A Prank on Glorfindel

Chapter 9 – Reaping What You Sow – Part 1

Dedicated to Lochey and Ivy, my fellow musketeers.

Eirien Malloth, the great white mare of the Mearas, flew like the wind across the rocky, winding path towards Imladris. Like a swift shadow she flashed around the curves with effortless grace, making sure that the moaning, silver-haired bundle she had been entrusted with did not even stir.

Glorfindel placed a soothing hand on the small of the Elf Lord’s back.

“Hold on, young one. It is only a little longer now. We are almost there.”

He chuckled when Celeborn lifted his head from where it was dangling over Glorfindel’s left knee, sending him a dangerous scowl.

“Respectless brat…” Celeborn hissed indignantly. “I am…your…senior!”

Glorfindel’s ringing laughter echoed along the walls of the cliffs.

“If brattiness were an indication for age, I am afraid I must seriously doubt the truth of your statement, my Lord,” he feigned courtesy.

Celeborn snorted, but he could not suppress an amused grin, despite the tormenting pain in his rear.

Both Elf Lords had been born before the Valar had placed the Sun and the Moon in the skies. Celeborn had been raised in the forests of Doriath, the realm of his grand-uncle Thingol, under the twilight of Elbereth’s stars. Glorfindel, too, had been born in the Days of the Trees. The silver light of Telperion and the golden light of Laurelin had blessed many years of play and adventure as the little elfling Glorfindel had frolicked and sang in the courts of Tirion upon Túna, where the Vanyar and Noldor had dwelt in friendship before the years of the darkening.

Glorfindel’s father had been a noble of the court of Finwë, sworn to the service of the High King’s second son, Fingolfin. His mother had been a lady of the Vanyar, born in the royal house of Ingwë; she had been gentle and tender of heart and a joy to behold. Both of his parents had perished in the wake of Fëanor’s wrath over the loss of the Silmarils: his father in the mindless slaughtering at Alqualondë, his mother in the passing of the Helcaraxë. Torn by grief, being the only remaining heir and lord of the people of the Golden Flower, Glorfindel had sworn himself to the service of Turgon, son of Fingolfin.

It had not been until the return of the Noldor to the shores of Middle Earth that the counting of time of the Noldor and the Sindar had been synchronized by the passing of years of the Sun. The Valar had counted time by the cycles of the Trees, but the Sindar in Beleriand had lived under the stars, where the light of the Trees did not reach them. And so it was that until the first year of Anor, which was the beginning of the First Age, the Sindar had had no means to register the passing of time.

It was thus that the two Elf Lords on Eirien’s broad back had no knowledge as to which of them was worthy of the title of ‘the Elder’. Neither of them truly cared, but – quite naturally – it had become a favourite source of their banter!

O-o-O-o-O

Erestor walked through the Last Homely House, carrying a tray with sandwiches, soup, fruit and milk for the sons of his Lord and Lady. The raven-haired advisor shook his head as he thought of the news that had been broken to him in the kitchen: Lord Celeborn and sixteen of his warriors had been burnt by invisible traces of Uruin. Sixteen!

How Elladan and Elrohir were going to survive this, once they would reach their majority and were sent to Lothlórien to train with the Galadhrim, was beyond the Seneschal’s grasp. The Elves of the Golden Wood would not forget this roguery for a long time to come, Erestor predicted.

Not even a full century would pass until Elrohir and Elladan would complete their basic warrior training in Imladris. As sons of the Lord and Lady, they would then spend at least five years in Lothlórien to learn the defense techniques of the Galadhrim under the guiding hand of their grandfather, before they would return to the Valley to be molded into skilled and competent commanders of the Rivendell Guard through centuries of intensive training.

Although none of the Galadhrim would hold this prank against these two ignorant elflings in lasting anger, they would seize it as a valid excuse to tease the two sons of Elrond to no end – possibly for as long as their five years in Lothlórien lasted…and beyond.

Erestor clearly remembered the pranks that had been played on the company of Elves under his command during the Last Alliance. As they had traveled south along the banks of Anduin, it had been downright frustrating to wake up and find the outside of their tents adorned with garlands of yellow flowers, or to find their bows and tack gracefully decorated with pink and purple ribbons.

At first they had not known who had played these pranks on them. But one night Erestor had been awake, and he had seen a brief reflection of moonlight on silver hair when hurried footsteps had betrayed that a culprit was fleeing towards the trees.

“A Sinda!” he had hissed indignantly, staring at the charcoal image of himself in a lady’s dress, wielding a wooden sword against a miniature dragon. He had snatched the offending piece of parchment from the tree where it had been fastened and tossed it into the fire, believing to be done with it. But by the next morning it had become clear that many more copies of ‘Erestor-in-dress’ were circulating through the massive camp. He had even seen one passed between Gil-galad and Elendil at the high table that evening!

Elrond had come to the defense of his Third in Command and had ordered for the images to be confiscated and destroyed. However, when the armies of Oropher had joined them as they had approached the North Undeep and the Field of Celebrant, the sniggers of the Silvans as they had greeted him had spoken volumes.

Erestor still did not know who of the Galadhrim had been behind all these pranks. But oh…if he would ever find out!

He softly knocked on the door to the twins’ room and entered.

The shaken sons of Elrond sat huddled side by side on Elrohir’s bed, raven heads and tear-streaked cheeks pressed firmly together. They barely glanced up as he walked past them.

“Restor?” came a hesitant plea as the Seneschal placed the tray with food on the small table by the window.

“Yes, Elladan?” the advisor asked kindly, turning to see both elflings patting the bed with their hands, asking and inviting him to sit by their side.

“Restor, why is Naneth so very angry?” asked the older twin, scooting over to make room.

“We thought it might be because she was scared by the attack,” Elrohir added quietly, seeking the eyes of his brother. “But Glorfindel repelled the attackers, did he not?”

Erestor blinked as he sat down between the twins. Could it really be that the young ones had not yet realized that their own prank had hurt their grandfather and his Elves?

“So now we think that Naneth might have been so angry because she felt bad about Daerada’s injuries,” Elladan continued.

“But if she was over-reacting, why has she not yet come back to us to forgive us?” Elrohir asked, new tears welling up in his eyes.

Erestor stared blankly at the opposite wall. ‘Elbereth, help me,’ he prayed, wrapping an arm around each of the elflings.

“Was Naneth so angry because of Daerada’s pain?” Elladan still wanted to know.

Erestor took a deep breath.

“Yes, she was,” he replied, quite truthfully.

O-o-O-o-O

“Lord Glorfindel approaches with a prisoner!” one of the look-outs had announced.

“No prisoner!” Celebrían’s clear voice had silenced the immediate murmur of voices.

But the damage had already been done. From every corner of the Last Homely House, Elves had come running to catch a glimpse of the culprit who had sent the entire Valley in an uproar and had managed to injure Lord Celeborn.

The large crowd of Elves hastily jumped aside when Eirien Malloth galloped through the arch way into the court yard, though craning their necks to see. An instant hush fell over the crowd when they recognized the stately Sinda lying over Glorfindel’s knees. Within seconds a loud hiss of whispers began to spread through the court yard like a wildfire.

Glorfindel dismounted and sternly glared at the onlookers.

“Not a single word!” he commanded firmly, looking around to make sure that every Elf present got his meaning. “Not to anyone who is no witness here today. Not to any of our Lothlórien guests. Not to anyone, ever!”

Then he quickly turned towards the upturned hind-quarters of his friend and aided the Lady Celebrían in lifting her father down from the horse.

“Elrond is coming as fast as he can,” he informed her, steadying the Elf Lord on his feet.

“Ada, can you hear me?” Celebrían asked anxiously, placing her hands on her father’s face.

But Celeborn’s knees buckled and he slumped in Glorfindel’s arms, the exhaustion from his trial finally taking the upper hand.

Glorfindel unceremoniously tossed Lord Celeborn over his shoulder and hurried up the steps into the House, with Celebrían right on his heels.

“When Elrond arrives, tell him to hurry!” Celebrían ordered the servants in the hallway.

“Elrond knows,” came Glorfindel’s reply from under Celeborn’s dripping cloak.

He ran up the stairs towards the family healing rooms and carefully placed his charge – face down – on the bed.

Two healers immediately appeared by his side.

“Lord Celeborn is unconscious, I will need your help,” Glorfindel announced.

O-o-O-o-O

“No! Daerada rode Eirien?!” Elladan exclaimed, staring up at the Seneschal in shock.

“But…but…he could not have been hurt,” Elrohir stammered. “Daerada wears thick, sturdy riding pants for travel, just like the Elves of Rivendell!”

Erestor briefly closed his eyes.

“Little one, your Daerada meant for his arrival to be regal. A few hours before his arrival at the Ford, he bathed in the river and changed into his ceremonial garb. Including the leggings.”

Elladan and Elrohir looked thunderstruck.

“The silken ones?” Elrohir whispered in horror. He determinedly shook his head in denial. No, no, no, this could not be true!

Elladan looked aghast. “Please, Erestor, say that it isn’t so! Please!” he begged, big tears beginning to trickle from his eyes.

Elrohir pressed his fists against his temples and clawed his fingers in his hair. Daerada’s thin, silken leggings would not have offered enough protection to stop the Uruin from reaching skin, he realized. Oh! But that meant…

“Erestor! Did Daerada get hurt on his…?” He blushed and did not finish his sentence.

Elladan blanched as he realized what his brother was saying.

“No! It cannot be!” he gasped, hoping against all odds that somehow there had been a mistake. A wail escaped from his throat when he recognized the solid truth on Erestor’s face.

“No! Not Daerada!” Elrohir sobbed, breaking down in tears like his brother.

Both elflings burried their faces in the soft, velvet robes of the Seneschal and wept. To think that their grandfather was hurting as much as they themselves had been hurting only a week earlier – and by their own doing, no less! – was unbearable.

“We didn’t want anyone to get hurt,” Elladan hiccuped between his sobs.

“I believe you, Elladan,” Erestor comforted. “But Uruin is a very dangerous substance to play with, little one. I would think that you and Elrohir knew?”

“But we were careful, Erestor, truly!” Elrohir wailed.

“Hush,” the Seneschal crooned gently, pulling the elflings into an embrace, slowly rocking them back and forth to calm them down. Normally the twins would have protested that they were no infants, but now they both wrapped their arms around Erestor’s neck and allowed it, resting their heads on his shoulders.

“I will leave it to your Ada and Naneth to speak with you about this, little ones. I shall not rebuke you also,” Erestor promised.

He kissed the tops of each of the raven heads.

“Now, my little ones, I have duties elsewhere in the House tonight, so I will have to go back downstairs. I want you to be good and remain in your room, as your Naneth has decreed. I am sure that your parents will come to speak with you as soon as your Ada has tended to the Lord Celeborn’s… To the Lord Celeborn,” he caught himself.

Elrohir held Erestor’s neck in a vice like grip and pressed his cheek firmly against the Seneschal’s face.

“Don’t go, Erestor,” he begged.

Erestor raised a thoughtful eyebrow. Now where had this sudden child-like behaviour come from? The twins were obviously very upset.

“Now be a big Elf for me, Elrohir,” he murmured in the elfling’s ear, gently prying the little arms from his neck as he placed the youngest twin back on the bed beside Elladan. “I have brought you some soup and sandwiches. Eat, little ones, and make me proud of you.”

O-o-O-o-O

Staring over his empty soup bowl at his brother, who was picking at a sandwich, clearly not hungry, Elrohir voiced the thought that had been going through his head while they were eating.

“Do you think that Daerada is in the family healing rooms?”

Elladan’s eyes lit up.

Apart from the healing rooms in the east wing of the Last Homely House, Elrond and his family also had a private healing room, where the Elf Lord tended to his wife and sons, or on occasion Glorfindel if he got hurt. Erestor never got hurt, Elladan knew. He had never seen the Seneschal with even so much as a scratch.

“Let’s go and see,” he whispered.

Elrohir swallowed his protest that, technically, they were not supposed to be leaving their room. He felt so incredibly guilty that there was only one thought on his mind: To find Daerada, to hold his hand while he was hurting, and to apologize.

They slipped out of their room and silently ran down the long corridor, past their parents’ bedroom, to the family’s healing room around the corner. The door was slightly ajar and they carefully peered through the slit between the door and the doorframe, Elrohir standing, Elladan crouching below him.

There, on the bed, was Celeborn of Doriath, his backside propped up with a soft bolster under his hips, while Elrond carefully and diligently applied a healing salve to the tormented skin.

“Bah! Elrond! After nigh on three-and-a-half-thousand years in your profession, one would think that you would have learned how to make your vile concoctions a little less revolting!” Celeborn protested indignantly.

The Lord of Lothlórien was trying to drink a very bitter healing tea while his blazing rear-end was being tended to. Celebrían sat by his side and had been singing softly, but now she paused.

“Hush, Adar! I am ever so glad that you are no longer unconscious! And you shall drink this tea – quickly! – lest you faint from the pain once again!”

Elrohir and Elladan swallowed uncomfortably when they recognized the sternness in their mother’s voice. It would be very unwise to enter the healing room now.

A sudden firm hand on Elrohir’s shoulder and in Elladan’s neck made the elflings spin around in fright.

“Glorfindel!” Elladan wanted to exclaim.

But Glorfindel quickly placed his hand across the elfling’s mouth and put a finger on his lip. Motioning to the twins to follow him as quietly as they could, he led the elflings back around the corner to their room.

“I do not think your Daerada will want to be observed by his grandsons at this moment,” he spoke softly after he had closed the door behind them.

“I want to talk to you, elflings.”

TBC

AN: This is part 1 of a longer chapter. Part 2 will be up a.s.a.p.

For those of you who would like to know how Eirien Malloth came to be Glorfindel’s horse, you might enjoy taking a peek at my new story ‘Glorfindel and the Mearas’. I would love to hear what you all think!

Enjoy your day! Esteliel