Haldir looked out over the plains of this small town. The horses ran freely, though saddled and bridled, there was an air of respect here that Haldir had not felt in the other cities of men Ada had taken him to. These horses were not just a means of transportation or another resource, these horses were proud, and their riders proud of them. Haldir ran his fingers through the snow-white mane of his Adar’s mare. He was sitting in front of Celeborn on the steed as they approached a long-haired middle-aged man on a snorting, stamping chocolate brown horse.
“I am Lord Celeborn. You are... Aefopin’s grandson?” he guessed, pulling on his own horse’s reins.
“Great-grandson. Eorrel, I am called,” he answered.
“Ah. Long it has been since I was in these lands,” admitted Celeborn as he dismounted. “For many generations, we have traded for horses when we need them in the realm where I live. I can pay you in gold or silver, though I have other things that may interest you, as well.” Celeborn motioned for the elves that drew one of the wagons forward, and he lifted a cloth that covered the goods, revealing a number of wooden barrels. “It is the brew of Lake-town, and I have access to more than what you see here,” he said, motioning to the other two wagons in the party. Haldir took note of the look of interest from Eorrel before Celeborn covered the barrels once again. The elfling had hoped this would be an acceptable form of payment – he really, really, really wanted to go home. Usually, he enjoyed these excursions, but a trip to Greenwood to swap lembas for horses turned into a spider killing fiasco – the king was unable to supply the horses promised, and instead offered the barrels of drink. Celeborn reluctantly took them, heading to Calenardhon in hopes of making a trade. They had been to four other ranches, and had nearly been chased from one of them. Haldir leaned against the neck of his father’s horse, relieved that they would soon be on their way home.
“I need six horses,” Celeborn said. “Tell me what you would accept in payment for each.”
“You will have to show me which horses you are interested in before I decide on a price,” answered Eorrel.
Celeborn nodded. “Very well. Haldir!” Haldir’s head shot up at the sound of his name. “Come, we need to choose horses, and I would have you help me.”
Haldir nodded, then dismounted and followed his father into the crowd of beautiful grazing creatures. Celeborn examined each one he came to, showing Haldir what to look for, how to tell the age of the animal, and how to judge the personality. The second time around, Celeborn began to pull horses aside, sometimes adding one to the reins he held, sometimes letting one go as he chose another, speaking to them all in a soothing voice until he walked back to Eorrel with six horses.
During this time the horse master's wife had brought fresh fruit, bread, and water to the rest of the party, and was speaking with them from atop her own horse. She dismounted when she saw the elfling return from the fields, fretting over his appearance as any mother would, and demanding he eat something even after his first and second refusals. Normally, he would have been upset by this sort of thing, but it had been so long since anyone had fussed over him like this that he felt all the more homesick as he finally began to eat the warm buttered bread and drink the spiced apple cider.
For the next few minutes, he watched as Celeborn bartered quietly with the horse master, each time frowning more and more. Finally, the old elf laughed, and exclaimed, “I understand you only think it fair to take thirty-six of the forty barrels, but I have forty, and can return home to my wife with none of them, lest she think I purposely planned to bring them back with me in the first place!” Both he and the horse master laughed heartily.
“I pity your situation, friend elf, but I am an honest man. I would not take from you what is not rightfully mine,” Eorrel told him.
“A gift, then?” suggested Celeborn. “For the hospitality you have shown.”
Eorrel laughed again. “You are hard pressed to keep from hauling those four barrels back home. One might think you feared your wife.”
“Do you not fear yours?” Celeborn asked, and even the Galadhrim who had come along on this journey chuckled.
“Aye. As all good husbands should.” Eorrel paused, looking down at Haldir, who had yet to laugh, or even to speak unless word was given for him to. “Perhaps I would accept your gift, if I might give a gift to your son.”
Celeborn raised a brow. “You do not need to exchange a gift for a gift, friend.”
“That I know,” said Eorrel. “Your young one reminds me of my own son but a few years ago, though I see he does not ride his own mount.”
“He is an elfling of but thirty-one years,” Celeborn informed him.
“Of but thirty-one years!” laughed Eorrel. “My, but I have stable hands younger and taller! My son was on his first horse at five years.” Eorrel bent over a bit so he could better speak to Haldir. “Young one, would you like a horse of your own?”
Haldir’s eyes lit up like the fireworks Mithrandir released into the skies. He looked up to his father, who nodded his head, and then back to Eorrel. “Yes, please.”
Eorrel laughed once again, and taking Haldir by the hand, led him across the fields to a stable. Along one side, foals ate beside their mothers. On the other, dozens of colts lined the stalls. Haldir was given the grand tour, each young horse named, each of them with their own special talents. His eyes darted repeatedly to a grey colt with a wispy black mane and matching black muzzle.
Two weeks later he rode proudly into Caras Galadhon, leading the group that had left on their mission months earlier. Both he and his horse held their heads high as the breeze swept through their hair.
- - -
Horses. He heard them in the distance, coming closer. Friendly horses. Proud horses. Horses of Rohan. It was undeniable – riders were joining the battle, come to turn the tide. Part of him was being drawn closer to Mandos – that he was not already there he somehow now knew – while another part fought fiercely to hold out. That someone would find him. That someone was coming to find him. If only he could hold on just a little longer.
He wanted to think of something recent, something fresh in his mind. Something happy, something to make him laugh. Something to keep him warm, something to keep him alive. When was the last time that truly had been? ‘Three hundred odd years ago. In Mithlond.’ He could not be sure, but he thought he may have smiled at the mere though of it.
- - -
“What are you going to do for the festival?” asked Elladan of his uncle as they rode through the gates of Mithlond. He and Elrohir had just explained the acrobatic juggling act they had spent the last three years perfecting, and was interested in knowing Haldir’s plans.
“I thought I might watch,” answered the Captain of Caras Galadhon.
“Watch?” Elrohir blinked in confusion. “Watch? No one just comes to watch.”
“I have come to watch,” Haldir confirmed, carefully maneuvering through the elves that had already arrived. The Merende Earende, Festival of the Sea, was a great gathering of elves on the Western Shores. Nearly all who came made some sort of presentation or provided entertainment of some sort. It was difficult for the twins to understand why Haldir would not participate at the event, which was only held every one hundred and forty-four years. It lasted for three weeks, during which time Mithlond played host to great numbers of elves from all over Arda.
“Elladan! Elrohir!” Orophin waved from across the way. He was still astride his horse, as were Rumil, Nenniach, Celebdreth, Arwen, and Celeborn. Galadriel would not attend these celebrations, for her heart ached to look upon the crashing waves of the shore. Her granddaughter had been in Lothlorien these past few years, and Haldir in Rivendell, no longer a student, but a teacher of battle tactics, sword fighting, and mathematics to his nephews and other young elves. Both he and his niece would return to their own dwellings at the culmination of the festival. This saddened Haldir somewhat, for though his brothers had a great bond with the twins, he himself favored Arwen of his sister’s children. It was he who taught her to speak Westron, to shoot arrows, and climb trees, when her brothers refused to instruct their baby sister on such things. When Celebrian had crossed the sea, he tried his best to comfort the poor elleth that he watched stand on the shore, staring into the fog as the ship floated away. He wrote letters to her often as he could telling her stories of her mother’s past in Lothlorien, poetry about the years spent as an elfling with his siblings. His own mother had told him that Celebrian would not see her daughter come to the shores of Valinor, and that somehow made each letter and poem all the more important.
The party Haldir rode in with consisted of himself, the twins, Elrond, Erestor, Lindir, and a pony with Lindir’s musical instruments. The bard had chattered the entire trip of all of the songs he had learned or created especially for the festival, and continued to do so now to Erestor, who was scanning the crowd, still trying to look interested in Lindir’s conversation. Haldir laughed as he watched the dark haired elf make a hasty retreat upon spying Glorfindel and Gildor, and Haldir pulled his own horse up to Arwen’s.
“Uncle!” Haldir silenced her with a warning look, and she lowered her voice. “I’m sorry, I forgot. It is just so wonderful to see you.” After Celeborn and Erestor had determined that the attack on Celebrian was not merely coincidence, Galadriel had insisted on making as little of the family history known. Thus, Haldir and his brothers had become no more than the brothers of Lorien, and the twins dared only call their father Ada while safely in Imladris or Lothlorien. Even as the long years had passed, Arwen still tried to persuade everyone to change things back to how they had once been, but such had not happened.
“Shall we set our horses to graze and find somewhere to watch, or had you planned to present something?” asked Haldir.
“A choral reading with Grandfather, but that will not be for days. Ada has something scheduled for this afternoon.” She lowered her voice and added, “It must be very boring, for in Erestor’s last letter, he made mention that even he attempted to talk Ada out of doing it.”
Haldir looked around, checking to be sure the elf lord was not about, and told her, “I do not think his presentation will be as dull as you might expect. As you know, I myself write letters well, and happen to know just what your father had planned.” He overemphasized the word had, making Arwen giggle. It was long a tradition to sabotage the events of friends and relatives, and the only non-elf to attend the festival, the revered Mithrandir, held the record without contestation of such pranks.
“Let us together find a spot for the horses, but I promised Ada I would sit with him when he finished.”
“Then we will find room for at least three wherever we do decide to watch.” Haldir turned his head in the direction of the snickering he could hear behind him. Dismounting, he handed the reigns to Arwen. “If it would not be such a burden, would you lead them off? I will procure seats for us and Lord Elrond.” He waited until Arwen was some ways off, then stalked over to his brothers and nephews. “Knock it off or I will knock you off your horses and into the sea.”
“I know this concept might be a little difficult for you, Haldir, but we are not from Mirkwood. We do not make it a habit to court our cousins or marry our nieces,” Orophin said in a serious, but low tone.
Haldir placed his hands on his hips and shook his head. “You are a very sad lot, all of you. She is my sister’s daughter. I would not think to do such things, and I would thank you not to come up with such foul thoughts.”
“Ah. But were that she was not your sister’s daughter,” mused Rumil.
“Were that she was not, she would be too fair and full of grace for me to think to capture, and too arrogant and coarse am I for such a noble maiden, and no more shall I say of this matter. However, as you know me to be proud and guarding of my honor, and that of my family, I vow that if I hear from any of the five of you further insult upon that honor, I shall bring down Mandos upon you all.” Haldir swept the edge of his cloak over his shoulder and left to find a suitable area to sit. Arwen quickly joined him, and they enjoyed the next few hours of entertainment without interruption from any of their brothers. Time came for Elrond’s presentation. Erestor walked upon the stage, setting up a small table. On it, he placed a stack of thin boards, not unlike those used in book binding.
“Your attention, please.” The counselor wore leggings and a tunic, something rare for one often seen in long formal robes, and looked as if he could use a stiff drink, something rarer. “The Lord Elrond presents an interactive linguistic activity for your... enjoyment.” The last word came out as if he could not believe his own use of it, and he disappeared at once behind the curtain to the side of the stage.
The audience focused on the stage for a minute or so, and then began to hum, wondering where the Lord Elrond was. "Hola." The Lord of Imladris seemed to appear from nowhere, and now stood regally upon the stage, gaze sweeping the crowd. He opened his mouth and paused for a fraction of a second, capturing the audience's attention, before continuing, "Me llamo, Elrond." He quirked one dark brow in an expression of over-exaggerated interest, "Cuáles son sus nombres? Usted tienen gusto de Southron." He nodded in certainty, "Come, let us speak Southron."
Arwen and looked at Haldir with an expression somewhere between horror and amusement. “Southron?”
“A language he claims is spoken elsewhere in Middle Earth. I think it is all complete nonsense that he has created.”
“Repite. Repeat.” A pause. “Me gusta. I like.” He stopped and waited, then cleared his throat. “Repite. Repeat. Me gusta. I like.” He enunciated much more clearly this time.
“Does he really expect?”
“I think he does,” smirked Haldir. Several voices mimicked Elrond’s last few words, and the half-elf appeared to be appeased, and so continued.
Elrond lifted one of the boards from the table. On it was a sketch of Imladris. “Me gusta…Imladris.” He waited for the audience to try out the phrase, then put the card aside and lifted the next. “No.” He shook his head. “No me gusta…Mordor.” He rounded the Rs even more ridiculously than usual, promptly a few of the elflings to imitate only this part of his speech.
“No me gusta Imladris!” shouted a voice across the field; unmistakably, it was Orophin. Laughter rang out through the crowd, but Elrond continued.
“Sí. Sí, me gusta…Lothlorien.” Elrond displayed the next image for everyone, and then it was “No. No, me gusta…Moria.”
“It’s like a magical journey across Arda. Except I can’t understand a word the old elf is saying,” Haldir heard a young elf whisper to the elleth he was with.
“Sí, me gusta…Isildur.” Elrond paused, but it wasn’t to wait for the audience response. He read to himself from the back of the card with furrowed brow. The audience held a collective breath, some of them turning red or purple or even blue, none wanting to be the first to laugh. Elrond turned the card around, rolling his eyes at the image of Isildur. In thick red ink someone had written in the corner, ‘El-It was fun. Sorry about the ring. Love, Issy.’ “* No * me gusta Isildur. No me gusta.” Elrond tossed the card behind his back, and the audience snickered and twitched, doing their utmost to keep respectful.
“Here it comes,” whispered Haldir to Arwen, hiding his grin.
“No. No me gusta…balrog.” No one was able to contain their laughter. From backstage shouts of “Ai! Ai! A balrog!” could be heard. Elrond turned the card around. Someone had painstakingly painted upon it an image of Elrond, adding horns, wings, and lots of flames. The Lord of Imladris cracked the board on the edge of the table, splintering it in half. He began to head offstage in search of those who were laughing in the wings until he suddenly cocked his head, as if listening to some far off voice. A moment later, he began to search the crowd with a wicked grin.
Arwen realized it first. “He was farspeaking. With grandmother.” She looked at Haldir. “You might want to run.”
“Not I.” Haldir watched as Celeborn bolted from his seat down to the pastures, Elrond giving chase, though rather slowly, and with a more menacing grin than before. Upon stage, Glorfindel and Erestor poked their heads out from the back curtain, then walked out to the center to clear away the table and props. Glorfindel picked up the discarded picture of Isildur, displaying it to the audience. “No me gusta Southron,” he told them.
“Sí. No me gusta Southron,” agreed Erestor as they walked off stage to thunderous applause.
Elrond did not return until the evening feasting had begun. At midday and at dusk, large bowls of fruit, bread, cheese, and other easily eaten foods were passed out, the baskets moving through the rows, always being refilled. Wine was available, as were desserts, at certain designated areas throughout the crowd. Haldir and Arwen were nearly done eating by the time the elf lord arrived. “Your Grandfather will be along shortly. He ran into Mithrandir, and the two of them are sharing a pipe.” Elrond scanned the crowd, looking for a food basket he might intercept.
“Why do you not call for someone to bring you one of the baskets?” Arwen asked as her father patiently waited for a large fruit-filled wicker bowl to find its way to their aisle.
“Because part of what I love so much about this gathering is that no one is held above anyone else. There are no lords here, nor any traveling peasants. We are all elves, and that is all.” He carefully selected pears and apples not only for himself, but for Celeborn as well. “It can be guaranteed that if we were in Imladris or Lothlorien, or if this were not the Merende Earende, I would not have rushed from the stage and tried to hogtie your Grandfather in the barns.”
“You what!?” Arwen was not granted further explanation as the next act began upon the stage.
“We would like to introduce to you a very special performance,” announced Elladan, walking across the stage as he pulled a long black sheet of fabric. Elrohir stood at the other side, holding the long spool that it unraveled from.
“Making their puppeteering debut, we present the Three Elves of Lorien and Something to Hide Behind acting company, and their first and newest play, ‘The Maiden, the Captain, and the Balrog Slayer’, which promises to include some minor appearances of a very stuffy old Librarian and a drunken old Elf Lord.”
Haldir paused for a moment, looking up at the stage, as did Arwen and Elrond. “How many Balrog Slayers are accounted for on this side of the sea?”
“Just one.” Elrond shook his head. “If their portrayal of the ‘drunken old Elf Lord’ upsets the already tumultuous relations between Imladris and Mirkwood, I shall take them both over my knee,” promised Elrond.
Elrohir took hold of the end of the fabric on his side, holding it up so that there was a four-foot-high curtain across the stage between him and his brother. Over the top came a masterfully crafted puppet of a beautiful elleth, followed by a golden-haired elf on the other side of the ‘stage’. The elleth bounced across the stage, knocking on an imaginary door.
“Come in!” announced the elf.
“Good day, Balrog-Slayer, whose name be not Golden as his Hair!” announced the elleth.
“Good day, Fair Maiden, who so comes Even as the Stars make to the heavens!” replied the elf.
“I must speak to you on a matter of some importance,” said the elleth.
“Do speak then, Fair Maiden,” said the elf.
“It is my uncle, the Captain of the Guard, who so gives me reason to pause,” said the elleth.
“Ah, your uncle, who is Hidden as a Hero of the forest. Why so does he grieve you?” asked the elf.
“Alas, for I think he is in love with me.” The elleth swooned a bit.
“Grave this matter is! I shall speak with him at once!” promised the elf.
“I thank thee!” The elleth hugged the elf, then dropped down out of sight. A moment later, another elf popped up on the opposite end of the stage, knocking on a second imaginary door. “Come in!”
“Good day, Balrog-Slayer!”
“Good day, Captain!”
“I must speak to you on a matter of some importance.”
“Do speak then, Captain.”
“I think I may be in love.”
There was another dramatic pause, and then the Balrog-Slayer said, “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure,” said the Captain in a serious tone.
“I must tell you, I do not think it proper for you to court your niece.”
Another dramatic pause. “My niece? Nay, it is not my niece.”
“Not your niece?” The Balrog-Slayer was stunned. “Well. Well then. Well, then this is good news!”
“It is?”
“It is! And you should go then to your love and tell them of your longing!”
“I should?”
“You should!” The Balrog-Slayer announced. There was a lengthy pause before the Balrog-Slayer took a bit of a hop back. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked just before the other elf pounced him.
Haldir couldn’t remember at exactly which moment his jaw had dropped to the ground. He did recall the moment that Glorfindel hauled him up out of his chair. “Come. This was funny, but to a point. It is time to defend our honor.” Haldir nodded dumbly as he stood, then placed his hand on Glorfindel’s shoulder.
“We can’t just go up there and rip the curtain from them or start fighting them onstage. I am none too happy with what they have done, but at the same time, I do not wish to cause chaos here at the festival,” Haldir told him.
“True.” Glorfindel crossed his arms and frowned as the majority of the audience laughed again at the antics onstage. “What we need are some puppets of our own.”
Haldir turned around and looked at Arwen. “Give me your stockings.”
Arwen looked at him with slight disbelief, while her father looked appalled. “I begin to wonder how much of this play is fiction at such an odd request.”
“Perhaps we should take one of hers and one of his,” suggested Glorfindel. “Different colors.”
Arwen and Elrond were now both looking at the pair with trepidation. “For puppets,” explained Haldir. “Please?”
Arwen reluctantly removed a slipper and pulled a long violet stocking from her foot. “You will bring it back, will you not?”
“Of course,” promised Glorfindel, looking over to Elrond.
“Certainly not. Use your own socks,” Elrond huffed.
“I’m not above begging,” Glorfindel said. A moment later, he’d gotten down on one knee in front of Elrond.
“Oh, for the love of Arda, take it before they edit the scene you are making into this little production of theirs.” Elrond pulled off a boot and slipped a dark blue sock off, tossing it at Glorfindel.
“Thank you, Lord Elrond.” Glorfindel tossed the sock at Haldir and headed up to the stage, the Captain following close behind.
Elrohir caught a glimpse of them coming first, but was frozen in place, not sure whether to alert the others, or just begin to run. The glare he received from Glorfindel, and then Haldir, kept him in his place. The pair of elves ran up the stairs of the stage, plainly in view of the audience, and ducked down behind the curtain. There was a gasp, a snort, and a laugh from those who were already behind the curtain. All three puppets were ‘on-stage’, but had frozen in their tracks. A purple mesh covered hand appeared suddenly over the top of the curtain.
“Behold!” growled a voice. “I have come to destroy you all! I am fire and shadow!” Glorfindel gave a fearsome roar.
“You’re pink,” stated the elleth, but her voice wasn’t the falsetto it had been throughout the performance.
“I’m a little under the weather,” growled the ‘balrog’.
“Where are your wings?” asked the silvery-haired elf puppet.
“Obviously, I don’t have any wings.”
“I was always led to believe that balrogs have wings,” retorted the Captain-elf puppet.
“Not all of them have wings, Celebdreth. Er, I mean, Captain. Only female balrogs have wings. And now you shall face my wrath!” Glorfindel reared his hand back, looking more like a snake than a balrog.
“Here. Take him. He killed a balrog already, he had loads of experience with this.” The elf puppet shoved the golden haired elf puppet forward.
“Please, Captain, that I felled one already, ‘tis true, I think it is your turn.” The second elf puppet shoved the first forward. The entire audience was in an uproar.
The puppet made a long display of looking up at the balrog, then grabbed the arm of the elleth puppet, pulling her in front of him. “Ladies first!”
Among all the on stage commotion, none of the puppets noticed a dark blue figure (which looked an awful lot like a hand with a sock over it) looming behind them. “Silence.”
All three puppets turned, looking up now at the tall figure.
“What’s this? Another balrog?” questioned the elleth, though she was sounding more and more like Orophin. At either side of the stage, Elladan and Elrohir were doing their best not to let the curtain drop, but their own laughter had caused it to sag around the middle, making the puppeteers resort to further improvisation.
“Ai! A balrog on the hill, and we’re stuck in the valley!” The Captain puppet threw his arms in the air.
“Tra-La-La-Lally, Come down to the Valley…” sang the Balrog Slayer puppet.
“Those are balrogs!” screeched the elleth puppet, as a giant fist came over the top of the curtain and bopped the head of the Balrog Slayer. “Don’t encourage them!”
“They can’t both be balrogs,” reasoned the Captain puppet. “Unless the blue one is shadow and the pink one is flame.”
“I am not pink!” the stocking clad hand said. “I am lavender, more so than pink.”
“I am not a balrog!” boomed the voice of the darker sock puppet.
“You sure?” asked the elleth.
“No wings,” replied the puppet, to which the other puppets collectively said “Ahhhhh….”
“So…who are you then?” demanded the Balrog Slayer.
“I am Mandos! And I tire of the games you play!”
There was a pause, and then what came next was spoken between the puppeteers and not part of the play.
“Well, gosh, Halli, it was just a joke.” Rumil.
“If we’d have known you were going to take it this bad, we wouldn’t have done it.” Celebdreth.
“I think we need a group hug.” Orophin. But he was using the falsetto voice again.
There was a minor scuffle backstage, with only the pink balrog staying above the curtain. A few moments later, the rest of the puppets reemerged over the top, though they were slightly disheveled now. No one seemed quite to know how to progress now. Mandos the sock puppet finally spoke.
“And let that be a lesson to you in the future.”
“Oh, of course.”
“Consider it noted.”
“Or else,” he warned, “I shall be sure to see you sent somewhere horrible. Somewhere worse than the Northern Fences.”
“Worse than the Northern Fences? I hardly believe such a place exists,” scoffed the Balrog Slayer.
“I shall have you sent...” Haldir played out the dramatic pause, grinning backstage at his brothers, but especially, Orophin, “...to Imladris.”
“NO ME GUSTA IMLADRIS!” wailed the elleth puppet. The audience, which had been fully enjoying themselves, were now falling off their seats and leaning onto one another as laughter swept through the crowd. Even Lord Elrond was hard pressed to keep a straight face.
“What about the balrog?” asked the Captain puppet.
“That is not a balrog,” sighed Mandos the puppet.
“Am I not?” the lavender stocking asked.
“No. Show yourself for who you truly are!” Mandos demanded.
Glorfindel looked around the three elves in the middle, trying to get some direction from Haldir, who simply shrugged. As Erestor would have said, they were knee deep in it now. Haldir smirked, made sure the others couldn’t see the exchange, and mouthed a name to Glorfindel.
“I shall!” announced the sock puppet. A hand reached above, grabbing hold of the toe of the stocking. “I am not a balrog, but something more fearsome! I am-” The stocking was removed, and flung offstage. “-the Librarian!”
“Ai! I’m blind!” raged the Balrog Slayer puppet, covering his eyes in true Glorfindel mannerism. Glorfindel himself was mimicking obscene poses with his hand and arm, and doing a rather good job of it, decided Haldir. His eyes widened as he noted a sixth figure creeping onto the stage behind Glorfindel.
“Mandos has to get back to his halls now!” Haldir ducked his puppet down and slid under the curtain instead of going back around it. Most of the others seemed to have caught on, escaping the wrath of Erestor – for now. Even the twins had flown, letting the curtain drop, covering Glorfindel. Erestor stood over him, the audience in a total uproar.
“I think this has to be one of the best Festivals I can remember,” Celeborn said as Haldir approached Elrond and Arwen, finding his father sitting in his former seat. “The lady would have loved to have seen this.”
“Who is to say she has not put her mirror to use while you are all away?” questioned Elrond, taking his sock back from Haldir. “I just hope I can return home with my counselors both in one piece after this.” On stage, Erestor had easily trapped most of Glorfindel under the curtain and was mercilessly tickling the bottom of his right foot.
“Mandos! It was Mandos!” laughed Glorfindel, struggling to get away. One arm shot out of the curtain he was buried under, reforming the puppet hand. “It was Mandos! Haldir! He told me to!”
Arwen looked to Haldir, who had been crouching on the ground behind Elrond. “Now you might want to run.”
“You are wise beyond your years, m’lady.” Haldir took off down the field, hearing Glorfindel’s cry of “Mandos!” echoing behind.
