-Note- Yes. Well. I'm back, I guess. I hadn't planned on continuing this. And then you reviewers asked for more. I couldn't add it right away- I was busy with rehearsals for a concert. The concert is over. That's my excuse, and I'm sticking with it!

Disclaimer: Still not mine. Glorfindel's dog is an OC. His name is Alyaran, which supposedly means "rich king" in Quenya. Alyaran is a rich king because Glorfindel treats him like one. : )

A Message

The silver Mercedes sped easily along the city streets, between buildings with roofs so high one would have to risk a strained neck to look at. Glorfindel's eyes were on the road before him, now just beginning to crowd with the rush of commuters, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

Chiefly, fucused on a warm mug of hot cocoa, his overstuffed lounge chair, and a book.

Red light.

He had a microwavable dinner in his freezer- he'd heat that up. Glorfindel was a terrible cook, and knew it well; he would never force himself to eat one of his "creations" when even his dog had refused them. Moreover, even Elladan and Elrohir refused his cooking.

Ah, well.

Green light.

He made it to his apartment without trouble, handed his keys to the valet, took the elevator to his top floor penthouse. One could not live on earth for so long and not amass a fortune, after all, but his quarters were rather sparsely decorated, with a decidedly Elvish feel. Some things would never change.

He opened the door, was welcomed by the sound of nails scrambling on hardwood, braced for the attack.

Here it was.

His overgrown golden retriever barely managed to stay on his feet as he rounded the corner, grinning foolishly, without a care as to the large strand of saliva dripping from his tongue. Glorfindel set down his briefcase, closed the door quickly, and knelt as the mass of shining fur hurled itself into his embrace.

"Did you miss me?" He asked, chuckling, in the silly voice he saved just for his dog. A long tongue slapped against his face, dampened his hair. He roughed up the dog's ears and stood. "Alyaran, my big fellow, how have you faired?"

Alyaran grinned.

Glorfindel patted the dog's head and made his way to the kitchen, and his dinner. He flicked on the light switch, grabbed the television remote, deftly changed the channel from a cartoon to a news program.

He unwrapped and unboxed his meal, set it in the microwave, and leaned against his counter to wait.

The anchorwoman, platinum blonde in a fuchsia suit, was on one half of the screen, explaining robbery footage on the other half. He half-listened as the story went to a field reporter, then switched directions altogether as a financial expert was interviewed on the recently announced merger between two mega-corporations...

...and then the weather: Saturday would be brisk and cloudy, with no rain. "An ideal Autumn day..."

Ding-ding, ding-ding. Glorfindel turned quickly to the microwave- with a warrior's rapidity, not a housewife's, pulled open the cutlery drawer, snatched a fork. The dish was something with noodles- its name was Italian, one of the few languages he had never learned. There were vegetables, too, but he didn't know which- the whole dish was drenched in a tasteless gray sauce. He was forcibly reminded of Dwarven cram.

He sampled a forkful with ginger delicacy. Thankfully, it was quite a lot better than cram, bland as it was. He headed into the dining room, sat at the head of a table meant for a dozen. Alyaran padded softly behind him, proceeded to beg mercilessly as Glorfindel began to eat.

He had left the television on, and now the brightly-colored anchorwoman spoke cheerily to an empty room. Alyaran would not be distracted, however, and continued to watch with dark, pleading eyes the plate of disappearing pasta.

Finally, he won.

Glorfindel turned his attention to the dog and sighed. Without a word, he pushed away from the table and stalked to the kitchen. The pathetic look on Alyaran's face disappeared immediately.

Alyaran devoured his dinner a moment later. Glorfindel watched in amused silence. Out of the corner of his eye, the blinking light of his answering machine reflected off the mirror-like silver of his toaster. A message? Who knew his private number? He was very careful with such things, how...

His heart gave an uncharacteristic lurch and he stepped sideways, jabbing the "Listen to Message" button with more vigor than was necessary.

Whatever he had thought he would hear, it wasn't this.

"Greetings, Glor," one familiar voice said cheerfully.

"It's us," said a strikingly similar one. Identical, almost, but his long years of knowing the speakers had taught him how to set them apart.

"We'd like to speak with you, since we're in town and everything."

"So give us a ring, won't you? You have our number. It's in your address book."

"Which is probably still in the cutlery drawer."

Glorfindel felt a grin creep onto his face. Not dashingly, but rather stupidly. The machine beeped, the message ended. He reached for the cutlery drawer, pulled out a dog-eared notebook, and flipped to the P section.

Some things would never change.

Thank you for reading!