“Captain Thorongil!” the errand runner called. “Some messengers have come from the west.” He paused, catching his breath. “The thing is, they’re Elves, and they don’t seem to speak our language at all. But I think you know a little bit of Elvish, don’t you? Can you come and talk to them, and try to find out where they’re from and what they want?”
Curious, Thorongil left the training grounds and followed the runner to the stables courtyard. The Elvish messengers, hooded and cloaked, waited beside two magnificent black stallions. He slowed his steps, holding his breath, then hurried forward. “Mae Govannen!” he called, trying to conceal his joy.
In a low voice he added, still in Sindarin: “What is this nonsense about you not speaking Westron? You speak it every bit as well as I do!”
Elladan pushed his hood back a little, smiling. “Of course we do – but this way, we knew you would be sent to interpret for us, so we could see you without raising suspicion.”
“I assume you would still rather be known as Thorongil rather
than Estel, and not have your true identity revealed?” Elrohir added.
“We came to say happy birthday, little brother.”