Based on the UPS (Uncanonical Proto-Silmarillion), including the Apocryphal Epilogue. Prof. Tolkien may have acted in good faith when he translated and edited the official version. This was not written for profit or gain; though Elrond (TM) was paid for by New Line Cinema, no infringement of copyright is intended. Please do not envisage Hugo Weaving in this role.

Warning: rated PG-33. Completely AU.

Though it was past midnight, Elrond was not in his bed. That usually meant he was still in his study, so that was where Glorfindel went next, determined to put and end to the Peredhel's mental exertions. The great son of Eärendil could handle even the hardest things, but it would take the skilled touch of the ancient and faithful Glorfindel to handle Elrond.

Again, his unfailing intuition did not fail him. Without knocking on the door, an act made superfluous by their age-long, close proximity, the blond Elflord entered the sparsely lit study. To the glow of two sadly flickering candle-stumps, the raven-haired Lord of Imladris, seated behind his large desk of polished beech wood, poring over a well-thumbed manuscript. He appeared totally engrossed in the text, one hand fumbling with the topmost vellum sheet, the other buried somewhere in his lap. Glorfindel's entrance seemed to go by unnoticed, for it was not until the fearless Balrog-slayer bent over the Half-Elven's velvet-clad right shoulder and murmured: 'Call it an aurë, mellon! The eleni have been out for lúmi,'* that Elrond started up, covering the text before him with one hand, and pulling the other hurriedly from inside his sumptuous, many-layered robes. His noble countenance flushed, he snapped: 'You scare the Mandos out of me, Glor!'

The golden Elda bent even further forward, his long tresses brushing against Elrond's burning cheeks. 'What is it that absorbs you so, El? Since when do you have secrets for your dearest companion ever - save one? You mightily arouse my curiosity!'

Without removing his hand from the manuscript - though the other started crawling up Glorfindel's richly embroidered night-robe - Elrond shot him a tortuous glance. 'By the Súle, or Thúle, of Arda, would that I could. Alas, honour and decency forbid me to confide in you, this being a family matter before aught else.'

Ignoring both the allusion to the Shibboleth of Fëanor or Fëanáro, and the desperate sounding plea in the Peredhel's voice, the ancient Elflord did his best to read the snatches of elegant writing visible between the slender, outspread fingers. His boldly roving gaze found the tengwar for 'F...', for 'kiss', for 'brother', and for 'arous-', just before Elrond hurriedly turned the whole manuscript over. The backside was empty, save for a scribbled note warning all responsible Elven parents not to let this text fall into the sweaty little hands of impressionable, underage Elflings.

'I see...' Glorfindel remarked sagely, while he felt Elrond's trembling fingers fumbling with his topmost buttons. 'The material it contains would tarnish the shining reputation that your late, uhm... great great-great-grandsire on the Ngoldorin** side acquired by being trodden under the oversized feet of the Morgoth. But why should I ever want to know what vile and undeserved slander your tireless research chanced to uncover in the mornië of the night?'

'Oh Glor,' the disconsolate Lord of Imladris sighed. 'I am at a loss what to do. Would that it were slander. But it is true, alas, and my heart is slashed to bloody pieces. How can I destroy or even suppress a text that speaks to us from the Reverend Times before the Anar and the Isil? And yet, seeing what telltale tale is told in its telling, how can I not?' A single, silvery tear welled from the corner of his red-rimmed left eye.

'Mayhap you could scratch off the essi, and replace them by some epessi of your own devising?' fair Glorfindel offered with a symphatetic inflexion of his melodious Elven voice.

'They have signed it with the Ink Imperishable, mixed according to a recipe of Rúmil himself. As the secret of its erasure has perished with him, passing out of Elven memory, no blade or edge in the world is sharp enough to scratch them off.'

'They?' Glorfindel asked with feigned innocence.

Elrond shook his head in despair. 'Do not try to tempt me! I cannot speak of it even to you...' He shuddered in the grip of some powerful emotion

'Sssh,' the golden-haired Elflord crooned, cupping the Half-Elven's creamy cheek with a consoling hand. 'It is late, El. Come to bed. Relax. Do not mourn overmuch. Mighty was the fallen and his name will be the matter of Story and Song until the End of Arda, or thereabouts. This is an awful doom you have to deem, but undoubtedly the áre of day will help you see the cala.'*** He pulled Elrond up, one hand gently stroking the glossy hair, the other pressing the other's body, lithe as well as strong, briefly against his own. What he felt then, was indeed in accordance with the last, unfinished word on the offensive vellum sheet that had caught his trespassing eye shortly before - just as he had expected.

Glorfindel smiled thinly, dousing the wavering candles on the desk with a flick of his hand. There was preciously little a twice born Elda of Valinor could not do with an unsuspecting, distracted Peredhel, if he chose to. And slowly, the golden Elf lead Elrond away from where the shadows lay, to the waiting bed.

I'll skip the next scene, or this little fuc would have to be rated NC-47, which would preclude virtually everyone on from reading it. In theory, that is .

After having cuddled the careworn Lord of Imladris into blissful oblivion, the tireless Balrogsbane and expat of Gondolin slipped from between the silken sheets, shrugged on the nearest velvet robe, and tiptoed back to the study. There, he lit some fresh candles, slumped down in the chair vacated by the Peredhel earlier that night, turned over the manuscript with carefully measured movements, and began to read, skipping the footnotes(1).


With a sigh, Glorfindel laid aside the manuscript. If the account had been less well written, it would have bored him to distraction. Nothing in it was new to him, and it greatly amazed him that Elrond had never read it before. Not that the overactive Gil-galad had left his gorgeous Half-Elf much time for anything else. The golden-haired Elda, though, had known long since that Fëanor, with his legendary appetite, had insinuated himself into anyone available, and into some that were not. If it had not been for his flowering affair with Yavanna, for instance, the proud son of Míriel would never have found out how to imprison the Light of the Trees in the Silmarils. The pre-first-Age Elves knew only too well how he used to set his brothers, sons, nephews and other relatives on fire (though not Galadriel, who had refused to melt.) But then, most pre-first-Age Elves had taken up temporary residence in Mandos or had remigrated long since, and few were left now in Middle-earth who could have told the Master of Imladris that Curufinwë had been perverse enough to kindle most of the wives as well. Too many of them were disregarded, neglected, repudiated, annulled or removed from the anals, so it was easy to comprehend how the Spirit of Fire had gained access even without knowing the correct password. If Fingolfin had paid any attention at all to Anairë he would surely have noticed his children could hardly be his. The manuscript left no doubt as to that, even though it purported to be anonymous.

That was, of course, what grieved Elrond so much: the idea of being a descendent of the universal scapegoat Fëanor, especially after having made life so difficult for Maglor. And the idea that the Silmarils were actually his birthright, and that one of them had been within his reach before his mother flew away - yes, Glorfindel could see how that would be galling. Dear El was so fond of trinkets; he never slept without Vilya on, even if it was the only thing he wore. A wave of pity for the much-plagued Peredhel swept through his body, and he rose to return to the bedroom.

Poor Elrond... The blond Elflord shivered when he thought of the Half-Elven's tears running down his own lower cheeks, and hurried from the study. Perhaps it would be a good idea not to tell him the truth that would dry the wellspring of those tears - or not yet. He thought of Elenwë, and a fond, melancholy smile crossed his lips. A pity that she had perished in the merciless Helcaraxë, just when she was about to make her confession to Turgon.

But such was the Curse of Mandos.

Whistling wistfully, he crept into his great-grandson's bed.

*'Call it a day, friend. The stars have been out for hours.' Why Glorfindel mixes up Quenya and Sindarin here is a matter of conjecture.

**This is Ancient Quenya. But Glorfindel is an Ancient Elf.

***The sunlight of day will help you see the light. The sentence does not work very well in English, though.

1)As Glorfindel never bothered to read them, I can't give them here.