Beta'd by: alienstars2004

It was a warm summer afternoon in Imladris. The kind of day where it is considered natural to be outside in the dappled sunshine and unnatural to be inside and out of it. And Glorfindel, Lord of Imladris, Gondolindrim, and Lord of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin, was outside and attending to his private garden beds. It was his favourite hobby. Or at least, one of them. The other one was unspeakable.

'One potato, two potato, three potato, four...' he cooed in perfect timing with the rate at which he unearthed the firm whitish tubers. He tossed them at a basket that sat to one side: most of the tubers landed inside the basket, some of them did not and crash landed onto the tiles that ran around the beds. 'Tra-la-la, tra-la-la, what a lovely day. Lots of potatoes. Big and whitish, lovely black soil, and...'

'Teacher, that does not even rhyme,' a soft voice said, interrupting him.

Glorfindel halted in his potato praise and looked towards the newcomer. It was another Elf. An Elvish minstrel named Lindir, who held a manuscript in one hand and wore a disgruntled expression on his face.

Glorfindel beamed at him. 'Welcome, welcome. It is called prose. It is a new sort of music.'

Lindir stared at him doubtfully. After a pause, he said: 'It is not even pretty.'

'Erestor invented it,' Glorfindel said, and threw a potato at Lindir's chest, in easy catching reach of the minstrel. But Lindir stepped neatly to one side and the potato sailed past him and landed in a cabbage patch. Glorfindel looked disappointed. 'Are you in a bad mood?' he asked.

Lindir's face twitched.

Curious, Glorfindel looked at the manuscript in Lindir's hand. He vaguely recognised it. And then he did recognise it. 'Ah,' he said.

'Ah,' Lindir agreed, gazing at him sourly. 'Teacher, with respect, I wish you would leave some comments on my work. I want feedback. You had this manuscript for over two months.'

'We can have a look at it in the next lesson,' Glorfindel said dismissively. He looked back at his potatoes and returned to digging them up with gusto. 'One potato, two potato,' he began.

Lindir observed him work for a few minutes. Then, when a potato that had been aimed at the basket missed the basket and rolled to a halt beside his foot, he bent down and picked it up. He looked considering between the potato and Glorfindel's head. His hand clenched on the potato. He took aim.

And then Glorfindel turned his head and looked straight at him with a bright friendly smile. Lindir's grip on the potato loosened and the potato dropped into the basket.

'Some feedback?' Glorfindel asked cheerfully.

'Yes,' Lindir said.

'It was excellent,' Glorfindel declared.

A curious flood of expressions danced across the Elvish minstrel's face. First came a stunned look, followed by a rather pleased look, then a bemused look, then a blank one, then a disgruntled one, then a sour one, then a doubtful one, and lastly a wearied expression.

'Really,' Lindir said. He lifted the manuscript and looked listlessly at it. 'So in other words, you did not even bother to read it.'

'Of course I did,' Glorfindel said in a petulant tone. 'I especially liked the tra-la-la bit.'

Lindir's face twitched. 'There is no tra-la-la bit in it,' he ventured to inform his teacher.

Glorfindel looked at Lindir and blinked. There was a pause.

Then Glorfindel turned his head back to his potatoes and picked up another of the tubers. 'Ah well, there should have been,' he said dismissively.

Lindir sighed. 'I should go and take it to Elrond, then,' he said. He turned away and made to leave the garden and head back to the house, when Glorfindel suddenly said, in a happy and bright sort of voice:

'You do that.' Then he returned to his potato praise. 'One potato, two potato...'

Lindir's hands clenched and he turned back to glare at his teacher. Moments later, he was struck on the centre of his forehead with a potato. He stared at Glorfindel, stunned. His teacher grinned back at him. 'Lindir is not an attentive potato,' Glorfindel said.

Lindir stared at him in mild concern. 'Have you got heat stroke?' he asked.

'Tricksy Elveses do not get heat stroke,' Glorfindel replied cheerfully.

Lindir shook his head in bewilderment. 'Very well. I will... I will leave you to your potatoes,' he said slowly. He turned away.

'Oh Potato Lin-dir?' Glorfindel sung out.

'Mm?' Lindir glanced back at him. 'What is it, Master Potato Head?'

Glorfindel looked pleased at the address. 'Master Potato Head wishes to inform Potato Lindir that he should take a closer look at his manuscript,' he sang.

Lindir blinked and looked down at the manuscript. His brow knitted. 'What do you mean?'

'Potatoes should be examined on all sides,' Glorfindel cooed. 'Only then can they be determined as edible or inedible.'

Lindir's brow knitted even more. He turned the manuscript sideways, lengthwise, and then he turned it over. His face cleared when he saw that the back of the parchment was almost completely covered with Glorfindel's neat script.

'Oh,' was all that he could think to say.

'But Master Potato Head still thinks that it was excellent,' Glorfindel added cheerfully. 'Even without a tra-la-la, although he would much like to see at least one in it.'

'Potato Lindir will have to add one in there as an apology to Master Potato Head,' Lindir said vaguely, already absorbed in the feedback on the back of the manuscript. He turned and wandered out of the garden and back to the house, his nose buried in the manuscript. On the way, he met with Elrond, who stopped him. Lindir looked up and smiled at him.

'Have you seen Glorfindel?' Elrond asked.

'Glorfindel?' Lindir stared distractedly at him. Then he nodded vaguely. 'Mm, the silly potato is in the potato patch,' he said and he thumbed back towards the garden. Elrond stared at him in concern.

'Have you got heat stroke?' he asked.

'Oh no,' Lindir corrected him, looking back at his manuscript. 'Tricksy Potato Elveses do not get heat stroke.' And with that, he passed Elrond and wandered back to the house.

THE END