Chapter 1: Sliding into Trouble

This notion suddenly hit me, and as I haven't written an elfling tale in several weeks, I could not resist.

Beta Reader: None, as this is a side story that will only be two or three chapters in length. Joee, if you are still out there, enjoy yourself.

Elrond worriedly studied his face in a mirror. Elves are immortal, and although they can be said to 'age', they do not do so after the fashion of Men. Their eyes develop greater depth as they accrue wisdom, and their facial and bodily proportions alter as they pass from the elfling stage, but they lose none of their vitality and strength as they grow older. They reach maturity and stop, never moving on into what Men would recognize as 'old age'. Among the human changes that an Elf never experiences is the onset of grey hair. Elrond, however, gazed anxiously into the mirror because he was sure that after today he would sport grey hair.

That scamp Anomen was at the root of it, of course. Elrond was beginning to get used to the sight of the elfling sliding down stairways upon a board. He was even beginning to grudgingly acknowledge that the lad was quite good at that method of locomotion. So the Master of Rivendell had not been particularly alarmed when he saw Anomen, board in hand, standing at the top of a stairway that led into the garden. But then, just as Anomen leaped upon the board and began his descent, Elrond noticed something draped over the edge of one of the steps. Ai! It was Arwen's stuffed horse. Elrond gave a shout, but it was too late. Anomen's board hit the toy and Anomen pitched forward as he was catapulted into the air. Near the base of the stairs stood a fountain, and before the fountain stood Glorfindel, with his back to Anomen. Hearing Elrond shout, the balrog-slayer spun about just in time to reflexively catch Anomen in his arms. The lad's momentum drove Glorfindel backwards, and with a great splash Elf and elfling fell into the fountain. Spluttering, Glorfindel let go his hold on Anomen, and the elfling immediately sprang to his feet, leaped from the fountain, and fled as fast as his fleet feet could carry him. Ai! As the young one rounded the corner, he collided with Erestor, who had just mixed a new batch of ink for the manuscript he was working on. Of course the bowl of ink was knocked into the tutor's face. His eyes full of ink, Erestor staggered blindly, right into the path of Figwit, who had come into the garden to inform Elrond that Mithrandir had just returned from a visit to Lothlórien. When Erestor fetched up against Figwit, the unfortunate messenger was thrown into a bush—a rose bush, one well supplied with thorns. Figwit let out a shriek as the thorns tore his skin—Figwit was rather an excitable Elf—and Lindir, who was on the terrace above the garden, seized his bow, nocked an arrow, and began to race down the stairs. Unfortunately, Arwen's toy horse was still in the way, and Lindir, whose eyes were seeking the source of the shriek, did not observe it. Stumbling over the toy, he accidentally released his arrow. Gandalf, who had been following Figwit at his leisure, strolled into the garden just then, and as luck would have it, Lindir's errant arrow came to rest in his hat. Startled, the wizard involuntarily uttered a phrase of power, and the resulting bolt of fire from his staff struck an elegant old spruce right at its base. As Elrond watched helplessly, the spruce groaned and slowly, with a cracking sound, the tree began to tilt toward a gazebo. At last the spruce reached the tip point and over it went. It crashed into the gazebo, and that structure fell over onto a statue, which knocked over a second, smaller tree, which knocked over a trellis, which knocked over a bench. The Gardener, hearing the racket, came running into the garden and tripped over the fallen bench. At that point, Elrond turned and fled from the scene, for he did not wish to see the sequel. As he fled, he was pursued by a series of crashes that were at least as appalling as those created during the first round of the disaster.

And that was how Elrond came to be standing before his mirror examining his braided hair with great care. Just then he heard a knock upon the door.

"Enter," the elf-lord said with some trepidation. Then he had to suppress a smile as a grey-faced Erestor came unhappily into the room.

"Elrond," moaned the tutor, "I have scrubbed and scrubbed, but I have been unable to entirely remove the ink from my visage. I pray that you will use your knowledge of herbs and simples to devise a cleansing lotion."

"You are to be complimented on the quality of your ink, Erestor," Elrond replied with a smile, "else no doubt it would have been a simple matter for you to wash it from your face."

Erestor did not return Elrond's smile. Sighing, the elf-lord took Erestor by the elbow and escorted the irate Elf to his study, where he began to rummage through bowls and vials. As Elrond searched for ingredients, Erestor launched into a long tirade on the subject of incorrigible younglings.

"Elrond, I insist that you do something to rein in Anomen before he brings about the complete and total destruction of Imladris," he sputtered.

"I hardly think that one elfling could have such a deleterious effect, Erestor."

"But Anomen does not act alone. He is a bad influence upon the twins and draws them into his plots."

Elrond raised an eyebrow. "Erestor, more often than not the twins—or Elrohir, at least—are a bad influence upon Anomen. And Anomen does not 'plot'. He stumbles into trouble, as he did today—literally, I might point out."

"Whether deliberate or no, you must admit that Anomen seems to get into an inordinate amount of trouble."

Elrond could not deny the truth of this statement, so, ever sensible, he did not try. When he failed to speak, Erestor continued triumphantly.

"Hah! You concede the point. Now what do you plan to do about him?"

Elrond pondered. What indeed? 'How', he thought, 'do you solve a problem like Anomen? How do you catch a cloud and pin it down?' He sighed and shook his head.

"Erestor, I think we shall simply have to allow Anomen to grow more mature and settled. Becoming an Elf takes time."

"Time? And how much time do you propose to allow the scamp? Five hundred years? A thousand years? I'll warrant that after only a hundred years there won't be a building left standing in Imladris!"

"You exaggerate, Erestor."

"And for your part, Elrond, you are too quick to make excuses for the lad."

By now Elrond had finished formulating his concoction, and both Elves were relieved when Erestor accepted the cleansing unguent and hurried off to apply it to his stained visage. Once the tutor had left the room, Elrond commenced pacing back and forth. Was there, he wondered, any truth to what Erestor said? Did Anomen require a firmer hand than the elf-lord had hitherto extended? Just then Elrond heard yet another knock upon his door, a gentler one before.

"Enter," called the Master of Rivendell. A dark-haired elfling, his face tear-streaked, peered timidly into the room. Elrond stared puzzled at the elfling for several seconds, for he did not recognize the young one as a member of his household. Then he gave a start, for he realized that the lad was Anomen, his hair saturated with ink. Erestor, it seems, had not been the only one splattered. Elrond beckoned for the young one to approach, and Anomen cautiously drew near.

"I see," Elrond said with a smile, "that this time you have managed to dye your own hair instead of someone else's. Fortunately I have but lately devised a remedy."

With his hand on Anomen's shoulder, Elrond gently steered his new patient into the study, where the necessary ingredients were still out upon a table. Quickly he compounded a new batch of unguent. "Off to the bath with you," he said, handing the bowl to Anomen. "But when you have finished, return to me, for you and I must have a conversation about the day's events."

An hour later a nervous Anomen stood before Elrond's study. His hair was several shades lighter but still tinged with brown, for hair takes up dye much more effectively than skin. He raised his hand to knock upon the door, but then, irresolute, he lowered it. 'Perhaps', he thought to himself, 'perhaps I ought to stay out of his sight for awhile. 'Tis true he smiled at me, but, well, his unguent has not entirely worked, and, um, perhaps that will put him out of humor'. He turned to make his escape, only to see an approaching delegation: Glorfindel, Erestor, Figwit, Lindir, and Mithrandir. Trapped between these folk and the door to the study, he decided he might be safer by the side—or behind the skirts!—of the Master of Rivendell. Without bothering to knock, he flung open the door and dashed inside, causing Elrond to look up in astonishment from the scroll he was perusing. "Anomen," he began, but halted when Anomen dove under the table, coming up on the other side and flinging his arms around the Elf's legs.

"Please, Lord Elrond," begged the elfling, "don't let them at me!"

"Anomen, whatever are you talking about?" asked a bemused Elrond. Just then the delegation arrived at the open door. "Oh ho," chortled the Elf, "I see what the matter is." Gently he loosened Anomen's grip on his knees and drew him to his feet, putting an arm around him to reassure him.

"Good evening, my friends," he said. "I suppose you are here on account of this young one."

"We are," said Erestor sternly. "Have you thought about what I said?"

"I have indeed, Erestor, and since you have so kindly offered your advice, I thought you might have a hand in the remedy. I shall assign Anomen to assist you. That will give him something to occupy his time and keep him out of trouble. Moreover, you will no doubt have a steadying influence on him."

"Assist me? Whatever could he do to assist me?"

"At the very least, he can help you make ink."

Erestor looked horrified. "That won't be necessary," the tutor exclaimed. "I have had more than enough of ink!"

"Are you declining the offer of an apprentice, then?"

"I am indeed!"

Hiding his smile, Elrond turned to Lindir.

"In that case, Anomen could assist our Lindir in the fashioning of arrows."

That Elf looked more than horrified; he looked terrified. To be thrown into close quarters with Anomen and hundreds of sharp arrow points—this was not a prospect he found appealing! He declined as forthrightly as Erestor had.

It was becoming difficult for Elrond to hide his amusement. He addressed Figwit.

"Anomen is a fast runner, Figwit. He could assist you in the delivery of messages."

Figwit hastened to assure Elrond that he had no need of an assistant. "It has lately been rather quiet—not much coming and going between the kingdoms—so I am sure I would not be able to find enough for the young one to do."

Now Elrond turned to the wizard.

"Mithrandir—."

"I was just about to depart—for Mirkwood. Yes, that's it, for Mirkwood," Mithrandir said quickly. "Sudden change of plans, don't you know! And, well, he can't very well accompany me there."

No, that would be out of the question. Sensing victory, Elrond at last allowed a smile to o'erspread his face. His smile quickly vanished, however, when Glorfindel spoke up. "I will do it," he said bravely. "I will take the lad."

Astonished, all turned to stare at the speaker. Glorfindel, the balrog-slayer, was offering to take responsibility for the good behavior of Anomen—Anomen, the Master of Mischief, the Prince of Pranks, the King of Chaos?

"Are you quite certain that you wish to do this," Elrond asked doubtfully.

"Yes. I have mastered many a monst—many a creature. I am sure I can manage to deal with this one."

No one looked convinced, but since Glorfindel had offered, all agreed that, for a trial period at least, Anomen would be apprenticed to the balrog-slayer. All agreed, that is, save Anomen. But his opinion had not been solicited, and he was too fearful to offer it. At least, he thought mournfully to himself, he had not had his head handed to him, as had seemed likely at the outset. Of course, what the morrow would bring was another matter altogether!