Chapter Three
“Not so fast, are you!” Elrohir called back; rather smug with himself that the Elf wasn’t gaining on him. But after the threats stopped, Elrohir turned his head back, skidding abruptly to a stop. If Glorfindel had slipped, broken his neck and died– again- he’d get shipped off to the Grey Havens for a few centuries.
”L-lord Gl-Glorfindel?” He stuttered, inching forward to make sure the captain was all right. “You’re not… dead… or seriously injured… are you?” He muttered a prayer to Elbereth, coming to a halt to stand above Glorfindel, a dark eyebrow raised. ”Glorfindel?”
The elven seneschal had taken a sharp blow to the head, but it took more than that to render the lord Glorfindel unconscious or seriously injured. Yet as he lie there, slightly startled at what happened, he realized quite clearly that it was Elrohir standing over him – not Elladan at all. Then in a moment of comprehension, he saw then that he was being had. And Glorfindel, he who had lived long past in Gondolin, had been slayed by a Balrog and had spent years in the Halls of Waiting, was most definitely not one that took kindly to being had. And so, he stayed quite still until Elrohir crept closer, and then he lunged for the young elf, letting out a cry of triumph as he did so and caught at the twin’s arm.
Elrohir’s optics widened suddenly, trying vainly to get from the Elf’s grasp. Yet he knew it wouldn’t work; Glorfindel was stronger than him in the long run. “Glorfy- indel… let me go! I’ve… I’ve done nothing! Father will be most displeased if you kill me!” It was rather amusing, the Peredhil running in place, like a rodent on a wheel of some sort.
”I don’t want to die… I don’t want to die… oh Elbereth save me…” He murmured, feeling rather doomed at the moment.
“Die? Of course you won't die," ground out the elven lord, drawing the struggling Elrohir close to him until their faces were inches apart. His blue eyes narrowed in a sly grin. "Dying is not good enough for you. I should know, I have died once, and it was nothing compared to what I will do to you, you cheeky little elfling! Did you think that you could so easily deceive I, Glorfindel of the house of the Golden Flower?"
He didn't know this sounded poncey. But he didn't care. At one time it did sound quite intimidating - so do not blame the slightly tipsy elven lord of something he had no clue about.
Had it been different circumstances, Elrohir would’ve burst out laughing at this. But no, the only thing he was doing was blinking slowly, gulping in true fear. Worse than death? Perhaps a tipsy Glorfindel was more dangerous than he thought.
”W-what are you going to do, my Lord Glorfindel? S-so… powerful and… powerful?” For once, the almighty Elrohir, Prankster Prince and most sarcastic of them all, was at a loss for words. “S-surely you jest… like… I was! I was… only… joking… you… know? Ha… ha… ha.” The last ‘ha’ came out as a pitiful whimper, averting his grey optics from Elf.
The slightly drunken elven seneschal narrowed his eyes all the more, as if he had suddenly lost all ability of site, though it made him look intimidating none the less, bearing down on Elrohir like a falcon on a mouse. "Do I," he snarled, his voice a low timbre that rumbled like a trumpet of dh00m. "Do *I*, Elrohir Peredhel, son of Elrond, son of Celebrian, brother of Elladan, brother of Arwen, brothe-- no, that's it. Do I *look* like I am joking?"
Elrohir blinked, really not being able to see his face so up close. That would certainly not be the best thing to comment on at the moment. “Well… not… particularly but… you’ve… always been… one to keep a straight face!” He attempted a smile, wondering if flattery would do the trip.
He doubted it.
”It—it wasn’t my fault! You dragged me away when you broke that vase! It’s all your fault!” The moment those words left his mouth, the Elven prince winced, regretting them. He suddenly realized that his life was hereby forfeit, under pain and torture of Glorfindel. Lovely.
The blonde-haired elven captain gazed at Elrohir as if he could not comprehend his stupidity. No, truly, he just couldn't figure out whether what he had said warranted either instant death or slow torture. But instead, he blinked, pulled back a little, and then instantly dropped Elrohir and fell to the ground, taken over by fits of laughter.
"My - my fault! HA!" he giggled - yes, he giggled. "My fault! HAHA! Good one, Elrohir, my fault! Ahahahahaha!"
He gawked at Glorfindel, feeling too over-taken with shock to even take this as his chance to run. So, what does Elrohir do? Prove his utter cocky stupidity further. “Don’t laugh you miserable Elf! It was your fault… All. Your. Fault. Why I should—I really ought to run.” He trailed off, looking down at Glorfindel with a blank look.
He was dead as a paralyzed duck being aimed at. Luckily, Elrohir wasn’t immobilized—yet. He spun around, getting off to a fast start for about a half a second, before slipping on that same cursed mud and falling flat on his face. Only this time, he continued sliding on his face quite a few inches.
Was there such thing as… floor burn? Well, he had it, if there was.
Footsteps echoed throughout... well, everywhere. The footsteps did not make it sound as if the owner of the feet was wearing shoes, but rather was going barefoot. There was only one person who walked around barefoot, and she wasn't a person at all, but an elf. Lotesse Ithildin. "Glorfindel, you poncey elf, are you drunk again?" Lotesse's fair voice called out from around a corner, from which she appeared moments later. Her long straight golden hair was pulled behind her ears, a few stray strands falling into a fair elven face. Golden-brown eyes, odd for most elves, were narrowed just slightly as she looked down at the elven Lord giggling on the floor. She was also one of the only elves that dared call Glorfindel a ponce, a title he rightly deserved.
Glorfindel sobered only long enough to look up at Lotesse and grin, but the sight of Elrohir falling flat on his face sent him into renewed hysterics. He wrapped his arms around his chest, his hands gripping his aching sides.
"El-Elrohir is - is in fine form tonight, Lot-Lot-Lotesse," he snickered, leaning back against the wall and giggling some more. "He- he says it's - my fault! Mine! Haha-- drinking," he blinked, suddenly aware that he had been asked a question. He ogled Lotesse Ithildin with wide blue eyes. "Why, Elbereth, no. You see - Elladan - he pushed me into a ditch, and Elrohir said that he was Elladan, and I thought he was and -- heehee! He said it was my fault!"
And then he began, once more, to burst into raucous peals of laughter.
Elrohir was slightly dazed, yet was coherent enough to realize what the Elven captain had just said. Did… did he still believe that Elladan pushed him into a ditch? At this, he burst out laughing, rolling over on his back in hysterics.
”If you… if you’re not drunk, I’m a prancing Elf maiden in the rain!” He continued to laugh, seemingly having gone insane. “And Elladan never pushed you in! You broke a vase, and then slipped in my mud trail. Oh Elbereth… I haven’t laughed like this in a long time.” A poor Elf who had happened to pass by went wide-eyed at the sight of one of Elrond’s twins and the Lord Glorfindel on the floor giggling.
It was the end of the world. It must’ve been.
Glorfindel gaped at Elrohir, taking in what the elfling said. Suddenly a sinister smile crossed over his ageless features. He chuckled darkly and raised himself gracefully to his feet, crossing his arms over his chest and towering over Elrohir as he did so. The fact that he swayed a bit and - did he hiccough? - he still looked imposing.
"Ah, that is right," he said in a light tone. "You pushed me, master Elrohir, and so you broke your father's vase. And then you dragged me half across Imladris and told me lies about your brother. Tsk, tsk, at least I have a bit of an excuse for my drinking - you, my dear Elrohir, behave like an infant hobbit just out of pure - pure - what's the word - habit." He blinked, apparently not knowing where these words came from, yet pleased about them none the less.