I have, after close inspection of my own work, decided to edit this entire story. I would actually just continue it for laziness's sake, but the problem with being a perfectionist is that I simply cannot stand seeing spelling mistakes in my own work (I call myself a Grammar Nazi, yet mistakes still occur in my writing. That makes me extremely irritated with myself, as you can imagine.) And because it is nearly spring, I have the opportunity to complete this story in its proper season.
Chapter 1: Sparring in Winter Weather
Winter in Rivendell was a lovely, breathtaking affair.
That is, if one was not visiting at the time when one's feet would squelch into the soft mud, and when the sun and the clouds fought for the throne in the sky, and when one might accidentally stand under a tree that is loosing itself of its snowy cloak and completely ruin one's high and mighty reputation.
Which happened, by the way, to be forming the poor advisor Erestor's circumstances.
His beautiful plum-coloured robes were dragging in the soggy, nearly translucent slush, and his slippered feet were growing numb with cold. Speckles of snow clung to strands of his hair, a reminder of the trees behind him's sudden shower of freezing flakes upon his previously ink-black hair. Every time he lifted his foot to walk it would raise a thick layer of mud on his slippers. And whenever he set it back down again, his foot would sink nearly up to his ankle.
By Valar, things could not get any worse.
He scowled and made his way to the courtyard, where Glorfindel was sparring. Sparring in winter, the idiot elf! Sometimes he wondered if Glorfindel ever thought at all.
"Hello!" said Glorfindel jovially when Erestor reached him. He put away his sword, still looking annoyingly chipper. Was there a good reason to be chipper in winter? Considering the weather condition, and the temperature, Erestor thought not. "Why so grim, book-brain?"
"The weather's bothering me," said Erestor sourly. "Why so happy, Balrog Boy?"
"It's a good day!" protested Glorfindel, grinning. "And besides, Lindir here's getting better at footwork. That's progress, I should think."
With mild surprise, Erestor realized that Glorfindel's opponent was indeed Lindir – a sweating, red-faced, frustrated-looking Lindir in a simple tunic that allowed maximum movement, that is. His hair had been tied clumsily back with a piece of twine that was threatening to slip out of its rapidly loosening grip. He dropped his sword and grimaced, stretching his arms slowly.
"Morning, Erestor," he mumbled, wiping his brow.
"What a shock!" said Erestor, when he could find the words. "You're sparring with Glorfindel? In winter? Never mind. Glorfindel, Lord Elrond wants a word with you."
"Eh? He does?" Glorfindel grinned. "He must be wondering why his daughter – " he gestured at a faraway figure hiding behind a tree " - is trying to tail me. Well, tell him that I have stunning looks that have improved through the ages. That should explain everything."
Erestor rolled his eyes, barely resisting the urge to slam his head into a tree. The only thing that stopped him was the fact that doing so would result in more snow dumped on him.
"No, not that. He says you short-sheeted his bed yesterday, and he demands an explanation."
Glorfindel's face fell comically. "Oh."
Erestor made a shooing motion with his hands.
"Get going, then."
He nodded at Lindir, attempting to keep the cranky look off his face (and failing miserably). "This morning's breakfast is your favourite: vegetable soup and cheese rolls."
"CHEESE ROLLS!" shouted Lindir, flailing towards the dining hall, sparring completely forgotten.
Erestor caught Glorfindel's eye and shrugged. He then followed Lindir's blissfully dancing figure into the warmth and dryness of the dining hall.
Cheese rolls, indeed.
.
Glorfindel emerged from Elrond's study looking quite disgruntled. His expression resembled that of a sulky child's, Erestor noted with some bemusement.
"What's the punishment?" asked Lindir, who, to be brutally frank, was stuffing his face.
"Setting the dining table for a whole ruddy month," grumbled Glorfindel, slumping into his chair with an impressive crash. The chair made a weak, strangled noise and Erestor gave it a sympathetic glance.
The punishment Elrond had inflicted on Glorfindel was no easy feat; the table was long, and seated up to a hundred elves depending on occasion. Not to mention, Glorfindel's way of setting the table was very old-fashioned (it was, in fact, Gondolin-style, which is now outdated and looked peevishly upon). And there was also the fact that the Balrog-slayer couldn't arrange flowers to save his life.
Not that there were any flowers to arrange. All the beautiful blooms of the royal gardens were still green, stubbornly closed buds.
Erestor sighed.
"I'm not helping you, if that's what you think," he said to Glorfindel, who was beginning to grin deviously, like he always did when he got one of those ideas of his.
"Oh, yes you are," Glorfindel said, gleefully rubbing his hands together. Erestor picked up a cheese roll, peering at it suspiciously, then taking a little bite. "Or word of your nice pink bunny slippers may accidentally slip out, eh?"
He spat out a mouthful of cheese roll.
"By Illuvatar, you're IMPOSSIBLE!"
Which earned Erestor another smile that clearly stated, 'Mission successful'.