanks to you,” Erestor said crossly, entering the larder, “had he not chosen the life of the Eldar. Now, you have a chance to redeem yourself, Elrohir, do not disappoint me,” he said warningly, fixing the younger twin with an intense glare before entering the wide kitchen. “Master Baggins!” he greeted the perian gleefully. “Did the honey-cakes pass the examination?”

Cook and the perian were sitting at the table, deep in animated conversation before an empty plate. Some hands were already busy arousing the fires and skewering the seasoned meat for the roast.

“Most assuredly,” the perian stood courteously to greet the new arrivals. “Although, as I told Cook, we use sliced apples to enhance the flavor,” he explained, casting curious looks at Elrohir.

“Master Baggins, this is Lord Elrohir, Lord Elrond’s second son. He fought with Lord Glorfindel in the battle of Fornost, and he will be more than glad to enlighten you with a long tale of that event,” he added, as half-elf and perian bowed at each other. Cook bit back an amused chortle at the panicked look in Elrohir’s face. “Master Baggins wants to write an account of the Battle of Fornost and the role of his people there, so I’d suggest that you settle in my study, Elrohir,” Erestor offered graciously, “where he can find parchment, ink and quill.”

“You are most generous, Lord Elrohir,” the vivacious perian chirped gleefully as he quickly stood up and greeted Cook and Erestor. “To thusly humour a guest…”

“It is my pleasure, Master Baggins,” Elrohir said resignedly, seeing that his pleading glances would avail him nothing. “If you’d follow me…”

“Take your time,” Erestor called to their backs. “I shall send someone to inform you when the celebrations are about to begin…”

“What part of the battle interests you most, Master Baggins?”

“Oh, everything, of course; but we could begin with the family-names of our warriors…There are many families in The Shire who claim to have sent a family member to that battle, you know, and it would help…” The voices got lost behind the heavy door, and Cook could not hold back a raucous laugh.

“That was evil indeed!” he said, patting Erestor’s shoulder approvingly. “What about the dwarves?”

Erestor sat down on the chair emptied by the perian. “Their singing had awoken Glorfindel and, of course, he had to join in. Since Thorin was not among them, I ran the risk of leaving him in their merry company until I got rid of Master Baggins…”

“This is your lucky day, my friend. Thorin and Mithrandir are closeted with Elrond,” Cook informed him. “I know for I had to send some honey-cakes to Elrond’s study a while ago…”

“Well, everything is under control again, then,” Erestor let escape a long, satisfied sigh, stretching his arm to reach a goblet. “Pour me some wine and pass me those cakes, Cook, before you begin scolding your assistants,” he added playfully, nodding with his head to a young elf who was skewering the meat in the worst possible manner.

“Oh, my… what do you think you are doing?”

The kitchen was slowly but steadily turning into the less auspicious place in all Imladris, and would remain so for most of the night. Still, Erestor enjoyed being there and watching the chaos; knowing that it was not his responsibility to put order there. Cook was more than qualified for the task, and Erestor liked to observe as they worked in their noisy, frantic routine. His peaceful entertainment was short-lived though, for soon Glorfindel stomped through the back door.

“What happened to our ale?” he demanded from Cook, not bothering to greet Erestor. That Glorfindel would be imprudent enough to rebuke Cook while he was busy at work was a clear sign that he was not wholly himself; Erestor thought amusedly, expecting a lively argument. 

“Do I look to you like I am the butler, Glorfindel? Or do you think that, since I do not have enough work feeding you all, I must as well be in charge of the cellars?  Am I to blame if both keys to the cellars have gone missing and the Lord of the House looks strangely pleased by the fact?” 

In a display of restrain and good sense that would have satisfied Mandos himself, Glorfindel bowed his head in defeat and carried out a tactical withdrawal, raising his hands in a placating gesture and taking seat at the huge table, casting a questioning glance to a plainly amused Erestor.

“Elrond,” the chief counsellor said, passing the carafe and another goblet to his friend. “He fears the dwarves may drain his precious reserves of wine,” he elaborated at Glorfindel’s puzzled look.

“Oh…I see,” the seneschal said, shrugging and smiling at the implied joke. “The ale wasn’t that warm, after all; I believe they have enough left to last them until dinner,” he added with nonchalance, picking the crumbles of honey-cake in Erestor’s empty plate. “What was all that about a special duty?” he asked then, pouring himself some wine.

“Well…Elrond asked that you watched over Estel during tonight’s celebrations…you know, at safe distance from our guests…”

“Oh!” Glorfindel sloshed the wine in his goblet for a moment, but seemed not disturbed by this unusual development. Midsummer was not a formal event, and he could not help feeling grateful for being spared the dwarves’ company for dinner. And he could always find the time to have a calm conversation with Mithrandir later that night. “Fine, I think I can manage that,” he said with a wide grin, reclining against the wall and extending his long legs under the table. He had a feline ability to stretch most comfortably wherever he sat, Erestor observed amusedly. “I take it that they do not know about him…”

“They assume he is one of our children. They have not seen much of him or of Gilraen to notice, anyway...” Erestor seemed relieved to see that he had taken it so well. “He’s with Elladan, in the waterfalls.”

“And they can remain there until the celebration begins…” Glorfindel smiled, raising his goblet to Erestor. “Good job my friend. Now,” he added, “if I am supposed to keep up with the youngest tonight, I think I’ll rather go and take another bath and some rest,” he joked, standing up and wincing slightly as he stretched his stiff back.

“I am going that way too,” Erestor said hastily, ready to prevent any unintended chance-meeting with Dwarves, wizards or Periannath.

“I heard that you had an eventful patrol, Glorfindel, something about a rebellious horse,” Cook chimed in loudly from his watching place in the middle of the great kitchen. Some stifled laughs were head around the fires.

“I shall kill Elrohir,” Glorfindel announced to the air with all the dignity he could muster. “Slowly and painfully,” he added, marching proudly to the kitchen’s front door without looking back.

***

To Erestor’s surprise, the rest of the day was suspiciously uneventful. He even found out that, for once, everything was in order without his constant supervision. The gardens were fragrant and well-adorned, and the tables scattered in informal yet well-thought array, allowing everybody to see and to be seen. Three barrels of ale -the only beverage available that night, courtesy of the Lord of the House- which had been put aside early in that day by the foresighted butler, were discreetly hidden behind some overgrown bushes. Dry wood was artistically piled in several places for the bonfires, and the waxing moon shone brightly in a cloudless, windless, warm night.

Elrond was sitting at his customary place, in the table closest to the main building, and he had invited all of his guests to join him there, together with Erestor and his sons. The dwarves had shown their appreciation with dozens of courteous bows, and Erestor had watched in solemn amusement as Elrohir had graciously eluded the perian, who had tried to carry on with their apparently interesting conversation through dinner.

“I fear, Master Perian, that you may be mistaking me for my brother,” Elrohir had said in all seriousness, pointing to Elladan as he approached them completely unawares. “This is Lord Elrohir, Master Baggins,” the younger twin had said then with a merry twinkle. “I am sure that he’ll be more than pleased to resume your conversation about the battle of Fornost,” and with a brief bow he had slipped away to join some of his friends in another table, ignoring his brother’s murderous glances and his adar’s raised brow. By the brief grin in the perian’s face, Erestor suspected that he had noticed, too.

Estel was enjoying the festival at the other side of the garden, under Gilraen and Glorfindel’s vigilance, playing with his friends while the exciting moment of kindling the bonfires arrived.

“The worst is over,” Erestor thought in amazement and self-satisfaction, relaxing on his chair and savouring the exquisite dinner.

The singing contest had just begun, short after the bonfires were kindled amidst a respectful silence, when Elrond’s voice caught Erestor’s attention.

“May I see that map again, Mithrandir, please?” Erestor knew that tone, soft yet commanding, and felt a sudden surge of pride for his former student. He smiled quietly, seeing the pale rays of moonlight glinting over the table. The same idea had crossed his mind not so long ago.

“See? There’s something else written here, in moon-letters,” Elrond was saying calmly as he held the map up, sounding as if he weren’t surprised to see the ancient writing coming out in the eerie light. Erestor could not hold back a wide grin at the sudden stir among the dwarves. Even Mithrandir seemed astonished -and a little annoyed- that it had not occurred to him that the map might have a secret inscription. “We can go to my study, to analyse this in more detail,” Elrond nodded to his guests with a warm, inviting smile. They might have the map and the key, but Elrond Peredhil was still the wisest lore-master in all Middle-earth, Erestor thought proudly, signaling to an assistant to follow them with ale and cakes.

***

Glorfindel was having a good time, since he enjoyed greatly the company of the younger ones. They had eaten, and played tag around the tables, and then had taken to the trees to more serious games and contests. Estel was not yet as good as elves younger his age at jumping across tree branches, but he was improving; and he never gave up trying.

By the time Gilraen slipped to the Hall of Fire to get everything ready for the most serious singing and story-telling, Estel was half-asleep in Glorfindel’s arms. The golden elf was sitting against an apple tree, watching the play of the flames in the bonfire in fascination while listening to the ridiculous songs that were customary in that part of the celebration.

A loud chorus of cheers and laughs brought Glorfindel back from the land of memories where he had been strolling peacefully for some time, recalling other Midsummer celebrations across the wide lands of Middle-earth, some now under the Great Sea… Wood elves would light up fires to encourage the faer of the dead to answer Mandos’ call, in the hopes that one day they would be rehoused. In the Havens, among Círdan’s people, it was said that fires had been lit since the times of the Long March, when the Eglain longed for their departed kin and the light beyond the Belegaer. The exiled Noldor had always held mixed feelings regarding bonfires, and Glorfindel could still see in his mind the last celebration of the Doors of Summer in Gondolin…

“Where’s Naneth, Glorfindel?”

Estel’s voice made him blink. The contest was ended, and everybody was apparently moving to the Hall of Fire. Elrond’s table was deserted, too, and Glorfindel supposed that he had drifted off longer than he suspected.

“She is in the Hall of Fire. Shall we go there, or are you too tired to remain awake?”

“I must go!” the child stated fiercely between yawns. “I promised that I would listen to her song…”

Glorfindel smiled. The child was nothing but perseverant, and that was an encouraging trait. He would remain awake even if he had to stick his knuckles in his eyeballs.

“Let me tell you what we shall do,” he said, disentangling himself from the child. “I am longing for a goblet of wine, and I know for sure that your adar keeps a carafe in his study. We shall go there and then to the Hall of Fire. Your Naneth will not be singing until later, and we might both fall asleep while we wait…” He lifted the boy in his arms as he spoke and started walking to the house, savouring the wine in anticipation. After the Hall of Fire, the most adventurous would go down to the river, to spend the remaining of the night watching the waters and singing to the stars, but by that time Estel would be comfortably asleep in his bed.

“Tra-la-la-lally; the valley is jolly, ha, ha, ha,” he caught himself humming the nonsense of Tuluniben and his friends’ song along empty corridors and had to smile to himself. “No wonder they won the contest. I bet we shall all be singing this for a long time…”

“Glorfindel…”

“Yes, Estel?”

“You know why Dwarves are so short?”

Glorfindel let escape a deep sigh. It had only just begun, the Time of Questioning.

“See, it is said that long ago, Lord Aulë…”

“Because if they were taller, they would not fit in their homes underground,” the child explained, giggling madly at his own joke. Glorfindel groaned.

“Very funny,” he said. “Who told you that?”

“Elrohir did,” the child answered matter-of-factly. “I know many more. Do you know why Dwarves have such long beards?”

They had reached Elrond’s study. “I shall have a long talk with Elrohir,” Glorfindel promised himself darkly as he pushed the door, not noticing the light that filtered out, or the muffled voices that came from within. “I do not think I want to know why Dwarves…” he began aloud.

He did notice, though, the many heads turned to them as he entered the study.

“…have such long…er, good night, Elrond, Elladan, Erestor, uh…everybody. Are we interrupting?”

TBC

Tuluniben: “small support.”  A familiar name for the butler’s assistant

Eglain: Forsaken. Círdan’s people named themselves Eglain after arriving at the shores of the Great Sea and seeing that Olwë’s people had departed to the Blessed Realm

Chapter 3.

A Very Special Mathom.

“Glorfindel!”

“Glorfindel!”

“Glorfindel!”

Annoyance, distress, exasperation…Glorfindel was not used to hearing such emotions ringing along with his name. “What happened to the awe, admiration, respect?”

“Lord Glorfindel?

Here, all in one voice, coming from somewhere knee-high. “Oh, yes, the perian, what was his name, now?” he wondered confusedly.

“May I have a word with you, Lord Glorfindel? There are some details that I…”

Elrond’s study was full of people; dwarves mostly, but for some reason Glorfindel’s mind refused to take in its surroundings properly. The perian’s voice sounded strangely muffled in his ears, and he could not understand that feeling of dread…of course, they should not have seen Estel, but still…

“Ooh! You never unsheathe your sword indoors!” Estel’s half-accusing, half-awed voice distracted him from the perian and brought his attention to the thing Mithrandir was holding in his hands.

“Ai, Elentári!” was all he managed, before the weight of memories hit him square with the full force of three ages of the sun, and sent him reeling back to another life.

***

Glorfindel sighed deeply and blinked tiredly. The first rays of Anor were already entering through the wide windows in Elrond’s study, and the birds chirped joyfully among the new leaves, greeting the day.

“Here, my friend, take this….”

Elrond looked terribly guilty and slightly less worried, as he proffered a goblet. Glorfindel looked up from the couch where he was half reclining to his friend’s strained face, and tried to smile reassuringly. They had remained by his side the whole night, Mithrandir and Elrond, and he felt grateful for that. Now, he only needed to unclench one of his fists from the thing he had been clinging to, and drink that down.

“I…I think I need it…” he whispered, forcing a weak smile and taking the goblet with a shaking hand. He gulped a hearty mix of wine and herbs and placed the empty cup on a side table. He risked then a glance down at his lap.

“Glamdring!” he whispered, wonder mixed with pain and incredulity in his voice as he held the sword again. “How can this be?”

“If I had any doubt left - not that I ever doubted your wisdom, Elrond- it was enough to see your face, my friend,” a soft voice chuckled. Glorfindel looked around to see Mithrandir sitting on a chair, wrapped in his grey cloak and holding his pipe in one of his wrinkled hands, piercing him with his knowing glance. For a moment, Glorfindel allowed himself to drown in the deep wisdom that shone there, and to feel soothed by the memory of its ancient source. “We found them…it, in the trolls’ den,” the wizard said more seriously. “They must have plundered one of those orcs’ lairs in the Misty Mountains.”

“Keep it, Mithrandir,” Glorfindel said suddenly, after a stretch of silence. His voice sounded distant, as if it came from afar. He held out the sword that had once belonged to Turgon, son of Fingolfin. “If Elrond agrees, of course. I am sure that his sire would be honoured.” Elrond nodded soberly and, after a brief hesitation, Mithrandir stood to receive the battered scabbard containing the ancient heirloom from lost Gondolin.

“I shall wield it with the greatest reverence,” the wizard promised solemnly, grabbing the jewelled hilt with his two hands and placing it to his heart. “Until the day is come when it is returned to its owner.”

“If such a day ever arrives,” Glorfindel let escape sourly. A sweet laugh echoed then in the room, and it seemed to him as if the silvery bells of Valmar were pealing in the clear air of Imladris.

“Aurë entuluva, Laurefindë, the day shall come again,” the wizard pronounced softly. Glorfindel felt an unknown warmth fill his heart at these words; a fire that rekindled his strength and reminded him of the joyful hope that lay beyond darkness and fear. He smiled in acceptance and closed his eyes briefly, allowing Mithrandir’s words to soak in and wash away the bitterness from his memories.

“It is...It is unbelievable; that such a thing might come to us from the depths of drowned Beleriand…” Glorfindel relaxed against the couch and exhaled deeply after a moment, still looking at the sword in amazement.

“But it is reassuring, isn’t it?” Elrond sighed softly. “I mean,” he explained at his friend’s questioning glance, “it reminds us that we never fought alone; that this war has been going on for long…”

“It had been going on for long before that sword was forged,” Glorfindel pointed out wearily. “And ours is but just another part of it…” he whispered, a pensive look on his face.

“And it also reminds us that other things might unexpectedly come to light,” Mithrandir put in lightly. At the shaken expressions turned to him, the wizard shrugged briefly. “Or also that we must take care of what problems are currently at hand,” he added, casting a meaningful glance at Elrond, “such as breakfast, for instance,” he suggested with a merry chuckle. “I am an old man and I need some sustenance before…”

A soft knock on the door cut Mithrandir’s sentence, and almost at once Erestor entered the study cautiously.

“The dwarves and the perian are already up… I thought you would like to take a bath and have something to eat before departing, Mithrandir,” he offered.

“My thanks, Erestor.” The wizard stood up tiredly and laid the scabbard upon Elrond’s desk. “I have gathered that it is not so common a habit to wander the halls of Imladris carrying a sword, no matter its lineage, so I’ll leave this prized mathom to your kind guard, my friends,” he winked. He bowed briefly, crossed the study at a brisk pace and walked out, closing the door and leaving three slightly embarrassed elves behind him.

“Good job,” Elrond said to Erestor, and there was no hint of irony in his lowered voice. The counsellor, though, chose levity.

“Doesn’t bear mentioning," he waved his hand dismissively."I had the best help, after all… Your sons proved invaluable, as usual.”

Glorfindel glanced from one to another. He was close enough to both to distinguish the signs of guilt, despite the reassuring smiles.

“You needed not make such fuss about… this…” he said, waving around uncertainly.

“It was our pleasure...” Erestor’s smile held a faint trace of mischief.

“I…” Elrond seemed genuinely troubled, though. “It was my fault, Glorfindel. At first I wasn’t sure, and I did not want to check with Mithrandir… so I decided that it would be safer to keep you from them, for just one day, in case they happened to ask you or show the swords to you…Mithrandir told them that you knew some very old tales, and I feared…” Elrond shook his head. “I am sorry. I thought it would be better if you knew about all this when they were away. I… I did not know how to tell you… how you would react,” he whispered.

“Well, now you know, don’t you?” Glorfindel answered, a bit harshly. He resented being treated like a fragile thing.

“Yes, we do; and, let me tell you, I never thought you would swoon...” For some reason, Erestor felt that his insight as the House’s Chief Counsellor was particularly needed that morning.

“I did not. I just…went blank,” Glorfindel groaned, casting a warning look to the playful counsellor. “It was the surprise; after all, I was…”

“…Swept abruptly back to unwanted memories?” Elrond suggested sadly.

“Unexpected.” Glorfindel breathed in deeply and stood upon his feet. He walked steadily to where Elrond stood and put a comforting hand upon his friend’s shoulder. “Let us say unexpected memories. But it will not happen again. I am fine, I seriously am, and I am also very grateful to you, Elrond… to both of you,” he nodded then to Erestor. “You were trying to protect me and I can appreciate that. You were right, in a sense. I had never before been confronted with…a relic like this…it’s all so…vivid…” He sighed, caressing the jewel-hilted sword. “Estel?” he asked all of a sudden, as memories of last night began to return to him.

“Do not worry.” Elrond looked relieved. “Elladan took him to the Hall of Fire, and Erestor took care of the dwarves and the perian. I understand that they had a great time by the river…”

“They were so impressed by your swoon that they did not perceive that a child had fallen from your arms…”

“I did not swoon,” Glorfindel growled menacingly, “and I am pretty sure that I did not let Estel fall…”

“As you say, my friend.” Erestor had a way of courting death, or at least incapacitating injuries, that still managed to unsettle his friends despite the long years of their acquaintance. “Shall we have breakfast with our guests before seeing them off?” the counsellor suggested then casually, holding the door open with an inviting nod.

“I was just… lost in memories,” Glorfindel insisted petulantly, walking past his friends with all dignity.

“For a whole night, yes. I never suspected that you could be so introspective,” Erestor commented teasingly, waving to Elrond and closing the door carefully. “Still, you would have wished you’d swooned, had I allowed the perian to question you,” he said with a playful grin, shepherding his two friends along the corridor.

“Why do you say that?”

“Just ask Elrohir. The perian demanded a full account of the Battle of Fornost and the role of the Periannath there…”

“Oh, but that must have been a painfully short account…”

“How many ways of saying “I am afraid there isn’t much I can tell you about this, Master Perian,” can you think of, Glorfindel?”

“I would have paid to see that!” Elrond cast a grateful smile to his chief counsellor as Glorfindel’s clear laugh rang in the empty passage.

***

After many bows and courteous words, the guests were finally ready to depart. They had received filled packs and waterskins, and wise counsel and good wishes for their adventure. The ponies stamped nervously upon the flagstones in the main yard, eager to be gone, while Thorin expressed yet again his gratitude to the Lord of the House.

“I am most grateful for your generosity, Lord Elrond, and I apologize again for the liberal use that we have made of your cellars.” Catching the fleeting glance between the dark and golden-haired counsellors who flanked Elrond, he bowed again and continued in an even louder voice. “Be certain that it shall not be forgotten. Thorin Oakenshield will make sure that your cellars never lack the finest dwarven ale, in return for yours…and your benevolence,” he proclaimed so that all present could hear it.

“It is very kind of you, Lord Thorin. My House -and my cellars- are always open to you and your people.” Elrond returned the bow to hide his grimace. “May the stars shine upon your path and grant you protection in your journey and beyond,” he continued then more gravely. “Go safely, son of Durin, with the goodwill of the Elves!”

Thorin bowed one last time and turned to mount his pony, reaching briefly to secure a long scabbard across his back. Elrond marked Glorfindel’s curious look and tightened his lips. The second sword had not been discussed; he had not been sure if it had escaped Glorfindel’s notice until that moment, but there was nothing else that could be done about it.

“Be careful, Mithrandir, it is said that dragons are hot-tempered! Do not use that sword in a conversation with Smaug!” Glorfindel was clasping the wizard’s arms in goodbye, his mood as light as usual. Elrond relaxed and looked around, noticing that Erestor had stepped a few paces back and had joined Elladan and Elrohir at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the house. “We shall talk about the cellars later,” Elrond groaned inwardly, casting a quick, menacing glance towards the innocent-looking counsellor.

“I’ll try to remember that,” Mithrandir was laughing at Glorfindel’s advice. “I shall meet you in Lórien before the summer is old, Elrond,” the wizard addressed him then, a serious expression in his wrinkled face. “We must not let this chance pass…”

“I shall depart as soon as I may, Mithrandir,” Elrond answered in a lowered voice, catching Glorfindel’s intrigued expression. Much had been discussed between himself and the wizard in those days, beyond the dwarves’ adventure, and both agreed that the moment was ripe. It had already been, years ago. “I shall make sure that everything is ready when you arrive. I doubt that we could manage it without your help, so…”

“I shall be there, you have my word,” the wizard promised with a wide smile. “The affair in Erebor is a deed for the Little Folk, as your moon-letters suggested,” he added, winking merrily.

“Go, my friend, and may Elbereth shine upon you…and them,” Elrond said, stepping back as a stable hand brought Mithrandir’s horse and the mounted company finally departed, followed by songs and encouragements from the many elves that were assembled along the path.

“Let us hope that Orcrist’s wielder will march to a more fortunate fate than that of its last owner.”

Elrond cast a brief sidelong glance to Glorfindel’s serious face. They were both standing apart from the rest, watching the departing company while carefully studying each other. So, he had recognized the second sword, the one Thorin wielded. Elrond shrugged and finally conceded defeat, his curiosity piqued beyond endurance.

“Whose sword was Orcrist, Glorfindel?” he asked softly. All he knew was that it had been a famed, dreaded blade among Orcs.

“Maeglin’s.” The name came through clenched teeth, but still evenly enough. “He wrought both. Before the Dagor Nirnaeth.”

Elrond opened his mouth, gaped, and closed it silently. After some frantic thought, he chose retaliation.

“Come, we have much to discuss. The White Council will meet in Lórien soon. Curunír has finally agreed.” He patted his friend’s shoulder, turning and starting towards the stairs. “We are going to attack Dol Guldur,” he added almost casually, smiling at Glorfindel’s astonished gasp as both strode to where Erestor and the twins waited. He recovered quickly, though.

“Great. When are we departing?” His seneschal would never admit being caught by surprise, Elrond thought in mild exasperation, pretending that he had not heard his question.

“You let me believe that the dwarves were drinking my wine!” Elrond pointed accusingly at Erestor as soon as they reached the other three. Confronted with a direct charge, the cunning counsellor chose the safest escape route and tried to redirect the conversation.

“Have you seen Elladan’s wound, Elrond?” he asked innocently. “One of his rangers shot him!”

Elrond’s attention snapped to his eldest son. Elladan cast a filthy glance at Erestor and then followed his lead.

“It was nothing, Adar, seriously. And Glorfindel fell from his horse!”

“I did not!” Glorfindel’s voice sounded extremely outraged.

“Did you not, now?” Elrond inquired with exaggerate interest in an amusedly incredulous voice.

“Asfaloth is too intelligent to let anyone fall,” the golden warrior explained haughtily. “We had an argument and he just…dismounted me,” he concluded with a fierce, defiant look. “And they almost shot my company!” he added in just retribution, pointing at the twins.

“It was your fault; you shouldn’t have sneaked up...”

“Peace!” Elrond raised his hand and started climbing the stairs. “It seems I have been missing some reports… Since there is so much I must catch up with, I’d suggest that we all take care of our morning duties and then gather around midday in my study for a goblet of wine. You can update me thoroughly then,” he suggested firmly to the air, knowing that a lively exchange of murderous glances, well-directed jabs and not-so-affectionate epithets was taking place behind his back.

“We would need at least one key for that…” a strained voice pointed out. Erestor was doing his best not to sound sarcastic, Elrond noted with grim approval.

“Is it true that you stole your own keys, Adar?” Elrohir’s amused voice sounded for the first time. Elrond turned around to face the unruly group as they reached the main door.

“The butler and I were, ah –considering different places for their safekeeping,” he informed them sternly. “You were very quiet, Elrohir. It is good to know that at least one of you did not get involved in any kind of mischief…”

“Oh, but he did, he taught Estel silly Dwarf jokes!”

“That was mean, Glorfindel!”

“I know…” Glorfindel’s smirk was unbearable, Elrond thought with a minute wince.

“And he set the perian upon me for the whole dinner, pretending that I was he...”

“Pretending that you were I? Do not be ridiculous Elladan; no one would mistake you for me… everybody can see that I am the fairest and you are…the wisest?” As it was his wont once he got involved in a fray, Elrohir’s enthusiasm was commendable, Elrond thought. “I just thought you two had lots of boring things to tell to each other, you should be grateful...” On the other hand, his youngest son would never be accused of being too subtle, the Lord of the House had to admit as the bunch of powerful elf-lords paraded obediently before him and inside the house, while he held the door open.

“Grateful indeed, I’ll just show you how much,” Elladan sounded exasperated and he had every reason, Elrond agreed as he put his hand into a hidden pouch inside his tunic and produced a key. Erestor received it with a respectful nod and a mischievous grin.

“I’ll be most interested in reading that account of the Battle of Fornost,” Glorfindel chimed in merrily. “I had almost forgotten that the Periannath had been there, after all…”

“Well, don’t worry, you’ll have the chance to add your personal touch when they are back from the Mountain, Glorfindel,” Elladan shot back resentfully. “The perian was eager to talk to you, after all.”

“Yes, and you can ask Mithrandir what mathom means…It sounded a bit disrespectful to my ears, if you want my opinion.”

“Now that you mention Mithrandir, Erestor, could anyone please tell me what exactly were we supposed to keep from the wizard, the dwarves and the perian?”

“Oh, come on, Elrohir...”

Elrond grabbed the front door knob and cast a last look towards the road. The brightly coloured dwarven hoods were still visible in the distance. “It could be worse,” he told himself encouragingly. “I could be out there, headed to confront a dragon, and armed with thirteen dwarves and a perian.” He cast a dubious glance from the arguing lot in his hallway to the now almost invisible party. He shook his head, shrugged resignedly and closed the door with a faint smile upon his face.

"Will you tell us why Dwarves have such long beards, Elrohir?"

"Oh, Adar..."

THE END

Aurë entuluva: “Day shall come again.”Hurin’s words at Serech, where he, together with Huor and the Men of Hithlum, protected Turgon’s rearguard when the Gondolindhrim abandoned the field in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears.

Laurefindë: Glorfindel’s name in Quenya, to go with the rest of the sentence…

A/N:

This piece had been around for some time in the form of a couple of drabbles, notably darker in tone. I always wondered what Glorfindel of Gondolin would have had to say to Gandalf’s carrying around Turgon’s sword…Orcrist’s back story is my invention, though.

Thank-you to those who followed. I hope that you enjoyed this silly tale.