#ElihalVsTheBumblebee

[not-glorfindel-stop-asking]

Lindir what was the most terrifying moment of your life?

It was a summer day, bright and festive, with banners fluttering in the wind and the scent of honey cakes and roasted nuts thick in the air.

The festival had been in full swing since morning, and spirits were high. I remember the sound of laughter, the clang of swords in friendly duels, the strumming of lutes weaving through the cheerful noise of Rivendell’s celebrations.

And, of course, there was jousting. Because why not?

Eredin had been in high spirits that day. He always loved the festivals—loved the food, the games, the stories told by wandering bards, and, of course, the jousting. It had been Glorfindel’s idea to challenge him.

“A friendly match,” he had declared, all golden-haired confidence. “A test of reflexes, nothing more. Come now, Eredin, do you not wish to prove yourself?”

And Eredin, stubborn and perhaps a touch reckless when challenged, had agreed.

A friendly match—nothing serious, only a bit of showmanship.

The idea, in theory, was harmless: two riders, well-trained, experienced, circling each other with lances dulled for safety. It was meant to be fun.

And, for a time, it was.

They rode their rounds with great flourish, Eredin surprisingly adept despite not being a warrior. He looked every bit the picture of a nobleman-knight, wind catching in his curls, his laughter easy, his posture confident in the saddle. Even Glorfindel, whose pride in his own skill knew no bounds, seemed impressed. I remember thinking how well Eredin handled himself on horseback, how graceful and at ease he was.

And then.

A bumblebee.

An ordinary, well-meaning, thoroughly unremarkable bumblebee, no doubt going about its day, drifted too close to Eredin’s horse. And the poor creature—noble steed though it was—decided that today, of all days, was the day to be terrified by a creature the size of a coin.

The horse reared, panicked, and Eredin, caught off guard, lost his grip. He fell—

The fall itself was bad enough. But as he tumbled from the saddle, his reins tangled around his throat, and suddenly, he was no longer just falling. He was being dragged.

For one harrowing moment, his body was pulled along as the frightened horse bolted.

A heartbeat stretched into eternity.

We shouted. The crowd gasped. My own vision blurred as my feet carried me forward without thought, because Eredin was being dragged, the reins still wound tight against his throat. I remember the sound of hooves pounding against the ground, the terror of not being able to reach him in time.

And then hands—many hands—caught the horse, slowing it, soothing it, bringing it to a halt. The moment it stilled, I was there, pulling at the leather binding his throat, my fingers fumbling, desperate. When I finally freed him, he collapsed forward, wheezing, trembling, hands weakly grasping at my sleeves. He was shaking so violently that I had to hold him upright.

“Breathe,” I told him, voice barely steady. “Breathe, you are all right.”

He rasped something unintelligible in response, too winded to form proper words, but I understood well enough. He was alive, and that was all that mattered.

Glorfindel, for all his confidence, was visibly rattled, hovering near but uncharacteristically silent. And Elihal—Eredin’s brother—

Elihal was ready to commit an act of vengeance against a bumblebee.

I wish I could say he was exaggerating, but I distinctly remember him demanding, with all the fury of an older brother whose beloved sibling had just been through hell, that we “find the wretched insect and make it suffer.”

To this day, I cannot tell if he was being entirely serious. I did not ask.

And that—dear heavens—is why I do not trust Eredin on horseback.

He is graceful, yes. He is skilled, certainly. But I have seen the worst-case scenario unfold before my very eyes. I have held him in my arms as he struggled for breath.

Some fears never quite leave you.

And neither, apparently, do vengeful older brothers who are willing to go to war against a bee.