A Prank on Glorfindel

Chapter 8 – Consequences

Flashback

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

Thinking along the same lines, Glorfindel (…) 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!”

O-o-O-o-O

Celebrían and the twins watched from the top of the stone steps as Elrond came running out of the house with his healer’s kit. The courtyard and all entrances to the Last Homely House were under heavy protection. The blue, gold and silver of the Imladris Guard uniforms dominated the view in whichever direction the elflings and their mother looked. Arrows and swords at the ready, alert to any potential threat, the elven warriors patrolled and guarded the area.

Seven Imladris warriors rode forward when Elrond hurried down the steps and called for his horse. Taking no time for ceremony, for Elrond could ride bare-back and without tack as easily as he could with a saddle and reins, the grooms had only checked the black stallion’s hooves before bringing him into the court yard. The Lord of Imladris would ride hard on the rocky path, and his mount needed to be in top condition.

“Elrond?”

The dark-haired elf turned at the sound of a pleading voice.

“I need you and Adar to be safe,” Celebrían whispered, clearly torn between the urge to ride to her father’s side and to fight beside her husband should any danger befall him, and the equally pressing instincts of motherhood to stay with her elflings.

Elrond allowed his fëa to encompass hers while he gazed lovingly into her eyes. She replied almost desperately, blending her fëa with his, allowing him to feel her need for him to return to her, as well as her confusion and unshed tears.

Elrond nodded in gratitude when Erestor stepped forward to stand behind his wife and sons, placing a simultaneously protective and comforting arm around Celebrían and the elflings. Elrond gently but firmly released the deep connection with his wife, and smiled briefly when she nodded in understanding.

“Go…” Celebrían whispered. “Hurry, Elrond.”

The Lord of Imladris leapt on the back of his black steed, and with seven armed elven warriors surrounding him he thundered out of the court yard towards the Narrow Bridge.

O-o-O-o-O

Elladan gloomily stared through the empty, grey archway through which his father had disappeared some fifteen minutes earlier.

“If someone wanted to attack Imladris, why did they have to do so today?” he muttered quietly.

In his mind, the prank had gone awfully astray. Even if Glorfindel’s backside was now a beautiful shade of red, no-one would pay attention with Lord Celeborn so heavily injured. Daerada least of all, of course. A deep sense of worry filled the elfling’s stomach. Would Daerada be okay again?

Of course, Ada could heal nearly all wounds and injuries. But not all of them, the sons of Elrond had learned. Sometimes, no matter how hard Ada tried, an elf would pass to the Halls of Mandos. Suppressing a sob, Elladan rubbed his hand across his eyes to wipe away the stray tears that were beginning to spill.

“Hebo estel, Elladan,” Erestor said gently, pulling the elfling close. “Keep hope, little one.”

The Seneschal knew not to worry as long as no further details were known. But the fact remained that something, or someone, had managed to attack Lord Celeborn while the Elf was under maximum protection. It was rare that anyone managed to pass the boundaries of Imladris unseen. Hardly anything ever remained undetected.

Erestor repressed the feeling of unease in his stomach. After the Fall of Sauron the Valley had been safe and peaceful for more than a hundred years. Slowly, very slowly, the Elves of Imladris had begun to get used to this lull in the ongoing bombardment of danger they had grown accustomed to during the final centuries of the Second Age. The Firstborn gradually relaxed after the years of continuous strain and watchfulness. Playfulness and song had become what they had been before the years of looming darkness: Once again they were a daily expression of the inherent nature of the Elves. No longer was love riddled with grief, no longer was joy mingled with pain, no longer were the dances merely meant to distract from fear. No harm had entered the Valley since the forces of Imladris had returned from the plains of Gorgoroth. The Last Alliance had succeeded, and peace had been restored to Arda and to the hearts of the Elves. Once again, the first-born children of Ilúvatar were becoming as they had been intended: As children.

Erestor wove his fingers into the hair of the small elfling that firmly pressed himself against the Seneschal’s robes, one little arm around the slender waist of the dark-haired Noldo, the other nervously fumbling with the advisor’s velvet sash. Elladan and Elrohir had been begotten, born and raised in times of peace. They had no knowledge of the disquiet that came with an ever-present threat, a dangerous menace, or an anxious sense of foreboding, never knowing if the joy of the present would be cut off unexpectedly, forcing another struggle for pure survival onto the shoulders of the Elves.

The Seneschal longed, no hoped, prayed, even begged the Valar with all his heart that the peace in the Valley would remain.

Giving himself a mental shake, Erestor returned to the present and his task as the solid rock his Lord’s family would lean on in this moment of doubt. Whatever enemy they were up against, no matter how cunning, Glorfindel would rout it out of Rivendell in a heartbeat! The Seneschal inwardly chided himself for not trusting his dearest friend. Valar, even the Nazgûl fled with their followers on their heels if the Balrog Slayer of Gondolin appeared! Who, or what, would stand a chance to do any harm as long as Glorfindel was around?

Elrohir chewed his bottom lip as he stood beside his naneth, his fingers tightly wrapped around Celebrían’s slender hand, seeking and offering solace. Would Ada reach Daerada in time?

O-o-O-o-O

“My Lord! Riders approach!”

The seven warriors of the Imladris Guard drew their swords, halted their mounts and surrounded their Lord.

“Prepare to flee, my Lord. Return to the House and defend your family where there are more warriors to aid you. We will delay them if necessary,” one of the guards whispered.

Elrond nodded grimly, but nonetheless spoke a few words of ease.

“The approaching riders may be our own warriors. We do not yet know the threat that has entered our Valley. Let us wait.”

“You must flee as soon as we catch sight of the comers, my Lord,” the guard whispered urgently.

Elrond pressed his hand onto the soft, black fur of his horse, connecting with the stately animal. If he had to flee, the horse would have to back away between the other horses before it could turn on the narrow path. The stallion alertly rotated one of his ears backwards, snorted softly and pawed the rocky ground, letting the Elf Lord know that he was ready.

“Hannon le, mellon nín,” Elrond thanked silently, knowing that the animal would feel his intention.

Their eyes trained on the path ahead, which wound along the valley’s wall all the way until it bent around a cliff and disappeared from view about a mile ahead, the seven warriors and the Elf Lord prepared for potential battle while the seconds ticked away…

O-o-O-o-O

A sigh of relief had escaped from all seven warriors when the blue, gold and silver of Imladris appeared around the bend in the path, soon followed by the grey of Lothlórien.

However, the riders were coming towards them at break-neck speed, clearly riding to the Last Homely House as fast as they possibly could. Sensing the exigency, Elrond instantly reached for his healer’s kit, but when he studied the group of approaching riders more closely, he noticed that the Elf Lord from Doriath was not among them.

Why did the Galadhrim seem so terribly agitated? Truly it could not be…?

Elrond’s heart sank. He had honestly believed that he would have sensed it, known it, if Lord Celeborn had passed to the Halls of Mandos while residing within this Valley. Preparing himself for the worst, he urged his small company forward to meet the comers as soon as they could.

Halting at a small plateau where the path was a little wider, Elrond rode to the front of the small group when the first of the approaching riders, an Imladris sentry, arrived, his horse frothing at the mouth.

“My Lord,” the Elf panted, “All additional security measures have been lifted, by order of Lord Glorfindel.”

Elrond visibly relaxed. If Glorfindel believed the situation warranted such a decision, then it was truly safe.

The Imladris Guards led the Galadhrim around Elrond’s small party and urged them onwards towards the House. Haldir briefly nodded his respect to the Lord of Imladris and shakily brought his hand to his brow, lips and chest, but he seemed to be in terrible pain and his eyes were not focused.

Elrond’s eyebrows rose towards the blue sky above as he turned back to the Imladris sentry.

“Tell me, quickly, what is the condition of Lord Celeborn? And what ails his warriors?”

O-o-O-o-O

“All additional security measures have been lifted! By order of Lord Glorfindel!”

The words of the sentry had sent a wave of relief across the entire court yard and around the Last Homely House. However, there was no such peace for the Lady Celebrían, who was still in doubt about the condition of her father. With her skirts bunched in her hands, she ran down the steps towards the exhausted sentry, shooting worried glances at the clearly agitated and hurt warriors of Lothlórien.

“Lead the Galadhrim to the healing rooms!” the leading sentry ordered his company, before turning towards his Lady with a polite bow.

“Where is my father? What is his condition? What has happened to his guards?” Celebrían questioned while rushing to his side. “Will my father live? Has his attacker been captured? Or eliminated?”

The sentry threw up his hands in the face of so many questions and smiled encouragingly.

“Be at peace, my Lady. The Lord Celeborn, your father, shall live and his injuries are not by far as grievous as we initially thought.”

At these words, Celebrían almost collapsed in relief. All the stress left her at once and her knees simply buckled and her vision blurred. She was caught in the strong arms of the sentry, who steadied her on her feet as she regained her composure.

“And the culprit?” she asked faintly, brushing her silver hair back behind her ears, wishing to know the fate of whomever had dared harm her beloved Adar.

“Lord Glorfindel believes that the culprits reside in this House, my Lady,” the sentry smiled kindly.

“What?!” Celebrían gasped. “But you have just ordered an end to the security measures! Shouldn’t an arrest party be sent…” She stopped when the sentry began to chuckle.

A terrible realization began to dawn on her.

“You cannot mean…?” She glanced back towards her elflings, who were still holding Erestor’s hands. Certainly her sons had not… How?

“My Lady, Lord Celeborn and his warriors came to harm because of the invisible presence of Uruin extract on Lord Glorfindel’s saddle,” the sentry spoke softly.

The eyes of the daughter of Celeborn widened briefly as she digested these words, not certain how Uruin on Glorfindel’s saddle would lead to her father and his warriors coming to harm, but then her eyes narrowed dangerously. She rounded on her elflings and pierced them with an ominous glare.

“Elrohir! Elladan! Come here this instant!”

Having no understanding whatsoever of what was going on, the confused and worried elflings rushed down the steps to their mother’s side with Erestor in their wake.

“Have you two put Uruin on Glorfindel’s saddle? Speak now, my sons, for I am not at all inclined towards leniency,” Celebrían spoke sternly.

Elladan, Elrohir – and Erestor – gasped in shock.

“I will tolerate no lies, nor any reply longer than ‘yes’ or ‘no’,” Celebrían warned, glaring as she recognized the very guilty looks on her sons’ faces, as well as her elflings’ bewilderment about the unexpected unveiling of their crime.

Utterly confused by his mother’s sudden anger, having secretly hoped that all the stress surrounding the attack on Daerada would make the grown-ups forget about their little prank, Elladan stared up at his naneth. Unaware that his mouth was hanging wide open, he dared not look at his brother for fear of his mother’s reaction.

Knowing that look on his mother’s face and sensing the seriousness of the situation and the deep trouble they were in, Elrohir barely dared to breathe. A strong panicky feeling formed in his stomach and in the back of his mind and he broke out in a sweat. When the sentry had smiled so kindly, Elrohir had begun to believe that everything would be all right. He had been certain that Daerada would live and would come to no lasting harm. How had the events suddenly focused on the prank with Uruin?

“I will count to three,” Celebrían threatened, losing her patience. “You had better answer me quickly, my sons, or your punishment will be worse.”

Elladan swallowed. His mother rarely used this threat. If she did, it meant they were in very serious trouble.

“I…yes, naneth…I did…” he replied meekly, never taking his eyes from his mother’s angry face, though still intending to keep his brother from harm.

“Elrohir?”

Celebrían was no fool. She knew the guilty expression on the face of her youngest like no other. Elrohir had not merely aided his brother from the sidelines, he had been totally and fully involved.

“We did, naneth,” Elrohir confessed quietly. “We…we did it for Daerada…”

“What do you mean?’” Celebrían bristled, quickly exchanging a bemused glance with the equally perplexed Seneschal, who was standing behind her sons.

“We promised…” Elladan whispered, his bottom lip now quivering. The older twin had no idea why his mother was this angry. He had known that his parents would be extremely disappointed and firm if it would be discovered that they had played with Uruin – and had done so without asking – but he had never expected that his mother would be so utterly livid.

Seeing the tears in the eyes of both her sons, Celebrían caught herself in her anger and decided to postpone her final judgement to a later time.

“You shall both go to your room and you will stay there until after I have spoken to your father and grandfather,” she announced sternly. “Your evening meal shall be brought to your room. There will be no feast for you tonight.”

She glanced at the Seneschal as her children meekly hung their heads.

“Erestor, could you please…?”

“I shall escort Elrohir and Elladan to their room, my Lady,” Erestor nodded humbly. He placed two calm, loving hands on the shoulders of the twins, who had unconsciously grasped each other’s hands. The sons of Lord Elrond and Lady Celebrían were in enough trouble as it was, he felt no need to add any more reproval to it.

As the Seneschal walked up the stone steps with the twins of Imladris under his hands, he secretly tried to shake himself from his stupor.

Elladan and Elrohir had done…what?

O-o-O-o-O

Glorfindel heaved an impatient sigh and threw up his hands in exasperation.

“Please, my Lord, you must come with me to the House. Elrond will tend to you, as he did to your grandsons last week,” he pleaded.

“I am not…leaving this place!” Celeborn snapped from his position in the middle of the shallow stream.

Not far from where they had halted, a small tributary of the Bruinen plunged down from the steep cliff above and snaked its way across the plateau in a shallow, rocky bed, before falling over the precipice into the depths of the River below.

Celeborn sat with his blazing backside planted firmly in the icy water, the velvet cloak that Glorfindel had wrapped around his waist for modesty billowing in the flow of the current.

“Elrond’s tea and salve will ease your pain,” Glorfindel tried once more.

“So will…this river…” Celeborn hissed through his teeth.

The golden-haired warrior calmly observed the clear signs of pain on the face of the silver-haired.

“Do not be stubborn, my Lord,” he spoke good-naturedly, ignoring the glares of the three uninjured Lothlórien guards, who stood watch with their backs towards their Lord’s ‘bath’.

One of the Imladris guards waved from his position on the path up ahead. “Lord Glorfindel? Riders approach from the House. I believe Lord Elrond himself is among them,” the sentry called.

‘Finally,’ Glorfindel thought, rolling his eyes and getting to his feet. As much as he felt sorry for his friend’s painful ordeal, the Sinda was truly acting every inch like the stubbornest of mules. He sighed with relief when Elrond jumped down from his stallion and immediately leapt off the path to where the sentries pointed him, nimbly picking his way between the rocks, trees and undergrowth towards the brook.

Despite his concern for Lord Celeborn’s well-being, the Lord of Imladris could not prevent the corners of his mouth from twitching when he spotted his father-in-law sitting in the stream with a most obstinate expression on his face, nicely juxtaposed by the highly nettled aura surrounding the Balrog Slayer.

Schooling his features to assume his healer’s mask, Elrond approached the river bank and carefully allowed his senses to extend outwards to gauge the Sinda’s level of stress and anxiety.

A wave of desperate pain hit his fëa and Elrond immediately withdrew, now mentally noting the determined frown on Celeborn’s brow, indicating that the Elf Lord’s pride was still offering enough moral support to the Sinda that he wished to maintain his dignity. Relieved that the Lord of Lothlórien still had enough inner strength left to be this unwilling to show his true agony, Elrond decided to offer the Sinda an opportunity to keep up his pretenses.

“My Lord Celeborn, I wish I could offer you a more pleasant welcome to Rivendell,” he spoke formally. “I must ask you to follow me. We shall return to the Last Homely House with all due speed, so I can relieve at least some of your pain as soon as is possible.”

Glorfindel watched as Elrond stepped to the water’s edge and offered his hand to the Sindarin Lord. He chuckled softly when Elrond eventually dropped his hand, realizing that Celeborn was not intending to come out.

“Forget it, Elrond,” Glorfindel offered. “That mule is not going to lift his backside out of the stream.”

“I cannot stand…the long walk…to the house…” Celeborn muttered, wincing in pain when he ever so slightly tried to change his position.

“You can barely stand on your feet, did you really think we would have you walk?” Glorfindel snorted. “You shall ride, of course!”

The Balrog Slayer splashed into the stream towards the Sinda.

“Now come, my Lord, you will follow Lord Elrond, even if I have to carry you myself.”

“Do not touch our Lord!” came the voice of one of the Lothlórien guards. Three deadly arrows were pointing to the empty air just beside and above Glorfindel’s head.

“Lord Celeborn shall leave the stream voluntarily, or not at all,” announced the tallest of the three Galadhrim.

“Lord Celeborn is in terrible pain and should be taken to the healing rooms in his own best interest,” Glorfindel said sharply.

Elrond gazed at his father-in-law and confirmed the latter statement with his eyes.

“You suffer needlessly, Celeborn,” he spoke softly. “I will not be able to take away your pain, but I can relieve it a little and make it less of an agonizing experience for you.”

“Eirien’s saddle and tack have been removed, you can safely ride with me,” Glorfindel offered.

“You seem to forget…I am rather…unable to…ride,” Celeborn scoffed angrily. “Lack the…seat for it…”

“You will have to lie face down across the horse,” Glorfindel explained, trying to find more patience. “Trust us, Celeborn. Eirien is very swift, it is the quickest way to get you to the House. Once we have you there, your pain will lessen in a twinkle.”

Elrond’s eyebrows rose a few inches. “Do you have a death-wish?” he wordlessly asked his Chief of Defenses.

Celeborn bared his teeth in a sneer.

“First you want me to…arrive regally…as a Lord…riding your horse,” the Elf Lord panted with difficulty. “…And now you will have me…dragged into Rivendell…dangling over your saddle…as a captive?”

“No saddle, I said Eirien was unsaddled,” Glorfindel replied stoically, ignoring the obvious dent in the Elf Lord’s pride.

Indeed, it would be an unprecedented sight to have the regal Lord Celeborn arriving in Rivendell, ‘bottoms up’, draped over a horse’s back. Normally, injured warriors arrived on litters, and in most of the cases they were blissfully passed out or too exhausted or drained of blood to care. But a litter was no option now. It would take far too long for two elves to carry Lord Celeborn to Rivendell on foot. And even a horse-drawn litter would not make as much speed as transportation solely on horseback.

“You cannot stay here,” Elrond now joined forces with the Balrog Slayer. “If you do, my wife and sons will want to come and see you here. I cannot allow them to be this far from the House after dark.” He pointed to the sky, which was turning a colder shade of grey now that the sun was sinking towards the cloudy horizon. Anor had long since disappeared behind the mountains to the south-west and a slight chill was slowly penetrating the air in the Valley.

“Are you related to…Círdan…?” Celeborn scowled angrily.

“I am not, but I have learned at the hand of the master,” Elrond chuckled, remembering how the old shipwright had always known just how to make a sometimes reluctant young Elrond and his equally stubborn twin Elros spring to action by saying just a few right words. It was a trait that the old Master applied to nearly all of his friends, acquaintances, employees and business relations, in short, to every Elf that ever crossed his path.

Glorfindel decided that he would wait no longer for Lord Celeborn to make up his mind. He hauled the protesting Sinda out of the water and set him on his feet on the bank. One of the Galadhrim swore loudly, but to everyone’s surprise, the Sindarin Elf Lord lifted his hand to his warriors to make them lower their weapons.

“Carry me…!” he ordered the Chief of Defenses with mock disdain.

But only Glorfindel heard him adding a soft, barely audible: “Please…?”

TBC

Translations:

fëa - spirit

hebo estel – keep hope

hannon le, mellon nín – thank you, my friend