A Prank on Glorfindel

Chapter 7 – Red Fire

“Can we go to the bell-tower, Ada?”

“We want to see if Glorfindel and Daerada are coming!”

Erestor gazed across the table at his Lord’s children. Elrohir was kneeling backwards on his chair, craning his neck to glance out of the dining room window. Elladan was hanging beside his chair, only one buttock on the seat, putting his chin on his father’s forearm and smiling cherubically.

“Please, Ada?” the oldest Elrondion begged, glancing upwards between his eyelashes.

The mouth of the Elf-Lord twitched at the clownish display and Celebrían chuckled.

‘Bull’s-eye,’ the Seneschal thought.

“We have not yet finished our lunch, Elladan,” Elrond spoke kindly.

“Then can you please finish now?” Elrohir asked over his shoulder.

“Elrohir, turn around and sit down,” Celebrían requested. “…or I will not finish my lunch,” she added as instigation.

Her elflings were riotous today! Impatiently awaiting their grandfather’s arrival, they were exuberant and loud and constantly needing reminders of the rules.

“Finish your soup, Elladan,” she prompted her oldest.

Elrond reached across the table and tugged on Elrohir’s tunic. “You as well, my son,” he implored, raising an eyebrow for emphasis.

O-o-O-o-O

Surrounded by a breathtaking scenery and steep, rocky cliffs, the riders of Lórien descended into the lush, green Valley of Rivendell. Riding in single file behind the two Elf Lords on foot, the guards relished the peace and the afternoon sun.

“This is it,” began Glorfindel, motioning for the company to halt on the narrow path. He turned to his friend, who was smiling contentedly, enjoying their walk. “Beyond the next bend we will catch sight of Imladris. It is time, my Lord,” he continued.

“Time for what?” frowned Celeborn. “To ride?”

Before he could speak, four of the Galadhrim dismounted and offered him their steeds, nodding humbly.

“Choose one of our mounts, my Lord.”

“We will walk, my Lord.”

Lord Celeborn grimaced. “Le hannon, ú-nerithon,” he announced. “I shall not ride, though I thank you.”

Glorfindel chuckled as the faces of the Galadhrim fell.

“My Lord?” asked the guard behind Eirien. “Will you not even ride on the beautiful Star?”

The mare twitched her ears to her back. Was the Elf speaking of her?

“I will walk with my feet on the beautiful earth,” the Sindarin Lord replied sharply. How often did one walk in the Valley of Peace? He deeply enjoyed his surroundings and he could feel the serenity of the area through his feet.

“You changed your mind then, my Lord?” came the familiar drawl of his March-warden.

“I did, Haldir,” was the icy reply. Such a meddlesome pup!

The Lord of Lothlórien turned to his balrog-slaying friend.

“Lead on, mellon nín. We will walk.”

Glorfindel paused as he remembered Elladan’s words.

“You’re a Lord and a commander, my Lord,” he spoke slowly. “And Lords and commanders always ride.”

“Since when?” countered Celeborn, blue eyes narrowing dangerously.

“Since…always!” Glorfindel laughed, shaking with mirth. “Have you ever heard a tale of an Elf Lord arriving on foot?”

Celeborn bristled. “Has Erestor addled your brains?” he inquired.

Glorfindel chuckled.

“I agree with your Warden, my Lord,” he smiled. “As soon as we round the next bend, four curious eyes shall be watching us.”

Celeborn tilted his head.

“Grey eyes,” Glorfindel added. “Highly anticipating their Daeradar’s arrival.”

Nodding slowly, the Sindarin Elf Lord stared towards the bend in the path. “I see. And they must not see me walk,” he understood.

“They would be highly disappointed,” Glorfindel grinned. “The twins are very proud of their grand-sire and look up to him with awe. They look forward to seeing your regal arrival.”

“In that case…” Celeborn mused, “…it might be time for a regal and authoritative leap in the saddle.”

“Indeed!” Glorfindel chuckled. “Will you ride my Eirien, my Lord?”

“It will be an honour,” smiled the Elf-Lord.

O-o-O-o-O

Eirien Malloth of the Mearas dutifully followed ‘her blonde’. The Lord on her back seemed a little uptight, but other than that, he was kind. He clearly adored her, his praise had been generous and…what was he doing?

He was wiggling. Wiggling!

“My Lord?”

The riders of Lórien glanced at the Sinda of Doriath.

The march-warden swallowed. Was it just him, or did the regal Lord Celeborn just try to scratch his…noble backside?

He was not able to tell. The long cloak of the Sinda fell down over the horse’s broad back.

Uncertain what to do, Haldir nervously glanced at the tense posture of his Lord. The fists of Lord Celeborn were clenched, the knuckles were white.

“My Lord, are you in discomfort?” he asked quietly.

Alerted by these words, the Chief of Defenses looked around with concern – and started! Perspiration was shining on Celeborn’s brow, and his face was contorted in pain.

Glorfindel rushed to the side of his friend, but Haldir got there first, steadying his Lord.

“…get’s worse,” the Lord of Lothlórien wheezed.

“What ails you, my Lord?” pressed the March-warden anxiously.

“…pain,” gasped Celeborn.

The march-warden felt queasy.

“Where?” he asked softly, dreading the reply.

“…c-nt…st-aand…’t…” the silver-haired panted through his teeth.

“Celeborn, answer us!” Glorfindel commanded firmly. “Where does it hurt?” He ignored the glares from the Lothlórien Guard and grasped the Sinda’s arms, forcing him to look down. “I can see you are in pain, Celeborn. Stop playing the brave Elf Lord and speak to me. Shout it out if you must. Where does it hurt?”

Celeborn shivered and bit on his lip. Hard.

Seeing the trickle of blood on the fair chin, the March-warden glanced at Glorfindel.

“I believe it is…” Haldir hesitated to say the word. “There,” he pointed at his own rear. “Earlier my Lord was…”

‘No,’ he decided. He needn’t tell Glorfindel that. Not what his Lord had been doing.

Responding immediately to the March-warden’s words, Glorfindel lifted the long velvet cloak of the Sinda…

“Valar, no!”

Eighteen Galadhrim, a Balrog Slayer and a March-warden cried out in outrageous dismay.

“My Lord, you are bleeding,” gasped Haldir, shocked.

The warriors drew their weapons and immediately surrounded their Lord, glancing around to spot potential attackers.

Glorfindel easily lifted Celeborn out of the saddle and steadied his friend as he reeled on his feet.

“He must have been shot,” one of the warriors began.

Thinking along the same lines, Glorfindel motioned for Haldir to hold Lord Celeborn and hurried off around the bend in the path, signaling to the nearest sentries.

“Ride back to the House as fast as you can! Alert Lord Elrond that Lord Celeborn is gravely wounded! Go!”

He turned to the second sentry.

“High alert for the entire valley. Double the watch and let search parties comb the area. I do not know what has attacked Lord Celeborn, but until I do, I want full vigilance!”

As the sentry ran off, he turned to the third.

“I want fifteen extra warriors to escort Lord Celeborn to the House,” he ordered. “Now!”

He ran back to where the Galadhrim were waiting and glanced at his friend. How had this happened?

“Just around the bend is a larger terrace, bring him there,” he spoke to the Lórien warriors.

“...nn...ng… c-c-can…walk…” muttered Celeborn, clenching his teeth when his warriors tried to carry him. The warriors grasped their Lord under his arms and carefully kept him on his feet.

Glorfindel motioned them on. “Tend to his wounds,” he said to the March-warden. “I will send for a litter and let my sentries search our trail. I want to know what has harmed him. Hurry!”

O-o-O-o-O

Celeborn groaned in pain as the warriors lowered him to the ground. He lay down on his side and groped at his behind.

“Valar!” he panted. “Haldir…ex…amine me! I am burning!”

Haldir held his breath. Examine his Lord’s…? Elbereth, no!

“Of course. Immediately, my Lord,” he nodded humbly.

He glanced at his warriors and swallowed. “Shield Lord Celeborn’s modesty,” he ordered.

The warriors formed a circle around their Lord, making a curtain of cloaks. The March-warden stared at their backs as he knelt beside the Sinda, envying the others for being able to face outward.

He glanced at the bloodied silken seat. He had no qualms with nudity whatsoever, but to bare the posterior of his Lord?

He sighed. Of all the available body parts… But come, his Lord was in pain. It had to be done.

O-o-O-o-O

When Glorfindel returned from speaking to his sentries, he faced a dozen deadly arrows aiming right at his heart.

“You shall not approach our Lord,” came the cold, angry drawl of the March-warden. “You have pushed your limits too far this time, Balrog Slayer.”

Glorfindel signalled to his sentries to remain at a fair distance and gazed at the Galadhrim.

“Haldir,” he asked calmly. “What are you talking about?”

The eyes of the young Sinda flared dangerously.

“There are no wounds!” he hissed. “There is no blood! And yet my Lord is in terrible pain!”

“Calm yourself, Haldir,” spoke Glorfindel tersely. “What do you mean there is no blood? I saw it myself!”

He tried to see past the cloaks to where Celeborn lay.

“Oh, kindly desist!” sneered Haldir, with cold hatred on his face. “How could I be so blind, I ask:

“Lord Glorfindel of Rivendell, Chief of Defenses, arrives – walking – beside his horse. The famous Balrog Slayer, who never allows anyone to sit his mount, invites Lord Celeborn to ride his beautiful Star. Was it convenient for you, ‘friend of Celeborn’, that our master’s horse slipped and is lame? It is whispered that the Elves of Imladris have control of the river. What a lot of coincidences, friend...”

Remaining calm under the insults, Glorfindel digested the March-warden’s words.

“You think that I…? Because I let him ride?” Rapidly drawing conclusions, the Chief of Defenses gasped: “Haldir, was he hurt on the horse? How?”

“You tell me!” Haldir spat with contempt. “And be quick! The Lord Celeborn is in undeserved pain! I will speak to your Lord.”

Glorfindel bristled. “Haldir, I have nothing to do with this,” he spoke sharply.

“Indeed,” sneered the Sinda. “Alas that I am aware of your infamous reputation.”

“Show me your Lord’s wounds!” argued Glorfindel angrily. “Perhaps I can help him.”

“And do more harm?” bristled Haldir.

“…F-f-f…indel…?” came Celeborn’s wheeze from behind the cloaks.

“I am here, my friend,” answered the warrior, glaring.

“…H-h-h-elp…m-m-m…ee…” gasped the Elf Lord.

Haldir blanched as the wrath of the Golden One flashed in his eyes. “You may pass,” he drawled slowly, motioning for his warriors to lower their weapons. “But harm my Lord, Lord Slayer, and you will regret it!” he warned.

Glorfindel no longer listened. He knelt beside his friend and placed a tender hand on the clammy forehead, imparting some peace.

“What have you done to yourself, young one?” he asked kindly.

“…A...m… ol…l-l…der…” wheezed the Sinda.

Glorfindel chuckled. “Ah, I see…so you are older? I doubt it. But for now you’ll let me look at your buttocks, dear friend.”

Celeborn grumbled.

“Check the saddle for trickery, paint, anything!” the March-warden hissed to his guards. “I want proof!”

Four warriors gathered around Eirien and handled the saddle, taking a very close look at it. They lifted the straps, wiped their hands across the surface…secretly admired Eirien…and checked below the caparison.

‘Nothing...’ signaled the first.

“Look at this!” cried a second. His sleeve, which had formerly been a soft, silver grey, was stained in…

“Blood! Again?” gasped a third. “Where did it come from?”

Now more of the warriors pressed closer to Eirien, all touching the saddle and searching for clues.

“Stand back!” bellowed the clear, ringing voice of the Balrog Slayer.

Glorfindel jumped to his feet and cursed inwardly. Could it be? Valar, no!

“Do not touch the saddle!” he ordered.

Cutting a strip from Celeborn’s ruined leggings, he whistled to his horse. With one, certain move he wiped the cloth across the saddle. It turned red…

‘Elbereth, elflings!’ he thought and looked down at his friend.

“Nobody is to touch the saddle, nor any of the red stains!” he ordered.

“I believe your concern comes to late, my Lord,” whispered one of the Guards. He pointed at the March-warden, who was fervently rubbing his fingers.

Having tended to Celeborn earlier, the March-warden was beginning to feel the burn.

“Haldir!” Glorfindel called. “There was Uruin on the saddle. Ride to the House! I will tend to your Lord.”

Kneeling down beside Celeborn, Glorfindel turned to the Lórien Guard. “All of you who have touched the saddle, ride to the Last Homely House as fast as you can. Your hands will begin to burn within a few minutes. Go to the healing rooms, they will help you there.”

“…O…bey…him…” panted Celeborn. “Hal…dir… Go…”

Fighting hard to keep his face straight as the agonizing pain seared through his hands, the March-warden bowed.

“Y-yes my L-Lord.”

“Ride with him!” Glorfindel commanded the Rivendell guards. “And help the others.”

He turned back to the Lord of Lothlórien.

“You will have to take those leggings off, mellon nín.”

TBC

Translations:

‘Le hannon, ú-nerithon.’ – ‘I thank you, I shall not ride.’