Chapter Three - Luncheon in the Gazebo

The lawns and gardens of Rivendell glimmered like a wealth of strewn jewels in the noon sun; lush and opulent flowers weltered in the sparkling heat-haze, rivalled in depth and richness of hue only by the towering, azure heavens above. It seemed odd to Steve that amid a scene of such staggering beauty, there should crouch the single most horrific edifice it had ever been his misfortune to encounter. Lord Elrond's infamous gazebo squatted like a dark, debauched mushroom at the water's edge; a distinct and wholly unwelcome blot on the fabulous landscape.
"Ah, yes. I confess that on occasion, my own skill dumfounds even me." The Elven Lord commented queitly, evidently mistaking Steve's horrified silence for a kind of reverent awe. With that, he began to stride off in the direction of his unsavoury creation, beckoning for Steve to follow.
"I am most honoured that you consented join my kin and I for luncheon," Elrond remarked curteously to Steve as the two of them approached the alarming structure. It was even more hideous at close quarters; all jagged corners, and splintering chunks poking out at strange angles. The whole thing seemed held together by luck alone, and given that it slanted at least forty degrees to the left, looked in danger of collapsing in upon itself at any moment.
"The honour is mine." Steve murmured faintly, to Elrond's obvious approval. The Elf Lord bowed deeply as they reached the entrance.
"After you."

As he entered, his feet causing the floor to creak ominously, Steve noted the large table set in the midst of the dwelling, where two figures already sat in silence. One was undoubtedly Elladan, whom Steve had spent much of the previous evening attempting to avoid. However, not to be dissuaded, the young Elf Lord had seen fit to lurk beneath Steve's window sometime around midnight, howling a selection of Elvish ballads (although whether or not 'bay leean mine flubbadidubb' was indeed an ancient Sindarin love song, Steve was doubtful) in an attempt to serenade him. This had continued far into the night, until an irate inhabitant of one of the upper floors had mercifully curtailed the alarming performance by aiming a brass chamber pot at the young Elf-Lord's skull. Judging from Elladan's heavily bandaged head, and uncharacteristically surly expression, the missile had not missed its mark.
Steve lowered himself awkwardly into a chair as far from Elladan as was possible, and found himself opposite an Elven maid of quite startling beauty. Her face was winter-pale and flawless, her hair a tumbling mass of raven in which tiny silver jewels twinkled like dashes of moonlit frost. Steve smiled awkwardly in greeting, but the girl merely regarded him silently with her large, wondrous grey eyes.
"Ah, you haven't met my daughter," Elrond remarked to Steve, inclining his head towards the beautiful maiden, "Lady Summer-Jayne Sawyer, may I introduce Lady Arwen Undomiel of Imladris."
"Be careful, Lady," Elladan warned Steve, ignoring his father's quelling glare. "She bites."
"It is an honour, my Lady." Steve said graciously, rising from his seat and curtseying before Arwen, hoping desperately that this was the correct thing to do.
"I say, you're odd-looking aren't you. Are you foreign?" The girl demanded suddenly, her eyes glinting.
"Now then, sugar-plops," Lord Elrond interjected genially, smiling indulgently at his daughter, "we've talked about this, remember? No racial intolerence during lunch."
Arwen said nothing, but narrowed her beautiful eyes at Steve, bared her teeth and began to growl in a truly alarming fashion. Steve was truly thankful for the momentary distraction provided by Elrohir, who skulked suddenly into view, glancing shiftily at his dining companions before sloping into a seat, grumbling to himself.
"Let luncheon commence!" Lord Elrond declared jovially, and a slender serving maid appeared as though on cue and served them each a healthy portion of tomato soup. They began to eat in silence. Steve could not help but stare momentarily at Elrohir, who, having evidently decided that the spoon provided was too precious an instrument for the task of shovelling food, had covertly tucked it into his sock, and was now proceeding to eat by dipping his fingers into the steaming soup - wincing and yelping as he did so - and licking them clean. His kin took no notice, indicating (rather disturbingly, Steve thought) that such behaviour was not unusual.
"Do you care for embroidery, Lady Summer-Jayne?" Elrond inquired after several minutes of silence, "My little Arwenny-boo is terribly fond of it. The only one of my children to inherit my artistic flair, I must say!" He either did not notice, or chose to ignore, the snorts and sniggers of his offspring at this point, and continued to gaze at his daughter in a misty-eyed fashion. "Ah yes, she can even sew with her feet you know! Such skill! She's always to be found in her chamber, embroidering away..."
"When she isn't drowning kittens...setting fire to my hair...depositing mysterious corpses in the well..." Elladan mumbled.
"Silence, you great mook!" Elrond snapped, aiming a bread roll at his son's already injured head, "Your sister merely has an artistic temperament!"
"Daddy, she's a homicidal maniac, and the sooner you realise it the bet-"
Elladan didn't get a chance to finish his sentence, as Arwen had suddenly sprung from her seat, hissing and screeching like a cat, with the apparent aim of impaling her brother with a fork.
"She's a spirited little thing," Elrond chuckled, watching his wrestling offspring. Yet the tussle was immediately disturbed by the arrival of a tall, grey figure at the gazebo's entrance. A thunderous old man with a prominent nose, and great bushy eyebrows that stuck out beneath the rim of his pointed grey hat stood regarding the company in silence.
"One minute..." Elrond sighed wearily to the old man. He heaved himself to his feet and attempted to extricate his flailing daugher from his - now whimpering - son. Having only just prevented her from skewering Elladan's eye with her fork, he ushered, or, more accurately, dragged, Arwen back into her seat and patted her lovingly on the head. Elladan's bloodshot eyes brightened at the sight of the new arrival.
"Gandie!" He chirped.
"Hmph," the old man mumbled at the young Elf Lord, then turned to Elrond, "Lord, there are certain matters I would discuss with you. I am most troubled."
"Yes, those squirrels are becoming a bit of a pest aren't they..." Elrond began distractedly, but the old man interrupted.
"No, Lord Elrond!" He insisted sharply, "I refer to the matter we discussed last night; there is great evil abroad in these lands, and we are scarcely prepared to combat it! Another of our scouts returned at the break of dawn, reporting that there has been no sighting of the Dunadan and his party. Are there no others who can be dispatched for the search? There are too few as it is, too few..."
"I can spare no others. There are few indeed suited to the task, as you well know, Gandalf. It requires exceptional strength of body, mind and spirit to ride out openly against the Nine." Elrond replied, his face pale and serious.
"Then why, Elrond - in the name of all things sacred - have you sent Glorfindel!" Gandalf demanded, his bushy eyebrows and beard bristling.
"Oh, I...well, he is a fine warrior and often underestimated..." Elrond retorted irritably.
At this point Gandalf mumbled something that might have been 'a fine ponce', but Steve couldn't be sure. With that, the old man nodded to Elrond in farewell, and seemed about to depart, until he stopped short, apparently staring at something on the table.
"Is that...?" He whispered, his eyes intent, "Oh, I say."
"Elladan. You know what to do." Elrond mumbled wearily, rolling his eyes.
Elladan, quite his perky self once more, bounded at once to his feet and placed himself firmly in front of Steve, his arms outstretched, apparently shielding him against something. Ducking in order to see past the zealous Elf, Steve was greeted by a most unlikely spectacle - Gandalf the Grey, plunging his entire face into Elrond's bowl of tomato soup, slurping and sucking nastily, and deluging his beard and robes (not to mention a distinctly moody Lord Elrond) in the process. Having drained the bowl with alarming speed, he proceeded to seize Elrohir's portion and, with all pretence at etiquette having been abandoned, simply raised and tilted the bowl and sluiced the crimson contents into his open mouth.
"Sweet nectar!" He hissed alarmingly between gulps, spraying the company with droplets of soup.
"Would you care for a bread roll?" Elrond offered pointedly.
"Oh." The old man muttered, coming back to himself with a start and suddenly resuming his dignified stance, his crimson-dyed beard dripping onto the gazebo floor. "Why...no thankyou, Lord Elrond. I...I do beg your pardon...about the soup. It's my favourite, you know."
And with that, Gandalf nodded curtly to each of them in turn (causing a particularly large globule of soup to drip from the end of his hooked nose onto Elrond's head), coughed awkwardly, and made his way back up towards the Halls of Imladris. Steve stared after him in dismay.
"I call it rude, apart from anything..." Elladan sniffed, returning to his seat.
"Wizards." Elrond groaned long-sufferingly, dabbing at his face with a napkin. "Anyway; second course, anyone?"