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Without noticing, the newest guests in the Last Homely House East of the Sea would be disrupting the daily routines significantly. As such, everything was as intended. Elrond took great pride in the hospitality of his house, but at the same time, Imladris held many secrets that a passing traveller might overlook and any elf could be trusted to keep silent about. A group of keen-eyed dwarves on the other hand could be counted on to discover each and every irregularity with improbable accuracy.

The most recent of those secrets was currently hiding in the bushes, watching as his foster-father led the patrol to surround the obstinate dwarves that had taken to arms as the homecoming horn sounded. The boy looked up in surprise as he was lifted from his hiding place by the back of his tunic.

“Should you not be having lessons with Táranis right now, Estel?”

Although Glorfindel was not very tall for an elf, he was still almost two heads taller than the ten year old. But more than any sort of physical intimidation, it was the stern look the ancient elf gave him that caused Estel to shuffle his feet shyly. Estel knew Glorfindel to be a very easy-going and downright jolly elf, but very serious about lessons and chores.

“I heard ada Elrond was riding out, and I wanted to see when he came back,” he admitted. “Mistress Táranis said I could take a break until then.”

Innocent grey eyes glanced up at him from above an adorable pout that Estel had perfected by age three, after realizing its devastating effect on the elves he lived among. Glorfindel was aware that Táranis had probably not released Estel out of the goodness of her heart, but rather because the boy would not sit still and listen anyway until his ada Elrond returned safe and sound. Although he had been too young to consciously remember the gruesome death of his blood-father at the hand of orcs that had led to him growing up in the safety of Imladris, his subconscious memories manifested in bouts of nervousness and unrest whenever any of those elves closest to him left on patrol, most of all his foster-father and -brothers.

“Well, now that he is back, you can return to your lessons. Go on. I will see you for dinner as usual.”

Instead of running of immediately, Estel stayed to finish eavesdropping on the conversation below.

“Ada does not seem happy. He will not eat with us tonight, will he? I see Mithrandir. Those are important guests, aren’t they?”

“Yes. Elrond will dine with Mithrandir and the dwarves on the western terrace this evening, and we will eat in the dining room as usual. Now, off with you.”

Finally, Estel hurried to return to his lessons. Glorfindel stayed on the precipice, watching dwarves and elves alike follow Elrond inside. He surveyed with relief that none of the warriors seemed injured, least of all the descendants of his cousin that he had sworn to protect. The dwarves on the other hand had him almost giddy with anticipation. He had not spent time with dwarves since the host of Durin IV had joined the armies of the Last Alliance in the fight against Sauron. The secretive folk seldom ventured far beyond their mountain kingdoms and he was bound to Imladris by both duty and friendship. He had grown to like the resilient little folk back then, and was eager to renew his friendship with their descendants.

Dinner was a boisterous affair. News of their dwarven guests had spread quickly, and the kitchen staff were eager to spread the story of how Elrond had decided to respond to their initial rudeness with a dinner of salads and cheese, well knowing that they preferred heartier meals with meat and stew to the lighter vegetarian fare that was served on the terrace that evening. In the dining room, they feasted on fried venison with a stew of vegetables in spicy sauce and noodles instead.

Estel was merrily recounting that day’s lessons to anyone in hearing range, indulging his mother Gilraen, who was grateful that his education was seen to by accomplished loremasters, but still strove to be as involved in the childhood of her son as she could.

Elladan sat in his father’s usual place at the head of the table with his younger twin to his right and Glorfindel at his left. The twins were among the few who were less interested in the dwarves, and more curious about the other guest that Gandalf had brought to their home. Both Elladan and Elrohir were familiar with hobbits through their work with the Rangers of the North, who guarded the Shire diligently, but for a hobbit to leave their peaceful home was rare indeed. Thus far, none could think of a reason why that hobbit might travel with thirteen dwarves, although all of them suspected Gandalf’s meddling.

Glorfindel hurried through dinner. Too curious about the dwarves to wait and question the musicians and servants assigned to the welcoming feast, or even Lindir or Elrond themselves, he resolved to instead hide somewhere above the terrace and indulge in the ancient art of eavesdropping. It had been too long since something innocuously exciting had happened.

He was not what one might call the most subtle of people, and neither his colouring nor his preferred clothes were particularly stealthy, but he had a healthy trust in the predisposition of dwarves to ignore everything that happened above their heads. From his Vanya grandmother, he had inherited his bright golden curls that reached to the small of his back despite their tight corkscrew locks. Another nod to his Vanyarin heritage were the plain white skirts and sleeveless tunics he favoured over the multilayered robes in muted colours that were customary for contemporary Noldorin fashion, since white flattered his obsidian complexion so much more. Even among elves, he stood out, since most of those dwelling in Middle-Earth were Sindar or Sylvan with paler, russet or mahogany skin and silver, blonde or brown hair. Even among his exiled Noldor kin, most shared the black hair and ivory skin of his maternal grandfather, from whom Glorfindel had only inherited the prominent cheekbones and the familial baggage of doom.

Approaching the edge of the balcony above the feasting dwarves, he caught the end of an explanation that had earlier been drowned out by the music as was customary.

“- sword of the King of Gondolin. These were made for the Goblin Wars of the First Age. How did you come by these?”

A quick glance confirmed Elrond’s assessment, not that he doubted the diligence with which his Lord and friend had studied his own ancestors. Glorfindel remembered Glamdring well. It had been among the swords that the Sons of Fëanor had gifted to their kin at the Mereth Aderthad as an attempt at reparation and symbol of reconciliation, just like most other famous blades the Noldor princes had borne in the First Age. There had been other weapons, of course, swords and other alike, but few smiths could compete with the craftsmanship of Fëanor and his sons, as was evident in the sword Elrond was handling, which was gleaming and sharp even after over six millenia of dis- and misuse.

He was contemplating the practicality of leaving his high perch and joining the conversation, enquiring about any other swords they may have found as the conversation drifted to other topics, but he was reluctant to reveal himself to the dwarves. No elf could have have missed him, given that he had not cared to hide himself in any way beyond his high seat, and his vices, most of all his incurable curiosity, were well known in the valley.

He left after the one with the funny hat had sung a startlingly accurate ditty about Tillion, while the dwarves indulged in a food fight. They would be staying for a while, there would be opportunities to observe and maybe converse before the dwarves left.

Such an opportunity presented itself a few days later, during which the dwarves had strained the nerves of all resident elves to an unprecedented extent by burning the furniture instead of asking for firewood and bathing in the decorative fountain instead of the also very decorative baths that were actually intended for bathing. Glorfindel held strong opinions about people who disrespected fountains, not the least because of his cousin and dear friend Ecthelion who had died in one after spending much of his time in Gondolin filling the city with an ever increasing number of increasingly decorative fountains.

He was lounging in the afternoon sun on a banister when he heard a pair of dwarves approach from below.

“How long do you think will Thorin make us stay? He had his map translated, we are under time pressure and I am bored. Do we actually have a reason to tarry?”

That was the almost-beardless one. Glorfindel wondered how young he must be to sport such a naked chin.

“You know that Thorin keeps his own council. He may have discussed matters with Balin or Dwalin, but we will get to know his decisions at the same time as anybody else,” answered the blonde one. He had yet to see the two of them apart. Except for their leader, the dwarves were keeping to themselves and staying together in groups of at least two or three, as if fearing danger from their hosts.

By their sudden silence, Glorfindel noticed that the pair had reached his field of view, probably staring at the strange elf that was  lying there. Almost all other residents of the valley were taking care to stay out of the way, and out of sight of their visitors. Lazily flicking open an eye to confirm his assumption, he proceeded to jump down from his perch, congratulating himself on this well executed ‘chance’ meeting.

“Glorfindel, at your service,” he introduced himself with a dwarvish bow.

“Fíli,” “and Kíli,” “at yours and your family’s,” they answered reflexively with well practiced alternation.

“I could not help but overhear your conversation, and I believe I can relieve your plight. There is an archery range and drill grounds that you may not have come across by chance. Dwarves are still overly fond of armed exercises, yes?”

Enthusiastic nods answered his question. A small detour to fetch their weapons later, Glorfindel was showing the dwarves to the drill grounds of Imladris. Their hidden position was more of a mark of their age than a conscious design decision. Extensive training grounds had been among the first things that had been constructed after the foundation of the settlement and as civilian construction had swallowed up most of their former dimensions, the remaining barracks were almost impossible to stumble upon by chance, hidden as they were between the private residences of the valley’s most long standing denizens.

The courtyard was empty. There were none in Imladris who were still so young to require instruction in their chosen weapons, except for Estel, who had his lessons in the morning. Most preferred to join him then for their own practices and sparring, both for the simple joy of his cheerful presence and because many shared this affinity, turning morning practice into a merry gathering.

“You may spar here, if you wish, and practise archery also, as long as you return everything to its proper place and state when you are done. You may also show the way to your travelling companions, provide they abide by the same rules I just told you. In return, I only ask for the pleasure of your company.”

Kíli was exploring the courtyard with unrestrained enthusiasm. His brother was more sceptical, assessing Glorfindel with crossed arms.

“Why?”

“I haven’t met dwarves since the end of the Second Age, and Durin IV was such a delightful fellow. You look very similar to him, actually.”

His sincerity convinced Fíli of the innocence of his intentions, and both proved eager to learn more about their illustrious ancestor than what had survived the ages in official records. In return, they shared much about their quest and their kin, with whom they were travelling. More, mayhap, than others in the company would like any elf to learn, but the brothers were young and candid, lacking the deep-seated suspicion of their elders.

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Glorfindel had been reluctant to join the White Council when it formed, but attended all meeting diligently nonetheless. He had proven a capable leader as a Lord in Gondolin, but after his reembodyment and return to Middle-Earth, he preferred to defer to the authority of Elrond. Thus, he served the Council as a military advisor, given that even though, in contrast to him, Galadriel had survived the First Age, the protectiveness of her brothers had seen her far from the battlefields, which made him the most experienced warrior among them.

He was equally diligent in tuning out Saruman’s prattle when Lindir interrupted the meeting. The Istar was too fond of the sound of his own voice, and Glorfindel held an intense dislike for his inactive and overly optimistic attitude, as it was ill coupled with a never ending need to meddle and influence others to the same inaction.

“My Lord Elrond. The dwarves, they’re gone.”

That ended the debate effectively. Even Saruman could see the futility of pursuing the dwarves to hinder their quest, not knowing which way they had chosen towards the High Pass.

It was not a difficult feat to linger inconspicuously and intercept Gandalf before he could disappear down the winding pathways between the buildings. After making sure that Saruman was long gone, he confirmed his conclusions, namely, that Gandalf knew very well where and when the dwarves had gone, that he was not uninvolved in the time and manner of their departure, and that he had plans to join them again later.

That last part was most important to him. Ever since he had learned the bare basics of their quest from Fíli and Kíli, he had contemplated taking leave from his duties to go and kill a dragon. That urge had only increased in light of the news Gandalf had brought. The defenses of Imladris were solid and did not need constant supervision, and removing a dangerous beast would mean removing another concern, as well. Glorfindel had faced dragons several times, but the thought of actually killing one by himself had him giddy with anticipation.

“Please, do not leave without me. I need to take care of a few things first, but I would very much like to join you and your dwarves on this venture.”

The wizard nodded, making a show of thinking his request through.

“I will leave at sunset,” he announced finally. That gave Glorfindel just about an entire day to put everything into order and pack. The sun had just risen over the eastern ridge.

It was surprisingly easy to convince Elrond to let him leave. Glorfindel suspected that the elf-lord had known of his half-formed plans before he himself had recognized the thirst for adventure that had produced them. Picking suitable armor and a number of weapons that was not excessive for travel but still left him prepared for everything he could think of was easy, but clothes were a different matter. Contrary to his preference to Noldor style armor, as developed in the First Age, perfected in the Second and remaining almost unchanged except for cosmetic adjustments since then, he clung to his Vanyarin white garments with a fierce stubbornness and owned few things that would not stain awfully within a day of travel. His salvation proved to be a couple of tunics and trousers in dark blues and greens that Celebrían had gifted him in a misguided attempt to convert him to a more colourful style. That settled, he had the entire afternoon to braid his long hair into the low-maintenance style he preferred for longer journeys and fighting, and was ready and waiting to leave in the front courtyard at sunset as Gandalf had requested.

Both had said their farewells already, and they left without further delay, walking through the night under the light of the stars, intent to catch up with the dwarves as fast as possible. Both elf and wizard needed less sleep than mortals and could quickly cross wide stretches of open land, but dwarves had the advantage on mountain paths and may outpace them there. Gandalf had concerns that Thorin would not wait before scaling the pass, ignoring his advice once again.

Fortunately, despite travelling light and taking time every day to forage or hunt for food, they had the dwarves within sight by the time the trodden path had transformed into a narrow ledge that was hewn into the steep mountainside. Wind and rain were turning their footing treacherous, and Glorfindel hoped that they might pass a cave soon to wait out the worst of the storm.

Advancing slowly and carefully, they came upon a cave as the downpour lessened. Within, there were signs that the dwarves had made camp, footprints in the sand and the like, but of the dwarves themselves or their whereabouts no trace. Gandalf searched the cave for clues, humming importantly into his beard, while Glorfindel followed the trail of footsteps deeper inside.

“Look, Mithrandir. There is some sort of furrow in the ground here, where the tracks end. And it stinks of orc.”

Again, the wizard hummed to himself as he looked closer at the line Glorfindel was indicating. After a while, he straightened again, gripping his staff closer.

“I think we have found the hidden entrance to a goblin hole. That must be where the Company vanished to. We must proceed carefully.”

And so they did. Later, Glorfindel could not explain how Gandalf and he had gained entry into the goblin den, but in they went, creeping through the shadows and following the racket the creatures were making, helpfully indicating which way they had taken the dwarves.

Hidden behind a boulder, they could observe the spectacle, waiting for an opportune moment for a surprise attack to free the dwarves. Once the goblins were sufficiently distracted by the discovery of Orcrist in their midst, Gandalf went forth with a immense burst of light and force, blasting many of the goblins straight off the platform, and Glorfindel followed suit with his great war-lance.

“Take up arms. Fight. Fight!”

Gandalf led the escape while Glorfindel guarded their rear, goblins pursuing them relentlessly. The chase ended rather abruptly when the Great Goblin burst forth from the wooden bridge in front of them, blocking their path. The creature was rather smug about it, too, until it fell down dead a few sword strokes later, destabilizing the already rickety construction. The whole bridge tumbled down the canyon, taking thirteen dwarves, a wizard and an elf down with it.

After having extricated each other from the wreckage, Glorfindel noticed the crowd of goblins pouring down the cave walls after them, a reduced number, but still far too many to fight.

“There’s too many. We can’t fight them,” one of the dwarves stated the obvious. Glorfindel acknowledged that he had to learn their names as quickly as possible if he did not want to come off as rude while travelling with them.

“Only one thing will save us, daylight!” Gandalf described the equally obvious but difficult solution, as deep in the caves as they were. Fortunately, he had an estimate in which direction to go to find a way out, or at least he was good at pretending he had, and led them successfully down a craggy path into the light.

Gandalf halted a good distance away from the crevice through which they had escaped, counting and naming the dwarves to make sure none had been left behind. Glorfindel took the opportunity to memorize their names and faces. Fíli and Kíli seemed delighted to see him, whereas the grim and bald one, Dwalin, was just about to say something, probably to question his presence, when Gandalf forestalled him with a question of his own.

“Where’s Bilbo? Where is our hobbit?”

During the heated exchange of worries and suspicions, Glorfindel made himself as inconspicuous as an almost two meter tall elf with long golden braids and obsidian skin in gleaming silver-plated armor could be, which is not very much. After the hobbit had revealed himself and heartfelt declarations had been made, their attention immediately turned to him.

“And who is this? Why did you bring an elf, Gandalf?” questioned Thorin.

“Ah, but I did not bring him as much as he brought himself along,” Gandalf answered.

“I heard of your quest and thought it a worthy venture that might profit from my presence,” Glorfindel elaborated. “That I get to enjoy the delightful company of your nephews for a while longer is just a bonus.”

“This is no pleasure trip. I cannot sanction taking an unexperienced warrior on this quest, least of all an elf,” Thorin answered with a disdainful glance at his gleaming armor. Maybe he should have taken the heavy gold-plated set he had worn in the service of Gil-Galad instead? It was a bit impractical for travel and single combat, being optimized for the heavy phalanx, but certainly looked a lot more impressive, even though he had never managed to get rid of some of the dents in the flower relief. This newer set was downright plain in comparison.

“I killed Balrogs.”

As one, the dwarves and the hobbit turned to stare at him in wonder and disbelief.

“Well, to be precise I killed one Balrog in single combat. The others were a team effort,” he clarified, embarrassed to have lowered himself to bragging generalisations. The stares did not abate.

“We should get going, I can hear wargs approaching.”

As if summoned by his warning, a loud howl rent the silence. They ran down the mountain slopes, until they reached the edge of a bluff that turned their escape route into a dead end. At Gandalf’s urging, he followed the others into a tree, although he wondered how that would help them in the long run. He thought of stringing up his bow, but he was only a mediocre archer and did not want to embarrass himself again so soon.

The leader of the orc pack was a hideous thing, pale and scarred, mounted on an enormous white warg. It was also obviously well known to Thorin, judging by his reaction to seeing the creature alive. Riderless wargs were attacking the trees, tearing off branches and trying to climb or topple them. Glorfindel was using the superior range of his lance to his advantage, but soon, they were all pushed back onto one tree that stood precariously close to the edge.

Even Gandalf’s idea of throwing burning pine cones at the wargs only drove them off for a moment, and it came a moment too late, the pine toppling over until it lay horizontally, its roots barely clinging to the edge of the cliff. It was then that Thorin decided to charge Azog, sword drawn and his iconic ancient oaken branch shielding his arm.

Unfortunately, the great white beast showed itself unfazed and caught Thorin with its maw, shaking him terribly before throwing him onto a nearby rock. Glorfindel wanted to dash after him to help, but he worried that any movement might topple the tree and send the other dwarves tumbling to their deaths.

Bilbo had no such compunctions when he saw Thorin lying defenseless at the mercy of the orcs. With a courage that was disproportionate to his small stature he rushed to the rescue, swinging his sword with more enthusiasm than skill. This act of bravery revealed all hesitation to be immaterial, and soon all those who were not clinging to the tree for fear of their life were joining the fray with war-cries on their lips.

The battle did not last long. Already, Glorfindel could hear the Eagles of Manwë approaching, revealing the crux of Gandalf’s escape plans. The great birds toppled more trees, this time on top of wargs and riders alike, and threw some more over the edge of the cliff before collecting the whole Company in their claws or on their backs. He fought as long as he could before being carried off as well. Damn avians had no sense of timing, he almost had that white fiend.

The Eagles were unusually helpful, carrying them as far as an outcrop in the middle of the Anduin, but Gandalf had always been in the habit of amassing useful favors owed. It was on that crag that Thorin demonstrated that the dwarvish incapability to express their feelings properly was still going strong even three thousand years later. Glorfindel was determined to help and support him in that as much as he could. Erebor on the horizon in the light of the setting sun was even providing the perfect background for a romantic confession, how could the dwarf not see that? Instead, he proved himself a master in the art of mood whiplash. Glorfindel doubted to have ever met anyone who was more in need of his help than Thorin Oakenshield, except maybe Elrond, who had needed two millenia to admit to his crush on Celebrían, and another century to finally propose. The dwarf could not afford that kind of reluctance.

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The orc pack was still in pursuit, despite the advance the flight of the Eagles had granted them. They had caught up quickly, but were still searching for the tracks the Company had carefully avoided leaving. The dwarves were in dire need of sleep and Bilbo was almost dead on his feet, stumbling along blindly.

“We need to find shelter. They cannot go on much longer. There is no way we can hope to outrun the wargs, but neither can we fight and expect to win, as exhausted as they are.”

Glorfindel was worried. Even after the Eagles’ intervention, the wargs and orcs still outnumbered the travelling group significantly. While he was convinced that he could defeat them easily, he was dedicated to the protection of his companions, and that, he could not guarantee.

“There is one who might succour us. Beorn is not overly fond of dwarves, or elves for that matter, but he also holds a passionate hate for orcs. That might convince him to help us.”

They did indeed find shelter and much needed rest in Beorn’s hall. The huge skin-changer was gruff and abrasive, but became more cooperative and friendly as soon as Gandalf mentioned the orcs. He offered them a feast of warm bread, cream and honey while Gandalf told him of their journey, and ample space to sleep afterwards. In the evening, he left to chase the orcs from his lands, and Glorfindel joined him gladly. He had rested enough on the back of the eagle and was most eager to kill more orcs.

They stayed with Beorn for a few days. Especially Bilbo was in dire need of rest after the harrowing end to the crossing of the mountains. After seeing him with his sword, Glorfindel insisted on teaching him the basics of swordplay, to the amusement of the watching dwarves. They were doubting his experience in teaching a so much smaller student, and often wondered aloud what use his lessons were since he could not teach the dwarvish tricks of overwhelming a larger opponent.

While it was true that Bilbo was little more than half as tall as Glorfindel, that still made him about as big as a ten year old elven child, and even in peaceful Valinor that had been past the age where a child first became familiar with spear, hunting knife and bow. Glorfindel had never married, but he loved children and had rarely passed up a chance to spend time with the children of his sisters and cousins, not matter how distant the relation. Teaching them to fight was a more respectable choice for an old and venerable warrior like him than the other activities that came to his mind.

When Kíli, in a foolhardy combination of youthful overconfidence and dwarvish disdain challenged Bilbo to demonstrate what he had learned, the latter showed that the techniques, developed in the First Age to bring down Balrogs that measured at least double the height of even the tallest Noldor, worked just as well with much smaller height differences.

A discussion ensued about the advantages and disadvantages of different weapons and fighting styles, soon devolving into the younger dwarves pestering Glorfindel for more stories about all the Balrogs he had fought.

“All those dead Balrogs are fine and well, but that is not a Balrog but a dragon occupying our mountain. Tell us about the dragons you killed,” Dwalin finally demanded.

“I haven’t, actually. That’s why I wanted to come. Most of the dragon-slaying in the First Age was during the War of Wrath, and I was not part of that campaign.”

Glorfindel’s stay in Mandos had softened the memories of his death and made them easier to bear. That did not make him any more willing to talk about it, least of all with mortals who tended to ask the most insensitive questions. His stories of the Fall of Gondolin always included the survivor’s arrival at the Havens of Sirion that Idril had told him about, and it was remarkably easy to gloss over the half of the Second Age that he did not witness personally. Mortals lived for so short a time, they never noticed.

“But if you want advice on the slaying of dragons, we are travelling in the right direction. Greenwood the Great is the realm of Thranduil. He fought in the War of Wrath when he was young, long before he followed his father Oropher east and the Kingdom of the Woodland Realm was founded. A few dozen dragons fell by his hand alone back then.”

His advice was received with colourful expletives and a very vocal refusal from Thorin. Glorfindel struggled to catch the gist of it, mired as it was with Khuzdul curses and almost drowned out by the complaints of the other older dwarves. After a while, he concluded that the dwarves felt somehow betrayed and abandoned by Thranduil, which did not fit with Glorfindel’s memories of the valiant prince he had met in the Second Age, or the wise and just king he had become since then. He stayed silent nonetheless, seeing no sense in arguing against their perceptions without knowing both sides of the argument. He had no doubt that he would get to know both sides of the argument, extensively, in the days to come. The quickest way to Erebor led straight through the Greenwood, and none crossed the forest without being noticed by the patrols. He wisely kept silent about that as well, preempting the displeasure of the dwarves. They remained dismissive of elves, barely tolerating him, even after he had proven his usefulness in battle and bribing them with anecdotes about dwarves of ages past.

Beorn lent them ponies to speed their way to the edge of the forest, where they set the animals loose to return to their master. While the dwarves busied themselves with unharnessing the ponies, Gandalf went into the forest to scout the path.

“This forest feels sick,” Bilbo said. Maybe that was an astute observation for a Hobbit, but to Glorfindel, it was stating the obvious. He was no wood-elf, and had never lived anywhere but in cities, provided that one counted Imladris as one, but plants and their health and ailments had been his preferred field of study before the Darkening and all that followed made him a warrior. These trees were dark and grey with some disease he could not recognize. Some trunks even looked dead and were overgrown with fungi and choking vines, even though they still had a full crown of brownish leaves. It was unsettling to see, especially since the forest had been green and hale when he last visited a few centuries ago. “Is there no way around?”

“Not unless you want to go two hundred miles north, or twice that much south. We do not have the time for such a detour.”

Not that a detour would help them any. To the north was Gundabad and to the south Dol Guldur, two orc dens that posed much more danger to passing travellers than a forest that was patrolled and secured by elves possibly could, even infested as it was.

Gandalf returned to the edge of the forest in an urgent pace just in time to prevent the dwarves from unsaddling his horse.

“This is where I leave you,” he said, to the surprise of all. “There are some things I need to verify. But I leave you in good hands. Glorfindel knows the forest as well as anyone who does not dwell here might, he will not lead you astray.”

The dwarves grumbled, displeased to be forced to rely on an elf to lead them through an elven realm. Gandalf used their momentary distraction to whisper further explanations.

“Be careful. I discovered the Eye graffitied onto one of the statues. Evil is stirring. I must investigate the tombs of the Ringwraiths, and the success of this quest has become even more important. It is good that you joined us.”

Addressing all of them, he continued louder.

“Do not lose sight of each other. Do not drink the water. Better yet, do not touch the water. Ancient enchantments lie on this wood, but they have been warped and twisted in recent times. And whatever happens, do not leave the path!”

That said, he rode off, back west the way they had come. They needed a while longer to distribute all their baggage and supplies evenly. When the dwarves had finally finished squabbling over who was carrying the heaviest load, Thorin took point and led them into the forest.

They advanced quickly at first. The Old Forest Road was in a bad state and almost hidden under a thick layer of foliage, as it had not been used since the fall of Erebor, but Thorin followed the winding path confidently. Glorfindel brought up the rear, resigned that Thorin’s pride would not allow him to accept help from an elf unless there were no alternatives. The canopy was abnormally thick, casting the forest below into eternal twilight that made it almost impossible to tell the difference between night and day. It was eerily reminiscent of the stories of Nan Elmoth that Idril had sometime been able to coax from her cousin.

Further inside, the forest turned greyer and sicker. The trees were twisted in bizarre shapes, blocking the path and slowing them down.

The first serious obstacle they encountered was the crumbled bridge over a forest river. Glorfindel remembered the enchanted stream. It was part of a great network of rivers and rivulets that crisscrossed the forest, every single one of them enchanted to alert the king whenever someone passed them without permission and protect the forest from intruders. The magic had allowed for the taint to accumulate in the water, turning it foul and poisoned and corrupting the sorcery.

“So this is why Gandalf warned us not to drink the water. Be careful! I cannot discern how far the old enchantments have been twisted. You better cross the river without touching it at all,” Glorfindel said. There were plenty of vines hanging low over the stream, providing a good alternative to the broken bridge.

“The lightest should go first,” said Thorin with a look towards Bilbo, who took one look at the vines and slumped in resignation. When everyone had left the shore, Glorfindel made a running jump, joining Bilbo on the other side.

“There is something very wrong with that river,” the hobbit complained. Glorfindel scrutinized him with a frown, trying to discern if he was serious. Both Gandalf and himself had already warned him.

“Of course there is something wrong with that river. There lies a magic upon it that has become twisted and evil. I warned you.”

“Yes.” Bilbo nodded empathically. “But the dwarves don’t listen to you if you talk about anything but dwarves. I hoped they might be more cautious if I warn them again. The river almost lulled me to sleep when I looked into it one time to regain my footing.”

Glorfindel cast a worried glance back at the dwarves, most of whom were still struggling through the tangling vines. Thorin jumped ashore with a loud thump.

“Look.” Bilbo was pointing at a white stag that was watching them from afar. Glorfindel looked at it with relief. They had been noticed. Soon, he would have reinforcements to help him deal with stubborn dwarves who just would not listen.

A missed arrow clattered against a tree, startling the animal away.

“You should not have done that,” Bilbo cautioned. “It’s bad luck.”

“We don’t need luck. We make our own luck,” was Thorin’s only reply. Glorfindel sighed. Crossing the forest would prove more difficult than he had anticipated. Had relations between the Woodland Realm and Erebor been so dire before the dragon came, that even their king did not know the most fundamental rules and customs?

So deep in thought was he, that Glorfindel noticed too late how Bombur had fallen asleep on a vine, dashing towards him in a futile attempt to prevent him from falling into the water. Even after he was pulled from the stream, nothing would wake him, not even the old songs of awakening, vigil and awareness that Glorfindel was singing to him. The dwarves were about to build a makeshift litter out of their long-handled weapons when he found two strong and light branches that were much more suitable for that purpose.

Progress slowed considerably after that. The path was wound too tightly and was too narrow to carry the litter comfortably, and morale was low. They trudged and stumbled on, carried forward by the famed stubbornness of dwarves that made them refuse to admit defeat to an elvish forest. Glorfindel watched their doggedness with increasing worry.

Chapter Text

Glorfindel had resigned himself to following the dwarves around in circles hours before they finally realized it themselves. The illusions were distorting the senses, theirs more than his. He had cautioned Thorin and offered once again his services as a guide, but had been turned down gruffly. He tried not to take it personally, realizing that the tainted forest was amplifying everyone’s worst traits, even his own. He caught himself being less patient with his companions, more imperious with his advice and less and less tolerant with their refusal to listen to him. Although he knew that he was being influenced, he could hardly resist the spell. It was no surprise the mortals were so harried.

His mind was clouded, which only added to his distraction. Glorfindel was having difficulties keeping track of all thirteen dwarves and one hobbit. His senses were alternating between overwhelming sharpness and a disorienting dullness. He could not help but wonder what was worse, to feel the twisted illusions tear away at his sanity but be unable to prevent it, or to have one’s sanity slip away unnoticed as he could see it happen to his mortal companions.

He did not notice the spiders until it was too late, startling into attentiveness mere moments before a spider’s web plunged his world into darkness.

He regained consciousness to the sensation of falling, shortly before he hit the ground. Tearing at the cocoon of webbing that enveloped him, first with his hands, switching to his dagger as soon as he could reach it, Glorfindel was soon free to assist the surrounding dwarves in freeing themselves. He was relieved to see that not only had the spiders spun all their weapons in with them, which left the whole group armed and ready to fight their way free, but also that Bombur was awake, and that everyone seemed unharmed and more lucid than before the attack.

That relief was short-lived. Their struggle had not gone unnoticed, and the last dwarves were barely liberated when a horde of spider descended upon them. After fighting off the initial assault, Glorfindel tried to clear a path out of the nest until he noticed that the had lost the others.

It was not too difficult to find them again. The spider webs were muffling all sounds, but he had enough other senses that were not impaired. The dwarves were surrounded by the Silvan patrol that had chased the last of the spiders from their nest. Their first reaction to their rescuers had to have been hostile, Glorfindel noted, as he could see the elves search them for weapons carefully.

He recognized Legolas among them, the youngest child of Thranduil, who had been a long-limbed adolescent when Glorfindel had last visited the Greenwood, all long hair and longer legs. He had grown into both in the meantime, standing tall and proud in his Silvan scale armor, his silver-tinted mane of auburn hair pulled back in neat braids.

While Glorfindel was debating whether joining the others on the ground would relax the strained situation or strain everyone further, Legolas was inspecting Orcrist. Another archer had taken it from Thorin, who was scowling fiercely, and passed it to Legolas when she had recognized the elvish style of hilt and scabbard.

“ This sword was made in Gondolin. Forged by the Noldor, ” the prince explained to his warriors. He was not entirely correct, but that was an easy mistake to make, especially concerning works from the later years of Gondolin, when the quirks of Noldor and Sindar craftsmen had blended into a unique style. Orcrist on the other hand had been forged as a gift for Ecthelion by Maeglin, who had learned all his skill from his half-Tatyarin father and the dwarves of the Blue Mountains.

“Where did you get this?”

“It was given to me.”

Glorfindel had met a few curt and taciturn people in his lifetime, even some who regularly got themselves into trouble with their attitude, but Thorin was taking it to a whole new and ridiculous level. Was it so hard to say that he had liberated it from a troll hoard? Legolas pointed the sword he had been turning over in his hands at the dwarf’s throat.

“Not just a thief, but a liar as well. Take them away! ”

Glorfindel jumped down from the branch to interrupt them before the situation could escalate further.

“ More of a stubborn fool than a thief or a liar, but he does little to avert that impression. He found the sword in a troll hoard on the way to Imladris, or so Mithrandir said. ”

Legolas had lifted his hand to stop the Silvan archers, both from walking off and from putting an arrow through Glorfindel.

“ Lord Glorfindel! You know these dwarves? ”

Reassured by his presence and the absence of hostility, the dwarves began grumbling about their foul treatment and rude elves who conversed in languages no one but them understood.

“ Travelling with them and trying to keep them out of trouble seems like a more fitting description. It is a pleasure to see you again, Prince Legolas. ”

He bowed to the prince then, low and formal with his closed fist on his sternum, as he had seldom needed to since visiting the courts of Alqualondë or Valmar. The kings of the Noldor had always been his kin, requiring a different kind of formality, and Elwë had allowed none of the Noldor entry into Doriath but the descendants of his brother Olwë.

“ I apologize in advance for their behavior. Their leader, Thorin, has some sort of grudge against your father that makes them distrustful of elves and their motives. Mithrandir wished for me to guide them through these woods, but as you can see, that did not work out as planned. ”

Legolas nodded.

“ The bitterness of dwarves is known to us. My father will decide how to deal with them. ”

With a gesture of his hand, he ordered the Silvan warriors to continue with their task, to escort and lead the dwarves into the halls of their king, pushing them forward whenever the shorter legs could not keep the pace.

“Thorin, where’s Bilbo?”

Glorfindel imagined that the dwarves believed they were whispering to each other, unheard by the elves surrounding them, but he could pick up on their conversation without problems. He could sense Bilbo sneaking along behind them, and was content that the hobbit was not lost in the woods.

It was refreshing to see that Thranduil had not lost his sense for the dramatic over the centuries. While Thorin was led to answer to the king, Glorfindel was discreetly shuffled to the side without the dwarves noticing, to witness the confrontation and to speak with Thranduil by himself afterwards. The other dwarves were pushed and shoved downwards until they were out of Thorin’s line of sight, when they were led to row of modest guest rooms.

Their confrontation went about as well as he had expected. Thranduil was never one to go out of his way to be approachable, and his disdain for dwarves reached all the way back to the First Age, when the dwarves ransacking Doriath had slain his mother in front of him. Thorin’s grudge against elves, and Thranduil in particular, was younger by far, but much fiercer in its recency. Nonetheless, Thorin’s immediate and rude rejection of Thranduil’s offer surprised Glorfindel. It was entirely reasonable to expect the fulfilment of an old contract, or at least that was what he suspected Thranduil was talking about. Thorin was taken away to the dungeons, further encouraging his impression that his whole company had been imprisoned already.

He joined Thranduil in front of the throne as soon as Thorin was removed from the vicinity.

“ I did not expect him to be this stubborn, ” Glorfindel admitted once the formal greetings were done with. “ He seemed more open-minded towards elves in Imladris. That must be quite the impressive grudge he had against you. ”

“ I doubt his grandfather ever told him how he expected that my people slay the dragon for him. First he proved that he was no more reliable than the rabble from Nogrod when he refused to return Linduluin’s necklace that I had commissioned his jewellers to restore, and spun some story that I had not paid them their due, and then he demanded that I go above and beyond the old treaties and defend his kingdom from danger that he brought upon himself with his greed. Today was the first time that I heard of them starving. Thrór obviously had greater worries than the wellbeing of his people. ”

Thranduil’s tone was scathing, but his recount of the events made a lot more sense than the fragments Glorfindel had gathered from the dwarves. That he had entrusted a necklace of his late wife to the dwarves of Erebor showed that there had been a great deal of respect between dwarves and elves before Thrór broke it. Thranduil had adored Linduluin and was very attached to her remaining possessions, especially all the jewelry he had gifted her since they began courting. For Thrór to break that trust over a necklace with infinitely more sentimental than material worth was either ridiculously stupid or ridiculously greedy. Glorfindel hoped that there was some sort of explanation for his behaviour, but his descendants and his former subjects obviously knew nothing of it.

“ But tell me, what are your dealings with the dwarves? ”

Glorfindel tilted head and ears to signal his indifference.

“ I overheard that there was a dragon to kill, so I came along to kill it. ”

Thranduil chuckled at that. Glorfindel looked him over to assess his mood.

“ What will you do about the dwarves? ”

“ They are free to go if they manage to escape. I cannot let Thorin’s insolence go unpunished, but I trust in your skill. I will have my old war bow brought from the armory. It will serve you well when they rouse the beast. ”

To a mortal, Thranduil would probably seem cold and indifferent as he said that, but Glorfindel could see the humor glimmering deep in his blue eyes.

“ Mereth en gilith is the night after tomorrow. You should stay until then. Spend some time with Annatathren. She missed you. ”

Glorfindel had to suppress a sigh. The eldest daughter of Thranduil was only one of the youths in Middle-Earth that were enamored with his reputation and fancied themselves in love with him. She was without doubt a lovely woman, having inherited her father’s white-blonde hair and russet complexion, skilled with a bow and with herb lore. She shared more interests with Glorfindel than many of her infatuated contemporaries, but like them, she failed to stir his heart. They got along splendidly since she had buried her crush, but Thranduil still held hopes that they might marry one day.

Chapter Text

Time until the Feast of Starlight passed quickly. Glorfindel enjoyed a day spent out of armor, without worrying about his dwarves, and took his time in the hot springs to soak and relax. He caught up with old friends and acquaintances, and familiarized himself with Thranduil’s ancient war bow. The weapon was a work of art left over from the War of Wrath. Forged in a combined effort by Maiar, elves and dwarves specifically to combat dragons, the steel bow consisted of an intricate system of pulleys that allowed a much greater force to be imparted on the arrows shot with it, making them strong enough to pierce dragonhide. Their time-intensive maintenance and the fact that they were difficult to produce and needed specially made steel arrows meant that they never saw widespread use after the War of Wrath, but against a dragon, there was nothing better than a steelforged war bow in the hands of a capable elven archer.

“ I would have expected better from a renowned warrior like you, ” mocked Annatathren as he missed the center of the target once again by half a finger’s breadth. He set the bow aside with a sigh.

“ The bow never was my weapon of choice. I never needed it to be my weapon of choice. But I can not charge that dragon with sword and spear and expect it not to fly away. ”

He chuckled at his own naivete. He had heard of flying drakes, but never seen them, and in his head, dragons had remained earthbound. That realization would have turned out embarrassing, if not for Thranduil’s foresight and generosity, although Glorfindel suspected that that generosity was firmly rooted in the king’s desire to see the dragon dead.

“ Well, neither can you expect the dragon to stand still until your arrow hits. Come, Legolas, show him how it’s done. ”

The young prince stepped forward obediently to shoot a few arrows, hitting the target perfectly every time. He had attached himself to his eldest sister for the duration of Glorfindel’s stay, following the two of them around. Annatathren had promptly likened his admiration to puppy love and set out to crush it by relating every embarrassing incident involving Glorfindel she could dredge up. The impact on Legolas was minuscule. He still followed Glorfindel’s every move as if the ancient warrior had hung the stars alongside Varda and her Maiar.

Mereth en gilith was a fascinating amalgam of different traditions. Glorfindel recognized customs that Oropher had adapted from the same old Doriathren rites that were celebrated in Imladris. The other elements were of Sylvan origin, deriving from the same ancient festivals of light that had given form to innumerable permutations among all elven kindred. The songs reminded him of Tarnin Austa at sunrise, when voices from all over the city would join in harmony to greet the longest day of the year.

That similarity gave him an excellent excuse to retire early from the festivities. He had noticed the guards drink themselves silly while on duty and was positive that Bilbo had noticed them to from wherever the hobbit had hidden himself. It would be foolish not to take that chance and escape, and Glorfindel wanted to be rested, packed and ready to leave when the alarm inevitably would be sounded.

He passed the dungeons on his way, mostly to check if he had not missed the dwarves leaving, but also to see how they were faring, and how many of their guards were still halfway sober. In passing, he discovered Tauriel sitting on the stairs in front of Kíli’s cell. The Silvan captain of the guard, friend and agemate of Legolas, was so deep in conversation with Kíli that neither of them noticed Glorfindel pass by. Not that he expected a dwarf to have sufficiently honed senses to discover a sneaking elf. From Tauriel however, he had expected better, and wondered what might capture her attention so, although he could guess as to whom it was from her enraptured expression.

The horns sounded early in the morning, long after Glorfindel had risen. Foreseeing a hurried departure, he had put on his armor and stashed the folded steel bow securely in his bag. It was easy to follow the guards to where the dwarves had been spotted, and he almost laughed himself silly when he saw them wedged into the empty barrels of Thranduil’s finest wine. He sobered immediately when he noticed the pack of orcs that was scaling the fortifications, attacking elves and dwarves alike.

In a matter of moments, he had swiped one orc off the battlement with one end of his lance and beheaded another. The orcs, who had expected little resistance from the Silvan guards, froze in terror when they beheld him, arrayed in shining silver and white, resplendent with the light of the Eldar.

The fight continued alongside the river. Glorfindel was not sure if they were fleeing from him or pursuing their quarry, and it mattered not to him. The slaying of orcs was a matter of duty he was glad to fulfil. Every dead orc was one more soul in Mandos that may be redeemed one day.

When he took note of Legolas and Tauriel taking the last living orc prisoner at the edge of his awareness, he took the chance to join the dwarves in their most curious mode of transportation. He folded himself into the barrel with formidable flexibility, and more than one dwarf stared at him slack jawed when he all but disappeared into his chosen vessel, except for the puff of curls that topped the barrel and the lance that stuck out like a banner.

They reached the shores of the Long Lake without further incidents. Everyone but Glorfindel was soaked and miserable, something the dwarves resented and complained loudly about. Glorfindel would have liked to light a fire, but Thorin only granted them a short respite to tend to Kíli’s wound. Glorfindel had not noticed him getting injured at all, and wanted to help, but Dwalin herded him to the side instead with a fierce glower.

“You will explain your presence.”

Glorfindel raised his hands demonstratively and tried to adopt an innocent expression.

“You did not think I would leave you so close to our goal? There is still a dragon for me to slay! I wasn’t about to let Thranduil’s hospitality deter me.”

Some of the dwarves were mollified by his answer, especially Fíli, Kíli, and the trio that originally hailed from the Blue Mountains. Dwalin on the other hand remained sceptical.

“And why should I believe you?”

It was clear to Glorfindel that something more substantial was needed to reassure that one of his sincerity. Dredging up ancient history, he set out to weave together a tale of half-truths and outdated generalizations with pretended hesitation.

“I don’t know how familiar you are with the history of elves, but to understand the whole matter, you must understand that the elves who live in Middle-Earth can roughly be divided into three groups: There are the Silvan people that Thranduil governs, who have a long and complicated history that is not important right now,” he prevented himself from digressing.

“Thranduil is a Sinda of Doriath, while I am one of the Noldor that came back from Aman at the beginning of the First Age. Suffice to say that relations between the Sindar and there Noldor were not particularly friendly in the beginning and worsened dramatically over the course of the First Age. There are certain parallels to the relations between him and dwarves, as well. In short, Thranduil was not happy to see me, and I am certain he will be glad to see me gone.”

It was not exactly a lie. Thranduil had as good a reason to hate the dwarves who had killed his mother before his eyes before he had reached adulthood as he had cause to hate the Noldor who had slaughtered most of his remaining family shortly after. But both events happened a long time ago, and all perpetrators were dead or forgotten. Many old grievances among elves had been mended over the course of the Second and Third Age, and Thranduil was well aware that the dwarves of Erebor did not even remember the deeds of their ancestors. But the dwarves need not know that.

With a gruff nod, Dwalin accepted the explanation at last and Glorfindel was free to help Kíli to his feet.

“Will you let me take a look at that when we have more time? Orcs tend to poison their arrows, but I have some experience dealing with that,” he explained, having packed a smaller amount of the same supplies he took on patrol when leaving Imladris.

Thorin was just explaining that it was impossible to outrun the orcs while travelling around the lake, although they had no vessel to cross it, when Glorfindel rejoined the main group. He was tempted to chide the dwarf for his pointless pessimism, but at the same time reluctant to stretch their tolerance of his presence further than necessary. He could point out that the barrels had been about to be sent down the river for a reason, and that someone would come to pick them up sooner rather than later. He could also point out that said person might be convinced to transport them across the lake. But he was also honestly fed up with the way they were blowing hot and cold for what he deemed silly reasons.

The dwarves had settled down along the shore, pouring water from their boots and wringing out their clothes when Glorfindel heard a man approach from above. Instead of warning them, he stood to the side to watch the drama unfold. He almost got a stitch and had to hiccup from suppressing his laughter at the sight of Balin cajoling and bribing the bargeman into smuggling the dwarves to Esgaroth.

Both stared at him when he jumped down from his perch after they had agreed on a price.

“Is there still room on your ship for a lone elf, bargeman?” he asked casually. The man eyed him suspiciously.

“Now who are you? And what is your connection to these dwarves?”

“I am Glorfindel of Imladris. I believe the dwarves and I are travelling in the same direction, at least for a time. You are taking them to that town on the lake, are you not?”

“What business is that of yours?”

“I was visiting distant relatives in the Woodland realm when I felt like travelling a bit further and see something new. The king suggested Esgaroth for its closeness, and I would like to come with you if that is your destination.”

Again, Glorfindel was not lying, not really. Thranduil was the son of the cousin of the husband of Glorfindel’s cousin. That had to count as a distant relative, or something like that. The bargeman gave him another suspicious once-over before he nodded in acceptance. His gruff demand for ‘two silver canaf for the crossing, or something of equivalent worth.’ had Glorfindel rifle through his bags and belt pouches while the man cast off.

Chapter Text

Although he trusted in the skill of Bard, as the bargeman had introduced himself later, Glorfindel stood watch at the prow of the ship while Bard steered from stern. Fog had come up and ice sheets were floating on the water. It reminded him uncomfortably of another crossing of a body of water. The Helcaraxë had been much colder and icier, but the similarities still made Glorfindel shiver and huddle further into his cloak in remembrance while the dwarves squabbled over money.

Only later did he remember that Kíli had been injured during their flight and was probably still in need of healing. He surfaced from his contemplation just in time to see Kíli once again attempt to get rid of his concerned colleagues.

“Please, let me help you. I have some experience with battle wounds. You should not let it go untended for too long,” Glorfindel offered.

He was let through to his patient under protest and began to unravel the improvised bandage. The trousers were already so torn that he could work without undressing Kíli. The arrowhead had been removed already, and it did not take long to prepare a poultice that should draw the poison out. Wrapping it once again with a clean strip of cloth, Glorfindel hummed a Song of mending under his breath. And if it was one that he had learned during the construction of Imladris that was commonly used to ensure the integrity of carved stone, who could fault him for artistic freedom?

He had to suppress another laughing fit when Bard urged the dwarves and Bilbo back into their barrels and bought fresh fish to fill the barrels up and conceal the presence of the living contraband. It was a daring and clever ploy that almost failed due to the pettiness of one man. Glorfindel hoped that his stern presence had curbed the toadies worst mannerisms, but Bard seemed to be well accustomed to this sort of harassment and deflected him masterfully.

Glorfindel thanked the man for the ferry ride and stepped onto the pier. He did not trust the shabby looking construction, but was resigned to the lack of alternatives. All in all, his trip through the town turned out to be ill-conceived. In the millenia that he had spent associating solely with elves, he had forgotten how terribly nosy and rude human crowds could be. He was well aware how unusual his colouring was, even among the Noldor, since the majority of the black-skinned, white haired kin of Míriel had refused the invitation of the Valar. But among humans, the combination of the golden hair he had inherited from one grandmother, and the black complexion he had inherited from the other was a constant reminder that he was more than just a man with pointy ears.

Nonetheless, he spent the rest of the day wandering the floating town, exploring the busy market and watching people go about their daily business while being watched in turn. It was there that Glorfindel met Bard again. The bargeman was fuming and zeroed in on Glorfindel the moment he discovered him.

“You lied to me,” he said as he dragged Glorfindel bodily with him, who followed willingly, mostly because he did not want to cause even more of a commotion.

“I did not!” Glorfindel replied indignantly.

“I thought it a funny coincidence before, that I would ferry a group of dwarves across the lake together with an elf that so obviously did not come from the Woodland Realm. But it was not, was it? You were travelling with Thorin and his followers.”

Glorfindel made appeasing gestures.

“Do you have a place where we will not be overheard? I will explain everything,” he promised. Bard nodded sharply and quickened his pace.

It did not take them long to reach the ramshackle house that was Bard’s home. A boy, no more than a few years older than Estel, greeted them at the door, agitated.

“Da, I tried to stop them,” the boy said, and startled when he noticed Glorfindel entering their home behind his father.

As it turned out, Bard had agreed to shelter the dwarves in his home, and they had left against his will and advice not long ago. Outside, the sun was setting, and Glorfindel was grudgingly invited to join Bard and his family for dinner.

“This is my wife Nanna and our children, Sigrid, Bain and Tilda,” Bard introduced them.

“Mae govannen, I am Glorfindel of Rivendell,” he said in turn.

He set his lance aside carefully and continued to put down his packs next to his other weapons.

“Whoa! Where did you hide all that?” asked Tilda, the youngest, with big eyes.

“I am a very old elf, young lady, and I have traveled far and often in my long life. Carrying everything I need with me without it getting in the way is just one of the things I learned on the way.”

“Are those real swords?” Bain asked next, already stretching out his hand to touch one.

“Yes. Please, do not touch them. You should never touch a weapon without its owner’s permission. It is rude, and can be very dangerous,” Glorfindel explained as he gently folded the boy’s hands against his chest. Behind him, Sigrid was helping her parents set the table.

“Now, I believe it is time for your dinner, and I still owe your father an explanation.”

“You were right,” he continued as he sat down at the table across from Bard, “to conclude that I was travelling with the dwarves you have sheltered recently. I followed them from Rivendell after I learned that they would face a dragon, but had no idea how to defeat one, to ensure that the beast would be killed.

“I chose not to reveal that fact when we met because I did not want to draw your attention to the deception of my companions and sour your disposition towards them further, nor did I want that to influence your perception of me. As that has become irrelevant now, I apologize for deceiving you. As restitution, I offer to answer any questions that you may yet have truthfully, as long as no higher oath forbids me.”

Glorfindel was not sure if Bard understood the gravity of his formal phrasing, but the man nodded in acceptance. That would have to suffice.

“You will discuss your business after you’ve eaten,” Nanna said as she looked sternly from her husband to Glorfindel and back. The meal passed in silence after that, until everyone was done eating and the adults began collecting the dirty dishes and cleaning up the table.

“You knew that Thorin was the King under the Mountain.”

Bard began with an accusation. This did not bode well. Glorfindel spread his hands in a demonstratively nonchalant gesture.

“I never cared enough for dwarven politics to assess that, but he is Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thrór and the oldest male descendant in the direct line. Whether that makes him king, or just the most legitimate claimant for the title, I neither know nor care. I have come to kill a dragon.”

“You are confident that you can kill the beast, then?” Bard continued his interrogation.

“Yes. I know it can be done, and I have been given a bow that has helped slay dozen of dragons.”

“You say you want to kill the dragon. What is it that you hope to gain? Glory? Riches?”

Glorfindel failed to suppress a wan smile at that suspicion.

“Nothing like that. It is my sworn duty to fight for the safety of this world. Besides, I am already famous enough among elves, and even by the standards of mortals, I come from a very wealthy and influential family. I do not need to kill a dragon to impress anyone.”

Bard smiled in acquiescence. Glorfindel wondered idly if the man was learning to recognize his omissions, or just happy with what he said.

“May I impose on your hospitality until the morning? I did not get to make arrangements before, and it is a little late by now.”

Nanna pierced her husband with one look before she nodded.

“Be welcome in our home, Glorfindel. I will ready a place for you.”

She had almost risen before Glorfindel could raise a placating hand.

“Thank you, that will not be necessary. A space on the floor where I can spread my bedroll is all I need. Actually, just point me to the corner where I’ll be least in the way, that will be entirely sufficient.”

Glorfindel was not keen on explaining that he had slept in much worse places, and that the hospitality a mortal may offer could not compare to the Great House of Imladris, or any other place he had ever called home, even if they were a king, and Bard was obviously much less than that. Mortals always reacted strangely to such statements. Fortunately, Nanna only seized him up once more and went on to show him a spot where, as she put it ‘no one would stumble over his long legs’. He was tempted to tell her that he was considered short, not only for an elf, but also in comparison to those relatives he had inherited his small size from.

“Can you tell us a story?” Tilda asked with an imploring smile. Glorfindel looked to her parents for permission before he settled down in a minstrels seat.

“Do you know of the Morning Star?”

Mute headshakes answered this rhetorical question and wide eyes beseeched him to start telling the story already.

“The light of the stars has always been precious to the elves, but none more so than the light of Gil-Estel, who is rightfully called our most beloved, the Star of High Hope. It is a star unlike any other, not a shining light in the far reaches of the sky, but a luminous jewel carried by an illustrious mariner.

“Eärendil is his name, and he has been watching over Middle-Earth for almost six thousand years. But long before he was appointed to this task, he was just a little boy. I knew Eärendil then, in the golden days of Gondolin. His mother was Princess Idril, daughter of King Turgon, and his father was Tuor, a hero of the Edain, which is what we called the humans during the First Age who had come to Beleriand and allied themselves with us.

“Children are precious to us, and in Gondolin, none were cherished more than Eärendil. Although his father’s kin did not live in the Hidden City, and his mother had no siblings, he had caretakers aplenty. His grandfather’s entire council had declared themselves his honorary aunts and uncles, not only because many of them were his kin anyway.

“Eärendil means ‘devoted to the sea’, and he proved true to his name at an early age. Gondolin was hidden in the mountains, far away from the coast, and the only thing resembling the sea was a large lake that lay directly between the city and the mountains. Eärendil spent the larger part of his childhood by that lake, splashing in the shallow water and building little ships out of bark and twigs that he pushed out onto the water.”

Glorfindel smiled fondly when he noticed his audience nodding off, and paused his tale. He was reminded of the innumerable times a younger relative had fallen asleep to the sound of his voice. He helped Bard and Nanna carry their two youngest to bed while Sigrid shuffled towards her bed by herself before he curled up on his bedroll in the corner. A full night’s rest without having to worry about anything the dwarves may be up to could only do him good.