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Chapter Text

A flurry of snowflakes chased the party of weary riders down the steep, rocky track. Legolas glanced back at the slate-blue clouds stacked on the horizon then turned to Anglach, wincing a little at the stab of pain from his wounded arm. ‘Looks like there’s a blizzard on the way. If it hits before we reach Imladris, we’ll be in trouble.’

Anglach snorted and urged his mount to draw level with Legolas’s. ‘Snow’s the least of your problems. I’m more worried the guards will attack because they mistake you for an Orc.’

If Legolas hadn’t been so weary, he would have retorted with something witty like…well, he couldn’t think of anything on the spur of the moment, not when his arm throbbed with every step, but it would have been very funny, and would have shown his friend that he could never hope to best Legolas in a match of words. As it was, he shot Anglach a stony glare, honed over years of observing his father, then pulled up his hood to shield his eyes from the snow.

‘Good idea,’ the irrepressible Anglach said. ‘Pull it further forward so it hides your ugly face. With luck, we’ll make it across the border unscathed.’

Before Legolas could reply, the clatter of hoofs reached their ears, coming from farther down the road. Immediately their captain, Talagan, snapped an order to draw their weapons. ‘Wounded to the rear,’ he added, ‘and that means you too, Legolas.’

Scowling, Legolas obeyed the order, and there followed a tense wait while everyone held their position and the approaching riders drew closer. 

The tension broke when a troop of Elves appeared around the bend. They could only be from Imladris, and Legolas, who had never been farther than Dale, strained for a clear view, pulse racing, wondering if the legendary Glorfindel was present. The leader, however, had gleaming hair the colour of a raven’s wing. He gazed at the Wood-elves with cold grey eyes. ‘Declare yourselves.’

Talagan held out his hands in a gesture of peace. ‘We are from the Woodland Realm and bring messages from King Thranduil to Lord Elrond.’ Although he did not mention Legolas’s presence, Legolas hadn’t expected it. When a member of the royal family was travelling, it was forbidden to name them to prevent news of their presence reaching unfriendly ears. ‘We were attacked in the High Pass by Orcs and have wounded in the party.’

The dark Elf’s expression softened. ‘I am Elrohir of Imladris,’ he said. ‘I have some skill with healing. Do any of your numbers require urgent treatment?’

Talagan shook his head. ‘All can wait until we reach shelter.’

‘In that case, we will escort you. You are only an hour from the borders of our land, but the way is easy to miss.’

***

Imladris truly was a place of marvels, Legolas reflected as he wandered down wide corridors in search of the healing halls. He had left Anglach to take his pack to his room and set out with the group who were helping the two other wounded Elves to the healers. Legolas had needed no assistance, yet he had fallen back as he walked, so entranced by his surroundings that he kept stopping to admire the statues, tapestries, and mosaics that he passed. Most wonderful of all, the corridor was broken up at intervals by huge stone archways leading out onto balconies that gave stunning views across the valley, where snow fell onto sparkling waterfalls tumbling into a steep, rocky dell. In the distance were woods and white-capped mountains, and the wind carried the scent of distant pine trees. Too late it dawned on him that he had lost sight of his companions and he now had no idea where he was going. 

By the time he finally stumbled upon the healing halls, his wounded arm, which he had forgotten in his wonder, felt hot and throbbed in time with his pulse. He had taken a shallow sword cut in the fight, and although it hadn’t seemed too bad at the time, it hadn’t healed as quickly as he would have expected. He was therefore anxious to get it treated and was irritated to find the room empty. The place he had found seemed to be an antechamber, and judging from the chairs gathered around a large stone fireplace, was probably where patients waited until a healer became available. He knew he should sit and wait, for judging from the low voices he could hear coming from several of the rooms leading off the main hall, he guessed all the healers were busy. Yet he was tired and hungry and wanted nothing more than to find his room, eat and then sleep. He sank into one of the chairs feeling very grumpy.

A short while later, an Elf in dark blue robes hurried out of the rooms and opened a door not far from the main entrance. Legolas watched him, hoping to catch his eye, but the man was rummaging in what was clearly a stockroom and didn’t look round. Shortly he hurried back to the chamber he had emerged from, carrying a tray loaded with bottles and rolls of bandages.

Legolas didn’t think twice. In fact, he didn’t think once. The moment the door had closed behind the healer, Legolas sprang up and dashed to the stockroom. He had been a warrior long enough to have picked up rudimentary skills at treating wounds, and he was sure his arms needed nothing more than herbs to speed up the healing process and a fresh dressing. If he gathered the right items, he was sure he could persuade Anglach to treat him. He’d far rather be in the comfort of his own room and eating the first cooked food he’d had since the attack. What sort of food was served in Elrond’s halls? Debating the merits of stewed venison over roast boar, he collected the items he needed.

***

After Anglach had dropped his luggage in his room, he took Legolas’s pack to the room next door. Captain Talagan had informed the household staff that Prince Legolas was in the group, and so rather than being housed in the barracks along with the rest of the group, Legolas had been given a suite in the guest wing, with an adjacent room for Anglach as the prince’s personal guard. Anglach was irritated to see that Legolas’s chamber was far grander than his own. Anglach’s room had a large, comfortable bed and a separate bathing chamber, and he would have been perfectly happy with it had he not seen Legolas’s. Legolas had a suite of three rooms - a spacious bed chamber, a bathing chamber and a cosy living room with a blazing fire on the hearth. The armchair beside the fire looked so soft, so inviting that Anglach couldn’t resist. Instead of leaving Legolas’s gear and returning straight to his room, he sank into the chair with a sigh of bliss and allowed the heat from the fire to seep into his aching muscles.

He must have dozed off, for he was awakened by a knock at the door. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes he hastened to open it and found himself looking at the most beautiful maid he had ever seen. What was more, she held a tray piled with covered dishes and a jug of wine. The delicious aromas wafting from the dishes set Anglach’s mouth watering even more than the sight of the young woman.

‘Wha?’ was the only sound that he could make.

‘You must be Prince Legolas.’ The woman smiled, stepped into the room, and placed the tray upon the table.

Actually, I’m his braver and better looking friend, Anglach. At least, those were the words that formed in his brain. What came out of his mouth was: ‘Nnh.’

The woman beamed as though he’d uttered the most witty remark she’d ever heard. Anglach managed to drag his gaze from the food long enough to note that her lips were full and red, her teeth even and impossibly white. ‘I’m Arwen, the daughter of Elrond. My father was sorry to learn of your injury and thought you might prefer to dine in your rooms this evening. He asked me to serve you personally.’

She lifted the lids from the dishes, and Anglach found himself drawn to the table by the sight of tender cuts of meat, roasted vegetables, rich sauces, and – Elbereth preserve him – could those be sausages wrapped in bacon? Only his favourite food ever.

Then Arwen’s face clouded. ‘Forgive me. I didn’t even ask how you were feeling. Perhaps you’re not up to eating such rich food? I can fetch you some broth instead.’ 

She moved to pick up the tray, and the thought of the feast being snatched away from under his nose finally restored his voice. ‘No! I mean—’ he modulated his tone ‘—I can manage.’ He rubbed his arm as though it pained him and sank into the chair that Arwen pulled out for him.

Arwen’s beautiful face creased in sympathy. ‘Does your arm pain you very badly? Here. Let me help.’

She pulled another chair close to his and sat, her thigh pressed against his as she doled food onto his plate and cut up the meat. As he took his first bite, he briefly spared a thought for Legolas, wondering how long he would be. But then as the forkful of tender roast boar melted in his mouth, he forgot all about him.

***

Legolas worked his way around the well-ordered room, pulling items off the shelves that he thought he’d need. Bandages…comfrey…athelas…but where was the moss that Greenwood warriors favoured for use as wound dressings? Then he lifted a lid from a large round basket and spied a green, moss-like substance within. The basket was unhelpfully labelled in Quenya, but he was sure it was what he was seeking. He helped himself to a good handful.

‘Healer!’ 

Legolas jumped and turned to the door, clutching his ill-gotten gains to his chest. What he saw turned his mouth dry. A magnificent Elf with golden hair bound into warrior’s braids stood in the doorway, gazing at Legolas with a stern expression. Legolas knew exactly who the warrior was, thanks to a picture in his favourite childhood book, Heroes of the First Age . It was none other than Glorfindel, the Balrog Slayer.

‘Well? Has the Warg got your tongue?’

‘Yes…I mean no…I mean…’ Great. Just great. He’d finally met his hero, and he was talking drivel while holding an armful of stolen goods. 

Glorfindel’s expression softened. ‘You must be the new novice healer. I heard you were starting today.’

‘I am? I mean…I am .’ Legolas could hardly believe his luck. If word got back to his father that he’d be caught pilfering from Elrond’s precious medical supplies by Lord Glorfindel, no less, he’d never be let out of the palace again. Now all he had to do was make his escape without letting Glorfindel get a close look at his face. Thank goodness he’d worn his hair in a simple pony tail since his injury, being unable to braid his hair. Hopefully when Gorfindel saw him again, he wouldn’t recognise him as the Elf from the healing halls when he was dressed in all his finery as his father’s representative, with his hair in the braids of Greenwood royalty. He approached the Balrog Slayer with his head lowered, taking care to stay in the shadows. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I need to take this to—’ he waved vaguely in the direction of one of the treatment rooms.

‘Not so fast.’ Glorfindel moved to block his exit. ‘I have a minor wound that needs treating and I’m in a hurry. As the other healers are occupied, I expect you to do your job.’

Chapter Text

Anglach could be forgiven for all thoughts of Legolas having drifted from his mind. 

Arwen was as distracting as anyone Anglach had ever met. She had stayed by his side–her leg against his, shoulder brushing his own, that mesmerising grey-eyed gaze of hers unwaveringly focused on him–until he had finished his meal. 

And finish it he had. 

Truth be told, he had eaten far more than felt comfortable. But how could he have stopped, when every bite kept her here with him? 

He regarded his empty plates forlornly. To his regret, Arwen stood and gathered the mess of dishes as soon as he put his fork down. He took the opportunity to loosen his belt a notch and stifled an ungentlemanly burp as she was setting the tray outside his door. Well, technically Legolas’s door, but that wasn’t important right now.  

“Now then,” she said, returning to stand in front of him. “Would you let me take a look at your arm? I may not have my father’s skill, but I am well-versed in dealing with my brothers’ injuries and could perhaps bring you some comfort before I go?” 

There were quite a few things she could do, Anglach thought, that he would find quite comforting.

“Your arm?” She said again.

The problem was that there was absolutely nothing wrong with his arm. She would know that as soon as she saw it. There wasn’t a chance to pinch even the smallest bruise into existence, with her eyes on him. 

Blast it. 

He brought his arm across his abdomen, wincing ever so slightly from the pressure on his overfull belly. “Tis but a scratch.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

Anglach sat up in the chair, which proved to be a mistake. Another burp surfaced, that he somehow managed to disguise as a groan. 

A look of alarm came over Arwen’s face. “You are not well, Legolas.” She put a cool hand to his forehead. “No fever,” she muttered to herself. “Now let me look at that arm.” 

She bent over, the end of her braid brushing his cheek, lavender scent wafting across his face. Anglach leaned forward to inhale the comforting aroma.  

Another mistake. 

Arwen started to roll up his sleeve right as he closed his eyes to breathe in. Anglach snatched his arm away but she had a good grip on the fabric. They tugged back and forth for an instant before he managed to yank himself free. 

Only to inadvertently punch himself in his very full belly as he freed himself. 

His groan was more heartfelt this time. 

“Legolas! You have not been honest with me. You are more gravely injured than you have let on.” Arwen was staring down at him, eyebrows drawn together in concern. “It’s not your arm at all, is it?”

Anglach decided this was something he could answer honestly. He shook his head. “No, it’s not my arm.” 

He could not disguise the gurgle that emanated from his midsection this time. 

Maybe he had eaten a bad mushroom. That had to be it. He curled his arm over his belly again and tried to stand up. Maybe walking around would help settle his stomach.

“Truly you are worse than my brothers!” Arwen said as she pushed him back into his chair. “Don’t be foolish.”

Well, at least he was doing an adequate job impersonating Legolas’s dimwitted self. 

“Stay put,” Arwen commanded. Then she swept to the door, opened it, and shouted. “Elladan, get in here and help me!”

A tall, dark-haired Elf appeared a moment later, grey eyes honing in on Anglach as he entered the room.

“This is Prince Legolas,” Arwen explained. “He’s injured and being quite stubborn about it. I need to get him to the Halls of Healing so Father can take a look. Help me walk him there.”

The tall Elf looked Anglach up and down. Anglach tried very hard to school his features into the insipid look he had seen so often on his friend’s face. 

It apparently worked. The Elf raised his eyebrows. “He does look awfully pasty. Get on his other side, Arwen,  and we’ll get him up.”

Anglach was hoisted to his feet, with an Elf on each side, and marched down the corridor away from that cosy, warm room. 

He hadn’t even had a chance to finish the wine. 

***

Legolas had expected to follow Glorfindel into one of the small treatment rooms that he had briefly glimpsed in the Halls of Healing. But instead, he was trailing after the golden warrior, down unfamiliar corridors in what appeared to be the residential wing. 

Glorfindel stopped at a carved door and ushered Legolas in with an impatient wave. “Come on, then. I’ve not got all night. I can’t be late to this feast, I’ll never hear the end of it from Erestor.” He waved his arm again, pointing at a nearby table. “Put your things down and let’s get going.”

Legolas dumped the supplies he’d pilfered onto the table and allowed himself a quick look around the room. 

Tall bookshelves. Plush armchairs by the fireplace. His breath caught. There it was. Hanging on the wall. 

The banner of the House of the Golden Flower–just like in his book–but somehow more brilliant, richer, the golden threads gleaming in the low light. Legolas swallowed, trying to clear the lump that had formed in his throat. It wouldn’t do to get all emotional right now, wouldn’t do at all. 

“Come on then, what are you waiting for?” Glorfindel’s voice broke into his thoughts. 

Legolas whirled around and caught his breath again, mouth dry. 

Glorfindel had taken his tunic off while Legolas was distracted and he was now faced with the sight of the legendary warrior of Gondolin in all his golden glory–rippling muscles, sun-kissed skin. 

And a look of supreme annoyance on his face. 

***

Where are they all? Erestor had arrived precisely on time, prepared to usher the Greenwood’s contingent into the dining hall, carefully partnering seat companions to foster conversation. 

But he found himself quite alone. He looked down one hallway and then marched down the other. 

Nothing.

The table was set. The lanterns were glowing cheerfully. And he continued to be the only one present. 

He paced across the hall and peered through the arched entryway to the corridor again. And back. Then back again.

Pacing. Back and forth. 

He had an entire repertoire of paces. Maglor would have called his current one irate stalking, but then again Maglor had always been prone to hyperbole.

Chapter Text

Legolas did not know where to look. 

What was Glorfindel about? All that rippling musculature . . Did he have to show it off quite so dramatically? He hated to think where the minor injury might be. 

What did he do now? 

“Um . . .” Stuttering he tried to form a coherent sentence while desperately attempting to remember every scrap of healing he had ever been taught. It was not much. That is, they had attempted to teach him but he had paid oh so little attention. Why oh why had he not paid attention? 

The sharp rap on the door followed by the clatter as it swung open saved him. At least for one glorious moment, he thought it had saved him . . . Then he saw exactly who it was. 

“Glorfindel, Erestor told me you needed—” The man cut his next words off short as he stared at Legolas in blatant confusion.

The game was up. Legolas knew this man. He had met him in the Wood only recently, and surely . . Surely . . . The man would remember who he was. Do not say my name. Legolas pleaded silently. Please do not say my name. Glorfindel had spun around to face his visitor and so grasping the opportunity of Glorfindel’s eye being off him Legolas shook his head slowly, mouthing no exaggeratedly while making no noise at all. The Man was intelligent if he remembered rightly. Hopefully, he would catch on quickly . . . Hopefully. 

“What took you so long,” Glorfindel grumbled loudly. “I had to resort to this novice healer to care for me. Where have you been, Estel?”

“Novice healer?” Legolas could almost see the Man’s mind whirring, “ but this is the son of Thranduil,” he must be thinking. 

Please say nothing. Please say nothing. 

“ There is no need to be so desultory, Estel. Everyone must start somewhere. You were once a novice healer yourself. He has done nothing wrong so far.” 

“ Because I have done literally nothing so far,” Legolas murmured to himself. 

Still, the Man hurriedly seemed to gain his composure, but not without sending Legolas a very, very questioning look. 

“You need to be more patient, Glorfindel.” He said then. “I came as soon as Erestor fetched me. You hardly needed to resort to novice healing skills. Erestor said you caught your arm on a branch when riding. Let me patch you up.” Looking back at Legolas then, he indicated the door with his head. “Perhaps you could leave us.” 

And eagerly Legolas began his move towards the door. It was exactly the chance he needed . . . Until Glorfindel stopped him. 

“Let the boy stay.” He held up his hand as if ordering Legolas to stop. “How on earth is he going to learn anything unless you teach him, Estel. Seriously, one trip away with Mithrandir and you turn all obnoxious and egotistical.” 

“I am not —" the Man stopped himself mid-protest when seeing the frown upon Glorfindel’s face. “Very well then.” He grumbled. “He can stay if you want it so desperately.” 

Elbereth, was anything ever going to start going his way? Legolas wondered. What an ill-fated trip this was so far. 

“You hardly needed to completely undress for a minor arm wound,” this Estel continued grumpily. Legolas was sure that was not actually his name, well not the name Mithrandir had called him. He was sure he had been introduced to the Wood as Aragorn. “You wouldn’t be guilty of showing off at all, Glorfindel?” 

“Not at all! The boy is a novice. I did not want him damaging my robes!” 

Estel only rolled his eyes, while rummaging through the bag he had with him. 

“Well let us get this done then. Here . . . ” he thrust a bandage towards Legolas. “Hold this for me . . . novice healer. ” The last was said with no small amount of sarcasm. He would give the game away at this rate. 

Legolas had to admit Estel/Aragorn was certainly an expert healer, even he in his ignorance could tell. With quick delft movements, he rapidly patched up the decidedly shallow scratch upon Glorfindel’s arm. But just when Legolas thought the nightmare was nearly over, they would finish here and he could escape to the sanctuary of his room, and hopefully food—the door slammed open with a thud—not even so much as a knock this time. What was this place where everyone stormed into each other's rooms without so much as a by-your-leave? Had they not heard of privacy? 

“Gorfindel!” It was two dark-haired Noldor who strode in this time. One of which Legolas had seen before . . The dark elf who first greeted them . . . What was his name? Elrohir, that was it. Thank goodness Talagan had not announced Legolas when they first met. But it was not Elrohir who was agitatedly greeting Glorfindel. He stood silently in the background. “We have a problem!” the nervous one cried. 

“Erestor,” Glorfindel sighed, “you always have a problem. What is it this time? I am sure it is not as bad as all that.”

“The Mirkwood contingent is missing!” 

Mirkwood? Legolas hissed under his breath despite himself. How dare they call it that? What did he mean, missing, anyway? Where was Anglach? What was he up to? 

“They are a contingent, Erestor. They cannot be missing. For goodness sake, calm yourself.” 

“They have not shown up for dinner.” The dark elf said quietly from his position at the back, leaning against the wall. “ and apparently their prince is unwell. Elladan has him in the healing halls.” 

Their prince? Now Legolas was alarmed. What did he mean? He was right here and not particularly unwell at all, and he had never met any Elladan. 

It seemed Estel/Aragorn was as confused as he was. 

“Their prince is unwell?” He turned to Legolas as he said it, with a very pointed look.

“I am sure the novice healer knows nothing about the Prince of Mirkwood, Estel.” Glorfindel said sharply. “Why do you insist on giving this boy such a hard time? Come on then,” hurriedly he pulled on his shirt. “I suppose I must sort this mess out for you all.” 

And just like that, he swept out of the room, Elrohir and the nervous Erestor following after. 

And Legolas stood, bandage in hand, and stared after. Just who was in the healing halls? It certainly wasn’t him. 

“So perhaps you could enlighten me as to why Legolas son of Thranduil is in Glorfindel of Gondolin’s room pretending to be a novice healer?” 

The sound of the man’s voice made Legolas jump a mile. He had almost forgotten he was there.

“I was not pretending.” He cried in response. “He assumed I was a healer.” 

“And why did you not simply correct him?” 

“Because . . .” He trailed off. To explain that was to admit to stealing healing supplies from Elrond Half-elven. He decided in this situation attack was his best form of defense. “Perhaps you could explain what your name actually is, Estel, or is it Aragorn as Mithrandir told us?” 

“It is both.” 

Well, that was not helpful at all. 

“Who is it in the healing halls that they obviously believe is you?” Aragorn asked him then. “And why? Did you travel with a body double?” 

“No. Do not be absurd!” 

Just who was it in the healing halls? Legolas realized he had to find Anglach and sort this out.  But where to look? He had no idea where he was . . . Or where his rooms were. And he was hungry. 

“Shall we go see?” Aragorn asked him as he stood gazing into space wondering where to go next. 

“See?” 

“Who it is they all seem to believe is you,” Aragorn said. “I am surprised at Elrohir letting himself get entwined in this. I really am. He is usually far more sensible. As for the other two . . . “ he threw his hands in the air as if admitting defeat. 

“Is there any chance of food on the way? Legolas asked. His stomach was complaining so hard he could barely think. And he had a feeling he would need to be able to think to get himself out of this one. 

“The kitchen is closed. Have you not eaten yet? That is a bit remiss of Elrond. He would be horrified if he knew. We could always call in to see Arwen though . . . “ Aragorn trailed off in thought. 

Arwen? He could not mean the Undómial? Surely this rather raggedy Man was not in a position to just ‘drop in’ on her requesting a meal? Legolas was horrified at the thought. 

But alas it seemed it was true. 

“Arwen it is!” Aragorn cried. And before Legolas knew what was happening he was out in the corridor trailing after Aragorn,  very much feeling as if he was walking towards disaster.

Chapter Text

‘How in all of Varda’s heavens did you manage to lose the Mirkwood contingent?’ Glorfindel demanded as he strode gloriously through the corridors of Imladris. He shoved open the wide double oak doors that led from his suite of rooms to the next corridor. 

Erestor, with equally long strides, and if not quite as glorious, was still rather impressive, narrowed his eyes and not-quite-growled. ‘Losing them implies I fucking had them in the first fucking place.’

‘Well, it was your job to Meet and Greet,’ snapped Glorfindel. Each one took longer strides, faster and Elrohir had to trot to catch up. They raised their voices with to shouting so the echoes rang back as they went.

A minstrel, it might have been Lindir, scuttled out of their way and watched with wide eyes as they swept past.

‘What the fuck do you think I am?’ Erestor snarled back at Glorfindel, thrusting the next set of doors open as they strode through. The doors slammed back against the wall. ‘I’m not a fucking nursemaid! Nor am I a fucking butler.’

‘I didn’t fucking well say you were,’ Glorfindel barked back.

They approached another set of double doors and simultaneously hurled them back so the doors cracked resoundingly against the walls.

‘You implied it!’ 

‘Well, if you didn’t meet them who did? Are they even here? Well?’ Now Glorfindel spun and glared at Erestor. ‘Are they actually here?’

Erestor glared right on back breathing heavily. He clenched his fists and took a step towards Glorfindel, but Glorfindel wasn’t going to back up so they glared at each other some more and then both clenched their fists although they didn’t actually lift them threateningly.

‘Of all the smug fucking sh….’ Erestor began to snarl but Elrohir interrupted, panting. He had finally caught up with them and was rubbing his nose where a series of doors had swung back in his face.  

‘Yes they are actually here,’ he said breathlessly and oblivious to their mutual fury. ‘I brought them here.’

Erestor and Glorfindel, who had both slain balrogs and dragons and who knows how many orcs (and at least one of them may well have done a little kinslaying in their time. In fact, they had probably both but it was conveniently forgotten that Glorfindel MIGHT have done a little bit at Alqualondë. Just that one time. By mistake.) now swung about to face Elrohir.

Elrohir, still panting and breathless regretted admitting anything immediately.

‘You’re getting fat and unfit,’ Erestor grinned nastily and poked Elrohir in the belly. Horrified, Elrohir looked down at his belly where Erestor’s finger had sunk a little. It was true. ‘Too many of those honey cakes,’ Erestor was smiling in that way that made you think he might actually gobble you up. 

‘What do you mean, YOU brought them here?’ Glorfindel said like a big cold iceberg.

‘And what exactly did you do with them?’ 

Shit thought Elrohir. Elladan is always telling me to keep my mouth shut. Glorfindel looked really really cross.

‘I…I put them in the barracks, Elrohir stammered. Was he wrong to have done that?

Erestor’s fine patrician nostrils flared and his amber eyes narrowed further. He looked exactly like he was the Kinslayer one. And had enjoyed it. ‘You put them in the barracks.’

‘Well, they ARE soldiers. Warriors. Like ours.’ Elrohir found himself unexpectedly defensive.

Oh no,’ said Glorfindel reprovingly. ‘NOT like ours. Not in the LEAST like ours.’

‘Have we taught you nothing?’ Erestor smiled, a really sardonic smile and Elrohir thought shit, again. He wished Elladan was here. Elladan could always get out of trouble. He was so Erestor’s favourite.

He swallowed. ‘Er... yes…no… I mean…’ Oh Namo’s stinky arse, he couldn’t win this. He knew what would come next; they would test him on what they had taught him and he would be stuck between them, one would test him on Fëanor’s shibboleth and the other would test him on Gondolin’s impregnable defences. But if they were really nasty, they would swap around, and it would be Glorfindel asking him to evaluate the shibboleth and the impact it had on the sundering of the Elves. And Erestor would test him on all the ways that Gondolin had been breached. 

He was silently panicking and trying to think his way out of this when he realised they were watching him. Erestor’s eyes reflected light like a wolf’s, and Glorfindel’s were like a hawk’s. A big angry hawk. And both were really pissed off. With him.

He gulped. ‘Shall I go and find the Prince?’ he asked weakly.

‘Yes,’ Erestor said nastily. ‘Go on, you do that. You run off and we’ll sort out these Mirkwood warriors.’

He turned back to Glorfindel .’Where were we?’

‘Warriors. Not like ours,’ Glorfindel gave a helpful little bow.

‘Oh yes. Not like ours at all,’

‘More dangerous,’ bellowed Glorfindel.

‘Less Wise,’ Erestor bellowed back.

‘Nothing but trouble.’

‘Rushing into battle when the command is hold.’ 

They turned away from Elrohir and were already striding furiously through the next set of doors, flinging open doors in an exaggerated show of power, so the doors slammed against the walls.                                        

‘Fighting without proper armour or position,’

‘Screaming like berserkers.’

‘Fucking bonkers.’

From the barracks came the distant sound of smashing glass.

Erestor and Glorfindel looked at each other fondly and throwing open the doors with extra powerful thrusts, they charged in like the First Age Heroes that they were.

Elrohir stood by the slightly splintered doors that hung a little off their hinges and stared after them. Then he blew out, glad not to be caught up in the diplomatic row that was bound to come out of this. In fact, he even began to congratulate himself for being cool-headed in this crisis, conveniently ignoring the fact that he had lost the Prince in the first place.

Over in the barracks there was the sound of tables thrown over and crockery being smashed. He could hear Glorfindel and Erestor bellowing at each other joyfully.

He frowned.

No. He must have misheard. He THOUGHT he heard Glorfindel shouting, ‘What’s that little blighter doing there?’ and he THOUGHT he heard Erestor shouting, ‘After it!’ as if they were hunting some small furry beast.

He shook his head- Glorfindel wouldn't have called a Mirkwood warrior a 'little blighter'. Would he?

Then he thought about it. Yes- it was highly probable that Glorfindel had done exactly that. After all, there had been that terrible diplomatic incident when he had referred to Thorin Oakenshield as 'the little fella over there.'

There was more smashing and then Erestor started cursing.

Elrohir stopped for a moment to listen admiringly. No one else could curse like Erestor. He didn’t just swear, but actually cursed. And blasphemed. It was a wonder that he hadn’t been struck by lightning. Over the windows Elrohir thought he saw the outline for a moment of something furry pressed against the glass and panting joyfully. Then it threw itself off the window sill and dashed away.

Elrohir shook himself. He must have imagined it. But he couldn’t hear a sound of any of other men in there but Glorfindel and Erestor crashing around and swearing at each other. Where WAS the Mirkwood contingent? They were certainly not in there. He decided he wasn’t going to get involved. He had done his bit. And after all, he had told Erestor that he would find the Prince and he didn’t dare disobey once Erestor had agreed.

He knew there WAS a prince. Talagan, the grumpy Mirkwood captain, had waved a hand about casually and said, ‘By the way, Legolas, son of Thranduil is also here. He’s got a bit of a scratch but it’s always far worse than it looks with him.’ Then he had sighed very heavily and added in a pained way, ‘I suppose Anglach had better go with you if nothing else so I know where all the trouble will be.’ He had given a very hard look at a couple of grubby dishevelled looking elves who had looked sheepish and then shuffled over to join the two wounded elves.

There had been a sort of stunned silence amongst the proud, efficient house elves of Imladris who thought they were just there to collect the wounded. No one had mentioned anything about a prince until now. even if it ws only Mirkwood. Elrohir himself hadn’t even thought to greet the Prince in a proper way. Before he knew it, two of the house elves had faded into the background and then run swiftly round the back, taking the shortcut to the Very Important Guest quarters he knew, to quickly give it a quick once over. Then the other house elves, with exaggerated slowness, accompanied the prince and the wounded the long way around to give them time. Elrohir had waved to some of his own men to take Talagan and his remaining warriors to the barracks. Now he thought about it, Talagan had looked decidedly shifty as they went to the barracks.

He admitted to himself that he had been a bit distracted by the Mirkwood contingent. A whole bunch of tall, lithe, muscular elves riding saddleless and bridleless and looking ferocious. Elrohir admitted he had gawped a bit when he saw them. 

Now he made his way to the Healing Wards of Imladris where, he hoped, SOMEONE had taken the wounded Prince and was seeing to him.

0o0o

Anglach let himself be carefully steered by Arwen and her brother, Ella-something. (What had she called him? Hadn't they already met him and he had introduced himself as Elrohir? But Arwen had called him Ella- something.Ella-thingie?) Anyway, he let himself be steered into what was obviously a healing ward with a clean white-sheeted bed. It had none of luxury of either his or Legolas’ rooms and there were none of the nice little extras, like a bottle of what he thought was blackberry cordial and cut glass goblets but was some sort of very strong fortified wine. Which he had drunk almost immediately and which might also account a bit for the gurgling of his belly. (But not, almost anyone who knew him would add, for his complete lack of judgment). Here there was just a glass of water. There was a strong smell of disinfectant and athelas- which he never really liked. It reminded him too much of Erédis, the chief healer in the Thranduil’s stronghold who would tuck the sheets in really tightly around him if he was ever unlucky enough to end up there, so he could not escape and get up to what she called ‘mischief’ but what Anglach would call, ‘going about the defence of the Realm’.

‘I think I’ll be fine in my own rooms,’ he said, thinking he sounded weak and pathetic. His belly was horribly distended and noisy. He grimaced. He sounded like a gutted orc.  

‘Here, let’s get you out of those clothes,’ said the tall dark Elf. Ella-thingie? Elrohir?

He felt Arwen begin to unbutton his tunic and he sighed and a little fart crept out.

Mortified he groaned loudly instead hoping to cover it up. After all, it had worked before. And his companions were far too refined and polite to mention it, he thought.

‘There’s a putrid smell from that wound,’ Ella-Elrohir commented. (Perhaps Ella-thingie was an affectionate diminutive?) ‘Have you seen the wound yet, Arwen?’

‘No. He is so brave, the dear boy,’ said Arwen smiling her beautiful smile that made Anglach’s mouth fall open stupidly. Or more stupidly than usual... ‘Now, Legolas dear. We’re going to take that shirt and your breeches off and get you into bed so we can have a proper look at you.’

Anglach nearly fainted and his cock gave an undisciplined little leap of excitement. Shit, he thought and tried to distract himself. He thought of Legolas’ stupid grinning face and how he would laugh. But he would leer too. Unsurprisingly at the thought of Arewen gazing at him naked. Oooh- his cock gave a little shimmy of delighted naughty anticipation. Oh Thorin’s hairy bollocks, he thought. And that, for some weird reason which he would have to think about a lot later, his cock leapt to attention like it was on parade and anxious to appear present and ready for action.

‘Oh. No.. I…’ he protested faintly as the other elf whipped off his shirt and Arwen whipped off his boots. She put her hand on the waistband of his breeches and he clung on grimly while she wrestled silently with him

‘You ..did… this before,’ she grunted as she gripped the waistband as strongly as any man, thought Anglach in alarm. One half of his brain wondered why he was fighting her -she was beautiful, clever, fucking strong as a horse! Just his type…so why didn’t he just let her…

‘Arwen,’ Ellathingie-Elrohir-whatever smiled and gently moved the woman away. ‘I think you’re frightening him. Here,’ he said and looked down kindly.

Anglach’s brain did a funny little oomph and let go of his breeches so they fell and pooled about his ankles.

‘Oh my,’ said Arwen.

Chapter Text

For a man not yet in his prime, this Aragorn or Estel or whatever his name was, walked pretty fast. That, or the wound on Legolas’s arm was more serious than he had thought at first. He had to practically jog to keep up, which made his knees buckle several times along the way.

“Where is she?” Aragorn-Estel muttered for the tenth time as he opened another door of the complex. Arwen seemed to be nowhere, and Legolas didn’t know if it was for the best or not. The Man was beginning to sound anxious, as though the Undómiel could vanish and the valley wouldn’t notice!

The very thought of meeting the famed Lady who carried the line of Lúthien in her blood and features made his heart race, and a bead of sweat dripped down his forehead.

At last, they came up to a room – Legolas had no idea which – and barged in without even a knock. The sight that greeted them made them both halt in utter surprise.

Anglach was splayed on a bed, his shaft standing at attention and aiming straight at the eye of the most beautiful lady Legolas had ever seen in his life. He would have burst into wild laughter if, by his side, Aragorn’s spine hadn’t tensed as though pulled by strings.

“Arwen?” he asked softly, looking between the lady and the young warrior on the bed with a confused frown. Then, their eyes fell on the other Elf in the room. “Elladan? What is going on here?”

Legolas covered his mouth with his hand to control his laughter as he looked Anglach straight in the eye. His friend’s face was as red as the tip of his shaft, and he was helplessly clutching the sheets.

“Oh, Estel!” Arwen flitted through the room like a hummingbird. She almost threw her arms around the man’s neck, but glancing in Legolas’s direction, she merely took him by the hand and pulled him inside the room. “Fortunate that you have arrived! My brother and I were struggling to heal Prince Legolas’s injury.”

Behind her, Elladan covered his mouth, thoughtful, but Legolas could see he was also smiling at her embarrassment.

“Well, yes. I was just looking for him,” Aragorn said, and looked pointedly behind him, at Legolas.

“Fortuitous, Estel.” Elladan said. “Come, help me find what his ailment is. He seems to be in a lot of pain.”

As if it was his cue, Anglach groaned and doubled over into fetal position, arms hugging his knees close to his chest. His shaft was, at last, hidden from view.

“See? The poor boy,” Arwen whispered, looking back at Anglach. “I think we will need to call Father.”

“ NO !” Aragorn and Legolas cried at once, and Arwen looked at them with raised brows.

“And this is…?” she asked them both.

“Anglach,” Legolas quipped before Aragorn could say anything. To cover the discomfort on his arm, he bent very low, and very politely. “At your disposal, my lady.”

When he looked up again, Arwen was smiling sweetly, even if Aragorn’s grumpy face swam in and out of his peripheral vision.

“Alright. I think I can leave you here with Prince Legolas. I will fetch more medicines with our chief healer.”

The “prince” in question was still clutching his knees for dear life, groaning louder and louder. Elladan was trying to push him by his shoulders and make him lie down to be examined.

He couldn’t help but laugh at the fight Anglach was giving, and Arwen looked at him mortified. 

“Anglach! This is no laughing matter! Your Prince is gravely injured and needs our help.”

Legolas bit his lip, chagrined, but it was short-lived.

“Yes, go be a good friend and sit by his side,” Aragorn said, still very grumpy. Legolas had no idea why, but he was past caring. His arm ached, and his vision blurred as he threw himself at Anglach’s feet on the bed.

Aragorn and Arwen shared secret little smiles when they thought nobody was looking and Legolas bowed low again to her as she left the room. But his head spun and he would have fallen on his face if it wasn’t for Aragorn, who gripped him by the unharmed arm and pulled him straight.

Aragorn fussed a little with the pouch of things he carried, and as he approached Legolas, a silly little smile remained plastered on his face.

“Come. Let’s have a look at your arm.”

“Is he also injured?” Elladan asked, pulling his hair back. He seemed to have given up on “the prince.”

“I… uhm… no, it’s nothing, really,” Legolas tried waving it off, but his voice was weak and he could feel his skin clammy to the touch.

“Ay, I forgot to bring athelas!” Aragorn cried.

“Estel! How could you forget athelas? Where have our lessons gone to?” Elladan chided him with a click of his tongue, and Aragorn winced.

“I am sorry, brother,” he muttered unhappily in reply.

“I will tell Arwen to bring some, but for the life of Elbereth, do not let neither of them leave this room!”

Elladan strode off as Aragorn’s grumpiness returned. “You heard him. Be still while I will boil some water.”

Legolas and Anglach shared miserable looks.

“They think I am you!” Anglach whispered when Aragorn left the chamber.

“And I wonder whose fault is that!” Legolas whispered angrily back.

“Not mine! Arwen brought food to your room and she insisted that I ate it all!”

“She brought-” At that, Legolas’s stomach grumbled loudly, and he groaned. “I am starving and you ate all my food!”

“I had no choice! And look how good it did to me.”

As if on cue, a loud, noisy fart escaped him. They stared at each other for a moment and had a fit of laughter, tears springing to their eyes. But Legolas’s laugh petered out into another groan, as his head kept spinning. 

“I am too hungry. I can’t get this hungry or I’ll start seeing things.”

“Did you see her ? She is so pretty,” Anglach stared at the bed’s canopy with dreamy eyes.

“I have seen her seeing your cock.” Legolas smirked, and they chuckled again. 

They fell silent when they heard Aragorn’s steps approaching. Legolas thought he could have heard the man coming from a mile away, so loud was he. Almost at the same time, Arwen returned with more medical supplies and athelas, which she poured into the bowl of boiling water that Aragorn carried. The air inside the room cleared at once, and Legolas breathed in, his head spinning a little less.

“Alright, Anglach, stand up,” Arwen said.

Both Legolas and Anglach moved to stand, and she stopped mid-motion to stare at them with big, round gray eyes.

“Anglach,” she repeated slowly, and Legolas stood up with an effort, clutching his arm. Arwen cocked his head at him, and Legolas averted her piercing gaze running his eyes across the room, as though suddenly very interested by the choice of furniture.

Luckily, Aragorn steered him gently towards a chair and sat him down, with that stare that reminded Legolas very much of his own father – which was funny in a Man so young and without any station. Arwen moved to put a cloth bathed in athelas over Anglach’s forehead, and he sunk into the pillows with a contented sigh.

She smiled at him again. “Shall I take a look at your arm now?”

“Do not worry, Arwen, I can do that,” Aragorn offered. “I have heard Erestor and Glorfindel shouting at each other.”

“When are they not?” Arwen said with a mischievous smile.

“It seemed serious, though,” he continued, and Legolas saw as Arwen’s face changed from mirth into worry.

“Do you think I should call Father?”

Aragorn nodded. “I do not know what it is this time, but maybe only Elrond can solve it.”

Arwen sighed, resigned. “Very well. I trust you to do this better than anyone, my l- Estel.” Aragorn smiled idiotically, and Legolas rolled his eyes.

“Prince Legolas,” she called on her way to the door.

Both Anglach and Legolas answered with “Yes?” and she turned to look at them again with shrewd eyes, one raised brow. Aragorn sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Arwen pressed her lips together.

“I don’t know why the need for secrecy, for here in Imladris you are safe,” she said, turning her eyes to both of them, “but I will respect it.” She shared another fond look with Aragorn, then was off.

“Do you think she knows?” Anglach asked.

“Of course she does!” Aragorn said bitingly, offended on her behalf. “She is not stupid.”

Anglach lowered his eyes in shame. Legolas didn’t care about any of it anymore. He just wanted to eat. He slumped on the chair and let his head fall back in misery. He closed his eyes and, next thing he knew, his head collided with something hard and cold.

“Legolas!” Aragorn and Anglach cried at once.

Aragorn had run to his side and was helping him up.

“I am sorry, I fell asleep,” he muttered weakly.

“This is not sleep. Let me see that arm. Now.”

The imperative tone made Legolas stand up straighter on his chair and roll his sleeve up. The cut was small but it was ugly and deep, and black tendrils were spreading from it in fine lines towards the chest and shoulder.

Aragorn sucked in a breath. “Orc arrow?”

Legolas nodded, and his head was fogged. Aragorn stared at the wound for a long moment, probing here, squeezing there, and Legolas didn’t have the strength to fight back the pained moans that escaped him. Aragorn put an athelas compress over it and made Legolas hold it with his other hand. 

“Stay here,” Aragorn said to him. “Anglach?” He turned to the Elf lying comfortable in the bed, and Anglach jumped at being addressed directly for the first time since their arrival. “Make sure he stays where he is, and that he doesn’t faint. This is very important.” Aragorn came closer to the bed and looked down at Anglach with anxious eyes. “He cannot fall asleep!”

Anglach’s eyes were wide with fear and he nodded. Aragorn left but not a minute had passed when the Man returned with one of the twins – Legolas couldn’t tell which, but this one had a more stern countenance. His hair was not braided but pulled into a high tail that swung behind him as he moved. Not Elladan, then. 

Elrohir crouched before Legolas in alarm. From far away, Legolas thought that he was very handsome, and as Elrohir looked up, those stormy gray eyes – combined with the heady, spicy perfume he wore – made Legolas fall into a swoon, and he knew no more.

***

Elrond walked through the corridors with swift steps, Arwen trailing behind him. They walked towards the noise – the two Elven lords screaming and banging doors like two maniacs. At last, Glorfindel and Erestor came into his sight.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked, trying not to sound too bossy.

Both turned in his direction, chagrined. “My lord, I am sorry.” Erestor stepped forward, elbowing Glorfindel so the Gondolindhrim would fall behind him.

“Sorry? For what?”

Glorfindel took two long strides, elbowed Erestor in the ribs, and came to stand before Elrond. “Erestor has lost-”

“My mind!” Erestor interrupted him, bumping him with his shoulder. “I have lost my mind banging all these doors, my lord. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive. But Arwen told me something about the Green Wood contingent. Are they here already?”

“Yes” and “No” sounded at the same time, and Elrond looked at one, then the other, confused.

“I mean, they are here,” Erestor said.

“And yet they are not,” Glorfindel completed.

Elrond frowned. “What in Elbereth’s name do you mean? Are they here or not? Is this one of Mithrandir’s tricks?”

“Nothing of the sort, my lord,” Erestor shook his head.

“We simply don’t know where they are lodged,” Glorfindel said.

“And we were looking for the best accommodations for them,” Erestor completed.

“Prince Legolas is also here, Father,” Arwen said behind him, and Elrond turned to her.

As they talked quietly about Thranduil’s letter that should have arrived, Elrond missed his two greatest Lords and warriors speaking to each other.

“Is Mithrandir supposed to be here too?” Glorfindel whispered at Erestor.

“I have no idea,” Erestor whispered back, and they both stared at each other in shocked alarm.

Chapter Text

Elrohir caught the blond warrior as he slumped forward then scowled as he saw the fine black tendrils radiating from the wound on his arm. ‘The Mirkwood contingent arrived well over an hour ago. Why has this wound been left untreated until now?’

Aragorn looked unhappy. ‘There seems to have been some kind of mix-up.’ For some reason, he glanced at the Mirkwood warrior in the bed. Or, rather, the warrior who had been in bed, for he now fought his way from beneath the sheets while simultaneously pulling on his leggings.

Elrohir had no time for excuses. ‘I need a paste – two parts peach kernel oil, one part ground wargsbane root. Now! ’ he snapped, when Aragorn just stood there, mouth open. Then after Aragorn’s departing back, he added, ‘Then fetch my father.’ For he knew the wargsbane paste would halt the poison for a while, but it would take his father to completely reverse the damage.

The other Mirkwood warrior leaned over them. ‘How bad is he?’

‘Bad. Now stop blocking my light.’ 

The warrior backed away. ‘I’d better tell Talagan,’ he muttered, before turning on his heel and fleeing the chamber.

It occurred to Elrohir to wonder why a perfectly healthy warrior had been in bed, while a badly injured one had been left unattended. But that was a problem to address later. For now, he placed his hands over the wound and whispered an invocation. The stricken Elf’s breathing gradually eased, and his colour improved. Elrohir placed a hand on his brow, frowning when he felt the feverish heat. 

Aragorn appeared at his elbow and handed him the wargsbane paste. Elrohir eased back the dressing and cursed again. ‘You haven’t used nearly enough athelas. Honestly, Aragorn, what’s wrong with you today?’

‘That was all I could find. I could swear I’d restocked our supplies yesterday, but there was only a little left.’

‘Not good enough. Someone must have some.’

Aragorn chewed his lower lip for a moment then brightened. ‘There’s some in Glorfindel’s chamber.’

‘What—? Oh, never mind. Fetch it now, then get—No, wait. This will be faster.’ Elrohir lifted the unconscious Elf in his arms. ‘We’ll take him to Glorfindel’s room. Bring the wargsbane.’

Elrohir couldn’t help studying the warrior’s face as he paced though the corridors. Wasn’t this one of the warriors Captain Talagan had said something about being trouble? And he was sure the other one was the one who had been occupying the bed. It must surely be that one who was real trouble, for Elrohir couldn’t imagine that anyone with a face as beautiful and serene as this could be trouble. 

When they reached Glorfindel’s chamber, Elrohir saw that there was, indeed, a jumble of healing supplies on the table. What in Arda had Glorfindel been doing with them? He placed the injured Elf on the bed then snatched the bowl containing the wolfsbane mixture from Aragorn. ‘Fetch my father. Go!’

Aragorn sped off, and Elrohir applied the wolfsbane before going to the table to examine the healing supplies. He blew out a breath when he saw several fresh athelas leaves. They were mixed with some mossy substance – Elrohir thought it was sphagnum moss, which some of the older elves still insisted upon using as a wound dressing. Elbereth knew why, when Imladris was stocked with so many superior dressings. Anyway, he didn’t give it much thought but grabbed the athelas leaves, put them in his mouth and chewed them to a paste. His father always insisted saliva held healing properties, and it was always preferable to chew athelas than mix it with water. Once it was ready, he applied it to the wound, knowing it would seep into the warrior’s bloodstream and strengthen the effect of the wargsbane. Together they would halt the progress of the Orc poison until his father took over. Then he settled next to the bed, his fingers on the Elf’s pulse, and waited.

***

Legolas opened his eyes with a groan. His arm throbbed horribly, and the light hurt his eyes. But then his gaze fell on the most beautiful Elf he had ever seen, and all pain faded away. The man gazed down at him with such a loving expression in his grey eyes that it quite took his breath away. Legolas beamed at him. ‘Hello. You’re pretty.’ He frowned. ‘Pretty’ was not adequate to describe the perfection of the face before him. He screwed up his own face, trying to force the right word into his fuzzy brain. Then he had it. ‘Lovelely. That’s what you are. Lovelely.’

The gorgeous Elf shook his head. ‘I’m not lovelelely. You’re lovelelely. If anyone asked me to describe…’ He pointed a wavering finger at Legolas’s chest, a delightful wrinkle forming between his brows. ‘Who are you, anyway?’

‘I’m—’ Legolas bit his lip. He’d been about to say Legolas until an image drifted into his fragmented memory: a chamber with a warrior in bed. A warrior with an enormous erection. A maiden had also been there, and she had called that warrior Legolas, so that meant Legolas couldn’t possibly be Legolas. So who was he? The name Anglach floated through his mind, but that didn’t feel quite right, either. Angolas? No, definitely not Angolas. ‘I’m Leglach,’ he said confidently. ‘Leglach, son of…of…’ Thranduil? He’d been going to say Thranduil, only that was Legolas’s father. He searched his soggy brain for any hint of a father figure. Ah, of course! ‘Leglach son of Galion.’

His lovelely companion nodded and continued. ‘If anyone asked me to describe Leglach Galionion, I would say he’s the most lovelelely man in Arda.’ Then he burst into high-pitched giggles. ‘Leglach Galionion! ’Sa funny name.’

His laughter was like water bubbling over pebbles in a forest brook, enticing Legolas – or should that be Leglach? – to join in. Legolas pulled himself to a sitting position, only to lose balance. The room tilted alarmingly, and suddenly he was lying half-supported by the beautiful Elf, howling with laughter. 

‘Wassyor name, anyway?’ he slurred when he could draw breath. ‘Someone lovelely as you mushava lovelely name.’

‘Elrodan. No. Ellahir.’ His companion gave a negligent wave. ‘Pretty sure it’s one of those.’

That wouldn’t do at all. ‘Which one?’ Legolas felt a rising panic. ‘I have to gerrit right.’ He prodded Elrodan/Ellahir in the chest. Or he tried to. Somehow, he ended up tracing full, sensuous lips with a wavering finger. ‘Wenwe marry, I gotta say right name.’

His love looked pensive. ‘You’re right. Gotta get name right for mosimport dayoflife.’ He appeared to think. ‘Ellahir,’ he said finally. ‘Defnitely son of Elrond, anyway.’

Legolas wanted to kiss him, but couldn’t seem to summon the strength to sit up, so he satisfied himself by caressing Ellahir’s face before running his fingers down over a broad, muscular chest. Elrond. He was the lord of Imladris, wasn’t he? Another paroxysm of laughter struck as he remembered something he’d once heard. ‘You know what my—Legolas’s father saysabout Elrond?’ He giggled again. ‘He says…he says…Elrond looks like he gotta…a…poker shovedupis arse.’ He was overcome by another wave of laughter. 

Ellahir gazed at him, shocked, for a moment before collapsing beside him on the bed in fits of giggles. ‘Strue!’ he wheezed after a moment. ‘Hesgotta giant poker upis bum!’

It was several minutes before Legolas could stop laughing. Elrohir was still stricken with fits of giggles, so while he waited for his betrothed to recover, Legolas let his gaze rove around the room. It looked familiar. ‘We’rein Glorfindel’s room!’ He lowered his voice to a confidential whisper, although judging from the way it echoed around the walls, he might have misjudged it. ‘You know what? Glorfy’s bossy. I mean…hotasfuck…but really really bossy. Not lovelely like you.’ He considered for a moment. ‘Where’s Lordlerond? Wanna tellim we’re gettinmarried.’

The sound of several clearing throats came from the doorway. Ellahir glanced up and his face brightened. He pointed. ‘There he is!’

Legolas looked at the door and saw a tall, stern lord who, judging from his pursed lips, had about a dozen pokers shoved up his arse. Beside him was the magnificent Glorfindel. Peering over their shoulders was the Man who had brought the miserable Gollum to the Woodland Realm, and Prince Legolas. At least, it was definitely the Elf everyone had said was Prince Legolas, so it must be true. He waved at his friend. ‘Legolas! Arglegorn! We’re getting married!’ He gave Glorfindel an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry Glorfy, but you’re too bossy.’

Chapter Text

Elrond took in the sight of his son and the Prince of the Woodland realm. There was no question about his identity–this giggling blond Elf in front of him was most certainly Legolas. He was the image of his grandfather, Oropher. 

He couldn’t recall the last time he had seen his own son so relaxed. Elrohir was lolling in his chair, giggling as he made eyes at Legolas. Was that a wink?

What in Varda’s name was going on here? 

Elrond closed his eyes and counted silently in his head. Then he opened his eyes, turned to the Wood Elf standing next to him and fixed him with a steely glare that would have made Maedhros proud. “Now. Enough of this nonsense. That is obviously Prince Legolas.” He pointed to the bed. “So who are you?” He put up a hand as the other Elf started babbling. “Stop.” 

Elrond’s gaze shifted to Erestor, who had slipped into the room behind him. “Erestor, so help me, sort out who this is!” He pointed at the still-blustering Elf. “And do it someplace else. I can’t have his chatter while I work. I have a wounded Prince to care for.”

Erestor stepped forward and grabbed the Elf in question and marched him out of the room. 

“I’ll go with him,” Glorfindel said, cracking his knuckles ominously. “I’ll get this sorted, Elrond.” 

“As if you weren’t part of the mess in the first place,” Elrond heard Estel mutter. 

“Bye Glorfy!” Legolas called. Elrohir collapsed into giggles yet again. 

Elrond crossed the room and took Legolas’s arm in his own. “Poison,” he muttered. His eyes slid to Estel. “Did you not mark this, Estel?” 

Estel bowed his head. “I did.” He shook his head. “Things were so muddled. I had no idea he had such a serious injury until a short while ago. I tried athelas first and then obtained wargsbane as Elrohir bid me.” 

The Man sighed. “I have blundered, I can see that.”

Elrohir was hiccuping now, repeating the word “bum” to Legolas and the both of them were dissolving into giggles each time. What had gotten into his son? Elrond could excuse Legolas, who was likely delirious from the toxins in his bloodstream, but there was no excuse for Elrohir. 

The spidery black streaks were evident, tracing their way up and down Legolas’s arm. His skin was warm, shimmering with sweat, and Elrond could feel his pulse racing when he took his wrist. He pulled the wad of wargsbane off and frowned. 

It was a shallow cut but the edges of the wound were grey and almost appeared singed.  

“He said it was an arrow,” Estel began, but Elrond shook his head. 

“This is no arrow, Estel.” His frown deepened. “An arrow graze would be more ragged. This is a sword injury.” 

Estel frowned in turn. “It is not uncommon for the arrows of the Orcs to have poison. I have not seen them use poison on their blades.”

“No, you wouldn’t have,” Elrond muttered. It had been long since Elrond had seen a wound of this nature. Not for near an Age. 

“It is uncommon,” Elrond continued. “But not unheard of.” He dipped a cloth in the basin on the table and dabbed at the wound. “It needs athelas first, then wargsbane over that.” He straightened. “Come clean this out and I will prepare the poultice.”

“He’s all stiff-like,” Legolas mumbled as Elrond turned away. “Like m’father said.” 

Elrohir reached out and patted him on the thigh. “S’not always like that. Not when he’s got a bit of the drink in ‘im.”

Legolas nodded, his head bobbing forward and back. “Like m’dad.”

Elrond was about to say something sharp but his eyes caught on the spongy pile of moss on the table in front of him, mingled with the remaining athelas. Morgoth’s balls. Where had that come from? He narrowed his eyes at his son and the Woodland Prince. 

Who in all the bloody hells of Namo had brought this? How had a potent aphrodisiac like that ended up here? Elrond didn’t even think they stocked it in the halls. Someone had made an enormous blunder but now was not the time to figure out who.

He had two incapacitated, lovestruck Elves on his hands and one of them was going to crash spectacularly if he didn’t start doing something useful. 

He regarded his son. Elrohir had likely unwittingly contaminated the athelas with the Bëor’s Bane, probably chewing a few stray sprigs into the mixture when he had created the paste. Not good, but likely the only thing that had kept these two in an intoxicated phase rather than a lust-maddened one. 

Small mercies. 

He was very careful to rinse the athelas well and crush it with his hands, spitting into the mixture as Estel watched in consternation.  “That’s not how you taught me–” he began, but Elrond cut him off. 

“That conversation can wait for later.” He mashed the paste into Legolas’s wound, piled the wargsbane on top and dressed it snugly. “Now, lift him up. He should be in the Halls. I don’t have all that I need here and there’s no point running to get it. Time is short.” Elrond lifted Legolas and heaved him in Estel’s direction. He was gratified that the Man shifted the now-unconscious Prince into his arms easily. “Let’s be on our way.” 

He cast a glance at his own near-somnolent son. Not quite asleep–Elrohir’s glassy eyes tracked Legolas as Estel swept him out the door.

“We will talk further,” Elrond admonished his son. “I shall send Arwen in to sit with you for now.”

It was perhaps not quite proper for the Lord of Imladris to gallop down the hallway after Estel, bellowing for his daughter at the top of his lungs, but proper be damned. Thranduil was going to skin him alive if anything happened to his precious son. 

His only son.

And Elrond couldn’t blame him. 

*****

“I’ll not ask you again,” Glorfindel growled. “Who are you and what in the bloody pits of Utumno is going on here?”

Anglach didn’t know quite how he was going to get out of this one. The two Elf lords were both leaning over him menacingly, blue eyes and grey eyes intently focused on him. He was backed up against the wall and damn it if part of him wasn’t finding this all strangely arousing. 

A certain part.

Chapter Text

Why, Elrond wondered, did these calamities always have to occur to him? Why was he doomed to be surrounded by such an assortment of fools? Even one of his sons was joining in the idiocy today. So unlike the usually stern, disapproving Elrohir. At least Arwen now had her brother under some sort of control. And Elladan seemed to be behaving himself in the healing halls having been given temporary possession of the unconscious Legolas, son of Thranduil. Had Elrond not given specific instructions that the boy had to be treated with kid gloves? Why did everyone ignore every word that he said? 

He knew one thing. He needed help to ensure the woodland prince survived and he needed it now. 

"Come with me," he snapped to Estel, although as soon as he said it he wondered why he didn't just do this by himself. It was not as if Estel would be any help. Too late now. The cat would soon be well and truly out of the bag anyway. 

"Where are we going?" Estel struggled to keep up with the mad rush through the corridors. Really . . .Elrond grumbled to himself, Men had lost an awful lot of physical conditioning since Elros' days. it was as if they did not even try. 

"To Lindir," he snapped as if it wasn't entirely obvious they were entering the corridor where only Lindir lived. He had thought Estel far more observant than that. 

"What help can he be?" Aragorn cried. "Do you want him to sing the Prince a lullaby?" 

"Perhaps," Elrond snapped back in return, "if he thinks it necessary." 

"But he is not—" 

Elrond was not in the mood for small talk or explanations although he did admit to himself it was not exactly fair. It was not as if Aragorn actually knew. Well he soon would, he muttered to himself. He soon would.

The door clattered open with a thud just as Aragorn was mid-protest. What did Elrond think he was doing? Legolas was in need of medicine and healing, not musical entertainment. There sitting in the centre of the room turning to stare at their rather rude entrance were three elves seated playing cards, Lindir, Gildor  . . . And some other most ordinary-looking bloke Aragorn was sure he had never seen before. 

 "Elrond?" Lindir said somewhat disapprovingly. "A rather impolite entrance if I do say so myself. We have just started a new round. Do you want to join us? You only had to ask." 

"No time for cards." Elrond snapped. "We have an emergency. I have need of your help."

"A musical emergency?" Lindir darted a somewhat startled glance in Aragorn's direction. 

"No not a musical emergency. An emergency emergency. A healing emergency." 

"You are the healer, Elrond." Gildor leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head. "Did you forget? It is certainly not Lindir who is but a simple bard, remember." 

Why, Aragorn wondered, did Gildor say that as if Lindir was not actually a simple bard at all?

"I do not have time for this ridiculous subterfuge," Elrond cried. "My life is in danger!" 

"Your life?" That at least seemed to get Lindir's attention as he leaned forward in his chair while Aragorn wondered just what Elrond meant by subterfuge. "You are overwrought, Elrond. How can your life be in danger? You wear that gaudy accessory of Celebrimbor's after all." 

Ooh, Aragorn thought to himself, Lindir was rather pushing his luck here. As ridiculous as he was acting, Elrond was still in charge of Imladris. 

Still Elrond only glanced down at Vilya upon his hand as if he had momentarily forgotten he wore it at all. "Yes, well, this will not help me against Thranduil if his son is lost or damaged while in my possession."

"Thranduil?" The third, up until now silent, elf finally joined the conversation. "I knew a Thranduil once, but he was just a boy . . . In Doriath . . . Oropher's child. One of Celeborn's myriad of relatives. Interesting enough boy but hardly life-threatening." 

"Father," Gildor hissed across the table. "Enough with the ancient history. You cannot go around saying things like that. It makes you look quite mad."

" I only thought it would help reassure this somewhat distraught child." The nondescript elf waved a hand in Elrond's direction. Aragorn could not stop himself from chuckling at that description of Elrond . . . But hang on . . . Father?  Did Gildor just say Father? As far as he knew no one knew who Gildor's father was. He liked to be mysterious, wandering around intimating he was from Nargothrond, name-dropping Finarfin, but everyone thought that was just nonsense. Father???

"Thranduil is a king now, Gildor explained patiently, "and Elrond is not his favourite person at all." 

"Well I am not surprised," the so-called Father replied. "He does seem rather highly strung. Not at all what I imagined for Turgon's descendants." 

"Enough about Turgon," Gildor hissed, and Aragorn gave him a very strange look. It had been a long day and rather confusing. From  Legolas inexplicably pretending to be a novice healer, to Elrohir's most bizarre lovestruck drunkenness, to Elrond's over-the-top melodrama, (for Aragorn had met Thranduil and he was actually not that bad,) the whole thing was quite disturbing. It made his head hurt.

And it seemed the day was not yet finished with him, for as he stood and stared, before his very eyes, Lindir began to shift and change, and Gildor's disappointingly ordinary and somewhat mad father with him. Was he imagining things, Aragorn wondered? Was he losing his own mind? the colors warped and bent and then, hey presto!

Lindir was not Lindir at all. Instead, a completely different elf stood before him. All Noldor. All beauty. All power. He had never seen such an elf and he thought he had seen them all. And Gildor's so-called Father? He was now golden-haired and gorgeous. They were all gorgeous of course, Aragorn reminded himself as he stared . . .  But this one . . . And for some reason, he looked disturbingly like Galadriel. How odd. 

"Maglor," Elrond said beside him, "you need to stop messing around  and help me or I am a dead man." 

Maglor?

Maglor?????

It was one shock too many. Suddenly Aragorn felt the earth begin to tilt beneath his feet. 

Maglor?

He had a brief realisation as to exactly how embarrassing this was going to be then he was sliding, tilting, falling, onto the floor. Opening his eyes when he landed he saw the roof, and then the startlingly beautiful golden face of Gildor's unexpected Father appeared above him. 

"Makalaurë," the strange elf said, "You need to be careful. You have upset the Adan." He reached out a hand to gently pat Aragorn's face. " Do not worry little Adan," he said then. 

"I am Finrod. You are quite safe with me. Ignore that attention-seeking Feanorion. Should I sing you a song?”

Chapter Text

Anglach was staring dreamily up at Erestor and Glorfindel. He opened his mouth to speak. ‘Urgh….’ Was all he could manage.  

‘What?’ demanded Glorfindel. ‘Is that your name? Urgh? Is that some sort of bastardisation, some dreadful silvan corruption of the Quenya urcarnë, or urta? Fire? Is that your name?

‘Gnggggurk’ Anglach drooled. Glorfindel’s eyes were fiery blue, his hair was golden like the sun, his skin was smooth and a sort of cream-gold, and his cheekbones were sculpted, and his mouth was fucking luscious, thought Anglach. He had a way of thwacking one fist into the palm of the other hand as he spoke that made him look very strong and his muscles rippled up and down his torso in a magnificent way that had Anglach quite weak at the knees.

‘Urgh Gngggurk?’ said Glorfindel and narrowed his eyes at Anglach. Anglach gasped and gazed up at him adoringly.  

Erestor rolled his eyes in disbelief.

But Glorfindel had not noticed, he was so used to people gazing at him adoringly that he barely noticed these days. ‘These silvans are barbaric’ he said to Erestor dismissively. ‘They can clearly barely grunt let alone deserve the name Eldar.’ He looked back down at Anglach and said very slowly and very loudly as if Anglach might not understand Sindarin. ‘WHERE ARE YOUR FRIENDS? WHERE ARE YOUR COMPANIONS?’  

Anglach looked at him and then nodding to himself wisely, he said equally loudly and slowly- as if he thought Glorfindel might be deaf. ‘I THINK THEY ARE IN THE BARRACKS.’

‘IN THE BARRACKS?’ Glorfindel’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. And very loud and very slow.   

‘YES.’ Anglach nodded to go along with his word, slowly and emphatically, and wondered if Glorfindel were perhaps a dimwit after all and not just (and as Erédis the Healer would correct him if she were here) hearing-impaired.

Glorfindel leaned forward menacingly and Anglach gave a little sigh and looked up hopefully. He didn’t care which it was as long as Glorfindel snogged the breath out of him. Meeting the intense blue eyes, he closed his own and puckered his lips with unheard of optimism, so he missed the puzzled look on Glorfindel’s face. 

Then Erestor stepped towards Anglach and leaned over him. His words were slow, loud and clipped menacingly. Presumably, thought Anglach, so that Glorfindel could hear, or follow, or understand. ‘THEY ARE NOT IN THE BARRACKS.’

Glorfindel cracked his knuckles menacingly. ‘THEY ARE NOT IN THE BARRACKS,’ he repeated.

Anglach opened and closed his mouth, but only stupid little mewling sounds came out and his eyelids fluttered, and he thought he was going to faint with the powerful masculinity that came off Glorfindel when he cracked his knuckles like that.

‘BUT WE DID FIND THIS!’ Erestor brandished a small hessian sack that wriggled energetically and made loud angry whining noises.

Suddenly one small furry paw punched through the sack and Anglach’s face broke into a huge grin. ‘You found him!’ he cried and threw out his arms. The furry paw suddenly opened to show long razor-sharp claws which raked through the sack and then a furry little face popped out, teeth gnashing and snarling.

‘ Oh you naughty kit. Where have you been?’ Anglach held out his arms and the beast growled and fought its way out of the sack. Erestor reached down and grabbed it by the scruff of its neck.

‘A Wolverine kit,’ he said narrowing his eyes at it dangerously. The kit glared back angrily and wriggled, slashing out with its claws. Its little belly was very round and distended for it had gorged itself on the remains of the feast in the barracks. Erestor held it at arm’s length. He did not drop it but quelled it with his stare. ‘SO THIS IS YOURS?’ he said.

Anglach, completely unaware of the quiet danger in Erestor’s voice, smiled beautifully and looked up at Erestor with that wide-eyed trust that made Thranduil forgive everything the boy did wrong- and that was much. ‘I have been…’ He checked himself. ‘I HAVE BEEN WONDERING WHERE HE HAD GOT TO.’

The kit wriggled furiously in Erestor’s grip and finding the vice-like grip too like a mother wolverine with her naughtiest kit, turned its furry face and looked pathetically at Anglach.

  At that moment, the kit gave a terrific wriggle and thrust its powerful little legs out, and leapt away. Anglach was too quick and grabbed it gently, cuddling it close and cooing quietly. ‘Gandalf,’ he whispered. ‘You naughty little kit.’ When he looked up, the two elf lords were furiously hissing at each other in muted whispers and so had not heard Anglach call the Wolverine Gandalf.    

‘Well it’s going in the stables,’ Glorfindel overruled whatever Erestor might have been saying and with a determined look at Anglach, bellowed. ‘IT CAN STAY IN THE STABLES. IN THE OLD KENNELS. LOCKED UP UNTIL YOU GO.’

‘You’re’ not exactly covering yourself in glory, you know Goldilocks,’ muttered Erestor and grinned nastily at Glorfindel’s horrified expression.

0o0o

Talagan sighed as they passed out of the Hidden Valley. It wasn’t that well-hidden, he thought ungenerously. A lingering strain of song drifted after them as they went.

Tra-la-la-lally down here in the valley…  

He sniffed contemptuously. They deserved to have Legolas and Anglach stay with them for a while, he thought. It wasn’t that they weren’t fond of Legolas and Anglach, and it wasn’t like they were useless as warriors- quite the contrary in fact. It was just that trouble followed them like night followed day and Talagan was glad that they were no longer his responsibility but Elrond’s. If anything went wrong, it would be Elrond that Thranduil would kill, slowly and painfully.  

Talagan and his men were passing around a stolen bottle of Miruvor between them and  fairly skipped along towards the second part of their mission, which was to accompany Thranduil himself home from Mithlond on a ‘diplomatic’ mission that happened to coincide with the Wine Festivals which were famous and only occurred every decade.   

In the meantime, Elrond could enjoy the company of the two silliest Elves in the Realm and try and knock some sense into them as Thranduil had said in his letter to Elrond.  At least, that was what Talagan thought it had said. He had handed over the letters to whichever son of Elrond it had been and Talagan hoped that he would work out which one was for whom as they had got a bit smudged in the rain and snow and fighting orcs and goblins and then that time he had dropped them in the river… Ah well. Not his problem now.

0o0o

Chapter Text

Maglor, Finrod, Gildor, and Elrond walked side by side, whispering in urgent voices, as they walked briskly through the corridors. Aragorn followed them a few paces behind – not because he couldn’t catch up, but because it was all so… overwhelming. He dragged a hand over his face with a groan now and again. Fortunately, none of them seemed preoccupied with his mounting anxiety as they talked about which healing Song best to use in the afflicted.

“… I am telling you, cousin, that lullabies are the most effective,” Finrod said jovially.

“And you have a lot of experience healing soldiers on the battlefield with lullabies, don’t you, Ingoldo?”

“Shhhh!” Gildor hushed them for the tenth time. “Watch it with the names!”

“What’s the point? You just have to look at them to know they are not Sindar!” Aragorn complained but they didn’t pay him any mind. He groaned again. This was definitely not what he had foreseen when he went to look for Elrond’s aid.

“Father, I do agree that Mag- Lindir is more experienced in these matters,” Gildor chimed.

“Nonsense! Macalaurë and I have always played duets in Valinor,” he said loudly, winking back at Aragorn with a bright smile. “I am sure that, whatever is inflicting our poor fellow Elf, we will solve it.”

Aragorn saw Maglor roll his eyes. “Yes, yes, whatever you say.”

“What is the meaning of this? Why have you dropped your glamour?” Glorfindel’s voice flitted through the corridor, and Aragorn closed his eyes, trying to acquire the patience Elrond had been trying to teach him.

“A medical emergency, my friend,” Gildor said.

“I need all the expertise we could find,” Elrond completed. “And they are it. Legolas Thranduillion is in grave peril, and my son is seriously intoxicated with Bëor’s Bane.”

“Elladan is ill?” Erestor’s voice came from behind Glorfindel as he made himself known to the others. When Elrond shook his head negatively, Erestor’s face shone with momentary relief, and Aragorn frowned at that new piece of information.

But that would have to wait. The Elf who had claimed to be Legolas walked a little behind them petting a wolverine kit, who seemed to be as pleased as its owner.

“And where are you headed?” Gildor inquired.

“Back to the barracks,” Glorfindel exhaled in irritation. “Urgh Gngggurk will accompany us TO MAKE SURE WE FIND THE MISSING GARRISON, ARE YOU NOT?” He screamed back to – Anglach, was it?

“YES!” Anglach answered back.

“Why in Ilúvatar’s name are you shouting?” Maglor said while he covered his ears.

“What did you call him?” Aragorn asked with a quizzical look. “His name is Anglach.” But he was, again, unheard.

“None of this is important right now,” Elrond. “We must be on our way if we want to save Legolas’ life. If you find Arwen, please, tell her to find Elrohir.”

Glorfindel nodded gravely, and Erestor pulled Anglach by the collar. The Elf swayed towards him with eyes wide open in shocked fear but said nothing, and let himself be dragged, the kit fussing on his arms.

The gathering of Noldor marched towards the Healing Ward, and Aragorn hurried after them, hoping beyond hope that Legolas was still conscious by the time they got there.

***

Elladan sat worriedly by Legolas’ side, chewing his lower lip and twisting his hands in anxiety. Legolas hadn’t said one sane word since he had been brought to the Healing Ward, and all his blabbering was alarming. He kept talking about how handsome Elradan was – and he couldn’t decide if this was good or not.

“Ngnnnn,” Legolas groaned, and Elladan promptly jumped from his seat to measure his fever. The athelas plaster he had been giving was not enough.

“Stay still, prince Legolas. My father will be here soon and he will save you,” he murmured.

“Elradan…” the prince whispered miserably.

When Elladan thought nothing stranger could happen that day, Legolas grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, pulled him forward, and sealed their mouths together. His eyes flew open in shock, but he had to admit Legolas was very good at snogging. He could do little else than to reciprocate – maybe it would even help?

Fate wanted that, when Legolas’ hand started groping to open the buttons on his shirt, the door opened and several gasps followed.

Chapter Text

Legolas had just started to get seriously stuck into the kiss, running his hands over Ellahir’s chest, when it finally sank in that something was wrong. This wasn’t his betrothed. He tried to pull away, but the interloper – clearly an evil shapeshifter – pressed him back against the pillows, and Legolas didn’t have the strength to resist. 

A moment later, the weight was gone. He peered up to see Ellahir – the real Ellahir – punch his evil twin in the mouth, yelling, ‘Get off my betrothed, you bastard.’

‘Ellahir! You m’hero.’ He wished he could pull his lover down for a kiss, but his limbs were heavy, and he could scarcely even lift his head. ‘Elhir, wassappening?’ He was vaguely aware of other people in the chamber, but they were no more than blurred outlines. Anyway, Legolas was interested in no one but Ellahir. He tried to point at the false Ellahir.  ‘He’s evil. Musbe wizardor…or somethin. My father would lick imup. I mean…lock. In dungeons. I gonna tellim. Father, I mean. Tellim ewas right. Noldor can’t be trussed. Rusted.’ He frowned, squinting up at the shapes moving over him. ‘Summing like that.’

One of the other people now stepped closer to the bed. A lord with dark hair, his face twisted in a scowl, came into focus. ‘Arwen, take Elladan and get him cleaned up. When she’s finished, Elladan, you can explain your actions. Thranduil is within his rights to demand you be hung by your balls from the highest tree.’

‘But—’

‘I don’t want to hear your excuses, Elladan. You’ve done quite enough.’

The evil one was led from the room, and Legolas relaxed. He squinted up at the lord who had sent him away. ‘Who’re you?’ His tongue felt thick and uncooperative. ‘Don looklike Glorfy but almost asbossy.’ 

‘I’m Elrond, child.’

‘Elrond?’ A giggle bubbled up from Legolas’s chest. ‘Know wha’ m’fava…father sez bout you?’

‘I think the whole of Imladris heard.’

But Legolas found it too funny not to repeat. The trouble was, he was laughing so hard by this time, he could only gasp the words, ‘poker’ and ‘arse’. 

A sharp pain in his arm quenched his hysteria. ‘Ow. Wassat for?’

‘You have a poisoned wound. I’m applying a salve. Hold still.’  

There was a pause, and a cooling sensation spread up Legolas’s arm, soothing the burning. Funny, because he hadn’t realised until now how hot it was. A spike of alarm penetrated his foggy brain, and he turned his head, looking for his love. ‘Ellahir? Where are you?’

A gentle hand brushed the hair back from his brow. ‘Here, Leglach…Legless. Love you.’

‘Love you too.’ He turned to his healer. ‘Me an’ Ellahir are getting married.’

‘We’ll see about that.’

‘Oh good.’ Legolas closed his eyes, secure in the knowledge that if Lord Elrond was organising the wedding, all would be well. 

‘Lindir,’ Lord Elrond said, ‘If you know a suitable song, now would be a good time.’

A soft hum filled the chamber, so low Legolas felt it in his chest more than heard it. It grew louder and then another voice joined it, then another, weaving from harmony to discord until the air seemed to pulse around him.

Legolas’s eyes flew open. ‘This is a rubbish song. I knowa good one. Galilion…Galionion taught me. How d’it go?’ In a sudden burst of clarity, the words came back to him. He drew a deep breath and sang across the strange, throbbing music. 

“Oh, the Orcs destroy all living things in their path

As do Spiders with the webs that they spin

But nothing can ravage our lands and our kin

Like the fucking Noldor.”

***

Talagan leaned forward in his saddle, seeking the stone markers indicating that he was finally clear of Imladris and, more importantly, free from responsibility for Legolas and Anglach. He couldn’t relax until he was out of Elrond’s realm, where he was constantly braced for a terrible explosion from the Last Homely House, or a pack of ravening Balrogs to burst from the earth or something else equally as likely to happen whenever Legolas and Anglach were at large. Making a mental note to look up the collective noun for Balrogs when he reached the tranquil halls of Mithlond, he rode on.

‘We must be nearly there,’ his lieutenant said. He had accompanied Legolas and Anglach to Laketown fifty years earlier, and on the second day of their visit the lake water had turned purple and the piles beneath the town barracks had mysteriously given way, sending the entire building to the bottom of the lake. Thankfully, no one had been inside at the time. Legolas and Anglach had, of course, been nowhere near the barracks at the time, but everyone had known they were responsible. Thranduil hadn’t let the lieutenant leave the citadel for over ten years. ‘I’m sure we’d be able to see them if it wasn’t for all this snow.’

Then they rounded a bend, and Talagan swore. There were the marker stones and beyond what he could only describe as a wall of snow. Not a drift but an impassable mountain of the stuff, piled so high that even the pack of Balrogs that Anglach was probably summoning at this very moment couldn’t hope to melt a path through. 

Odd, Talagan reflected. Although it had snowed in Imladris, it had been pretty snow that swirled in the air, settling on the hills but staying mysteriously clear of the roads. Now, however, it was settling rapidly. Yet when he looked back, he could see the dark tracks, still clear. He looked ahead again. Nope. The snow barricade was still there. 

Talagan recalled the conversation he’d had with Thranduil before leaving the Woodland Realm. ‘Elrond’s got one of those fucking rings,’ the king had said. ‘I know it, you know it, the bloke who cleans the drains knows it. What we don’t have is proof. Keep your eyes and ears open while you’re there, because I want evidence.

‘Here’s your proof, sire,’ Talagan muttered.

Beside him, his lieutenant started to sob. 

Chapter Text

“There’s nothing to do for it,” Talagan growled. “We’ve no choice but to go back.” Thrice-cursed fucking Noldor and their fucking magic rings, he thought. 

“Could we tunnel, you think?” His lieutenant sniffled desperately, as he drew his horse near Talagan’s. “Break through this–” he waved his arm at the wall of snow that towered in front of them.  “Drift?”

Talagan could hear murmurs from the Elves huddled together behind him. “That’s not a drift. It’s a solid wall of snow and we’re not a pack of dwarves, last I checked,” he grumbled. 

“We could try?” His lieutenant straightened up in the saddle, setting his jaw, wiping a tear away roughly. “It’s worth a try.”

An hour later Talagan had three frost-bitten Elves, a pathetically small mound of snow adjacent to the large one, and a tunnel that would be hard pressed to be called anything more than a burrow. 

A shallow one at that.

“It’s no fucking use,” he said. “Get out of there.” His lieutenant poked his head out of the burrow and looked at him mournfully. He had ice in his braids and snow crusted on his eyebrows. 

Talagan closed his eyes. 

Thranduil owed him. He owed him at least a week away from the Woodland Realm–alone, with a few bottles of Thranduil’s personal stash of Dorwinion wine to keep him company. And enough gold coin to keep him well fed and warm, while he drank his memories of this trip away. 

He’d heard Lothlorien was nice this time of year.

Another Elf with a bloody ring there, though. It might have to be Dale after all. 

Talagan shook his head. Enough daydreaming. 

Back to the waking nightmare of Elrond’s house.

And Anglach and Legolas. 

“Come on. Move out. We’re going back to the tra-fucking-la valley.” He ignored the moans of protest coming from his troop. They’d at least be out of the way in the barracks. He was the one who was going to have to deal with the Noldor, his own wayward Prince, and the Prince’s dunce of a sidekick. And whatever mayhem they had managed to create in the last few hours. 

Manwë save him. Where was a bloody dragon when you needed it? 

****

Legolas didn’t feel his song had been adequately appreciated. He was about to start in on the second verse when a very blond, astoundingly pretty Elf leaned over him with a blindingly bright smile, teeth white and even and perfect. “Hello, little Thranduillon.”  

Legolas blinked. 

He had to blink. It was all too bright, too cheerful, too overwhelming. Even the voice was pretty.

“You’re pretty,” he said to the pretty Elf, squinting at him with one eye open. The Elf was twinkling . Legolas couldn’t think of any other word to describe it. His blue eyes had the light of a thousand stars in them. 

Legolas leaned forward to get a closer look. “Can see the stars in your eyes,” he burbled at the glorious vision above him.

“Ingoldo, stop that,” came a melodious but decidedly cranky voice somewhere to his left. Legolas turned his head slightly and saw another pretty Elf, this one dark-haired and grey-eyed, but with an exceedingly grumpy expression. Grumpier than Galion on a bad day. Still pretty though. “Stop dazzling the young ones. You’d think you’d have learned your lesson after all these years.”

“Oh don’t grumble, Kano. They don’t need someone looming over them, being all somber and melancholy.” The golden one smiled down at Legolas again and he felt a warmth come over him at the brilliance of it. “They just need a little light. Shall I sing for you, little Oropherion?”

“No singing!” that Aragorn Man boomed. “There will be no more singing.” He sounded even grumpier than the Elf. 

Legolas lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes as the rumblings of the disgruntled Noldor washed over him. His arm felt cool and the throbbing was lessening. He felt a hand slide into his own and squeezed it. He was fine. Just fine. As long as he had his Ellahir by his side, he’d be fine. 

It was at that moment that the wolverine being dragged down the hall by Anglach decided it had had quite enough of all this. 

****

“You were supposed to keep the bag shut!” Glorfindel shouted at Anglach, before breaking into a run down the hallway. 

“Go after it, you orc-brained idiot,” Erestor added, shoving Anglach’s shoulder. “It’s your Valar-forsaken pet.”

Anglach blinked. This was perhaps the best impersonation of Legolas he had ever managed, and he wasn’t even trying this time.  He didn’t have long to ponder that thought, as Erestor grabbed his sleeve and started after the other Elf, Anglach stumbling in his wake. 

Gandalf led the three of them on a merry chase. 

Down the corridor. Into what he thought might be Arwen’s bedroom, based on the way she shouted at them. Gandalf ran up the curtains, then down, when she chased him with a broom. 

Then they were in the corridor again. 

Chasing Gandalf through the Great Hall. Into the kitchens. 

Anglach’s ears were still ringing from the screaming – both Gandalf’s and the startled Elves' of Elrond’s household. Most of the evening’s feast had ended up littering the kitchen floor by the time Erestor had finally chased Gandalf out a side door and into the snowy courtyard. 

He was cornered. Stone walls all around and the three of them coming at him from all sides. 

Until a door at the other end opened and Gandalf took the opportunity to scamper through it. 

There was a bump. Then a muffled curse. Then Gandalf’s yowling.

“For fuck’s sake, Anglach, I told you to leave this wretched thing where you found it!” 

Anglach brightened. He knew that voice. “Talagan! You’re back!”

Chapter Text

Aragorn believed he had never had a worse day, and he had had some very bad ones.

What had he done to deserve this? Living amongst elves had always meant living amongst chaos, but today they seemed to have taken that chaos to a whole new level. Who knew when he awoke this morning that a few short hours later he would be standing in the healing halls next to Maglor Feanorion and Finrod Felagund. Who knew???

At least Legolas seemed to be somewhat recovered—well definitely improved anyway. He had to admit he was most impressed by the Noldor's song of power. It was positively spine-tingling. Perhaps one of them might give him lessons later? He had had to tell Finrod no more singing only in case it led to another completely embarrassing silvan ditty from Legolas, who, despite himself, he quite liked and wished to see in as little trouble as possible—something which seemed quite an impossible task currently.

If he could just get these impressive First Age elves to see his own healing powers, perhaps that would lead to an offer of some extension healing classes? He was too intimidated to ask them directly. That fainting incident before was so embarrassing he could hardly look them in the eye, so instead he slipped a hand into Legolas' as he lay on the bed. Perhaps the contact would lesson his confusion?

But recognition as a healer was not at all the response Aragorn received.

The firm hand encircling his wrist, yanking his hand away from Legolas, was completely unexpected.

"What is this??? WHERE DID YOU GET THIS?"

"I don't. . . " All he could do was stammer like an idiot in the face of Finrod's most obvious displeasure.

"You have stolen my ring. How dare you!"

"I have not, I have not," Aragorn hurriedly tried to explain. "I have stolen nothing. I never would." The only ring upon his hand was the one Elrond had given him with which to claim his heritage. "This is a Ring of Barahir," he stuttered, "and it was given to me."

" The ring of Barahir???" If anything his explanation seemed only to have made Finrod even angrier. "THE RING OF BARAHIR?? Who called it that? I lent it to that damn scoundrel Barahir only for the night after he begged me for something impressive for a party. One night he was allowed it . . .  Just one night. Then he disappeared with it and never gave it back! the ring of Barahir?? I do not think so. This is the Ring of FINROD."

That could not be right.

"But Beren—" Aragorn tried to clarify but it seemed he only made things worse.

"BEREN???" Finrod positively roared it with rage. "BEREN? Do not say that name in my presence. Showed up at Nargothrond flaunting my ring, my ring that WAS NOT HIS TO OWN, and refused to give it back so I had to chase him halfway across Arda, all the way to Sauron's den, to try and get it back. Beren , you say??? Do not tell me you are connected to him?"

"No, no, no," Aragorn hurriedly shook his head, "No, not at all." Beren was actually one of his favourite ancestors but who was going to admit that in the face of this raging creature? Not him. Still, he couldn't resist just one more attempt at a clarifying question. "But didn't you swear an oath?"

It was not a wise decision.

"An oath?? What kind of nonsense is that? Why would I do that? What kind of fool do you think I am? A Fëanorion??"

"What exactly do you mean by that, Cousin?" Maglor snapped angrily.

"You know exactly what I mean!"

Desperate to escape what was fast deteriorating into a First Age family fist fight Aragorn cast his eye around the room for help.  Glidor? He seemed to have a modicum of control over Finrod with the startling Father/Son revelation. But Gildor stared steadfastly at the floor studiously avoiding Aragorn's silent plea for help. Elrond? He was supposed to be in charge after all. Suddenly the solution sprung crystal clear into Aragorn's mind.

"Elrond gave it to me!" he cried, over the top of the arguing elves. "Elrond gave me that ring!"

"Elrond?" Stopping midpersonal insult they cried the name in unison turning to stare in Elrond's direction, who suddenly—Aragorn noted with some pleasure—had turned as white as a sheet. "You gave him my ring and told him it was Barahir's?" Finrod said in astonishment: "My stolen ring?"

"I . . . "

"Elrond, I am very disappointed in you. I thought raised you better than this." Maglor's voice was coated in disapproval as Elrond hung his head in shame.

"Sorry," he said quietly.

Not so much the important Elflord now, Aragorn said to himself.

"I should think so." Maglor frowned sternly. "and what do you say to Finrod?"

"Sorry, Finrod. It will not happen again."

"You are damn right it will not! Give me my ring!" Finrod demanded of Aragorn.

"But I need it  to —"

"GIve. Me. The. Ring."

And just like that his ring was gone and settled upon Finrod's finger as if it had never left it. All Aragorn had to show for it was the suntanned mark left behind where it had been.

And just how was he going to claim his heritage now?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first thing Elrohir noticed was he had a headache. The second thing was he seemed to be rather uncomfortably sleeping in a chair. The third was that the chair was in Glorfindel’s chamber. What on earth was going on?

Slowly it came back to him. He had been treating a rather beautiful Silvan warrior with an athelas salve, but the warrior was gone .  . . And so was everyone else. He could have sworn Aragorn had been here. The place was in complete disarray with healing equipment everywhere.

The headache was most annoying but so was the fact he seemed to have been completely abandoned and could remember absolutely nothing. Had he suffered a blow to the head? Picking up one of Glorfindel’s many mirrors he inspected himself. No sign of injury at all. For Elbereth's sake, what was going on? Angrily he shoved his hands in his pockets in frustration. They had all just gone off and left him. It really was the bitter end.

To his surprise at the bottom of his pocket, there was a crumpled envelope. What was this? Curious he pulled it out and opened it. Inside was elegant writing in a hand he did not recognise.

Elrond, (a letter to his father, Elrohir thought. Should he even be reading this? But then he remembered his abandonment and thought—what the hell—why not.) 

Please find attached my son Legolas and his most idiotic sidekick. So good of you to agree to this extended cultural exchange. Talagan will return to collect them in the summer. .  . Possibly  . . .

Until then,

Enjoy!

Yours in mirth,

Thranduil

P.S. If there is damage to so much as a hair upon my son's head you will have me to answer to!

So that was why Erestor could not find the Silvan entourage. They had already left! Well, Elrohir supposed he should go break the news to someone even though it seemed none of them cared a jot about him.

He was still pondering the unfairness of the neglect shown towards him as he strode down the corridor, when who should run into him as he turned the corner but Aragorn.

"Ouch," Elrohir cried as Aragorn hit him with somewhat of a thump. " Where are you going?"

"Out of this madhouse," Aragorn snapped back. "if you think I am staying here one more minute you have another thing coming." He seemed rather unexpectedly upset.

"Madhouse? . . . By the way," Elrohir added as he remembered his petulant resentfulness, "Why did you abandon me in Glorfindel's room?"

"Why did you turn into a lovestruck, drug-addled, fool?" Aragorn answered his question with another that made absolutely no sense. Was he alright? Elrohir wondered. Was he sickening for something? Did he have a fever?

"Should we go to the healing halls," he asked, thinking he could have a closer examination of Aragorn there.

"The healing halls?" Aragorn cried with no small amount of distress. "That is the last place I will go, filled with crazy Noldor as it is."

That was a bit rude. Had he forgotten Elrohir himself was a Noldor?

"I am going to the Dunedain," Aragorn continued. "They may not say much but at least what they do say is sensible."

"But it is winter. You can't go to the Dunedain in winter. That is crazy talk. They live in tents up there!"

"I am willing to put up with a few tents to avoid any more of this insanity. Do you know who is down there?" He cried, gesturing in the direction of the healing halls. "Only Maglor and Finrod, that's who!"

Now Elrohir knew there was something seriously wrong with him. "I don't think that can be right." He said gently, but Aragorn simply wasn't listening.

"Did you know Finrod was Gildor's father?" Aragorn asked him accusingly. "I suppose you did and just chose not to tell me."

"Surely you are not fixated on that Gildor Inglorion nonsense. That is just Gildor showing off and attention-seeking. I am sure we have told you not to believe a word of that, Estel."

But Aragorn simply pushed past him angrily, "Do not tell me then, Elrohir. I already know the truth anyway."

Elrohir realised he had to somehow distract him. He was obviously delusional, likely feverish. He needed to get him somewhere he could have a good look at him.

"Look," he said trying his best to be measured and reasonable, "You cannot go to the Dunedain dressed as you are. You will freeze up there. How about we go to my room and I lend you a sweater? One of my cashmere ones?" He knew Estel coveted them.

"A red one?" Aragorn paused midstride hopefully.

"They are all red. You know that. Mine are red, Elladan's are blue."

"One with snowflakes?" Elrohir hesitated at that. The snowflake one was his favourite. Don't worry, he told himself. It is just until you sort out whatever is wrong with him.

" The one with snowflakes."

It was a relief to get the hallucinating Aragorn out of the corridor and into his room although Elrohir wished he wasn't quite so gleeful as he rifled through the sweaters. Still, he had to focus on getting him help.

"Perhaps we should go and see my father when you have chosen a sweater? Bid him farewell."

"Hardly," Aragorn muttered darkly. "After he has plied me with stolen goods making me look like a thief"

Was this another delusion?

"I don't think he would ever do that, Aragorn."

It was then, as Aragorn found the snowflake sweater with a cry of delight and clutched it to his chest, Elrohir noticed his hand . . . Or rather what wasn't on his hand.

"Where is your ring?" He cried in horror.

"Well it wasn't my ring, was it." Aragorn snapped.

"Have you lost it? Estel, that was an heirloom!"

"I have not lost it. I know exactly where it is."

Well, that was a relief.

"It is on Finrod's finger."

Oh no, not more of the Finrod nonsense.

"Finrod is dead, Aragorn. He does not have your ring . . . his ring . . . Barahir's ring." Now Elrohir was confusing himself as to exactly whose ring it was.

"Well, I will have you know he is not dead. He is down in the healing halls and he has reclaimed his ring."

Had losing the ring caused some sort of disastrous shattering of Aragorn's sanity? Elrohir wondered.

"Look we will just retrace your steps until we find it," he said taking deep breaths to try and calm himself. "You need that ring to claim your heritage."

"I know that!" Aragorn cried while attempting to struggle into the cashmere jersey. "I know. How am I ever going to convince the lords of Minas Tirth I am the King Returned without that ring? I will just go to the Dúnedain who knows who I am and live there. There is no point in doing anything else now. No point, Elrohir!"

"But what about Arwen?" Elrohir landed upon the one thing he thought might make Estrl rethink. It did not go well. Instead, he collapsed in the corner, head in his hands.

" Don't talk to me about Arwen," Aragorn sobbed. "Without the ring, she is lost to me. Your father's demands are so ridiculous."

"There, there," Elrohir awkwardly patted Estel's shoulder wondering where to from here, and hoping those tears did not damage his sweater. "Do not worry. I will fix it."

"You will get the ring back from Finrod?" Aragorn said hopefully.

"Of course!"

How hard could it be, Elrohir thought to himself, since Finrod did not exist. He would get Estel some medicine to fix these delusions, then he would remember exactly where he had put the ring and all would be sorted.

Easy .

0o0o0o

Chapter Text

Gandalf, or Fenrisúlfr the Bad, as he was really called, was having the absolutely BEST time OF HIS LIFE so far!!! He wriggled about and panted happily at the big irritated Kollottr- a ‘hairless one’- who held him by the scruff of his neck at arm’s length and gave him a baleful stare.

‘Gotcha.’

Fenrisulfr wagged his stumpy tail in delight. He absolutely LOVED Gotcha. If he was going to be caught by anyone, Gotcha was the very best. Gotcha loved Chase and always threw himself into the game with complete and reckless abandon, throwing himself after Fenrisúlfr in flying tackles and sometimes blindsiding Fenrisúlfr in a series of complicated deflections and feints that had Fenrisúlfr in ecstasy. Sometimes, if Fenrisulfr had been able to wriggle away, Gotcha would lead the other Kollóttrs in a blitz charge where they all charged in a sort of wall after Fenrisulfr and he dodged and darted around them, between their legs and feinting one way and then going the other.. 

BRILLIANT! Gotcha and his team were here and they could ALL join in the fun with Grumpy, the big grumpy Kollóttr with yellow hair who kept cracking his knuckles and shouting, and Sweary, Grumpy’s side-kick, who Fenrisúlfr admired because everything he said sounded like he was swearing REALLY badly. 

It was too easy with Grumpy and Sweary. They didn’t launch themselves at him the way Gotcha did.

Earlier, he had belted up a marble staircase away from Grumpy,  Fenrisúlfr had galloped happily along a long corridor, his big paws flapping against the marble and skidding on a silk carpet. He had dug his long razor-sharp claws into the floor to stop skidding but ended up with the rug wrapped around his overly big feet. Fortunately his long claws had ripped through the delicate cloth and it came away on nice pretty neat ribbons which he left in a long stream as he rushed off, panting and snuffling loudly as he galloped along the corridor, eyes bright and just so happy! The Kollóttr had been having as much fun as he, for they shouted and howled happily as they chased after him.

It was a pity, he had thought, thrusting his hairy little snout through the stair rods and watching with bright, beady eyes as they searched below for him, that they were so very stupid.Gotcha would never be so easily fooled. It would be more fun if they actually thought of looking upwards. Or behind them, he had thought, dropping heavily to the floor and making a huge noise to attract their attention. A delightful crash behind him had made them all turn around: a delicate vase of rose pink and gold porcelain from the Second Age Mithlond had shattered as the spindly table upon which it had stood for the Third Age wobbled. Fenrisúlfr had thwacked it as he had launched himself into a sliding dash for the stairs he had just led them up.

There had been a roar of approval and a chorus of delighted, excited voices from Grumpy and Sweary and they had set off again in hot pursuit. But Fenrisúlfr had been far too quick for them and he had pounded heavily along the corridor. As they had gained on him, he had crashed through an open door and found himself on a balcony. He had clambered up onto the rail and balanced precariously on it as the Kollóttr crashed in after him.

His little friend that Fenrisúlfr called Gandalf, (because that was the noise he made all the time in a silly cooing voice that Fenrisulfr thought endearing) cried out in fear as Fenrisúlfr had teetered on the thin, delicate rail and then Fenrisúlfr had slid from the railing and plunged through the air, landing with a thunderous crash in a large and ancient urn that held an ancient rose. Fenrisúlfr had shaken himself free of the shards of pottery and rose petals, sneezing and looked up in wonder as pink petals fell about him like pink snow, and water from the urn pooled about his big clawed feet.

He had grinned up at his little Gandalf. ‘It’s all right, Gandalf,’ he snuffled in his growling grunts and snorts. Luckily Gandalf understood Wolverine and waved at him happily.

He had thought he had an advantage but Grumpy had just vaulted over the balcony and landed gracefully only feet away from Fenrisulfr and then Sweary had followed but skidded on the rose petals and water and crashed into Grumpy. Grumpy and Sweary had shouted at each other a lot then, and Fenrisulfr watched admiringly as spittle flew from Sweary’s lips with each invective. Then Sweary had clawed his way to his feet and had advanced upon Fenrisúlfr menacingly. 

Fenrisúlfr had been cornered! He had wagged his stumpy tail enthusiastically, hoping that Sweary would lunge at him and he could dart between his legs and run away. Stretching his toothy mouth wide in a happy grin, Fenrisúlfr growled happily. Behind them, Gandalf had appeared calling his usual weird cry, ‘Gandalf, Gandalf!’ and Grumpy and Sweary had suddenly lunged forward together and tried to grab Fenrisúlfr. Fenrisúlfr had squealed in excitement and when a door had been thrown open behind him, he had hurled himself happily through it, straight into a wall of uncompromising and solid muscle.

A large hand had grabbed Fenrisúlfr by the scruff of his neck and hauled him out of the rose petals. ‘Gotcha!’ said Gotcha. Predictably.

So here he was. Caught by his very second favourite Kollótr. He wriggled in delight. He loved Gotcha! Fenrisúlfr called him Gotcha because he always made that sound when he caught Fenrisúlfr. Fenrisúlfr had been wondering where Gotcha was because Gotcha loved a game of Chase and was always very strenuous in the game, throwing himself after the little (well, not so little but certainly not YET fully grown) wolverine in a vigorous and excitable manner. Fenrisúlfr LOVED playing with Gotcha and made little squealing growls to show his affection. 

Gandalf shouted something incomprehensible and looked so happy to see Gotcha that it made Fenrisúlfr extra affectionate towards Gotcha and he bared his strong sharp teeth that could disembowel a deer in a delighted smile of welcome. He LOVED Gotcha, much more than Gandalf’s stupid friend, NotAgain.

Fenrisúlfr wagged his stumpy tail happily and let his long red tongue loll out between his big strong sharp teeth. He wriggled round to look up at Gotcha with adoring eyes. 

Gotcha glared back at him and Fenrisúlfr smiled and grinned and waved his stumpy tail again but harder in wolverine-delight, but the pressure on his scruff was a bit uncomfortable now and he whined. 

There was lots of barking and growling and shouting between the Kollóttr with Grumpy and Sweary snarling at each other and then at Gandalf. Then Gotcha thrust Fenrisúlfr at Gandalf who hefted the thirty pounds of wolverine ‘kit’ to his chest. Fenrisúlfr clambered up Gandalf, putting his big paws around Gandalf’s neck and his hind legs latched around his waist. Fenrisulfr heard Gandalf sort of give an ‘urgh’ sound as he snuggled up cosily to his little friend. Gandalf smelled of something oddly nice and Fenrisúlfr sniffed it up hungrily. His tummy rumbled.

 0o0o

Anglach was dreadfully upset. Poor little Gandalf. The wolverine was hanging with his big paws clasped around Anglach’s neck and his little furry face peered up terrified at Anglach. Anglach had to pull back a little because the wolverine’s breath was terrible, and then he felt guilty and rubbed his cheek on the rough hairy head. Gandalf’s big hind paws scribbled at Anglach’s midriff to get purchase and Anglach winced. He was very very heavy, and his claws were very very sharp. Then, the wolverine’s little tummy rumbled. 

Anglach looked down at him anxiously. ‘He’s starving after the way you have hunted him through the house!’ He sounded a little hysterical. 

‘Take that fucking thing and lock it up somewhere before I drown it,’ hissed Erestor. Then he looked at Anglach and said loudly and slowly, ‘TAKE THAT FUCKING THING AND LOCK IT UP SOMEWHERE BEFORE I DROWN IT.’

Anglach gasped and put his hands over Gandalf’s ears. ‘Drown Gandalf!’ he whispered hysterically. Then he looked at Erestor, blinked irritably and shouted loudly, ‘DROWN GANDALF!’

Even Glorfindel looked a bit taken aback and murmured to Erestor under his breath, ‘Why is Urgh Gngggurk saying we should drown Gandalf? Is Gandalf here? Has Urgh Gnggurk gone mad?’ His face softened slightly. ‘Perhaps it is the pressure of all this. Perhaps he is an imbecile.’

‘You’re not allowed to say that anymore, you’re not in Gondolin now,’’ Erestor muttered quickly before Glorfindel asked the angry looking captain of Mirkwood if one of their contingent was an imbecile. Luckily the angry Mirkwood captain had gone back through the doorway and was talking to someone, presumably his own men, thought Erestor. 

Glorfindel cracked his knuckles and muttered about Political Correctness Gone Mad.

Erestor thought for a bit and said, as if a light had come on. ‘Drown Gandalf - he doesn’t mean that. It must be some Silvan phrase.’ He looked at Anglach and then said very loudly and very slowly, ‘URGH GNGGGURK, DROWN GANDALF? DROWN GANDALF?’

Anglach was petrified and clutched at Gandalf protectively. 

Glorfindel said, ‘Shut up, Erestor, you can see the boy is terrified with you talking about drowning the beast. It’s confused him although I don’t know what Gandalf has to do with it.’ He gave Anglach an irritated look. ‘Wolverines might even be pets of Thranduil,’ he muttered out of the side of his mouth. ‘You know what they say about Mirkwood. More dangerous, less wise.’

‘Fucking crazy as bollocks was the phrase,’ Erestor muttered back. It had been Maedhros who said that about Woodelves and it was therefore inscribed in gold leaf in the Annals of Imladris under the ‘Various Sayings of Maedhros’, and alongside the Tra-la-la-lally song, and the rest of Maglor’s Greatest Hits.

‘He keeps spiders and Wargs in the stronghold,’ Glorfindel continued out of the corner of his mouth. ‘He’s supposed to have that pet spider, remember? War spider or something!’

The two glorious First Age warriors stared at Fenrisúlfr with horrified thoughtfulness. 

‘Very well,’ said Erestor at last. ‘I won’t drown him but I will lock him up in a cage.’ He looked at Anglach and then said it again loudly and slowly, ‘I WON’T DROWN HIM BUT I WILL LOCK HIM UP IN A CAGE.’

‘Lock up Gandalf in a cage!’ Anglach wailed and then repeated it loudly enough for ANYONE who might be listening and taking it ALL the wrong way, to hear. ‘’YOU’LL LOCK GANDALF UP IN A CAGE.’

Talagan re-emerged from behind the door and wondered why everyone was shouting. He already had a headache. ‘Perhaps we can go to our quarters,’ he interjected into the madness.

He immediately regretted it for Erestor turned his lazer-sharp gaze to Talagan. 

‘Well,’said Erestor with icy coolness. ‘At least it seems the Mirk…the Woodland Realm contingent has rejoined us.’ He bowed sarcastically at Talagan. ‘Delighted you have found your way back safely. I assume you were out for a nice afternoon stroll to explore the gardens.’ He smiled with a thin nastiness that had Talagan swallowing hard. 

Shit. Busted.

Talagan actually twitched. It was that amber vulpine gaze that unnerved him. There was a rumour about The Werewolf of Rivendell. Was it true? Was Erestor a Werewolf? Shit. Talagan hated this job. 

‘Um.. yes,’ he decided to lie. Always the best policy. Especially to a Werewolf and Balrog-Slayer. Especially when you were trying to dump the Wood’s stupidest and most troublesome Elves on them and sneak off to join the party in Mithlond. ‘Yes, we were admiring the gardens. Now, my men are tired and need to rest and eat.’

The men emerged from where they had been hiding, looking tired indeed and a bit emotional. One was weeping, leaning on another’s arm and was red-eyed and lip trembling, and staring at Anglach in horror. 

‘Hello, Ceredir,’ said Anglach happily. ‘And Aegnir.’ He gave a sort of salute that was hindered by the large wolverine hanging round his neck and panting in ecstatic, manic delight. ‘Look! Gandalf is so happy to see you all!’

There was a nervous moan from the weeping Ceredir, and Aegnir patted him gently.

Talagan jerked his head and the contingent shuffled into some sort of disheveled line and Erestor inclined his head suavely. ‘Follow me, friends. I will take you to your quarters.’ He gave another smile which Talagan rightly understood meant Quarters from which there is no escape and to which I will be sending your wayward Prince and this idiot, his stupid sidekick whenever there is trouble. 

 Ceredir wept violently and Aegnir, shoulders slumped, walked heavily after their captain.

0o0o

Anglach stroked Gandalf’s sleek, large bear-like but not-bear head and smiled down at the furry face. ‘Now, I am going to hide you under Legolas’ bed. I will find you some food but stay there. Legolas is stupid but he is my friend and he won’t let me down. He always comes round in the end.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Except for the bat. He really didn’t like the bat but he loved Lagorúthon.’ He thought about the spiderling he had found in the forest for a moment. It had started badly but look how well that turned out!

And then it struck him. Of course! He slapped the palm of his hand against his forehead. ‘Why didn’t I think of this before! I have an idea,’ he said happily.

Anglach unpeeled Gandalf from around his neck and with a grunt, the wolverine kit-not-really thumped heavily to the ground and scuttled under the bed, stumpy tail wagging cheerfully. He snuffled and growled and snorted cheerfully, and Anglach heard him dragging things under the bed to make a nice den.

Anglach laughed indulgently. ‘I haven’t got time to play now, Gandalf, I will get you some food first and then for my plan.’ 

There was a sort of yaffling sound as if Gandalf had found something in amongst the clothes and blankets and whatever it was that he had found, and was eating it. But Anglach was used to that. As long as it wasn’t an elfling, or one of Anglach’s other pets. But he wasn’t at home and so there weren’t any, and when he peeped under the bed, Gandalf was curled up on a pile of Legolas’ clothes and snoring loudly.

He left Gandalf curled up under Legolas’ bed. Legolas wasn’t there but then, Anglach had been pretending to be Legolas anyway, and Legolas hadn’t even made it to his chamber yet so Anglach thought it would be the best place for Gandalf. The poor little thing was exhausted after being hunted by no less than Glorfindel the Balrog hunter and slayer, and Erestor who was as scary as anyone Anglach had ever met in his life. 

0o0o

Fenrisúlfr lay curled up on NotAgain’s warm fur cloak and dreaming deeply. He had found something under the bed that he had not encountered before and so, as wolverines do, ate it. The Bëor’s Bane was not particularly tasty but it smelt lovely and made him feel all warm and fuzzy.  He fell asleep immediately.

Much later, someone looked under the bed and shouted in horror, backing up. Fenrisúlfr blinked sleepily and looked up and then hearing the noise, ambled cheerfully from under the bed and looked up into the most beautiful face he had ever seen. His little heart thumped with adoration.

0o0o

Chapter Text

Glorfindel stared at the empty hallway with a sense of relief and weariness. He flopped into one of the many wooden benches facing Imladris’ beautiful gardens and groaned out loud.

He hadn’t had such a long day in either of his entire existences! How could so many things have happened in such a short time? He pinched the bridge of his nose, noting a headache starting to build at the back of his eyes. He slowly dragged both hands over his face, then through his disheveled hair – his neat braids had all come undone during the chase.

He wished he could go back to his quarters and sleep until Yule was past and gone but could he do that? Could he indulge in being one of Imladris’ most respected and ancient captains? Noooo. He had to make sure everything went as smoothly as possible for himself, yes, but for Elrond as well.

Not that Elrond was helping, if he was honest. No, actually, Elrond had made things worse by bringing Maglor and Finrod into the scene. Why on Elbereth’s name did he think a murderer and the pearly prince would help? It was more likely that they would bicker with each other until their tongues fell – or tangled in each other. Whichever was more worrisome, he didn’t know.

So he breathed in deeply and tried to decide what was more urgent. The Mirkwood contingent wasn’t going to give him any more trouble now that Erestor had found them. But Legolas Thranduillion was still sick, and he couldn’t blame poor Elladan for fleeing the scene as fast as he could.

Maybe he should see Elrohir and find out what he was doing. Maybe Estel would be with him, too. No, if Estel and Elrohir were together, one balanced the other fairly well – sometimes Estel really did show his maturity over some things (not today, however).

Glorfindel breathed again.

You know what? No. He wasn’t going to take care of anyone else’s problems anymore. Maglor and Finrod were Elrond’s responsibility now. Let him deal with those two. He would go back to his chambers and stay in bed for the rest of the day. He wasn’t needed anymore, he was sure of that.

As he took decided steps to his quarters, a small smiling pulling his lips up, he heard a frightened cry and a squeal, then a crash of something breaking.

No, he thought. It could not be. The wolverine had been rescued not five minutes ago! It could not be that he was already on the loose and wreaking havoc again.

Another crash, a loud curse in a language he couldn’t tell if it was Quenya or Sindarin, and more squeals.

Glorfindel closed his eyes and counted to ten.

Another scream and another crash made him square his shoulders and follow the noise. It wouldn’t do to ignore the problem if the problem might chase him to his chambers, anyway.

***

Erestor whistled as he strolled around the corridors towards the Great Hall. Mission fucking accomplished, fucking finally! The Mirkwood contingent was properly secured in the assigned chambers, prince Legolas was found and being taken care of, and that furry little beast was out of his sight, along with that dimwitted whatshisname. Not even Glorfindel could ruin the rest of his evening!

He saw movement in the corner of his eye, and watched as Elrohir opened door after door searching for someone.

“Elrohir,” he called with an imperative tone, and was not displeased to see Elrond’s son jump and freeze.

“I am looking for my father.”

“They are in the Healing Halls.”

Elrohir smiled too brightly and too cheerfully for his own sake, so Erestor narrowed his eyes in instant suspicion.

“What is the matter with you? Are you still under Bëor’s Bane?”

“Bëor’s Ba- what? No, I don’t think so,” Elrohir muttered almost to himself. “No, I am looking for Ada because Estel is hallucinating.”

Erestor raised one brow as high as his hairline.

“Yes,” Elrohir continued, knowing he would have to do better to convince him. “He kept saying Finrod Felagund wanted the Ring of Barahir back, and now he’s wandered off to the Dúnedain settlement. But if I find Ada I can-”

“He did WHAT?” Erestor shouted, his vision going black for a moment. “Manwë’s hairy balls, has Estel lost his mind? Elrond will skin him alive if he discovers he has left his duties!” He was screaming by the end of the sentence, not caring how Elrohir winced.

“I know, but what could I do? I wasn’t going to get into a physical fight with my brother!”

“He’s not your-” Erestor bit his tongue hard. That was a cruelty he didn’t really mean. The twins and Estel had been as close as brothers ever since Estel came of age, and it was more than unfair of him to unload his frustration on this topic. Besides, Elrond wasn’t here to listen, anyway.

“Elrohir, listen to me very carefully,” he said between his teeth, which might have been showing with fangs, for Elrohir backed away until he hit the stone wall behind him, frightened eyes wide as platters. “You will go after Estel and make him turn back immediately. He is not allowed to leave while the Mirkwood contingent and Prince Legolas are lodged in this residence. Do you understand?” Elrohir nodded. “Good. If he resists, you can tell him we will have a little chat when he comes back.”

Elrohir’s eyes widened even more, and he nodded more enthusiastically.

“But what about Barahir’s ring? I promised I would get it back!”

“Oh, don’t you worry, and leave Finrod with me. Let us see if he can stand a Fëanorian bite up in the arse!”

Chapter Text

Legolas awoke with a throbbing head, aching arm and a mouth that tasted as though he’d spent three days in a Warg den, licking the walls. It was a rude awakening after the wondrous dreams he’s been having. Some parts had admittedly, been weird – a song that had snaked into his bloodstream; an evil twin and a good twin and a hairy Man screaming something about a ring. But all that had been nothing compared to the beautiful face with grey eyes, a full, sensual mouth and flowing black hair. And a name. Ellahir. A somewhat unusual name, but his father had explained to him that the ways of Imladris were strange, and he wasn’t to judge. Well, in all honesty those weren’t Thranduil’s precise words. What he had actually said was, ‘Most have them have got their heads stuck so far up their own arses they can see out of their mouths. But there are a few good warriors for all that, and we need them on our side if we’re to have a hope of clearing the Shadow from our forests. Be diplomatic and for fuck’s sake, think before you speak.

Well, Legolas hadn’t had a chance to speak, so he was sure he hadn’t done or said anything to ruin relations between Imladris and the Woodland Realm. An image of a glorious, half-naked elf flitted through his mind, but Legolas dismissed it. Must have been another dream. 

He glanced around and saw a pile of clothes by the side of the bed. It was high time he rose and began his important diplomatic mission, so he dressed, wincing a little from his aching head and arm. There didn’t seem to be anyone around to give him directions, but he set out, confident he would soon bump into someone who could tell him where to go. Two  thoughts were uppermost in his mind: one being food and the other Ellahir. He needed both. 

***

Mithrandir strode into the entrance hall of the Last Homely House and scowled at the lack of welcome. Where was everyone? He hadn’t spent the last day blasting a path through the snow with his staff only to be ignored when he finally reached his destination. ‘Last Homely House, my arse,’ he muttered. ‘I’d have found a warmer welcome in a Troll cave.’

He strode towards the living quarters when he heard raised voices echoing down the corridor. One was unmistakably Erestor, and he sounded demented, to say the least. Mithrandir tightened his grip on his staff. Although he hadn’t been able to make out any words, the tone seemed to indicate a dire threat. What evil had befallen Imladris?

Just as he was heading in the direction the voices were coming from, he heard something that made his blood freeze. ‘DROWN GANDALF! DROWN GANDALF!’ Erestor screamed. 

Mithrandir shrank into the shadows. Surely he hadn’t heard right. But he wasn’t taking a step closer until he knew for sure. Straining his ears, he heard more raised voices, but nothing intelligible until Erestor yelled again: ‘I WON’T DROWN HIM BUT I WILL LOCK HIM UP IN A CAGE.’

Then another voice, with an accent Mithrandir could have sworn was Silvan, screamed: ‘YOU’LL LOCK GANDALF UP IN A CAGE!’ This voice sounded horrified.

At least it sounded like the unknown Silvan was on his side, but Mithrandir knew he had to hide until he could get to the bottom of it all. Erestor had sounded like he’d much rather drown than lock him up, and Mithrandir wasn’t going to go anywhere near Erestor or any of Elrond’s household until he knew who he could trust.

Ducking through the first doorway he came to, he found himself in an empty room, although it had clearly been occupied recently. Mithrandir scanned the contents of the room and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the insignia of the Woodland Realm on the packs. Not a room belonging to one of the elves of Imladris, then. If he wasn’t mistaken, he thought he recognised the personal emblem of Thranduil’s family. One of his sons, most likely. He would be safe here; Thranduil’s folk spent their lives fighting Shadow, and Mithrandir was sure they would stand fast against any attempt of the Enemy to take Imladris. Hearing running footsteps, he hunkered down on the far side of the bed, hoping to stay concealed until he could work out what in Middle-earth was happening. As he did so, he looked for vital clues that would identify the particular son of Thranduil occupying the room. Laersul would be his first choice, although Thalos came a close second. Both would be staunch allies. Then Mithrandir’s eyes ran over the acorn badge worked into the fine leather quiver standing in the corner. Ah. Legolas. Well, he could be useful too, although there was also a chance that he was the cause of whatever madness had descended upon the household. Especially if Anglach was also here. 

Thoughts of Legolas temporarily fled when he heard a snort from under the bed. Peering down, he caught a glimpse of dark fur and lethal claws. Forgetting himself, he let out a startled yelp and shuffled back as far as he could go. A moment later and a monster pounced from its hiding place, claws scrabbling at his shoulders. He was overwhelmed with the sound of ripping cloth, a musky animal scent and a sound that was a cross between a growl and a whimper. Mithrandir braced for the sharp teeth and claws that were surely about to pierce his flesh. Instead, there was frantic whimpering, then a long, slimy tongue licked his face with enthusiasm.

Wizard and beast startled when the door slammed open, smashing into the wall. Through a wall of dark fur, Mithrandir caught a glimpse of Anglach. ‘Quick, Gandalf, we must hide. Erestor wants to lock you up!’

Chapter Text

Aragorn had stowed his few belongings in his pack–his pipe, his second-best cloak, Elrohir’s cozy red snowflake sweater, a small pouch of the Shire’s best Longbottom Leaf, and the shards of Narsil, carefully wrapped up in his softest blue and white striped flannel pyjamas. He was most certainly not going to leave any more of the precious relics that proved his heritage here, where unhinged Noldor could snatch them from his grasp. 

He wouldn’t put it past them, he really wouldn’t. That Maglor fellow would likely find some reason this blade should rightly belong to the Fëanorions, like all those other First Age shiny things they kept fighting about. 

Or Finrod would demand it be returned to the Dwarves, since they had forged it in the first place. Aragorn had heard Finrod had a thing for Dwarves. 

He’d heard Finrod had a thing for Men too, but that rumor had certainly been put to rest with today’s events. 

He stared down at the bare skin on his finger, where his ring used to sit. Gone. His most visible link to Beren and the one that unquestioningly proved his heritage. 

The ring that he was to use to claim his kingship, so he could finally marry Arwen. 

What was it with Elves and impossible betrothal tasks? Not for the first time he wished he and Arwen could sneak away somewhere and marry without jumping through all the hoops Elrond had set for him. Travel south to Near Harad and live in anonymity. Or go take up residence near Tom and Goldberry and hang the rest of them. 

He shouldered his pack, glanced around the room one last time, and then slammed the door with a satisfying thud as he left. 

To the Dunedain. Where he belonged. 

The path was mostly clear of snow, muddied here and there with hoofprints. He’d likely have to skirt far around to avoid the wall of snow that surrounded Imladris this time of year. He could cross at the fords; that would be the best route. It was the only place that was usually clear of Elrond’s magicked snow pack. 

He had turned in the direction of the fords when he heard the distinct sound of thundering hooves behind him. Aragorn ignored them. It was probably Elrohir, chasing after him, in an attempt to get him to return to Imladris. 

Or to get his sweater back, Aragorn thought uncharitably. He knew how Elrohir felt about the snowflake sweater. 

“Estel!” The clear voice that rang out behind him made him whirl in the saddle. 

“Arwen! What are you doing here?”

She reined her horse beside his. “I should be asking you that, don’t you think, my love ?” There was an edge to those last two words and Aragorn raised his eyes slowly to meet hers. 

“I . . .”

“You what?” she said, eyebrows lowered, steely-eyed gaze halting his fumbling words. “You thought you’d pack up your things, turn your back on the house of Elrond, and not even bother to say goodbye to me before leaving?”

Well, when she put it like that . . .

“Well, I . . . things were . . . I mean. . . HE TOOK MY RING.” His voice rose as he gave voice to his outrage. “HE TOOK THE RING OF BARAHIR.” He knew he shouldn’t be shouting at her, that none of it was her fault, but it had been such a long day and the shock of the loss was still too new, too fresh, too unbelievable. 

“Who took your ring?” Arwen, if anything, looked even more daunting but it was at least deflected a little bit from him, he thought. 

He hoped.

“Finrod! Felagund!” The words tumbled out of him in a rush now, the hot heat of his fury and helplessness pouring forth. He would gladly direct all her ire at that infuriating golden madman. “He started shouting at me and saying Barahir borrowed it and then never gave it back and Beren basically stole it and then he grabbed it from me and stormed off.”

“Finrod took your ring.” Her voice was crisp, even, icy.

“He said it was his.” His voice sounded plaintive even to his ears. “I know you probably don’t believe me, but he’s there, he’s alive, he’s Gildor’s father which makes some weird kind of sense . . .”

She cut him off with a raised hand. “Was there an unfamiliar, dark-haired Elf with him?”

Aragorn nodded. She knew. He’d had no idea and she had known . 

“What in the fiery depths of Mordor were they doing out and about?” She gave him a sharp look. “Was my father there? Does he know?”

Aragorn nodded again. This was good, he thought. This was better. It was always better when these Noldor were angry at anyone but him. 

“What in Yavanna’s name is going on here today? First that nonsense with Legolas and his dimwitted friend, then Glorfindel and Erestor destroying half the barracks, my brother blindingly drunk on some love potion, and now this.” Arwen frowned. “As if Finrod needs any more jewelry,” she scoffed. 

She stared off into the distance for a moment before shaking her head, making her raven hair shimmer in the dwindling light. “Where were you going?”

“I thought to go to the Dunedain. Without the ring . . .” 

She put up her hand again. “I know what you might have thought,” she said, in a softer tone. “But you did not take me into account.” She reached across and grasped his hand. “You must know to come to me, Estel, whenever this house devolves into chaos and mayhem. Me . I have enough of my mother and my grandmother in me to steer my way clear through all their nonsense.” Arwen squeezed his hand. “You leave Finrod to me. We’re going back to get that ring of yours. Come on.”

Aragorn followed her dutifully, catching her mutter under her breath as she turned her horse. “Spend Yule in Imladris, they said. It’ll be fun, they said. Remind me to winter in Lothlorien next year, I simply cannot with this crew anymore, I simply cannot.” She huffed a breath. “Wait until I tell my grandmother about this. He’s going to wish he’d stayed in Valinor, where he belongs.”

****

Fealdir waved at Telior and then turned to take the trail that ran along the river. “I’ll see you back at the House,” he said to his friend. He had decided to take the long way back after their shared tra-la-la-lally shift. 

The moon was rising and it made the snow around him gleam. It would be full tonight, once it rose above the peaks that lined the valley. He liked this time of year, the crisp coldness of it, the stars glittering and remote overhead.  

He actually didn’t mind tra-la-la-lally duty either, not in the winter. It was cold, yes, but Elrond let them get away with shorter shifts and fewer participants this time of year. He and Telior hadn’t had to sing the song at all today–no one had attempted to cross the river. They’d spent their time playing dice and he had a few more coins in his pocket tonight. 

The wall of snow beside him glittered, shimmering as the moon rose higher in the sky. He put his hands in his pockets and ambled along the path. 

He was just about to take the left turn up to the House when he saw it. Small, untidy heaps of snow scattered in front of the wintry wall. The gaping hole where there should be nothing but smooth, silvery snow. 

A ripple of fear ran through him. A breach. The magicked wall of snow had been breached. 

And then he was running as fast as he could, back to the house, shouting for the Captain of the Guard, for Glorfindel, for Erestor. 

****

Elrohir hadn’t even bothered with a cloak. He had run straight to the stables after his encounter with Erestor and then galloped off into the dusk, in search of Estel. The gentle fall of snow made it easy to track him, although Aragorn’s horse’s hoofprints were muddled with other tracks. Likely the Mirkwood contingent’s, when they had returned this evening. 

Blast them all. 

By Namo’s skinny arse, what a mess today had been. 

He’d been looking forward to a quiet evening by the fire, comfortably ensconced in one of the plush armchairs in the Great Hall, a book he’d surreptitiously snagged from Glorfindel’s stash of First Age romances on his lap, Lindir crooning a soothing melody in the background. 

With a mug of mulled wine at his side it would have been the perfect evening. 

Instead, he was out here, searching for his addled foster brother–who had fucked off into the wild with Elrohir’s favorite sweater, mind you–dealing with the cold and the wind, all because Erestor was in a rage about something. 

He caught his first glimpse of the full moon and was putting together that realisation, along with the fact that Erestor had been in a horrifically foul mood tonight, and been a little too long in the tooth–and all that could only mean only one thing . . .

Which was when Fealdir came around the corner, grabbed Elrohir’s leg and started shouting about foes and breached defences, and drove that nascent thought right out of his head.

Chapter Text

The fire crackled most welcomingly as Finrod leaned back in his chair stretching his long legs out in front of him. What an interesting day it had been so far. So much more invigorating than the endless tedium of Valinor. The best part of all was the ring he now spun in complete self-satisfaction upon his finger. His ring, back where it belonged. The only dampener on the day was the black cloud that was Maglor sulking in the corner because he, Finrod, may have—completely unintentionally of course—been somewhat critical of that damnable Oath. 

"How long will you be not talking to me?" he asked. 

"I am talking to you," Maglor replied somewhat grumpily. "I just have nothing to say currently." 

A bald-faced lie if ever Finrod had seen one. Admitting defeat he went back to spinning his ring. No point arguing with a Fëanorion. 

"You need to give that ring back." 

Finrod lifted his head in surprise with a frown upon his face. What was Gildor on about? Really, he had grown up to be so disagreeable, always telling Finrod what he could and couldn't do. How had that happened? Where had his boy gone? 

"It's my ring. I am not about to give it back." 

"It's not your ring anymore though, Father. It's Estel's ring." 

"It never was his in the first place. It is stolen goods!  Anyway . . . Estel? Strange name for one of the Edain. Is he even who he says he is?" 

"Elrond called him that." Maglor chose that moment to pipe up from the corner. "As he is supposedly everyone's hope." 

"Everyone's hope?" Finrod was horrified. "He fainted at the sight of us. How is that boy possibly everyone's hope? We are in a bad way if that is how it is." 

"We are in a bad way now that you have his ring," Maglor muttered darkly and Finrod scowled at him. 

"He needs the ring to reclaim his heritage, Father," Gildor chimed in. 

"What heritage? He is a bedraggled child!" 

"He is the King Returned, Isildur's heir, descendant of Elendil!"

Finrod stared at Gildor blankly. What a load of gobbledegook was he spouting? Who were these people? 

"Have you been paying no attention at all in Valinor, Cousin?" Maglor asked him.

"I was focused on Gildor," Finrod cried in his own defence, "Not these randoms."  

"I was at the Last Alliance with those randoms" Gildor sighed heavily. "I do not want you to have that ring, Father. I hate it. That ring is what separated us. If you will not give it up because we tell you Estel needs it, give it up for me." 

He supposed Gildor was right. Pensively he slipped the ring off his finger and held it to the light. 

"It is so pretty," he sighed mournfully. "See how it sparkles."

"You have lots of other rings, Father. They are all pretty." 

"Too deep a love of sparkles can lose you your family," Maglor murmured beside him, "I should know." 

Damn Maglor and his Fëanorion predictions of doom, damn him! How could he possibly keep the dratted ring following that pronouncement? He couldn't, of course he couldn't, and Maglor knew it! Well, if he had to give it back he would do it dramatically because that's how Finrod, King of Nargothrond, rolled. 

"Right," he leapt to his feet. "Coming with me Cousin? Shall we do this? A dramatic First Age gesture perhaps?" 

"You cannot go wandering around the corridors of Imladris!" Gildor cried. 

"Why not?" Finrod swept a confused arm towards the door, "We were just out there." 

"Maglor?" Gildor pleaded for some common sense. 

"Well," Maglor said thoughtfully. "Elrond does seem to have rather thrown the you must be hidden at all times mantra out the window." 

Finrod took that as an agreement, giving Gildor no more chance for further argument. "Let us find this descendant of randoms," he cried excitedly, "and gift him my ring. Maglor are you with me?" He did quite like the idea of being a benevolent benefactor. 

"I am with you, Cousin." 

"And you, Gildor?" 

"I am finding Elrond," Gildor replied firmly, "and making sure he knows none of what is about to happen is at all my fault." 

Of course the problem, Finrod discovered, was actually finding said descendant in the first place. The place was a literal rabbit warren and the boy was nowhere to be found. You would think Maglor would be some help since he had been here longer, but even he failed to magic up the Adan. He was busy complaining they were going around in circles when Finrod heard the most unusual noises emanating from one of the rooms they were passing. 

"That's not Estel's room," Maglor grumbled. 

"But someone obviously needs our help. Listen!"

Bangs, thuds, and muttered curses emanated from behind the wooden door followed by a loud and very clearly angry "Get this damn thing off me!" followed by a somewhat high-pitched "Ow!!" 

"Walk on by, Finrod, walk on by. Whatever it is we do not need to get involved," Maglor said firmly. 

"But we are here and the most obvious ones to help." It smelt of drama and excitement, and after centuries in Valinor, Finrod was all for more of that. 

"What on earth makes you think we are the most obvious? We do not even know what goes on in there!" 

Finrod turned to stare at him in astonishment. 

"We are the most powerful Elves here! If not us then who? I was a King, you were a King, see any other Elven Kings loitering in these corridors?" 

"I hardly count as King."

"Oh, enough of the self-depreciation, Maglor." He could be so irritating sometimes, Finrod thought to himself. "This is your chance. Remake yourself. Rewrite history! This could be your opportunity to be the good guy for a change!" To hell with it. He was not going to miss out on whatever it was behind that door. Not waiting for Maglor to respond, he flung it open with a dramatic cry . . . And stared. 

For behind the door, there was a wizard . . . A wizard who seemed to be wearing a wolverine as a hat . . . And a very flustered and yet ordinary-looking Silvan. 

"Olórin!" "Mithrandir!" "Finrod? Maglor?" A chorus of voices flung the names out in a cacophony of unison, along with a terrified squeak from the Silvan. It was the wizard who regained his composure first (despite the odd headgear).

"Shut the damn door!" he ordered, reaching past them to slam it himself.

"Olórin?" It seemed Maglor was absolutely flabbergasted. "Since when has Olórin looked like this?" He demanded of Finrod. "This is Mithrandir!"

"Since the Valar sent him back to Arda on some kind of secret mission. I was there when he left and he looks exactly the same . . . Except for the wolverine." 

"FINROD FELAGUND!"

 Whatever he was to be called, the wizard was furious. "What are you doing here? Who gave you permission to leave Valinor?"

"No one gave me permission." Finrod was defiant.

"What on earth were you thinking?" 

"I was bored. And I wanted to see my boy. It was blatantly unfair when they sent Glorfindel back and not me and you know it, Olórin." 

"Well, that's as may be." He prodded a finger firmly into Finrod's chest. "The Valar will not be happy with you."

"I do not care what the Valar think."

"Hang on," Maglor interrupted the disciplining. "Do you mean to say you ARE Olórin? Why did you not tell me?"  

"Because, Maglor Fëanorion, you did not need to know!" 

"I think you could at least—" Olórin/Mithrandir was not the slightest bit interested in Maglor's protests, cutting him off mid-sentence. 

"What are the pair of you doing out wandering the corridors? Where is your glamour?" He snapped at Maglor. "Do you want to start a riot?"

"Elrond seems to have decided we can do without the glamour." Maglor shrugged. "Somewhat unexpected, but who am I to argue?" And the wizard gasped. 

"So it has spread!" 

"What has spread?" 

"The agent of the Dark that stalks these halls has claimed another victim!" 

The poor terrified Silvan pressed up against the back wall with eyes like saucers gasped at that, and Finrod felt quite sorry for him. He knew a simple smattering of Laiquendi from his trips through Beleriand, and he wondered if this boy would understand it. Perhaps it would help him feel more at ease. 

"Do not worry," he said softly, "you are safe with us. I have once killed a werewolf with my bare hands." Unfortunately, his reassurance only seemed to make the boy even more frightened, if such a thing were possible, and Olórin more irritated. 

"Stop showing off," he snapped at Finrod. "Anglach understands Sindarin perfectly well, don't you Anglach?" He was rewarded with a slow wordless nod. "Look what you have done, you fool," he continued to upbraid Finrod, switching rather unexpectedly to Quenya. "Centuries of subterfuge destroyed in a single swoop. How on earth am I supposed to come up with a cover story for this that the child will believe?" 

"What do you mean, the agent of the Dark?" Maglor interrupted them and it did not pass Finrod's notice Magor reverted them back to Sindarin. Had his cousin's Quenya become rusty over the years? He did feel somewhat smug about that; having come recently from Valinor, his was, of course, perfect. 

"An agent of the Dark is here overtaking the unwary," the wizard said somewhat overdramatically. "Erestor was wandering the corridors screaming he meant to lock up Gandalf, or worse, drown him. And he very definitely sounded as if he preferred the drowning. That is why I am sequestered in here while I try to find reinforcements." 

"That does not sound like Erestor." 

"Well of course it does not. That is why it is obvious the Dark has him. And now you tell me Elrond behaves out of character as well? Why would he wish to unveil you when he knows it could well cause an uprising? Unless . . . He wishes for the destruction of Imladris!" 

"Who is Gandalf?" Finrod interjected but the two of them ignored him. How was he supposed to protect this "Gandalf" without knowing any kind of identifying characteristics? He did like the sound of this scenario. Lots of room for heroism, and he had thought that Elrond fellow very highly strung. 

"You definitely heard this?" Maglor was saying. 

"Of course I heard it! Why would I lie? And Anglach heard it as well did you not, Anglach?" 

"Yes, but—" It were the first words the Silvan had actually spoken, and the "yes" was enough for Maglor. 

"Is there any chance of releasing them from the clutches of the dark?" he cried. 

It was then Finrod realised . . . Gildor had gone to see Elrond!! 

"Gildor!" He cried, "I have to save Gildor!"

Yanking on Maglor's sleeve, he opened the door and hurled him out of it. He would need all the help he could get. There was no time for any Maglor reluctance. "Stay here Olórin," he called as he headed into the corridor himself. "Leave this to the Finwions!" Only to pop his head back inside just briefly to ask one final quick question:

"By the way, what's the deal with the wolverine?"

Chapter Text

Anglach’s mouth was still open when the two most glorious elves he had ever seen in his life slammed away (what is all the slamming about? he wondered) when one of them poked his head back in and said, ‘What’s with the wolverine?’ 

Anglach was so pleased that this glorious Elf was taking such an interest in his little wolverine! He gave his sweetest smile and said, ‘This is Gandalf.’ He pointed to the cheery little wolverine that had slid from Mithrandir’s head and was clinging round his neck like a large furry sack. Mithrandir was wrestling with Gandalf, who thought it was a game, and was snapping at his hands and growling in delight.

‘No, I know this is Gandalf,’ shouted Finrod over the noise, ‘but why is there a wolverine round his neck.’

Anglach stared hard at Gandalf, mystified. Gandalf had fallen from Mithrandir’s neck and was trying to jump back up again, with happy little growly sort of barks. 

Anglach looked again. Really hard. No. Only one wolverine. ‘Oh! That’s Gandalf,’ he explained. ‘And that’s Mithrandir. Oh!’ He laughed and slapped his thigh. Of course. Now it was obvious. ‘Gandalf is the name of the wolverine,’ he said, laughing amidst a bout of deafening crashes as Gandalf brought Mithrdanidr down and pounced on him, growling and yelping.

Finrod leaned down and cupped his ear. ‘WHAT?’

Honestly, Anglach wondered what in all of Elbereth’s stars was wrong with these Elves’ hearing.  ‘GANDALF.’ He pointed emphatically at Gandalf. ‘HE’S CALLED GANDALF.’ 

‘Tulkas Ingrowing Toenails!’ Mithrandir snapped grumpily, ‘It would be helpful, Felagund, if instead of just standing there watching, you and the Doom over there actually did something useful and removed it!’ He struggled to keep Gandalf from licking his face, a long red tongue in his big smiley mouth, and terrible wolverine breath. Gandalf was winding himself luxuriously in Mithrandir’s beard as if he thought it was another wolverine. ‘Get OFF me you stupid beast! Then we need to find this enemy that stalks Imladris and rid the Valley of it. I’m not too keen on the specificity of its intentions towards me… ow…drowning is not the way I intend to leave this world.’

‘Of course.’ Finrod bowed extravagantly. Taking the ring he had confiscated from that Random man, whatisnamme- Estagorm or Aragel whatever- from his finger, he waved around the wolverine’s head. ‘This always works,’ he said over his shoulder to Maglor, who rolled his eyes. 

Gandalf lifted his head, Mithrandir’s beard fluffed up around him like some sort of mane and watched the ring mesmerised, tail wagging excitedly, his wide mouth stretched in what would have been a cheery grin but was also full of teeth. He made a horrible gnashing growling sound and leapt up excitedly at Finrod’s hand.

‘Ooh,’ Finrod said and snatched his hand back. 

And then, ‘Shit! Where is my fucking ring!’

And then, ‘NNnnoooooooooooo!’ he wailed. 

All hell was let loose. Finrod leapt at Gandalf. Gandalf leapt away. Mithrandir scrambled out of the way. Anglach tried to stop Finrod from hurting poor little Gandalf. Gandalf gave his big wide smile, the ring glinting between his big yellow teeth and then the wolverine was off. This is the most wonderful game, he thought, charging round the room, hurling himself under tables, then as Finrod threw himself after him, the wolverine darted out the other side and tried to climb the curtains but he was the size of quite a large dog, or badger by now, and the curtains came down with a mighty rrrriiiiiiiippppppp and fell over both Finrod and Gandalf.

‘Gandalf, here boy!’ called Anglach.

‘What…how dare you…!’ spluttered Gandalf the Wizard.

‘Everyone! Just. Stop.’ A powerful voice boomed through the air, like a command, and they turned to the source as if they could not help it.

Maglor had stepped into the room and with a casual wave, silenced them all.

Except for Gandalf who leapt onto the bed and finding it bouncy, jumped about in wild excited abandon. Every now and again they could see the ring glittering between his big yellowy teeth.

‘Calm down, Finrod. I’ll get your shiny thing back ,’ said Maglor with a little bit of contempt, shoving Finrod out of the way and taking a deep breath. Then he let a single note breathe softly between his lips. ‘Trraaaaaaaaaaaaaaa…….’

The wolverine put its head on one side and its bright eyes regarded Maglor with sudden interest. 

‘Lllllaaaaaaaaaaaa……’ He followed with a second note.

The wolverine lifted its little black snout and sniffed with definite interest now.

Llllaaaaaaaaaaaaa’ On a higher octave now.

‘Of for goodness sake,’ muttered a voice behind them. ‘What on earth are you two doing? You’re supposed to be saving whoever it was that I sent you off to save the last time I appeared.’

Suddenly a lot of things happened at once. There was the sound of a sword being drawn. Finrod and Maglor were a blur of speed and movement. The door slammed shut and Mithrandir bolted back under the bed.

Anglach was agog. Gandalf stopped bouncing and whined. The ring glittered where he had stuck his tongue through it and it sat there like a finger.

Outside the door they could hear Finrod and Maglor. ‘Now, now, Elrond. Why were you going to drown Gandalf?’

‘Elrond!’ That was Finrod. His voice was full of power and Gandalf scuttled under the bed with Mithrandir.

‘Elbereth’s tits, Adar. Why have you drawn your sword and are glaring at me like I ha,ve two heads?’ That must be Elrond, thought Anglach. The lord of Rivendell who had been taken over by darkness. He rather liked him for using Thranduil’s favourite expletive although Anglach and Legolas only ever said it when no one else was around. (That’s not true, whispered a little voice, and Anglach looked around startled as if it must be Elbereth herself.)

Then there was a lot of noise, the sound of someone being overpowered and tied up and bundled away, and then silence.

Anglach peeped under the bed at Mithrandir and Gandalf. He laughed. ‘Gandalf and Gandalf.’ He shook his head in amusement. Gandalf the Wizard glared at him, and Gandalf the wolverine smiled back happily ‘It’s a good thing Legolas isn’t around,’ said Anglach. ‘He would have caused mayhem. I’m just going to see what those two have done with Lord Elrond and if it’s safe for you to come out from under the bed.’ 

Anglach opened the door and stood on the terrace that was outside Legolas’ bedroom looking around and wondering where everyone was. He saw two Elf lords bundling and struggling a third off and thought that must be the two who had just left, taking Elrond off somewhere safe where he couldn’t cast his dark evil around the valley. 

Good. That was sorted. It was a good thing that Anglach had helped them discover that wicked plot. He wondered where Legolas was and thought it would be helpful to find him as the two of them together usually had to sort out all sorts of trouble in the Woodland Realm. 

The full moon was low in the night sky, and the snow that lay over the immaculate lawns and gardens of Imladris gleamed in the moonlight. Anglach leaned on the railing of the terrace for a moment and looked.

‘Urgh,’ said an urbane voice. 

Anglach looked up slowly. A prescience of danger crept over him.

It was Erestor. He was very tall, and the moonlight shone down upon him, glinted on his raven-black hair, in his amber eyes. Did the moonlight reflect in them the way a cat’s did? thought Anglach, staring... Or a wolf’s?

‘I was... just going... um… to look for Legolas,’ he stammered.

Erestor raised a fine black eyebrow… Well, it HAD been fine but now Anglach thought they looked a bit bushier. Erestor put one hand on the railing beside Anglach and he stared down at it.

‘Oh my,’ he said, startled. ‘What big hands you’ve got.’ Then he blinked and looked up at Erestor and then said slowly and loudly. ‘I SAID, WHAT BIG HANDS YOU’VE GOT!’

Erestor smiled and his teeth showed. ‘Yes. YES. I NEED THEM TO CATCH GOBLINS AND STUFF.’

‘Oh,’ said Anglach weakly. ‘Are there goblins about? I SAID, ARE THERE MANY GOBLINS ABOUT?’

Erestor picked his teeth. Did they look a bit longer than usual, thought Anglach. A bit of dark fur… or was it hair…  came away in Erestor’s nails… which looked a bit longer, too. ‘Not as many as there were.’

‘Oh,’ said Anglach. And then, ‘IS IT JUST GOBLINS THEN?’ He was glad the hair was dark and not golden like Legolas’ hair, who could easily be mistaken for a goblin in the dark, he thought.

Erestor smiled nastily. Piratically. ‘GOBLINS MAINLY… AND CRITTERS.’

‘CRITTERS?’

‘YES.’ Erestor paused meaningfully. ‘CRITTERS.’

‘WHAT DO YOU MEAN, CRITTERS?’

‘CRITTERS. VERMIN. RODENTS.’ Erestor’s smile widened. The moonlight glinted on them. They were very white. Sharp… Pointed.

‘Um…UM. What big teeth you have,’ Anglach said, staring at them. Then he shook himself, remembering, and shouted loudly and slowly, ‘I SAID WHAT BIG TEETH YOU HAVE.’

‘YES. ALL THE BETTER TO CATCH THEM WITH!’

There was a blinding flash and the smell of fireworks. Thick greenish smoke rolled over the terrace and there was a lot of coughing. Anglach flapped his hand in front of his face and as it cleared away, he saw Gandalf the Wizard standing with his staff raised, and Gandalf the Wolverine fawning around the Wizard’s feet, crouching and growling playfully and pouncing on them. Gandalf the Wizard tripped and cursed. ‘Fuck off, you little beast,’ he snapped grumpily. ‘You’d better watch out that I don’t turn you into a very stupid Elf!’ he said looking meaningfully at Anglach. 

Anglach gaped at him as the smoke billowed out in a greenish fug and rolled over the gardens. ‘What was that for?’ he asked. 

Behind Anglach came a pathetic little growl and he whirled round.

As the smoke billowed over the terrace and rolled away over the immaculate snowy lawns of Imladris, and where Erestor had been standing only moments ago, he saw a very small bundle of fluff with huge paws and glowing amber eyes blinking up at him.

‘Oh!’ cried Anglach in delight. ‘A Warg puppy! I have never had one of those but I’ve always dreamed of it. The King said he would throw me to its mother if I ever brought one home. Especially after the black squirrel… and the You Know What,’ He lowered his voice to a hushed whisper when he said The You Know What and his eyes were very big and wide. Then he shook his head. Of course, neither of the Gandalfs would know what he was talking about. 

Gandalf the Wizard looked down at the puppy. ‘Oops. It was meant to be a frog.’

But Anglach had already scooped it up and was cuddling it to his kind of misguided heart. ‘Oh, look at its dear little paws,’ he cried as the Warg tried to gnaw at his hands and he jostled his hand for it to bite playfully. ‘And its little amber eyes. And it’s got a little black tuft on its head. I’m going to call it Tufty.’

Tufty positively seethed and gnashed furiously at Anglach’s hand but Anglach, used to a wolverine, spiders, black squirrels, and the You Know What, just chuckled and let Tufty chew his hand. 

‘It reminds me of someone,’ Anglach said obliviously.

Mithrandir gave Erestor, now Tufty the Warg, a furious look. ‘Well,’ he hissed at it. ‘Who’s going to drown who now?’

Anglach looked appalled and hugged the puppy. ‘No one is drowning anyone, Mithrandir. And it’s WHOM.’ The King was always correcting Legolas and was very insistent about getting the object right in a sentence.

Mithrandir gave the Warg a threatening look and Tufty growled back but it sounded so cute that Anglach chucked it under the chin. ‘Who’s a good little Warg then? Yes you are! Who’s got the cutest little snout and teeth, and look at those paws! They’re so big. You’re going to be a huge Warg when you grow up!’ He thought for a minute. ‘I know. We can do what we did with the BabySpider and make you a saddle and harness, and we can go into battle together against the Bad Wargs.’ His eyes went dreamy again, remembering Lagorúthon the Spiderling and the way the King had finally taken to it, the spider grunging happily and drooling, making big eyes at Thranduil- all of its many, many beady little eyes. Give it time, he thought, and the two Gandalves would be as happy as Thranduil had been with little Lagorúthon.

‘Here, Mithrandir. Look after Tufty while I go and find Legolas. He is usually useless but he can be quite helpful in Special Pet Situations.’

Tufty wriggled furiously and glared at Gandalf the Wizard, who had a nasty expression on his face so that Anglach gave in and let Tufty come with him. ‘But you must behave,’ he admonished sternly and gave Tufty a hard stare. 

Tufty yipped and growled and if Anglach didn’t know better, he’d have thought it was swearing like a piratical fishwife*. But it was just a cute little puppy and already he loved it. ‘Come on then Tufty. Let’s go and find Legolas. You’ll like Legolas,’ he said reassuringly. ‘He smells a bit wargy sometimes, too.’

Luckily, Legolas was hurrying along the courtyard towards Anglach and Tufty and Anglach waved at him excitedly and the two friends sighed with relief. 

‘Elbereth’s tits!’ he swore when he saw Anglach’s new acquisition. ‘He’s shrunk!’

Anglach stared at him, baffled. 

‘Gandalf,’ Legolas pointed at Tufty who was baring his little teeth and growling. ‘He’s shrunk.’

‘Fuck off you little shit,’ said a high-pitched squeaky little voice. ‘This is all your fault!’

Anglach stared at Tufty in delight. ‘It can talk!’ he cried.

Legolas narrowed his eyes. ‘Oh great . Just what we need. A talking fucking dog.’

‘Dog!’ growled Tufty. ‘ Dog!’ Then it seemed to shake itself and repeated loudly and slowly in a high-pitched squeaky voice. ‘DOG!’

Legolas looked at Anglach who shrugged. ‘They are all deaf around here,’ he explained. ‘I think it’s that Maybeglor’s singing.’

At that moment, Ellahir came skidding round the corner, shouting, ‘To arms! To arms! We’re under attack!’ Oddly, there was a strange Elf hanging onto his leg which made Legolas narrow his eyes in jealous rage.

0o0o

Beyond the Bridge, two small goblins were scavenging. They had found got left behind by their patrol, either because their patrol was fed up with them and they were useless and too scrawny to eat, or they had sneaked off, having no appetite at all for any attack that might be being planned on the secret stronghold of the scary flame-eyed elves. 

In the snow was a satchel. 

‘Ooh, look!’ said Gob, holding up a pair of trousers in soft blue and white flannel. He held it up to his scaly cheek and purred. ‘It’s so soft.’

Squirt shook the satchel and a load of old metal fell out that was wrapped up in another bit of blue and white fabric. It was a jacket. Squirt pulled it over his head and then rummaged around and pulled out a red cashmere sweater.

‘Look, a reindeer!’ he cried with delight.

Gob gave him a narrow look. ‘Well, it’s just a picture so that’s all right. But don’t get any ideas about having one as a pet. You know what happens.’

Squirt’s face fell but then he brightened. ‘You have the jacket,’ he said kindly,’ and I’ll have the reindeer. Even if it’s just a picture,’ he added in a quiet, disappointed voice that was full of hope that he might fall asleep and wake up and find a real reindeer under his pillow. He would look after this one, he promised himself. 

‘We don’t want the Dwarf story all over again,’ scolded Gob, pulling on the pyjama jacket. ‘You know what happened that time. And the Hobbit.’

Oh yes, the Hobbit. That hadn’t ended well. 

Squirt pulled the red cashmere sweater over its little pointy head, the sleeve over one ear at a rakish angle so it dangled down over his shoulder. 

Suddenly a handful of snow hit him in the face and when he wiped it from his eyes, he saw Gob grinning at him. ‘You look like an elf,’ he said laughing and threw one back. 

They were both useless shots and the snow wasn’t even in a snowball but just left heaps of loose snow that landed in between other loose piles of snow that they hadn’t noticed. And so they had no idea at all that on the other side of the high snow bank was Imladris, the stronghold of the wicked Elrond and his dreadful flame-eyed hordes.

0o0o

Chapter Text

“What in Elëntári’s name is happening now?” Mithrandir grumpily muttered by his side, but Legolas ignored him.

“Goblins! Sound the alarm! We’re under attack!” The Elf hanging from Elrohir’s leg shouted in a litany of lunacy, and Legolas looked from one to the other with increasing jealousy.

“Why is he clutching your leg?” was the first thing he asked when Elrohir and the Elf got closer.

“We’re under attack, he says,” Elrohir shrugged with pleading eyes, trying to shake off the Elf still grabbing him as though the goblins were pulling him by the ankles.

“Let go of him, you inconsequential Elf!” Mithrandir banged the prone Elf on the floor with his staff, and the other grunted in pain.

“Ow, that hurt!” he said, clutching his belly.

“Do not worry, prince Legolas,” Elrohir said, coming closer to him, and Legolas felt his knees getting weaker. “I am here to protect you.”

“I don’t need protection!” Legolas said without much conviction, and he swayed on his feet, nearly falling on Elrohir’s arms.

“Goblins? Where? Where?” Anglach’s little Warg said, and Elrohir gasped.

“Is that…?”

“Tufty,” Anglach supplied with a big, proud smile. “This is Tufty. He came to me.”

“Elrohir,” the Warg began, trying to focus his crossed-eyes on Elrond’s son. “It is me! Where is your father? And Glorfindel?”

Elrohir stared at Tufty-Erestor for a heartbeat then burst into wild laughter.

“Elrohir, stop it this instant!”

But Elrohir now doubled over, laughing with tears in his eyes. “Erestor, you look so cute!”

“Insolent child! I swear in the name of Manwë’s blue balls that if you don’t stop laughing, I will kill you when I get back into my real shape!” His squeaky little voice pitched higher with every word, and Legolas and Anglach – even the other Elf – joined in the laughter. “Son of Elrond or not, I swear that I will kill you with my bare hands!” Spit frothed at his mouth, and his fur stood up in rage.

“Enough of this,” Mithrandir said imperatively, and Elrohir did try to stop. “Your father is with those two nonsensical Noldor, and I finally caught the source of all evil!” He pointed at Erestor with the end of his staff.

“Evil? Evil? Where is it? Where is it?” Warg Erestor barked, jumping on Anglach’s hands.

“You are it, devilish little thing!” Mithrandir barked in turn, and they started throwing more barks and insults at each other.

The other Elf started to wriggle his fingers, agitated, clearly on the verge of a nervous breakdown. His shout of despair stopped both the laughter and the insults – at least for a minute.

“Sound the alarm! To arms! To aaaarmmmssss!” He ran towards the barracks waving his arms, and all of them started at his retreating back in confusion.

“Are we really under attack?” Anglach asked, eyes wide with excitement.

“I think so,” Elrohir supplied, snaking his arm around Legolas’ waist and pulling him closer. “At least that’s what Faeldir says.” 

“Nonsense! We are not being atta-”

Mid-sentence, Mithrandir was interrupted as Imladris’ bells started to ring loud and clear. In no time, all of Imladris’ forces, as well as the Woodland Realm’s warriors, were out in the courtyard, readying themselves with armory and weapons.

“Mithrandir!”A voice as the ringing of bells sounded, and Legolas’ eyes were drawn to it as a moth to a flame.

“Glorfindel!” he said dreamily, and Elrohir tightened the grip on his waist, keeping him in place.

“Mithrandir, what is happening? Are we under attack?” he started, and looked at the rest: Elrohir clutching Legolas, Anglach with two animals on his hands.

Then, his eyes fell on the Warg, frothing and growling, and he frowned in sudden recognition. But Mithrandir interrupted whatever thought he was forming.

“Of course not! What nonsense has befallen this valley I do not know but do not count on me!” He threw his arms up. “I am retreating to my chambers. Do not wake me up until tomorrow. And you,” he pointed with his staff to Elrohir, “keep these two,” he pointed at Legolas and Anglach, “out of my way! I’m not going to say to keep them out of trouble because that is utterly impossible! These two ridiculous Elves bring trouble with them wherever they go…”

He kept talking to himself as he turned his back on them and walked up the gallery, where his chambers were. Someone called Glorfindel’s name from the courtyard, and Imladris’ captain ran towards the guards who were awaiting his orders.

“Where is Elrond?” Legolas heard him call. “And Elladan? Where is Elladan?”

“I do not know, my lord,” someone answered. “Has anyone seen Lord Elladan?” the Elf shouted.

Several no’s followed.

“Where is Elladan?” Elrohir frowned, and Legolas pulled him closer.

“I can help you find him. Maybe he is hidden in my rooms.” Legolas wiggled his brows suggestively, and Anglach made a vomiting sound.

“Ugh, you’re disgusting, Legolas,” Anglach made a face. “ We ,” he said, lifting the two wriggling animals in his hands, “are going to war!”

“Yes! War! Blood! Battle! Let me bite some arses!” The little Warg yelped.

Legolas and Elrohir were giggling to each other. “But,” Elrohir said with a half-doubt, “what about the attack? What of the goblins?”

“Look how many warriors there are! I am sure they can do without us!” Legolas kissed his jaw, and Elrohir melted in his embrace.

***

Aragorn and Arwen had stopped in front of Imladris’ main gate, but remained hidden underneath an enormous oak tree so the sentries wouldn’t spy on their snogging. Aragorn felt all the blood in his body rush to his cock, and Arwen laughed when she felt the clear effect she had on him.

“That’s not fair,” he murmured weakly when she sneaked a hand up his shirt. “I will get a cold!”

“Do not worry, beloved,” she said between kisses. “I will heal you.” With that, she covered the bulge in his pants with her small hand, and when Aragorn’s eyes started to roll back in their sockets, they heard the bells ringing, and the front gates opening.

They jumped apart from each other, alarmed, and were soon surrounded by armed Elves. Aragorn tucked himself back in just in time.

“What is happening?” Arwen said with a concerned frown.

“We are under attack! Estel, to arms!” Glorfindel, from his high-plumed helmet, said to him.

Aragorn swallowed and reluctantly left Arwen’s side.

The whole contingent of Imladris’ and the Woodland Realm’s soldiers were ready to go to war.

Chapter Text

Elladan groaned as he examined his nose in the mirror, dabbing away the thankfully drying blood. He was still having difficulty trying to work out what had happened. One moment the woodland prince had pulled him into a hugely enjoyable snog, and the next his own twin had ripped him from the gorgeous Elf’s arms and punched him right in the face. To make matters worse, Legolas had then proclaimed Elrohir his hero and accused Elladan of being an evil wizard. Then his father had sent him away in disgrace without giving him a chance to explain. Not that he could. Who in their right mind could make head or tail of such an inexplicable chain of events? Well, he knew when he wasn’t wanted. He was going to stay in his room and not come out until the Mirkwood contingent had cleared out, no matter how long they were staying. His favourite author, Esmerelda Truelove, had just brought out a new book, and he had been looking forward to it for weeks. Picking up the shiny, uncreased copy of Rapture in Rohan , he settled back on his pillows and started to read.

He had hardly read the first scene when a crash in the corridor dragged him from his contemplation of  Ethelwyn, the feisty servant girl with the mysterious past, and he reluctantly put the book down and opened the door just wide enough to peer out. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Elladan? Help!’ The voice sounded like his father’s, only somewhat strangled.

Forgetting he was supposed to be sulking, he dashed into the corridor, then stopped short when the most astounding sight met his eyes. His father lay on his back on the marble floor, and a golden-haired Elf Elladan had never seen before was digging his elbow into Elrond’s windpipe. Another sat on the hapless Elrond’s legs. Standing with his back against the wall, appearing undecided as to whose side he was on, stood Gildor.

‘Get off him!’ Elladan sprang into action and tried to grapple the stranger to the ground. Much to his astonishment, the attacker didn’t flinch.

Without shifting his elbow from Elrond’s throat, the Elf looked Elladan in the eye. He smiled, and the air between them seemed to shimmer and sparkle. ‘You don’t want to fight me, elfling.’

‘No. Of course not. Sorry.’ Elladan stepped back before he even knew what he was doing. He shook his head, trying to clear it from the sudden music in his ears. What was happening to him? Had this strange Elf tried to enchant him – the grandson of Galadriel herself? Drawing on all the mental skills he had learned from his grandmother, he closed his mind to the beguiling song. He ran at the attacker again, this time knocking him off balance. 

As they tumbled to the ground, Elladan called over his shoulder. ‘Don’t just stand there, Gildor. What’s wrong with you?’ His words ended with a yelp when the dark Elf who had been pinning down Elrond’s legs kicked him in the shin.

Elrond staggered to his feet and joined the fray, and there followed a protracted struggle where first the strangers then Elladan and Elrond had the advantage. Yet still Gildor simply stood to the side, staring slack-jawed at the battle.

‘For fuck’s sake, Gildor. Help us!’ Elladan cried in a brief pause when both sides backed away to regain their breath.

Gildor simply pointed at the golden Elf. ‘That’s my dad.’

‘Well, that’s mine!’ Elladan indicated Elrond. ‘I thought you were allied with him.’

‘I was, but that was before he became a servant of the Shadow.’

‘Don’t be a bloody fool. Of course he isn’t.’ Elladan glared at the two strangers. ‘Now you two stop right there and tell me who you are.’

‘I’m Finrod,’ the golden Elf said.

In a lightning fast movement, Elladan drew his dagger and held it to ‘Finrod’s’ throat. ‘The fuck you are. And I suppose that makes him Feanor.’ He jerked his chin at the other stranger.

‘No, he’s Maglor.’  

Elladan growled. ‘I’ve had enough.’ 

It was at that moment that the alarm bells of Imladris rang through the halls.

***

Legolas gazed around the packed courtyard, not entirely sure how he had got there. The warriors seemed on the point of charging into battle, and normally Legolas would have liked nothing better, but although his arm felt much better it still ached, and he was unarmed. He didn’t even know where his weapons were. He was also starving, and despite offers of food from several people at one time or another, he hadn’t seen so much as a crust of bread since he’d arrived in Imladris. The only sight that gave him comfort was Ellahir, and he pressed closer to his beloved’s side. 

At that moment the wolverine kit Anglach had been struggling to hold, wriggled from his grasp and flung himself after the departing Mithrandir with a lovelorn howl. Legolas, who had followed his flight, saw a glint as a small golden object fell from the animal’s jaws and rolled to Legolas’s feet.

With a gasp, Legolas stooped and picked it up. He showed it to Ellahir. ‘A ring, fallen from the heavens. It’s a sign we should get married.’

With a cry of joy, Ellahir pulled him into another kiss that nearly had Legolas swooning with delight. Or was it hunger? It didn’t matter. He knew he and Ellahir were destined to be together.

Then Ellahir was rudely yanked from his arms, and he found himself looking at a glowering Aragorn. The demented hairy man was pointing at the ring. ‘That’s mine!’

This was the last straw. He’d been injured, had weird chants sung over him and generally denied food ever since he had got here. The only thing good that had happened had been meeting Ellahir, and people kept trying to separate them. He summoned all his frustration and focused it on his fist, which he smashed into the annoying Man’s face. Elbereth, but that felt good. ‘It’s my ring,’ he growled at Aragorn, who now sat in a whimpering heap, his hand pressed to his nose. ‘I found it, and we have a saying in the Woodland Realm: Finders keepers, losers sweepers.’

‘That’s not right,’ Anglach said, still holding the Warg pup. ‘It’s finders keepers, losers wee purse.’

‘That doesn’t even make sense. Why would losers wee in a purse?’

‘It’s wee as in little. If you keep losing things, you only need a wee purse to hold your remaining possessions.’

Legolas thought about this. ‘I suppose that makes more sense.’ He turned to Aragorn. ‘Anyway, it’s definitely finders keepers. I found it, and I’m keeping it.’ He reached for Elrohir’s hand. ‘Until I place it on Ellahir’s finger when we exchange vows.’

‘WILL YOU ALL JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!’

Talagan had strode to the front of the host of warriors, where he stood scowling at Legolas, Aragorn, Ellahir and Anglach. Legolas gazed at him in awe; he had never known Talagan lose it so spectacularly. He opened his mouth to speak but shut it firmly when Talagan fixed him with an icy glare. 

‘For your information, my prince, it’s finders keepers, losers weepers.’ Legolas would usually have protested at the sarcastic tone used to say ‘my prince’, but now he kept silent. ‘It also might interest you to know that your lover’s name is Elrohir, not Ellahir. And if you think I’m going to leave you two alone for a second before your father approves the match, you’ve got another think coming. Although I very much doubt he’ll give permission for you to marry when you can’t even get his name right. Now, give that poor hairy Man his ring back. It’s not as if the king doesn’t have thousands of the things in his treasury.’ Talagan put his hands on his hips and raised his eyebrows, looking eerily like Thranduil. ‘Well? I’m waiting.’

Legolas tossed the ring to Aragorn. ‘It’s a stupid ring anyway,’ he muttered. He turned to his lover. ‘I’ll give you one much better, Ella—Elrohir.’

Talagan hadn’t finished. ‘Now, we’re marching against a deadly foe. Take your place in the ranks. Tonight we’ll either feast in Imladris or Mandos.’

With one last longing look at Elrohir, Legolas joined the woodland warriors with Anglach, arming himself with a spare sword. ‘I hope they’ve got decent food in Mandos,’ he grouched, ‘because the service in Imladris is crap.’ 

Chapter Text

Mithrandir had lost the plot. 

Or rather, the plot had lost him. Which was fine, if he was being honest. This place was a madhouse on good days and today was definitely not a good day.

Damned First Age Elves. You can take them out of the First Age but you can’t take the First Age out of them, he thought, not for the first time. Always with the fighting, always with the battles. Did they not understand subtlety? 

He’d been hoping for a good hot meal. A nice glass of wine by the fire. A chance to put his feet up. Wash his hair.

He hadn’t even had a chance to get to the library. 

There had been some good Fingon x Reader fanfic among the dusty boxes in the back store room, last time he checked. 

Not that anyone needed to know about him being in the back store room. He’d been hoping to find something relating to rings, something to explain that damned ring of Bilbo’s. 

But Elrond was simply hopeless at sorting! He had boxes from before the War of Wrath, crates from Eregion, stacks of correspondence from Numenor–all collecting dust in a lonely corner of this house.  

The Lord of Imladris had literally had an Age to catalogue all of those papers. Granted, many of them were truly dreary–catalogues of crop plantings in Hithlum, receipts for gate refurbishing from Nargothrond, ship manifests from Numenor, grocery lists from Lindon. He had no idea why Elrond had kept all that. 

Elrond was a packrat, plain and simple. A symptom of all that moving around in his youth, he surmised. Made him into someone who held onto everything. 

Can’t hold onto things, Mithrandir thought to himself. Possessions weigh you down. 

No secret library stash was worth getting attacked by a rabid wolverine and a feral First Age shifter. No. Not for him. 

That fanfic had been nice though. 

But even good fanfic wasn’t worth having his beard gnawed by a slobbering wolverine and being threatened with drowning by a deranged but weirdly cute warg.

Enough dawdling. He’d have his hot shower and then he was getting the fuck out of here. 

There had to be a better story somewhere. 

****

Elladan was relieved that the bells of Imladris had distracted these violent strangers. Bloody crackpots, the two of them, even if they were easy on the eyes. 

Finrod and Maglor. What a farce. As if anyone would believe those two were alive and blithely wandering the countryside. Insanity. 

How did they even get into Imladris? Probably patients from the Healing Ward, he thought. Escaped lunatics. 

The sea longing did things to the mind, he’d heard. Maybe that’s what was wrong with these two. A trip to the Havens might be just what the healer ordered. With a heavy dose of sedatives for the trip. 

“Are you all right, Ada?” He asked his father, as he helped him get to his feet. The other two had raced away as soon as the bells had started ringing, Gildor trailing in their wake. 

It was too bad about Gildor–he was usually a solid sort, when he wasn’t going on about that House of Finarfin nonsense of his. 

Elrond shook out his robes and pressed his fingertips to his temples, taking a deep breath before asking “Have you seen Erestor or Glorfindel?” 

Elladan shook his head.

“Right,” Elrond said grimly. “By Orome’s saggy ballsack, I will skin them both if they’re behind all this.” 

And then he tore off down the hall after the other three. 

This was perhaps the strangest day of Elladan’s life. 

He’d been snogged by a handsome stranger, clocked by his own twin brother, sent to his room like a misbehaving Elfling, then encountered two raving lunatics who were rampaging through the Halls randomly assaulting people.

And now his father was clutching his robes up to his knees and literally racing down the corridor, shouting obscenities as he went. 

“Morgoth’s balls!”

“Namo’s arsehole!”

“Nienna’s fucking tits!”

Alarmed, Elladan flew down the hall after his father. He’d never seen him like this. Not when Lindir had set the curtains in the Great Hall on fire. Not when Glorfindel had accidentally toppled the statue of Earendil in the garden. Not even when Erestor had bitten that messenger from Lothlorien. 

This was bad. 

Really bad. 

****

Why the fuck do I wear robes, Elrond thought, as he raced to the front door of the Homely House. When had he decided that was a good idea? 

It was all Celeborn’s fault. Elrond should never have accepted that first set.  Now he was forever stuck with the questionable fashion choices of a back country Doriathrim. 

Elrond nearly tripped as he charged down the front stairs and stumbled his way into the courtyard.

A courtyard that was full of Elves armed to the teeth and milling around distractedly. 

For fucks sake. 

Where were the orderly lines? Where were the pristine formations? What the actual fuck was going on? If the bells were ringing they needed order. ORDER. Not whatever this was. 

“ERESTOR!” Elrond bellowed. “GLORFINDEL!” He could see a blonde head striding towards the gate but it was not the blonde he was searching for. That was Finrod and he’d be damned if he let Finrod lead any contingent anywhere. That was asking for trouble. 

Elrond dodged around a Mirkwood elf with snow in his hair. He nudged aside one of his own guards without apology. He caught sight of the one person who might have kept their head in all this chaos.

“ARWEN!” Elrond shouted at his daughter. “WHAT IN THE DEPTHS OF UTUMNO’S STINKY PITS IS GOING ON HERE?”

She immediately stepped back from Estel and turned towards him but he stopped her with a frantic wave of his arm. “STOP THOSE LUNATICS! GET FIN–” Fuck, he coudn’t yell that name here. “GET MA–” Nor that one. 

“STOP LINDIR AND THAT OTHER GUY!” He finally bellowed at her. 

She nodded. She whirled, her cloak billowing around her, as she stepped to block the gate and arrested Finrod’s progress. 

“Out of my way, child,” Finrod intoned. “There is a battle to be joined.”

“No.” 

Maglor stepped beside Finrod. “Arwen. Let us through.” 

“I will not.” She crossed her arms and glared at them. 

“Enough of this nonsense,” Finrod said, drawing himself to his full height– which was annoyingly still shorter than Maglor, despite the whole rebirth business. He needed to have a word with Namo about that one of these days.   

But not this day.

He stepped forward to dodge to Arwen’s right. She blocked him. He moved left. She blocked him again. 

“I am not playing this game, child. OUT OF MY WAY!”

“YOU SHALL NOT PASS!” Arwen shouted, spreading her arms wide, her voice echoing ominously into the night. 

“BY GOTHMOG’S SWEATY BALLS,” came a voice from across the courtyard. “THAT’S MY LINE.” 

Finrod and Maglor turned to see Olorin, beard dripping wet and some sort of wrap on his head, a flame alight at the top of his walking stick. 

“Oh, I like that,” Anglach whispered to Legolas. “He’s very good at the sweary bits.” 

****

Fenrisúlfr the Bad wriggled in Anglach’s arms, having spied the love of his life and he was determined to never let him out of his sight again. He gave a mighty kick with his talon-like back paws, causing Anglach to splutter and cough and unceremoniously drop him and Tufty to the ground. Fenrisúlfr raced away, ready to leap into the arms of his beloved. 

Who batted him away with the end of his flamey stick. As if that could deter a wolverine in love. 

****

Erestor took his chance. He bounded out of the imbecilic Elf’s arms, giving him a purposeful scratch on the arm as he twisted away. 

He had to find Glorfindel. He had to protect Elrond, Imladris, the children. 

He had an overwhelming urge to howl at the moon. So he did. 

The imbecile wailed behind him. The wolverine pounced on the meddling wizard ahead of him. 

Erestor was sorely tempted to swerve a bit to the left and give Finrod a quick bite on the ankle, out of spite. That momentary hesitation cost him his freedom. 

He was plucked from the ground by the scruff of his neck and found himself staring into Arwen’s grey eyes. “Erestor, no,” she said, giving him a little shake. 

Was there anything she didn’t know, he wondered. He didn’t have long to wonder. To his astonishment and chagrin, she booped him on the nose with her finger and then planted a kiss on his forehead. “That’s enough of that,” she said, shaking him again. 

At first Erestor felt a spreading heat, then a feeling of being stretched, then a funny little shiver swept over him from his head to his back paws and he tumbled out of her grasp, landing on the cobblestones.

The very cold, wet cobblestones. 

And then the eyes of an entire regiment of Elves were staring down at his naked Elf-form sprawled in front of them. 

“Oh fuck,” he said. 

Chapter Text

Aragorn paused to wonder if Arwen actually was worth it. Obviously she, herself was worth it, beautiful, intelligent, powerful, what more could you want? But being with Arwen meant being tethered to the horde of insanity that was her family for the rest of his life. On days like today, he had to admit that really did seem too great a price to pay. 

He stood in the middle of Elven chaos. No one was in control. Imladris was supposedly facing invasion by . . . Exactly what nobody seemed to know. First Age elves popped out of the woodwork without so much as a "Why are you here?" from anybody. Mithrandir, who you would think would be able to organise some kind of order, was standing around with a bath towel on his head playing with what seemed to be a... wolverine? It was hardly the time to begin practising zoology. 

Then to make matters worse, Erestor, who was usually most sensible—you could even say boring—appeared from nowhere, absolutely naked. Why on earth was he naked? Where had his clothes gone? Aragorn's head hurt... And it wasn't just from the totally uncalled-for punch from Legolas. What had that been about? 

At least he had his ring back. 

Still, in the midst of all this turmoil the stoical Dunedain seemed pretty enticing. Perhaps Arwen was not the be-all and end-all? Perhaps having to deal with this nonsense for all the years left to him was just too much. He had his ring now, he had Narsil, he had those lovely striped pyjamas, and Elrohir's red cashmere snowflake jersey. Perhaps he should just slip away. 

Bending down to pick up his satchel and slide through the chaotic crowds unseen his hand hit . . . Nothing.

 It was an icicle through his heart. 

It should have been there. He was sure it should have been there. He could have sworn he had it on his back when Arwen arrived to drag him back and he had not removed it. Why would he? 

But it was not there. As much as he searched the crowds desperately there was no sign of it. Elbereth, what was he going to do?

Narsil—Elendil's own sword, kept by Elrond all this time and he had lost it. Elrond was going to kill him. Certainly, charging around shouting random curses as he was, Elrond looked unhinged enough to do it right here in the courtyard. 

Losing the ring was one thing. A raging Awafinweon reclaimed it from him and Elrond was there to witness the whole process. Losing Narsil and not even understanding how that had happened? It was indefensible. 

His only choice was to run, and so he ran.

Straight into a startled Elladan, who just so happened, seemed to be running in the opposite direction. 

"What on earth?" Elladan exclaimed as they untangled their limbs and struggled to their feet, "Where are you going?" 

Aragorn cast his eye around desperately for an inspiration that would convince Elladan to let him go. 

"I thought to scout ahead." 

He was well aware that, as inspirations go, it was pathetic. 

"Scout ahead?" Elladan frowned, unconvinced.

"Well look at it, Elladan." Aragorn warmed to his task, throwing his arm out to indicate the general disorder. "No one has a clue what's going on. I thought we needed more information... Such as who it is exactly that attacks us." 

Elladan pondered and it seemed to take an age. They really could drive you crazy, Aragorn thought to himself, these elves and the length of time it took them to consider anything. 

"Yes, alright," Elladan said in the end. "I'll give you that but you are not really the best one to go, Estel,"

"What do you mean?" Aragorn cried. "I am an expert tracker, the best there is. I am exactly the right person to go." 

But Elladan only laughed, placing a friendly hand upon his shoulder." Come on, Estel. You are too old for this. I know Father encouraged it to boost your self-esteem but really. Take a look around. Every single one of us in this courtyard is a better tracker than you. We. Are. Elves. We have elven sight and Elven hearing and the ability to cross snow undetected. You are the worst tracker here . . . Except perhaps for the wolverine." 

Well, that was hurtful. Obviously he was better than the wolverine. 

But Elladan did not even give him time to wallow in his hurt feelings. "Anyway, it seems the lunatic who escaped from the healing halls is intent on scouting ahead. I don't for the life of me know why Arwen tries to stop him. He's probably better suited to it than you. Best place for him and his mate, out in the wilds" 

He gestured towards the gate where Arwen seemed to be in a battle of words with Finrod of all people and Aragorn turned to him in astonishment. "You mean Finrod?"

"Well he does look like you would expect Finrod to look but obviously he is not actually Finrod is he." Elladan chuckled, "Mad as a meat axe is what he is, and his supposed Feanorion friend" 

Did Elladan really not know? If only Aragorn had the time to get into that with him, but sadly he did not. He needed to come up with something other than scouting and he was getting desperate. 

The truth would have to do. 

"I need to get out of here, Elladan," he said. "I have left my satchel out there and I have to get it back."

"Your satchel? Really Estel, forget it. It will be fine. I am sure whatever random Orc that might discover it won't care much for your sardine sandwiches." 

He could not tell Elladan about Narsil, he really couldn't. The look of disappointment would crush him. It was then Aragorn had his flash of inspiration and remembered the one thing that might make Elladan let him out the gates unseen. 

"Erohir's snowflake jumper is in that satchel!" 

There was a frown, quickly followed by a look of absolute horror. "His red one???" 

"His jumpers are all red, Elladan, you know that." 

"The cashmere one?" 

"They are all cashmere also." 

"The snowflake one is his favourite! Why is it in your satchel?" 

"He lent it to me," Aragorn replied. "I did think it was remarkably generous at the time."

"He lent it to you and you casually left it in the wilds amongst the enemy?" Elladan cried, "How could you?" 

"Well, the enemy wasn't actually there at the time." Aragorn sighed. Why did this have to be so hard? "Come with me, Elladan, and help me get it back." 

"Imagine if an Orc showed up here wearing Elrohir's snowflake jumper!"

 Elladan was off on one of his flights of fancy now, Aragorn signed to himself, as he was often wont to do. Still, the mental image of the leader of a horde of Orcs attacking them wearing a red snowflake sweater was so amusing he almost forgot about Narsil completely. 

"Come with me." He repeated. Really he didn't know why he hadn't thought to ask Elladan along right from the start. 

And Elladan glanced around the chaos. Aragorn could see him weighing it all up. Mithrandir mudwrestling the wolverine, Elrond stripping off his robes to cover the naked Erestor while standing in his undergarments shouting insults at Celeborn who wasn't even here, Finrod and Maglor, who, teaming up against Arwen, seemed about to breach the gates . . . It was an unmitigated disaster. 

And Elladan turned to him and said...

"We will go out the back way."

Chapter Text

Erestor was furious. And naked. He didn’t care. They’d all seen it before and, he gloated secretly, they’d been impressed. Even fuckwit Goldilocks was a bit envious of Erestor’s Tulkas-sized todger. He leapt to his feet, letting his big heavy cock swing impressively between his legs. 

‘Elrond, what the fuck….?’ He realised that Elrond was bearing down on him, stark naked down to his smallclothes, and descending upon Erestor with undisguised enthusiasm. No way! He’d never fancied Elrond. It was Elladan he liked, uncomplicated, easy on the eye. Where was Elladan? Erestor would have quite liked him to see his old mentor naked as a bollock.

‘Erestor! Let me cover you…’ began Elrond.

‘Gerroff!’ Erestor beat off Elrond irritably. No, let Elladan see what he kept in his breeches.

There was a sudden yipping snuffle-snarl and something big and hairy that wasn’t Elladan pounced on his toes and chewed on them happily, wagging a stumpy tail.

‘Shit. Fucking Gandalf again! Urgh! Urgh- where are you? Get this fucking thing off me or you know what’s next!’  He beat off Elrond and advanced menacingly upon the wolverine who crouched excitedly, wagging its stumpy tail and growling and snuffling in happy delight. ‘Now, where was I?’ Erestor snarled nastily. ‘Oh yes. I was going to drown that little varmint! But first, where’s Gandalf? I’ll show him what happens when he turns me into a Warg!’

Ooooh- Gandalf (the wolverine) loved toes, (although we don’t have Gandalf the Wizard’s view and he might also really like toes) but Gandalf the Wolverine really loved them, especially the way Sweary danced about when he bit them, thought Gandalf dreamily. Sweary had lovely toes and he jumped about really happily. Gandalf chewed on them with interest. Mm. tasty, he thought. Salty. Cheesy. Sweaty. He gave them a big, long lick, right between the toes.

While Erestor was trying to kick Gandalf off his feet and blaspheming with admirable inventiveness, and Legolas was trying to scribble them down on his hand, Anglach was shouting with predictable hysteria, ‘No! He’s going to do something horrible to Gandalf!’ and jumped in to slap ineffectively at Erestor. 

‘Oh no he’s fucking not!’ shouted Gandalf the Wizard and suddenly from his bathrobe he produced a weird shaped ball, just smaller than the palm of his hand and hurled it at Erestor with the strange words of power. ‘Hocus pocus, here comes Tulkas!’

POOOOF the ball exploded into powder that smelled slightly citrusy and lavender, like an old Christmas gift that no one wanted and had been left in a drawer for a long, long time. When the musty powder had settled and everyone had realised they were not dead but only coughing and smelling faintly unpleasant, there was Tufty the Warg puppy again. But this time his eyes glowed yellow and his fangs were bared. He threw back his head and howled! Then he hurled itself forwards, gnashing its teeth and swearing.

Everyone cooed. ‘Ah, isn’t he cute,’ said Finrod, as Anglach caught the puppy as it flew at Gandalf the Wizard, and ruffled his little head. Maglor said he should be on a lead and turned back to where Arwen was standing in front of the gates with a very Galadriel-like scowl on her lovely face. 

‘YOU SHALL NOT PASS!’ Arwen cried, and if she had already said it, she was forgiven because it was such a great line.

While she was arguing with Finrod and the Tra-la-la-lally patrols were practising their scales in case they actually had to go into battle against goblins instead of just shutting the gates, Legolas shuffled closer to Anglach and muttered, ‘Honestly Anglach, I really don’t think it’s a good idea to cuddle him like that. It is lord Erestor after all and I don’t think he likes it.’ He looked at Anglach with concern and distaste at the Warg. ‘This isn’t really a Special Pet Situation as much as one of those Really Bad Idea Situations. Like the You Know What became. It’s like that,’ he said emphatically.

Anglach paused for a moment considering. Then he looked at Legolas reproachfully. ‘Oh, and suddenly you’re all sensible and taking charge are you? And where have you been up until now, leaving me to sort out all this trouble? Snogging and shagging as usual.’ He turned away in disgust. ‘Honestly Legolas, you have no restraint and no discretion. It’s a good thing I’m here to sort out the trouble you’ve been causing.’

YOU'VE been sorting out this trouble?’ exclaimed Legolas hotly. ‘ME causing all this trouble?’ He laughed scornfully until Gandalf the Wolverine, deprived of Erestor’s toes, located another source of fascination, and wrestled with Legolas’ foot, snarl-snuffling him loudly and ferociously. ‘ I’m the one who has had to sort it all out.,’ said Legolas kicking and trying to shake off Gandalf. ‘It was me who…’

‘SHUT THE FUCK UP!’ bellowed Talagan, who was annoyed by the interruption from the two and having them distract him from the fascinating showdown between Finrod and Arwen. ‘I cannot believe the trouble you two cause and it’s only the first night!’ Finrod had just lifted his arm and the air had gone all sparkly and Talagan wanted to see what Arwen was going to do. Then he remembered how useless Anglach had been against Erestor, not even able to land a good slap on the arrogant Noldo- Kinslayer no doubt and unrepentant. He shoved his face right up to Anglach’s and said, ‘Call yourself a soldier of Mirkwood! I’ve seen my granny hit harder than that! Now fall in!’ 

‘Ooh. Bit harsh,’ said Legolas pulling a sympathetic face and looking concerned at Anglach. ‘To be fair, Talagan’s granny is quite scary.’

‘That’s you too!’ barked Talagan. ‘Now fall in and shut up the pair of you!’ And he went back to the floor show, Finrod had just spun round and his golden hair was flying around his face and he was all sparkly and glittery, and Arwen had just put her hands on her hips and called him a show-off.

While this was going on, Anglach shuffled into line. ‘I don’t understand why I always get the blame,’ he whined quietly to Legolas. ‘It’s you that went off and didn’t stay in your room?’ 

‘Oh? But I wasn’t the one who told everyone that I was Legolas, was I?’ muttered Legolas sarcastically. ‘No, that was you. And now they all think I’m a complete imbecile because they’ve got you and me muddled up.’

‘To be fair, Legolas, you are a bit of an imbecile,’ said Anglach reasonably, scratching Tufty under the chin and ignoring the bites and glares. ‘The King has said so often enough. What he actually said was that you’d make the Goblins of the Misty Mountains look intelligent, which is just as well since they will come looking for their little goblin prince at some point..’

Talagan suddenly exploded with a loud ‘Grraaahhhhh!’ and spun round towards the two friends. Gandalf (wolverine) thought he was going to pounce on Gandalf (favourite Elf) and NotAgain (boring sidekick) because Gotcha was going to start a new game of Chase and so he bounded up to Gotcha and licked his face enthusiastically.

He was wrong. Gotcha hurled the little wolverine off him and Gandalf landed with a heavy thud, crashing into the Mirkwood contingent, who scattered as the furry fiend bowled into them, leapt to his big flappy feet and launched himself back at Gotcha.

‘GGGGrrrrrrrah!’ shouted Talagan in rage. He caught the wolverine up in his arms, much to Gandalf’s delight.. ‘Who the fuck do you think I am?’ he bellowed at Anglach. ‘Am I the Captain of the Woodland Realm or am I the Jolly Green Giant here to look after Yavanna’s furry twat here?’ Gandalf wriggled happily, trying to lick Talagan. 

Unfortunately for Legolas, he laughed at the sight and that brought Talagan’s attention to him. ‘Well?’ he demanded of Legolas. ‘Who am I?’

Now Lagorúthon was actually the Captain of the stronghold, and Laersul, the oldest son of Thranduil was actually the Captain of the Woodland Realm and Legolas was confused, and still little befuddled from the Beor’s Bane. He was also distracted by Yavanna’s furry twat which he hadn’t heard of before and was entranced by the image.

‘Um…The Jolly Green Giant?’ he hazarded, with a worried look at Anglach. 

‘Oh? I am the Jolly Green Giant, am I?’ Talagan shouted to his whole contingent who were now watching this play out instead of the wrestling match between Arwen and Finrod and which it was clear, that Arwen -who had two brothers and fought dirty- was clearly going to win. ‘Did you hear that, men? I am the Jolly Green Giant that looks after Yavanna’s furry twat! Who am I?’

‘The Jolly Green Giant, sah!’ obediently shouted the Mirkwood contingent as one, which they managed surprisingly well considering they couldn’t line up straight. ‘That looks after Yavanna’s furry twat, sah!’ they added less confidently.

Talagan turned back to Legolas with spitting rage. ‘And do you know how I can tell the King loves the Jolly Green Giant?’ he screamed. ‘Because he sends me all his turds! That’s you two in case your dimwit brains couldn’t work that one out!’ 

Legolas blinked. Gandalf the wolverine swung from Gotcha’s meaty hand and managed to wriggle about so he could smile at Gotcha with his mouthful of long yellow teeth and breathe stinkily on the Mirkwood captain.

Talagan was made of stronger stuff and it merely inflamed his desire to kill something. He wasn’t allowed to kill Anglach or Legolas, which would be his first preference, so it was lucky that Arwen had just got Finrod in a headlock and he was surrendering so they could all go out and kill some unlucky goblins.

‘Right, let’s get out of here and kill some goblins!’ Talagan bellowed. ‘BATT-A-LION!’ he shouted the command and with surprising speed but huge incompetence, the Mirkwood soldiers crashed inelegantly into each other. There was a great clattering of dropped bows and arrows scattering on the floor. Many ended up facing the wrong way. 

‘WHO AM I?’ he shouted at his men, smacking first Legolas and then Anglach on the front of their heads as he spoke. ‘I AM THE FUCKING JOLLY GREEN GIANT,’ bellowed Talagan, ‘Who am I?’

‘THE FUCKING JOLLY GREEN GIANT, SAH!’ 

‘AND WHAT DO I DO?’

‘LOOK AFTER YAVANNA’S FURRY TWAT SAH!’

And then the doors of the Last Homely House- or the First- were thrown open. A chorus of heavenly voices sang and Glorfindel emerged. A beam of golden light shone down, just on Glorfindel and doves flew off in a dazzle of white. He cracked his knuckles and tore his shirt from his back and threw it into the adoring crowd where it was fought over by the housemaids (maids being only a very loose term). Aiwafinca caught it but Naledi punched her and snatched it away and then Nelya pounced on Naledi and in the scrum that followed, Ettenhalë quietly picked it from under them as they fought and buried her face in it. 

Glorfindel strode out into the courtyard, bare-chested, he swung his sword so his biceps rippled and his pecs bulged. Everyone sighed.

‘RIGHT YOU FUCKIN’ EMBARRASSMENTS’  he bawled at the Rivendell men. ‘LET’S SHOW THIS BUNCH OF SIMPERING TREEHUGGERS HOW IT’S DONE SHALL WE?’ He marched up and down in front of the Tra-la-la-lally patrol. ‘BATTAAAAA-LION!’

There was a lot of mincing and tra-la-lallys as the Imaldrians shuffled into order in terms of height. A few of them checked their hair as they did and Glorfindel glared at them furiously.

‘NONE OF THAT BLEEDING BOLLOCKS,’ he roared. ‘IF YOU SO MUCH A DARE TOUCH YOUR FUCKING HAIR AGAIN, I’LL CUT IT OFF. ‘There was a horrified gasp- that was too Gondolin- and Elrond fainted. ‘WE’RE NOT FUCKING LOTHLORIEN WHERE THEY’RE ALL TOO BUSY SHAGGING EACH OTHER TO PUT UP ANY SORT OF DEFENCE.’

Elrohir looked appalled and glanced around fearfully as if Galadriel might be listening  and waved smelling salts under Elrond’s nose who, recovering quickly, murmured urbanely, ‘Glorfindel, I really don’t think you can say those sorts of things anymore. It’s not Gondolin.’

Glorfindel’s blue eyes glittered dangerously and when he flexed his fists, there was a horrible cracking sound and Nelya and Naledi fainted in lustful ecstasy.

Talagan glared at Glorfindel, then at his untidily ranked men and shouted in red-faced fury, ‘I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU UGLY FUCKERS ARE LOOKING AT! IF BLESSED ELBERETH HERSELF GOT HER TITS OUT AND SHOVED THEM IN YOUR UGLY FACES, YOU LOT WOULDN’T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH ‘EM.’ Then he glared at Glorfindel challengingly. 

Glorfindel stood in front of the Tra-la-las and brandished his sword. ‘YOU LOT STINK WORSE THAN NAHAR’S PISS AND I’VE SMELT THAT! READY!!!!’

This posturing would have carried on a bit longer if suddenly, little Gandalf the Wolverine suddenly raised his wet little snout and sniffed. Then, long red tongue lolling, he burst through the ranks and out through the gates and into the snow.

‘No!’ cried Anglach and ran after him, hauling the furious Warg puppy with him under his arm.

‘Oromë’s hairless horn!’ cried Legolas and ran after him.

The Mirkwood contingent started moving after them.

‘LET ‘EM GO!’ shouted Talagan, Glorfindel and Elrond together quickly. 

Elrond murmured quietly, ‘They might be in danger,’ and put his hands behind his back and looked up at the sky. 

The Mirkwood contingent looked at Talagan, who put his hands behind his back and whistled airly. 

‘Beloved!’ cried Elrohir and leapt after Legolas but Glorfindel’s meaty hand caught his collar and yanked him back. He gave an undignified yelp and fell back in as Elrond and Talagan leapt forward and slammed the gates shut firmly after them.

There was a moment when everyone looked at everyone else with a bit of relief and hesitated. 

‘Wanking Warg-jiz’ swore Talagan, and every single Elf turned his head towards the Mirkwood captain in admiration. 

Talagan paused, his back against the gate and breathing hard. He thought quickly. ANd then sighed. He knew that at best the King would have mixed feelings about the two silliest elves in the Wood being captured or eaten by goblins, and at worst, Not Be Happy. Although like Anglach- Talagan believed that the goblins were far more likely to end up getting the worst end of the bargain and it was almost worth just letting things play out as Manwe, bless his sweet winds, intended.

Then, after a moment he shook his head as if in disbelief at what he was about to do and turned to Elrond. He was a bit shorter but that had never stopped him from aggressive getting in other people’s space and now he stood under Elrond’s rather patrician nose and his own lip curled unpleasantly. ‘I am just going remind you that I put the little Prince,’ he jerked his head nastily towards the firmly closed gates where Legolas and Anglach had disappeared, ‘into your care. With a letter that made it very clear that I am not responsible for either of those two clowns. You are. And if anything happens to Thranduil’s precious little snowdrops, you’re really in for it.’ He gave a really nasty smile. ‘Just as long as that’s clear.’ The Mirkwood contingent brightened up considerably. It wasn’t going to be their fault! 

0o0o

Outside, in the Wild, Gandalf bounded over the snow away from the safety of Rivendell pursued by the two elves and one Warg, he galloped over the Last Bridge and finally skidded to a halt, one paw lifted and his wet little snout quivering. Anglach and Legolas came to a skidding halt behind Gandalf and Tufty gave a snarl and with a huge thrust of his big furry paws, he struggled out of Anglach’s arms and fell into the snow where he emerged, sneezing and shaking adorably.

‘Look’, said Anglach, pointing at goblin tracks in the pristine snow. Small piles of loose snow lay about and a scatter of small clothes and little personal items lay pathetically about. A pile of old iron had been dropped carelessly into the snow..

‘Oh no. They have got someone. No blood so maybe a prisoner?’ He glanced at Legolas and then looked back at the firmly closed gates. ‘Where is everyone?’

Legolas looked behind him too. Where was Elrohir? Where was Glorfindel? ‘Um,’ he said and chewed his lip anxiously. ‘Perhaps the gates are stuck?’

‘We’re on our own, Legolas,’ Anglach said bravely. Then he looked worried.  ‘All those little orcs and goblins, if they see you they will think the Prince of the Goblins has come and want to keep you. Best you stay behind me,’ he said gallantly.

There was a strange rustling in the bushes, almost as if someone, or some two, were hiding in there.

Tufty stretched his mouth in what might have been a nasty smile and crept silently towards the bush on his huge furry paws.

‘I think we should go back,’ Legolas started to say but at that moment, Tufty sprang into the trembling bush with high pitched yips. There was a horrified yowling and screaming and snarling. Gandalf, hearing the commotion, galloped up with a cheerful delight and leapt into the bush. Anglach, trying to stop him, was dragged into the bushes after him where he found two small figures. 

‘Goblins! Little ones. Are you baby ones?’ asked Anglach very gently, in the voice he used to lure in small animals and keep them as pets. 

Squirt turned big, bulging eyes up at him and his scaly lip quivered pathetically. 

Anglach said  ‘It’s all right. I won’t hurt you. And Legolas is coming. He is your long lost Prince.’

They looked up at Anglach with wide eyes and the one with the red sweater over its head gave a toothless and amiable smile that was just like Anglach’s and held out his scaly little claw in exactly the same gesture as Anglach was using, nodding encouragingly. 

‘You better not be taming those goblins!’ shouted Legolas from the other side of the bush. ‘You know that won’t work. They stink and eat horrible, annoying things like dwarves and children. I am NOT helping. It will be the black squirrel all over again.’ He had really hated the black squirrel. It had been a menace and he had ended up having to chase the horrid little beast all through the palace. The chaos the wretched thing had caused and the trouble that he, Legolas, had been in as a result had been off the scale even for Special Pet Projects. Unfairly in trouble. And then there was the shit. The actual shit it had left in Legolas’ room that had stank for months afterwards. And in his hair and clothes. 

Anglach had not replied and Legolas had a horrible feeling that his friend wasn’t listening. Suddenly Legolas thought Gandalf didn’t seem that bad in the pantheon of Anglach’s pets, it was after all, just affectionate. Elbereth’s tits, he swore unimaginatively. What was he thinking? He shook himself and plunged into the bushes to rescue Anglach.

In a space between the bushes, he found Anglach with a silly happy smile on his face and a couple of scrawny, stupid looking goblins that looked as though they couldn’t pick up a stick let alone an axe or cutlass. One was- you could not say dressed, partly because it clearly didn’t know how to put pyjamas on but they were far too big for it and it was swamped in a blue and white sea of flannelette. The other had a red sweater draped over its shoulders and head which gave it a rakish look and it smiled toothily at Legolas. 

‘Fucking fucking flaming fucking Glaurung!’ Tufty spat, growling at the goblins. They cringed against Anglach and Anglach tapped Tufty on the snout and said, ‘Naughty Tufty!’

‘‘Tulkas’ toxic turds! Do that again and I swear I’ll tear your fucking bollocks off and stitch them on the end of your nose so you can always look at them and….’

They ignored him. A small puppy that you could fit into a handbag doesn’t have the same fire power as a First Age Elf Lord armed to the teeth and scary as fuck.

‘Don’t they look adorable,’ said Anglach with the silliest smile on his face.

Legolas did not agree. He looked at the sweater and pjs and said caustically, ‘‘Did you do that?’

Anglach grinned happily and Legolas was struck by his likeness to Gandalf the Wolverine. ‘No,’ Anglach said. ‘They were already like that. Aren’t they clever.’ He turned to the goblins and cooed, ‘Aren’t you clever?’

Legolas shook his head in despair. ‘This is exactly what I was afraid of.’ He  pulled his friend to his feet. ‘We’d better go back just in case there are some nasty goblins out here too. Or really big Mummy Goblins looking for these two. You know, like the really big spider mummy that came looking for Lob,’ he reminded Anglach darkly but Anglach, remembering his dear little Lob, smiled happily.

‘That turned out really well,’ he said and ignoring Tufty’s snarling swearing fury, tucked him under his arm like a handbag and trotted after Legolas.

‘Hold on, where’s Gandalf?’ he asked in sudden panic.

Legolas looked around and saw the tracks of the wolverine ploughing through the snow. ‘This way!’ he called and the two elves ran lightly over the snow in pursuit.

Suddenly there was the sound of battle, swords and shouting and they burst into a clearing where a battle was in full cry. Some proper big goblins and orcs were fighting a small Tra-la-la-lally patrol returning home. Both Anglach and Legolas drew their long knives and joined in the fight and Tufty nipped at the ankles of the Orcs and bit them. Squirt and Gob cowered behind Anglach.

Suddenly a sleigh swept into view, two white reindeer in red leather harness with silver bells galloped agilely towards the skirmish. Balanced gracefully upon the runners, and shooting arrow after arrow was a tall figure in red velvet lined with white fur. And crouching beside it and screaming invectives that shamed even Talagan, was a smaller figure that had a sling with something like a cannonball in it and was walloping the goblins as they swept past.

‘Santa!’ cried Anglach. And then his face grew even more delighted. ‘No! It’s the King!’ he cried ecstatically. ‘Now all will be well.’

Thranduil’s long golden hair streamed behind him in the wind, he took aim and shot a flurry of arrows while Galion, for he was the cursing banshee, walloped them with lembas.Five goblins were taken out in the one shot and the others started to look around for an escape route..

‘When All Else Fails!’ shouted Anglach, dancing about in delight when he saw what Galion was doing. For this was not ordinary lembas made by Galadriel and her maidens. This was Woodland lembas and made by Galion and his henchmen. It was called When All Else Fails by the warriors of the Wood because they used it when all their other weapons had run out. 

Suddenly an Orc launched itself at the sleigh from nowhere.

Everything slowed.

Galion was thrown from the sleigh by the force of the impact and rolled over and over. The sleigh carried on and the Orc raised its cutlass above the King’s head.

Anglach shouted and leapt forwards. Legolas whirled about and shot off one arrow after another. But they were not in time. The cutlass scythed through the air and as it did, a grey-brown-red blur of snarling-growley-snuffle hurled itself between King and cutlass.

‘Gandalf!’ shouted Legolas and Anglach together.

Orc and Wolverine rolled over and over and over in the snow and at the same time, Tufty leapt at the Orc and snapped his tiny teeth over the Orc’s crotch. Its ugly eyes crossed and its fanged mouth stretched in agony.

‘Tha’ fuckin’ showed yer!’ snarled Tufty who couldn’t quite enunciate for he had a mouthful of something very unpleasant. The Orc collapsed slowly into the snow where Thranduil, without a shred of mercy, cut its head off and kicked the head over to Galion like a football. 

Galion sat up, sneezing and shaking his head. Gandalf sat on his lap, grinning widely with his tooth grin, long red tongue lolling out and his big flappy paws with long, very sharp claws.

Thranduil rolled his eyes and wiped his sword and sheathed it. ‘A wolverine,’ he said flatly. ‘Yours? And a Warg pup. Yours too, I suppose?’ He glared down at Gob and Squirt and sighed. ‘And these?’

‘How did you know?’ Anglach asked in wonder for the King was Good and Great and Knew Everything.

Thranduil lifted an eyebrow. ‘I really couldn’t tell you,’ he said, looking at the overlarge pyjamas, red sweater which had now begun to unravel, the amiable and stupid grins on the faces of both goblins. He should kill them really, he thought and then looked up to see the same stupid grin on the face of Anglach and relented.

Thranduil turned and strode off towards his sleigh. He scooped up Tufty and Gandalf as he went and wondered how it was that the two stupidest elves in the Woodland Realm managed to stay alive and then he wondered how in Oromë’s Arse they had been allowed to wander off in the Wild on their own and then he remembered Talagan, who only had this mission because he had really pissed off Thranduil before they even came on this mission. Now he was really pissed off.

At that moment, the gates of Rivendell were flung open and a bare chested Balrog-slayer strode out into the snow, swinging a huge sword in a dangerously uncontrolled manner, followed a troop of soldiers singing Tra-la-la-lally, Elrohir, Elrond, Talagan and the Mirkwood contingent, two towering First Age heroes, and Arwen Undomiel.

Chapter Text

Thranduil could feel both his eyebrows disappearing in his hairline. He wasn’t surprised by Anglach and Legolas getting themselves involved in their usual shenanigans – and Talagan proved to be an incompetent captain not able to lead with at least one of them; although he had learned all he knew from Galion, he was far from being as organized or gallant (or bossy).

So when Glorfindel, two Noldor that looked strikingly familiar with the portraits he had seen of Finrod Felagund and Maglor Fëanorion, and Arwen, of all people, strode towards him with swords raised high and that ridiculous Tra-la-la-lally as though it was a war cry, Thranduil started laughing. Real, genuine laughter like he hadn’t had in nigh a century. No, more, if he counted the last time Elrond visited the Woodland Realm.

“What the fuck is he laughing at?” Glorfindel muttered, lowering his sword, and Talagan muttered back “Beats me,” at the same time Tufty snarled in Thranduil’s arms and growled: “The fuck you laughing at?”

Thranduil, one little furry beast underneath each arm, walked towards Imladris’ contingent and a smirk spread across his face as many jaws dropped. He was beautiful and imposing, of course he knew the effect he had. Glorfindel scowled at him, and Talagan bowed so low his forehead almost touched the ground.

“Thranduil,” Glorfindel ground out. “What are you doing here?”

“Saving your arses, looks like,” Thranduil rose his brows and looked behind both of his shoulders to the slaughter his sleigh had provoked. “Honestly, Glorfindel, I do not know how Imladris still stands with this sloppy army.”

“Ada!” Legolas cried and ran into him. Thranduil let the two animals drop to embrace his son and kiss the crown of his head. “I am so happy you are here! Finally!”

Thranduil sighed. “What were you thinking being here all alone? You could have gotten yourselves killed, or worse.”

“Should’ve been ‘worse’,” Thranduil heard someone murmuring, and many voices humming in agreement. He raised one single brow and the voices silenced.

“Thank you for saving us,” Legolas said, eyes lowered. “It was all Anglach’s fault! He has this pet wolverine he calls Gandalf and it has brought nothing but trouble.”

“Nuh-uh!” Anglach cried. “Gandalf is a sweetheart. The wolverine, I mean, because the wizard turned Lord Erestor into Tufty,” he pointed with his head to the Warg pup, “and it all went to hell from there.”

“From there? You pretended to be me!” Legolas put his hands on his hips with an annoyed tone.

“Because you disappeared because of your stupid Orc wound!” 

Thranduil frowned. “An Orc blade?”

“He was fainting and snogging every Noldo he could find.” Anglach sniffed, and Legolas gasped.

Thranduil’s concern was instantly assuaged by a smooth voice, powerful yet graceful. “Yes, it is true, yet it is not the whole of it.”

Arwen elbowed the Imladrian warriors to get to Thranduil, pushing Finrod and Maglor – who had stopped paying attention and were comparing their hairs and outfits (Finrod was spinning like a fairy, and Maglor was warming up his voice), and even Glorfindel.

“He was affected with Bëor’s Bane by mistake, but my father and some of our finest…” she trailed off, uncertain to call Finrod and Maglor healers. “Our finest. Legolas has been treated by our finest.” She smiled, sweet and beautiful, and Thranduil felt his heart be swayed by this young Elf-maiden.

He smiled and touched her hair gently. “You remind me of my wife,” he said low, and behind him, Legolas made a nauseated sound.

“Yuck, Ada, she is not like mother!”

Arwen glared at him, and Legolas shut his mouth at once.

“I thank you, Evenstar, for taking care of my son and his dimwitted friend.”

Arwen bowed with the grace and diplomacy she had been taught. “It was no problem, King Thranduil.”

Glorfindel cleared his throat, and their attention turned to the savage golden, still very much half-naked, beauty. “Alright, warriors, let’s clear this out. Burn the carcasses and be rid of these foul creatures.”

“Finally you said something that makes sense, Goldilocks!” Tufty squeaked, and it earned them a round of laughter because he was too damned cute.

“Yes, yes,” Glorfindel murmured. “I shall keep you in Warg form if you don’t help out, bloody Fëanorian pet.”

“Hey, I am no pet!” Tufty complained but went after Glorfindel to help clean the battle scene.

“Whose pajamas are these?” Glorfindel pulled them out, and two little goblins hung from the sleeves.

“My pajamas!” Aragorn came running from wherever he had been, Elladan trailing behind him and snatched it from the goblins, who cowered in a corner, trembling and holding each other tight. “And my sw- other pajamas!”

“Come on, Estel, gather your stuff and let’s go inside,” Elladan called.

“Elladan! Elladan! Elladan! Over here!” Tufty’s squeaks tried calling him, but amidst the uproar of post-battle, his little voice went unheard.

He hurried to Arwen’s side, stood on two legs, and tried climbing on her leg.

“Erestor! What manners!” She swatted him away.

“Please, Arwen, please, turn me back!” He pleaded, and Arwen took pity on him. She sighed and booped his nose as before.

And there he was, stark-naked as Ilúvatar had made him, and he turned to face Elladan with a wolfish grin on his face, hands on his hips, proudly showing off the size of his dong.

“Elladan!” His voice was still squeaky, although certainly louder, and he turned to Arwen with panicked eyes. “My voice!”

But then, Elladan had come closer to him and gasped. “Erestor, you are…” Erestor obviously forgot about his squeakiness as soon as he heard the breathlessness in Elladan’s voice.

“I am!” He tried faking a lower tone, but that was hilarious to everyone around them, and they all started to laugh.

All except Elladan, who was running his wide eyes up and down Erestor’s shapely, lithe form. “You are…” he tried again.

“Come tell me what I am over there, behind that big tree.” Erestor took him by the elbow and led him away from the battle scene.

“Thranduil.” A booming voice sounded from behind some of the warriors that still lingered by the gate, and they all made way for Lord Elrond to pass. “Welcome to Imladris. I guess.” He looked about wearily and sighed.

“A great welcome, Lord Elrond. Nothing like fighting my way into places.” He backed away with a smirk so Elrond could have a vision of his magnificent sleigh and the two enormous reindeer munching on what patch of grass they could find.

Elrond sighed, annoyed. “Yes, well. Now that you are here, let us get inside and warm ourselves.”

As Thranduil followed the Lord of Imladris inside with all the pomp Elrond could muster – that including shoving Finrod and Maglor back into the crowd and whispering urgently for them to get their glamour back NOW, Thranduil was glad they had made it on time.

Aragorn had been watching Erestor swing his dong to an entranced Elladan in distaste – though he couldn’t stop watching as Erestor’s big cock swung about like an Oliphaunt’s trump. However, as soon as Elrond and Thranduil had left the scene, he and Arwen shared a glance. She smiled at him knowingly, and he showed her the bundle of his pajamas in his hands. They were a little torn and not a little dirty, and so she said to him.

“Found them!” He smiled sheepishly. 

“Worry not, Estel, I will fix them for you.” She blinked, almost imperceptibly. “Follow me.”

And Aragorn did with a grin that split his face in two.

“What now?” Legolas asked Anglach.

“I am keeping them!” Anglach grinned, carrying each little goblin in his arms, one of them clutching in its gnarly hands a red sweater like it was the most treasured thing it had ever seen.

Both of them had fit in the crook of his elbows like small children, and Legolas cocked his head, a little concerned and more than a little disgusted.

“Whatever, this is tomorrow’s problem.” He shrugged. “Don’t let Galion see them, though, you know how he gets.”

“Don’t worry, this time they will sleep in my bed.” Anglach kissed both the filthy goblins’ heads and spat. “Ugh, but no kissing, they taste awful.”

“Beloved!” Ella- Elrohir called Legolas, and scooped him up for a kiss that was all tongues.

“Ugh, that is also disgusting. Get a room, you two!” Anglach said, feeling he was repeating himself.

“You know, that is actually a good idea,” Elrohir nipped at Legolas’ neck. “Mine are really close.”

"Do you think there will be any food there?" Legolas swayed on his feet. "I haven't eaten anything since we arrived!"

Elrohir was alarmed. "Of course, beloved. Anything you want."

"And I want other things to eat, as well, if you know what I mean." He grinned and wiggled his eyebrows.

 Elrohir cocked his head and grinned a little too much like Erestor. "Oh, there will be plenty of that alright!"

"What are we waiting for, then?” Legolas grinned back, while Anglach made a vomiting sound - but he was ignored.

They both ran, hand in hand, to the closest room they could find.

***

Gandalf the Wizard had been watching the whole interchange, since Imladris had opened its gates, from the balcony of his quarters – he had a pretty good vision of the whole valley from there.

He had lifted his staff three or four times, ready to intervene, before something happened that had saved someone’s arse on the battlefield. He had thought of turning Erestor back into Tufty the Warg because he was much more cute that way – but that could be done after Yule’s festivities.

For now, seeing all warriors returning, some singing that nonsensical song, some singing carols, others kissing and hugging and already drinking ale, he sighed.

“Ridiculous Elves,” he muttered. “And to think I was sent to save Middle-earth from evil…” 

He shook his head, watching Finrod and Maglor pick up instruments and start playing a lively tune, forgotten by all records but still alive in the memories of those who had seen the Two Trees in their glory.

Soon, all Elves were dancing and laughing. Mithrandir laughed softly and raised his staff, whispering some words to the wind.

Mistletoe grew all around the Last Homely House, and gentle snow started to fall, carpeting the valley in white, and making it very easy to call for mulled wine to chase off the cold.