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“Ada, you have come!” Arwen ran to greet her father.
On a certain afternoon two years after the destruction of the Ring, Elrond arrived at Gondor. With Vilya diminished and threat of Sauron no more, the Lord of Rivendell was free to travel in and out of his realm as he pleased. So when received letter from daughter seeking his advice on something that was troubling her, he had decided to pay her a visit in Minas Tirith.
“What troubles you so, my child?” he asked, patting her dark hair soothingly. Arwen sighed.
“I fear there is little that I can do for Estel now,” lamented Arwen, slipping her arm in Elrond’s as she leaned her head on his shoulder pensively. “He is King, and for want of nothing that I can give him.”
“Just being with your King delights his heart,” cajoled her father, smiling in relief that it was not an alarming matter after all. “You are his Queen, and he loves you very much.”
“But surely there is something I can do, on my very own, that would be much more remarkable to him?” probed Arwen, doubtfully. “I fear that it is from this helpless state that I have lost much assurance of myself.”
Elrond peered into his daughter’s eyes which were so like his own and felt his heart both sweetened and sympathetic at once. “Very well then, Arwen,” said Elrond, gently, “Your Adar shall help you ponder over this.”
The two sat at a garden step, pondering for a long time. Presently, Elrond spied a servant girl passing through an enclosed footpath, carrying a covered dish.
“Melleth nin,” Elrond sat up slowly, his eyes widening with enthusiasm as a thought began to form in his mind. “Why not cook your King something? I recall that this is an intimate custom between Men.”
Arwen sat up at once, her eyes shining. “Yes, Ada!” Arwen exclaimed joyfully; it was as if a dark cloud had been lifted away from her. “That must be it! I shall make Estel food of the Elves, to remind him of Rivendell, where many days spent were that of bliss.”
Then she paused.
“Alas! I know not how to do it," Arwen smiled sheepishly. “Ada, you are wise and have much knowledge and memory of the Ancients. Surely you might be able to advise me in its art?”
Elrond folded his arms thoughtfully. “I may or may not have memory of a few old recipes,” he nodded. “Let us try, Arwen.”
The pair left for the kitchen, father and daughter, speaking in low tones to each other. A few days later, Aragorn was surprised with new fare at luncheon.
“It is Great Green Frog, my King,” Arwen presented the dish proudly, “Fresh from the woods of Ithilien, felled by the arrow of Legolas himself. We have worked hard to baste it in honey and various spices of the many lands, so that it might tickle your tongue.”
“Here, Aragorn King, eat,” Elrond smiled warmly, pushing the plate closer to him.
Wordlessly, Aragorn raised his keen grey eyes to look at two elves. So alike were they, with light of the stars shining in their eyes and love for him reflected deeply in them! Their expressions of bated expectation were remarkably identical as they watched him almost breathlessly.
Just as wordlessly, Aragorn brought his eyes back down to gaze at frog. The frog gazed solemnly back.
Slowly, the King reached out.
And so it came to pass on the second year since the destruction of the Ring that Aragorn, son of Arathorn, King of Gondor and Strider of the Dúnedain, ate the face of a frog.
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“Aragorn!” came the angry, booming voice of a dwarf, “Aragorn! Where has he hidden himself!? Bring me to that man you call King!”
Gimli, blustering into the room with a number of guards in tow, caught sight of Aragorn who was sitting calmly by a table. The dwarf marched up to the King, his beard bristling with anger.
“By the smithfires of Aulë, Aragorn, what have you allowed this time?” Gimli bellowed angrily, gasping. It seemed as if he had travelled straight from Aglarond to Gondor without rest. Aragorn waved his guards away.
“Calm yourself, Gimli,” soothed Aragorn, “What has happened?”
“As you already know, the esteemed Lady Queen Arwen has requested Legolas to send her frogs, amongst various other things, through a letter.”
“I do,” Aragorn nodded. “Go on.”
Gimli shifted to glance at the King from the side.
"Legolas sent me bread he personally made," stated Gimli, "From Ithilien.”
“Yes,” nodded Aragorn again. "And what of it?"
“It had tadpoles in it, Aragorn, tadpoles!” Gimli exploded, stamping his axe. “Is that fare for an elf, let alone a dwarf? I do not believe it is!”
“It is not,” Aragorn managed to stifle a grin. “Have you told him?”
Gimli sighed loudly, his beard growing visibly less bristled.
“I have not,” answered Gimli, almost timidly, “For I fear wounding him.”
Aragorn bowed his head. “Then you are lucky he was not present to watch you eat it,” he said, “For you can choose not to consume what he has sent you and yet tell him otherwise.”
Gimli sighed again, shaking his head dejectedly.
“I had no heart to throw it away,” the dwarf admitted bitterly, “So I ate it in its entirety, tadpoles and all.”
Aragorn smiled grimly, for he knew in truth that he himself would have done the same for his beloved Queen Arwen and father Elrond, even if they had not been present to watch him eat their frog.
Gimli sat down heavily beside Aragorn and exhaled loudly yet again, covering his face with his palm in anguish.
“What do we do, Aragorn?" groaned the dwarf. "Two years ago I would have said it straight to Legolas' face that his tadpoled bread was birthed by evil fouler than the goblin sacs of Mordor, but now any pain or mishap he may encounter fills me with more dread than standing in front of the Black Gates — and I have been there.”
Aragorn drew a breath and shut his eyes in suit. “What are we, man or dwarf," he declared softly, "should we deny the elves in our lives anything?”
The two Kings sat beside each other grimly, one man and one dwarf. Presently, as they were breathing to calm themselves together, Elrond entered the room and perceived Gimli sitting there with his son.
“Why, Master Gimli,” greeted Elrond, “Or if I may so correct myself: King Gimli of the Glittering Caves — what brings you to Gondor?”
“Only a few troubles of the heart, Lord Elrond,” replied Gimli, smiling weakly through his beard. “It is but nothing to mention about.”
Elrond’s brow softened as he felt sorry for the dwarf. After a moment’s thought, however, he suddenly brightened up.
“Gimli King, you shall join us for dinner,” offered Elrond graciously, patting Gimli on his shoulder with compassion. “My daughter Arwen and I have taken up a new pursuit, and we shall esteem you with our creations this evening. Perhaps some of your sorrow will be lifted by this small pleasure.”
Before Gimli could utter anything in reply, Elrond rushed away to inform his daughter that they had an additional guest to prepare nourishment for. Gimli shot up to face Aragorn with terror.
“Do something, Aragorn!” hissed the dwarf loudly, horrified.
At once, Aragorn, whose face had also lost much colour as he was not expecting to be treated to yet another exotic feast so soon, leapt to his feet to fly after Elrond, who was as swift as a Noldor warrior speeding down the hallways. At last the King managed to halt the half-elf halfway through a quiet passageway.
“What is it, my son?” Elrond turned around to face him, surprised.
“Adar, my Lord, you are a guest of Gondor,” Aragorn coaxed him gently. “Why toil you so over fire and charred pot? Come and join Gimli and I in the garden, where the sun is warm and the breeze is mild. Bring my Queen with you, for we shall have much to discuss about the days past.”
“My son,” Elrond lifted his hands to hold the King’s shoulders kindly in them, “Hên nin, you must remember that you are also one of my precious children. How can I, even as a Lord, begrudge you a father’s love? Is it not a parent’s joy to indulge so their child? Go and sit with King Gimli in the garden. Arwen and I will call for you in three hours’ time.”
“Adar—” Aragorn tried again desperately, but it was no use. Elrond was determined to pamper his children now that threat of darkness was no longer present and allowed him time to spare for more joyous things. He glided down the passage and was out of sight in the twinkling of an eye.
Grimly, the King of Gondor returned to tell his friend the news. The two Kings then removed themselves to the garden, where they waited for evening to come, their faces grave but determined like a pair of soldiers preparing for war.
As promised, Elrond and Arwen entered the garden to lead the two to the dining hall. The Queen lovingly tucked her head by the side of her husband’s neck as they walked, whispering sweetly in soft tones. As the group approached the dining table, it gradually came to Gimli and Aragorn’s view a large bowl filled with a towering heap of what looked like countless slimy appendages cut from a golden corpse, piled indiscriminately over one another.
“Pickled golden slugs with honey and pepper,” announced Arwen with pride, her father beaming just as proudly beside her, “All from Ithilien, gathered by Master Legolas himself and sent by the basketful. We have carefully steamed them one by one for your enjoyment.”
She then smiled warmly at Gimli. “I will inform Master Legolas that you were here this evening to take delight in them too, Gimli King.”
The dwarf, who was now completely ensnared by threat of Disappointed Wood-elf, stared mutely at Arwen before vacantly lifting a carefully-steamed slug from the bowl. He choked it down and tears burst forward from his eyes onto his beard, for so lifelessly cold and dreadful were they both to the touch of the hand and feel in the mouth! Elrond observed this and was immediately concerned.
“What is wrong, Gimli King?” he inquired, worry coming to his brow. “There are tears in your eyes.”
“Not all tears are evil, Adar,” replied Aragorn, truthfully, tears welling in his eyes as well from the sensation of pickled slugs. “These are tears that recognise the taste of love and heartfelt effort.”
At last, after two gruelling hours, the two Kings, man and dwarf, leaned back against their chairs as if only half-alive, the bowl empty and their bellies filled with mollusc. Elrond and Arwen smiled and whispered to each other with delight at their success; two whole Kings had cleaned their bowl and left nothing behind. They had done very well this time.
Satisfied at being able to help his daughter, Elrond returned to Imladris with his newfound craft. Headfirst he dove into the wild the next morning to select the best ingredients he could find. After many hours of toiling over fire, water and ash, he invited his dear friend Bilbo for a taste.
Bilbo sat next to Elrond and saw a beautiful ornate silver dish, on which sat the remnants of a creature so black and disfigured it looked like it had been spat out by Shelob herself after many hours of torture by orcs and trolls.
“This is honeyed bat stuffed with scented figs, dear Bilbo,” presented Elrond, bringing the plate forward to his friend warmly. “I caught and prepared it myself this morning especially for you.”
The elderly hobbit gazed at the disfigured bat with deep intensity. He then picked a piece up and took a bite –– which he violently coughed back out into a handkerchief.
“I daresay, Lord Elrond, my old friend,” declared Bilbo, clearing his throat and putting his handkerchief away, “That this is the worst thing I’ve ever seen and tasted.”
Elrond fell silent. That afternoon the Lord of Rivendell wrote an urgent letter to his daughter, who in turn wrote immediately to Legolas in Ithilien, and from that day onward no more of their handmade dishes were prepared for Aragorn, Gimli, or anyone else in the realm.
And so, just like the threat of darkness was vanquished by an unassuming hobbit, the threat of elvish darkness from the kitchen was also diminished by one.
