DISCLAIMER: The characters featured in the story belong to Tolkien. Please don't sue us; we are only gathering fun from the angstyness of the elves.

FOREWARNING: This fic is about to take an extremely angsty turn. If you've got a copy of the Tale of Years, or are just very well versed in timelines, then here's a hint: this fic takes place in TA 2509. We'll try to incorporate humor as well as the dark stuff, but it couldn't be helped, really. The plot bunnies made us. Anyway, enjoy . . . .

WARNING: This fic contains SLASH. Since there have been warnings at the beginning of every chapter, I don't exactly see how a certain flamer could have missed this, but we'll tolerate their blindness - for now. (We are especially confused since the flame (regarding the subject of slash in general) was for the fifth chapter. That seems to indicate that they must have read the other four chapters. Interesting, is it not?) Eithelien says: "Story! Story! It's more-er funner and grammatically correct-er than the warnings and disclaimers, anyway!"

Chapter Six: The Slightly Terrifying Duties Of A Messenger

While Erestor was busy pulling on his robes, taking his time (to irritate Glorfindel), Glorfindel tried to push the fact that he had just asked the advisor potentially incriminating question into the very back of his head. Unbeknownst to them, a messenger scout had arrived at the Last Homely House.

Said messenger scout had been, in fact, lurking just outside Erestor's chambers (though he did not yet know it). He was busy fretting about the state of his trousers (very muddy), the state of his message (very crumpled), and the state of his whereabouts (very lost). That is, until he heard a very distinct and barely-remembered voice through the door to his right:

"When did you have time to develop muscles like that?" Melpomaen forgot about his trousers at once. He was rather drawn to gossip, like porcupines to squishy things, and oh! If he could just place that voice . . . golden hair, golden hair, yes, that's what he remembered about it. There was a very long pause from inside the room.

"Go on, Seneschal." Melpomaen gulped. Now, that voice, he remembered. Oh, no. Oh, no. . . . Lords Erestor and Glorfindel. When Melpomaen had last heard Lord Erestor, he had been barely more than an Elfling, and had been quite preoccupied with the task of running away from the Last Homely House as fast as possible.

He smiled. How lovely! It seemed these two (terrifying) elves were having a . . . confrontation, of sorts! Melpomaen stood stock still in front of the doorway, his sharp ears picking up all sorts of interesting details. Lord Glorfindel appeared to be in a bit of a bind.

Melpomaen was contemplating all sorts of possible meanings to the conversation he had just heard, when the door slammed open all of a sudden, and a red-and-black whirlwind a hundred feet high thundered menacingly out. Melpomaen shrieked. Lord Erestor was just as frightening as he had been when the younger Elf was a child.

"Lord, Glorfindel - are you coming, or are you not?" he snapped. Melpomaen tried to hide behind a tapestry. The other Elf looked at him curiously. "I beg your pardon, master. . . ."

"Melpomaen!" squeaked the messenger, and tried not to tremble.

Erestor blinked, "Melpomaen . . . now why does that name sound familiar . . ."

"Ab- absolutely no reason at all!"

Erestor had to hide a grin. Apparently this Melpomaen was one of the multitudes of Elves who were terrified of him - probably he had chastised him rather over-severely some time in his youth.

"Advisor, I'm sure this is not the best time to terrorize young visiting elves," Glorfindel remarked as he stepped out of the door.

Melpomaen blanched, and Erestor glared at the seneschal. "Ignore the buffoon, young Melpomaen; he does not know any better."

Glorfindel blinked. He could not remember the last time someone had had the courage to call him a buffoon. He could think of only two who were currently alive and would dare such a thing, Elrond and Erestor . . . Oh, right. Without realizing it, he smiled dotingly at Erestor, who gave him an extremely odd look.

"Ah, Master Erestor, do you think you could perhaps guide me in the general direction of Lord Elrond?" Melpomaen blushed furiously. "I have a message, from the Lady Celebrían and company."

"Then it is a doubly wonderful chance to meet you here, friend Melpomaen!" Glorfindel exclaimed happily. "My Dwarvish expert here and I were about to assist my lord with translations. If you would be so good as to accompany us, we shall guide you to his presence."

"Why 'doubly'?" Erestor asked tiredly. He had a feeling he was not going to like the answer.

"His blush is exactly the same color as yours, my dear," the grinning Seneschal answered promptly, then reddened. "That is, my dear advisor."

Melpomaen made a distinct noise that sounded like a muffled giggle. Erestor swung around to look at him. Melpomaen stopped immediately. Erestor looked back at Glorfindel and said softly, "As is yours, my dear seneschal."

Glorfindel blushed.

Red Elves, red Elves, Melpomaen thought. He had no idea where he was going, what he was doing, except he was with an absolutely terrifying red-and-black Elven tornado - Red Elves, red Elves. He giggled hysterically.

Both Glorfindel and Erestor stared at him.

"What did you do to the poor elfling?" Glorfindel asked, with a hint of awe in his voice.

Erestor looked affronted. "I did nothing to him. I can only suppose that he has heard of my overly done reputation as a- wait," he turned to Melpomaen, recognition dawning in his eyes. "Were you the one who spilled ink all over Elrond's reports in my office around thirty years ago?" He frowned, trying to remember.

Melpomaen gulped, and tried to stop his giggling.

"Perhaps I was a little overzealous, then. Do forgive me, Melpomaen. Here we are." Erestor yanked the door to Elrond's study open abruptly without knocking and swept in. Glorfindel followed, rolling his eyes. Behind them trailed one gaping Elven scout-and-sometimes-messenger.

Elrond lounged in his chair, feet upon his desk with a glass of wine in his hand, paperwork forgotten on the floor. Erestor wrinkled his nose and gave him a pointed look. Elrond wiggled his toes like an insubordinate Elfling, but did remove his feet. Glorfindel smiled. This was a silly side of Elrond that was rarely seen anymore. Glorfindel, who certainly knew the lord better than anybody else in Imladris, had not seen him acting . . . well, frivolous since Celebrían had left to visit Círdan months ago.

"Khuzdûl?" barked Erestor, who was actually enjoying playing the bullying advisor. Elrond raised an eyebrow and pointed a ring-covered finger at the pile on the floor. Erestor sighed as he swooped down to grab the papers and stood up straight again. He moved his lips silently then tossed the papers carelessly aside. They flew toward Melpomaen, who, amazingly, caught them with lightning reflexes.

"You should have told me it was this, Elrond. I could have recited it to Glorfindel and still be enjoying a hot bath right now."

"You know what they say, then?"

"'Elrond's candelabras weren't important enough to waste time destroying anyway.'"

"Erestor!"

"Yes?"

"Are they important?"

"Not unless you wish Imladris to turn into a Dwarven gold mine."

"Now that you mention it. . . ."

"Good." Erestor snatched the parchment back from Melpomaen and tossed them in the fire. He turned then to Glorfindel, raising an eyebrow. "Yes, Seneschal?" he questioned.

Glorfindel, who had opened his mouth to make a suitable reply to the statement regarding baths, wisely closed his mouth and shook his head, "Nothing, most revered advisor," he said.

"Good," Erestor replied. He looked at Elrond. "Now if I may take my leave?"

"In a moment," Elrond told him. "Let us hear, first, what your worthy prey – I mean, young friend – has to say to us." Melpomaen colored. Erestor grinned, showing teeth.

Elrond looked over at Melpomaen. "Well?"

"My Lord Elrond, I. . . ." he stammered, and then cleared his throat, trying to collect the last shreds of his scattering dignity. Having gathered himself, he assumed a pose proper for an official messenger, muddy trousers or no muddy trousers. Elrond looked at him, amused.

"The Lady Celebrían sends her greetings, lords, and bids you to know that she and her party are coming to Imladris, tomorrow or the nextdayand-"

"The Lady Celebrían is coming home? Now?" Elrond exclaimed, he jumped up and quickly became entangled between desk, paper, drawers, and chair. He was saved from falling flat on his back only by Glorfindel's quick reflexes, and simply continued to talk excitedly, with Glorfindel supporting him at the armpits. "Quick, Erestor! We must make ready a feast! Alert the cooks, the sentries, the –" He cut himself off in mid-sentence and mid-wild-gesture, noticing all three of his companions were staring bemusedly at their lord. "Yes?"

"Ah – you may not have noticed, but they are extremely unlikely that they will be here within the next twenty-four hours." Glorfindel let Elrond slump lopsidedly as he patted the dark head.

"Let me go," growled Elrond.

"As you wish," Glorfindel replied blandly, and let Elrond drop to the floor.

Further Authors' Notes:

Eithelien's A/N: Oh my, we are so sorry to have posted this chapter so late! Please withhold all pitchforks until we at least finish the story. Also, thank you for all the wonderful reviews!

Narthoron's A/N: Sorry! We didn't mean to post this so late! Honestly, we will try to do better from now on. We seem to have a lovely amount of three-day weekends coming up this month, so hopefully we can get some work done. Also, I know this chapter didn't have much . . . how shall I put this? Action? But do not worry, it is coming! We promise!

Thank you for all your wonderful reviews and comments! We are glad you seem to be enjoying our story so far. Let us hope it stays that way.