A/N: Vambraces are the leather wrist and forearm guards you see Men wearing in the LOTR movies.

After the meal, Glorfindel went back to the practice field to train some young Rangers who had come from Arnor. As he walked out with them, the heavens opened. Rain hammered down, soaking Men and Elves alike.

“Why are we going into the field to practice in this weather?” one of the Rangers complained.

“Do you think Orcs or other enemies would take shelter instead of attacking you?” Glorfindel countered.

“Yes!” another of the Rangers retorted, his teeth chattering. His fingers had already gone yellow with the cold, and showed up in sharp contrast to his dark brown vambraces.

“Friend,” said Glorfindel in a non-nonsense tone, “Orcs will attack you when they think you are at your weakest, particularly in weather like this. You need to be able to cope in such conditions. Now pull out your sword!”

In the sewing room, Losgael was still considering what her mistress had said. The games ladies played? She knew some funny stories about those. Brethilgwen, who had dwelt at Rivendell since its founding, had told her most of them.

A hundred years before the War of the Elves and Sauron, Heneblhûndî, one of the noble ladies, set her heart on Glorfindel. It was the talk of Rivendell because of the way she would pop up in front of him, dab the corner of her lips with her handkerchief and nod just so. She always seemed to know just where he would be so she could walk around the corner clad in colours and styles he had appeared to favour on other ladies. “Good morrow, my lord,” she would say in a breathless voice.

“And good morrow to you,” he would reply in courtly tones.

“I was just passing by,” she would simper, before leaving as quickly as she had arrived.

Heneblhûndî had a certain smile that suggested she was keeping a secret, but would share it with Glorfindel alone. Even her walk was unusual. As she was leaving, she would quicken her steps for a few paces, then carry on at a more sedate pace. The object of the game was clearly to get Glorfindel to pursue her, intrigued by her mystery.

It failed in every way possible. The residents of Rivendell howled with laughter behind her back, and mimicked the silly things she did. Heneblhûndî's attitude had not endeared her to them – she had arrived there, proud of her lineage as the daughter of a great house, and considered herself too grand to work for the commonwealth. Instead, she made clothes for the most important members of the household. When she met Glorfindel, she decided that he alone was suitable for her, and made every effort possible to impress him. Unfortunately, the reputation she had built as a spoiled and selfish lady preceded her, and nothing she did made him want to be with her. The game ended when she went to the stables one day to greet him as he returned from the Greenwood, and found him impersonating her, to the vast amusement of his friends. Even Elrond dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief and minced his steps in mockery of her.

The story had not ended there. Heneblhûndî evidently thought that if she made Glorfindel jealous, he would come to his senses and whisk her away to be his bride. She flattered Lindir and fawned on him, though his lineage was less noble than hers. The minstrel knew not where to look when she arrived in the Hall of Fire, clapped exuberantly at the end of each song and glanced Glorfindel's way to see his reaction. Lindir confided to Brethilgwen once that he could not bear the sight of Heneblhûndî but did not dare to say anything. That game ended when Heneblhûndî looked at Glorfindel and saw that he was laughing at her applause for Lindir's tuning of his harp.

Amused at the stories, Losgael decided she would never make a fool of herself thus. Thankfully, Heneblhûndî realized how foolish she was being, and stopped her pursuit of Glorfindel. She often came to the sewing room to make clothes and other necessities for the residents of Rivendell, whatever their rank. Losgael sat with her from time to time at the loom, weaving cloth of various kinds, and the two ladies would sing as they worked. Smiling wistfully, Losgael was piqued at the irony that Heneblhûndî's current attitude made her more approachable than she had ever been before.

Was that it? Was that what was required to win the love of a lord? To be approachable in addition to the attributes considered desirable in a lady? To the best of her knowledge, no-one had ever laughed at Losgael. They barely noticed her. If this continued, she would be spared the agony of rejection if she continued her pursuit of Glorfindel. Was loneliness preferable to rejection?

The rain had stopped as suddenly as it started, and out on the practice field, steam rose from the two Men as they sparred with Glorfindel.

“No enemy fights nobly, particularly if he wants to win. Do not think to use courtly manners on the battlefield,” warned Glorfindel. “These forms are meant to show you how to use your weapons to their best advantage, and that is all. I expect you to show me respect, but to an enemy, you should show no mercy. The only respect should be for the fact that he is willing to go out of his way to slaughter you if he can.”

Both of the Men were puffing, hard pressed despite the fact that Glorfindel was on his own against them. Resentment gleamed in their eyes as they thrusted and parried their teacher's blows. They were determined to strike him one way or another.

Glorfindel laughed as he danced around the two of them. His experience enabled him to predict their moves before they even thought of them. He was playing with them, and they knew it. He hoped that, by making them angry, he could get them to put their hearts into the sparring. “Children,” he teased, “if you do not make more of an effort, you shall be sent to bed without your supper!”

When he slipped on the wet grass, one of the Men caught the captain with a lucky strike. He slammed the edge of the blade into Glorfindel's ankle as he fell. There was a loud crack.

Glorfindel fell cursing all Men, flat on his back. “That was a low blow!” he roared.

“Then what do you make of this?” the other Man asked as he straddled Glorfindel, and pointed his sword at his chin.

“That hurt!” Glorfindel complained.

“So does my ankle,” the other Man said, and turned onto his side. “I think it's broken. I can't get up.”

I'm glad your blade was blunt,” Glorfindel said gingerly. “I could have lost my foot. It hurts to walk, but it is bruised. Both of you stay here. I will go and get help.”

As he limped away, the two Men tried not to laugh at the tell-tale grass stains on the seat of Glorfindel's leggings.

TBC...