Disclaimer: I own nothing. All recognizable people, places, or things belong to Tolkien. I assure you, I don't benefit from this.
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The Glorfindel Problem
Elrond sighed as he brushed his long, dark, herbal-essences conditioned tresses as he contemplated the complexities of life- the usual complexities; nothing major. Just furry-footed gnomes bearing the fate of Middle-Earth, dark lords that would completely destroy your race if given the chance, lovely daughters that wanted to marry mortals encrusted with a greasy film, and disturbing memories of Glorfindel popping up from under the dining table to greet your mother-in-law wearing nothing but a fig leaf.
Elrond sighed again as he motioned for his mauve, leather, leopard-patterned, fur-lined thongs and a glass of miruvor from his servant. The Glorfindel problem had indeed increased to a highly alarming level of chaos. Statistics proved that of the entire elven population in Imladris, 50% were slowly descending into madness, 13% had fallen to involuntary spasms at some point in life, and 9% were still missing, presumably dead or still locked in broom-cupboards. Broom cupboards were the only sanctuaries free of golden-haired balrog slayers that were the physical manifestation of the Buddhist tenet of reincarnation. Glorfindel claimed he would have no association with such storage rooms full of phallic symbols. At least the populace was given some relief.
Slipping the thongs over his feet, the elven lord recalled irritably the time when two months ago it was thought that the lord of Imladris masqueraded about the elven kingdom in skimpy dainties. Clucking disgustedly at the perverted, impure thoughts certain races harbored, Elrond picked up his fluted glass of wine and pushed the doors of his room open to the wonder that was the Last Homely House.
Sunlight streaming through gossamer curtains bathed his upturned face, along with a breeze that carried the sweet smell of spring flowers. He paused to admire the marble halls and columns of Imladris, with their lovely capitals cast into shapes of plants and animals. He turned his pointed ears to the sound of maidens' musical voices singing in harmony, and the soft bubbling of the fountain resting in the center of the tiled floor. As he looked and listened, his heart sang and wept at the same time. Hardening his will, he turned on his heel and marched with a determined pace towards Glorfindel's quarters.
As he neared Glorfindel's residence, Elrond became progressively more worried. Elves walked around haltingly, their usually impeccable flowing robes dirty and disheveled. They cast each furtive glances, fear dancing in their eyes. It became more apparent with each step closer to Glorfindel. Elrond quickened his pace, sincerely hoping this wasn't the result of another escapade Glorfindel had christened, "the wiener flap dance." Rounding a corner, Elrond stopped dead in his tracks at the sight before his eyes.
It was Glorfindel, all right. The elf of Gondolin stood nearly naked in the soft glow of torches, his chest lathered with oils and intricate marking made from mud. What Elrond assumed could only be a miniature sacrificial alter, made out of a matchbox and a handkerchief with a childish scrawl made with felt-tipped marker on it, had a small baby bunny strapped to it. Glorfindel must have met Gollum at some point in his life, because he wore the same size 0 loincloth about his hips. A single shark's tooth hung from a leather thing about his neck. The elf careened within a small circle of candles in the hall, beating his feet wildly to a tune no one could hear. The elf looked through the nebulous purple smoke the torches were emitting to look Elrond straight in the eye. He grinned, showing two canines with corks stuck on them. Throwing back his head in a slow and dramatic movement, he crowed like a rooster and intoned, "I am the Balrog!" Lifting his hands in the air, revealing a set of wings constructed of fig leaves, he squatted before a candle, and to Elrond's eternal shame, let rip an elvish mist.
By the time the curtains caught on fire, it was pandemonium.
Elves shrieked in high, unearthly voices as the flames caught beautiful tapestries lining the wall. Safely tucking the baby bunny into the sleeve of his robe, Elrond leaped over a column of fire towards the still cackling Glorfindel. He had no choice- Glorfi had gone too far. He would fight him- Matrix style. Sailing through the air towards Glorfindel's head, he saw his hair tangling before his very eyes. Glorfindel would pay. Laughing maniacally as columns of flame continued to rage about them, the balrog slayer leaped to meet the elven lord, corks bared.
Crashing in the air, they somersaulted off each other to land where they began, circling warily. Glorfindel grinned again. Spinning through the air, he grabbed a torch and swiped it at Elrond's head, singing his entire hairline.
Damnit, he thought, and right before I have to do filming for that movie. But as he ducked, he couldn't avoid the next sweep of the torch, and it grazed his sleeve. The matches! But it was too late. As his sleeve gave a tiny explosion and spattered his face with singed cloth and bunny gore, all he could do was take it.