Traditional Recipes for Disaster

by Ithiliel Silverquill and Erestor

Disclaimer: Neither of us own anything pertaining to Lord of the Rings.

Dedication: This chapter is dedicated to all the drafts of this story that the two of us lost between us. We managed without them, but it wasn't fun.


CHAPTER TEN

Erestor.

Glorfindel and I rush to the infirmary, close behind Lord Elrond and Lindir. The dining room is still in upheaval, and the Elves in the hallway seem startled by the sight of Lord Elrond practically dragging Lindir to the infirmary. Lindir's eyes are still glazed, there is a wide grin on his face, and he is babbling like a lunatic under his breath.

I cannot say that I blame the Elves for being startled. I would probably have been startled, too.

Finally we reach the infirmary. Lindir seems to recognize the room, and when we reach it, his eyes get wide and he begins to swing at Lord Elrond. Fortunately for Lord Elrond, Lindir is a harpist, not a warrior, and therefore he has no aim whatsoever.

"Lindir, calm down," says Lord Elrond. He looks unsettled, which is, I suppose, understandable.

"No!" squeaks Lindir.

Glorfindel and I stand off to the side, watching with no small amusement as a handful of Lord Elrond's apprentice healers come in to help get Lindir under control.

Glorfindel leans over to whisper in my ear. "Should we offer to help, do you think?"

"We are innocent bystanders," I reply. "We know nothing. We are merely curious." I watch the struggle for a moment and then shrug. "After all, they seem to have the situation under control."

"More or less," agrees Glorfindel, chuckling.

The healers finally manage to get Lindir onto the cot. By now, Lindir's struggles have lessened. Perhaps he is exhausted after all that dancing on the tablecloth.

I feel heat slowly rising on my face. The Lay of the Lunatics, indeed! I am no lunatic, and I am certainly not what he said I was. Glorfindel may be a "half-witted, scatterbrained Vanya," but I am not an "awkward, persnickety Noldorin prig." Lindir's mouth is much bigger than his intellect.

After sending the healers away, Lord Elrond glances up and sees Glorfindel and me standing by the wall. He swallows. "Is there something you two need?"

Glorfindel smiles calmly. "Nothing at all, milord. We are just concerned for Lindir's health."

Lindir looks up from the cot. His eyes widen when he sees us. "Glorfindel! Erestor!" he shrieks, then looks at Lord Elrond. "It was them! They did it! They know about it! It was them, all them! I had nothing to do with it!"

Glorfindel and I look up at Lord Elrond, our faces innocent.

"I don't know what he's talking about, milord," says Glorfindel.

Lord Elrond nods, looking unconvinced, and turns to his herb closet. He opens the door and rummages around, then pauses, a look of confusion on his face. "I was sure that I had more of that," he murmurs to himself.

Then his face goes ashen.

He turns back around, looking at me and Glorfindel. I can see the consternation on his face deepen as all the pieces of the puzzle fall into place in his mind. "Glorfindel… Erestor…"

I lift an eyebrow, a calm smile on my face. "Yes, milord?"

Lord Elrond turns back to his herbs. "Nothing." I see him take a few herbs and, his hands shaking, he goes to mix them together. It looks like the ingredients for a sleeping draft.

Lindir has begun to babble again, but Glorfindel shoots him a glare and he falls abruptly silent.

Lord Elrond mixes the ingredients together, stirring them into a cup of greenish liquid. "About that book, Erestor, Glorfindel," he begins. "I realized just recently that I no longer need it."

Suddenly I have a flash of inspiration. I pick up a nearby book, one that just so happens to be a book of herb-lore, and hold it up so that the title is hidden. "Do you mean this book, milord?" I say.

Lord Elrond's face moves from confusion, to disbelief, then back to confusion. "But it doesn't… I mean, how did you… but I thought that it didn't…"

Glorfindel raises one golden eyebrow. "Yes?"

Lord Elrond shakes his head, then absentmindedly glances back down at what he is doing. He takes another measure of the ingredients and then stirs it in.

I pause. What is he doing? He already mixed in the ingredients. Is he making it doubly potent on purpose?

Just then, Lindir begins to panic. He apparently saw what Lord Elrond did, and thinks that he is going to be drugged into the next Age.

Lord Elrond finishes mixing the draft and then places it on a nearby table, next to a half-empty cup of tea, to go and calm Lindir's flailing. But now Lindir, completely mad, reaches the end of his strength. At the sight of Lord Elrond marching grimly for him, he falls backward into the pillow in a dead faint.

Next to me, Glorfindel starts to laugh, but I elbow him in the ribs.

Lord Elrond stops walking, looks at the comatose Lindir, and shrugs. He spares a glance up at Glorfindel and me – he looks nervous, almost as much as I must have at the banquet – and walks back to the table, presumably to finish off his tea. It is probably tepid by now, but Lord Elrond does not look like he cares.

I feel Glorfindel tense next to me. Both of us watch, stunned, as Elrond reaches for his newly mixed, doubly-potent sleeping draught, his hand closing around it instead of his cup of tea.

I start to reach forward to stop Lord Elrond, but Glorfindel shoves me back against the wall.

Lord Elrond puts the cup to his lips and drains it in one quick motion. He immediately gives an expression of disgust – I feel quite sure that his sleeping drafts do not taste like tea – and then frowns. His eyes glaze over and he slumps back against his herb closet, sliding down it until he is sitting on the floor. He is fast asleep.

Glorfindel and I look at one another, still stunned, but then Glorfindel grins.

"What do you think of that?" he says. "You didn't even have to plan it. He drugged himself."

With that, Glorfindel gives the contents of his goblet a little swirl, then brings it to his lips.

I am overcome by an intense feeling of irony. I could not have planned this better myself.

Glorfindel.

My wine tastes different than it did before. It is sweeter. At first I consider this to be merely strange, and then I realize, completely belatedly, that I have just swigged down whatever Erestor decided to add to my drink. No wonder he was beaming at me! I'm probably going to drop dead, or turn blue, or, worst of all, end up like Lindir...

Erestor hates me so much, maybe all of those things will happen to me, except in reverse order.

At first nothing really dire happens. My vision has gone a bit funny, and I blink pathetically a few times. I am rather thankful for this development, actually, because at least I won't have to watch Erestor gloat over me... His opinion of my intelligence at this point doesn't bear thinking about.

Then I try to take a deep breath, and I sneeze instead.

Oh no... not even Erestor would be this cruel...

I sneeze twice, breathe, sneeze three times very rapidly, breathe again, sneeze again, and then open my eyes. My vision has cleared slightly, and I can see Erestor looking absolutely delighted, like he can't believe his good luck. I briefly consider throttling him, and then I start sneezing again.

Four sneezes later, I become aware of footsteps in the hall, and of voices speaking gruffly. Can't be Elves. (Sneeze.) Must be the mortals. (Sneeze.) They must (sneeze) be wondering if Lindir is all right (sneeze) and they're (sneeze) coming to check. Jolly decent (sneeze) of them, I must (sneeze) say. (Sneeze.)

A mortal enters the infirmary, and his eyes widen. He looks at Lindir, who sprawled in his bed, unconscious, a look of panic still on his face, and at Lord Elrond, who is lying prone on the floor, cup in his hand. The mortal appears shocked by the sight. I think he thinks Lord Elrond is dead.

Erestor sees the mortal, and frowns a little. Then he smiles at me. By now, I have stumbled dramatically against the wall, and am holding onto a column with one hand. My other hand is clapped firmly over my mouth, in a desperate attempt to keep the sneezes in. "Since you are temporarily incapacitated," he comments, "I will deal with these mortals myself."

I would glare at him, but I am too relieved by the word 'temporarily' to be really hostile. I'm not going to be sneezing for the rest of my life! I'll recover eventually! I am so glad that Elrond doesn't know what's going on, or else he would have drugged me too. I sneeze again.

Erestor strolls forward to the mortals, and gives them all a polite, dignified nod. My ears prick forward expectantly. I wonder how on Middle-Earth he's going to explain all this. If he can soothe them, he'll deserve a medal, even if he does poison poor innocent Vanyar.

Then a strange thing happens. Erestor starts talking. The problem is, he's not using the mortals' language! He thinks that they speak Westron, which is an understandable mistake, but they don't! Their language is similar to Westron, but it's not the same thing!

I sneeze with excitement.

To the mortals, the resulting speech must sound like gibberish, the ravings of an Elf gone slightly crazy. The fact that Erestor looks so serious and diplomatic must make them even more uneasy. They take a few steps away from him. Erestor becomes disconcerted by their response. I sneeze a few times from my corner.

Erestor tries to tell them that Lord Elrond is not dead, but to them the words must sound very much like, "My aunt has many cows."

The mortals nod, trying to placate him. They are obviously wondering if he'll turn savage.

I snigger, and sneeze three times as a result. Poor Erestor. If I weren't temporarily incapacitated, I would go and help him.

"Hungry ice apples ever merry," Erestor says solemnly. He's getting worried, though, I can tell. He's not dense. He realizes that he is in trouble. The horrified expressions on the mortals' faces is probably a very good clue.

I sneeze one more time, hold my breath for a few moments, just to make sure the sneezes are all gone, and then straighten my robes. I feel sorry for Erestor. He's standing there, looking slightly helpless and confused, though I can only tell that because he is frowning. Such a look does not suit him. I prefer him when he looks furious, scheming, or even triumphant.

"Perhaps (sneeze) I should handle this after (sneeze) all, Lord Erestor," I say.

He refuses to meet my eyes when I come over, but at least he steps aside. I bow to the bewildered mortals and explain that the situation is under control. I explain that Lindir is not mad, and that Lord Elrond is not dead, and that Lord Erestor is not a halfwit. I only sneeze twice during the whole explanation.

The mortals look at me thankfully, and I smile at them. "I am very sorry that you had such a traumatic time," I say, "but thank you for (sneeze) your concern for our lord."

They glance at Lord Elrond, and then shuffle around guiltily. Now they are embarrassed for panicking. I reassure them, and then invite them to return for desert. Once I mention that almond pudding will be served, they seem pleased, and as I lead them back to the dining hall, they begin talking and laughing quietly amongst themselves. I think that after the initial shock, they were quite amused by the proceedings, and then they felt bad for finding it so funny while everyone else was goggling at Lindir in shock and consternation.

Well, now they know that it was really all just some bizarre Elvish form of entertainment.

I come back to the infirmary a few minutes later, but as I suspected, Erestor is gone. I drag Lord Elrond to a bed and manage to bundle him in. I check on Lindir, and he's still out cold. Then I slip out of the infirmary, lock the door, and pocket the key.

I set off to find Erestor.

TBC