Disclaimer: Middle Earth and all things and people related to it belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and his heirs.  I promise to put my toys away when I'm done.

A/N:  And thus it is done.  Happy Birthday 'Dan!  Many thanks to all of my reviewers.

Repetition

            As the twins were bundled off to their baths by their naneth, Elrond went in search of his sons' rescuer.  He had noted with some worry the dark looks his sons had been giving the blond warrior as they had ridden into the courtyard.  He also did not like how quickly his long-time friend had disappeared once the twins had been delivered.  Surely, Glorfindel did not fear his wrath!  Elrond had lived with Glorfindel's protective care for over an age now, and he was well used to it.  This was hardly the most extreme example of the faithful guardian's zealous defense, though did rank pretty high on the list.  He could even admit, now that his sons were safe, that the Vanyan had been right – the valley could not go undefended while he searched out his sons, and Glorfindel was more than capable of tracking a pair of wayward elflings.  Indeed, Elrond's presence might have made the task more difficult with his impatience and reckless behavior. 

            There were many places in Imladris where a worried elf-lord might hide.  Elrond, however, was a highly methodical elf and eliminated each haven quickly.  The further he worked down his mental list, however, the more concerned he became.  Asfaloth had been in his stall, but for some reason Glorfindel had allowed one of the stable masters to care for the bold stallion.  Usually, Glorfindel took great pride in caring for his horse himself as an example to the younger warriors.  He was not in his quarters either, and there were no signs of him having been there since early morning.  Most worrying, to Elrond's mind, was his discovery of Glorfindel's weaponry and armor. 

            Usually Glorfindel was nearly obsessive about keeping all of his gear sparkling clean and well oiled, in case of great need.  Elrond knew the memory of Gondolin still burned in his friend's memory, though he prayed that such a day would never be repeated.  Today, while the gear was passably tidy, it was nowhere near as well cared for as it usually was.  Elrond made sure to order a new recruit to begin properly cleaning the abandoned weapons before hurrying off to where he now felt sure he would find his elusive friend.

            The infirmary was usually quiet at this hour of the evening.  Most of the Dunedain had recovered from their shock and injuries enough to be moved to rooms that were more comfortable.  Only three remained now – the wise Maechen, his loyal faithful second-in-command Himor, and the infuriating Mathorn.  It was the last edain's voice that he now heard as he strode into the room, and it was raised in furious argument and protest.

            "… While my captain has been lying here, in pain, unattended, forgotten like some nameless beggar…" a cool voice broke into the irate barrage of words.

            "Your captain looks quite well cared for – I am fairly sure he did not drug himself into the sleep he takes comfort in now, and I highly doubt you have the skill or ability to prepare even a rudimentary simple."  Now Elrond could se them: the officious man standing, taken aback, staring at the back of the noble elf.  Glorfindel's form shone dimly in the evening gloom as he searched through the supplies.

            "Glorfindel, sit down before you fall down, mellon nin." Elrond ordered mildly.  "The twins did not tell me that you had been injured." He noted calmly as he gathered some basic supplies, pointedly ignoring Mathorn's outraged glare.  Maechen seemed to be resting comfortably, and Himor was just waking, and was being tended by a young healer.  Elrond would check on them once he finished with his friend, but not a moment before. 

            "They did not know.  My cloak hid it well enough, and they were too busy being angry at me to be too observant." Glorfindel replied glumly, his voice betraying his hurt at the elflings' actions.  They had been outraged that he had sent them away, and had refused to be soothed.  Throughout the long ride back to Imladris, he had tried to make peace with the two elflings he loved as sons, but he had been met with scowls and cold words. 

            He winced slightly as Elrond began cutting his tunic away from his gashed side, but did not move otherwise.  It was not enough to fool Elrond, however.  The half-elf paused as he noted the muscles under his hands tense and still. 

            "Are you well?  I can ease this…" Glorfindel cut off the question with a careful negative gesture.

            "Just get on with it.  I have had worse, as you well know." The blond elf protested as Elrond gave him a narrow look.  Glorfindel sighed in resignation as Elrond rose and began mixing a handful of specially chosen herbs into warmed wine.  Evidently, Elrond was in no mood for heroics tonight.  He noted with irritation how Mathorn seemed to be closely following their conversation, so he easily switched from Westron to the more familiar Sindarian.  He did not care at the moment if that gave the annoying edain something new to complain about.

            "Please do not fuss, mellon nin.  It is not so bad, truly." He argued, his voice carrying a plaintive note.  He hated being drugged with a passion.  Even more, he hated having put this extra burden on Elrond's shoulders.  He meant to only find something to staunch the bleeding for the night, since he was fairly sure the cuts from the wolves' claws would heal within a day or so without help. 

            "Glorfindel, if you do not stop fussing, I will make you drink this now." Elrond threatened in Sindarian, gesturing with the full flagon in his hand.  Glorfindel looked up at his friend in confusion. 

            "Now?  Do you mean that I do not have to drink it?  Why did you make it then?" Elrond did nothing without reason. 

            "You may not feel the need now, but you will once I have finished." Elrond replied, his voice growing grim.  "Wolf claws are filthy things."  Glorfindel paled a bit at that, but nodded without complaint.  Elrond was the most skilled healer in Middle Earth, and it would be the height of foolishness to ignore a warning from him in his own infirmary.

            For a long while the pair were silent, Glorfindel concentrating on holding still, Elrond working to remove all of the debris and filth from the wounds his friend had garnered in defense of his sons.  As Elrond worked, he studied the blond warrior carefully.  He grieved for the sorrow his sons had caused his friend, for he knew that Glorfindel loved the twins as if they were his own.  As he finally began to suture the wounds closed, he spoke quietly.

            "They will not be angry forever.  Most likely they will have forgotten their grudge by the time they finish their bath, and will be clamoring for tales of their bravery from their 'Glorfy'." Elrond offered softly.  Glorfindel sighed. 

            "I know, I know.  And I will give them the praise they desire – they faced the pack that hunted them without fear." Elrond smiled to hear such tales of his sons.  They would grow to be fine warriors and leaders of their people… provided they managed to survive all of the trouble they seemed to get into during the normal course of the day.  Sometimes he wondered if he had been as much trouble when he was young… he did not remember being a wild elfling.  Rather, he always thought of himself as a quiet child.  The one good thing about being held hostage as a child by the sons of Feanor was there was no one to blackmail you with tales of your youth.  Suddenly the flesh beneath his hands twitched, and he heard muffled sounds above him. 

            "Glorfindel?' he looked up, concern in his eyes, but that soon faded as he watched his friend give into a fit of laughter.  After a few minutes, once the urge to laugh faded and Glorfindel mastered himself once more, Elrond regarded him with bemusement.

            "What was that about?  If I knew you found needles to be amusing, I would attempt to sew you up more often." He commented wryly.

            "Forgive me, mellon nin." Glorfindel replied, steadying his breathing, since laughing tugged at the stitches already sunk into his skin.  "I was just thinking that someday, those sons of yours are going to get married."

            "And this is amusing?" Elrond asked, confused.

            "Ah, but then they shall have elflings… and I shall teach those elflings all about adventures, then send their adas out to fetch them." Glorfindel explained with a great deal of satisfaction.  Sometimes, immortal life had great benefits.  As Elrond finished suturing and forced him to drink the wine, he plotted various ways to fill future elflings' minds with thoughts of adventure.

Many centuries later:

Ithilien had changed greatly from the years before Sauron's defeat.   Through the combined effort of Prince Legolas and Prince Faramir, the once wild and dangerous land was once again the garden of kings.  The ceaseless vigilance of earlier days had not slackened, however.  The Ithilien Rangers, who were now called the White Company, regularly patrolled along the fences of Mordor.  Though their master was defeated, rogue bands of orcs still wandered, now without a set purpose besides general mayhem and destruction.

            The fair voices of the wood-elves hailed the return of one of these patrols as the body of men and horses cantered swiftly up a well-tended grassy avenue that was guarded and shaded by two rows of massive oaks.  This patrol was unusual, to say the least – it was not following its normal route, and in the vanguard rode a pair of dark-haired elves, the twin sons of Lord Elrond.

            Even more unusual was the young passenger that straddled the saddlebow before one of the rangers that followed the twin elves.  A small boy sat comfortably on one ranger's swiftly cantering horse, proudly disdaining the use of the ranger's solid body for balance.  He had the characteristic grey eyes and dark hair of the Numenorians.  The child's hair was unusually unruly, with dried leaf fragments poking out between the ruffled strands.  His grey eyes were stormy and fierce as he glared at the twin elves riding ahead of him.

            His fierce scowl melted away as the company poured into the courtyard of a stately manor that stood deep within the forests of Ithilien.  The banners floating overhead declared the devices of King Elessar Telcontar, but also those of Prince Faramir.  This was the Prince's residence in his home of Ithilien, among those lands that he spent the majority of his adult life defending.  A beautiful dark-haired woman dashed down the stairs towards the dismounting riders, unmindful of her own dignity.  As she ran her startled maids cried out in alarm, but she did not heed them.  She stretched her arms towards the young boy, her expression a mixture of great relief and puzzled anger.

            "Naneth!  Naneth!" the boy cried delightedly, leaning over dangerously in the saddle to reach the dazzling lady.  The ranger seated behind him quickly grasped the back of the boy's tunic, which earned the war-hardened man a scowl from the lad.  The boy, however, was distracted soon enough as a strong pair of arms swept him out of the saddle.

            "Ada!  Ada, I had an adventure!" the boy crowed proudly, knowing instinctively who now held him.  He felt himself settled against his ada's hip, and looked up adoringly into his ada's face.  A bit of the excitement left his face when he saw how serious his ada looked.  This was ada's 'king-face', the one he wore when saying things that were very important.

            "Eldarion, how you worried us!" Aragorn began sternly, but got no further as his lady wife, Arwen, finally reached the bottom of the stairs and joined them in a flurry of skirts and long braids.  Aragorn surrendered to his wife's unspoken demand and carefully handed Eldarion to his worried mother. 

            As Arwen alternately scolded and cuddled her wayward child, Aragorn quietly greeted his foster-brothers, thanking them warmly for the return of his son.  As he talked to the twins, however, he noted the slightly uneasy looks the elves gave his son as they tended their horses.  Also, he saw the dark glowers they earned from his son in return.

            "Is aught wrong?  Elrohir?" he asked, singling out one twin for questioning.  Elrohir stared back at him, his expression patently innocent.  Aragorn heard a faint rustle, and turned to fix Elladan with a glare as the older twin attempted to sidle away while Aragorn's focus was on Elrohir.  This unusual behavior was alarming Aragorn, and now he was determined to have the whole of the tale.

            "I fear our nephew is quite wroth with us." Elrohir admitted, attempting to placate his human brother, seeing Aragorn's expression darken rapidly.  "We spoiled his adventure, then left him with another while we dealt with the…" a quick hiss from Elladan cut Elrohir off mid-sentence, and both twins suddenly looked very blank.  Aragorn's eyes narrowed dangerously, and glanced back at his son quickly to reassure himself that the boy had sustained no injury. 

            "He is well, Estel." Elladan hurriedly assured Aragorn, unconsciously slipping into use of his foster-brother's childhood name.  "We found him before they could attack."  Now it was Elrohir's turn to hiss, and Elladan abruptly shut his mouth, giving his twin an apologetic look. 

            "Attack?" Aragorn growled softly, not wanting to unduly alarm Arwen.  "I think you had better explain, brother."  It was not a request.  It was at times like these that Elladan and Elrohir wondered if Aragorn was not more closely related to their father.  Aragorn had his eyebrow raised in the exact same manner that Elrond used to after catching the twins out in some prank. 

            Through a good deal of determination, and a few threats, Aragorn dragged out the tale of how his son had wandered away searching for adventure.  He had found it in the form of a small, masterless, band of orcs.  Thinking that he would win great glory, Eldarion had challenged them, alone and armed only with his favorite dulled training sword.  The twins had been searching for the child since his absence was discovered, and they had tracked Eldarion carefully, arriving at the scene of the near-disaster just bare moments before the orcs closed in.  As Aragorn returned to his wife, attempting to come up with some way to break the twins' story, Elladan and Elrohir looked at each other in bemusement.  Eldarion was still shooting the pair of them furious glares in between cuddles with his parents.

            "We must never tell Glorfindel."  Elrohir noted dryly.  Elladan nodded in agreement.

            "Nor let any other tell the tale.  I would hate for him to have to explain to Mandos how he managed to die laughing."