Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema.  I own nothing but my name.

A/N:  I am SO SORRY to have kept you all waiting so long!  Oh my gosh, please forgive me!  I simply have not had time nor strength to read or work on anything as of late, and was beginning to worry I’d have to give it up.  I thank you all for the fantastic reviews—THANK YOU!  I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to see this story going over so well.

On a more personal note, to whoever has the Voodoo doll: please stop using it.  I can’t read and write if you keep incapacitating me.  And for crying out loud, if you’re going to make me ill, give me a NORMAL sickness!  If I come down with a case of leprosy or gangrene, I AM GOING TO COME AFTER YOU.

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~ Chapter 4:  The Logic Behind the Treason ~

Autumn had begun to color the Misty Mountains when Glorfindel and his entourage at last looked down upon Rivendell.  The company of the sons of Elrond had chosen to remain in the Wilds, for they had little desire to rejoin those in Rivendell.  Glorfindel did not press the matter.  Having experienced the transition from life on the front lines to leisurely civilian residence, the Elf lord knew it to be a trying change at times—even for one who was willing.  Thus Glorfindel and the sons of Elrond had journeyed back alone.

Lord Elrond’s realm had yet to lose its early summer hues, for Time was not rushed nearly so fast within the elvish land—though perhaps Time simply skirted it out of respect or forgetfulness.  Such was the power of Elrond, and the trees and flowers continued to bud and blossom. 

Glorfindel found himself unusually eager to walk the familiar halls and garden paths.  Middle-earth had changed much since he last traversed its roads.  The land sloped differently; its rocks had weathered and crumbled, the forests were strange…  Even the streams and rivers sounded foreign to his ears, their waters singing of happenings he did not quite understand.  He felt out of place and somewhat of a dusty relic.

Traveling with the sons of Elrond and their company to the edge of the Wilds had been trying, to say the least.  Used to the strict regimental procedures of battalions and legions, Glorfindel found the small company’s attitude disturbingly lax.  Elrohir and Elladan were only referred to as “Lord” on rare occasion—half of which was done in jest.  Even more irking was the lack of command.  The company followed no higher orders than those of their own making.  Their missions were done on pure whim or flight of fancy. 

Glorfindel abhorred vigilantism—found it foolish, dangerous, and ultimately deadly.  That Elladan and Elrohir, whom he helped train, used his gifts to such a purpose grated him to no end.  The twins knew this, and had ceased to speak of their deeds within his presence long ago.  Glorfindel had spoken of it only once:  The death of Aragorn’s father had broken the golden-haired Elf’s normally calm demeanor.  His tongue-lashing was sharp and furious; he named them selfish and shameful.  However, the twins had shown much remorse, and never again was the subject broached.  The only one who would occasionally voice displeasure over the dark rumors of Elladan and Elrohir’s more questionable slayings was Elrond’s Chief of Counsel Erestor.  The counselor, who tended to be waspish in nature, had habit of commenting that Elrond’s sons and companions seemed “intent to ride about killing things.”  However, in true testament of his wisdom, never did he speak of such things within Elrond’s presence.

And then there was the twins’ sense of humor. 

Glorfindel had always found it strange, but it seemed to have manifested itself to even greater oddities within the small company.  There were inside jokes within inside jokes.  And, despite what the company might claim, Glorfindel could find absolutely nothing humorous about pheasants.

It was a bird.  A bird. 

Why on Arda did the group dissolve into fits of laughter whenever one flew up from the Wilderland grasses?  

Relief swelled within Glorfindel as he caught sight of the gently sloping rooftops nestled carefully between the trees.  Too long had he been absent; too long. 

“You are not pleased to be home.”  Glorfindel noticed the twins stiffen simultaneously.

“Nay,” Elladan slowly replied.

“We merely wish to know the purpose of our summons,” said Elrohir.

“Mm.”  Glorfindel gazed at a familiar elm tree in what could have been accused as rapture.  “It must be decided on whether or not to reconvene the White Council.  As you have traveled much within these past years, your observations will be of immense help.”

“The White Council?”  Elladan pursed his lips.  “And what shall the White Council do, if gathered?”

“Debate on whether or not the Enemy poses threat.”  Glorfindel absently smiled at the chipped stone fountain gurgling pleasantly along the path.  The chip, incidentally, being fault of Elladan and Elrohir during their younger days.  “There is much that needs to be spoken of—all angles and possible outcomes must be delved.”

There was a strange and tense pause, in which both sons of Elrond drew in slow and angered breaths.  Glorfindel found himself on the receiving end of two fiery glares, oddly reminiscent of Elrond’s glower. 

“We were summoned,” Elladan spoke at last, his voice controlled yet strained, “so that Father and his advisors may discuss on whether or not to gather a council, which will in turn discuss whether or not Sauron is a threat?”

The golden-haired Elf lord blinked.  When put into that context, it did sound rather ridiculous.  “Yes,” he carefully replied, a slight frown gracing his face.  That he found himself agreeing with Elladan and Elrohir was unsettling.

Elrohir’s nostrils flared.  “And should they find Sauron to be a threat?”

Glorfindel grimaced.  “Most likely another Council would be called to discuss what measures ought to be taken against him.”

Elladan actually gnashed his teeth. 

“I do not suppose,” Elrohir managed to snap, “it ever occurred to them to do other than sit around discussing all day?”

“Such as riding forth,” Elladan continued for his brother, “and facing the Enemy?”

“We cannot afford rash action,” Glorfindel replied.

“And I suppose,” said Elladan, perfectly mimicking Elrohir’s previous tone, “Sauron is content to wait patiently while his strength of character is discussed?  If naught but conversation has occurred, it is small wonder Barad-dûr rebuilt and our enemies run amuck!” 

Elrohir scowled in agreement.  “I fathom it was discussed whether Barad-dûr was actually being rebuilt.”

Glorfindel decided he no longer liked the word ‘discussed.’  “Elrohir.”  The Imladris captain’s tone carried unmistakable warning.

The younger twin shrugged in graceful nonchalance.  “Nay, I do not lay blame upon the Council.  I would have argued it a large stone monument of sorts—”

“—that just so happened to be in the shape of the fallen Barad-dûr tower,” Elladan sourly finished for him.

Elrohir nodded in agreement.  “Yes, of course.  Still, it was quite an understandable mistake.  Rather embarrassing, though—”

“Curb your tongues,” came Glorfindel’s soft but stern reply.  “I shall not be goaded into argument.”  He glanced pointedly at the two.  “Very few have the luxury of riding into battle on mere whim.  We are bound to maintaining our realms and the welfare of our kindred.  We cannot seek the Enemy.  Our priority is to protect the land—to protect our homes.  We cannot mount offensive without jeopardizing that which we have left.”

Elrohir’s eyes lowered and settled on his hands.  Elladan was not so easily rebuked.  “And what,” the elder twin challenged, “of King Thranduil’s kin?”

The three had traveled through Mirkwood on the well-guarded Elf-path, where they were greeted (albeit with suspicion) by some of Thranduil’s folk.  The Elven-king’s second son, Calengaladh, had commanded the small Mirkwood patrol.  The golden-haired prince was polite but cold.  “The path is worn and well protected,” he said in the strangely musical accent of the Silvan Elves, “yet dangerous still.  Do not stray, lest you wish to face the darker creatures of Mirkwood.”

The heads of Elladan and Elrohir had immediately snapped towards the sinister boughs in excitement.  Glorfindel groaned inwardly.

“We first train our novice patrol warriors along this trail,” Calengaladh continued, “and then move them to darker and less protected areas.”  He indicated to three young Elves in the patrol’s midst, who were desperately attempting to look as experienced as possible.  Glorfindel did not miss the stifled gleam of amusement and pride in the prince’s grey eyes.  “Today is the first patrol of my youngest brother Legolas.”

One of the three young warriors flushed slightly, a mix of fury and utter mortification flashing across his fair face.  Glorfindel suppressed a smile.  ‘That must be Legolas.’

He stared curiously at Thranduil’s youngest child.  The prince was tall and lithe with bright, observant eyes.  Glorfindel did not doubt he was quick-footed and swift.

The young Elf met his eyes for a brief moment, and Glorfindel felt a small tug of intuition.  Beneath the prince’s wary curiosity, Glorfindel glimpsed a youthful merriment and undimmed spirit he had not seen or felt in ages.  ‘Such true hearts are not without purpose,’ the Elf lord had thought.

Legolas would play a larger role than that of an archer and prince of Thranduil’s realm.  Glorfindel was certain of it.

“The Elves of Mirkwood readily seek out their foes,” Elladan continued to press.

“Nay,” replied Glorfindel.  “The Enemy seeks them.  Thranduil’s kin do naught but defend their realm.  Seldom do they venture from the forest.”

Elladan scowled, recognizing his defeat, and said no more.  The trio continued to ride in silence for a time, until Elrohir at last broke it.

“Why do you not fight, my Lord?”

Glorfindel blinked. 

Elladan glanced sideways at him.  “Why do you serve under our father?”

“You are in possession of greater… experience… than he,” added Elrohir.

Glorfindel’s brow furrowed in confusion.  “Always have I served your father.”

“Yes,” Elrohir persisted.  “But why?”

“Because he is my liege.  He is leader of all Eldar.”

The twins exchanged glances.  “But why?” they repeated in unison.

Glorfindel again blinked.  “Gil-galad bequeathed his title unto your father.  You know this.  Why do you ask me of it?”

Elrohir chewed his bottom lip and held wordless conference with his brother.  The two seemed to reach an agreement.  Glorfindel wished for the umpteenth time that journey he was capable of reading minds.    

Elladan straightened.  “If you were to—“

“—petition for Father’s duties,” finished Elrohir.

“Rightfully could you lay claim as leader of the Noldor,” said Elladan.

Elrohir nodded briskly.  “Yes, and others would willingly follow you.”

“You could raise an army, my Lord—“

“—and march upon Sauron,” Elrohir again finished.

Glorfindel nearly went numb.  It was all he could do to keep from staring slack-jawed at the two.

Both twins straightened defensively.  “You have commanded armies!” cried Elladan.  “Surely you tire of the Council’s lack of action.”

Glorfindel washed a hand across his face.  “I shall not listen…  Speak no more of it!”

“But—“ began Elrohir

“No!”  Glorfindel swiftly raised a hand.  The twins sat sullenly upon their mounts.  “First and foremost, I shall not allow you to utter words of treason within your father’s very realm!  Should the suggestion ever again leave your mouths, I shall deal fitting punishment unto you—and then bring you to stand before your father.  Secondly, I am a soldier by nature.  I do not seek power or command!  I merely wish to perform my duty.  I receive an order, and I carry it out.  It is simple and straightforward.  Never have I desired leadership—much less a kingship of sorts!  Such positions are too complicated and ill-suited to my tastes.  Ever have I served your father and the realm of Imladris, and ever shall I continue to do so.”

“But,” Elrohir was compelled to point out, “you defeated Balrogs.”

“And trees grow leaves,” Glorfindel snapped in reply.

Elladan’s brow furrowed.  “Trees have naught to do with our discussion.”

“Nor do Balrogs.”  Glorfindel sighed in exasperation in spite of himself.  It was inevitable that the Balrog be brought into conversation.  He supposed it should fail to surprise him after all these years.  Yet somehow, it always did manage to catch him off-guard. 

The Balrog slaying seemed to make him an outstanding authority on everything; from weaponry and war counsel to spring wardrobes and which brew of tea Lord Elrond would most prefer. 

“Let us ask Glorfindel,” the Elves of Rivendell would say.  “Surely the Slayer of Balrogs must know!”

Glorfindel was quite weary of the whole matter.  Never mind he hadn’t actually survived the ordeal.  And since when had The Balrog become plural?  It caused the Elf lord more trouble than was worth, having really only worked in his favor once that he could recall—and that had been several millennia ago.

Glorfindel allowed himself an uncharacteristic chuckle.  He and Erestor had engaged in a… competition… of sorts.  Erestor boasted of his wisdom to the rather attractive Teleri maiden of their duel. 

Of course the, “But I have slain Balrogs” line won her over in the end.

The Rivendell lord shook his golden head and smiled wryly.  ‘I suppose I was somewhat brash in my youth, as only the young can be.’

“My Lord?” 

Glorfindel blinked, the smile of memory fading from his lips.  The twins peered cautiously at him.

“Come,” said the golden-haired captain, bringing himself back to the present.  “Let us stable our mounts and bathe.  Speak no more of what you would have me do—such thoughts are poisonous and have no place within mind and heart.  Your father shall expect us to dine in the main hall this eve, I trust you will not keep him waiting.”

It was not long before the graceful and willowy buildings of Rivendell sprang from the surrounding forest.  Many a joyous call rang from tree bough and gazebo deck, for the sons of Elrond did not often tread their father’s realm. 

Leaving his horse in care of a stable hand, Glorfindel left Elrohir and Elladan to their own devices and sought out Rivendell’s lord.  The twins’ horses were somewhat temperamental, and would allow none to tend them save the ones they carried.

Saddlebag thrown over one shoulder, Glorfindel paused at the top of an open staircase and allowed his eyes to wander the familiar landscape.  Never had he felt such an acute sense of belonging. 

It felt good to be home.

“Welcome home, my friend.”

Glorfindel turned to the speaker with a small smile, immediately recognizing the gentle steel of the other’s voice.  “My Lord.”  Placing one hand over his heart, he bowed low.

Elrond inclined his head in reply, slight amusement dancing in his grey eyes at Glorfindel’s rather excessive and unnecessary actions.  “I see travel has not compromised your manners, my old friend.”  He clasped his hands behind his back, eyes flickering towards the stables.  “How fare my sons?”

Glorfindel sighed heavily and shook his head.  “Wild.”

Elrond arched an eyebrow but said nothing.

“My friend,” Glorfindel placed a hand upon the other’s shoulder.  “Speak to them.”

Elrond nodded slightly, recognizing Glorfindel’s underlying tone as one that was not to be contested.  “I shall.”

“As a father, Elrond.”  Glorfindel gave the dark-haired Elf’s shoulder a quick yet strong squeeze.  “Speak to them as a father.” 

The barely perceptible straightening of Elrond did not go unnoticed by Glorfindel, nor did the flash in Elrond’s grey eyes as he warred between resentment and the wisdom of the Imladris captain’s words.

At last, the dark-haired Noldor lord again nodded.  “I shall.”  He frowned and examined Glorfindel’s face intently, searching for some hint as to the warrior’s urgency.  But, as always, Glorfindel’s ageless face betrayed only his calm inner strength and loyalty.  “I shall.”

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Righty-ho!  Next up (in about 2 weeks… I know, again, I’m sorry!), Chapter 5: the un-culturing of Aragorn continues.  Halbarad decides all that long hair must go, and discovers (horrors of horrors) Aragorn suffers from a sickness…  Lovesickness, that is.  ‘Tis a very tricky disease to cure. 

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