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