Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

Disclaimer: I don't own anything except the OC's, and I'm not getting paid for this. Unfortunately! It actually belongs to the Tolkien estate and interested parties.

On a rainy afternoon in the sewing room in Imladris, Losgael, one of Celebrían's ladies-in-waiting, was working hard on an item of clothing. There were several other women in the room, each of whom was similarly engaged.

The clothes worn by the residents of Imladris were made by the ladies who lived there. Some were for the nobles, others for the servants and others who dwelt there. Most of the textiles used there were made from locally-grown fibres, using either flax or cotton grown in the fertile valley. Sometimes they used nettle fibres, for they were strong and versatile. Silks were imported from Rhûn, either as yarns to be woven into cloth or as ready-made fabric. No-one was idle in Imladris, all of the residents were employed in some useful task, usually according to the needs of the moment and the skills each person had.

With a frown of concentration, Losgael put gold thread through the eye of the needle. Supplies were not infinite, so she had been given a ration. It was possible to trade for more, but she decided to be creative with what she had been allotted. Since this shirt was for one of the most noble Elves in Imladris, a member of Elrond's household, she wanted to make it as beautiful as she could. The one who wore it would wear it with pride on special occasions, and people seeing it would say that love was woven through every part of it. And so it was, for Losgael loved the lord she was making the shirt for, though he knew it not.

“That is lovely, Losgael,” opined Celebrían, looking over her friend's shoulder. “Who is it for?”

As each stitch went in, it was becoming more and more obvious who the intended recipient of the shirt was. Had her lady already guessed? Looking into her eyes, Losgael saw the twinkle of recognition and a pledge to say nothing.

“It is excellent work, and the gold goes so nicely with the sky-blue colour of the shirt. My Elrond would be happy with such a garment,” Celebrían smiled.

“Oh,” said Losgael, looking like a rabbit confronted by a fox, “my lady...”

“The colour does not quite match his eyes, though,” Celebrían teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief as a wicked grin spread across her face.

“Indeed?” asked Celebrían, sliding closer to her friend, as if hoping to share a whispered secret. “Do tell.”

“He is a great warrior,” Losgael said in a clear voice, so all of the ladies could hear.

“That would describe many of the Elves here,” said Brethilgwen absently, who was responsible for all the textiles in the house of Elrond. She was currently sewing buttons on a coat for a stable-hand.

“He is handsome indeed,” spluttered Losgael, turning a deeper shade of crimson.

“Which also describes the Elves of Imladris,” Brethilgwen added with an arched eyebrow.

“I am not going to tell you!” Losgael insisted. Really, this was too much! Why could she not make a shirt for someone without starting tongues wagging? These ladies needed to find other things to occupy their time.

Celebrían sensed that continuing this might start an argument, and did not want to add to Losgael's distress, so she moved away. “I will cease my efforts to prise your secret from you, Losgael,” she said, her voice gentle.

“Thank you,” Losgael replied quietly, slowly exhaling as she fought for self-control. She had no desire to be laughed at, after all. People might say she was aiming too high if they found out who she had set her heart on.

The other women paid closer attention to their own work, and Losgael continued her task in peace. Finally, she was finished, and as she admired the shirt, she held it so that only she could see the front panel. Golden elanor flowers twined around each buttonhole, and the brass buttons shone like polished mirrors. Stars and other symbols of Valinor and the house of the object of her affections were scattered in ordered profusion all over the garment, and sparkled like the sea did on a sunny day. She had seen it long ago, when she lived in Sirion, but she preferred not to think of those times, for the memories of her life there were as bitter as they were sweet. Losgael put her hope for happiness in the future, which she hoped to share with one of the most famous Elf-lords in the history of Arda.

Glorfindel knew nothing of this, of course, and she determined not to let him know until he had seen her gift and acknowledged the labour of love that had gone into it. As Losgael went to his room to put the new silk shirt on his bed, she hoped nobody would notice her or ask awkward questions about her presence in his quarters.

A/N: I'm putting this up a chapter at a time because putting them all up at once causes glitches. Sorry for the inconvenience.

A/N: Given the positive response to A Gift Fit For a Lord, I have written a sequel. Thanks to Earyende Eleniel, Calenlass Greenleaf, Virtuella and Lady Akyrial for their help and encouragement.

Losgael and other OC's are mine, please ask before using them. The rest belongs to the Tolkien estate and interested parties. The song “Long Has She Loved” is my own composition.

The rainfall had finally given way to a watery sunset when Losgael finally felt able to enter the royal wing of the Last Homely House to put the lovely shirt she had made for Glorfindel on his bed. 'Nothing bad will happen if I am seen here,' she tried to convince herself, 'tongues are already wagging as if the notion of romance is a novelty in Rivendell.'

Her efforts failed. Losgael's heart was pounding a tattoo of terror and her stomach sank down, leaving her giddy. Her slender hands trembled, and she was afraid that if they sweated, they might spoil the blue shirt she had spent so long making – no, perfecting, for the one she loved.

Yes, she was afraid, but not of something physical, a punishment or even harsh words. Losgael was terrified that Glorfindel might see her and realise that she had made the shirt for him, and if he did, he might understand her intent. If he did, how would he respond? She could deal with ridicule, but not rejection. No, in her dreams and fantasies, he held her close to his chest with his powerful arms. His stern aspect softened into an expression of loving protectiveness and his calloused right hand reached for her face, and tenderly stroked the underside of her jaw. With his left hand, he cupped the back of her head, bringing it to his broad shoulder for a gentle embrace. Kisses fell like snowflakes onto the top of her head as she reached up to twine her fingers in his long golden hair...

Losgael jumped, spluttering, stung by the sound of Glorfindel's voice. A crimson blush spread across her face, right down to her neck.

“What have you got there?” he asked. Curiosity distracted him from the lady's embarrassment.

“It is a shirt made for you, my lord,” she replied with a great effort to avoid stuttering.

“Ai!” she said warily, clutching it to her chest. Her downcast face and loose hair covered her blushes for the moment, but the worst thing had happened! If she had succeeded in her plan to sneak it into his room, he would have tried it on, liked it and then asked who had made it. She could have walked shyly up to him... no. She could have left a message for him... no. A series of clues... no. It was all wrong. Everything she had thought of worked so well in her fantasies, but here she was in front of the Elf-lord and all her schemes had come to nothing. He must think her a fool! Here she was, blushing like a child caught stealing cupcakes from the pantry and surely he knew what this was all about. She considered running away, but her traitorous feet were rooted to the floor.

“I... well... here is the shirt, my lord. I meant to surprise you with it,” she said. Embarrassment smothered her wits as she handed it to him, looking through her hair as through a veil.

Glorfindel took it from her gingerly, as if it was a fragile thing. He held it by the epaulettes and let the rest of it drop so he could see the front part of it in full. The light was fading, but he turned to the windows and looked at it with a professional eye. He noted each detail and checked to see that each side was even with the other. “It is a fine piece of work,” he told her, his tone respectful.

“I am surprised,” he continued, “because I was not expecting such a thing. It is too lovely for everyday wear. I shall reserve it for special occasions. Thank you, Losgael.”

“It was a pleasure, my lord,” she said, and pointed her foot to one side as she made to leave.

“Losgael,” he said, folding the shirt nicely and draping it carefully over his left arm, “this really is beautiful. Is there something I can do in return?”

'Escorting me to the Harvest Ball would be ideal,' she thought, but dared not say it aloud. “I am sure you will think of something,” she replied coyly.

As she watched him, Losgael was reminded of a large tomcat prowling at night, looking for prey, and went weak at the knees.

After the twins had been put to bed for the evening, Elrond and Celebrían returned to the Hall of Fire to listen to the tales and enjoy the music and singing. The lord of Imladris had a harp of his own, and sometimes he played it while his lady sang or accompanied him on the flute. An intuitive poet, her recitals were often the highlight of a night in the Hall of Fire.

After a tale of the Elder Days from Lindir had met with a thunderous round of applause, Glorfindel stepped forward with his harp. “I have a song to sing tonight,” he said, “that I wrote but a few hours ago.”

As Glorfindel sang the chorus for a final time, his audience joined in. As he scanned the room for Losgael, he could not see her. She had left. Glorfindel carried on, not wishing to spoil the mood in the room, but the joy of the song had gone for him. He had hoped Losgael would like it. Was it not a fit gift for her, a payment in kind for the shirt? Had he offended her?

The song could not end fast enough. He decided to seek her out and ask her if she was upset.

A/N Lonnath is the name I gave to the settlement at the mouths of Sirion where Elrond was captured by the Kinslayers in the days of the Silmarillion. My version of this tale is called Stolen.

Near the Garden of Elrond, a private wooded place, was the cemetery. Its monuments and tombstones punctuated the mist that had settled on the ground. Starlight aided by a waning moon dimly lit the place where Losgael sat weeping under a gnarled old willow.

Stepping carefully over old graves, Elrond sought his wife's lady-in-waiting. He knew where to find her because her brother rested under the green turf near the weeping willow she had planted there in his memory. A soft sniffle led him to the lady, who was seated on a root that was like a bench, her back to the bole of the tree. “Losgael?” he asked gently.

Losgael looked up, wiping her nose with a handkerchief. “My lord,” she replied, and rose to stand respectfully before him.

“I come as your friend, Losgael. Please sit down,” he said, and sat down himself.

It would have been rude to stay upright, so she sat down beside him. She moved a decent distance away and tucked her dress beneath her thighs. Though it was rare among Elves to become enamoured with the spouse of another, Losgael was ever conscious of the need to be seen to be aware that someone might see her with Elrond and come to the wrong conclusion. “Why have you come here, my lord?” she asked. “I did not think that anyone would have noticed my absence from the Hall of Fire until later.”

“Celebrían looked around to speak to you, and you were gone,” he replied. “Why are you so distressed?”

“I would rather not speak of it, my lord,” she replied, and let her hair to fall forward to veil her face.

“If Celebrían came here, would you speak to her?” he asked, his voice tender, as though he was comforting his sons during a thunderstorm.

“I would prefer not to speak to anyone about it,” she said, turning to face him.

Though the moonlight was dim, he could see the pain in her eyes, and he moved aside in a gesture of acceptance of her wishes. “When you want to talk about it,” he offered, “Celebrían and I are willing to listen, and to comfort you.”

“I thank you, my lord,” she said in tones that failed to convince Elrond. “Please let me compose myself, that I may serve your lady with more grace than I have now.”

Taking his cue, Elrond rose and left Losgael in peace. He made his way back to the house at a stately pace.

On the verandah, near Celebrían's chair, Glorfindel looked out over the gardens, hoping to spot Losgael. 'She might be in one of the trees,' he thought. 'Or walking among them. I might see the movement from here. Perhaps it would be better not to try to speak with her if she is upset with me, though. I do not understand what I did wrong.'

Elrond walked up behind him. He moved to his side, and said, “Whom do you seek, Glorfindel?”

“Losgael,” he replied. “She made a lovely shirt for me, and said I could repay her in a manner of my own choosing, so I wrote her a song. When I looked for her among the throng in the Hall of Fire, I could not see her. Do you think I upset her?”

“I found her weeping in the cemetery,” Elrond told him in a low, gentle voice, “but she would not tell me why. It may have had nothing to do with you or your song. Perhaps another matter had arisen in her mind. Maybe she was thinking of her brother. She was sitting near his grave.”

“Does she ever speak of her brother?” asked Glorfindel, hoping it was grief that had made Losgael leave the room, and not anything he had said or done.

“She has not spoken his name since he died,” Elrond told him, his voice filled with sorrow. “I could not save Urui, though I prayed to each of the Valar in turn, begging for his life. He was all she had left of her family.”

“She came from Sirion,” Glorfindel stated, flicking his long golden-blond hair as he turned to look his friend in the eye.

“Yes,” Elrond replied, “from Lonnath. She was young then, and was among the survivors rescued by the high king Gil-galad after the Kinslaying. Her parents were killed, but I do not know how the children escaped. She will not speak of it. The lady Galadriel told me she dwelt with her household at Ost-in-Edhil for a while, then moved to Lothlórien with Celeborn. Losgael became a handmaiden of Celebrían some time afterwards.”

“Does she speak to Celebrían about personal matters?” asked Glorfindel, concerned. Was Losgael beginning to fade? She had shown no signs of waning. Urui's life had ended after a battle with Orcs in the Misty Mountains twenty years before.

“So much pain to carry inside her, like a river pent up behind a beaver's dam. Weeping can bring some relief, can it not?” Glorfindel enquired, in the hope that Losgael could find comfort somewhere.

“Weeping is but a symptom of what lies beneath,” Elrond responded. “If weeping was enough, she would have found peace years ago. Alas, she suffers still. Her heart is brittle, like a sword much wielded in battle.”

“If the matter is what I suspect it is,” Elrond told him firmly, “you might end up making things worse. She needs to learn to let go of her pain before she can accept the friendship we have been trying to give her these many years. Her ideas of love of every kind do not match up with what really happens.”

“I think she is in love with me,” Glorfindel confided. There. He had said it.

“I think so too, and you must tread carefully, my friend. My lady loves her handmaid, and will not see her hurt in any way,” Elrond warned.

“Elrond,” said Glorfindel, as if treading on eggshells, “I do not feel the same way for her.” Losgael was a sweet lady, as sweet as the other ladies of Imladris, and no more.

“I know,” Elrond told him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “And she needs to know this, without being made to feel that you are rejecting her outright.”

“How can I do this?” asked Glorfindel, feeling desperate. He had no idea what to do to make the situation better.

Elrond put his other hand on Glorfindel's shoulder. “She needs to become your friend,” he said simply.

“Will she not immediately assume that I love her and want her as my bride?” Glorfindel asked, horror in his voice.

“Not if she understands what friendship is,” Elrond replied. He turned slowly around and walked away, leaving his friend to consider the meaning of his words.

Glorfindel turned back to the garden. He stared into the trees, allowing his eyes to become unfocussed, and became aware of movement out there. Far below, he saw Losgael make her way back to the house. She looked up, saw him and smiled briefly, then picked up her pace and went inside.

A/N: in the distant past, noblemen and their wives usually had separate rooms, even if they loved each other. I'm playing with this historical fact here, though Tolkien never specified one way or the other, to the best of my knowledge, about Elven living arrangements.

Losgael's tragic past is anchored in canon: most Elves over a thousand years of age would have one because their history is littered with wars and skirmishes between themselves and with others. I was taking a pop at the Tragic!Sue cliché - I believe the trick to avoiding Suedom is to make your OC as canonical and believable as possible.

In the family wing, Celebrían was in her dressing room, preparing for bed. She usually shared her husband's bed, using the room given her to store her clothes and for personal grooming. Losgael went in as usual to attend to her, and helped to brush her lady's long silver-gold hair.

“Is all well with you, Losgael?” asked Celebrían, concern in her voice.

“I am well,” the lady replied dully.

“You seem distant tonight. It is as if you were weeping,” Celebrían said in a gentle tone.

“Did my lord say aught?” asked Losgael. A stab of discomfort caused her to pull too hard on the brush.

“Ai!” Celebrían cried out in pain.

“I am sorry, my lady,” Losgael stammered. She backed away and let the brush fall.

“You are not yourself,” Celebrían told her firmly. “Why will you not tell me what ails you? How can I offer you the comfort you so clearly need if you say nothing? Losgael, is it anything I said that has caused you the pain you are feeling? I can feel it coming from you like sunshine on a hot day.”

As Losgael crumpled, Celebrían pulled a stool over for her to sit on. As she put a tender arm around her lady-in-waiting, Celebrían said, “Tell me, Losgael, what the matter is.”

In a sobbing breath, Losgael cried, “It is everything and nothing, my lady. I hardly dare to speak of it!” She burst into tears, and wept like a child on her lady's shoulder.

Soothing her as best she could, Celebrían stroked her hair and softly sang a lullaby in the hope that this would comfort her, but it seemed to make matters worse.

Asleep in her bedroom, Losgael was woken by sounds of consternation. A strange whistling reminded her of arrows being shot through the air, but there could not be so many flying at once, could there?

From her bedroom window, she saw the most appalling sight. Dawn had just broken in Lonnath, and strange Elves were setting fire to some of the houses near the wall while others raided the house of Eärendil, shouting about bringing forth the Silmaril, whatever that was. The fire-starters arrived at her house, and she went to rouse her mother and brother. Her father had perished at Gondolin some years before.

“Nana! Come quickly! We are being attacked! I think they are Elves. They look like Elves, but they are hurting our people!” she shouted through sobs of terror.

Losgael could not believe what she was seeing. Nothing had prepared her for the sheer horror of seeing Elves hurting Elves. Some of the attackers had appeared to be attacking each other, but Losgael was so horrified by what she had seen, she found anything she saw hard to accept.

“Losgael, come, we must leave now,” called her mother. “Rouse Urui while I go downstairs and see what is happening now.”

“Urui,” Losgael said urgently, “come, we must leave now.”

Urui came sleepily to his door and made his way downstairs, still clad in his nightshirt, Losgael behind him. Their mother looked warily outside their front door, which suddenly crashed open.

A wild-looking Elf-warrior wielding a lit torch was holding it towards them. “Get back inside!” he shouted.

“Do not hurt my children, I beg you!” screamed the terrified mother. “Why are you doing this?”

“I have my orders,” said the Elf, and set fire to the bunches of herbs that hung from the ceiling.

“What are you doing?” screamed Losgael's mother, desperation thrusting her towards the Elf in a vain attempt to stop him.

The Elf raised the torch and brought it down hard on her head, trying not to look at the children. The mother slumped down, and whether she was stunned or dead, Losgael could not tell.

Urui thrust his sister behind him. A scant few years older than her, he did his best to protect Losgael. “Let us out!” he ordered, raising his small fist.

“I need you to scream,” the Elf replied harshly. “It will bring the others running.” He backed out, slamming the door shut behind him. A scraping sound indicated that he had pushed something against the door to prevent the children from escaping.

“Nana!” shouted Urui, terrified but determined to bring his mother with him if he could.

Losgael knelt down beside her mother, shaking her prone body. Her hair, which had briefly caught fire when the Elf had hit her, smouldered with a sickening stench. The herbs had burned out and the wooden beams from which they hung, though some smoke rose from them, had not caught fire. An overwhelming sense of danger pinned the little girl to the floor, where she cowered trying to wake her mother, crying pitifully.

“For the love of Eru, cease this madness!” a voice was heard to plead, but the children knew not whose it was. Cries of battle and pain erupted, then, as smoke began to fill the room, the door was wrenched open. A neighbour rushed in with friends and pulled the family out, but Losgaels' mother was dead.

“Losgael?” Celebrían's voice cut into her reverie, and Losgael was jerked back to reality. Her mistress was soothing her, smoothing her silvery hair and rocking her gently. “Losgael, you were far away.”

“I wanted to go back for Diltheniel, but they would not let me,” sobbed Losgael, lost in her grief. “They said it was too late for that, the house was on fire; and it was, my lady, it was!”

“I am sorry, Losgael,” Celebrían replied, weeping too. “Who was Diltheniel?”

“My doll,” Losgael wailed. “My mother made her for me!”

The sensation of her lady's teardrops falling on her neck pulled Losgael back from the dark place she had fallen into. “I am sorry, my lady,” she sniffled, trying to compose herself. “A bad memory took me, and I could not find my way back. I thought I never would.”

Still stroking her, Celebrían asked, “Was it something I said or did that made that memory come?”

“The lullaby you sang, my mother sang to me,” Losgael replied in a small voice.

“I did not know,” said Celebrían, matching her handmaid's tone.

“I never spoke of it,” Losgael told her gently. “I have never told anyone what happened that day.”

“Why not?” Celebrían asked, with her hands on Losgael's face.

“Other people seemed to have troubles of their own, and when I saw them with their missing limbs, weeping for their losses, my pains seemed trivial compared to theirs,” she explained.

“No-one has a right to say your pains are trivial, Losgael,” Celebrían stated firmly, and dropped her hands to her handmaid's shoulders.

“Even if their losses are greater than mine?” asked Losgael, who looked like a lost child.

“'All that is hurtful is hurtful,'” Celebrían quoted.

“Who told you that?” asked Losgael. Her curiosity pulled her a little way out of her grief.

“Elrond,” Celebrían replied, animated with pride. “He said that when he found me bewailing the loss of a ring given me by my father after I came here for the first time. Other Elves told me he could have another made for me, and I ought to be thankful I still had both my parents when so many others had lost their entire families. 'They should not say such things,' he told me. 'If they cannot sympathise with the loss of a trinket, however small, they cannot sympathise at all. Would you like me to help you to find it?' I said yes, and he went to a Man who had a dog. The dog sniffed my hand and snuffled around until he found the ring. I was delighted, and could not thank Elrond enough. He walked back to the house with me and we became friends after that. Whenever he sent messages to my parents, there was always something for me.”

“When did you know you were in love with him?” Losgael asked, her voice filled with wonder. She never asked her lady about personal matters, but since she had let her into her heart, she needed to deepen the connection between them. It felt good to be loved. No-one had held her at all since she lost her mother, and it felt wonderful to have a pair of arms around her.

“On that day,” Celebrían confided, “but he never said anything about the way he felt. It would not have been deemed proper to ask him if he loved me, though I knew he did. He never told me why it took him centuries to decide to ask for my hand in marriage. He was afraid my father might have refused, I think.”

“I want to be in love,” Losgael told her, looking her in the eye. “Truly in love with someone who loves me.”

“I want you to know true joy,” Celebrían replied with a twinkle in her eye. “But first, you must know true friendship. If you cannot be a friend, you cannot be a lover.”

“Did Elrond tell you that?” Losgael asked shyly.

“I thought everybody knew that,” said Celebrían.

“I want to feel safe,” Losgael snuffled, wiping her face with a handkerchief.

“You will always be safe when you are among friends,” Celebrían told her.

Losgael went quiet for a while, then picked up the brush and brushed her lady's hair. She had never opened her heart like that before, and she felt vulnerable and frightened. What if her lady told the other ladies all she had heard just now? Losgael sighed. She had said far too much and let someone in. She found it hard to become close to others because she was afraid of being hurt again.

“Losgael,” her lady asked, “why did you leave the Hall of Fire tonight?”

“When Lord Glorfindel sang that song, I knew it was about me,” Losgael replied in a small voice, “and I was embarrassed. I thought he was making fun of me, depicting me as an object of pity.”

“I do not think he meant it that way,” Celebrían replied. “I think he was grateful for the lovely shirt, and wanted to thank you.”

“He seems to know me too well,” Losgael replied. “It makes me uncomfortable.”

“There are other ladies who have talent with a needle and thread, who are generous and beautiful,” Celebrían told her with a smile. “They may well have thought the song was about them!”

“I never thought of that,” Losgael said, a tremor in her voice. “My lady, I feel such a fool. I have acted like an elfling in this matter, and I fear that people think ill of me now.”

“Courtly Elves consider it a maidenly thing for a lady to blush in their presence,” Celebrían explained. “It indicates purity in our hearts and minds to them.”

“So he is not laughing at me now?” Losgael asked, daring to hope.

“He is probably looking for you, wondering where you are,” Celebrían answered. “What do you want to do?”

“I want to learn more from you about the ways of love,” Losgael replied, blushing as she spoke. “It seems I have a lot to learn.”

“My dear friend,” Celebrían said with a smile, “I would be delighted to help you!”

The two ladies giggled and talked about matters of love for hours. Finally Celebrían left to go to her husband's bedroom, and Losgael went to her own chamber with a smile on her face. She had a plan, and could hardly wait to put it into action.

TBC...

A/N: some of the references here are intentional. Kudos if you can identify them.

Just so you all know, scholars are divided about whether the Glorfindel I am referring to is the one who died in Gondolin or someone else. I'm going with the former. I like the idea that there is proof among the Elves of Middle-earth that Elves do come back from Mandos, and that he is a sign of hope to them.

When she slipped into bed with her husband, Celebrían could not think of anything but the plight of Losgael. Her nightgown and hair were damp with the lady's tears. She lay on her back and mused over her handmaid's tale and thought of how similar it was to her husband's. Both of them had been bereft of their mothers on that day. How had Elrond survived the things he had endured and emerged as a kind and loving person? Sorrow upon sorrow had fallen upon him like rocks in a landslide, but he had not lost his capacity to love and to understand others. He had matured and grown in stature among Elves and Men, and was greatly respected by both. How had he achieved this while Losgael was, in many ways, still a child pulled from a burning house with her brother, weeping for her mother and unable to comprehend what was happening around her? Was it because Elrond was so much younger at the time? What was it that made them so different?

Elrond leaned over. “You took a long time to ready yourself, beloved,” he said tenderly. “Did Losgael tell you what was troubling her?”

Celebrían turned to face him. “Yes, she did. Elrond, she was at Lonnath, and she was only a child!”

“I knew about that, but not much,” Elrond said, putting his arms around her and drawing her close. “What did she say?”

“She became like a child, as if the attack was happening now,” Celebrían told him. Sorrow etched lines in her forehead. “I have never seen anything like it. She spoke of her mother being hit, and being forbidden to go back inside her burning house to get her doll.”

“She was old enough to be able to remember it later, but too young to understand what was happening at the time,” Elrond replied. “Ai! Great are the cruelties inflicted on the young an helpless, and all the more reprehensible for that! Those responsible never think about the consequences, which can last for many, many years afterwards.”

“If they did, they would stop themselves,” Celebrían said sternly. “And we could not have that, could we?”

“Morgoth is ultimately responsible for all of this,” soothed Elrond, and stroked her ear with his thumb. He placed a light kiss on the tip of her nose.

“The people who did those terrible deeds were not in thrall to anything but their own pride. They had a choice, Elrond. They could have chosen not to do such evil things!” Celebrían told him, breaking away from his embrace. She was not in the mood for love while this problem remained unresolved. Why did he not share her righteous indignation? Did it not burn his heart to think of the horror of the Kinslayings?

“Indeed they could,” said Elrond. He sat up and hugged his knees. “And you could have chosen not to become angry about this. You could have made love to me instead, and left this matter till tomorrow, when Losgael will have had some time to consider the words exchanged between you.”

“How can you think of that at a time like this?” Celebrían exclaimed in a rage, and got out of the bed. What was wrong with him? He was accounted wise, but where was his wisdom now?

“Why are you so angry?” asked Elrond. He looked at her like a lost little boy. “Why are you angry with me?”

“You were not there, in that room, when Losgael wept in my arms. Did you not notice how damp my clothes and hair are?” shouted Celebrían. Fury brought tears to her eyes.

“If I wept in your arms, would I also have your sympathy, Celebrían?” Elrond asked, clearly exasperated.

Celebrían picked up a towel and threw it at him. “Do you think her story is an invention merely to gain sympathy?”

“Celebrían,” Elrond asked, his voice rising, “why are you angry with me?”

“Because,” she responded, “you are trivializing Losgael's suffering. Do you not understand that?”

“I am not trivializing anything, wife,” he replied. He only ever called her “wife” when he was being serious.

Celebrían paused, and tried to compose herself. It had been many years since she had last shouted at her husband like that. He took everything so calmly. He should have declared undying hatred for the Kinslayers to the hills and valleys of Middle-earth instead of thinking of the pleasures of his marriage bed. “She is older than we are, husband, but just now, she was like a young child. I was afraid.”

Celebrían wept, and Elrond used the towel she had thrown at him to dry her eyes.

When she calmed down, he asked her, “What were you afraid of, Cugu-nin?” as he stroked her hair, brushing it away from her face with his fingertips.

“She seemed lost in her grief, Parv-seron, I thought she would not come back from that dark place,” his wife replied with a sniffle. “I was so angry at the Kinslayers for what they had done to her, I wanted to go out and strike them if I could. And I wanted you to come with me.”

“Ai, Celebrían!” Elrond lamented. “It has never been easy for me to speak of these matters.”

“I thought you received the counsel of Círdan during your time with him,” Celebrían answered, confused. Did her husband still carry untold grief in his heart? Would he collapse in a weeping heap like Losgael?

“I did indeed receive the counsel of Lord Círdan,” replied Elrond, “but I found it hard to speak of my time as a captive of Maglor and Maedhros.” He sighed. “The reason for this is, I did not think of myself as a captive at the time. People kept telling me afterwards of their heinous deeds and how wicked they were, but I never saw them that way. When Elros and I lived with them, Maedhros was always brooding and kept to himself, but Maglor was tender, and was like a father to us. I tried to tell Círdan that, but he would not hear it. He could not accept that there was anything good about people who could do so much evil.”

“Losgael said she could not speak of her troubles because there always seemed to be people with problems worse than hers,” said Celebrían, her brow furrowed in thought. “That is why her grief was so deep. Was there someone you could speak to about these matters?”

“Gil-galad,” Elrond told her. He winced, stabbed by a pang of sorrow. “He did what had to be done instead of trying to punish them or hold them to account for their deeds. To make an alliance with them, he had to find one good thing about them, so he could look them in the eye without rancour. Maglor's love for myself and my brother was that thing. Without it, they could not have worked together, though they fought the same enemy.”

“This is so much more complicated than I realized,” said Celebrían. She embraced her husband. “I am sorry I shouted at you, Parv-seron.”

“You are forgiven, Cugu-nin,” he replied. “I find it is even more complicated because I have to live with it.”

“You can talk to me about it, Parv-seron, even if it is hard to hear it,” she told him gently. “I only know what others have told me. I was not even born when all this happened. From now on, I will withhold judgement on matters I know so little about.”

The following day, Losgael aided her mistress as she dressed for the day, buttoning her dress at the back. A sense of lightness pervaded her being, as if, at any moment, she might float away. She barely remembered the conversation with Celebrían the night before. It was too painful a matter to think of, so she had stored it away in a part of her mind, and left it there. Besides, she had something better to think about: Glorfindel and the advice her lady had given her on how to win his heart.

“I am thinking of the things we spoke of last night, my lady,” Losgael said with a wicked grin.

“Indeed,” replied Celebrían with a grin of her own. “Have you thought of a way to approach this?”

“Yes, my lady,” Losgael confided. “Next time you go to the practice fields to spar, I will go with you. We can put the plan into action there.”

“Very good, my lady,” agreed Losgael, her smile spreading slowly across her face.

On the practice field, Glorfindel was supervising three sparring matches. He corrected the stances of one of the pairs, and taught advanced techniques to another. The third he glanced at from time to time. He barely noticed the ladies approaching him.

The matter of the blue shirt had slipped his mind for the time being. The fact was, many ladies became enamoured of him from time to time. With his noble lineage, fame as a warrior, skill at the harp and in song, and comely appearance, it was hardly surprising. Still, he found it annoying when they started to believe that for a trinket or a favour, he would fall in love with them forever and immediately fulfil all the fantasies they had ever had about love. He would do no such thing. One day, he would meet a lady worthy of him. In the meantime, he was happy to flirt, but was not considering anyone for the position of wife at this time.

The three pairs ceased their efforts after a while, and when he had finished giving his evaluation of their performances, he looked at the benches to see if there was anyone waiting to speak with him. There usually was. Celebrían and Losgael were there, dressed for combat. He noticed that Losgael's attention was focussed anywhere but on him. Good.

As he approached the ladies, he said, “Good morrow, ladies. What weapons will you be using?”

“And which of you will spar with me first?” he asked politely. Usually, when a lady was disappointed with him, she would want to spar with him to impress him or teach him a lesson. He had yet to be bested by one. Sometimes they would take their frustrations out on another, or a perceived rival. With a thin smile, he tried to work out which of these scenarios was about to play out. Again.

This was nothing new. Glorfindel had given up long ago trying to understand the workings of the female mind, but he was familiar with this ruse. The ignoring game. Very well, he would politely ignore Losgael too.

He took up his sword as Celebrían reached for one for herself, and went through each of the set moves, testing her guard and reflexes. After a while, he tried to get through her defences, but found that she had learned how to anticipate his thrusts and parry them. Shorter by more than six inches, Celebrían used her height to her advantage, forcing her friend onto the back foot until he thrust his sword under her arm and disarmed her.

“I intended the praise for my mistress,” she told him, smiling at Celebrían. “She had you on the back foot for a while.”

“Indeed,” he said, congratulating himself for being right about which game was being played. “And now it is your turn.”

'I thought you were supposed to be ignoring me,' he thought, as she looked at him with innocent eyes. If she was playing the game, she was breaking the rules.

Losgael was adequate, not impressive in the least, though she did surprise him a few times. When the bout was over, Celebrían praised her handmaid for the efforts she had made. Losgael thanked him formally for the match and went back to the house with her mistress.

“I do not understand this,” Glorfindel muttered under his breath as he received the next few pairs for sparring. “Still, I am busy with matters of greater importance than romantic intrigues.” Matters of war he could understand. Matters of love were easier to sing of than to deal with.

At the midday meal in the great hall, Elrond and his family sat in their usual places, with his advisers and other people of note. Servants brought steaming tureens of leek and carrot soup, bread, cold meat and sliced cheese. Bowls of fruit were put down on the tables for people to help themselves, and there were herbal teas for those who did not want wine. Celebrían sat with her boys, watching with motherly pride as they demonstrated lordly table manners. Glorfindel was out of sorts. He could see Losgael chatting politely to Lothwen. She did not glance at him even once.

“You are quiet, Glorfindel” said Elrond, dabbing at his mouth with a linen napkin.

“I have been thinking of Losgael,” he replied in an undertone. “She seems to be well, but I cannot make sense of the things I have seen. Yesterday, she was like a rabbit before a hungry fox, and you know about her not being there when I looked for her in the audience after my song. Today, she was happy, and accompanied your lady to the practice fields. She seemed to have no interest in me at all. I thought for a while it might be a game – you know how it is with some ladies. Anyway, she appeared to be playing the ignoring game, but then picked up a sword to spar with me. I have seen the confusing game before, but this is different.”

Glorfindel frowned, confused. “Usually, when a maiden takes a fancy to me, she blushes and bumbles and follows me around. You know how they drop things for me to pick up, or make pretty things for me to wear, then rush away as if it will cause a great scandal if we are seen together without an army of witnesses to protect their virtue. Losgael seemed to be doing that, but now I am not sure.”

“Why do you think she was weeping?” asked Glorfindel, remembering what Elrond had told him the night before.

“She would not speak of it to me, but she told Celebrían she was upset about things that happened many years ago. Perhaps she heard or saw something that reminded her of the events in Lonnath,” said Elrond, his voice grave. “She wept in my wife's arms last night for hours. Celebrían told me she became like a child. She may be confused, and not playing games with you at all."

"Thank you," Glorfindel smiled, and returned to his meal. He was always flattered when a fair maiden desired him, though he had yet to choose a wife. Being immortal gave him plenty of time. He was not a Man, having to take a wife of necessity to maintain his line, after all. If he died, he could return from Mandos and live again. The urgency that Men seemed to feel in these matters was never there.

At the dances and festivals, he had never been wanting for a partner – they flocked to him like fowl to a farmer's wife as she scattered grain for them to eat. Choosing a partner was like plucking a flower from a rich meadow; and after one dance, he could go and choose another. Glorfindel had danced with every noble Elf-lady in Rivendell, and more than a few in Greenwood the Great and in Lothlórien.

He was never lonely. He had plenty of friends, and Elrond's family was his own. A valued member of the household, he already had the pleasures of hearth and home. What more did he need? What more could there be?

After the meal, the boys went to their lessons, and Celebrían went to the sewing room with Losgael, Lothwen and Brethilgwen. Their latest project was a set of runners for the banqueting tables for the upcoming harvest festival. This year, the theme was migrating birds. Losgael had already begun embroidering flying geese on hers, which she was making for the part of the table where she sat with Celebrían and the children.

When Lothwen and Brethilgwen left the room, Losgael spoke to her mistress. "My lady, Lord Glorfindel seemed to be out of sorts at the table."

"He did indeed, Losgael," Celebrían replied with a grin. "Did I not tell you it would work? Now we need to do something that will make him seek you out. It is always a mistake to try to get such a one to feel pity for you, or to think you are weak. He has seen the games we ladies play before, and has no desire to become ensnared in them. No, you must show him something he has never seen before."

Losgael considered this. It was true that she had wanted Glorfindel as a protector more than anything else, but the things her mistress was telling her were about gaining his interest. This would mean opening her heart, and she was not sure if she was ready for that. The floodgates had been opened, and she still felt raw and sore inside. It would be far easier to play games with the object of her desire than to get to know him - and let him know her. As this occurred to her, she wondered if she wanted to continue with this intrigue. As a game it was an excellent diversion, but for Losgael, this was no game.

A/N: Vambraces are the leather wrist and forearm guards you see Men wearing in the LOTR movies.

After the meal, Glorfindel went back to the practice field to train some young Rangers who had come from Arnor. As he walked out with them, the heavens opened. Rain hammered down, soaking Men and Elves alike.

“Why are we going into the field to practice in this weather?” one of the Rangers complained.

“Do you think Orcs or other enemies would take shelter instead of attacking you?” Glorfindel countered.

“Yes!” another of the Rangers retorted, his teeth chattering. His fingers had already gone yellow with the cold, and showed up in sharp contrast to his dark brown vambraces.

“Friend,” said Glorfindel in a non-nonsense tone, “Orcs will attack you when they think you are at your weakest, particularly in weather like this. You need to be able to cope in such conditions. Now pull out your sword!”

In the sewing room, Losgael was still considering what her mistress had said. The games ladies played? She knew some funny stories about those. Brethilgwen, who had dwelt at Rivendell since its founding, had told her most of them.

A hundred years before the War of the Elves and Sauron, Heneblhûndî, one of the noble ladies, set her heart on Glorfindel. It was the talk of Rivendell because of the way she would pop up in front of him, dab the corner of her lips with her handkerchief and nod just so. She always seemed to know just where he would be so she could walk around the corner clad in colours and styles he had appeared to favour on other ladies. “Good morrow, my lord,” she would say in a breathless voice.

“I was just passing by,” she would simper, before leaving as quickly as she had arrived.

Heneblhûndî had a certain smile that suggested she was keeping a secret, but would share it with Glorfindel alone. Even her walk was unusual. As she was leaving, she would quicken her steps for a few paces, then carry on at a more sedate pace. The object of the game was clearly to get Glorfindel to pursue her, intrigued by her mystery.

It failed in every way possible. The residents of Rivendell howled with laughter behind her back, and mimicked the silly things she did. Heneblhûndî's attitude had not endeared her to them – she had arrived there, proud of her lineage as the daughter of a great house, and considered herself too grand to work for the commonwealth. Instead, she made clothes for the most important members of the household. When she met Glorfindel, she decided that he alone was suitable for her, and made every effort possible to impress him. Unfortunately, the reputation she had built as a spoiled and selfish lady preceded her, and nothing she did made him want to be with her. The game ended when she went to the stables one day to greet him as he returned from the Greenwood, and found him impersonating her, to the vast amusement of his friends. Even Elrond dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief and minced his steps in mockery of her.

The story had not ended there. Heneblhûndî evidently thought that if she made Glorfindel jealous, he would come to his senses and whisk her away to be his bride. She flattered Lindir and fawned on him, though his lineage was less noble than hers. The minstrel knew not where to look when she arrived in the Hall of Fire, clapped exuberantly at the end of each song and glanced Glorfindel's way to see his reaction. Lindir confided to Brethilgwen once that he could not bear the sight of Heneblhûndî but did not dare to say anything. That game ended when Heneblhûndî looked at Glorfindel and saw that he was laughing at her applause for Lindir's tuning of his harp.

Amused at the stories, Losgael decided she would never make a fool of herself thus. Thankfully, Heneblhûndî realized how foolish she was being, and stopped her pursuit of Glorfindel. She often came to the sewing room to make clothes and other necessities for the residents of Rivendell, whatever their rank. Losgael sat with her from time to time at the loom, weaving cloth of various kinds, and the two ladies would sing as they worked. Smiling wistfully, Losgael was piqued at the irony that Heneblhûndî's current attitude made her more approachable than she had ever been before.

Was that it? Was that what was required to win the love of a lord? To be approachable in addition to the attributes considered desirable in a lady? To the best of her knowledge, no-one had ever laughed at Losgael. They barely noticed her. If this continued, she would be spared the agony of rejection if she continued her pursuit of Glorfindel. Was loneliness preferable to rejection?

The rain had stopped as suddenly as it started, and out on the practice field, steam rose from the two Men as they sparred with Glorfindel.

“No enemy fights nobly, particularly if he wants to win. Do not think to use courtly manners on the battlefield,” warned Glorfindel. “These forms are meant to show you how to use your weapons to their best advantage, and that is all. I expect you to show me respect, but to an enemy, you should show no mercy. The only respect should be for the fact that he is willing to go out of his way to slaughter you if he can.”

Both of the Men were puffing, hard pressed despite the fact that Glorfindel was on his own against them. Resentment gleamed in their eyes as they thrusted and parried their teacher's blows. They were determined to strike him one way or another.

Glorfindel laughed as he danced around the two of them. His experience enabled him to predict their moves before they even thought of them. He was playing with them, and they knew it. He hoped that, by making them angry, he could get them to put their hearts into the sparring. “Children,” he teased, “if you do not make more of an effort, you shall be sent to bed without your supper!”

When he slipped on the wet grass, one of the Men caught the captain with a lucky strike. He slammed the edge of the blade into Glorfindel's ankle as he fell. There was a loud crack.

Glorfindel fell cursing all Men, flat on his back. “That was a low blow!” he roared.

“Then what do you make of this?” the other Man asked as he straddled Glorfindel, and pointed his sword at his chin.

“So does my ankle,” the other Man said, and turned onto his side. “I think it's broken. I can't get up.”

I'm glad your blade was blunt,” Glorfindel said gingerly. “I could have lost my foot. It hurts to walk, but it is bruised. Both of you stay here. I will go and get help.”

As he limped away, the two Men tried not to laugh at the tell-tale grass stains on the seat of Glorfindel's leggings.

In the healing wing, Elrond was busy tending to the Man when Heneblhûndî entered the room with a basket full of bandages and other cloths. “My lord,” she said in a quiet voice, “here are some bandages and dressings for you.”

“Is that one of the Rangers who came to train here?” she asked, when she saw the Man.

“He slipped on the wet grass and snapped his right ankle,” said Elrond. “I will have to splint his leg, then fasten it to the bracket above the bed, for the break is in an awkward place.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Elrond smiled. “If you could hold this for me, I would be grateful.” He put a sling around the plastered foot, and gave her a long piece of cloth. Up above them, a bracket was fixed to the ceiling. Elrond stood on a chair and reached down. “Pass the strap, please.”

He threaded it through the ring on the end of the bracket and made a slip knot. When he got down from the chair, he adjusted the strap to a height he was satisfied with, then went to stand beside the Man, near his head. “How does that feel?” he asked.

Heneblhûndî bowed to her lord, nodded at the Man and left the room, taking the empty basket with her. On the way out, she saw Glorfindel. “Good afternoon, my lord,” she said in neutral tones.

Heneblhûndî hastened away. For many years, she had been trying to live down her reputation as a spoilt and selfish lady. By showing herself to be willing to take on any task, however ordinary, she had worked to build a new reputation as a decent, hard-working person. She tried not to think of Glorfindel, though the slightest glimpse of him could still set her heart a-flutter. The worst thing for her was not having anyone to confide in. Heneblhûndî was convinced that if she ever mentioned her feelings for the golden lord to anyone, the laughter and cat-calls would begin again. It was better to say nothing.

Her haven was the sewing room. While she was not close to any of the ladies who frequented the room, she was able to speak to some of them and enjoy some companionship. Brethilgwen was a terrible gossip, and her tongue was sharp, but she had taught Heneblhûndî many of the stitches she knew. Losgael was kind-hearted, but kept to herself. Celebrían was approachable, but Heneblhûndî felt intimidated by the influence the lady of Rivendell had. One false step could easily send her back to being the butt of every joke. It was better to be alone than to take the risk of allowing herself to trust anyone.

Losgael was at the loom weaving when Heneblhûndî walked in with the empty basket.

Losgael knew that tone, it was one she often used herself. “Good afternoon, Heneblhûndî,” she replied.

Losgael and Heneblhûndî looked at each other, trying to avoid eye contact. An awkward silence grew between them, creating tension. Heneblhûndî spoke up. “May I say something?” she asked, her voice unnaturally high-pitched.

“I think this is silly,” Heneblhûndî said. Her voice dropped and her shoulders sagged as she sat down. “Neither of us is close to anyone, and both of us need someone to confide in. Let us confide in each other.”

Losgael considered this. Her mistress's words floated into her mind. 'First, you must know true friendship. If you cannot be a friend, you cannot be a lover.' Befriending Heneblhûndî would give her a chance to become close to someone without risking her heart in a love affair that might not burn as brightly in another heart as in her own. “Yes,” she replied, “let us confide in each other. Which of us shall speak first?”

“You may, if you wish,” the other lady said, and a smile lit up her fair features.

“Very well,” said Losgael. She searched for something to say that would not leave her feeling overly vulnerable. “I have never been in love before.”

“I have,” Heneblhûndî replied, her face downcast, “but all the things they sing about – none of them are true.”

“I wish they were,” Losgael enthused. “I wish I could meet some dashing hero and be swept away in his arms to live in bliss forever!”

“I believed I had met such a one,” Heneblhûndî told her. Tears pooled in her azure blue eyes. “But it all turned to ashes and I became a laughing stock!” With a sniffle, she groped for a handkerchief and wept.

Losgael moved closer to her, and put an arm around her. She felt awkward, for sharing a confidence was something she had rarely done.

Comforted, Heneblhûndî opened her heart. “I have never been able to speak of this, Losgael. Never!”

“You may speak to me of anything you wish,” Losgael promised, “and it will go no further than these four walls.”

Blowing her nose, Heneblhûndî said, “I fell in love with Glorfindel some time ago. I wanted nothing else but to be his bride, but he loved me not. I thought to gain his affections by doing all the things I had heard in songs or read about in books, but people laughed and considered me a fool. I cared not, hoping he would notice my desire to please him, to be what he wanted. I just wanted him to notice me, but all he saw of me was the affectations I put on to get his attention. Finally, I tried to make him jealous by spending my time lauding Lindir, but that also failed. Everything I did failed. I often wonder if I am doomed to spend my life alone forever.”

“Have you ever thought that someone else might be the one for you?” Losgael asked her. Glorfindel? But he was hers. How dare Heneblhûndî desire him!

“I know I must wait until the right one comes for me,” Heneblhûndî replied, “but I thought Glorfindel was the one for me. Even though I have suffered much as a result of my own foolishness, I would do it all again if I imagined he would think well of me in the end.”

“I think well of you, Heneblhûndî,” Losgael told her, stroking her long chestnut-brown hair. Now she felt even more awkward. She had always been amused by the tales of Heneblhûndî's foolishness, but now that the lady was weeping in her arms, it was hard to laugh at her. Losgael felt guilty for each time she had done so.

“I thought you laughed at me behind my back as everyone else does,” Heneblhûndî retorted, bitter at heart.

“I have heard what some people have said, Heneblhûndî,” Losgael said firmly, “but I did not believe them. Besides, you have never said or done aught to make me think ill of you. I think of you as the person I weave with. I see the bandages and other items you make for people, regardless of their station. These are not the actions of a spoilt, selfish lady. I do not believe anything bad about you at all. Surely those stories are exaggerations!”

“Thank you, Losgael,” Heneblhûndî said, smiling her gratitude. “I feel that a great weight has dropped from my shoulders, and that I now have a friend in the world.”

“It is horrible being lonely,” Losgael told her sincerely. “Do not be alone again. My lady Celebrían says, 'First, you must know true friendship. If you cannot be a friend, you cannot be a lover.' I believe she is right.”

“I love our lady Celebrían,” Heneblhûndî replied, smiling broadly. “She is so wise and kind-hearted.”

Just then, Brethilgwen came in. “I see you have been weeping, Heneblhûndî,” she said, concern in her voice.

“I have been foolish and have paid the price for it,” Heneblhûndî said, looking the other lady in the eye.

“Indeed you have,” said Brethilgwen, shamefaced. “It is time to close the account. I will speak of it no more and tell any I hear saying anything to cease. None of us ever meant to cause you distress, but we did intend the sting of ridicule to encourage you to mend your ways. Well, that was the intention at first. Some of us, myself included, have been somewhat overzealous in the matter. I am sorry, Heneblhûndî, for gossiping about you.”

Heneblhûndî stood up and faced Brethilgwen. “I forgive you,” she said. “Let us embrace and forget this.”

The two ladies embraced, and Losgael smiled to see it. Heneblhûndî's humiliation had always been a source of discomfort to her, and she was glad to see the matter ended. There was, of course, another matter. They were rivals for the love of Glorfindel. Was it worth risking the tentative friendship they had just struck up for something that might not happen for either of them?

A/N: I'm borrowing the Elven friendship gesture from the LOTR movies for Elrond and Glorfindel to use. I'm poking fun at fangirls here by suggesting that Elven ladies do it too.

In the treatment room in the healing wing, Glorfindel was having his foot bandaged by Elrond.

“It was the other one,” Glorfindel groused. “The one who did not break his ankle,” he added with a hint of guilt. “How is he?”

“I have had to put his leg in a sling fastened to a bracket attached to the ceiling, for the break is in an awkward place. Why did you take so long to come to me with this?” Elrond asked his friend.

“I thought it would be fine,” the captain explained, “but it swelled up and went stiff.”

“Hamstring injuries can hurt for a long time, Glorfindel. While I do not think the Man intended to harm you, I will have to reprimand him for this,” Elrond said firmly. “Alas, you will not be able to dance at the harvest ball. You need to rest this foot until it has healed.”

“Many ladies will be disappointed,” Glorfindel said in a wistful voice. He had been looking forward to the dancing, and the fuss the most beautiful ladies in Rivendell were sure to make of him.

“Your hands are fine,” Elrond replied. “There is nothing to stop you from playing your harp.”

“I will get you some willow bark tea for the pain,” Elrond said quietly. “It will help to reduce the inflammation.”

While he waited for the drug to be brought, Glorfindel thought over the events of the day. A part of him accepted that such things happened in training, but another part rebelled at the notion that anyone could lash out so furiously and with so little thought of the consequences. Still, he was not looking forward to having the Man remind him of what he had said as he ordered the practice on a bitterly cold day in the driving rain. “Orcs will attack you when they think you are at your weakest, particularly in weather like this. You need to be able to cope in such conditions. Now pull out your sword!”

He had not coped as well as he had expected the Men to. His pride hurt as much as his heel did. Another memory rankled in his bruised heart. “No enemy fights nobly, particularly if he wants to win. Do not think to use courtly manners on the battlefield. These forms are meant to show you how to use your weapons to their best advantage, and that is all. I expect you to show me respect, but to an enemy, you should show no mercy. The only respect should be for the fact that he is willing to go out of his way to slaughter you if he can.”

For a brief moment, they had seen him as an enemy, and acted accordingly. That hurt the most.

“Thank you, Elrond,” Glorfindel said in a small voice. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Please do not reprimand the Man who did this to me. I believe that the knowledge of this alone will fill him with remorse,” Glorfindel explained. “An apology will suffice. He did what I had told him to do – he pulled out his sword and did the best he could to defend himself. He could have done me more harm, after all.”

“Though I am indignant about this,” said Elrond, “I will respect your wishes.”

Putting his right hand on his heart, then Elrond's left shoulder, Glorfindel smiled his gratitude as Elrond returned the Elven gesture of friendship.

The bell rang for the evening meal, and everyone went to get ready. Losgael went to Celebrían's room to get her evening dress out, while her mistress went with Lothwen to attend to Elladan and Elrohir. The boys had were able to dress themselves well enough, but often had to be reminded of the need to wash their hands and faces properly. As she laid Celebrían's dress out, Losgael admired it. 'Such a beautiful dress. I would like to wear it to the Harvest Ball,' Losgael thought. 'If Lord Glorfindel could see me in such a dress, he would surely declare me to be the most beautiful lady he had ever seen, and sweep me away at once!'

Celebrían came in, and Losgael helped her to get into the dress. “It looks so lovely on you, my lady,” she said.

“Thank you, Losgael,” Celebrían replied. “I loved the russet colour, and knew it would look good on me. Actually, since you and I have similar colouring, I believe it would look good on you.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Losgael said, and a blush bloomed in her cheeks. “I was not...”

“Yes you were,” said her mistress, “and yes you may. We might have to make some alterations, though. Put it away, I shall wear another dress tonight.”

“Think nothing of it,” Celebrían said, with a grin. “I like romantic stories, particularly when they are true!”

Filled with joy, Losgael took great pains to arrange her lady's hair and clothing to present her at her best before she left the room. Surely there could be no greater pleasure than serving such a wonderful person!

The food was delicious, as usual. The cook had made a spicy plum sauce to go with the roasted ducks, broiled vegetables and small whole baked potatoes that followed the freshwater shrimps and herbs served at the beginning of the meal.

Conversations were somewhat muted, since Glorfindel was conspicuous by his absence.

Losgael nudged Heneblhûndî, who was sitting beside her. “Where is Lord Glorfindel?” she asked her, curiosity raising her eyebrow.

“One of those execrable Men struck his hamstring with a blunt blade,” Heneblhûndî said viciously. “I understand he meant it in fun, as a rough game, but Lord Glorfindel will not be able to dance at the Harvest Ball this year.”

“Such wickedness!” Losgael declared. “I can see him sitting at one of the tables near the back. Will he not be punished for this outrage?”

“Apparently not,” Heneblhûndî told her angrily. “Our noble lord has decided that he somewhat deserved it, and has humbly declined to have him reprimanded.”

“He is so noble,” Losgael said in a dreamy voice. “So kind-hearted. He will be able to play the harp, though, will he not?”

“Maeniell, one of the healing assistants, told me when I went down with more bandages,” Heneblhûndî replied.

“We should visit him,” said Losgael. Was this not an act of friendship of the kind her mistress would recommend?

“I know he likes blackberries,” Heneblhûndî told her. The last of them can still be found on the northernmost slopes. You and I can get a basket from the kitchen and fill it with them for him.

“Will they not be bitter at this time of year?” asked Losgael. The thought of bringing Glorfindel anything less than the most perfect offering did not appeal to her.

“We can ask the cook to stew them in a little honey and serve them in small pies to him,” Heneblhûndî replied.

“Very clever!” Losgael replied with a smile. Why had she not thought of that?

Brethilgwen was rushing to the recovery room in the treatment wing when she collided with Heneblhûndî, who was on her way there. “Ai, Heneblhûndî, you are as ridiculous as your name!” she shouted. “Get out of my way!”

“Brethilgwen, I heard that!” Heneblhûndî shouted back at her, outraged. “Ai, a Man could shave himself with that tongue of yours, it is so sharp!”

“And who are you to speak to me that way?” Brethilgwen demanded, her face flushed with anger.

“A scion of the house of Fingolfin,” Heneblhûndî snarled, and pointed at her as if her forefinger was a weapon. She had never really liked Brethilgwen, who was known all over Rivendell for her quick temper. “Who are you? What is your provenance?”

Brethilgwen went quiet. Her face went deathly pale, and the fury in her eyes was a terrible thing to behold. “Is that all you have, Heneblhûndî? Your lineage? Have you no merit of your own?” she hissed, moving towards her foe.

“You,” said Heneblhûndî, and went closer, refusing to be intimidated, “appear to have neither. Begone, and trouble us no more!”

Brethilgwen closed the gap between them, so there was no space between them. “You have no authority here,” she argued.

“No I do not,” Heneblhûndî conceded, “but my friend's mistress does. One word to her...”

“If that is the way of things, I shall go to my room at once, like a naughty child,” Brethilgwen retorted, “but I shall be sure to tell any who ask me why I have been sent there.”

The two ladies looked around. Glorfindel stood there and leaned on the doorframe.

The look of disgust on his noble face would have curdled milk. “I am appalled,” he said, anger thickening his voice, “to hear such harsh words being exchanged. Why are you so hateful to each other? I know each of you has designs on me, but neither of you has impressed me at all because I know what lies beneath all the simpering and fluttering about. Trouble me not with your prattle and mincing. I have no interest in you at all!”

Silence filled the hallway as Glorfindel turned around and limped back to his bed.

Losgael arrived at the entrance to the healing wing just as Brethilgwen and Heneblhûndî were leaving. “Why are you both so upset?” she asked.

Neither of them replied, they just carried on, with the matched expressions of those who had been thoroughly chastised.

Losgael went into the recovery room. “Good evening, my lord Glorfindel,” she said, with a smile. “I brought you some treats from the kitchen.”

“I thank you, Losgael,” he replied wearily. “You can go now.” The last thing he wanted was another simpering wench to fawn upon him while venomous jealousy festered in her heart. Not that he would use such a word in front of any of them.

“What did Heneblhûndî and Brethilgwen do just now?” Losgael asked, standing her ground.

“They bickered over me like two dogs over a bone,” Glorfindel complained. “It was ugly to behold. Heneblhûndî called upon her heritage as though it was the best thing about her. In truth, it is. She knows Brethilgwen is of lowly birth, and did not hesitate to remind her of that fact. While lineage is of some importance to me, it is the heart that impresses me most about anyone, and neither of those two ladies appears to have one.” He cared not what Losgael thought of him now. If she should decide that someone else was more worthy of her affections, so much the better. Maybe then he would get some peace!

“Ai, my lord,” Losgael reprimanded him with a wagging finger, “you are too harsh in your assessment of them. Heneblhûndî has done much to atone for her foolishness, and Brethilgwen apologized to her earlier tonight and embraced her like a sister.”

“All of that has been undone tonight,” Glorfindel persisted. “I was appalled by their behaviour.” His argument was unassailable. What could she possibly say to counter that?

Losgael put the basket down. “And I am appalled by yours,” she told him firmly.

“Because you are too complacent to try to understand what drives us to behave the way we do, my lord. Since you are unlikely to listen to any discourse of mine on the subject, I take my leave,” she said, and turned away.

“I do not need anything, and I am not the only Elf-warrior in Rivendell!” he retorted. Oh, this was a rare one, but he knew it well. The 'I am your mother, you are my son,' game. “Go and find someone else to torment!”

“Why?” she said, turning halfway around. “If they are anything like you, I would rather not!”

Glorfindel lay back, surprised at her words. He frowned. How could Losgael possibly have come to the conclusion that he was playing with her? Was this a new game? It would be interesting to find out.

In Celebrían's dressing room, Losgael was helping her mistress to get ready for bed. As she brushed Celebrían's hair, Losgael went over the same lock several times, apparently lost in Elven dreams.

“Aye, my lady,” Losgael replied, “I am. 'Tis a pretty spider's web I have allowed myself to be caught in!”

“My lady, I do not think I like Lord Glorfindel any more,” said Losgael, a bitter feeling rising in her breast. How could she pretend she had not heard him say those awful things?

“Losgael,” Celebrían replied patiently, “it is possible to love someone even if you are annoyed with him.”

“Your love for your lord is perfect,” declared Losgael. “I long for such a wonderful thing for myself!”

Celebrían laughed, her voice sounding like the waterfalls that tumbled incessantly outside.

“Why do you laugh, my lady?” Losgael asked, distressed. “Are you mocking me?”

“No, Losgael, my friend,” Celebrían soothed, “but what you said amused me so much I cannot help but laugh. Do you know I sometimes shout and throw cushions at my husband?”

“Losgael, why are you so surprised about this?” Celebrían asked, clearly worried about her lady-in-waiting.

Losgael sat down. Everything she had ever believed about anything had begun to crumble. Bits and pieces had been falling ever since she had confided her desire to be with Glorfindel, and cracks widened in her understanding of the world she thought she knew. No, this had been going on for longer than that. She had never truly taken Brethilgwen seriously, and when that lady told her that Elrond and Glorfindel mimicked Heneblhûndî and laughed at her, Losgael had not really believed it. Could it be true? Would such great and venerable lords act like naughty elflings? If that was true, maybe her lady did indeed throw cushions and shout at her husband. But this was not how things were supposed to be! Her soul rebelled against the very idea.

“Ai, my lady,” Losgael answered, “it is hard for me to accept the idea that any great and noble Elves would conduct themselves in an unbecoming way. What would people think if they knew of these things?”

Celebrían moved closer to her handmaid and held her like a child. “Oh, Losgael,” she soothed, “my dear one. We Elves are people, not puppets, and take as much pleasure and pain in the world as anyone else does, whether Elven or mortal. We laugh, cry, shout, cheer, sing and play like the other people here. Sometimes we do things that may be frowned upon, but I tell you, it is impossible to live up to the expectations of others all the time!”

“I did not believe that Lord Elrond and Lord Glorfindel would mimic Heneblhûndî and laugh at her,” Losgael said in a quiet voice. “I did not want to.”

“Actually, that was Brethilgwen,” said Celebrían, arching an eyebrow. “Heneblhûndî's downfall is her pride in her lineage. Brethilgwen's in her desire to escape the lowliness of hers. It makes her do some foolish things, such as aping the manners of those of higher rank.”

“Then that story of Heneblhûndî's silly walk, popping out in front of Lord Glorfindel and dabbing at the corner of her mouth...” began Losgael.

“...was a falsehood when applied to her,” finished Celebrían. “Brethilgwen has another unfortunate habit. She lays the burden and the shame of her own shortcomings on others by attributing her actions to them. I suppose she hopes to escape the reputation that such behaviour has earned her by passing it on to someone else. It has worked in part: many people believe her stories and Heneblhûndî needlessly bears the name Fool; but the relish with which Brethilgwen tells these tales has earned her the name Shrew. She has not won, as she supposes – she merely found another way to lose.”

“I have always preferred to believe we are better people than that,” Losgael said ruefully. It was to be expected of evil people to behave in evil ways, but what of the good?

“What are you going to do about Brethilgwen?” asked Losgael, in the hope of some restoration of her ideals.

“My husband has the greater wisdom in this matter,” Celebrían said gently. “When I asked him about it, he said, 'Let the leaves fall where they will, for all of them reach the ground.' I understand this to mean that since Heneblhûndî's arrogance is being reined in by the stories going round about her, and Brethilgwen loses more than she gains, things should be left to continue as they are. Sooner or later, both of these ladies will come to realize how foolish both of them have been.”

“That seems unfair to me,” said Losgael. She looked down at the floor and picked tiny particles of dust off her dress. She could not look her lady in the eye. Where was the justice in this matter?

“Those were my words when I discussed this with my husband,” said Celebrían, patting Losgael's shoulder. But now I understand why he will not interfere. If we call them to account for their actions, they will feel even more put upon than they already do. Remember, the things they do come from feelings of inadequacy. Making them feel worse will not make things better, and will not make them better. By leaving them to discover for themselves the consequences of their actions, we leave them with no-one but themselves to blame for whatever happens.”

“I understand,” said Losgael, and looked up at her mistress. “Why should we punish them when they can punish themselves? Our lord is truly wise.”

“Indeed he is,” Celebrían agreed. “I intend to write a book of his provebs.”

“I would be proud to help you with this, my lady,” Losgael replied. She took up the brush and attending to her lady's hair.

“Thank you, Losgael,” Celebrían said with a smile. “Now tell me, what transpired between you and Lord Glorfindel?”

In the recovery room, Glorfindel lay back feeling sorry for himself. Piles of blackberry pies of every shape and size rose up in tiers around him. Their sweet, tart scent filled the room. He could not bear it. When someone came in next, he would ask them to give the pies to whoever wanted them.

“Elrond, my friend,” pleaded Glorfindel, “please will you take these away?”

A wicked grin spread across the peredhel's face. “Now really, Glorfindel,” he told his friend, “where are your manners? Surely you would offer hospitality to those who come to visit you?”

“I thought you had come here to aid me, not torment me,” Glorfindel groused.

“Ah, poor Glorfindel, such a burden to carry!” Elrond teased. He took one of the pies and ate it. “How can you possibly bear to be so adored?”

“Ai, Elrond!” Glorfindel complained, “they love me not for myself, but for my name, for the glory of my history and for my rank. If I were a stable-hand, their eyes would be fixed elsewhere!”

“Then we have a solution!” Elrond said with a playful grin. “I shall have you demoted forthwith to stable-hand.”

“Or not, if you would rather suffer the torment of ladies constantly clucking around you like hens in a farmyard,” said Elrond. “The choice is yours!”

“You know,” Glorfindel said, sitting up, “you really are the most annoying...”

“I know, but I need someone to listen, Elrond,” he complained. “I am always having to contend with ladies wanting to own me the way they own their dresses or jewels. They claim to be in love with me, and I would greatly enjoy it if they did, but their love is not real. Worse still, it seems they cannot tell the difference between love and lust or a desire to own someone.”

“So despite all the attention you are getting, you feel unloved,” Elrond said, his gaze fixed on his friend.

“Well, not exactly,” Glorfindel told him, trying to make himself understood. He was no good at this kind of thing. The advantage of being a lady was that one could pour forth the contents of one's heart without being ridiculed for it. Trying to do so as a warrior of renown only made him look foolish.

“Is there something I could do to help?” Elrond asked, leaning towards his friend.

“I am aware that some people think I am conceited,” said Glorfindel thoughtfully. It was amusing to make fun of people who were conceited, particularly if they mistreated others, but he had no desire to be laughed at himself.

“Losgael,” sighed Glorfindel. “She said, 'you are too complacent to try to understand what drives us to behave the way we do, my lord.' At first I thought it was unfair of her to expect me to make such an effort, but then I realized she thought I was arrogant and uncaring. It is not a reputation I wish to have.”

“I can understand that, Glorfindel,” said Elrond, with his hand on his chin, “but there is little I can do about it. You know why they fasten their hopes upon you: they want a lover and protector, but they want the best there is. You are among the highest ranking Elves here and on Middle-earth. If I were a lady, I would desire you.”

“I suppose that is why we are such good friends, Elrond,” said Glorfindel, with a laugh. “You are not a lady!”

When she had finished her service to her mistress, Losgael was free to do as she wished, so she went to the sewing room. There she saw Heneblhûndî, who was making a pair of leggings. “Heneblhûndî,” she said to her friend, “what are you making?”

“I am unhappy,” Heneblhûndî said resentfully. “That awful Brethilgwen! Do you know what she said to me?”

“Something that added insult to injury?” asked Losgael. She reached out and put a hand on the other lady's shoulder.

“'Ai, Heneblhûndî, you are as ridiculous as your name!' and right in front of Lord Glorfindel too! I was mortified,” she confided.

“He came limping from his sickbed and told us both, 'I am appalled to hear such harsh words being exchanged. Why are you so hateful to each other? I know each of you has designs on me, but neither of you has impressed me at all because I know what lies beneath all the simpering and fluttering about. Trouble me not with your prattling and mincing. I have no interest in you at all!' I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me!” wailed Heneblhûndî.

“Ai! Those words were painful indeed to hear,” said Losgael, sympathy sweetening her voice, “yet there is truth in them. He does indeed hate to see us mistreat each other so. He thinks it is a great evil when Elves are discourteous to Elves.”

“Indeed you do,” agreed Losgael, “but you do not have to rise to the bait like a fish every time you see a worm.”

“Brethilgwen says things that make you feel small and worthless because she is jealous of your heritage, Heneblhûndî,” said Losgael, hoping to make her friend understand. “When you cite your lineage, she feels low, and tries to pull you down with her. Do not allow her to do that to you, else you will become like a farmer's dog, and come running when she whistles for you.”

“You are right, Losgael,” Heneblhûndî told her gratefully, “but what can I do? I have borne the name 'Fool' for so long. People believe the lies Brethilgwen has told about me.”

“You speak truly,” said Losgael, “but Brethilgwen bears the name 'Shrew.' People may believe her, but they love her not. Let us change your name, and see if we can change your destiny.”

“I would like to give you an epessë, a new name to live up to,” said Losgael in formal tones. “Stand up.”

“I name you Maerdess,” said Losgael, with both hands on her friend's shoulders.

“I thank you for the name, Losgael,” said the other lady, “but I fear...”

“Nonsense!” declared Losgael. “It is Heneblhûndî who bears the bad name. Maerdess is a new beginning for you. Shed your old name and reputation like a snake shedding its skin, and be the person you know you can be, for my lady says, 'We can be good every time we choose to be.' Choose to be good every time you want to hide your shortcomings behind your lineage, and walk away instead of arguing with others.”

The newly-named lady hugged Losgael. “So be it: from now on, I will be known as Maerdess.”

Maerdess smiled. Her heart swelled inside her. A new beginning would give her chances she never knew she had. Her thoughts turned to the Harvest Ball. She had an idea, and the means to carry it out. She picked up her needle and finished off the leggings as quickly as she could, then made her way to the textile room.

A/N: I've borrowed from the feast scene in The Hobbit for this. Many of the Elves at Rivendell were Sindar, so it's possible that Sindarin festival practices were held there. I've also taken some liberties. If anyone spots anything amiss, please let me know.

The next few days passed with the speed of an eagle diving on its prey. A flurry of activity in every corner of Rivendell heralded the advent of the Harvest Ball, one of the most important festivals for the people who dwelt there. Banners of the great houses of Elves and Men; garlands of leaves, flowers and berries; and streamers of various colours festooned every beam in the house and every large branch of the trees outside. Tables had been set up among them, and colourful lanterns were hung from the lower branches of the trees. Each of the tables was covered with a brightly-coloured cloth, and decorated with sprays and bunches of flowers and berried branches.

The ladies of Rivendell were solely responsible for the decorations and layout. This was their opportunity to demonstrate their skills and to present the Elf-haven at its best. Celebrían bustled about, overseeing the activity and making sure everything was in its proper place. “Losgael, please pass me that streamer, it goes better with the yellow ones than the blue ones.”

When their lessons were over, Elladan and Elrohir helped where they could, fetching and carrying for their mother. “Elladan, please stop jumping in the piles of leaves. Come and help me with these lanterns,” she called. “Elrohir, pass me the blue cloth, please. We are decorating the dais now.”

As the people prepared for the festival, Elrond looked out over the garden from a verandah. He took pleasure in observing them at their everyday pursuits. Festivals were a particularly good time for him. He loved to see his people enjoy themselves with laughter, song and dance. Their happiness was like the scent of a flower-filled meadow in spring to him, and he savoured it as often as he could. Every time he felt unhappy, he went to one of the verandahs and looked upon his people to take solace from their contentment.

“It is better now, my friend,” Glorfindel replied, “though it aches when I walk for more than an hour.”

“You must not attempt to dance tomorrow night,” Elrond warned. “Give it time to heal.”

“I am thinking that Orcs attempting to spoil our pleasure by attacking us during the festival are the least of our worries,” replied Glorfindel. “This trouble between the rival ladies may well get out of hand. I hope they will at least try to be civil,” said Glorfindel ruefully.

“Did you not know that Losgael gave Heneblhûndî the epessë Maerdess?” asked Elrond.

“I did,” replied Glorfindel, “but I also saw that some ladies are unwilling to let go of their view of her. This may lead to trouble.”

Elrond looked at his friend. “There is a solution, you know, but I doubt you are willing to accept it.”

“Taking a wife?” asked Glorfindel. “Indeed, the rivalry would end, but I would rather marry for love than for status.”

“I wedded Celebrían for love,” said Elrond wistfully. “I am so glad I did. She is the sunrise, the starlight and everything good in my life.”

“I wish I had that pleasure,” Glorfindel told him. “I would very much like to fall in love.”

“Please do not tell anyone I said this,” Glorfindel pleaded. “Can you imagine the reaction of the ladies if they knew of this?”

Maerdess sat in her room working on her project. People accepted her new name, and she was pleased that they treated her differently. It was true: people associated “foolish behaviour” with “Heneblhûndî.” Bearing in mind what her friend Losgael had told her, she was careful to avoid being drawn into arguments, and shunned people who tried to start any. One thing quickly became obvious over the few days before the Harvest Ball: Brethilgwen seemed determined to engage her whenever she could, so she could say something that would pull her back into the old pattern. It was like the times Elladan and Elrohir played Tip-cat – Elladan would throw the ball, Elrohir would hit it with the stick, then Elladan would run to catch it, then throw it again. The game would usually end when the ball stopped moving. Either Elladan would stop throwing it, or Elrohir would stop hitting it. All she had to do to stop this nonsense was to stop hitting the ball back.

Her work was very good – she was pleased with what she saw. There was another pattern she had to change, and she intended to improve that, too.

Brethilgwen surveyed the scene in the garden, pleased that her handiwork was being used to its fullest advantage. It occurred to her that to pick fights with... Maerdess, was it now? This only served to annoy people. It used to be so easy before, since the other lady would shout and proclaim her great lineage to make her rival feel small and worthless, which made herself look arrogant. When she did that, it was easy to attribute the acts of foolishness of other ladies to her, since she was not popular enough for anyone to want to defend her.

Losgael had changed all that. By befriending her, asking awkward questions and giving her a new name, she had robbed Brethilgwen of a chance to lift herself up out of the status of servant and rise to a higher rank than any member of her family had ever attained. Losgael was the lady-in-waiting of the lady of Rivendell, so could not be made a target for the slings and arrows of Brethilgwen's wrath. There might be other ways to get at her, but that way lay madness. She could understand now what might lead an Elf to slay kin, but was unwilling to cross the line between bearing ill-will and actually plotting against another Elf.

'It is foolish to even consider continuing to dream that Lord Glorfindel could ever be mine,' she told herself. 'It was a dream, nothing more.'

It had started years before, during the Harvest Ball, when she was made queen of the festival, and Master Goledhel became king. Each of them sat on the decorated chairs that stood for thrones on the dais, receiving gifts from the other people and giving orders for the festivities. Glorfindel had danced with her. Perhaps he had drunk too much wine then, but he had told her she was beautiful, and kissed her. She had floated around like a feather on a breeze for the next three days, believing he loved her. Afterwards, he had barely spoken to her, clearly ashamed of his over-familiarity. She had been trying to recreate that moment ever since, and failed every time.

'I will stop this now,' she said to herself. 'It has done me no good. There is nothing to gain by continuing to play the rival to the other lady he is not interested in.'

Looking around, she saw Maerdess come down the stairs and that she was very pleased with herself. The familiar feelings of distaste rose inside her, and she found that ignoring her was the hardest thing to do. The urge to go and wipe the smile from her face was overwhelming, and she clenched her fist as she struggled to control herself.

The sun went down on a beautiful autumn day, the wispy clouds tinted with red, promising fine weather to follow. Servants scurried hither and thither lighting the lanterns as the final preparations for the festivities were made.

As the first stars winked in the sky, Elrond and Celebrían came out of the house, flanked by their sons and followed by the most important members of their household. Glorfindel and Erestor walked behind their lord and lady, and after them came other counsellors and their wives, followed by the other noble ladies and those servants who bore the greatest responsibilities. They took their places on the dais, then stood and waited for the bell to ring, then Elrond gave a speech. “My friends; lords, ladies and gentlemen, I welcome you to our Harvest Ball. The ladies have made this place look beautiful, and the food looks and smells delicious. Thank you.”

Murmurs of appreciation broke out. Smiles flashed around the tables as the people acknowledged the labour of the ladies.

“I look forward to appointing the king and queen of the feast later on, but now let us sing to the Lady Yavanna, who has been so bountiful to us,” said Elrond.

Voices of Elves and Men broke out in song, filling the garden with a mellifluous sound as the coloured lanterns gently rocked in the evening breeze. Then Elrond and those on the top table sat down.

Losgael sat at a table nearby, ready to attend to her lady. Maerdess sat beside her, flanked by Lothwen and Master Goledhel. Servants came out with platters of food and put them down in the middle of the tables, so people could help themselves. Bottles and jugs of wine and beer were already on the tables, and people were already passing them along.

“This beer is delicious!” Master Goledhel said to Lothwen, holding the jar over her goblet. “Would you like to have some, or would you prefer to have wine?”

“Yes, please,” said Lothwen, and tipped her goblet to accept the proffered beer.

“I was teaching the boys about it yesterday,” said the tutor. “Though they are too young to have any yet, it is good to know where our food and drink comes from.”

“I agree,” said Lothwen politely. “I took them to the oast houses where it is brewed, and showed them the hops and barley it is made from.”

“Indeed,” said Lothwen. “They were most eager to see the process themselves. I took them to the farm where the barley is grown, and they saw some of our people helping the Men who live there to harvest it. The farmer's wife was very kind and offered us refreshments – and the pick of a late litter of kittens born earlier this summer. Afterwards, we saw the sheds where the barrels of beer are stored before being taken out for sale. We saw other crops being harvested, too: turnips, carrots, corn, potatoes and cabbages. I had no idea there were so many Men here!”

“Ah,” recited Master Goledhel, “they escaped the ruin of Ost-in-edhil, or fled from Eregion during the War of the Elves and Sauron. We needed each other, so we permitted them to dwell here. We protect them and give them medicines and other things they need. We also barter textiles of various kinds, and share with them the benefits of the annual trading expeditions in return for food and animal skins.”

Losgael listened intently. It was not surprising that Lothwen knew little of the Men who lived there, since she did not mix with them, and rarely went beyond the gardens around Elrond's house. There were places in the upper parts of the valley where flat strips of land had been turned over to cultivation. Hidden by screens of trees, they were not visible from the entrance of the valley, which was a deep and rather narrow gorge. If Men kept completely to themselves and never had dealings with the Elves, people could dwell in the valley for centuries and never see them, or know they were there.

“If we grew our own foodstuffs, we would not need them,” said Losgael. She was not overfond of mortals, though she dared not say so in front of her mistress, for the blood of Men flowed through Elrond's veins.

“If we grew our own foodstuffs,” sniffed Master Goledhel, “we would have to plant, weed and harvest them ourselves. We would also have to build barns...”

“I understand,” said Lothwen quickly. That was true. Mortal Men were indeed prone to illness and injury, and lived for little longer than the flowers in the fields, but they were also hard-working and adaptable. 'I will think more kindly of them from now on,' she thought. 'We need them, after all.'

Brethilgwen sat at a table further down from Losgael, Maerdess and the others, with the servants who had responsibilities in the house. Scribes and administrators, tailors and artisans of various kinds were at that table, which was full of dishes of hot and cold food. Bottles of wine and jugs of beer were being passed back and forth among the people, and everyone was enjoying themselves. Her plan was simple. The king and queen of the festival were chosen by lot. The names of the candidates were written on small scraps of parchment left over from making the books and scrolls used by the scribes, and put in two boxes. One was for the king, the other for the queen. Elrond would, after the first round of songs, pull out a scrap and read out the name. Brethilgwen had learned to read after convincing one of the scribes that the knowledge was necessary for people who needed to keep records of the textiles being used in Rivendell, and had used that knowledge to carry out her plan. She licked her lips in anticipation of its coming to fruition.

“Indeed it is,” she replied graciously. “And it complements the chicken nicely.” They thought it was the food that made her smile so! Brethilgwen grinned. 'Let them think what they will. I have a dish of my own to serve,' she thought.

Glorfindel ate his food, enjoying every mouthful. An atmosphere of contentment pervaded the place, and the colourful lights and pleasant conversations made him forget that there had ever been anything to worry about. When the meal was finished, he respectfully took leave of his lord and went to take his place on the singers' platform. Picking up his harp, he sang the Lay of Lethian while the people continued to eat and drink around him.

A round of applause at the end of the song signalled the choosing of the king and queen of the feast.

Elrond stood up and made his way to the singers' platform, where the two boxes were. “Thank you, Lord Glorfindel, for singing my favourite song. Now is the moment we have all been waiting for. I will choose first the king of the feast, then the queen,” he announced.

With a flourish, he made a show of rifling through the scraps of parchment, pulled one out and said, “Ah... Glorfindel!”

This was not right. Elrond had written the names out himself. Was this a joke? Perhaps it was a scheme of one of the ladies. Soon he would see who was responsible for this, for her name would surely be in there. Announcing that the choice had been fixed by someone would spoil the festival, and he did not want that. He would deal with it quietly afterwards.

Brethilgwen struggled to keep a straight face. Her moment of triumph was nigh, and she was determined to savour every part of it. Looking at Maerdess, she noticed how the lady trembled. Did she realize who had done this? It mattered not. Proving that someone else was responsible was impossible. She would be humiliated, and trouble Brethilgwen no more.

Elrond reached into the other box, annoyed at being used as a pawn in someone else's game. The lady responsible for this would be taken to task for this, and made to understand that such behaviour was intolerable. He took a deep breath and read out the name. “Losgael.”

“Don't dip your beard in the foam, father!” they cried to Thorin, who was bent almost on to his hands and knees. “It is long enough without watering it.”

“Mind Bilbo doesn't eat all the cakes!” they called. “He is too fat to get through key-holes yet!”

“Hush, hush! Good People! And good night!” said Gandalf, who came last. “Valleys have ears, and some Elves have over merry tongues. Good night!”

- The Elves greet Bilbo, the Dwarves and Gandalf in A Short Rest, in The Annotated Hobbit.

Losgael sat rigidly in her chair. She felt as though she was falling down a deep, deep hole. Sights, sounds and other sensations faded out as she tried to block out the horror of what she had just heard. The titles of king and queen of the festival were for those people of low status who had worked well for the realm, and deserved to be recognised. Her name should not have been called, and nor should Glorfindel's. What was happening? Whose idea was this?

Maerdess tapped her on the shoulder. “Losgael. Losgael! You are frightening me!”

Losgael turned to her with a faraway look in her eye. “Did someone else take my name as an epessë?” she asked.

“No, my friend,” said Maerdess in a desperate whisper, “I did it for you. I put yours and Glorfinel's names in the boxes, in the hope of giving you something precious, like you did for me. You were not supposed to be upset by it!”

Snapped back to reality by her friend's confession, Losgael shook her head and turned to Maerdess. “Ai! Maerdess, you have ruined this festival! What sort of person does such a thing?”

The people around them were too busy talking about the novelty of having people of such rank as king and queen of the festival to notice the conversation taking place.

Losgael got up from the table. “I cannot do this. Let my lord pick out another name from the box.”

“He cannot,” said Maerdess. “I put several scraps of parchment in each box, but they all bear your names!”

Losgael sighed. “Well, it seems the people are content with the selections. I see Lord Glorfindel is also rising from his place. I shall go and be the queen of the festival. As my first act in that role, I ask you to go and get the names that were in the boxes and put them back in.”

“I will do it now,” said Maerdess. “See, it is not as bad as you feared.”

At the other table, Brethilgwen was furious. What had happened? Losgael had been with her mistress for most of the time – she did not even know where the boxes were kept. The only reason Brethilgwen knew was because she was a friend of Anuhim, one of the scribes who worked for Elrond. 'I know I put scraps of parchment with Maerdess's name in the box for the ladies, and did the same for Galanel. How is it that Losgael and Glorfindel's names ended up in them?' she thought. 'When I find out who did this, there will be trouble!'

“I was not expecting to see people of such consequence being made the king and queen of the festival,” said Anuhim. “Still, it was a good choice. Lord Glorfindel has seen to our safety these many years, and the lady Losgael – she is the handmaid of our lady Celebrían, is she not? We know so little of her, but I know that she labours for our benefit in the weaving and sewing rooms. I think this shirt I am wearing was made by her hands. She deserves some recognition.”

“Indeed,” said Brethilgwen, and closed her eyes. If anyone could see how angry she was, there would be questions. Awkward questions. She needed Anuhim's goodwill, and he knew nothing of her obsession with Glorfindel.

Elrond and Celebrían looked at each other as Losgael and Glorfindel took their seats as king and queen of the festival on the small platform near the top table. This had never happened before, and they would have to tread very carefully to keep things running smoothly. With smiles on their noble faces, Elrond and his lady went over to the platform with crowns of leaves and berries to put on the heads of the king and queen.

Behind them, Elrond lifted his berried crown above Glorfindel's head, saying, “My friends, I give you Glorfindel, king of the festival!” Then he crowned Glorfindel.

Celebrían lifted her berried crown above Losgael's head. “My friends,” she announced, “I give you Losgael, queen of the festival!” Then she set it onto Losgael's head.

Applause rippled round the tables, hearty and long. Wreathed with smiles, Elrond and Celebrían walked back towards their seats.

“Indeed, I feared a riot might break out, but it seems the choice was popular, Parv-seron,” Celebrían replied. “I have my suspicions about the contents of those boxes, though. Would you take a look in them, please?”

“Aye,” said her husband, “I believe we may well find the scraps in one box all have 'Glorfindel' written on them, and in the other, 'Losgael.'”

Brethilgwen noticed some movement near the top table, and went to investigate while the people were cheering for their king and queen.

There it was again, a flash of pale blue. Where was Maerdess? She was not at her seat! Could that be her up there? What was she doing? Probably putting the missing scraps of parchment back in the boxes by Elrond's seat. She would go and expose the little witch, holding her up to public ridicule as a fool obsessed with one who had rejected her in front of others.

When she arrived at the table, she saw a lady whose back was turned to her. That chestnut-brown hair was surely hers! “Aha!” cried Brethilgwen, grabbing the lady's arm. “I have you, Maerdess!”

“What are you talking about?” the lady cried out, and turned to face Brethilgwen. It was one of the serving maids. “Oh, Brethilgwen!”

“What do you mean, 'Oh, Brethilgwen!' and in that tone?” asked Brethilgwen, outraged.

“I mean, Brethilgwen, that you are heavy-handed in almost every thing you do, particularly when you seize people!” the maid declared. “You shout and rage like a bear robbed of her cubs at the slightest provocation, then declare eternal doom upon the person you deem responsible. Enough! You are in charge of the textiles of Rivendell, but that does not make you the princess you think you are!”

“That is what I speak of. I must go now, the lampoon is starting,” said the maid.

“Losgael gave her an epessë,” Brethilgwen informed her. “She goes by the name Maerdess now.”

“It is too late to alter the plan,” the maid replied. “Have you a reason to detain me thus?”

“No,” said Brethilgwen, as a smile slowly spread across her face, “but I am certain you are clever enough to find a way to fit this piece of news in.”

The maid backed away warily, clearly unwilling to be drawn into any scheme of Brethilgwen's.

Brethilgwen scowled. 'If they dare to lampoon me, there will be trouble,' she thought. 'Maerdess, however, deserves it.' She turned around and was just about to get onto the dais to check the boxes when Elrond and Celebrían returned.

“Brethilgwen,” said Celebrían, “why have you come here? Is there something amiss?”

“Indeed there is, my lady,” said Brethilgwen. “The king and queen of the festival are usually chosen from among those of us who have no great standing in Rivendell. This year, people of consequence have been given the roles. I suspect that someone has changed the names you intended to choose from.”

“I was just about to check the boxes myself,” said Elrond. “Wait while I do so, please.”

Brethilgwen complied. The opportunity to be in on the chance to expose Maerdess was too good to be missed. Surely her hand was in this!

Elrond reached into one of the boxes and took out all of the scraps of parchment. “Strange!” he said, a confused expression on his face. “The names I put in here last night are here. I was expecting to see only Glorfindel's name in here, written on several scraps of parchment.”

Celebrían looked in the other box, taking out the names. “These are the names I put in last night,” she declared. “I do not understand.”

“Do you know anything at all about this, Brethilgwen?” asked Elrond, looking her in the eye.

“You may go now,” said Celebrían, who did not seem convinced of Brethilgwen's innocence in the matter.

“Thank you, Buiowen,” said Maerdess to the serving maid who had argued with Brethilgwen, as they exchanged clothes. “You have spared me a great deal of embarrassment.”

“I was happy to help you, my lady,” Buiowen replied. “Brethilgwen needs to be taught a lesson. I hope our lord and lady put her in her place!”

“As I do,” agreed Maerdess. “It is just as well we have the same hair colour.”

“And that we serving maids wear headdresses and aprons,” laughed Buiowen. “You should have seen her face when she seized my arm and thought it was you! Ai! She says such unbelievable things sometimes. She said the lady Losgael gave you an epessë, and your new name is Maerdess!”

“A little something for your trouble,” Maerdess told her, pulling out a small silver chain.

Maerdess smiled sweetly at the maid. That little gift would stop her asking any more questions. The evidence had gone into one of the braziers that burned near the feasting tables. They were used to keep food hot before serving. In the lamplight, no-one had thought there was anything amiss. Dirty rags and the like were often thrown onto the braziers if no other use could be found for them.

Brethilgwen went towards the boxes where the costumes were stored, ready for the lampoons. She had made up a few to mock Maerdess before, but because of what Glorfindel had said, she was unwilling to act in any lampoon about her this time. Anuhim expected her to appear in one, though, but she had been so preoccupied with other things, she had nothing prepared for it this time. What could she do?

Where was that impudent maid? Was she not supposed to be aping Maerdess? Was anybody doing what they had said they would do?

Brethilgwen sighed and walked away. Everybody seemed to be jumping at the sight of her, as if she was a troll! This was unfair. When she found out who was responsible for this, there would be trouble.

Sitting side by side on the festive platform, Glorfindel and Losgael looked out at the colourful scene before them. The night air had become chilly, but because they were Elves, they did not get cold. There was a tang of smoke and trampled grass in the air from the braziers and lanterns around them. Before them, a profusion of colourful lights danced in the light breeze, and the white headdresses and aprons of the serving maids showed up in a pleasing contrast to the festival clothes worn by the revellers. Their position gave them a good view of the proceedings, and Glorfindel found that, although he was supposed to be enjoying himself, he was thinking tactically, as if considering how to fight a battle.

“I am surprised this is going so well, my lord,” remarked Losgael. “I am beginning to enjoy it.”

“As I am,” Glorfindel replied. “Do you have any idea who might have put our names in the boxes?”

“I do not,” she told him, “but I did not do it. I dislike being the centre of attention.”

“I have noticed that,” said Glorfindel, with feeling. This was a subject close to his heart, and he wished to have his thoughts on the subject known to someone who might be able to do something about it. “I dislike those people who thrust themselves forward, demanding to be noticed. It is undignified, and most unbecoming in a lady.”

“The thought of behaving in such a way makes me cringe with embarrassment!” declared Losgael. “Ai! The things I have seen some people do, and the stories I have heard! If anyone ever said such things about me, I am sure I would die of shame.”

“Even if those stories were lies?” asked Glorfindel, turning to her. He had never thought of the quiet, studious Losgael as being this way.

“No, my lord,” she replied calmly. “Only if they were true. How can these people live with such a reputation?”

“They pretend it is not their own,” he told her. That was another thing that annoyed him.

“Aye,” Losgael agreed, “I have seen that. That is why I gave Maerdess her epessë. She can build a new reputation now.”

“That was well done of you,” said Glorfindel sincerely. A gentle smile parted his lips and showed even white teeth.

“Why have you befriended her?” he asked. “She is so different. You are like rock, and she is like water.”

“Indeed,” said Losgael with a knowing grin, “but water can wear away a rock, but when a rock falls into the water, there is a great splash!”

Glorfindel laughed. He had not seen this side of Celebrían's lady-in-waiting before, and he found that he liked it.

Silence fell on the garden, and the king and queen of the festival looked at the people, who looked expectantly at them.

A round of applause broke out as two Elven ladies came forward. One of them bore a large basket full of cloths of different kinds. The other wore a dress that was supposed to be a fine gown, but on closer inspection, was made from scraps and rags.

A/N: I am taking serious liberties here, building on the quote from the last chapter. I like the idea that Elrond had a sense of humour; and that the Elves, though they could be a bit mean sometimes, never meant any harm. In one of my stories, I gave Lindir a job as Elrond's minstrel. It's not canonical, it's my idea; but since Tolkien never specified Lindir's role, I think I'll get away with it.

At the top table, Elrond and Celebrían looked at their children. Elladan was drooping, and every now and again would jerk backwards to wake himself up. Elrohir leaned against his mother, who had her arm around him.

“I think it is time our treasures went back in their box,” said Elrond, smiling at his boys.

“Indeed,” replied Celebrían, “for there are things little ears should not hear, and I expect they will be starting that soon.”

Erestor, who was sitting nearby, spoke up. “Elrond, Celebrían, would you like me to sit in the family room? I will hear the boys if they need anything, and you will be able to remain out here to enjoy the proceedings.”

“Thank you, Erestor, but what about you?” asked Celebrían, grateful for his offer. She liked to laugh at the naughty things some of the Elves got up to, though she would never admit it.

“This kind of thing does not appeal to some of us as much as it does to others,” he explained. “Others chafe against the restrictions they feel their position and status impose upon them, and only feel free to express themselves fully when they are either in the company of friends or on occasions like this.”

“That is true,” said Elrond, with a shake of his head. “I often feel like an ox tethered to the plough; I have to drag a heavy weight along a narrow path, or be whipped if I want to go my own way. It is as if being the lord of a realm, with all that entails, means I am forbidden to laugh, or tell a joke, or do anything considered unseemly. I am a person, not a monument! It is impossible for me to go through this long life without finding some pleasure somewhere from time to time. Those moments when we are laughing, whether with or at each other, are when we are truly together. Yes, I laugh at others sometimes, but they laugh at me, usually in the lampoons. And if everybody laughs, we can all be happy.”

“Another proverb for my book,” remarked Celebrían. Her husband had so many of them! The book would be a large one, it seemed.

“I am writing a book of your sayings and proverbs,” said Celebrían. “I am very proud to be your wife, you know.”

The parents picked up their children and took them to their room, followed by Erestor.

Brethilgwen watched the lampoon from her seat in a towering rage. The idea of the lampoon was that, for a few days in the year, nothing was sacred. Anyone, however high their status, could be mocked with impunity. However, the people who performed in them understood that they themselves could easily be the next target. Brethilgwen herself had composed many of the lampoons and performed in them, ridiculing people for anything she deemed foolish or outrageous. Heneblhûndî, who was now called Maerdess, was her favourite target, though others had been satirized too.

Few people had dared to make fun of Brethilgwen at the lampoons, for she could make life very uncomfortable for those in inferior positions to hers if she so chose. All she had to do was tell them she had no fabric, needles or threads when they wanted them, and someone would have to work with a worn or torn apron. New clothes would be hard to get hold of, or curtains and coverings would arrive late. The blame for this rarely fell on Brethilgwen, for she was cunning, and her excuses believable.

“Heneblhûndî...” said one of the serving maids, who was playing the role of Brethilgwen.

“Your eyes are no less blue than before, and you are still a lady, are you not?” sneered the pretend Brethilgwen.

“That is true,” said the mock Maerdess with exaggerated patience, “but the lady Losgael considers me to be a better person than you do, so she gave me an epessë that means just that!”

Laughter erupted around the tables, for Brethilgwen's contempt of Maerdess was well-known in Rivendell.

Brethilgwen scowled. She did not like people to think of her as being ungracious, even though she had been rude to everyone she considered to be beneath her.

“Do you really think a new name can change the way people here see you, Maerdess?” asked the pretend Brethilgwen. She exaggerated the way the real Brethilgwen put her hands on her hips, leaned forwards and pouted when she was being particularly aggressive.

The mock Maerdess smiled sweetly, knocked her knees together and clasped her hands. “The people here see me the way you do, my dear. I have often wondered why that is!”

The pretend Brethilgwen scowled and said, “Ohhhhh!” Then she turned around and took a few steps away from her foe. When she was halfway around, she looked over her shoulder and warned, “There will be trouble!”

The actors turned and bowed to their audience, who lavished applause on them. Then they went to where the dressing up boxes were to change out of their costumes.

Brethilgwen's face was a picture of fury. How dare they mock her thus? Shame crept into her heart as she realized what she had done to create the impression people had of her. As she slunk away, she went to her room, and resolved to be kinder to others from that day forth. At the very least, she would refrain from getting into arguments with others, shouting them down when she could not win.

Elrond and Celebrían returned to their seats as the actors for the next scene took their places in the space before the king and queen of the festival.

“They were making fun of Brethilgwen and her feud with Maerdess,” said Lindir, who was passing by on his way to the performance area.

“Perhaps they will do it again, my lady,” said Lindir. “Excuse me, I must go now.”

Elrond and Celebrían watched their minstrel take his place. He was wearing a circlet that looked a lot like the one Elrond wore on special occasions. A lady with white powder in her hair, who was apparently supposed to be Celebrían, walked over to him.

“Beloved,” said Buiowen, who was playing the role of Celebrían, “people say you are much too serious all the time.”

“I am not!” protested Lindir in his deepest voice. He mimicked Elrond's stately walk, then took the fingers of his lady's left hand in his own, and lifted them up, saying, “I am the epitome of mirth in Rivendell!” as he led her around in a circle.

“But my darling,” persisted the mock Celebrían, “you spend your days immersed in books when you are not healing people and helping those in need. Will you not come and dance with me in the woods?”

“Ai, Beloved!” the pretend Elrond complained, letting go of her hand and cupping his chin. “I am busy with preparations for a trade delegation from Gondor, and reviewing the patrols along the border with Eriador...”

“That is what I mean,” explained the mock Celebrían as she slowly, sadly walked away while her 'husband' continued to outline his great responsibilities, evidently lost in his thoughts and oblivious to his 'wife's' departure.

After a while, the pretend Elrond looked around and asked, “Now where has she gone?” with a confused expression on his face, to the wry amusement of his audience.

The real Elrond and Celebrían applauded as the actors left the performance area.

On the platform where they sat as king and queen of the festival, Losgael and Glorfindel sat and laughed at the lampoons. Losgael looked at Glorfindel from time to time, and made a mental note of the acts he found the most amusing. They had a lot in common, and seemed to enjoy the same things.

As the night wore on, the dances began. One of the roles of the king and queen was to dance together first, then other couples would join them. The dances would be officially begun then, and they could either return to their “thrones” or continue to dance.

When no more actors came to perform in the lampoons, Glorfindel turned to Losgael. “Would you like to dance now?” he asked, with a wan smile.

“Yes,” she replied simply. He seemed to think that she might believe they were destined to be together just because they had been made king and queen of the festival. If she was not forward with him, he would relax and stop worrying that she was plotting something.

Glorfindel leaned forward. “Minstrels and musicians, come forth. Let us dance!”

Everyone applauded as their king and queen rose from their seats and went to take their place to begin the dance. The couple faced each other. The music began. They each crossed their wrists and clasped each others' hands, then whirled around, their feet a blur on the ground.

'I hope I remember all the steps,' thought Losgael as she parted from her partner, then moved back towards him, her left arm raised in an arc above her head.

A/N: some research on Elven heraldry shows that Elwë's devices had silver and blue in them. I'm giving Losgael a minor noble ancestry. Though she is related to a great Elven king, she is not directly descended from him or anything. She's like a distant cousin. If she was English, she would be “The Honourable Losgael.”

Glorfindel's heraldic colours are actually green and gold. I'm also going with the idea of Glorfindel as the Balrog-slayer.

The Love of a Lord by WendWriter