Disclaimer: How do I not own this?  Let me count the ways…  I only own the story, and sadly, I am also responsible for Elrond's 'poetry'.  Betaed by the very spiffy Claudia.

The sun was shining on the deck of the great ship as it cut through the waves.  Galadriel had taken up her usual spot, and was concentrating on looking Queenly and Regal, and valiantly ignoring the fact that Bilbo had been sea-sick on her favourite dress.  Bilbo had managed to smuggle a number of barrels of Hobbit-ale and pipe-weed onto the ship, and with the help of Frodo was educating the crew in the enjoyment of both, with the result that the ship took an ever-so-slightly ziz-zag path through the sea.  The general direction was west, though, and that was good enough for them.

"Ah, Glorfindel.  How are you feeling this fine morn?"  Elrond was irritatingly perky, and had been for the entire voyage.  The thought of seeing his dear wife again, not to mention leaving behind the worries of home, had cheered him immensely.

"Fine," Glorfindel replied sulkily.

Anyone else would have taken the hint, but Elrond was far beyond that. 

"Boy, you must really be looking forward to getting to Valinor.  Glorfindel, the famous Balrog killer.  There'll probably be parties and all.  Myself, I just want to see my lovely wife again.  I even wrote her a poem.  Do you want to hear it?"

Glorfindel's face, if anything, grew even paler.  Elrond's poetry was famous—or rather infamous—in Imladris, for all the wrong reasons.

Celebrían, Celebrían, thine effervescent beauty bright,

My Silver Queen, who glows with glowing light…

Down in the galley, Frodo and Bilbo, involved in tag-team theft of the ship's mushroom supply, looked up in confusion.  There were certainly some interesting noises coming from upstairs.

Running feet.  Screams.  What sounded like a cat coughing up a hairball, followed by a feminine cry of "Glorfindel!  That was my second-favourite dress!"  Shortly afterwards, Elrond wandered through, clutching a large sheaf of notepaper and muttering to himself.

"Uncle Bilbo, I'm glad I'm not a Big Person.  They are very strange indeed."

"That they are, m'boy.  That they are."

-----

There was a small but lively group awaiting them at the docks, Celebrían among them.  After kissing Elrond hello, (causing him to drop the poems, which were eaten by a passing swan, and Galadriel to cough loudly), she turned to greet the rest of the party, hugging her mother, greeting the Hobbits with a little surprise, giving a little curtsey to Gandalf, and then turning to Glorfindel with a frown.

"You, sir, are going to be in trouble.  They're already on their way."

Glorfindel paled again, while the rest of the party looked confused.

"Who are on their way?"

Before the question could be answered, the 'they' in question rounded the corner and headed down the path.  Leading the way was an Elf-Lord of unrivalled magnificence.  He was taller than Glorfindel, his hair more golden, his face more handsome, his bearing more noble.  He was arrayed in blue and gold, the colours and patterns those of the House of the Golden Flower.

"Why, hello." murmured Galadriel.

"Mother!" cried Celebrían.  "What would Father say?"

 "Your father isn't here, dear."

Hurrying along beside the Elf-Lord was another Elf, this one a lady, dark-haired and dressed in blue and silver.  As they grew closer, she increased her pace, with the effect that she reached Glorfindel before the Elf-Lord did.  Upon which she took up her purse, beaded with sapphires and diamonds, and hit him about the head with it.

"OW!  Naneth…" he whined.

She continued her assault unabated.  "That is for impersonating your great-uncle Glorfindel, and this is forgetting your father's begetting day and this…"

"Wait a second…" said Elrond.  "Great-uncle Glorfindel?"

The taller Elf-Lord inclined his head.  "Glorfindel, Chieftain of the House of the Golden Flower, at your service."  He winked at Galadriel and Celebrían, who giggled and simpered as one.

Bilbo frowned.  "So then that over there is…"

"My great-nephew.  Nice boy, but a little prone to stretching the truth now and then.  Ai, but when my favourite niece asked to name her son after me, how could I say no."

The Elf-maiden in question now dragged the unfortunate younger Glorfindel back up to them.  "Now apologise."

"Sorry, great-uncle Glorfindel."

She dragged him off up the path.  "Just you wait till your Father hears about this.  You are going to be grounded for the next thousand years.  No, two thousand…"

Glorfindel senior held out his hand to Galadriel.  "Allow me to escort you, my lady.  Tirion awaits your presence."

"Why, thank you, my Lord."

"Mother!" hissed Celebrían.

"Not now, dear."

The party said their goodbyes to the mariners of Círdan, and began to make their way up from the beach.  The ship sailed soon after, the mariners saying goodbye to the shores of Valinor, to Elvenhome, brightest and most beautiful of all lands, which is barred to the race of men (all but one), forever.

Soon the beach was quiet and still, but for the distant cries of "Ow!  Naneth…" and the delicate cries of a swan, trying to retch up Elrond's poetry.  A wind blew up, seemingly from nowhere (although the chuckle of Manwë Súlimo might have been heard upon the air), and the clouds rearranged themselves, as by magic (or convenient plot device).

The words read thusly:

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AW!"

A/N:  Heh.  For anyone who ever wondered whether Glorfindel of Gondolin and Glorfindel of Rivendell were one and the same – well, now you know.

And Happy Birthday indeed, Blue Elf.  I hope your computer is better soon. J