Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places thereof
Author's note: All right, I am trying not to have too many stories going at once for this pen name, but this one is only a few chapters, so I am making an exception. The others will be updated, I promise, but not immediately because I am bogged with homework at the moment.
Glorfindel was tired. He was not physically tired; he just felt that…he needed a break from it all. He loved Imladris, for it was a place of peace and serenity, which after his trips to and from Mandos he had much needed. But the Lord was becoming rather bored. In a time of growing darkness, there were no battles for the warrior, and he found himself drawn more and more to the stables.
Glorfindel worked with unbroken horses, for most of his hours. He was the best with them, and did not mind admitting it. Just that day he had worked with a horse on a tether. While the others had tried, none had managed to approach the stallion, which reared and bucked like mad. It had been Glorfindel who managed to reach the horse, cooing gently, "Hey, buddy, hey, little one." The stallion snorted apprehensively, but did not rear as Glorfindel approached. In a flash the Elven Lord had the rope in his hands around the horse's neck, and slipped the knot tight. The stallion reared up at once, but the rope held. Glorfindel got out of the way before he was in very much danger. The others whooped and cheered for him. "Shush, you are scaring him," Glorfindel chided, and they were quiet.
"You know, there is a reason we all call you Glory," his friend the Peredhil told him. Elrond was leaning against the wooden fence of the ring; he was no good with horses. Glorfindel nodded. He knew.
Some times Glorfindel needed to get away from every thing. The strange thing was that those were not times when he would sit with the Peredhil and talk about every thing, and the meaning of it all; of politics; of love; of all the things men spoke of when they sat together and were apart from the world. When Glorfindel needed a break, he always thought first of equine company. He would go to the stables and enter singing, letting the horses know he was there. He would take a bridle but no saddle--Glorfindel rathered not use a saddle--and walk to a stall gate then hold out his hand. Inevitably, although occasionally after a bit of a wait, the horse would come, either sniffing at him in examination and caution or nuzzling him. Effortlessly Glorfindel slipped the bridle over the horse's head then led him or her out of the stables, mounted and rode off.
And on that particular day, Glorfindel had had enough of the other Elves, though he enjoyed their company often. He had chosen the horse closest the stable doors, a bay mare he was exceptionally fond of, and ridden up the path leading out of Imladris. He did not mean to leave, only to have a nice, relaxing ride and calm down from the stress of the day.
The bay had not yet a name. It was Glorfindel who would be naming her, when he thought of an appropriate name, for as Glorfindel had broken her this respect was paid. She had not been difficult, unlike the stallion from earlier. After a few weeks' work, Glorfindel got a saddle on the mare. Many had joked at this, since he himself refused to use a saddle. It had been the intention of the Elven Lord that when he had finished with a horse any that wished might ride it. In his opinion, he did this well.
Lost in thought, Glorfindel did not notice the slight rustling sounds from the bushes, easily perceptible to sensitive Elven ears. When the bay reared, he grabbed for the reins to stay on. "Daro!" shouted Glorfindel. "Daro!" The mare paid him no mind. In a moment of fear, she was again wild. It took all of Glorfindel's strength to hold on, and even that seemed to not be enough. He was thrown forward, and with a great mercy the world went black.
When Glorfindel awoke again he was in the Hall of Healing, lying on a clean bed with sheets drawn up to his chest. Elrond sat beside him. "Glor--"
"Where is she?" Glorfindel asked.
"Where is who?"
"The bay--the mare I was riding, where is she, Peredhil?"
His expression changed, as though he wished not to say something. "Glorfindel…she…she must have spooked. They found you, but the horse…I am sorry, Glorfindel."
"Is she…?" he could not bring himself to say it.
"Oh, no! No, surely not! Wild, but not dead."
"All is as well, then," Glorfindel said. He moved to throw back the sheets that covered him and fling his legs over the side of the bed, to stand, but could not. With a cry of pain Glorfindel fell backwards. "By the Valar!" he gasped, searching for air. "What happened to me, Peredhil?"
"She…you were thrown, Glorfindel, and then she…she kicked you just as she was running, she ran you over," Elrond said. "See, your hand…"
Glorfindel held up his hands. Because he had been given herbs to numb him he had not noticed that his left hand was wrapped entirely in bandages. "Is any of it permanent?" Off Elrond's reserved look, he added, "Tell me truly, Peredhil."
"There may be scarring. Your hand will recover, as will your legs. You will be as good as new in next to no time, Glorfindel, no worries there." Elrond sighed. "Though I suspect there was some scarring some where else."
Later, when Glorfindel looked himself over as best he could, he touched each of his bruises. There were hoof-shaped marks covering his skin all over. Each gentle caress sent a shiver of pain through him. He knew he ought to be thankful that he was alive. That he should be thankful, also, that he was Elven, for no mortal would heal from such wounds. Nonetheless, Glorfindel knew what had changed inside of him was, as Elrond had predicted, far worse than what had changed outside.
"Peredhil," said one Elven Lord to the other, "I will never ride another horse again."
Daro = Stop (I think, sorry if I'm wrong there)