Traditional Recipes for Disaster

by Ithiliel Silverquill and Erestor

Disclaimer: Neither of us own Lord of the Rings or anything pertaining to it. This story was written for entertainment only. However, the character Soroninquë, and this version of Erestor's angsty past, both belong to Ithiliel Silverquilland were borrowed with permission.


CHAPTER FIVE

Glorfindel.

Erestor's rooms are... austere. I suppose it should not surprise me, for Erestor himself tends to be austere. Well, this should make things a lot simpler. Everything in this room is organized half to death.

I look over Erestor's bookshelf first. It is nearly crammed to the bursting. I daren't touch anything, because the books are dusty and I'd leave telltale fingerprints, but I examine each title carefully. A few of the older volumes do not have the titles stamped on their bindings, so I am forced to gently slide them out and open them.

Elrond's book is not there. I am beginning to resent Finrod. Why did he have traditional recipes anyway? What traditional food could they possibly have eaten in Nargothrond? If I remember correctly, back then we were still trying to figure out which plants wouldn't make us sick upon ingestion.

I walk over to Erestor's desk, which the only other piece of furniture in the bedroom that has books on it. Traditional Recipes of Nargothrond is not sitting out in the open. However, since it has proved to be a very elusive old tome, I open the drawers and peer in.

Can't see any book. I open the other drawers. One seems promising, since the book could be hidden under some old papers, but when I lift them out and check underneath, this drawer too is devoid of books. There are a few quill pens and pots of ink neatly arranged in a corner, but no book.

Sigh. Deep breath. Think for a moment, Glorfindel. Does Erestor have this book?

Apparently not. I was wrong about him. Erestor does not misplace anything.

No, I will not simply accept defeat like this! I look around the room one more time. I look under Erestor's bed. I look for bulges under his threadbare rug. Eventually, as I am almost about to succumb to despair, I see some papers by Erestor's bed, so I go over and lift them up too.

No book.

I flop down on Erestor's pristine bed and consider the situation. I don't have much longer, because I don't know how long Lindir can keep Erestor occupied, but I suddenly feel very worn out. I'm sick of all this futile searching! I think I'd prefer writing long boring reports to this. Maybe.

I glance at the papers and Erestor's neat, careful handwriting catches my eye like a bramble. He has written My dearest brother Soroninquë along the top of the page.

I don't really mean to, but I read on, fascinated.

My dearest brother Soroninquë,

There you have it. Since you persist in calling me 'little Erestor', I have been forced to call you by your full name, simply to prove that I am not little and I can spell. I know that when last you saw me, before you went away, I did not quite come up to your shoulder, but I am certain that I have become somewhat taller since then. Yes, you may laugh, but I really have grown this time. I have marks on the wall to prove it.

A blot of ink covers whatever had been written next,which convinces me that Erestor must have been younger when he wrote this letter, for the Erestor I know never gets ink blots on anything. I suppose this letter must be a rough draft. Even years ago, Erestor must have been careful to have his work look absolutely perfect.

I turn to the next letter. The handwriting is different, and there is a date at the top of the page. The year is 1696 S.A., about the time when Sauron's forces were invading Eregion. Interesting.

My dearest brother Erestor,

I give up! Looking at my full name gives me a headache. I beg you, please resume calling me Nin. It is much easier both to write and to read. As you can see, I have mentioned nothing of your height, (though it is my opinion that you have grown in cunning). Does the name Luinaiwë now offend you, or may I call you that still?

I was much amused by your recounting of your morning. I am sure that you will be able to locate your best pot of ink eventually, and the sooner the better! In fact, I hope that as I write this, you have already found it. I appreciate your letters greatly, as they make me laugh a good deal, and, on the war front, very few things are funny.

Erestor? Funny? I smile. Perhaps he is. There are most likely sides of his personality that he would not show me. I turn to the next letter. Another rough draft.

Greetings, O exalted elder brother (Nin)!

After writing out Soroninquë, Nin seemed far too short a way to begin a letter. I think I have remedied that, however. Luinaiwë? I know better than to protest that name! I long ago accepted that Luinaiwë is a name I shall never escape. But do not think me negative; I am not complaining. I enjoy being your little bluebird, all chirpy and obnoxious and pestering. Being your younger brother certainly has its merits, tormenting you being not the least of them.

Suddenly I remember the time, and my lack of it. I do not have time to sit here reading Erestor's private letters! I should not have been reading his letters in the first place!

I panic a little, and snatch up the bundle of papers. A slip of parchment tumbles out. I pick it up, am poised to shove it back into the stack, and then read it too, with a feeling of shock.

Erestor Caranárion:

As your brother's captain, it is my grave duty to inform you that Soroninquë was killed in battle last evening. He died nobly, defending Eregion from the Enemy's forces. I write this with great sadness, for I know that you and Soroninquë were very close, particularly after the death of your father.

There is more, but I do not read it. Because suddenly, my wish is granted and I understand Erestor better. I understand why he is so serious, so austere. I understand why he never seems happy. I understand why he hates me. In his eyes, my life is perfect and everyone loves me and I can get away with anything.

I can empathize with Erestor, because I know what it feels like to lose friends and family to the Enemy. To lose everything.

I should not have read Erestor's letters. I should not have even come into his room. But I feel... glad to have done so. Perhaps I can help Erestor in some way, either by avoiding him or by really trying to be kinder to him.

I put down his letters, feeling dazed and guilty; hurry out of his room, shutting the door behind me; and then proceed to my own chambers. I have a lot to think about.

An Elfling is sitting by my door, sucking his thumb and holding his rather shabby stuffed toy. He smiles up at me. "Glor'y?"

"Yes, Elrohir?" I know the child is Elrohir because Elladan would never suck his thumb. Elladan thinks he's too grown-up to do something like that.

"Can I have a big fevver too?" asks Elrohir with no further preamble.

I look at him, confused for what must be the tenth time today. "Big fevver?"

"A fevver. From a bird. Can I have one?"

"No, I'm sorry. I don't have any feathers, Elrohir." Almost said 'fevver'. Maybe Elrohir talks this way so that he can listen to his elders trying not to lisp back at him.

Elrohir pouts. "Wessi got one."

"Well, whoever Wessi is, he obviously took my last one. Where's Elladan?"

"He broke his leg."

"Oh."

I enter my room. I should probably clean it soon; by now I can hardly see the floor. Everything seems to be in its usual place. Except...

My stack of drawings looks neater. It might be my paranoia acting up, or perhaps someone entered this room and rooted through my things. Someone with a natural inclination to organize things. Someone who couldn't help but straighten my pile of papers as he put it down again.

Wessi. I do not doubt that it is the word 'Ressi' as said by a child with a (supposedly) cute lisp. Ressi is a potential nickname from someone named Erestor. Incidently, the one Erestor I know happens to love to organize things.

I scramble over to the stack of drawings and lift it up, dreading what I'll find.

I find nothing, which was exactly what I was dreading.

Wessi! The wicked wobber! He's filched my quill pen, the one that survived the long journey from Valinor to Middle-Earth. The quill pen that even managed to survive me and that eventually found its way back to me when I returned... It is a quill pen that I have never used, for fear of accidently damaging it.

I suspect that at this moment, unless Lindir is being very distracting, Erestor is happily sitting somewhere writing things with my pen! No scribe could resist it. I know that it is the most beautiful quill pen an Elf like Erestor has seen in his life.

He stole my pen! I cannot believe it! I knew that he dislikes me, but I had not realized that he was so spiteful as to take my one memory of home!

I know just where to find him!

Erestor.

Lindir leads me out of the library—this is the second time that I have been glad to leave that wonderful place and I fervently hope it is the last—and into the hallway.

"I can't understand it," he says. "I'm sure that I saw the book somewhere in the library just last week. Maybe if we looked in the…" He stops mid-sentence and gazes at something behind me in the hallway. "Oh dear." His face has gone very pale.

Curious, I turn to see what he is looking at, and immediately I wish I had not.

Glofindel is striding—no, thundering—down the hallway toward me, a wrathful and offended look on his face. The last time he gave me that expression was when I seated him between the Lady Galadriel and a giggly Elf-maiden at a formal dinner on purpose. I doubt that he has ever forgiven me for that little incident… thought it was rather entertaining to watch him suffer through four courses of Lady Galadriel's glares and the Elf-maiden's bashful giggling. However, that was over a hundred years ago, and I cannot imagine what I have done to cause his anger this time.

He comes to a sudden stop only inches away from my face. Valar, I have never seen him this angry! In spite of my personal determination to never show fear, I find myself fumbling with the collar of my robe. "Lord Glorfindel?" I ask. Unfortunately, the words come out like something resembling a squeak. "Is there something—"

His eyes flash. "Would you care to explain why you have decided to stoop to thievery, Lord Erestor?"

I blink at him, honestly mystified. "Thievery? I do not know what you are talking about."

"Oh, you know very well," he snaps. "No doubt you thought that it was just too beautiful to resist. No scribe could, I'm sure."

"What…?" Then I suddenly remember. "Oh, the quill pen."

"Yes, the quill pen!"

I take it out of my pocket and hand it to him. "I did not know that you were so strongly attached to it." I cannot resist a longing look in the pen's direction—it is a lovely instrument, and I cannot understand why Glorfindel never uses it.

He blinks, as if he expected me to at least argue with him or refuse to give the quill back to him. He looks it over, as if making sure that I did not damage it—I did not—and places it in his pocket. "Why did you steal it?"

"I did not steal it, I merely borrowed it," I answer, knowing how weak that argument is. But it is the truth. "You do not use it, it was buried under a stack of old drawings, and I only needed it for one simple thing. I had planned to give it back to you before you even noticed that it was missing."

He narrows his eyes. "What were you doing in my room, anyway?"

"Looking for Lord Elrond's book, of course! I cannot understand how you know where anything is in that room. I thought that perhaps you had borrowed Lord Elrond's book from the library, and then misplaced it among your belongings."

Suddenly there is a strange noise behind me. It sounds like… giggling. Glorfindel and I stop glaring at one another just long enough to stare in the noise's direction… it is Lindir. He is laughing so hard that I can see tears at the corners of his eyes.

"What, may I ask, is so funny?" asks Glorfindel, gazing at Lindir with an expression that would freeze an angry Balrog.

Lindir tries to catch his breath. "You—Erestor—rooms—"

I lift an eyebrow. Has Lindir finally lost his mind? I have been wondering about him ever since he wrote "Tra-La-La-Lally," but I see that the inevitable has finally occurred. But I will need more proof than simply hilarity if I am to convince Lord Elrond of that fact. "Please speak clearly, Lindir," I say.

It takes a few minutes, during which Glorfindel and I glance at one another with identical looks of consternation, but finally Lindir manages to get himself under control. Oh, well, I will have to try some other time.

"Glorfindel—you and Erestor were doing the exact same thing!" Lindir gasps between breaths.

"I beg your pardon?" I ask, confused. I glance over at Glorfindel, who all of the sudden seems very interested in the pattern on the floor. "What do you mean?"

Lindir grins at me and Glorfindel, his eyes sparkling with mischief and glee. "You were doing exactly the same thing! While you were searching his room, he was searching yours!" With that, he again doubles over in helpless laughter.

Glorfindel… in my room…?

I whirl around to face Glorfindel, who looks up at me with a very guilty expression. "You hypocrite!" I fume. "Berating me for going in your room while all the while you had done the same to me!"

He straightens. "I wasn't berating you for going in there, I was berating you because you stole my pen!"

"I told you; I did not steal it, I borrowed it! There is a difference, you know! And what were you doing in my bedroom anyway?"

"Looking for Elrond's book, of course! For all I knew, you might have had it all along, and were just leading me on a wild goose chase to watch me make a fool of myself while you spent your time reading!"

He says the word 'reading' as he would say 'playing with ducklings in a pond'! "Well, at least I read!" I say. "We have been through this argument already!"

Glorfindel opens his mouth to respond, but our discussion is once again interrupted by Lindir's giggling. Glorfindel huffs at the annoying minstrel. "You're no help at all."

"Well, I distracted him, didn't I?" protests Lindir, an innocent look on his face.

"So you sent him to distract me!" I say, looking at Glorfindel again. "You wanted to have me neatly out of the way so that you could go in my room and see for yourself if I was lying again!" I shake my head, trying my very hardest to calm down when inwardly I am quivering with rage. "I do not know how you live with yourself." He starts to say something, but I hold up a silencing hand. "Not a word, Lord Glorfindel."

My mind is made up in an instant. I turn and walk down the hall toward Elrond's office. I did not volunteer for anything, and there is simply too much work for me to waste my time fighting with Glorfindel. I will simply ask Elrond to release me from the assignment.

I approach Lord Elrond's office door, slowing down as I realize that for the first time since I was appointed Chief Advisor, I am about to let my lord and employer down and admit that a problem is too big for me to handle. I have always believed that Elrond would never give me any assignment that I could not fulfill. But it cannot be helped… I simply cannot work with Glorfindel.

There are voices coming from inside the room.

"…clever plan, don't you?" That would be Elrond talking, and he sounds pleased with himself. "I talked to both Glorfindel and Erestor in the hallway, and both of them assured me that they were getting along wonderfully."

I hear soft laughter that I immediately recognize as that of Lady Celebrían. "Well, I suppose it did work. And I do agree that something needed to be done about Glorfindel and Erestor… their bickering was beginning to be a bad influence on the twins. But I still cannot understand why you decided to send them off in search of a nonexistent book. Surely there were other ways of getting them to cooperate with one another…?"

Their conversation continues, but I am too much in shock to listen. Nonexistent book… bickering…

I hear two sets footsteps behind me. A hand grabs my shoulder.

"Erestor, what do you think you're doing?" asks Glorfindel incredulously.

I point to the door. "Glorfindel… listen."

TBC