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Meetings and Promises

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Glorfindel breathed heavily as he tightened the strap that held his broken right arm to his torso and regripped his spear. “Hurry, Asfaloth,” Glorfindel whispered in Quenya as they rushed on.

Asfaloth snorted and tossed his head in agreement as he picked up speed. Damn Imladris and the hidden way.

Not that they would make it and he tightened his grip on his spear, shifting his leg and Asfaloth smoothly turned, a horse of the Valar, one that was as immortal as the Elves, facing the Warg only to end up getting stabbed through the neck.

Glorfindel yanked the spear out and Asfaloth spun to continue their blind race away from the Orcs and Wargs, which should not even be here . Yes, they were in Moria and that chain of mountains, yes, but since the War of the Dwarves and Orcs they had not ventured so far.

He then heard a hunting howl.

Asfaloth needed no guidance, immediately spinning around to charge toward them instead of away.

Glorfindel twirled his spear around as they burst onto the road and let it fly. It struck through a Warg and he drew his sword, oddly since it was strapped at his left hip , but managed, beheading an Orc as Asfaloth took care of the Warg, rearing up just enough to strike the Warg dead, the metal shoes only there for that purpose.

And not nailed in, just slipped on with some Dwarf ingenuity mixed with Elven magic. It worked wonders in being more of a weapon than hooves naturally were.

They moved into the fray, Glorfindel vaguely wondering why…

There were Hobbits in the trees.

Well, that explained a great deal, and Glorfindel drove his sword into the next Orc, grateful that this was mostly Wargs with some Orc riders and not the majority. The majority would be trouble.

“Asfaloth,” Glorfindel warned and Asfaloth spun getting into a defensive position as Glorfindel did a controlled fall off of Asfaloth, keeping his feet under him before he dove into the fray, driving the Wargs back.

He cut through them as fast as possible and the blood fell. He let out a grunt as a Warg tried to get onto him. He stabbed up, ripping his sword through the belly, the intestines spilling out and Glorfindel ignored the pain that lanced through his right arm as he twisted, stabbing through the neck of the next Warg, twisting to behead the Orc.

He twisted sharply, stabbing upward as he dropped under another Warg, ignoring how the blood splattered across his hair and face. He slowly stood up and looked over, Asfaloth still standing, but limping slightly.

“You just had to join us to impress Belladonna Took, didn’t you?” a voice from above says as Glorfindel checks over Asfaloth.

“Can you hold a little weight?” he asked and Asfaloth nodded before they made their way to the tree and looked up.

“My decision to go to Bree personally was not to impress any Hobbit lass, not even Belladonna Took! I could do that in a much better fashion with my cross-stitching Uncle Ponto!” another Hobbit shot back and Glorfindel watched the group of Hobbits with some amusement.

“Ah, pardon the interruption, but would you like some help down? I promise Asfaloth is very steady, even with an injured leg,” Glorfindel asked and as one, the Hobbits looked down at him.

Some, for a brief moment, half-disappeared and would have fully if Glorfindel was not, well….Glorfindel.

He had died, dragged to his death in the death throes of a Balrog by his hair. He had ridden with Oromë in his forests, helped tend to the gardens of Vána, worked in the crafting halls of Aulë, and walked under the boughs of Yavanna’s trees.

Looking at Hobbits, he could see the blessings, Oromë and Vána their chief minstrels, much like Aulë was chief minstrel of his Dwarrow. They had a soft song of Yavanna in them, their connection to green and growing things so obvious, but even Asfaloth perked toward them.

He wondered--

“Look out!” the Hobbit who had gone to Bree for a Belladonna Took shouted and Glorfindel spun.

Asfaloth shrieked, but could not move in time to defend Glorfindel, he couldn’t draw his sword in time, and suddenly a projectile shot through the air and right into the eye of the Warg that was barrelling down on Glorfindel.

It slumped and collapsed, sliding some ways, but dead at Glorfindel’s feet, a string spooling out of the eye, but very dead.

He slit its throat to be sure, once he got his sword free again and sighed. “I’ll be right back, after I check to make sure all the rest are dead,” he said and took off into the night, leaving Asfaloth to guard the tree.

They were all dead now and he came back, sheathing his sword after he flicked the black blood off the blade with a twitch of his wrist.

“It’s safe now,” he called.

“How can we trust you? Yer one of the Tall Folk, you are,” the first Hobbit shouted down, Uncle Ponto presumably.

“By the Garden Mother’s flowers, the Hunt Father’s arrows, and the Green Aunt’s kiss, I promise that they are slain and gone now,” he said and there was a long pause from above.

It was only after a moment that Glorfindel realized he had said it in Hobbitish, a quicker offshoot of Entish, another sign of Yavanna’s tiny influence in creation (she had likely felt the loss of her Ent-Wives and Entlings keenly and the two sisters were practically twins), and slowly the Hobbits began to climb down.

They balanced on Asfaloth’s back before being helped to the ground by Glorfindel, who smiled and helped them.

He had just helped Uncle Ponto down when he felt his breath hitch and his vision swim.

He breathed through it and then focused on the Hobbit who was staring at the Warg, looking a little ill. “First kill?” Glorfindel asked softly and the Hobbit looked up at him.

“It was a rather good conker too,” he said quietly, trying to find humour in it and Glorfindel smiled at him weakly.

“I thank you for your sacrifice, Master Hobbit,” Glorfindel said quietly.

“Not Master just yet,” he said and gave a nod. “Bungo Baggins, heir to the Baggins family, at your service.”

“Glorfindel, Mister Baggins, and I feel I am more at yours,” Glorfindel said as Asfaloth limped over, snorting quietly.

He reached over to gently soothe the stallion, only to realize that was a very bad idea.

While the heat of battle had forced all thoughts and feelings of injuries away, at the end of it, they hit him. He let out a sharp sound and collapsed, now feeling the agony of his side, more in his arm, and how his vision was wonky all around, feeling the injuries, and blood loss, keenly now.

“Oh dear,” Bungo Baggins remarked and that was, rather, unfortunately, the last thing Glorfindel heard before he passed out.

Chapter Text

Bungo Baggins blinked at Glorfindel and sighed. “Well, let’s get him patched up and take him home. It’s only proper seeing as his blood loss comes from defending us,” he stated and none of the Hobbits could really protest that.

They set to work, male and female alike, and Petunia Chubb clucked her tongue a little and reset his arm before she splinted it again. They cleaned out his wounds, and the Elf didn’t even twitch as they stitched him up and, once they collected up their wagons and ponies from where they had hidden them for the night, put him into the back of the emptiest wagon.

Bungo sneezed over being close to ponies again, poor sod, and they made a new camp well away from any dead bodies, glad that the ponies had been safe from the Orcs and Wargs.

Nasty things those were too, and thus why Shire Hobbits should stay firmly in the Shire and not go gallivanting off, no matter what the reason, whether it was to visit relatives or be part of the oddly Baggins owned trading company.

Or not.

Anyone who married a Bree Hobbit was obviously odd and should be happy with letters.

Bungo focused on taking care of Asfaloth, who followed after them calmly and put the saddle, halter, and spear next to Glorfindel in the wagon.

“You’ll come get me if he takes a bad turn?” Bungo asked and Asfaloth, with far too wise eyes, gave a nod of agreement.

“Well, alright then,” Bungo said, deciding to just accept the fact the strange Elf who had saved them and their ponies had a horse that could understand Westron and went off to go sleep because that was the best course of action right at this minute.


The journey to Hobbiton didn’t take long, all told.

Bungo thought his mother, Laura, was going to keel over from shock when Bungo told her that they had a rather unexpected guest in an Elf named Glorfindel who had saved their lives, along with his steed, Asfaloth, who had also saved their lives.

Not that Laura Baggins nee Grubb would ever turn away a guest and most definitely not a guest that had saved her eldest son.

No, instead she took it all in stride, set up a guest bedroom will fussing and fretting.

Mungo watched with the air of someone who was very fond and very in love with their wife, especially when they fussed and clucked and sighed over the cedar scent of the sheets, but Glorfindel was settled.

He had to be adjusted slightly to fit on the bed, only Tooks had beds suitable for any of the Tall Folk, but was settled. Mungo had a healer already coming around, an herbalist, who checked and poked and decided that it was a Healing Sleep since none of the wounds had turned and there was no fever.

“Best I can tell, he exhausted himself and is sleeping it off,” the herbalist remarked, a frown making the lines of her face deeper.

“Like when the Maggots or Greenhands overwork themselves?” Mungo asked, chewing on his pipe, but not daring to smoke inside.

Laura had Opinions about smoking in rooms not meant for it and near her garden, her pride and joy besides her children.

Mungo followed them because he loved his wife and was quite fond of her.

As well as her strawberry shortcake.

“Aye, close to I think. Nothing dangerous. Keep an eye on him. His horse is doing well as well and seems to have joined his rider in sleep. He was quite careful to keep well out of your garden, Mistress Baggins, don’t you fret now,” the herbalist said and then she’s on her way, Laura immediately rushing out to check on the horse to discover it was true.

Bungo had already known, of course, having settled the horse as best he could and explained the garden to avoid that as best he could.

Asfaloth is lying on the ground, but he lifts his great head up as Laura approaching and shifts to move. “Oh, no, no, don’t you worry dear. I’m not expanding the garden quite yet,” she says and starts to blush over talking to a horse when Asfaloth pauses, then gives a nod.

Bungo is quick to catch his mother as she faints and Asfaloth mostly seems confused.

“Unexpected guests get her into a bit of a fuss,” Bungo explained as Mungo came out to carry his wife to bed.

Bungo felt sorry and next time he was sending a Rook ahead of them to warn her.

Best to do so, really.

Goodness knows how he’d react if he had unexpected guests.

(Bungo shuddered at the thought and promises to apologize to his mother once he gets the chance.)


Glorfindel blinked once and twice, recognizing how it felt to come out of deep Sleep that came from blood loss and his magic turning inward fully. His physical form is…

It is not fully made for outside of Aman.

He was one of the forgiven Noldor, true, but his form is like that of a Wizards, except the Wizards didn’t die first. He was….ascended, essentially. The scars of his past life are no longer there, though he remembers how his feet had blistered and split after he had parted from his twin sister and all the rest of them.

Being re-embodied had meant, well, just that.

He sits up slowly and notes he’s dressed in his underclothes, but they were cleaned.

He’s not embarrassed by that.

He’s sore, but his right arm is healing fine and….oh, he was stitched up and it takes him longer than it should to focus more on the bedroom.

The bed is comfy, even if he’s curled up in it somewhat like a child would be, or was, except he’s sitting up now.

His clothes are folded neatly by his bed on top of the nightstand, his armour cleaned and set on a chair as best as they could. He moves slowly and carefully and smiles a little to see a note that says the foot mittens are there, but the boots stay by the door.

He gets dressed carefully, and then looks around to see that the roof is round above him and the windows are round.

Glorfindel blinked.

Well, that was rather unexpected.


Glorfindel is careful as he makes his way to the door and opens it carefully. “Oh,” a female voice says and he looks over to see an older, female, Hobbit standing there.

Well, he is assuming female because of all the skirts, and she frets a little. “Mistress Baggins?” Glorfindel greeted and she calmed a bit.

“Oh, Mister Glorfindel, my apologies! My son, Bungo, he’s out right now. Would you like elevensies?” she asked.

“That sounds quite lovely Mistress Baggins,” Glorfindel reassured her and she relaxes.

She calms considerably once she discovers that Glorfindel knows Hobbit manners and promptly just treats him like an overly tall Hobbit.

It helps that he spent time gardening.

Hobbits are both complicated and not at the same time, and Glorfindel relaxes, feeling the blessings and love the Hobbits have poured into the Shire curling through him.

It’s like being back in the gardens of Vána again and he closes his eyes to savour the feeling.

(His soul tries to pour out of his skin, to fill the air around him. It is no wonder he can feel the Magic and Workings of Middle Earth so keenly.)

Chapter Text

Bungo was rather overjoyed to see Glorfindel up and about and promptly began to fuss over him as much as his mother had.

It seemed that Bungo was his mother’s son, but he had Mungo’s air of a scholar about him.

Mungo had some Elvish texts, written in Sindarin, he wanted help with and that brought Bungo in and Glorfindel was suddenly giving lessons in Sindarin and their writings, and he rather enjoys it.

Only the ones who want to know come and Glorfindel likes to teach those who are willing to learn.

He’s horrible with those that wish to be elsewhere because he just tells them to go.

Or at least, that’s what Erestor said when he realized Glorfindel had let Arwen skip off on lessons again.

Arwen had always been the twitchy one, the one who could never sit still, though none would believe it now. She had gained poise and grace, the ability to sit still and look calm and serene with time, but as a child, she had been a little hellion.

It was why Erestor took over her lessons, in hopes she’d learn what was needed to be a ‘proper lady’ and such.

It worked, but mostly after she was sent to her grandmother.

Glorfindel does his best not to think further than that.


“Glorfindel?”

Glorfindel sat up, carefully still and mindful of his arm, obviously. “Yes?” he asked with a grin and Bungo feels, sometimes, like Glorfindel is too….big for his skin.

“Are…are we friends?”

Bungo has…never been good with people or social interactions. He’s okay when he knows someone for a long time, and Hobbit rules are a great help since there are boundaries and such, but it is when those boundaries get murky that he gets confused.

Like how he hadn’t realized Bluebell Proudfoot was flirting with him because she wasn’t attempting to court him, so it hadn’t followed rules.

And there weren’t many rules for friendships.

“I would like to think so. Especially considering you saved my life,” Glorfindel answered with a quick smile.

“Are….I read once, that some Elves have secret names that they only give friends,” Bungo said quietly and Glorfindel blinked a little at that statement.

Asfaloth looked up from where he was lying down again before he let his head fall back to the grass.

“I had thought all such books were lost,” Glorfindel said quietly. “I am among those Elves that has a Secret Name, one I chose for myself and no one that walks these shores knows it.”

Bungo thought about that and waited patiently. He knew Glorfindel was mulling it over. “We are friends, Bungo Baggins, but…we are not that close of friends yet,” he said quietly and Bungo gave a nod of understanding.

“Oh, alright. I’m…not very good at knowing,” Bungo said as he came over to sit next to Glorfindel.

Glorfindel gave a smile. “That’s alright. Realize that even with my good manners, I see no point in lying to you,” he said quietly and Bungo gave a nod because while he was never quite good with people or social situations, he did know when someone was lying to him.

Glorfindel had yet to do so.


Glorfindel moved his arm carefully, building the muscles back up as he brushed Asfaloth with his other arm.

His twin would not know his names. She never learned the Mother name and the other names are his own.

He shed all but his Mother Name when he left them and he forged his own, and then he was in Gondolin and then he died.

And then he was re-embodied and came back, which in hindsight was not something he should have volunteered for.

Ecthelion had been furious when he learned and started fracturing slightly, having to go back to the Halls to Heal further.

Killing three Balrogs was harsh on the Soul, and harsher when their love and husband was not on Aman .

He sighed and paused, letting his head rest against Asfaloth’s neck.

Asfaloth nuzzled his hand on his injured arm.

“I blame the Shire,” he said quietly and Asfaloth nickered lowly.

“What do you blame our lovely place for?” Laura asked as she came out.

It was a mealtime then.

Glorfindel smiled at her. “Thinking too many thoughts,” he answered softly.

“Maybe their thoughts that need to be thought. It is teatime Mister Glorfindel,” she responded and Glorfindel follows her back into the smial.


“Will you come back?” Bungo asked as Glorfindel prepared to leave.

“I’ll come back, no later than your coming of age Birthday,” Glorfindel promised and Bungo gave a nod.

It was a promise Glorfindel would keep, no matter what.