The Last Homely House
Chapter Twenty Three

Rating: NC-17
Category: Humour, Drama, AU
Pairing(s): Erestor/Glorfindel, Haldir/Rabbit, Legolas/Gimli
Warnings: Slash (means: two male Elves in some kind of love) Mpreg
Summary: Elrond receives a gift, Faramir plays Tablero, Frost decides that Elrohir thinks too much, Legolas makes a friend, and Gloin makes a grandfather out of Thranduil.
Notes: Slight Meat Loaf reference. Sorry, couldn’t resist. Apologies to those who are not familiar with the album ‘Bat Out Of Hell’.

Lord Elrond’s dignity was slightly dented, but for the most part intact as he permitted himself to be led, blindfolded, by a pack of fifteen Dwarfs into the finished section of the house. Not all of Rivendell was rebuilt yet, and construction would not continue until spring. But there was enough of the house finished that the encampment could at last be taken down and all could move in. With the early winter upon them, and three feet of snow blanketing the land, all were glad to get out of the cold. Now as evening, like the snow, fell over Imladris, Elrond was guided towards his new Great Hall.

The Elf-Lord was more than a little concerned about what his hall would look like. He’d seen the arrival of a rather large shipment of gold, and he had the sinking feeling it would be done in Dwarf-style; coldly formal and gilded. He was, however, determined to be delighted no matter how much he hated it. He would not repay the kindness of the Dwarfs with disdain. If it was that bad he could quietly wait until they were dead of old age and redecorate.

He was led into a huge room; his sensitive Elven ears picking up faint echoes, meaning the room was very large indeed. He could smell a fire of fragrant wood, as well as food, wine, and hear the faint shuffle of folk gathered to see his reaction. Elrond reminded himself again to NOT hate the room, or at least not to make a face.

Gimli stepped up onto a chair to reach the knotted silk blindfold, untying it, and pulled it aside. “Your hall, my Lord,” he said.

Elrond opened his eyes, and just stared at the chamber in which he found himself. The previous Hall had been large, true, but it was nothing compared to the size of this great chamber. It had indeed been carved Dwarf-fashion, with huge vaulted ceilings of stone and great pillars. But rather than plain stone columns, the rock had been fashioned into towering trees. At each end of the hall rose immense stone fireplaces, with wide stone hearths, surrounded by friezes of deer and woodlands cut so well and carefully into the stone that they seemed to living creatures, shadowed in the darkness beyond the fire. Beneath his feet was a floor of cut and polished quartz crystal, so clear that he could look down and see the pond below, where trout and other watery creatures could sit in the quiet eddy and out of the Bruinen’s quick-flowing waters. The whole room was gilded in white, yellow and red gold, giving it shimmering warmth that matched the flames of the fire. Standing within the Hall, watching him, was the entire population of Imladris, including Frost’s clan. As Elrond gazed about, awe-struck, Glorfindel approached, clad in his finest robes, his long hair held back with a circlet. He passed him a glass of miruvor, then stepped back and bowed.

“Welcome to the Golden Hall of Rivendell,” said Glorfindel softly. “Here, the old standards and portraits have been put away. There is no death here, no sad and painful past, only the rebirth of our house and community. Tonight we shall bless this Hall in the custom of Elves and Dwarfs, Men and Halflings, and make it a place for all the good folk of this land. And then, at midnight, we shall pledge our allegiance to the Lords of Imladris.”

“Lords?” Elrond managed to say. His voice was hoarse, and he was so overwhelmed he thought his legs would surely give out beneath him. He looked at Glorfindel, and suddenly realized his old friend was staring back at him, eyes clear and seeing. It seemed the house was not the only thing restored. Glorfindel smiled.

“Lords,” he repeated.

Behind him, the crowd parted slightly, and a figure stepped forward, clad in fine robes of green and gold, his long, pale gold hair braided back in the fashion of the warrior-lords of old. Elrond had always suspected Rúmil would look somewhat out of place in formal garb, but he didn’t. He looked like every inch the Lord he was about to become. Still speechless, Elrond could only stand and stare as Glorfindel put a hand on his shoulder and raised his own glass.

“To Elrond and Rúmil! Long may they dwell here in peace. May their life together be one of joy.”

The assembly drained their glasses. Before Elrond had a chance to collect his wits, he heard Glorfindel say; “Now let’s have a nice binding ceremony to kick off the evening, shall we?”

***---***

“Tablero?” said Faramir. He swayed on his feet, and put a hand out to steady himself. He had not had a great deal to drink, but the Elven liquor was making its way into odd places, rendering his feet well nigh useless. “Never played.”

Glorfindel was horrified. “Never played?! No wonder Gondor nearly lost the war. Sit! Sit! I shall set up the board.” He passed the dice to Pippin. “Here, you’re queen.”

He smiled. “Always knew I was destined to be royalty,” he said cheerfully. “What do I do?”

“Roll the dice once then drink what’s handed to you,” said Glorfindel.

“I like this game,” said Pippin. He felt Ecthelion seat himself next to him and take his pipe, taking a few puffs before handing it back. “I never knew Elves smoked.”

“We don’t, none of us, terrible habit. Makes the points of your ears fall off.” Ecthelion pulled out his own pipe and stuffed it into his mouth. “Got a light?”

Glorfindel passed him a tinderbox. Pippin looked from one Elf to the other. “If you don’t smoke, then what’s that?”

“Nothing. You’re so drunk you’re hallucinating.” He lit the pipe and passed it to Erestor, who had a quick puff and then passed it back to Ecthelion.

Faramir looked at Ecthelion and Erestor, but declined comment, while Pippin and Ecthelion discussed pipe weed. Glorfindel set up the board and said nothing as well. Ecthelion had taken up pipe smoking long ago, during the fall of Gondolin, which was likely where Erestor had gotten the habit as well. He could not recall who had originally brought the weed, but towards the end of the battle many of the Elves had taken up the habit. It was one of the few ways to keep the stench of rotting bodies out of one’s nostrils.

“Right, the board is set. Pip, roll your dice.”

Pippin tossed the dice. The number that came up was four.

“The queen’s number is four,” said Glorfindel. “Does the queen approve?”

“Looks like a perfectly respectable number to me,” said Pippin.

“Oh good,” said Glorfindel. “Now, Master Faramir, the line closest to you is your base line, and the one closest to me is my baseline. The object of the game is to arrange the glasses into a horizontal line of three of more, but not on your own baseline. Loser runs out of drink first. Cheating is perfectly acceptable, as is making up your own rules, but only if you do not get caught. You may go for a diagonal line, but you can only take it if all seven glasses are in a row, and you have to drink them all yourself. The center line is the orgasm line. If you take a line of seven there, you have to drain all the glasses while having or faking an orgasm. I think ‘Thel made that rule up.”

“You can’t blame that one on me,” said Ecthelion. “It was Gil-galad who came up with that. I I was the one who said a line of two could be taken, but only while standing on an Orc with your breeches around your ankles and singing page 43 of ‘The History of the Valar’.”

“I have that book,” said Erestor.

“Where’s Mauburz?” asked Glorfindel. “Never mind, I’m sure that rule was never intended for use on a live Orc. Now to decide who goes first.”

Faramir picked up the dice. “I do. The rules clearly state that when a Man and Elf are playing together, and using a Halfling for the queen, the Man goes first.”

“He learns fast,” commented Ecthelion.

Faramir held the dice, then squinted at something over Glorfindel’s shoulder. “Is that Gimli teaching Rabbit to dance?”

“Where?” said Glorfindel, turning in his seat to look. Faramir drank down one of the small glasses of miruvor and refilled it from Glorfindel’s bottle. By the time the Elf turned around, Faramir was looking innocent and nothing was obviously amiss. The Elf narrowed his eyes at him.

“Are you quite certain you have never played?”

“Quite.”

“Roll the dice, Gondorian.”

From across the room, well away from where Faramir and Glorfindel played, Gimli and Glóin stood next to Legolas, watching Ilinuil within a large gathering of admirers. The beautiful Elf sat on one of the great stone hearths, where his cold flesh could be warmed, his wolf puppy in his lap. Surrounding him were eight Elves, three Dwarfs, Anna, her mother, her brother, and Firespark. Valiantly holding his ground beside Ilinuil was Amaris.

“Poor sod hasn’t a chance,” said Glóin. He eyed the throng of admirers, then scowled. “Is that Fili in there? Twit. What’s he going to do with an Elf?”

“I’m sure he would think of something,” said Legolas.

“That’s all he could do! Dumb bastard got his nuts blown off in a cave in!”

Legolas and Gimli both rolled their eyes and shook their heads in disbelief. Glóin could be a little overly informative at times. Legolas was about to mention this, when he spied one of the guards peering into the Hall. Legolas motioned him over.

“What is wrong?” he asked.

The young archer spoke with a soft voice. “My lord I do not wish to disrupt the party, but a troll has blundered into the Plains-Elf village. There was one young Elf there, I believe his name is Flying Hawk. We managed to drive off the troll, but Hawk is badly wounded and disoriented, he has fled into the woods.”

“Gimli, Glóin and I shall see to this matter,” said Legolas. “We have dealt with trolls before. There is no need to spoil Lord Elrond’s evening with this. Which way did he flee?”

“North-east, towards the meadow.”

Legolas nodded, then he and the two Dwarfs left the party to gather their weapons and venture into the darkness.

***---***

Elrohir sat on the bed, saying nothing, looking worried. Beside him, lying on his back, was Frost. He was gazing up at the gold ceiling of their new bedchamber.

“I am not sure I am ready for this,” said Elrohir softly. “I thought we would have more time.”

Frost sighed quietly. “There is no rule that says we have to conceive now. We can wait.”

Elrohir looked at him. “We could. Did you want to wait?”

Frost raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Dearest Elrohir, I am hardly a bastion of self-restraint right now. If I gave in to what my body was telling me, we would not be discussing creating a child, we would be doing it. So no, I don’t want to wait, but that is not my logic speaking.”

“Well at least the Dwarfs made certain the walls are sound-proofed,” he said, and smiled as Frost laughed. Frost reached up and pulled the younger Elf down against his broad chest and kissed him.

“Ah my aia-nen, whatever did you want me for? I am nothing but trouble for you.”

Elrohir shrugged. “Oh I thought you were pretty.”

“Did you. I rather think you’re pretty as well.” He pushed Elrohir down to the bed, wrapping his jaws around his throat and growling.

“Frost we haven’t finished this discussion yet!”

“Sex now, talk later.”

“Talking later will be rather pointless, don’t you think?” Elrohir heard his robe shred. “Frost are you listening?”

“No.” Frost pinned Elrohir to the bed with one powerful arm and opened his breeches with the other.

“You’re really rather impossible when your hormones are running amok, aren’t you? Look Frost perhaps I should…” His sentence was cut off by a kiss, and he gasped as he felt Frost enter him.

“Talk later,” said Frost softly.

Elrohir drew his legs up and closed his eyes. “All right,” he said softly. He felt his circlet slide, and he reached up and removed it, tossing it in the general direction of the dresser. It fell to the floor, where it was eyed by several curious fish beneath the crystal floor.

Frost growled and pushed deeper, in no mood for gentle lovemaking. His teeth closed on the flesh of his young lover’s throat, his hands sliding up beneath Elrohir’s body to grasp his slender shoulders. He closed his eyes, tasting a faint trace of blood. He released the flesh, but held the slim body beneath him tightly, thrusting firm and slow.

Elrohir breathed a quiet sigh of relief when Frost released his throat. He reached up to stroke back the heavy white hair, watching his lover. Frost was a lot bigger than he was, and it was plain that he was currently in the grip of some very primitive and powerful forces. It was amazing just to watch the wise and quiet Shaman turn into a wild thing. He felt short of breath, and he pressed his hand against Frost’s collarbone, to get him to raise up slightly so he could breath. Frost adjusted, then lowered his head to softly kiss Elrohir.

“I am still in here, aia-nen,” he said softly. “I will not hurt you.”

“I’m… a little afraid of you right now.”

Frost purred at him; a low-frequency sound more felt than heard. He kissed Elrohir again, then said; “I want you in me.”

Elrohir stroked his hand over the sinews in Frost’s muscled throat. “And if I say no? Will this werewolf eat me?” He ran his hand over Frost’s broad shoulder, feeling the muscles flex and ripple.

Frost kissed him hard, and when he spoke his voice was hoarse. “That depends. Do you offer it flesh?”

Elrohir grinned, watching the strange white light shimmer in Frost’s eyes. “That depends on what the wolf offers. Does he offer me his mouth?”

“Yes.”

“Does he offer me his teeth?”

“Yes.”

“Does he offer me his jaws?”

“Yes.”

“Does he offer me his hunger?”

Frost made a strange animal sound, his body rippling with unreleased passion. He pressed hard into Elrohir. “Yes.”

The young Elf gasped softly, his fingers digging ever so slightly into white skin and muscle. “Again? Does he offer me his hunger?”

Frost’s eyes glowed, as though something strange and primordial was watching the young Elf from within his large lover. “YES!”

Elrohir kissed him, then whispered, “And will he starve without me?”

“YES!”

“Then does he love me?”

Frost kissed him, gently. “Yes.”

Elrohir smiled, eyes lidded with passion, fingers tracing over Frost’s collarbone. For a moment neither spoke, their ragged breath the only sound in the room. Then Elrohir said softly; “Yes.”

Frost moved off of him slowly, heavily, his large form shaking. He dropped to the mattress, closing his eyes and tilting his head back, offering his throat in submission as he felt Elrohir’s slight weight on top of him. He parted his long legs, drawing them up and around the younger Elf, letting him inside of him. Elrohir closed is eyes and made a soft sound as he felt the hot, tight embrace around his stiff penis. He gasped and tried to control himself, but knew he would not last much longer. He shivered, trying to control himself, but finally just gave into the sensation rushing up his whole body. He cried out loudly and thrust hard into Frost, their bodies merging into a tangle of limbs as the large Elf wrapped himself around him.

Elrohir cried out again, thrusting hard into Frost, his orgasm overwhelming him so hard it was like a living entity, running the length of his body and exploding out in the form of hot white fluid. He barely noticed when Frost bit him, ripping cloth and meat, his own semen splashing over their merged bodies, running across them like the blood that now dripped from Elrohir’s maimed shoulder. There was an intense silence, then slowly, quietly, the lovers untangled themselves. Frost released Elrohir, seeming to sink into the soft bedding as he lay panting, his eyes closed. Carefully, shakily, Elrohir sat up and removed the shreds of what had once been his finest robe. He dropped the ruined blood and semen covered garment to the floor, then collapsed beside Frost. Saying nothing, they drew each other into a comforting embrace and lay together, listening to the soft crackle of the flames in the fireplace.

***---***

“Left!” yelled Legolas.

Glóin immediately headed left, trying to circle around the young Plains Elf. Gimli and Legolas kept chasing after him, barely able to keep up with the frightened young Elf.

“Flying Hawk,” grumbled Gimli. “Well his mother knew what she was doing when she named him!”

“We have to catch him,” said Legolas. “Look at the blood on the snow, he’ll die if we don’t.”

Gimli was more worried about what was hunting all four of them, but did not say so. Instead he kept running, following the blood trail through the white snow.

They chased Flying Hawk down into a shallow ravine, and for a moment it seemed they had him. The young Plains Elf steamed with sweat in the cold night air, blood coming from the hideous wounds in his side and chest. Legolas honestly didn’t know how he was still standing.

Hawk turned circles, looking dazed. The glazed look in his eyes told Legolas he would not live if they did not catch him. The troll bites would infect, if he did not bleed to death or die of shock. Legolas took a step forward, then motioned to Glóin to try and block off any avenue of escape.

“Hawk,” said Legolas softly. “Come to me. Come to the sound of my voice. You must let us help you.”

From somewhere within the woods the troll made a horrible noise, and Hawk bolted, dodging past the Dwarf and heading up the side of the ravine.

The troll emerged directly before him, and with one swipe of its huge club, crushed Flying Hawk’s body, spilling him back into ravine where he lay, his blood slowly soaking into the white snow. Then Legolas felt something strike him as well, something indescribable that knocked him back against a tree and slithered into his body. Stunned, he slid down to the ground, not hearing the fight as Gimli and Glóin did battle with the troll.

Legolas closed his eyes, feeling the thing inside of himself, feeling its confusion and grief and fear. It searched through his body, finally making its way down into his lower abdomen. There it curled up, still confused, still frightened. It was warm and very alive, and as Legolas lay in the snow, he heard something speak within his mind.

“Nih-ia il, Sia?”

The voice was small, child-like. Legolas slowly pushed himself into a seated position and shook his head, tying to clear it.

“Sia?”

Legolas tried to get up, but was too dazed. His chest hurt, and his side. He was tired. He collapsed into the snow again, lying like a dead thing.

He didn’t know when Gimli picked him up out of the snow. He felt his gentle hands stoke the snow off of his hair, touch his face. He felt him kiss him, and slowly Legolas began to come out of his daze. He looked at Gimli, then over at the dead troll, finally to the body of Flying Hawk, wrapped in Glóin’s black cloak.

“Are you all right?” Gimli asked.

Legolas nodded. Slowly he stood up, his long legs threatening to give out beneath him. He waited for Gimli and his father to get Flying Hawk, and together they began making their way back to Imladris.

“Are you all right?” Gimli asked again, concerned by his lover’s silence.

Legolas nodded, running his hand over his abdomen, confused by the warm living thing inside of himself. It had gone from afraid to curious, and he could feel it nudge its way carefully through his insides, then settle once more in his lower abdomen.

“Hmph. Il’u sar Sia.”

The voice was comically petulant. Legolas could almost feel the little living thing pout. He tried to reach it with his own thoughts.

“I do not understand you.”

He smiled as he felt the pout turn to curiosity once more. It sat inside him, warm, alive, aware, and without malice, persistently nudging around his guts, searching for something. Not finding it, the presence began to feel sad again, and a fear and loneliness emanated from it. Legolas put his hand over his stomach, tying to soothe it.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Au il Sia?”

Legolas shook his head, not understanding what this thing was saying. It was sad and confused, and he felt his thoughts turning inwards towards it, offering comfort. It quieted, but remained unhappy, and perhaps a little afraid.

“Legolas?” said a quiet voice.

He shook his head, looking at Gimli, confused. He realized he had been standing in the snow for the last several minutes, unmoving, unspeaking. Gimli took his hand, his eyes frightened.

“Legolas, are you all right?”

Legolas looked towards Flying Hawk’s dead body, puzzled. “I’m not hurt,” he said softly.

Gimli and Glóin looked at each other, then made up their minds to get this Elf back to the house as soon as possible. Something was definitely amiss.

Glóin sat with Flying Hawk in the courtyard, while a messenger ran to get Frost and Elrond. Gimli led Legolas inside and tried to get him as far as the couch in a nearby sitting room, but the tall Elf’s legs gave out, and he sat down gracelessly before the fire. Elrond entered the room, and knelt before the young Elf.

“Where is he injured?” ask Elrond.

Gimli shook his head. “I don’t think he is! I don’t know what’s wrong with him! He’s been dazed ever since Hawk was killed.”

“Let us get him off the floor.”

They managed to get Legolas to his feet, walking him over to the couch. They laid him down on it, Gimli sitting near his lover, watching him with worried eyes.

“Legolas! Are you all right?”

Legolas closed his eyes. He felt Gimli take his hand, and he smiled slightly. “I’m fine, love, really. I’m not hurt and I’m not sick.”

Elrond departed, leaving Gimli and Legolas in the large, warm chamber, the only sound that of the fire in the hearth. Gimli stroked Legolas’ hair, concerned. Legolas did not seem injured, just terribly distracted. Still, he was glad when he saw Elrond return a brief time later with Frost.

The large Shaman seated himself on the floor, facing Legolas. He looked into his eyes, then stroked his broad hand over the Wood-Elf’s body. Gimli felt his hackles rise as Frost touched his lover, but his indignation turned to curiosity as the white Elf smiled.

“He’s well,” he said, smiling. “He just picked up a little passenger for a while. I’ll draw him out.”

“Passenger?” said Gimli.

Frost took the Dwarf’s large hand and placed it over Legolas’ stomach. Gimli waited, wondering what he was supposed to be feeling, when something warm and alive and curious nudged his hand. He gasped and pulled back.

“What was that?”

“Flying Hawk’s unborn child. It must have been confused by his Sia’s sudden death and simply flew into the first host body he found. Fortunately there is another Elf in our village who is ready to conceive. He can go into him, and be reborn.”

Gimli and Elrond watched as Frost spoke softly to Legolas, quietly chanting spells over him. Legolas seemed to simply fall asleep, sinking into the soft cushions, his eyes closing. Frost kept speaking, his quiet voice gently coaxing. Then, as Elf and Dwarf watched, something small and alive and curious, appearing somewhat like a little bird, cautiously exited the Wood-Elf’s sleeping form. The little spectral thing hopped towards the Shaman’s hand, which closed around it. Quietly, Frost stood, then looked at Gimli.

“He’ll sleep for tonight. It is exhausting to have a visitor of this like, especially when one has no place to put it, and it is busy trying to make a bed for itself.”

Before Gimli and Elrond could ask any more about the situation, Frost turned and left the room, heading for the chambers he shared with Elrohir. He made his quiet way down the golden candle lit halls of Imladris, smiling as the little presence made its way inside of him, finally discovering the place it had seeking. Settling within Frost’s abdomen, the tiny spirit fell silent, and was content.

***---***

Haldir sighed, then smiled as Isa licked his face. He reached up to try and convince the young fox that he really did not need a face washing, and felt him nibble his fingers.

“Isa, that is quite enough.”

The fox settled across his shoulders with a sigh, lying around his neck like a living scarf of fur. Haldir was glad to have him there; it was going to be a cold winter. He glanced over at Orophin and noticed him grinning at him. Haldir was about to say something to him, then was distracted by the sound of voices. Silently, he, Orophin, and Amrun made their way to the road, as the short winter day drew to a close.

They saw the two men, walking slowly down the road, leading a mildly annoyed brown pony. They were large and hairy folk, and evidently a little drunk from their speech. Haldir detected a faint odor of beer. However they did not seem to be up to any mischief, and the Elves watched from their hidden positions.

One man stopped, scrutinizing the area. “It’s around here somewhere.”

The second man burped quietly, then took a drink from a stoneware mug. “Ah g’wan Mick! Y’couldn’a find an Elf if one bit you.”

“Elf wouldn’a bite me,” said Mick, “It would make him sick! An’ they know better, don’t they? Drink yer beer and be quiet, Andy.”

Andy shook his head, drunk but not without common sense. “Come on Mick! You’ll never find them! And the little blighter’s getting cold, we’ll have to look after him for tonight at least!”

Mick wasn’t quite ready to give up yet. “We can’t take him back! You saw what happened at the pub! I’d like to have a few words with the bloke what dropped him off I tell you!”

“Aye we both would.”

Haldir decided that, whatever these men were up to, they meant no harm. Silently he and the other two Elves stepped out of the snowy woods.

Mick stood and stared, plainly surprised at the appearance of the three beautiful beings, who seemed to shimmer softly in the early evening darkness. Andy simply sat down, staring, his mouth hanging open.

“Mick! Ye found them!”

Mick said nothing, evidently shocked at his success. He stared as they approached.

“You were seeking us?” asked Haldir softly.

Andy scrambled to his feet, still staring, but managed a short bow. Mick blushed nervously.

“We’re sorry to bother you your Lordships, but… well… we found something.”

Andy spoke up. “Found him? We didn’t find him! Some cold-hearted bugger dropped him off on the doorstep of our pub! Left him to freeze! If we hadn’a come out he’d have frozen to death!”

“What did you find?” asked Amrun.

Mick turned and removed a heavily wrapped bundle from a basket on the pony’s back. Holding it close, the moderately drunk man carried it over to Haldir.

“I don’t know what to do with him.”

“It’s a baby?” asked Orophin.

Mick nodded. “Just a nipper! Two years old I figure. Just dropped off like a side of beef! Well me an’ Andy don’t know what to do with him. And folk at the pub said we should just dump him in the river! Well I can’t do that to a baby, no matter what it looks like!”

“What it looks like?” said Amrun. “I’ve yet to see an ugly baby.”

“Aye well you’ve yet to see that one,” said Andy, gesturing to the bundle with his mug.

Mick gave his friend an Eyebrowing that Elrond would have been proud of before turning to face Haldir once more. “He’s a bit odd looking.”

Haldir gently took the baby, and sorted through the blankets until he found the little face. Then he stared. Two words immediately came to mind.

Ug Ly. Capitol UG capitol LY capitol UGLY. Shockingly ugly. Haldir was overwhelmed with both disgust and sympathy for the little being he held. He pulled it close to his chest, looking at the men. “He was dropped off at your pub? You did not see by whom?”

Both men shook their heads. “We nearly stepped on him! We brought him inside but when folks saw him…”

Haldir could not imagine how mortals would have reacted to a child with such a visage. He parted the blanket again and looked at the horrifically ugly but happily smiling child. Then he looked at the men, who were watching him like two nervous mother hens.

“Would you like to come with us to Imladris? The night is fast approaching. You can stay warm at our hearth, and know that your small charge will be well cared for.”

Mick bowed. “We would be honoured! Thank you! My name is Mick, this here’s me best mate Andy. And this is Harry,” he said, indicating the stocky pony. Harry shook his head and snorted.

Haldir smiled. “I am Haldir. This is my brother Orophin, and this is Amrun. Oh, and my furry companion is Isa. Does the child have a name?”

“None that we know,” said Andy.

Haldir nodded. “Come with us, the air grows cold, the little one needs warmth.”

***---***

In the newly built Great Hall, the child played quietly on a rug with Estorel, while Elves of Wood and Plain, Dwarfs, Halflings, Men, and one lone Orc tried to decide where this baby and come from. And more importantly, what his parents were.

It was hairy like a dwarf baby, but the hair wreathing it was fluffy and golden, like Elf hair. The feet were immense, but not furred like a Halfling’s. His ears were huge, and furry, and somewhat pointed, and the face had something of an Elven shape to it. But it had the large heavy bones of a Dwarf, as well as the overgrown eyebrows.

Glóin entered the large chamber carrying another child; his nephew, who was not much older than the child found by Mick and Andy. He set the baby down, then stepped back. Those gathered watched the children in silence. Finally Ecthelion spoke.

“He looks like someone took the skin of an Elf and stretched it over the body of a Dwarf.”

As soon as he said those words, it seemed to the group that they at last understood why the child seemed so misshapen; it was indeed as though one was wearing the skin of the other.

“So he’s half Dwarf half Elf then?” asked Pippin.

Elrond glanced at Thranduil but the Elf-King did not look as though he was about to keel over with another heart attack. It seemed he reserved that particular reaction for Legolas’ antics.

“I cannot imagine an Elven mother simply dropping her child off on the doorstep of the local pub,” said Liritar.

“Not even one who looked… well… unusual,” said Veet.

“Dwarves are not in the habit of abandoning their children either,” said Gimli.

Rabbit had been lounging on the rug, watching the babies, Bramble beside him. “Perhaps the child was not abandoned, but stolen.”

“Stolen by whom, and for what purpose?” asked Faramir. “And why steal a child only to discard it?”

“Perhaps it is the work of a relative, who considered the baby an abomination,” said Rhimlan.

“That makes more sense to me,” said Erestor. “Then they bring the child to a place where they expect it will meet a quick fate of some sort; either it will be taken in or killed for its appearance.”

Elrond looked over at Mick and Andy, seated quietly by the fire. “You are to be commended for your actions.”

The two men nodded their thanks, too intimidated by the gathering of Lords to say a word.

“Well here is a question,” said Rúmil. “Who is going to look after our little guest until we find his rightful parents?”

The people gathered looked at the baby and thought. Before anyone had a chance to say anything, Glóin got up, walked over to the baby and picked him up. He then carried him over to Legolas and sat him in his lap before turning to approach Thranduil He slapped the tall Elf on the shoulder.

“Congratulations, we’re grandparents.”

Thranduil curled his lip. “I loathe you,” he growled.

Gimli and Legolas studied their ‘new arrival’, then looked at each other. The Elf was plainly having doubts about his ability to raise a child. Gimli did not seem as concerned.

“He has my eyes,” he said.

“Good,” said Legolas, passing the baby to his husband. “In that case, you change him. Now what shall we name him? We cannot simply call him ‘baby’.”

Gimli looked at the hairy little being. The first name that came to mind was ‘Lurtz’, but he did not think it was a suggestion that would be welcomed. Finally he said; “Why don’t we name him Balin, after my cousin?”

Legolas well recalled how distraught Gimli had been upon learning of his cousin’s death. He nodded. “’Balin’ it is,” he said.