Kudos to Kitsune, Farflung, Joee, and Karri for noticing that I had gotten the names mixed up. As Farflung wrote, "Too many E names in this family."
Karri: I'm glad you liked the 'elf' lore.
Dragonfly: The experience could bring them together—or it could scar Anomen for the rest of his eternal life!
Ky: Yes, I think Anomen on at least some occasions would find the company of Orcs preferable to Glorfindel's. You are correct about Anomen using the lesson about lying in the future. The subject of lying will come up again once Estel joins Elrond's household.
Raven: Tolkien never says that the Glorfindel in The Silmarillion is the same as the Glorfindel in The Fellowship of the Ring. On the other hand, he never says that they are not identical. Anything not banned outright is permitted, right? Seriously, a number of fanfiction writers in the Tolkien fandom have adopted the convention of identifying the two. I'm following that convention because I think having Rivendell's Glorfindel be the balrog-slayer makes him an intimidating figure to poor little elflings like Anomen. Makes for a lot of fun.
Jebb: Yes, I think trouble can be guaranteed. The only question is what form it will take.
Konzen: Yes, if I were Anomen, I would definitely feel hesitant about going on a journey with Glorfindel.
Farflung: I went back to see ROTK. I liked it a little better the second time. Of the three movies, however, TTT is definitely my favorite.
Anomen's first view of Bree was not a very encouraging one. They arrived late one night in a driving rain, and the Men who were out and about at that time and in that weather perhaps were not the village's most respectable citizens. However, the people may have seemed more fearsome to the elfling than they truly were. At one point Anomen was sure that he had caught sight of a Troll gnawing on a bone, but as he and Glorfindel drew nearer, this bearded apparition proved to instead be chomping a carrot, an item most unlikely to tempt the appetite of a Troll.
Glorfindel was searching for a particular lodging, one recommended by a trader from whom they had just parted. After wandering up and down the streets a little while and inquiring of several gentlemen who, alas, proved to be inebriated and therefore incapable of giving directions, the two Elves at last stumbled upon their destination, a building marked by a swinging board upon which was painted the image of a stolid horse accompanied by the words "THE PLODDING PLOUGHHORSE by FARTHINGTALE FARMER." Glorfindel pushed open the door and they entered a place that was bright, smoky, noisy, and crowded. They approached a counter where stood a Man, no doubt the owner, eyeing them up and down.
"And what can I do for you, Master…?" The proprietor paused expectantly.
"Master Gold. Harry Gold. I am a trader in jewelry findings. I carry a few finished pieces as well. And this is my apprentice, Leif Anomenson."
"What may I do for you and your boy, Master Gold?"
"We would like somewhat to eat and drink as well as a room for the night."
"Very well, sir. Would you like to eat in the common room, or would you prefer to sup in your chamber?"
"Oh, the common room, to be sure."
"If you will follow me, then." Off Master Farmer bustled, and he showed Glorfindel and Anomen to a table in a room packed with Men and other, smaller folk—Hobbits no doubt. Anomen looked about nervously. He had never been in the presence of so many Men.
"We came for news, and we will not get it by dining in our room," said Glorfindel, who had noticed Anomen's nervousness.
Crowded though the place might have been, it was not long before their most immediate need—thirst—was attended to. "Bartholomew Butterbur!" bellowed the proprietor. "A couple of beers for these customers, and look sharp!"
Said Bartholomew hurried over with two mugs of beer which he banged down on the table before breathlessly rushing off to answer another summons. Anomen's mouth was very dry, and he took a hasty gulp. He spluttered. "What is this foul brew!?" he gasped.
"It is popular amongst Men and Dwarves," said Glorfindel composedly. "However, as you are a boy and not a Man, mayhap you could drink something else without exciting comment." The elf-lord signaled to Bartholomew, who hurried back over, wiping his hands on his apron.
"It seems that this beer is too strong for the boy. Mayhap you have something more suitable for a young one."
"Aye, that I do." In a trice Bartholomew returned with a beaker filled with a white liquid. "Here ye be," he said beaming, and thumped the vessel down upon the board before hurrying off to another customer who beckoned him.
Anomen gazed doubtfully at the beaker. "What is that beverage?"
"I believe it is called 'milk'. Men procure it from cattle."
Anomen stared in horror at the stuff. "A liquid that comes from cows!? And I am to drink it!?"
"I think," Glorfindel said calmly, "that we will begin to attract attention if you do not begin to consume that which is placed before you. Moreover, you have no memory of this, but once, when you were a newborn elfling, you did indeed drink milk—although it was not procured from cows!"
"Whence came it then?"
"You should ask Erestor about that when we return to Rivendell." Glorfindel smirked. "Oh, yes, Erestor will no doubt welcome such a query. But, now, drink up!"
Reluctantly Anomen lifted the beaker and sipped from it. After a few mouthfuls, he decided that it was not really so bad after all—certainly not as distasteful as beer! There was a certain sweetness to it. Before too long he had drained the last drop, and he replaced the beaker upon the table. Glorfindel looked reprovingly at him.
"Leif, you do not have to adopt all the customs of humans."
"What have I done, Master Gold?"
"You look as if you have sprouted a mustache of milk. Wipe your face at once!"
Hastily Anomen seized a napkin and wiped his mouth. For good measure, when Glorfindel was not looking, he tried to rub off some of the grime that still remained from his contests with the other apprentices.
By and by Bartholomew Butterbur bustled once again to their table.
"We've got coldmuttoncoldhamhotmeatpieshotfruitpiesbreadcheese'n'clotted cream. Will that do?"
Glorfindel said that the menu pleased him exceedingly. Bartholomew smiled with pleasure and pride.
"And whilst you eat, I'll see that Peter puts your room in order. Hey, Peter, son of Jack, get your plump self over here and earn your supper!"
Peter, son of Jack, came scurrying over. He was indeed plump. Short as well. He sported a beard like a dwarf, but Anomen thought he looked more than half a Hobbit.
"Hey," spluttered Bartholomew indignantly, "where be your shoes!? You know that the master said you warn't to go barefoot like a Hobbit anymore. And must you always wear the same jacket!? Oh, never mind," he continued, without giving Peter a chance to reply. "Here's the key to these gentlemen's room. Lay a fire and see that everything is set to rights well before they make ready to retire."
Peter scurried off.
"Has a head full of fancies, that lad does. Trolls, goblins, talking trees—that's the sort of currency he pays out in his speech. Truth be told, however, the master actually likes to keep him about for that very reason. His tales bring in many a paying customer. Why, the other innkeepers hereabout would give their eyeteeth to engage his services. Was one proprietor hired him for a time but let him go because he thought the lad was too fanciful. He's probably kicking himself black and blue now he sees how the folks flock into this establishment! But it is not my talk that you be wanting but your dinner no doubt." Bartholomew turned to hasten to the kitchen.
"Nay, stop a minute, Master Butterbur. We would be glad of news as well as supper. This boy here is tired, so we will soon go up to our chamber, but when things have settled a bit in the common room, pour yourself a pint at our expense and come up and share our fire for a bit."
Bartholomew beamed. "Glad to, Master Gold, glad to."
In short order cheese, clotted cream, bread, and hot pies and cold meats had been placed before the two Elves, who fell to eagerly. Even Glorfindel did not try to disguise his very real hunger. At last satisfied, they both sat back with a sigh. Anomen yawned.
"Well," said Glorfindel jovially. "I spoke the truth to Butterbur. You are tired. Let us go up to our room so that you may sleep. Things are settling down here, and no doubt Butterbur will be up soon to have a chat with me. You needn't stay awake, however."
The two arose and mounted the steps to their room, which was a small but pleasant chamber. Anomen flung himself onto the bed nearest the window. Glorfindel looked sharply at him and went to look out the window. No trellis. Glorfindel relaxed.
"Leif, cast your blanket over your head."
"Why, Master Gold?"
"Men sleep with their eyes closed. It would not do for Butterbur to see you dreaming with your eyes open."
"Oh, of course."
Anomen pulled the blanket over his head and was almost immediately asleep. Hence he did not hear any of the conversation between Butterbur and Glorfindel, which, considering how things turned out, was a great pity.
A little after midnight Glorfindel heard a knock on the door and arose to admit Butterbur, who had a mug in each hand.
"Thought you might want a nightcap," he said, handing one mug to Glorfindel.
"Thank you, Master Butterbur. Thank you indeed."
Butterbur mended the fire, the two sat before it, their feet on the fender, and Glorfindel encouraged Butterbur to talk. Had Anomen been listening, he would have marveled at the balrog-slayer's patience, for it took a very long time before he could guide the conversation to the topic of strangers or untoward happenings. First, for example, Glorfindel had to listen with great interest—or the appearance of it, anyway—as Bartholomew Butterbur waxed eloquent on the subject of the innkeeper's daughter and how she fancied him and he fancied her and her father had no objection because the old Man wanted to retire and had no male heir to whom he could entrust the establishment and how he meant to change the name of the inn once he took possession—"'Prancing Pony' would do nicely, I think"—and so on and so forth and ad infinitum and ad nauseum and etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. By and by, however, Butterbur began to recite such news as Glorfindel wished to hear.
"There are several who have been keeping company with nasty-looking strangers. There's Hugo the Smith for one."
"Hugo the Smith?"
"Aye. Used to be Hugo the Weaver, but he wearied of that craft and so turned his hand to smithing. Regular agent of evil, he is, and he seems to be multiplying. First one agent of evil, next you know there's another one and another and another."
"These other ones, tell me of them."
"Bræd, the dour Reeve, for one. No Reeve is a happy one, but this one is dour in the extreme. But he's met his match in Andrew, late of the Circus."
"Late of the Circus?"
"Aye, band of entertainers, but the ringmaster cast him out. Odd sort of fellow he is. Sits in the corner talking to himself as if there were two of him! 'What have we done to deserve to be cast out?' says one of him, and then the other will reply, 'Nothing! Nothing at all. We'll get our own back, oh, yes, we will!' That's a sample of his speech—very tiresome it is, I can assure you!"
"Any others?"
"Let me see—oh, yes, there be Will Ferny, truly an ill-favored sort. Lives in an unkempt house on the edge of Bree. Supports himself by selling unwitting travelers a pony that he has trained to bolt back to him after the space of a day—although why any pony should return to the rascal is a mystery, for he keeps the poor beast half-starved."
"So four at the least. But this may be only the beginning," said Glorfindel to himself. Aloud he said, "You say that they keep company with strangers. Know you aught of them."
"Well, now," said Butterbur, who prided himself on his cleverness, "if I did, then they wouldn't be strangers, would they?"
Glorfindel laughed at the joke but then said, "So your sharp eyes have noticed nothing about these Men."
Butterbur took the bait. "They dress like Men hereabouts, but, judging from their speech, that is just for show—and right off that made me uneasy. 'Bartholomew', says I, 'why would they go to the trouble of disguising their appearance unless they were up to no good?'"
"That was very wise of you," said Glorfindel gravely.
Butterbur nodded sagely.
"So where do you think they come from?"
"Their accent was of a southern realm, of that I am sure. Some do say"—here Butterbur glanced about and lowered his voice—"some do say that they are Southrons."
"And what is your opinion, Master Butterbur?"
"I think that they are indeed of that cursed land of Harad. I says to the master, says I, 'We ought to get into the habit of barring the doors each night, that we should.' And he says to me, the master does, he says to me, 'I leave it up to your discretion, Butterbur. I trust your judgment that much, I do'."
"I think you are right to insist that henceforth the doors be barred. Are there many of these strangers?"
"So far only three have come into the village, but I misdoubt that many more lurk about."
"What makes you believe that, Master Butterbur."
"They have been buying much more in the way of provisions than any three Men could eat."
"You are truly a careful and thoughtful observer, Master Butterbur," said Glorfindel, and he uttered this compliment with all sincerity. It was beginning to dawn upon him that, whatever his outward manner, very little of importance escaped the attention of Bartholomew Butterbur.
"Where do you think the others are hiding, Master Butterbur?"
The Man shook his head. "As to that, I cannot venture a guess. A townsman I am and always have been. I know not enough about the wild to know where one might hide."
"It is wisdom to know what one does not know, Mr. Butterbur."
"Thankee, Master Gold. Well, it is getting on toward dawn. We both of us need our sleep, no doubt." Butterbur arose and picked up the two mugs. "A good night to you, Master Gold."
"And to you, Master Butterbur."
After the Man had departed, Glorfindel sat for a spell thinking over what he had learned—and what he had not learned. Above all, he needed to find the encampment of these Southrons—for so he believed them to be.
Glorfindel remembered the smoke arising from Weathertop. That hill would make an excellent rendezvous point for Southron spies. It was easy to find and provided a commanding view of the comings and goings on the Great East Road. Yes, Weathertop was a place that would bear visiting. He did not wish to bring along Anomen on such a mission, however. Well, tomorrow he would make arrangements for his safekeeping. Butterbur seemed to have a lot to do. He certainly would be able to make use of an extra skivvy for a few days, someone to haul water and fetch wood in exchange for nothing more than room and board. Glorfindel grinned as he imagined the look on Anomen's face when the elfling learned that his next assignment would be to assist the assistant to an innkeeper. No doubt he would have to sternly remind the elfling that his 'sufferings'—as Anomen would no doubt dub them—would be for the good of Imladris. Oh, yes, tomorrow would afford some amusement.
Smiling at the thought of the morrow's conversation with Anomen, Glorfindel at last turned in.