Aragorn gaped at his foster-father in relief.  Fanfiction!  The answer was so simple.  "So I am not going mad after all?" he asked hopefully.

Elrond smiled.  "No, Estel, you are not going mad.  I only wonder that it took so long for you to notice.  Think back—have you never before found that you were doing something that did not seem to fit your true self, yet you could not control it?"

"I remember one night—" Arwen began.

"Er," said Aragorn hastily, "Many times, now that you mention it, Ada."

"For instance," said Elrond, "That time when the dwarves came to visit...."

*******

An open notebook lay on the coffeeshop table next to two tall cups of chai.  One author beamed at the other.

"Aragorn was taking over every time we tried to write a 'Lord of the Rings' story, right?  So all we have to do for a change of pace is write a Tolkien story that's not set during 'Lord of the Rings'!"

"Like, when, exactly?"

"Any time.  How about during The Hobbit? I'm still interested in writing about Elrond...."

"Oh, goody...dwarves and hobbits...."

"And Elrond, and Gandalf."

"And dwarves and hobbits.  Sounds great."

"We can always go back to Aragorn next time.  All I'm asking is to do one different thing for a change of pace in between Aragorn stories."

"Fine.  You start it, then."

*******

Elrond Halfelven, the master of Rivendell, took a seat beside his friend Gandalf the Grey.  From where they sat, they had an excellent view of the festivities of Midsummer Eve.  The dancing and singing were just beginning down by the riverfront below, as the sun was finally setting.

The hobbit, Bilbo, was plainly entranced by all that he saw and heard.  He was currently fumbling in his pack for a quill and paper, muttering something about taking down the words of the songs.  The dwarves were mostly helping themselves to food and making a great show of not being impressed; but from time to time one of them could be seen to pause in his eating and listen intently to the song before coming back to himself and attacking his meal with fresh gusto.

Gandalf pulled out his long-stemmed pipe.  "May I?" he asked, gesturing with it.

Elrond nodded absently.  He was thinking of the sword Gandalf had found in the troll hoard.  To think it had come all the way from Gondolin, and had once been carried by Turgon himself!  Elrond had seen many days which mortals considered mythical, but Gondolin was as a myth even to him.  The thought made him feel slightly melancholy.

Pushing these thoughts aside, Elrond turned to his old friend.  "Gandalf, I know you never do anything without a reason.  Tell me, why did you choose the halfling for this quest?"

Gandalf's eyes twinkled in the deepening gloom.  "I chose him because I suspect he will be a very good burglar," he answered.  The wizard smiled to himself at some private mischief and took a long draw on his pipe.

"I could be a good burglar," piped up a childish voice at Elrond's elbow.  "Why don't you take me?"

Elrond and Gandalf both turned to see a boy of about ten standing behind them.  The exquisite lines of the child's face hinted that he would one day be a very handsome man indeed.  Already his high cheekbones showed promise, and his lovely grey eyes spoke of a wisdom beyond his years.

"I'm about the same size as a hobbit, and I'm very clever," the boy continued as he pushed his dark hair away from his young but still noble face.

Elrond frowned sternly, though in truth he could not bring himself to be angry with his young charge.  "Estel!  What are you doing out of bed?"

The boy gave him a winsome smile.  "I sneaked out to watch the dancing, Ada.  And no one heard me, so you can see I'd make a wonderful burglar.  Besides, I can already shoot a bow better than Prince Legolas, so I could help to protect you as well."

Gandalf's eyebrows climbed higher and higher, but he puffed thoughtfully at his pipe.  "The boy may have a point, Lord Elrond," he said slowly.  "I do not see why we cannot have fifteen in our party instead of fourteen."

"Oh, please let me go!" said the boy earnestly.  "I'm going to be King someday, you know, so I might as well start learning about the world now....."

*******

"I.  Don't.  Believe.  It."

"Oh, now what?"

"Look, even if I accept that 10-year-old Aragorn has to show up in this story, he should not know yet that he's going to be King!"

"Why not?  I'm sure someone's let it slip.  Besides, he has excellent intuition."

There was a soft, strangled noise, like the sound of an author choking on her own frustration.  The notebook was turned to a fresh page.

"So, how well do you remember The Silmarillion?"

*******

Aragorn brightened.  "I do remember that night, Ada!  You looked like you were going to say yes, and then you changed your mind and sent me back to bed.  But the strangest thing was that I didn't even want to go, and yet somehow I couldn't stop myself from begging...."

Elrond nodded.  "You see?  That is the way of it.  Now that you know what it is, you can be on your guard."  He stood.  "Now then, let us see about returning you to where you belong; where were you before you were drawn back here?"

"Edoras," Aragorn answered.  He kissed Arwen affectionately—but, as they were under Elrond's disapproving eye, not too affectionately. "Goodbye, meleth nîn.  I will return as soon as I can."

Aragorn turned to go, but Arwen held his arm.  "Just one thing," she said sweetly.  "If any beautiful shieldmaidens throw themselves at you while you're in Rohan...don't even think of claiming the author made you do it."

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