Dawn broke upon the Dell of Riven, neither early, nor late, but at the same time the Valar had deemed it to do so ever day since the First Age. The golden beams crept unobtrusively through the large, ornately decorated windows and into the private chambers of Elrond Peredhil, Lord of Imladris.

With a suppressed sigh, the Elven king opened his gray eyes to view with reluctance the coming of the dawn. Thrice more would he do so until the morn when he would awaken to the Council that would decide amongst itself the fate of Middle Earth.

Mulling over the day’s duties in his mind, which, more often than not he used t think, Lord Elrond elevated himself to a vertical position with his feet upon the floor, his head above them, and his body in between. Giving a great Elven stretch worthy of a lord of his status, he proceeded to dress. A fine robe he put upon his body, rose in color, and sleeves he had, in which he normally placed his arms, one on either side, and beautiful clasps down the front so the question of what the Elflord wore under it would indeed remain a myth. Into his Elven boots he slid his Elven feet, around his slender Elven waist he tied a wide Elven sash, and over his Elven shoulders he draped a velvet mantle, its color as silver as Celeborn’s name. At that moment a young Elven maiden named simply Finwen entered to assist Lord Elrond in the fixing of his hair, quite a difficult task for the Elflord to manage on his won, for the deep brown locks grew from the back of his head and alas, when he looked into the mirror with his eyes, he could only see the face they were upon, and if he fixed his hair in the front of his head as opposed to the back, he would become an object of ridicule in whose general direction the entire kingdom would snicker.

Finishing her task, the Elf maiden placed a silver circlet upon her king’s head, and into the mass of twists and braids in the back, she inserted a clip in the shape of a butterfly, the sort of which Arwen would have preferred herself, but not having the ability to view the back of his head, Lord Elrond never even suspected his daughter’s hairpiece rested there.

Thanking Finwen quietly, Elrond left his chambers and, walking with his feet as most Elflords do, as opposed to floating, made his way through the Last Homely House, his voluminous robes swishing softly about his feet and snagging on the furniture as he pondered, with his intelligent Elven mind, the fate of Middle Earth. Entering the main hall with its beautiful paintings depicting the history of Middle Earth that hung upon the walls as opposed o thin air, Elrond looked to the left and noticed with his eyes a gleam of gold from the bench by the Shards of Narsil.

Finding it interesting that an ornately carved but devoid of metal wooden bench would gleam so, Elrond went to investigate, and to investigate he went, to the bench by the Shards. Sprawled upon the bench in a rather undignified manner was Glorfindel, his radiant white clothes in disarray, the golden hair upon his head for which he was named spread out on the round pillows that humans find so quaint and reflecting the not early, not late, but on time light into the eyes upon Elrond’s face. Trapped was the golden Elflord, affixed in place on the bench with lacy, beaded shawl most likely belonging to an Elfmaiden. A large bruise that could easily span the distance of Elrond’s outstretched hand marred Glorfindel’s fair, delicate features, and for this imperfection the Elven people would most likely send insults sailing in his general direction for several weeks.

“Glorfindel,” spake the Lord of Imladris, prodding the slender Elven shoulder with a slender Elven finger, “for what reason hast thou sacked out upon the bench in the main hall of my home? Art thou ill, or merely as drunk as a Halfling in a vineyard under a full moon?”

Glorfindel slowly fluttered his eyes open as he took a moment to comprehend the latter part of the slender Elven statement with his slender Elven mind. Attempting to erect the upper portion of his slender Elven body to a vertical position, he realized he was bound to the bench with a knot that would put a proud smile on the face of any young Ranger Scout.

“Neither, my lord!” cried Glory, wincing as the sun glared off of his beautiful golden hair into his beautiful sapphire eyes. “Your daughter-”

“My daughter?” Elrond grabbed Glorfindel’s collar and painfully yanked him into the sitting position that he had so desired moments ago, ripping the shawl as he thrust his face half a hand span from Glorfindel’s. “What hast thou done to my daughter to force her to defend herself by affixing you to my bench? What hast thou-”

“My lord… thy blood pressure!” cried the hapless Glorfindel, as always, loyally placing his lord’s health above his own. Elrond tossed Glorfindel to the bench, and the young Elflord would have cracked his skull against the arm had it not been for the quaint round pillows. Folding his hands, which were located at the end of his arms, into his voluminous sleeves, Elrond took several deep breaths.

“Now tell me, loyal Glorfindel, what has my daughter done to put thee in such a position?”

“I was preparing to ride off and intercept the Hobbits,’ began Glorfindel, finally pushing himself vertically to a sitting position of his own free will, “when the Lady Arwen entered the room. She hitteth me with yon shovel.” Upon speaking these words, he of the golden hair pointed with a slender Elven finger to where a shovel lay innocently but conspicuously on the floor. “And bound me to this bench with her lovely shawl, which now hath been split in twain. Thy daughter hath stolen Guemegil, and now rideth Asfaloth to meet the ranger Aragorn. My Asfaloth…” Grieving, the distraught Elflord dropped his face into his hands, and upon painful remembrance of the large bruise upon his face, raised it again to gaze at the Lord of Imladris. “My lord?”

A fist Elrond had clenched, and clenched he did a fist as he glared to the left in the direction Arwen Undomiel had flown to on the stolen steed of He of the Golden Hair.

“My daughter,” spake the Elflord under his breath. “Oh my daughter, what a foolish move thou hast made.” With the swiftness that only an elf may possess, Elrond grabbed a spear from the rack where it had sat on display since the first fall of Sauron, and grasping it with the skill that only one well-versed in battle may possess, bolted for the door that Arwen had left by, the fires of an overprotective parent blazing in his eyes. “Arwen!” he yelled in anger.

“My lord, thy blood pressure!” cried Glorfindel, rising to his feet. The butt of the spear became entangled in the hem of Elrond’s voluminous robes, and as the Elflord tripped and fell in the direction of down, the spear flew in the direction of up. Out the window flew the Spear of Elrond in a graceful arc that only one well-versed in battle may accidentally perform, cutting through the crisp morning air to impale a lovely statue of a nymph.

“My lord!” cried Glorfindel yet again, knowing that Elrond was well aware of his status as the Lord of Glorfindel, yet unsure as to what he may be addressed as, other than the words which he had already spoken. Realizing with his mind that the present was an improper and inconvenient moment to think such thoughts, Glorfindel ran with a swiftness born of wearing shoes instead of boots and having light Elven feet, to the spot on the floor where Elrond lay, with his delicate Elven features implanted against the stones that the Elves walked upon as opposed to floating, and his posterior elevated in a rather undignified manner. Not slowly, no indeed, but in a rather hasty manner did He of the Golden Hair exert himself to untangle Lord Elrond from his robes and mantle, which was as silver as Telperion’s light, and erect him in a standing position with his feet upon the ground, his head pointed in the direction of the vast space where Gwahir flew upon the warm currents, and his body in between, for where else but between his head and feet would an honorable Elflord keep his body?

“My lord,” spake Glorfindel again in a hurried manner, “there is still time! If we were to make haste to the Place of Elevation where thou canst see all of thy entire kingdom below thee, thou hast a good chance of using thy magic to catch her in her deed!” Lord Elrond clapped Glorfindel on the shoulder that he had previously prodded to awaken the young Elflord from his unnatural, shovel-induced sleep upon the ornately carved wooden bench with the quaint, round pillows that humans find so curious.

“Then let us hurry to that place, noble Glorfindel.” And with these words spoken, the duo proceeded to fly through the Last Homely house, but not in a literal manner because they were merely walking quite quickly, Glorfindel’s dazzling gold hair and white clothing billowing behind him, Elrond holding his robes close to his body lest they entwine themselves upon the Elven furniture and deposit him yet again on the stone floor that the Elfkind walked upon as opposed to floating. They ran to the Place of Elevation, and to the Place of Elevation they did run, the highest spot in Imladris where all of the lands of the kingdom in the valley spread out before the viewer like a brilliant emerald map spread across a table, the beautiful sapphire river snaking through the rocks and trees like a thing that is very much similar to a river that snakes through rocks and trees, its glory quite describable with various gemstone synonyms, as has previously been demonstrated with references to sapphires.

—

Atop the Place of Elevation, resplendent in his gray robes and pointed hat (indeed! How long had it been rumored amongst the young Elves that the great wizards head came to a point at its crown, and thus was he forced to wear such an unusually-shaped cranium-cover) stood Mithrandir, the Gray pilgrim, rider of Shadowfax, He Who Had Some Part in Driving Sauron From Mirkwood, master of fireworks, distributor of the peace in the Shire, guide to Hobbit adventurers for many decades, also known as Gandalf.

“Good Mithrandir,” said Elrond, emerging from whatever magical, Elven means was used to reach the Place of Elevation and hoping Mithrandir was indeed the name the wizard was using that day, “I would utter words to welcome you to the fair valley of Rivendell, but my Arwen hath disobeyed me and I fear soon I shall have to exert a minor display of magic in order to save her from a terrible death at the nonexistent hands of foul creatures.”

“Then utter not, Elrond Peredhil,” returned Gandalf the Gray, “for I shall utter in your stead and answer the question that thou hast not spoken. By the way, today I would like to be addressed as Hans. Now then, I have just fled the foul, black tower of Saruman, and pointy it was, with many sharp objects not suitable for Elflings under the age of 500. I solicited the help of the Dumbledore (big honkin’ moth) known only to the Istari as Mr. Twiddles, and He of the Furry Antennae did fly upon the foul winds of Isengard to summon Gwahir, the gigantamous chicken who hath made my escape possible. Now, Lord Elrond, I am here to assist you I the rescue of the Halflings.” With a large sweeping motion, Hans swept the hat from his head and with a sweep, handed it to Glorfindel.

“Lord of the Golden Hair,” said Hans to the Elflord with the mass of gold and shiny growing atop his noggin, “take my hat and hold it in the hand at the end of thy arm so it will not interfere with my spellcasting. Grasp it with thy fingers, not some of them, but all of them, thy thumb in addition, not in both hands, but simply in one, for I would be upset if you damaged the brim.” Glorfindel did as he was instructed, slightly disappointed, perhaps, that the great wizard’s head did not come to a point, and the Elflord was slightly disillusioned from that point on to the other legends of Hans.

“And now, if I am not mistaken, which is entirely possible, for a wizard is never mistaken, nor is he correct, but is entirely unclear in his words to all he speaks to including himself, thy daughter doth ride across the river pursued by the nine, the Ringwraiths, the Nazgul, which, as you know, are all different names for the same foul servants of the Dark Lord.

Gazing out into the distance in the direction Hans pointed with his finger, which extended from his hand. Lord Elrond saw that though the words Hans had spoken were not incorrect, they were not entirely correct in nature, for not only had three of the nine taken flight to pursue his daughter, but three Ringwraiths accompanied them, and also three Nazgul, chasing with a scream of the sorts that emitted from the mouths of human women when a rodent of a small, gray nature scampers across the floor in pursuit of the cheese that a child carelessly let fall to the ground. As the Lord of Imladris and Hans watched with their eyes from the Place of Elevation, the voice of Arwen floated across the sapphire trees and emerald waters to the pointed ears of Elrond, and indeed! both of his ears heard the cry, for he had one on the left side of his head and one on the right side, and he did hear her voice with both of his ears. Arwen turned her stolen steed to face the creatures of doom, brandished her stolen sword Guemegil, and called out in clear words of Elvish:

“Daddy! I’m in trouble, save me!”

“Daddy! I’m in trouble, save me!”

And upon hearing the voice of his youngest and only daughter, Elrond summoned the river, and the river did answer his summons, swelling and crashing along its banks like a big, swollen, reckless object. Its waves decorated with the charging heads and forelegs of horses, for Hans had no talent for also animating the rear of the horse, and his sense of aesthetics did dominate over his sense of danger, else he would have assisted Elrond in the summoning of the waters. Angrily the river did bear down upon the Servants of the Dark Lord, sweeping them downstream for a hapless little village to fall prey to their foul swords once they washed up on shore like the half-drowned vermin, not fully-drowned vermin, for those would be incapable of attack, nor less-than-half-drowned vermin, for those would be too capable of attack, but half-drowned and only half-drowned.

After gaping at the water with an expression that showed she not only had no clue as to the immense power of her father, but had never even suspected there WAS a clue, Arwen Undomiel, who bore not the same surname as her father for reasons unbeknownst to all, dismounted the stolen steed Asfaloth, and after laying the sick and dying Hobbit with large feet known as Frodo upon the painfully sharp, rocky shore, proceeded to cradle him in her arms and cry. One tear at a time did the Lady Arwen cry, a single one falling from each eye, first the right, then the left, never more than two at once did fall, one from each eye at the same time, and dotted with wet dots like the pox did the hood of Frodo Baggins’ Hobbit cloak become.

“No, my daughter!” cried Lord Elrond, “my foolish, disobedient daughter! Thy tears alone will not heal the Hobbit! Only when combined with powerful Elven medicine will they heal Frodo, but nay, truly thy tears will have no effect whatsoever, for they are merely water combined with salt, and the skill of the Elves alone may save his life.” And leaning out as far as he dared lest he topple from the branches of the trees to the ground far below, for the Dell of Riven sat upon the ground and did not float in midair, Elrond gave a great yell in the direction of Arwen Undomiel, and words he did yell, and the words that he yelled very much were, “Arwen! Get that blasted Hobbit up here before I-”

“My lord… thy blood pressure!” cried Glorfindel.

—

Tired, exhausted, sleepy, and all washed out and hung up to dry, Lord Elrond emerged from the bedroom of Frodo Baggins, finished with a bout against the foul magic of he servants of the Dark Lord in which his Elven herb lore had won. Glorfindel poured a glass of wine and handed it to his lord, who looked as if he could use a good, stiff drink, but alas, Elves do not imbibe in any sort of alcoholic beverage save wine, and so would the Elven king drink that which had been handed to him.

“My lord,” spake Pelo de Oro, “couldst thou possibly use thy knowledge of herbs, herbology, and herblore to concoct for thyself a mixture to lower thy blood pressure which I have been forced to remind thee of thrice today?”

A glare did Elrond shoot at Glorfindel, and swiftly did the Glare of Elrond fly to the other Elflord, a glare not malicious in nature, but of the sort that reminds the recipient of the glare that the sender has recently experienced much toil and stress and needeth no harassment at the moment to further stretch his already taut nerves.

“What of the council?” asked Elrond, using his mouth to speak the question as opposed to telepathy. “Have any of the guests who shall discover the threat of Mordor arrived in this fair country?”

“Several, my lord. Prince Legolas Greenleaf from the Wood of Mirk has entered with his companions whom thou hast requested attend. Alas, King Thranduil could not attend himself, and therefore he has sent his son in his stead. Several Dwarves have arrived also, from lands of which I do not know the location, and though I know not from where they hail, for it has never been mentioned, they are indeed here at the request of thyself and are currently knocking upon the stones and statues to make sure they are real and not an illusion; also, many insults have they thrown when they believe none of the Elvenkind are listening, insults that degrade the trees, plants, flowers, trees, bushes, vegetation, shrubs, and foliage.”

“Attend to them, then,” ordered the stressed and exhausted Elflord, waving in some direction with his hand and sending the sleeve that encased the arm in question billowing in a manner similar to that of a great flag. Inclining at the waist to lower the upper portion of his body and the head and arms that was attached to it and then seconds later raise it in the formal action known as a bow, Glorfindel hurried off to do as his lord had instructed him.

“Lord Father,” came a soft voice from the corner. Elrond turned his head upon his neck to the left to see who had uttered the words, and seeing within his vision only Elladan and Elrohir, who had assuredly not uttered, turned his body a full ninety and fifty and forty degrees and looked to the direction that was previously his right but was now his left to view his daughter standing in the aforementioned corner waiting to address him.

“My daughter,” said Elrond, turning his head left than right, then swiftly repeating the process in an action known as shaking one’s head, “how couldst thou do such a thing? To harm the noble Glorfindel, steal his horse, and steal my sword, which hath been my most trusted weapon since the First Age.” The Elflord clenched a fist and extended a finger, and brandishing the finger, which was not the last, nor the middle, nor the next-to-middle, nor even the thumb, but the one which he more often than not used to point, proceeded to waggle it dangerously up and down as he advanced upon his daughter.

“The deed that thou hast done is unforgivable!” Lord Elrond halted in his advance, and as he halted, lowered was his velocity and motionless did he become. “But since thou art my youngest and only daughter….” The Elflord spun on his heel, which was located opposite his toes upon his foot, and waved the aforementioned finger at Elladan and Elrohir. “I shall then place the blame upon m sons!” The twins, who were assumed to be related as such for they were born in the same year, looked upon their father with eyes that were both wide and astonished at the same time. “Thou shalt accompany Lord Aragorn in the future and aid him in his fight as thou once did for his father, Lord Arathorn.” Behind Elrond, the Lady Arwen breathed a sigh of relief, and as she did sigh, the keen, pointed ears of Lord Elrond picked up on the sound, and he once again spun in half a circle to face his youngest child.

“Do not think that thou shalt survive this ordeal unscathed, Arwen. After what thou hast done, I shall not allow thee to marry Ellasar, not until he has become king of both Arnor and Gondor, not Gondor alone, nor Arnor alone, but both kingdoms of men and only both!”

“But Lord Father!” cried the Lady Arwen.

“Why dost thou address me as Lord Father?” inquired Elrond.

“Because as your daughter it would be improper for me to call you Lord Elrond,” began Arwen, “but in my mind, it seems that Father alone doth hold less than a worthy amount of respect for thee and thy greatness, therefore, I have combined the two titles, and-”

“All right, my daughter, what dost thou desire?” inquired Elrond, knowing the politeness she exhibited could not be from respect alone.

“I wish to marry Lord Aragorn!” cried the Elf maiden yet again.

“Not until the requirements I place upon him have been met! Arwen, thanks to thy hasty actions, the ring of power almost fell into the nonexistent theoretical hands of the Enemy. Aside from that, the blood of humans and the blood Elves should never mix in a relationship. It defies the plans that Iluvatar set for our races upon our coming.”

“But in thy bloodline runs the first elf slash human relationship!” argued Arwen.

“Thou shalt do as I say, not as my ancestors had foolishly done, for it is due to their folly that the great King Finrod fell to his death!” Upon remembrance of the noble Elf king of old, Elrond, Elladan, and Elrohir reverently looked to the left.

“My lord!” With the words that he hath uttered several times already, the lord of the golden hair burst into the room, throwing the doors open with a loud, rather un-Elven bang and running with a swiftness that was born of having light Elven feet and wearing shoes instead of boots. “My lord, the dwarves! They – they are stomping upon the flowers!” And with these words, Glorfindel dropped his face into his hands, wincing upon remembrance of the bruise, and began to sob for the loss of the foliage beloved by all Elfkind.

Lord Elrond sighed and put a slender Elven hand to his aching head, for the Elflord was stressed and it was indeed beginning to show, but as the sound of raucous Dwarven voices floated in through the ornately carved windows, he removed the hand from his noble Elven brow, and drawing each of his fingers and his thumb in addition toward the center of his hand to form a fist, his slender Elven eyebrows drew together in a scowl, and in the direction of left did the Elflord glare, with devious thoughts of punishing the stress-inducing Dwarves.

“My lord… thy blood pressure!”

Fin.