DISCLAIMER: All characters and locations belong to the master, J.R.R. Tolkien. I am merely borrowing them.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: none of these snippets will be overly serious. Just some miscellaneous thoughts I had. The first one is inspired by a review exchange with Ithiliel Silverquill during her DRABBLES: THE SILMARILLION. She observed, "Leaping on a Balrog doesn't exactly demonstrate thinking through things ahead of time." I had to agree.

A Good Idea by Jessie Syring

Glorfindel stood patiently in the vast marble hall, waiting his turn. The hall seemed to echo with an unnatural silence in spite of the Elves filling it. Few spoke or made any sound, save perhaps a sound of surprise or a response to a question.

The golden-haired Elf lord shifted his weight slightly in an effort to get comfortable and wished there was a place to sit. He had been in battle for nearly two days and, to be honest, was quite tired. He wished consideration could be given to those warriors who waited. Still, everything had to have order.

"Glorfindel, lord of the House of the Golden Flower."

He straightened subconsciously as the deep, commanding voice spoke his name and title. He made his way to the forefront. Seated on a throne was an imposing, stern-faced figure dressed in robes the color of night. On his brow sat a simple silver coronet. Beside him sat a woman of great beauty. Glorfindel fell to one knee before them, head bowed.

"Glorfindel, lord of the House of the Golden Flower," announced that same voice from an unseen source to his left. "Born in the year 2866 of the Years of the Trees. Died during the Battle of Gondolin in the year 507 of the First Age."

"What is his history?" asked the lord on the throne, none less than Námo himself.

"Lord Glorfindel participated in the rebellion of the Noldor and in the Kinslaying at Alqualondë." Glorfindel winced at those words. "Furthermore, he followed the Noldor into exile following your Doom, during which time he became lord of his House," continued the unseen herald. "He served as a captain of the Army of Fingon, the High King, during the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, protecting the flanks and serving with valor. He died during the Fall of Gondolin, year 507 of the First Age---"

The herald broke off so suddenly Glorfindel felt a wave of fear go through him. He risked raising his eyes. Lord Námo looked off to one side, one eyebrow raised.

"Speak," he commanded.

"My lord..." stuttered the herald, "there seems to be a...an error---"

"SPEAK!"

The herald hastily cleared his throat. "He died during the Fall of Gondolin, year 507 of the First Age, when he threw himself onto a Balrog...so the refugees could escape over Cirith...Thoronath..."

The herald's words faded away weakly and absolute silence followed. Glorfindel bit his lip to keep from squirming under the intense gaze of the lord of Mandos. Not for the first time did he wonder the wisdom of his actions on that treacherous trail.

"You cast yourself upon a Balrog," repeated Námo, wonder in his voice. "Didst thou not understand the fate that awaited thee?"

"Yes, Lord Námo."

"Then why didst thou do this thing?"

Glorfindel couldn't stop an embarrassed smile. "Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time."

It sounded like a snort at first. Then it grew into a loud burst of laughter that surely echoed through all the vast halls. Glorfindel risked looking up and saw Námo bent nearly double with laughter. To his side, the lady Vairë was dabbing at her eyes with a delicately embroidered cloth. The Elves around him were soon caught up in the mirth. Finally Námo straightened and absolute silence reigned once more.

"I think you shall have your hands full, my dear," said Vairë, still laughing softly as she folded her cloth. "The Eldar have gone mad---throwing themselves into fountains and onto demons of Melkor."

THE END