A three chapter story set during “The Hobbit.”

Chapter 1.

A peaceful morning in the Last Homely House.

“Tell them, Elrond. All of them.”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it didn’t.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They might want to drive out the threat…”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ouch!”  

“Thought so…”  

“May I touch, too, please?”  

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

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

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

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

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

TBC  

Perian: Sindarin for Hobbit

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

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

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