All About Elrond

by Erestor

Disclaimer: I own nothing pertaining to the Lord of the Rings. This story was written for entertainment, and not for money. Views held by the characters do not necessarily reflect those of the author.

Elrond was sick of reading Aragorn angst. It made him depressed. The Elf-Lord was of the opinion that angst should make one feel warm and fuzzy inside, to know that someone in the world was suffering more than onself. The problem was this: Aragorn wasn't suffering more than Elrond was, but everyone was reading about (and weeping over) Aragorn's petty problems instead of reading about (and weeping over) Elrond's more serious trials and tribulations. Elrond wanted to change this, because it was Wrong. It was Wrong that he should suffer needlessly. His suffering should have Meaning.

Which meant that someone should weep over a written account of his pain and mental anguish.

Elrond came to this important conclusion one morning while he was buttering his toast. He liked toast almost as much as he liked watching Legolas bleed to death on his new carpet. Watching Legolas bleed to death was somewhat satisfying (like toast), somewhat commonplace (like toast), and somewhat distressing (like toast when one is choking on it). Elrond did not like toast. However, his dislike of toast did not affect the vigorous and hearty way in which he buttered it. He would be half-asleep while buttering, and then he would wake up properly and remember that he hated toast. He would toss the toast out the window. (The birds of Imladris were becoming strangely fat and less aerodynamic.) Then he would come to an important conclusion.

"Aha!" announced Elrond, coming to his important conclusion. He waved his slice of toast in a gesture that was supposed to convey the idea that he wanted silence. Unfortunately, the Valar had obviously decided to bless Elrond by giving him some very stupid Elves to rule. They all thought that he wanted them to leave the room. So they did. (They were stupid, but obedient.) Elrond discovered that he was all by himself. He growled, and took a bite of his toast.

(Note by Erestor- Lord Elrond has just checked over the first few paragraphs of this account. He says I've been adding things, like the part about the fat birds. It's perfectly true, though. A bird fell out of the sky on Glorfindel's head just the other day. He got a concussion.)

Elrond remembered that he hated toast, gagged, and managed to choke the stuff down. Then he thought out his Plan.

The Plan was simple. Lord Elrond would write about the pain he went through. He would give the account to people to read. They would feel sorry for him. They would say, "Poor Elrond" and "How tragic that you've suffered so."

(Note by Erestor- I pointed out that they might just laugh, but Lord Elrond told me that I would have to make the tale heartrending. I fear this is beyond my ability.)

Elrond thought of his Very Worst Memory, found a writing tablet, and began recording his unhappy childhood.

My Life

by Elrond

I remember when I was very little. My head only came up to the top of the table. This made me sad. I wanted to get big, like my brother Elros, but mother said that I'd probably just shrink as I got older.

I learned later that this was my mother's twisted idea of a joke.

My father wasn't around much, because he had a yacht. This had a detrimental effect on me. As of yet, I'm not certain what it was.

Elrond read over his angst. It didn't seem sad enough. It wouldn't make people cry, not even the most weepy and over-emotional of teenage girls.

It was then that Elrond became worried. What if he (and his suffering) had no appeal to teenage girls? What if they wanted to read about Aragorn instead? Or even, (horror of horrors), what if they wanted to read something angsty about Legolas?

Elrond felt ill at the thought. He knew he had to do something drastic. So he called for me, Erestor.

"I want you to write about my life," he said. "I want you to make it very, very sad."

There was a lengthy silence. I was thinking about how long my lord's life has been. A record of his life would make a very long book. I confess I began to panic. I have never attempted to write a very long book. Or even a very sad book. I began to wonder if I was a failure. I wondered if my writing career would end prematurely if I was forced to admit that I could not write a long, sad book.

(Note by Erestor - Yes, I know what you're thinking. I'm a worrier, it's nothing fatal.)

Elrond could tell that I was already anxious. "Well, it doesn't have to be about my whole life," he decided. "Just write an angsty vignette."

"Does it have to be true?" I asked. This is always a very important question to ask when it comes to writing someone's biography.

"No," said Elrond. "Just sad. Make it sad."

He seemed very definite about the sadness part. I sat down at my desk with some freshly sharpened pencils, a new eraser, a cup of vanilla tea, and a box of tissues (just in case I actually succeeded in writing something sad). Then I stared out the window and considered what the public wanted to read. I realized that I had to keep several things in mind.

#1. The public is sadistic.

#2. The public is mainly made up of teenage girls.

#3. Not enough of these girls would care if Elrond kicked the bucket this minute, even if he kicked it traumatically and painfully. They would probably find it funny. (Until Legolas and Aragorn turned up on his doorstep half-dead, and he wasn't there to fix the heroes. The fangirls wouldn't laugh then. They would scrag me instead.)

Glorfindel entered the room and asked me why I was looking so miserable. I explained.

"Oh," said Glorfindel. He sat down.

"It's really quite simple," I said, trying to cheer myself up. "I merely have to write a short, sad story all about Elrond."

I had not cheered myself up. I had made myself very depressed. I twirled my pencil gloomily, and wracked my brain for clever, angsty ideas. None were forthcoming.

"But Elrond had a tragic life, didn't he?" asked Glorfindel.

I nodded.

"Write about how Maglor used to beat him up," suggested Glorfindel.

"Maglor will sue me for libel."

We sighed in unison.

"Write about how he missed Celebrían once she left for Valinor," suggested Glorfindel.

"He didn't miss her. He threw a party."

"He didn't throw a party," said Glorfindel, almost indignant. It's amusing how loyal he is. "He drank two glasses of wine and listened to depressing music."

"That's my idea of a party."



"You need to get out more."

We were silent for another few minutes. I drank my tea and thought about parties. Glorfindel, noble Elf that he is, thought about Lord Elrond's sad life.

"Write about Arwen marrying Aragorn," suggested Glorfindel.

"But that wasn't sad," I pointed out. "It was highly amusing."

To put it kindly, the wedding was mayhem. Thranduil and Celeborn muttered things about 'peaceful coexistence' and Elrond and Aragorn muttered things about 'peaceful coexistence' and Thranduil and Gimli muttered things about 'peaceful coexistence' and Aragorn and Arwen muttered things about 'peaceful coexistence' (wedding vows, perhaps?) and at the same time:

Celeborn managed to pour (I mean 'spill') his wine on Thranduil...

...Aragorn accidentally put salt in Elrond's dessert (another example of the tragedy in my lord's life)...

...Thranduil accidentally shut Gimli's beard in a door...

...and Arwen chased Aragorn through the palace, waving a bar of soap and yelling words I rarely hear Imladris Elves use (especially not the females).

The wedding was not peaceful. But it was entertaining. Glorfindel and I chuckled, remembering it fondly.

"All right," said Glorfindel decisively. "We'll make something up."

"Something sad," I said quickly.

"Yes. It'll be sad," agreed Glorfindel.

"And all about Elrond," I said.

"Of course," purred Glorfindel. "All about Elrond."

Lord Elrond's Life

by Erestor and Glorfindel

"I think it should be by Glorfindel and Erestor," said Glorfindel.

I looked up, momentarily disoriented. "What's the difference?"

Glorfindel smiled charmingly. I glanced down at my sheet of paper and saw the difference. "Oh," I said.

Lord Elrond's Life

by Glorfindel and Erestor

Lord Elrond's life was very sad. His father wouldn't take him fishing because he said fishing was cruel. His mother wouldn't let him buy a pet dog. His brother broke his model of Nargothrond after he had spent five months of painstaking labor to construct it.

Glorfindel and I agreed that this was a very sad opening paragraph, sure to wrench the heartstrings of the average teenage reader. Glorfindel said he particularly liked the part about the 'painstaking labor'. "It's a nice touch," he concluded.

"What else should we mention?" I asked, staring sadly at the paragraph.

"Try some alliteration," said Glorfindel. "It's a good literary device."

Alliteration always affects advisors adversely. I was annoyed with Glorfindel for even bringing it up. "No," I said, "I refuse to alliterate."

"All right, then. You should write about how he spent years saving up to buy a really nice kite, or something, and then it blew away and his friends all laughed at him," said Glorfindel, who has a fine sense of the tragic.

"That's better."

When Elrond was eight years old, he decided to save his money so that he could buy a really nice kite. When he was seventeen, he had enough to purchase it. Unfortunately, his attempt to fly it met with dismal failure, and the kite blew away and was lost forever. All Elrond's friends laughed at him.

"No, no, wait!" cried Glorfindel. "Make it so he doesn't have any friends!"

All Elrond's enemies laughed at him.

"Yes. That's good and sad," said Glorfindel proudly.

I read over what I'd written, and felt rather choked up. The story was without a doubt one of the most emotional pieces I'd written. I reached for one of my tissues. Glorfindel suggested that we show the story to Lord Elrond.

Lord Elrond read our story and nearly blew a blood vessel. He said he did not like it. He said that he was enraged by our 'pathetic attempt to communicate the turmoil and angst of my early childhood' (as he so disparagingly described our endeavor). He sent us back to my study to rewrite his biography.

We were depressed by this scathing review. Perhaps depression is a good mind-set to be in, when one is attempting to write something sad.

"Erestor, you're making little pained noises," commented Glorfindel, after a few minutes. I suppose he thought he was being helpful.

"I can't do this," I said, reasonably. "I am a miserable failure. I shall never write again."

"How about you write a tragic vignette?" suggested Glorfindel, ignoring me, as he so often does.

A Tragic Vignette

by Glorfindel and Erestor

One day Elrond was walking through Imladris when a Númenorean vase fell out of nowhere and clunked him on the head. As a direct result of this incident, Lord Elrond suffered from amnesia and barophobia.

"What's barophobia?" asked Glorfindel.

"The fear of gravity."


We sat in silence for a moment. Then Glorfindel said, "Presumably a Númenorean vase couldn't fall out of nowhere. It would have to fall out of Númenor, or else it wouldn't be Númenorean."

I told him not to be pedantic. He said he wasn't being pedantic. Then he added that my story wasn't really a vignette, since it was only two sentences long.

"A vignette," I explained frostily, "is a brief description or account. The briefer it is, the better a vignette it must be."

"Well then," said Glorfindel, who was suddenly strangely intent on annoying me, "this must be a really good vignette."

For some reason, both Glorfindel and I were afraid to show our really good vignette to Lord Elrond. I had a feeling that it wouldn't go down very well, and I didn't want him to hurt himself. Or us, for that matter. Unfortunately, Lord Elrond descended upon us before we could make up our minds, and read our vignette.

He did not think it was really good. He said it was 'frivolous'. He was especially infuriated by what he called the 'gratuitous amnesia'. I was rather surprised that he didn't think the Númenorean vase was gratuitous too.

Lord Elrond stood and glared at us. Then he said, "You are obviously incapable of writing something sad about me."

Glorfindel and I looked at each other, then nodded.

"Therefore, I want you to write about the events of this morning, Erestor," he said, "so that the generations to come can see what stupidity I had to put up with."

That is what I have done.