A Prank on Glorfindel

Chapter 5 – Tears and Dragons

Birds sang cheerfully in the bright morning sun as Elrohir skipped ahead of Glorfindel towards the barracks.

“And then, Glorfindel?” he asked excitedly. “Did Maedhros manage to unite the Elves?”

“He almost did,” Glorfindel smiled. “Most of the Noldor believed in his plans. Morgoth had to be vanquished. The strength of Morgoth lay in dividing the Elves and his evil was spreading through our lands. Nearly all the Elves joined in what was known as the Union of Maedhros. A great number of Men joined us, too.”

“But King Thingol did not come, did he?” Elrohir asked, jumping up the steps to the barracks.

“No, Thingol was not fond of Maedhros,” Glorfindel agreed. “But he did send Beleg and Mablung.”

“And the Elves of Nargothrond wanted to remain hidden,” Elrohir prompted.

“They did,” Glorfindel nodded. “Although Gwindor did come with his men.”

“But King Turgon did not remain hidden!” Elrohir exclaimed proudly, holding open the door for his friend.

Glorfindel had been one of the captains of Gondolin’s army. Together with Ecthelion and Turgon he had led the host of the Gondolindrim onto the plains of Anfauglith, where three great hosts of Elves and Elf-Friends assailed Angband, the stronghold of Morgoth.

Glorfindel closed his eyes at the memory of the great defeat. ‘The Battle of Unnumbered Tears’ it had later been called. The Elves had been deceived. Spies of Morgoth had infiltrated the hosts of Maedhros. By deceit and cunning the Three Hosts of the Eldar had been driven apart.

“Maedhros was late, and Fingon was provoked,” Elrohir chirupped, helpfully unlacing Glorfindel’s boots as the warrior sank down on a chair. “But Turgon was great. He came with an army ten thousand strong, and they had bright mail shining in the sun and long swords! And their spears were like a forest! As far as you could see!”

Glorfindel smiled down on the elfling, who chattered in delight about his heroic concept of the infamous Fifth Battle. The truth, however, had been far from that.

Provoked by the brutal murder of his brother before his eyes, Gwindor had rushed into battle. Fingon, leader of one of the Three Hosts of the Eldar, had sounded his trumpets for the charge and broken the line of defense of the Noldor. The armies of Hithlum had swiftly smitten down the armies of Morgoth and bravely fought their way even to the Gates of Angband. But they had been trapped.

By many secret doors in Thangorodrim, Morgoth had sent forth his main army, which he had kept hidden. Gwindor’s warriors were all slain and Fingon had been forced to retreat.

“Then Turgon came to the aid of his brother Fingon,” Elrohir announced. “The ranks of the Gondolindrim shone like a river of steel in the sun, breaking through the lines of the Orcs. Turgon hewed his way to the side of his brother, and hope was rekindled in the hearts of the Elves.”

Glorfindel chuckled when he recognized Erestor’s prose in Elrohir’s words. The young one had obviously paid attention to his lessons.

“Oh yes, elfling, our hope was renewed,” he remembered, getting to his feet and pulling off his tunic. “And it was kindled even more when silver trumpets rang through the air and greeted us in the morning. The Host of Maedhros had finally arrived. The Three Hosts of the Eldar were together at last.”

“But then,” Elrohir said pointedly, “the dragons came.”

‘Ah!’ Glorfindel thought. Now they were coming to the crux of the matter. Dragons. An all-time elfling favourite, it seemed.

“Tell me how you slew the dragon, Glorfindel. Please?” Elrohir pleaded.

Glorfindel looked into the eager eyes of the youngster and chuckled.

“What if I tell you and Elladan tonight?” he offered, slipping off his leggings and stepping into the shower. “You have to return to the House and refresh yourself, elfling.”

Elrohir’s eyes grew large, a mild sensation of panic rising in his stomach.

“But I want to hear it now!” he pleaded. “Will you please tell me now? Daerada will arrive before dinner, so he will be telling the fire side stories this evening.”

Glorfindel pulled the iron string and enjoyed the cool water, channeled to the barracks from the waterfalls, raining down on him.

He glanced at the elfling.

“Would you like to take a warrior’s shower then”? he inquired.

“Oh yes!” Elrohir beamed. He hurriedly pulled off his boots, tunic, breeches and underthings and slipped into the shower beside Glorfindel.

“Ai! Edhring!” the elfling exclaimed. As an Elf, the near freezing waters from the mountains did not harm him. But his senses were keener than a Mortal’s and he certainly noticed the difference between the soothing hot waters of his evening bath, and this.

“Here,” the warrior chuckled, pouring a liberal quantity of calendula shampoo on the elfling’s black hair. He continued washing his own hair while the young Peredhel carefully copied his every move.

“The dragon, Glorfindel,” Elrohir reminded, after the warrior had rinsed both the golden and raven tresses.

Glorfindel grinned and began: “When the host of Maedhros came upon the Orcs and the Three Hosts of the Eldar united, the enemy forces were stayed. The masses of Orcs turned to flee and victory was almost in our hands. But Morgoth the Enemy set loose his final trump. We were assailed by wargs and warg-riders, Balrogs and dragons.”

“And Glaurung!” Elrohir chirped over the noise of the falling water.

‘And Glaurung,’ Glorfindel thought, remembering the death and terror spread by the evil Great Worm, Father of all Dragons, first of Morgoth’s scaly, dangerous creations.

“The vile creatures of Morgoth came between the armies of Maedhros and Fingon and forced them apart. Aided by the Dwarves, Maedhros and his brothers withstood the onslaught, but they were assailed from within their own ranks.”

“The Dwarves wore special masks, did they not?” Elrohir inquired.

Glorfindel reached for a bottle of rosemary oil and offered it to his young charge.

“They did,” he nodded. “They always wore horrendous great masks when they went into battle. It protected them from the heat of the Dragon Fire. Azaghâl the Dwarf Lord valiantly drove a knife in the belly of Glaurung, wounding him deeply.”

“And then Glaurung fled from the field!” Elrohir exclaimed, rubbing the oil in his skin with the same even movements as the Elf Lord. “And all the other beasts of Morgoth followed him, leaving the Noldor in peace.”

“And therefore it was but for the courage and skill of the Dwarves that the Noldor survived,” Glorfindel nodded.

“But you slew a dragon,” Elrohir chirped, with awe in his eyes.

“Not one as large and dangerous as Glaurung,” Glorfindel replied quietly, reaching for a towel and stepping from the shower.

The dragon had killed and burned many Elves in its path as it had walked towards Turgon. At times, in his dreams, their agonized screams still echoed in his ears. He had abandoned his horse, for in the face of such terror the valiant animal had been unable to press forward. Shouting orders to his second-in-command, he had run to the side of the brutal beast. Ecthelion’s left wing had challenged the young worm, assailing it with arrows and hewing at its feet.

“When Ecthelion’s Elves drew the attention of the dragon away from my King, I slipped between its feet and drove my sword in its belly,” Glorfindel murmured, lost in his thoughts.

“That was so brave of you!” Elrohir gasped, poking his head out of the shower. He quickly pulled the second string to stop the flow of the water and ran to his friend.

“Glorfindel, you could have been killed!”

The thoughtful warrior gazed at the dripping wet elfling, standing before him as naked as a newborn.

“I meant to protect my King,” he whispered hoarsely, forcing himself from his stupor and rising to walk to the closet. He fetched another towel and wrapped it around Elrohir.

“Turgon was the father of Idril, who was the mother of Eärendil, your grandfather,” he reminded, rubbing the young Peredhel until his skin was glowing. “I could not let Gondolin fall.”

Elrohir gazed at him as silent tears trickled from Glorfindel’s eyes.

“Thank you, Glorfindel, for protecting my family and our people,” the grandson of Eärendil whispered, overcome by emotion. He wrapped his little arms tightly around the warrior’s neck and for a moment he considered warning Glorfindel of their prank.

“You are very welcome, little one,” Glorfindel whispered back, wrapping his strong arms around the elfling, nuzzling the wet hair. “I would not have missed you, or your brother…or your father,” he added with a loving smile, “for all the gold and mithril in Arda.”

Elrohir planted a long, loud kiss on the warrior’s cheek and pressed himself firmly against the strong, broad body.

“I am glad you are with us, Glorfindel,” he sighed, content when the hug was returned. But suddenly ten strong, playful fingers tickled his sides, and with a loud shriek Elrohir tried to launch himself back to the floor.

“So am I, elfling. But now it is time to get dressed,” Glorfindel chuckled, holding on to the wiggling imp in his arms. “I cannot greet your Daerada naked, now can I?”

He released his squealing bundle of energy and walked to a drawer, pulling out a spare tunic.

“Here, see if this will fit you.”

Elrohir giggled when Glorfindel’s large tunic slid over his head, both sleeves and hem reaching down to his ankles.

“We can remedy that,” the warrior laughed, as he expertly rolled up the sleeves. “Now go get your belt and tie it around your waist. There, that should do.”

Reminded, suddenly, of his task, Elrohir glanced at the cupboard.

“Are your ceremonial robes in there?” he asked innocently.

“Come and look,” Glorfindel invited, swinging open the door and revealing the shining white garments.

Elrohir climbed on a stool and watched as Glorfindel pulled out the sturdy white riding pants with the embroidered garlands of flowers around the legs.

Then came a creamy white undershirt, a white and gold brocade tunic, a white coloured short sash with golden embroidery, and a pair of creamy white high leather boots.

Elrohir glanced at the silver, gold and blue garments that were still in the cupboard: the attire of the commanders of Rivendell. He fingered the leather vests, the mithril chain-mail, the metalic overlapping breast plates, and the silk of the cloaks.

His eyes wandered up and he spotted the brown leather gloves of the Rivendell attire, lying brotherly next to three pairs of Glorfindel’s pristine white gloves: Leather ones, silk ones and cotton ones…

O-o-O-o-O

Elladan watched as the warriors entered the stables and greeted their horses. He smiled as the horses whickered softly in greeting, nuzzling their riders and – in the case of the chestnut – begging for treats. When the last of the riders had left the stables to begin their duties, he went to find Laedros.

Throwing one last glance at Moonlight of Eregion and her foal, he walked down the corridor to the airy room at the back of the stables, where the grooms were sitting together, enjoying a drink.

“Laedros, may I please bring Eirien to Glorfindel?” he pleaded, trying to ignore the blush that crept onto his cheeks as the stable hands watched him with interest. Being the son of the Lord of Imladris, he was supposed to feel comfortable in front of an audience. “You will learn,” Ada had smiled, when he had complained about that awful red tinge of his.

“Ah, you wish to show Lord Glorfindel your work?” Laedros sang soflty, amusement evident in the gentle, knowing eyes. “I will come and tell Daisy to follow you, then.”

As the stable master and the elfling walked back to the stalls, Elladan nervously wondered if Laedros would want to check the saddle, or the straps. ‘If he does, I must confess about the Uruin,’ he thought.

But no. The calm, loving hands of the stable master caressed Eirien’s nose and he whispered to the mare that Elladan would take her to her Lord.

Eirien Malloth rotated her ears from the stable master to the elfling with interest. Oh well, she would follow him, if Laedros said so, she thought. If it meant she was going to Glorfindel…why not?

Relieved, delighted and a little bit anxious to see if the prank would work out, Elladan opened the door of the stall. He whistled through his teeth and the stately mare stepped out into the morning, pausing briefly to enjoy the sun’s light reflecting on her white fur and on the white-golden embroidered caparison. She knew that she looked magnificent, and that she was a vision of pure beauty in the eyes of the Elves. And she relished it!

Giggling about the vain, self-admiring horse behind him, Elladan walked up the path to the barracks, dutifully followed by the Lady of the Flower House.

O-o-O-o-O

Realizing that they would be discovered should Glorfindel pick gloves made of the wrong kind of fabric, Elrohir had snatched the leather gloves from the shelf and jumped to the ground. He had casually placed them on Glorfindel’s chair, beside the elaborate mithril necklace that symbolized the Golden One’s status as Chief of Defenses, and had waited while the warrior was braiding his hair.

“Wud yuh pweese fitch me duh box wiz meedril clasps?” Glorfindel mumbled with a leather band between his lips, his fingers full of several golden strands.

When the mithril clasps were in place, the warrior gracefully donned the long, white velvet ceremonial cloak with the golden flowers embroidered on the hem. It was fastened in the front, but it was split in the back, all the way up to the top of the shoulder blades, enabling the wearing of a quiver with the attire.

Elrohir watched as Glorfindel bent down to retrieve his sword from the chair. The cloak slid open and the prominent, cotton-clad backside of the warrior was briefly displayed.

Suppressing a giggle as he thought of the pristine posterior all decorated in red, Elrohir skipped to the door of the barracks to see if there was a sign of his brother.

“Your gloves,” he reminded, holding his breath to see if the warrior would take them. ‘If he doesn’t put them on, I will have to tell him about the Uruin,’ he thought. He would never let Glorfindel come to harm. Ever.

But no. Without a second thought the warrior slipped on his leather protection, entirely unaware of the wave of relief that spread through the elfling.

“Are you not going to take your clothes back to the house?” Glorfindel inquired, wrapping the bundle in a towel and handing it to his young charge. “Your Naneth will want these back, I suppose.”

Elrohir tucked the bundle under his arms and skipped down the stairs to where Elladan was waiting with Eirien, giving his brother the two thumbs up. “Do you think that Daerada would dare jump off Aragond?” he asked innocently, placing his hand in Glorfindel’s paw.

“Hmm…” Glorfindel mused, eyes sparkling. “I personally think that Lord Celeborn would wet himself…”

TBC

Translations:

edhring – freezing cold (adjective)

naneth - mother

AN: Glorfindel’s tale of the ‘Battle of Unnumbered Tears’, aka ‘Nirnaeth Arnoediad’, is almost completely canon. See J.R.R. Tolkien’s ‘Quenta Silmarillion’ in ‘The Silmarillion.’ The only non-canon part is Glorfindel slaying the dragon. This I made up.