Everything, save Glorfindel’s fishing gear, was stowed in the tiny tent once he managed to construct it. Determined to at least make it through one night before going back to the Homely House, Glorfindel positioned himself at a curve in the river. Once settled on the bank, he prodded under a few rocks before finding a decent sized nightcrawler for his hook.
He cast the line into the water, and leaned back a little, lazily enjoying the warmth of the sun. Perhaps things weren’t quite so bad, he reflected. He wouldn’t be bound to Asfaloth’s whims, and he really didn’t need weapons and great comforts as long as he stayed within a day of Rivendell. All in all, things were possibly not quite so bad.
The fish were as hungry as he was, and after tossing back two tiny, greedy bottom feeders, Glorfindel felt a goodly tug on his pole. He gave the fishing line a yank and then drew it up and out of the water, smiling to see a healthy trout wriggling on the end of the line.
By the time he was done, his catch consisted of two trout and a salmon, minus all of the smaller ones he had thrown back. He wound the line so it would not tangle, taking care with the hook. As he turned to go back to his tent not far away, he paused.
Did the tent just move?
Shaking his head and fairly certain it was just his imagination, Glorfindel strolled closer, fishing pole in one hand and bucket of fish in the other. He narrowed his eyes as he saw something make the side of the tent bulge and retract. Setting down the pole and the bucket, he quickened his pace back to the tent. He slowed down, becoming more cautious as he approached, realizing once more he had no weapons.
Bending down, he picked up a medium sized rock from the grass. Aiming it for the spot where the tent had bucked, he threw the object. Upon impact, a furry masked head popped up over the other side of the tent. “You little rascal! Get out of there!” shouted Glorfindel, running now at full speed.
The critter ducked back down, and Glorfindel growled as he slid to a stop by the entrance of the tent. He cried out when he lifted back the flap to look inside, and found he was looking outside. The entire side panel which he had not seen was ripped to shreds, and a fat family of raccoons were now nestled in his spare clothing, helping themselves to his lembas. “Shoo! Get out of here!” he scolded, picking up the tent and shaking it.
Three of the raccoons scattered, spreading broken chunks of lembas in their wakes. A fourth raccoon burrowed into Glorfindel’s trousers and carried them off as he ran, while the fifth and sixth fancied his shirt and undergarments, which were carried off before he could catch them. “You rotten little thieves!” he called out. “Tomorrow night, I’m having raccoon stew!” he threatened, which was of course a lie, for he knew quite well that raccoon tasted simply vile. However, a raccoon hat, or several of them, was sounding like an excellent souvenir for the twins.
Smiling grimly as all of the ways to seek revenge upon a raccoon came to his mind, Glorfindel assessed the situation again. He was down to a ripped up tent, his fishing pole, and his dinner. Thankfully, the pack that he used to keep his fishing gear in had been spared from the attack. He carried it to the spot where he had left the pole and fish after a good swift kick to the nearest tent pole, which did more damage to his toes than to the ruined tent.
Upon reaching his destination, Glorfindel gave long sigh. “I have no hunting knife,” he concluded to himself, “so I have no way to clean the fish. Brilliant.” Grumbling to himself the entire time, he carried everything which was still salvageable to a sandy patch near the tent to start a fire. Eating the uncleaned fish would prove quite messy, he knew, but he was tired and hungry and was still determined to salvage something of the day. “Go on a bloody vacation, Findel, it will be good for you. Bring us back a souvenir, Findel, from your fun time away. Fun, bah!” Glorfindel stabbed each fish with a long, sharp stick, then set them up to cook above the fire.
