Post by ignoblebard on Jul 11, 2009 16:41:50 GMT -6
Here's a little something I wrote for Randy's b-day, which is today. It's based on a conversation we had while discussing the two Glorfindels.
More Than Meets the Eye
The trembling Elven refugees huddled together, surrounded by a horde of orcs who brandished swords the size of hobbits and knives as keen as a dragon’s wit. The orcs had caught the wandering party as they tried to make their way to Rivendell and decided to sport with them before lopping off their heads to take make soup bowls. As the Elves huddled together and the orc leader snickered and moved in to strike, a tall golden-haired warrior leapt in front of the foul creature, his sword gleaming in the sun, his radiant aura a blinding radiance that chased darkness from the hearts of all who beheld him. Except orcs, within whose hearts darkness merely sauntered from one side to the other.
“The Balrog Slayer,” came awed whispers from the Elves and orcs alike.
With a grim smile, Glorfindel brandished his weapon and the orcs turned and fled. All but the orc leader, who swung his sword with deadly speed at Glorfindel. The warrior easily blocked the swing, and with a twist of his wrist disarmed the snarling orc. Realizing he had met his match, the orc leader fell to his knees before the glowing Elf, lowering his head in supplication.
“I shall show you the mercy that is the hallmark of my race, evil one. . .” Glorfindel intoned.
A cagy smile began to creep over the orc’s leathery lips but Glorfindel continued. . . If you are never seen beyond your lair again.”
The orc frowned, his deviousness foiled by the resplendent Elf. With an orcish curse he rose and turned as if to slink away. Then he spun around swiftly with a cry of traitorous rage, dagger in hand to gut Glorfindel, only to find himself abruptly minus a head. His eyes blinked once in surprise, then dulled, the last sound to reach his foul ears that of the wildly cheering Elves.
Glorfindel turned to the worshipful refugees, flashing them his legendary smile. A lady in the second row swooned and her fiancé, dismayed, knelt to tend her.
“And now, my friends,” Glorfindel said, sheathing his sword, “follow me and I will lead you to the hidden valley.”
He turned and ran a few paces, then gave a mighty leap. . .
“Look, up in the sky!” one of the Elves shouted, pointing skyward.
“It’s a bird!” shouted another.
“Of course it’s a bird, you nitwits,” said a third. “What else would you expect to see in the sky on a clear, sunny day?”
Meanwhile, Glorfindel, having landed lightly on Asfaloth, reined the horse around to face the Elves. “Are we marching or bird watching then?” he asked.
“Marching, my lord,” the collective muttered, hanging their heads and shuffling their feet in embarrassment.
“Then let us away!” Glorfindel shouted, kicking Asfaloth into a slow walk so the refugees could follow.
Glorfindel led the weary Elves unerringly to the Last Homely House where they were greeted by Elrond at his fair-as-summer best. Immediately put at ease by the hospitality of the gracious Noldor, the refugees were shown to their opulent quarters, complete with en suite bathrooms, weepingly grateful to the golden warrior who had made their salvation possible.
When the courtyard had emptied, Erestor remained to accompany Glorfindel to the stables. He glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot before speaking.
“We must return to Mirkwood tonight. While you were gone a report came in that Queen Níduir sent a message to your “hunting party asking you to return early to kill a spider that has gotten into the tub.”
“Hells bells, Galion! Is there no one in all of the mountain halls that can kill a spider for my wife?”
“They tried, your majesty, but it has taken hostages.”
Thranduil sighed. “It’s not going to be easy to get away. Elrond is getting suspicious. These Noldor aren’t as naïve as they seem.”
“Perhaps you could use the Balrog excuse again.”
“It’s nowhere near the anniversary of my purported death so I can’t go off in the wilderness for “healing”. Besides, I’ve used that one so often that Elrond now keeps a calendar in his study with the date of my demise circled in red.”
“You’ll have to think of something, sire.”
“That’s easy for you to say. Since everyone thinks we’re lovers there’s never any question of you accompanying me on my travels. I’m the one who always has to make the excuses.”
Galion smiled wickedly. “Perhaps you should have chosen another identity when you decided to play the hero.”
“I did consider using Legolas of Gondolin but that seemed so obscure. I mean, whoever heard of him?”
“True, sire. And a reputation as a Balrog Slayer comes in handy with the lesser minions of shadow.”
“Indeed. It has stood me in good stead these many years. Everyone thinks there is but one Glorfindel, and they are right, they just do not realize he still resides in Aman.”
“I must return to the house. Elrond will want me to help with the guests you brought in,” Galion said.
“Very well, I will see you at dinner. Make sure you’re packed, Galion. We will leave after everyone repairs to the Hall of Fire for the evening.”
Later, Glorfindel sat next to Elrond at dinner, stifling a yawn. Elrond was nattering away about some new song Lindir was working on, boring Glorfindel to tears, when they overheard one of the guests far down the table mention Mirkwood.
“I hear the Greenwood is overrun with horrid, evil creatures. Why does that Elven-king make no move to stop the tide of darkness that encroaches on his realm? Why, if the Greenwood had a defender like Glorfindel, that forest would be the pride of Middle-earth instead of the cesspit it has become.”
Elrond turned to the guest with a smile. “Our warrior is one of a kind, I’m afraid. The rustics of the Greenwood could not hope to produce his equal. The world has changed since the old days when the real heroes of this world created legend.”
“And I am certain the Mirkwood king does his best,” Glorfindel added. “It is not easy to keep a place tidy with a Necromancer on your doorstep.” As he spoke he made a mental note to stop by Dol Guldur before his return to Imladris to see what new evil was issuing from the tower. He would have sent that annoying Necromancer packing years ago if he had not proven so useful in keeping Galadriel from always wanting to visit.
“It is a shame you must stay so busy defending Imladris and cannot offer the Elven-king your services to rout the enemy from his lands,” the guest continued.
“Indeed,” Glorfindel replied with a wry smile. “But it is beyond even my power to be in two places at once.”
“Now that you mention it, you do look very like the Elven-king as I have heard him described,” Elrond remarked. “Are you certain you and he are not one in the same?” He said it lightly, as a joke, but Thranduil could see an appraising look in his eyes.
“Why, the very idea is laughable, my lord.” Glorfindel laughed to emphasize the point. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a small portrait of the Mirkwood king, painted on a wooden medallion, handing it to Elrond. “He gave me this many years ago when I met him on one of my journeys. He’s quite the dandy, and a bit egotistical as well. This is quite a true likeness of him. Now I ask you, do he and I look alike?”
Elrond scrutinized the portrait closely. The image was identical to Glorfindel in every detail save for the reading spectacles perched upon the Elven-king’s nose.
“I see what you mean,” Elrond said. “There is no resemblance at all.” He handed the portrait back to Glorfindel. “Weak-eyed Sindar,” he murmured, shaking his head as he buttered a dinner roll. Erestor stifled a burst of laughter, nearly choking on his wine.
After dinner the guests drifted into the Hall of Fire while Glorfindel lingered to speak with Elrond.
“I must take my leave again, I fear. The orcs I met today mentioned a pack of wolves just beyond the Bruinen. I will slay them before they trouble the settlements beyond the valley.”
“But you have only just returned after a long absence,” Elrond protested. “Must you leave again so soon?”
“Yes, my lord. I must.”
“Very well, but do not stay away too long. We have need of you here.”
“I will return as soon as I am able. Oh, and Erestor will be accompanying me as well. He wants to add to his butterfly collection while I ply my sword upon the foe.”
“And upon Erestor as well, perhaps?” Elrond chuckled.
Thranduil forced a smile. “Perhaps, my lord,” he said through clenched teeth.
He and Galion met in the courtyard. As always, Galion had packed and gotten the horses ready in record time. They mounted and rode away, a full moon lighting their path.
“Frankly, I’m glad to be shut of that place, for awhile at least,” Thranduil said. “If Elrond would use that ring of his to handle some of the more unpleasant chores around here, this whole ruse wouldn’t be necessary.”
“Just be glad he was fool enough to believe you were Glorfindel when you came to Imladris on your first visit. Without you, Sauron would own all of Middle-earth by now,” Galion replied.
“What can I say, Galion? When you’re right, you’re right,” Thranduil smiled.
Just before they reached the Elf Path Thranduil and Galion stopped and changed from their Noldor clothes into Greenwood hunting garb. They then rode swift to the mountain halls where, after a quick round of hostage negotiations that resulted in the release of the four captured Mirkwood guardsmen, the spider, in a fit of despair, turned its fangs upon itself. Thranduil stuffed it down the drain while Níduir looked on adoringly.
She ran to him and threw her arms around him, giving him a great big kiss.
“My hero!” she said breathily into his ear.
Thranduil hugged her tight, catching Galion’s smile and the mirthful gleam in his eye over Níduir’s shoulder. He could read his valet’s thought as clearly as if the man were speaking.
‘If she only knew, sire. If she only knew.’
More Than Meets the Eye
The trembling Elven refugees huddled together, surrounded by a horde of orcs who brandished swords the size of hobbits and knives as keen as a dragon’s wit. The orcs had caught the wandering party as they tried to make their way to Rivendell and decided to sport with them before lopping off their heads to take make soup bowls. As the Elves huddled together and the orc leader snickered and moved in to strike, a tall golden-haired warrior leapt in front of the foul creature, his sword gleaming in the sun, his radiant aura a blinding radiance that chased darkness from the hearts of all who beheld him. Except orcs, within whose hearts darkness merely sauntered from one side to the other.
“The Balrog Slayer,” came awed whispers from the Elves and orcs alike.
With a grim smile, Glorfindel brandished his weapon and the orcs turned and fled. All but the orc leader, who swung his sword with deadly speed at Glorfindel. The warrior easily blocked the swing, and with a twist of his wrist disarmed the snarling orc. Realizing he had met his match, the orc leader fell to his knees before the glowing Elf, lowering his head in supplication.
“I shall show you the mercy that is the hallmark of my race, evil one. . .” Glorfindel intoned.
A cagy smile began to creep over the orc’s leathery lips but Glorfindel continued. . . If you are never seen beyond your lair again.”
The orc frowned, his deviousness foiled by the resplendent Elf. With an orcish curse he rose and turned as if to slink away. Then he spun around swiftly with a cry of traitorous rage, dagger in hand to gut Glorfindel, only to find himself abruptly minus a head. His eyes blinked once in surprise, then dulled, the last sound to reach his foul ears that of the wildly cheering Elves.
Glorfindel turned to the worshipful refugees, flashing them his legendary smile. A lady in the second row swooned and her fiancé, dismayed, knelt to tend her.
“And now, my friends,” Glorfindel said, sheathing his sword, “follow me and I will lead you to the hidden valley.”
He turned and ran a few paces, then gave a mighty leap. . .
“Look, up in the sky!” one of the Elves shouted, pointing skyward.
“It’s a bird!” shouted another.
“Of course it’s a bird, you nitwits,” said a third. “What else would you expect to see in the sky on a clear, sunny day?”
Meanwhile, Glorfindel, having landed lightly on Asfaloth, reined the horse around to face the Elves. “Are we marching or bird watching then?” he asked.
“Marching, my lord,” the collective muttered, hanging their heads and shuffling their feet in embarrassment.
“Then let us away!” Glorfindel shouted, kicking Asfaloth into a slow walk so the refugees could follow.
Glorfindel led the weary Elves unerringly to the Last Homely House where they were greeted by Elrond at his fair-as-summer best. Immediately put at ease by the hospitality of the gracious Noldor, the refugees were shown to their opulent quarters, complete with en suite bathrooms, weepingly grateful to the golden warrior who had made their salvation possible.
When the courtyard had emptied, Erestor remained to accompany Glorfindel to the stables. He glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot before speaking.
“We must return to Mirkwood tonight. While you were gone a report came in that Queen Níduir sent a message to your “hunting party asking you to return early to kill a spider that has gotten into the tub.”
“Hells bells, Galion! Is there no one in all of the mountain halls that can kill a spider for my wife?”
“They tried, your majesty, but it has taken hostages.”
Thranduil sighed. “It’s not going to be easy to get away. Elrond is getting suspicious. These Noldor aren’t as naïve as they seem.”
“Perhaps you could use the Balrog excuse again.”
“It’s nowhere near the anniversary of my purported death so I can’t go off in the wilderness for “healing”. Besides, I’ve used that one so often that Elrond now keeps a calendar in his study with the date of my demise circled in red.”
“You’ll have to think of something, sire.”
“That’s easy for you to say. Since everyone thinks we’re lovers there’s never any question of you accompanying me on my travels. I’m the one who always has to make the excuses.”
Galion smiled wickedly. “Perhaps you should have chosen another identity when you decided to play the hero.”
“I did consider using Legolas of Gondolin but that seemed so obscure. I mean, whoever heard of him?”
“True, sire. And a reputation as a Balrog Slayer comes in handy with the lesser minions of shadow.”
“Indeed. It has stood me in good stead these many years. Everyone thinks there is but one Glorfindel, and they are right, they just do not realize he still resides in Aman.”
“I must return to the house. Elrond will want me to help with the guests you brought in,” Galion said.
“Very well, I will see you at dinner. Make sure you’re packed, Galion. We will leave after everyone repairs to the Hall of Fire for the evening.”
Later, Glorfindel sat next to Elrond at dinner, stifling a yawn. Elrond was nattering away about some new song Lindir was working on, boring Glorfindel to tears, when they overheard one of the guests far down the table mention Mirkwood.
“I hear the Greenwood is overrun with horrid, evil creatures. Why does that Elven-king make no move to stop the tide of darkness that encroaches on his realm? Why, if the Greenwood had a defender like Glorfindel, that forest would be the pride of Middle-earth instead of the cesspit it has become.”
Elrond turned to the guest with a smile. “Our warrior is one of a kind, I’m afraid. The rustics of the Greenwood could not hope to produce his equal. The world has changed since the old days when the real heroes of this world created legend.”
“And I am certain the Mirkwood king does his best,” Glorfindel added. “It is not easy to keep a place tidy with a Necromancer on your doorstep.” As he spoke he made a mental note to stop by Dol Guldur before his return to Imladris to see what new evil was issuing from the tower. He would have sent that annoying Necromancer packing years ago if he had not proven so useful in keeping Galadriel from always wanting to visit.
“It is a shame you must stay so busy defending Imladris and cannot offer the Elven-king your services to rout the enemy from his lands,” the guest continued.
“Indeed,” Glorfindel replied with a wry smile. “But it is beyond even my power to be in two places at once.”
“Now that you mention it, you do look very like the Elven-king as I have heard him described,” Elrond remarked. “Are you certain you and he are not one in the same?” He said it lightly, as a joke, but Thranduil could see an appraising look in his eyes.
“Why, the very idea is laughable, my lord.” Glorfindel laughed to emphasize the point. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a small portrait of the Mirkwood king, painted on a wooden medallion, handing it to Elrond. “He gave me this many years ago when I met him on one of my journeys. He’s quite the dandy, and a bit egotistical as well. This is quite a true likeness of him. Now I ask you, do he and I look alike?”
Elrond scrutinized the portrait closely. The image was identical to Glorfindel in every detail save for the reading spectacles perched upon the Elven-king’s nose.
“I see what you mean,” Elrond said. “There is no resemblance at all.” He handed the portrait back to Glorfindel. “Weak-eyed Sindar,” he murmured, shaking his head as he buttered a dinner roll. Erestor stifled a burst of laughter, nearly choking on his wine.
After dinner the guests drifted into the Hall of Fire while Glorfindel lingered to speak with Elrond.
“I must take my leave again, I fear. The orcs I met today mentioned a pack of wolves just beyond the Bruinen. I will slay them before they trouble the settlements beyond the valley.”
“But you have only just returned after a long absence,” Elrond protested. “Must you leave again so soon?”
“Yes, my lord. I must.”
“Very well, but do not stay away too long. We have need of you here.”
“I will return as soon as I am able. Oh, and Erestor will be accompanying me as well. He wants to add to his butterfly collection while I ply my sword upon the foe.”
“And upon Erestor as well, perhaps?” Elrond chuckled.
Thranduil forced a smile. “Perhaps, my lord,” he said through clenched teeth.
He and Galion met in the courtyard. As always, Galion had packed and gotten the horses ready in record time. They mounted and rode away, a full moon lighting their path.
“Frankly, I’m glad to be shut of that place, for awhile at least,” Thranduil said. “If Elrond would use that ring of his to handle some of the more unpleasant chores around here, this whole ruse wouldn’t be necessary.”
“Just be glad he was fool enough to believe you were Glorfindel when you came to Imladris on your first visit. Without you, Sauron would own all of Middle-earth by now,” Galion replied.
“What can I say, Galion? When you’re right, you’re right,” Thranduil smiled.
Just before they reached the Elf Path Thranduil and Galion stopped and changed from their Noldor clothes into Greenwood hunting garb. They then rode swift to the mountain halls where, after a quick round of hostage negotiations that resulted in the release of the four captured Mirkwood guardsmen, the spider, in a fit of despair, turned its fangs upon itself. Thranduil stuffed it down the drain while Níduir looked on adoringly.
She ran to him and threw her arms around him, giving him a great big kiss.
“My hero!” she said breathily into his ear.
Thranduil hugged her tight, catching Galion’s smile and the mirthful gleam in his eye over Níduir’s shoulder. He could read his valet’s thought as clearly as if the man were speaking.
‘If she only knew, sire. If she only knew.’
