Summary: This little tale takes place shortly after the White Council
met in TA 2851 (We are using 'shortly' in the elven perception of such
a word). Let's pretend that Legolas and Bilbo were born the same year,
2890, and that no elf has been inside the Wood Elves' Realm since
before the Last Alliance, over two thousand years ago. Having lost so
many elves, the silvan folk have reverted to a more instinctual means
of survival and their Sindar 'guests' go along, having no where else to
go that did not include rubbing shoulders with those sneaky Noldor.
Features 'good Ada Thranduil', perhaps in a somewhat surprising
cultural situation.
Yes, really he loved stormy weather. The slicing glare of lightening bolts diving from the clouds to blast the land and scorch the grass, the raucous din of thunder shaking air and earth alike, the piercing whine of a gale bowing the tops of the tallest trees as if they were mere saplings. All of it was a magnificent show and he never tired of enjoying such entertainment. Rainstorms somehow made fire feel warmer, candlelight more radiant, his favourite chair a cosy refuge. Often such a meteorological turn would find him ensconced within his study, well worn book held before him as a shield against the troubles of the times, relishing the sensation of being entirely safe and beyond reach of any malicious thing upon Arda.
On this particular afternoon, however, he was unable to summon up even the most remotely appreciative notion of the value of rain. Not 'the crops need it' or 'fall rains spare summer's drought' or even 'it is good for the Dorwinion' could find a comfortable place in his consideration of the wet weather this day. No, today he found that he despised the unending torrent pouring in heavy sheets of steely grey from a sky so burdened with bursting clouds it looked ready to collapse unto the very ground. It was as if the ocean was now lifted up, suspended in the air and filtering through a fine sieve, while the gross weight of the water threatened to fracture whatever bonds of black magic held it aloft and send the whole of the Great Sea plunging upon his head at any moment.
Perhaps his recently acquired dislike for pluvial phenomena was because he was out-of-doors slogging through it. It was likely that the belligerent glare with which he occasionally favoured the heavens was due to the fact that said phenomenon had been ongoing for five days and four nights. Mayhap his sudden distaste for the sound of pattering droplets had to do with the unbearable squelchy noise these created when landing determinedly on the soaked tresses of his cold, nay, definitely more like frigidly numb, head. He was saturated right through all the layers of clothing covering his body and Ulmo's icy fingers ran over him, touching and exploring every inch of skin in a most unpleasant and indecent manner.
Lest any mistake be made at this point regarding the intelligence of this poor sopping traveller, such as to wonder why the wretch had not the foresight to carry along a coat as protection against the changes of weather inherent to any journey of more than moderate distance, rest assured our friend was suitably garbed and provisioned for inclemency. The finely made cloak about his shoulders had sufficed well enough the first day of the deluge and even provided passable coverage on the second. By the third dawn, a wan and decidedly dreary lead-coloured one at that, the hood of the cape had absorbed as much as the fibres of the fabric could hold and drooped over his face, flapping with an irritating squish against his nose and forehead with every step his equally miserable and water-logged steed took. He had flung the cowl back with an exasperated and excessively energetic sweep of his arm.
That was on the third day. By sunset of the fifth, heralded by an almost immediate loss of all ability to see through the downpour and thus the need to halt, Erestor was out of patience.
For this worthy elf, valiant warrior and compatriot of such legends as Gil-Galad and Celebrimbror, kinsman to Elrond Lord of Imladris, was indeed the erstwhile traveller struggling through the onslaught. With him rode two other elves from Rivendell; warriors to be his protection should trouble strike. These two watched placidly as their noble leader vented his frustration, sharing a sly look that expressed eloquently the enjoyment their unflappable superior's abrupt loss of composure granted. Yes, this would make a fine tale for the Hall of Fire.
Much waste of bodily warmth was given off to the transparent and unrelenting rain in the form of vile and voluble expletives shouted in five different languages (Quenya, Sindarin, Old Nandorin, Westron, and High Dwarvish), punctuated by gestures of arms, hands and fingers, expressive in their own rights, towards the crowded skies, the muddy, oozing earth beneath the horse's slipping hooves, and the unending ranks of dull brown trees to either side of the well-worn track. Erestor cursed the shortness of the day, the short-sightedness of the dwarves who built a highway with no means of securing shelter along its entirety, and the short-of-wit Wood Elves for being so xenophobic as to make this tribulation necessary. For the travellers could do nothing other than stop, just where they were upon the road, and wait until some semblance of illumination returned, unable to light a fire or rig up shelter under the trees.
The trio had little in the way of choices: (1) get down and sit in the slimy mire, (2) clamber up into the branches, or (3) remain on the animals' backs, hunched over in weary misery until morning. The first option was never even considered. It was quite abominable enough to be this completely cold and wet without the added experience of gritty mud seeping up through one's leggings and into every crevice, crack, and crease available upon one's rear end. The second idea, while initially appearing to hold merit, turned out to be worse.
Climbing trees was not a skill taught to Noldorin warriors and noble statesmen. Assuming it was something any fit and able elf could do, rather than a skill requiring frequent practice, had proved unwise, for as coated with liquid as the bark was the limbs simply would not stay within hands' clasp and boots' purchase. The result was a thoroughly humiliating tumble down into the soup, thus initiating precisely the conditions they had sought to avoid by not reposing on the ground.
So there they were, five days out of Lorien, three of the most uncomfortably drippy and forlorn elves ever to grace the Old Dwarven Road with their splendourous, if somewhat limp and damp, magnificence. In addition to Erestor, aptly considered a noble and wily statesman, though no novice to combat and quite capable with a sword was he, were his companions Toloth (Eight) and Cugu (Dove).
"Valar!" swore Cugu and spat, though what insult his saliva might inflict upon the verily flowing ground was unclear.
"Do not start," warned Toloth. He fingers splashed about in his pockets and retrieved a small tightly wrapped packet. "Here," he said, tossing the item to his comrade. But the streaming water made the air more resistant to such attempts to float things upon it and the little bundle fell to the path with a splat that had a distinct quality of mockery to its emanating vibrations.
"That tears it!" Cugu fumed and slipped from his horse into the ankle deep slurry of ruddy dirt and grabbed up the package fiercely.
"Hear, now, I did not mean to drop it!"
"Aye, nothing but mush, as I suspected!" he seethed after inspecting the contents, which had only seconds ago been a wholesome wafer of lembas, and violently cast the remnants back to the sucking greed of the flowing land. A rather insolent snicker met his hearing and he spun on his heel to glare hard at the elven noble.
"What is the matter with you?" demanded Erestor sternly and glowered back with all the power of a First-age hero.
"I just do not think our situation merits mirth," countered Cugu as he remounted his stallion.
"Nor do I; it was not me," declared Erestor coldly. "Mind your tongue."
"But it has been five days of it!" mourned Cugu, shooting a suspicious glance at Toloth.
"We have been right beside you; it is not news to us!" countered Toloth irritably.
"Well why does it never cease?" the rant continued. "This is unnatural, that is certain! I tell you we are all turned around and going the wrong way! We should go back!"
"How can we be heading in the wrong direction when the road only goes west by east, and we entered upon the eastern side?" reasoned Toloth.
"Yes, calm yourself, Cugu!" ordered Erestor, grimacing even as he spoke the ridiculous name. "It is not uncommon to have rain go on for days. It once did so for ten days straight in Eregion. We will not retreat."
Cugu scowled but remained quiet.
It was unseemly, undignified, and absolutely absurd for a veteran warrior of the Last Alliance of Elves and Men to answer to such a humble designation, in Erestor's opinion. Of course it was not the edhel's true name. He was really Caladchae (Distant Light) and that was more appropriate for a Noldorin elf since it referred to the knowledge and wisdom of Valinor from whence they emigrated. Oh, all right, we were thrown out, but that was a long time ago. No one ever called him that and Cugu did not appear to mind. In fact, Erestor had attempted to retrain him to the more prestigious moniker but the warrior never realised he was being spoken to when it was used.
His colleague's name was perhaps worse. Why on Arda would anyone refer to one's self as a cardinal number? Of course he had a proper Noldorin appellation, Cuilvedui (Last Life), that referenced his Naneth's final creative enterprise before leaving for the Undying Lands. For some time Erestor had believed the inu had borne eight offspring, a truly remarkable achievement, but Toloth himself had denied this notion. Whenever Erestor used the warrior's real name, he politely corrected his superior, asking that his chosen designation be substituted. Not wishing to appear either rude or nosy, for he was definitely not the former and only moderately the latter, Erestor had acquiesced without further inquiry.
He had known them for Ages, not that well of course, owing to their differences in station and class. This journey had thrown them together on a more or less continual basis, however, and Erestor had learned the two were lovers; had been for centuries. He further discovered that each had bestowed upon the other, sometime during the mid- to late Second Age, those darling little pet-names. Exactly what circumstances, traits, or events had inspired the selection of these particular words as endearments, Erestor really, truly did not wish to find out.
As far as the meaning of his own name, the noble elf kept that a most carefully guarded secret and not even his best friend, Glorfindel, knew who had bestowed it, when, or what it could possibly mean. Erestor was aware that it was a common source of practical joking on unsuspecting visitors to Imladris. The household cook gave odds on how long it would take the ignorant guest to become completely baffled and give up the presented challenge, that being something along the lines of 'if you can get Erestor to explain where he got his name, there is a bottle of fine Dorwinion awaiting you'. Few had enough sense to forego the bet and frequently Erestor himself had won the resultant booty.
"How much further is it likely to be?" asked Toloth.
"Now who is starting!" railed Cugu and flung a handful of watery silt into his lover's face.
"Oi! I told you I did not drop it on purpose!"
"As I have already mentioned at least twice a day over the course of the trip, I am not sure," snapped Erestor and turned a fractious grimace upon Toloth having registered a very rude giggly snort.
"What? I was only wondering!" whined Toloth, then rounded on Cugu with a snarl as he reached over and tugged his mate's sopping hood down over his face. "Laugh at me, will you?" he hissed, for he had noticed a smug guffaw from that general direction.
"Fie!" shouted Cugu, struggling to unwrap the clinging fabric, angered for he could now detect both his comrades scoffing at him. Just as he pulled it off and bared his tress-plastered head, a small, hard rounded object bounced with a sharp ping right from the crown of it and landed with a little plop into the murky puddles. More sniggers ensued, and all three Noldor realised they were the butt butts? of some rather annoying pranksters' foolery. They exchanged wary glances and shifted their examination upwards. In the dark, drenched air nothing could be seen but the shifting shadows of branches swaying in the wind.
"Show yourselves!" demanded Erestor. "We mean you no harm! We are visitors from the west, here to meet your King and learn of your people and your lands."
"Go home!" a sudden shrill voice piped out from directly above the statesman's head, followed by a rain of a new sort as the travellers were pelted with a barrage of acorns and hazel nuts while their assailants laughed gleefully.
"Ai!"
"Eru's arse!"
"Bugger a Balrog!"
These exclamations only initiated a second volley of mast and louder peals of hilarity that seemed to be coming from several directions at once, accompanied by slurs upon Noldor ancestry and morals. The attack did not last long, however, and soon the three elves heard the giggling diminishing to the north as if their hidden tormentors were retreating into the dense woods, which of course they were.
"Wood Elves!' sneered Cugu and spat again. "Ignorant, uncouth, tree crawlers!"
"I cannot believe old Gandalf thinks there is any value in trying to make allies of these folk. It did not work the last time, you know," added Toloth.
If these reactions seem a bit extreme that is owing to the losses both these warriors endured during the Last Alliance, when the woodland elves were blamed for causing a rather futile raid upon the Black Gates that cost hundreds of immortal lives. That, and the rain, of course.
"Aye, I do realise they are a primitive lot," agreed Erestor, "but the White Council has made its decision. It is not up to us to make it work, but merely to initiate contact once more with these elusive forest dwellers."
Erestor was supposed to remain aloof from such prejudicial interpretations, at least in public, yet he was not in a very conciliatory mood after five days travel under such adverse conditions. The noble Noldo was not blind to Gandalf's imperative, yet was anything but convinced of the effectiveness of their mission, even if he could succeed and re-open Thranduil's Northern Kingdom to the rest of elvendom and the west.
To be entirely fair, it was not so much Gandalf who had suggested the idea as Celeborn, and he had somehow or other coerced Galadriel into backing him, and that of course brought Gandalf on board. Cirdan always sided with Gandalf. Saruman concurred sagely, finding it advisable to re-establish ties between the remaining enclaves of the First-born, and Radagast never disagreed publicly with his superior. That left Elrond standing there well sitting there with arms crossed and a foul expression etched into his sullen features, the only hold out.
The situation that had called them together was certainly grave. Gandalf had discovered unequivocally that it was indeed Sauron who was stirring up Dol Guldur again and breeding Orcs by the thousands. The Maia had urged an offensive attack upon the fortress to drive the vile disciple of Melkor away once more, but in this the White Wizard had overruled him. No one argued against Saruman's decision, for none believed enough elven forces could be brought together to defeat what appeared to be an ever increasing supply of evil demons, goblins, and men poised to serve Sauron.
Thus the decision to enlist the aid of the Wood Elves, as they had much to bear with the Evil One right in their very midst. Since the Last Alliance, they had retreated to the northernmost reaches of the great forest and rumours abounded as to the increasingly fey and feral nature of these moriquendi. With Oropher dead, the Sindar remnant and the silvan tribes were headed by Thranduil, who had apparently gone to ground, dwelling in caves to evade capture and persecution in Dol Guldur.
The Council had met in 2851 and forty-four years later, in 2895; Elrond had finally given in. The Wise all met in Lorien once more to work out the details, except for Saruman who claimed to be searching for Radagast, last seen along the River Gladden.
The Lord of Imladris was the most likely candidate for the mission; however, he flatly refused to be the emissary. He had some grudge or other against Thranduil and would not bow to him, saying the Sinda was really not any sort of royalty. Gandalf nominated Celeborn, who had to decline because of his marriage to Galadriel, for whom Thranduil had some unreasonable dread associated with the kinslaying at Alqualonde. Alright, perhaps not completely unreasonable, but it was Ages ago and nothing was ever proved against her anyway. Then Elrond suggested for Gandalf to do it, but he said it was a matter for elves and proposed Glorfindel. Everyone was happy with that except Glorfindel, who had a nasty habit of attracting bad luck and preferred to remain as far from Sauron as possible.
"No," he said simply and firmly. "Send Erestor, he never gets to do anything even remotely heroic and I am sure feels slighted by such neglect of his diverse skills in both diplomacy and swordsmanship, not to mention savoir faire and finesse. Besides, Thranduil has no reason, as yet, to ban him from the forest."
Well that last remark raised a few eyebrows and many wondered exactly what Glorfindel had been up to for the Wood Elves' King to flat out forbid him to enter the realm, but the Balrog Slayer promptly sealed his lips and refused to elaborate.
There had been no one left upon which Erestor could foist the duty, however, for Galdor was in the Havens visiting with Cirdan. Elladan and Elrohir volunteered, but their father denied their request with no explanation other than to say "Caradhras", after which the twins grew morose and silent and eventually rode out to kill Orcs. And thus Erestor, Cugu, and Toloth departed from the comfort and security of fair Lothlorien Where it is nearly always sunny and warm, making rain and thunderstorms seem a delightful diversion. to seek out the Kingdom of the Wood Elves and re-initiate diplomatic relations with Eru's less wise and more ferocious children.
As the unending torrential rain drilled upon his pate throughout the eternity of the fifth dreary, deluged night, Erestor decided that when he returned to Imladris he was going to have to find an appropriate means of expressing his gratitude to Glorfindel for the glowing recommendation which had secured his participation in such an illustrious undertaking.
TBC
Beta'd
by Sarah AK, remaining errors are mine alone.
Italics indicate thoughts.
Italics indicate thoughts.
I. Rain, Rain Go Away
Normally he quite liked rain. There was something positively soothing about the incessant spattering of liquid on leaves, an absolute charm invoked by chattering droplets dancing over stone, a significant soporific effect rendered by the sound of gently falling water. Like a thousand thousand polished pearls plinking upon the tiled roof above his rooms, the music of rain always put him to sleep with sweetness and dreams of pleasant days.Yes, really he loved stormy weather. The slicing glare of lightening bolts diving from the clouds to blast the land and scorch the grass, the raucous din of thunder shaking air and earth alike, the piercing whine of a gale bowing the tops of the tallest trees as if they were mere saplings. All of it was a magnificent show and he never tired of enjoying such entertainment. Rainstorms somehow made fire feel warmer, candlelight more radiant, his favourite chair a cosy refuge. Often such a meteorological turn would find him ensconced within his study, well worn book held before him as a shield against the troubles of the times, relishing the sensation of being entirely safe and beyond reach of any malicious thing upon Arda.
On this particular afternoon, however, he was unable to summon up even the most remotely appreciative notion of the value of rain. Not 'the crops need it' or 'fall rains spare summer's drought' or even 'it is good for the Dorwinion' could find a comfortable place in his consideration of the wet weather this day. No, today he found that he despised the unending torrent pouring in heavy sheets of steely grey from a sky so burdened with bursting clouds it looked ready to collapse unto the very ground. It was as if the ocean was now lifted up, suspended in the air and filtering through a fine sieve, while the gross weight of the water threatened to fracture whatever bonds of black magic held it aloft and send the whole of the Great Sea plunging upon his head at any moment.
Perhaps his recently acquired dislike for pluvial phenomena was because he was out-of-doors slogging through it. It was likely that the belligerent glare with which he occasionally favoured the heavens was due to the fact that said phenomenon had been ongoing for five days and four nights. Mayhap his sudden distaste for the sound of pattering droplets had to do with the unbearable squelchy noise these created when landing determinedly on the soaked tresses of his cold, nay, definitely more like frigidly numb, head. He was saturated right through all the layers of clothing covering his body and Ulmo's icy fingers ran over him, touching and exploring every inch of skin in a most unpleasant and indecent manner.
Lest any mistake be made at this point regarding the intelligence of this poor sopping traveller, such as to wonder why the wretch had not the foresight to carry along a coat as protection against the changes of weather inherent to any journey of more than moderate distance, rest assured our friend was suitably garbed and provisioned for inclemency. The finely made cloak about his shoulders had sufficed well enough the first day of the deluge and even provided passable coverage on the second. By the third dawn, a wan and decidedly dreary lead-coloured one at that, the hood of the cape had absorbed as much as the fibres of the fabric could hold and drooped over his face, flapping with an irritating squish against his nose and forehead with every step his equally miserable and water-logged steed took. He had flung the cowl back with an exasperated and excessively energetic sweep of his arm.
That was on the third day. By sunset of the fifth, heralded by an almost immediate loss of all ability to see through the downpour and thus the need to halt, Erestor was out of patience.
For this worthy elf, valiant warrior and compatriot of such legends as Gil-Galad and Celebrimbror, kinsman to Elrond Lord of Imladris, was indeed the erstwhile traveller struggling through the onslaught. With him rode two other elves from Rivendell; warriors to be his protection should trouble strike. These two watched placidly as their noble leader vented his frustration, sharing a sly look that expressed eloquently the enjoyment their unflappable superior's abrupt loss of composure granted. Yes, this would make a fine tale for the Hall of Fire.
Much waste of bodily warmth was given off to the transparent and unrelenting rain in the form of vile and voluble expletives shouted in five different languages (Quenya, Sindarin, Old Nandorin, Westron, and High Dwarvish), punctuated by gestures of arms, hands and fingers, expressive in their own rights, towards the crowded skies, the muddy, oozing earth beneath the horse's slipping hooves, and the unending ranks of dull brown trees to either side of the well-worn track. Erestor cursed the shortness of the day, the short-sightedness of the dwarves who built a highway with no means of securing shelter along its entirety, and the short-of-wit Wood Elves for being so xenophobic as to make this tribulation necessary. For the travellers could do nothing other than stop, just where they were upon the road, and wait until some semblance of illumination returned, unable to light a fire or rig up shelter under the trees.
The trio had little in the way of choices: (1) get down and sit in the slimy mire, (2) clamber up into the branches, or (3) remain on the animals' backs, hunched over in weary misery until morning. The first option was never even considered. It was quite abominable enough to be this completely cold and wet without the added experience of gritty mud seeping up through one's leggings and into every crevice, crack, and crease available upon one's rear end. The second idea, while initially appearing to hold merit, turned out to be worse.
Climbing trees was not a skill taught to Noldorin warriors and noble statesmen. Assuming it was something any fit and able elf could do, rather than a skill requiring frequent practice, had proved unwise, for as coated with liquid as the bark was the limbs simply would not stay within hands' clasp and boots' purchase. The result was a thoroughly humiliating tumble down into the soup, thus initiating precisely the conditions they had sought to avoid by not reposing on the ground.
So there they were, five days out of Lorien, three of the most uncomfortably drippy and forlorn elves ever to grace the Old Dwarven Road with their splendourous, if somewhat limp and damp, magnificence. In addition to Erestor, aptly considered a noble and wily statesman, though no novice to combat and quite capable with a sword was he, were his companions Toloth (Eight) and Cugu (Dove).
"Valar!" swore Cugu and spat, though what insult his saliva might inflict upon the verily flowing ground was unclear.
"Do not start," warned Toloth. He fingers splashed about in his pockets and retrieved a small tightly wrapped packet. "Here," he said, tossing the item to his comrade. But the streaming water made the air more resistant to such attempts to float things upon it and the little bundle fell to the path with a splat that had a distinct quality of mockery to its emanating vibrations.
"That tears it!" Cugu fumed and slipped from his horse into the ankle deep slurry of ruddy dirt and grabbed up the package fiercely.
"Hear, now, I did not mean to drop it!"
"Aye, nothing but mush, as I suspected!" he seethed after inspecting the contents, which had only seconds ago been a wholesome wafer of lembas, and violently cast the remnants back to the sucking greed of the flowing land. A rather insolent snicker met his hearing and he spun on his heel to glare hard at the elven noble.
"What is the matter with you?" demanded Erestor sternly and glowered back with all the power of a First-age hero.
"I just do not think our situation merits mirth," countered Cugu as he remounted his stallion.
"Nor do I; it was not me," declared Erestor coldly. "Mind your tongue."
"But it has been five days of it!" mourned Cugu, shooting a suspicious glance at Toloth.
"We have been right beside you; it is not news to us!" countered Toloth irritably.
"Well why does it never cease?" the rant continued. "This is unnatural, that is certain! I tell you we are all turned around and going the wrong way! We should go back!"
"How can we be heading in the wrong direction when the road only goes west by east, and we entered upon the eastern side?" reasoned Toloth.
"Yes, calm yourself, Cugu!" ordered Erestor, grimacing even as he spoke the ridiculous name. "It is not uncommon to have rain go on for days. It once did so for ten days straight in Eregion. We will not retreat."
Cugu scowled but remained quiet.
It was unseemly, undignified, and absolutely absurd for a veteran warrior of the Last Alliance of Elves and Men to answer to such a humble designation, in Erestor's opinion. Of course it was not the edhel's true name. He was really Caladchae (Distant Light) and that was more appropriate for a Noldorin elf since it referred to the knowledge and wisdom of Valinor from whence they emigrated. Oh, all right, we were thrown out, but that was a long time ago. No one ever called him that and Cugu did not appear to mind. In fact, Erestor had attempted to retrain him to the more prestigious moniker but the warrior never realised he was being spoken to when it was used.
His colleague's name was perhaps worse. Why on Arda would anyone refer to one's self as a cardinal number? Of course he had a proper Noldorin appellation, Cuilvedui (Last Life), that referenced his Naneth's final creative enterprise before leaving for the Undying Lands. For some time Erestor had believed the inu had borne eight offspring, a truly remarkable achievement, but Toloth himself had denied this notion. Whenever Erestor used the warrior's real name, he politely corrected his superior, asking that his chosen designation be substituted. Not wishing to appear either rude or nosy, for he was definitely not the former and only moderately the latter, Erestor had acquiesced without further inquiry.
He had known them for Ages, not that well of course, owing to their differences in station and class. This journey had thrown them together on a more or less continual basis, however, and Erestor had learned the two were lovers; had been for centuries. He further discovered that each had bestowed upon the other, sometime during the mid- to late Second Age, those darling little pet-names. Exactly what circumstances, traits, or events had inspired the selection of these particular words as endearments, Erestor really, truly did not wish to find out.
As far as the meaning of his own name, the noble elf kept that a most carefully guarded secret and not even his best friend, Glorfindel, knew who had bestowed it, when, or what it could possibly mean. Erestor was aware that it was a common source of practical joking on unsuspecting visitors to Imladris. The household cook gave odds on how long it would take the ignorant guest to become completely baffled and give up the presented challenge, that being something along the lines of 'if you can get Erestor to explain where he got his name, there is a bottle of fine Dorwinion awaiting you'. Few had enough sense to forego the bet and frequently Erestor himself had won the resultant booty.
"How much further is it likely to be?" asked Toloth.
"Now who is starting!" railed Cugu and flung a handful of watery silt into his lover's face.
"Oi! I told you I did not drop it on purpose!"
"As I have already mentioned at least twice a day over the course of the trip, I am not sure," snapped Erestor and turned a fractious grimace upon Toloth having registered a very rude giggly snort.
"What? I was only wondering!" whined Toloth, then rounded on Cugu with a snarl as he reached over and tugged his mate's sopping hood down over his face. "Laugh at me, will you?" he hissed, for he had noticed a smug guffaw from that general direction.
"Fie!" shouted Cugu, struggling to unwrap the clinging fabric, angered for he could now detect both his comrades scoffing at him. Just as he pulled it off and bared his tress-plastered head, a small, hard rounded object bounced with a sharp ping right from the crown of it and landed with a little plop into the murky puddles. More sniggers ensued, and all three Noldor realised they were the butt butts? of some rather annoying pranksters' foolery. They exchanged wary glances and shifted their examination upwards. In the dark, drenched air nothing could be seen but the shifting shadows of branches swaying in the wind.
"Show yourselves!" demanded Erestor. "We mean you no harm! We are visitors from the west, here to meet your King and learn of your people and your lands."
"Go home!" a sudden shrill voice piped out from directly above the statesman's head, followed by a rain of a new sort as the travellers were pelted with a barrage of acorns and hazel nuts while their assailants laughed gleefully.
"Ai!"
"Eru's arse!"
"Bugger a Balrog!"
These exclamations only initiated a second volley of mast and louder peals of hilarity that seemed to be coming from several directions at once, accompanied by slurs upon Noldor ancestry and morals. The attack did not last long, however, and soon the three elves heard the giggling diminishing to the north as if their hidden tormentors were retreating into the dense woods, which of course they were.
"Wood Elves!' sneered Cugu and spat again. "Ignorant, uncouth, tree crawlers!"
"I cannot believe old Gandalf thinks there is any value in trying to make allies of these folk. It did not work the last time, you know," added Toloth.
If these reactions seem a bit extreme that is owing to the losses both these warriors endured during the Last Alliance, when the woodland elves were blamed for causing a rather futile raid upon the Black Gates that cost hundreds of immortal lives. That, and the rain, of course.
"Aye, I do realise they are a primitive lot," agreed Erestor, "but the White Council has made its decision. It is not up to us to make it work, but merely to initiate contact once more with these elusive forest dwellers."
Erestor was supposed to remain aloof from such prejudicial interpretations, at least in public, yet he was not in a very conciliatory mood after five days travel under such adverse conditions. The noble Noldo was not blind to Gandalf's imperative, yet was anything but convinced of the effectiveness of their mission, even if he could succeed and re-open Thranduil's Northern Kingdom to the rest of elvendom and the west.
To be entirely fair, it was not so much Gandalf who had suggested the idea as Celeborn, and he had somehow or other coerced Galadriel into backing him, and that of course brought Gandalf on board. Cirdan always sided with Gandalf. Saruman concurred sagely, finding it advisable to re-establish ties between the remaining enclaves of the First-born, and Radagast never disagreed publicly with his superior. That left Elrond standing there well sitting there with arms crossed and a foul expression etched into his sullen features, the only hold out.
The situation that had called them together was certainly grave. Gandalf had discovered unequivocally that it was indeed Sauron who was stirring up Dol Guldur again and breeding Orcs by the thousands. The Maia had urged an offensive attack upon the fortress to drive the vile disciple of Melkor away once more, but in this the White Wizard had overruled him. No one argued against Saruman's decision, for none believed enough elven forces could be brought together to defeat what appeared to be an ever increasing supply of evil demons, goblins, and men poised to serve Sauron.
Thus the decision to enlist the aid of the Wood Elves, as they had much to bear with the Evil One right in their very midst. Since the Last Alliance, they had retreated to the northernmost reaches of the great forest and rumours abounded as to the increasingly fey and feral nature of these moriquendi. With Oropher dead, the Sindar remnant and the silvan tribes were headed by Thranduil, who had apparently gone to ground, dwelling in caves to evade capture and persecution in Dol Guldur.
The Council had met in 2851 and forty-four years later, in 2895; Elrond had finally given in. The Wise all met in Lorien once more to work out the details, except for Saruman who claimed to be searching for Radagast, last seen along the River Gladden.
The Lord of Imladris was the most likely candidate for the mission; however, he flatly refused to be the emissary. He had some grudge or other against Thranduil and would not bow to him, saying the Sinda was really not any sort of royalty. Gandalf nominated Celeborn, who had to decline because of his marriage to Galadriel, for whom Thranduil had some unreasonable dread associated with the kinslaying at Alqualonde. Alright, perhaps not completely unreasonable, but it was Ages ago and nothing was ever proved against her anyway. Then Elrond suggested for Gandalf to do it, but he said it was a matter for elves and proposed Glorfindel. Everyone was happy with that except Glorfindel, who had a nasty habit of attracting bad luck and preferred to remain as far from Sauron as possible.
"No," he said simply and firmly. "Send Erestor, he never gets to do anything even remotely heroic and I am sure feels slighted by such neglect of his diverse skills in both diplomacy and swordsmanship, not to mention savoir faire and finesse. Besides, Thranduil has no reason, as yet, to ban him from the forest."
Well that last remark raised a few eyebrows and many wondered exactly what Glorfindel had been up to for the Wood Elves' King to flat out forbid him to enter the realm, but the Balrog Slayer promptly sealed his lips and refused to elaborate.
There had been no one left upon which Erestor could foist the duty, however, for Galdor was in the Havens visiting with Cirdan. Elladan and Elrohir volunteered, but their father denied their request with no explanation other than to say "Caradhras", after which the twins grew morose and silent and eventually rode out to kill Orcs. And thus Erestor, Cugu, and Toloth departed from the comfort and security of fair Lothlorien Where it is nearly always sunny and warm, making rain and thunderstorms seem a delightful diversion. to seek out the Kingdom of the Wood Elves and re-initiate diplomatic relations with Eru's less wise and more ferocious children.
As the unending torrential rain drilled upon his pate throughout the eternity of the fifth dreary, deluged night, Erestor decided that when he returned to Imladris he was going to have to find an appropriate means of expressing his gratitude to Glorfindel for the glowing recommendation which had secured his participation in such an illustrious undertaking.
TBC
