A/N: I've borrowed from the feast scene in The Hobbit for this. Many of the Elves at Rivendell were Sindar, so it's possible that Sindarin festival practices were held there. I've also taken some liberties. If anyone spots anything amiss, please let me know.

Tip-cat is an old version of cricket or baseball.

The next few days passed with the speed of an eagle diving on its prey. A flurry of activity in every corner of Rivendell heralded the advent of the Harvest Ball, one of the most important festivals for the people who dwelt there. Banners of the great houses of Elves and Men; garlands of leaves, flowers and berries; and streamers of various colours festooned every beam in the house and every large branch of the trees outside. Tables had been set up among them, and colourful lanterns were hung from the lower branches of the trees. Each of the tables was covered with a brightly-coloured cloth, and decorated with sprays and bunches of flowers and berried branches.

The ladies of Rivendell were solely responsible for the decorations and layout. This was their opportunity to demonstrate their skills and to present the Elf-haven at its best. Celebrían bustled about, overseeing the activity and making sure everything was in its proper place. “Losgael, please pass me that streamer, it goes better with the yellow ones than the blue ones.”

“What about these branches, my lady?” Losgael asked.

“Put them in the middle of the table,” Celebrían replied.

When their lessons were over, Elladan and Elrohir helped where they could, fetching and carrying for their mother. “Elladan, please stop jumping in the piles of leaves. Come and help me with these lanterns,” she called. “Elrohir, pass me the blue cloth, please. We are decorating the dais now.”

As the people prepared for the festival, Elrond looked out over the garden from a verandah. He took pleasure in observing them at their everyday pursuits. Festivals were a particularly good time for him. He loved to see his people enjoy themselves with laughter, song and dance. Their happiness was like the scent of a flower-filled meadow in spring to him, and he savoured it as often as he could. Every time he felt unhappy, he went to one of the verandahs and looked upon his people to take solace from their contentment.

Glorfindel came and stood beside him.

“How is your heel now, Glorfindel?” Elrond asked him.

“It is better now, my friend,” Glorfindel replied, “though it aches when I walk for more than an hour.”

“You must not attempt to dance tomorrow night,” Elrond warned. “Give it time to heal.”

“I know,” said Glorfindel in rebellious tones.

“Are you annoyed with me for fussing or for another reason?” Elrond asked.

“I am thinking that Orcs attempting to spoil our pleasure by attacking us during the festival are the least of our worries,” replied Glorfindel. “This trouble between the rival ladies may well get out of hand. I hope they will at least try to be civil,” said Glorfindel ruefully.

“Did you not know that Losgael gave Heneblhûndî the epessë Maerdess?” asked Elrond.

“I did,” replied Glorfindel, “but I also saw that some ladies are unwilling to let go of their view of her. This may lead to trouble.”

Elrond looked at his friend. “There is a solution, you know, but I doubt you are willing to accept it.”

“Taking a wife?” asked Glorfindel. “Indeed, the rivalry would end, but I would rather marry for love than for status.”

“I wedded Celebrían for love,” said Elrond wistfully. “I am so glad I did. She is the sunrise, the starlight and everything good in my life.”

“I wish I had that pleasure,” Glorfindel told him. “I would very much like to fall in love.”

“One day, you will,” said Elrond, “and it will be wonderful!”

“Please do not tell anyone I said this,” Glorfindel pleaded. “Can you imagine the reaction of the ladies if they knew of this?”

Elrond laughed. “Yes, I can!”

Maerdess sat in her room working on her project. People accepted her new name, and she was pleased that they treated her differently. It was true: people associated “foolish behaviour” with “Heneblhûndî.” Bearing in mind what her friend Losgael had told her, she was careful to avoid being drawn into arguments, and shunned people who tried to start any. One thing quickly became obvious over the few days before the Harvest Ball: Brethilgwen seemed determined to engage her whenever she could, so she could say something that would pull her back into the old pattern. It was like the times Elladan and Elrohir played Tip-cat – Elladan would throw the ball, Elrohir would hit it with the stick, then Elladan would run to catch it, then throw it again. The game would usually end when the ball stopped moving. Either Elladan would stop throwing it, or Elrohir would stop hitting it. All she had to do to stop this nonsense was to stop hitting the ball back.

Her work was very good – she was pleased with what she saw. There was another pattern she had to change, and she intended to improve that, too.

Brethilgwen surveyed the scene in the garden, pleased that her handiwork was being used to its fullest advantage. It occurred to her that to pick fights with... Maerdess, was it now? This only served to annoy people. It used to be so easy before, since the other lady would shout and proclaim her great lineage to make her rival feel small and worthless, which made herself look arrogant. When she did that, it was easy to attribute the acts of foolishness of other ladies to her, since she was not popular enough for anyone to want to defend her.

Losgael had changed all that. By befriending her, asking awkward questions and giving her a new name, she had robbed Brethilgwen of a chance to lift herself up out of the status of servant and rise to a higher rank than any member of her family had ever attained. Losgael was the lady-in-waiting of the lady of Rivendell, so could not be made a target for the slings and arrows of Brethilgwen's wrath. There might be other ways to get at her, but that way lay madness. She could understand now what might lead an Elf to slay kin, but was unwilling to cross the line between bearing ill-will and actually plotting against another Elf.

'It is foolish to even consider continuing to dream that Lord Glorfindel could ever be mine,' she told herself. 'It was a dream, nothing more.'

It had started years before, during the Harvest Ball, when she was made queen of the festival, and Master Goledhel became king. Each of them sat on the decorated chairs that stood for thrones on the dais, receiving gifts from the other people and giving orders for the festivities. Glorfindel had danced with her. Perhaps he had drunk too much wine then, but he had told her she was beautiful, and kissed her. She had floated around like a feather on a breeze for the next three days, believing he loved her. Afterwards, he had barely spoken to her, clearly ashamed of his over-familiarity. She had been trying to recreate that moment ever since, and failed every time.

'I will stop this now,' she said to herself. 'It has done me no good. There is nothing to gain by continuing to play the rival to the other lady he is not interested in.'

Looking around, she saw Maerdess come down the stairs and that she was very pleased with herself. The familiar feelings of distaste rose inside her, and she found that ignoring her was the hardest thing to do. The urge to go and wipe the smile from her face was overwhelming, and she clenched her fist as she struggled to control herself.

Maerdess saw her, and was horrified. She turned around and scuttled away.

Brethilgwen scowled. Something would have to be done.

TBC...