#9 – Tradition
"It is tradition," Elrond said, smiling over his wife's shoulder as they danced. "The next highest-ranking elf in the city is to dance with the ruler's eldest daughter on the first celebration of the year. Arwen has decided that she wants to dance with you. You cannot simply refuse her."
Erestor, the one to whom he had been speaking, looked immensely annoyed. "Oh? Why have I never heard of this tradition before?"
"Well, it actually came from Sirion," Elrond admitted, loosening his grip on Celebrían to twirl her lightly. "But it was adopted by Lothlórien and Mithlond, and then I decided to invoke it tonight. After all, you don't want to break my daughter's heart, do you?"
Erestor rolled his eyes. "I doubt that I will break her heart by declining to dance with her this one night."
"She's already danced with everyone else," said Celebrían. "Glorfindel, her brothers, even the minstrels – including Lindir!" Still swaying to the soft music that was being played; she reached out and clasped his hands with one of her's while still holding onto Elrond. "Come now, please…for me?"
Erestor sighed heavily and glared at the floor. After a moment, he spoke grudgingly. "I suppose I shall – but if she steps on my toes, I won't dance again."
Celebrían smiled brightly and turned back into her husband's embrace, knowing very well that Arwen wouldn't step on his feet and that he would be trapped into many more dances with her young daughter.
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#15 – Retaliation
Elrond might have just ignored the figure crouching beside the corner of the wall if it hadn't been someone he never would have expected to be there.
"Erestor?"
"Shh," the black-clad adviser hissed, peeking around the corner. "Keep your voice down – he might suspect something."
"Who?"
"Glorfindel, of course."
Elrond gave his Chief Counselor a long look, which Erestor ignored. "Do I want to know what you're going to do?"
Erestor considered that. "No."
"Very well, then." Elrond turned and continued walking.
A few moments later, he heard a triumphant yell from Erestor, and a scream that sounded suspiciously like Glorfindel's…
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#16 – Count Down
Elladan shot to his feet. "How much longer?" he anxiously asked the healer who had just stepped out of his parents' bedchambers. Her expression was serene as she wiped her hands on a towel.
"Another hour," she said, and picked up a neatly folded bundle of clothing beside the door before turning to go back in the room. The latch clicked shut behind her, and Elladan fidgeted fretfully for a moment before throwing himself back down on his seat.
Elrohir, silent the whole time, looked over at him and offered him a weak grin. "Just an hour before we have a little sister."
"Don't remind me," Elladan muttered, burying his head in his hands. He turned his head to shoot his younger brother a glare. "And stop acting all serene. You're just as nervous as I am."
"Whatever," was Elrohir's elegant reply.
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#39 – Ship
Celebrían sat on the shore of Valinor, her feet tucked up behind her on the soft sand. Footsteps padded behind her, and then Elrond was there, sitting beside her with a basket of food. He set it aside when she leaned over on him, and he enfolded her in his arms as they turned their gazes back to the horizon.
"This is the last ship," Celebrían spoke softly, spying the nearing fluttering sails of the ship nearing land.
"Indeed." Elrond didn't say more than that – he and his wife had discussed this already, many times.
"Do you think they came?" Celebrían's voice was calm, but anxious tones crept unbidden into it. Elrond simply tightened his grip on her hands.
"I don't know."
They sat that way for a while longer as the ship drew closer, Elrond's hair falling over his shoulder to mingle with Celebrían's blonde locks, once more radiant and glimmering. Both watched with nervousness they thought was hidden as the ship drifted closer on the waves, elves onboard pulling down the sails and drawing out ropes and anchors and other items that Celebrían couldn't identify.
She drew in a sharp breath when she saw two figures standing up to the bow of the ship, their hair blowing in the wind and posture tall and straight. An instant later, her vision sharpened and she could make out their features.
"Oh!" she cried, sitting up, and Elrond trembled behind her.
The two forms stood for a moment later, then they seemed to spot Elrond and Celebrían on the sand and they flung themselves over the railing, landing in the water with an inaudible splash and swimming toward shore.
They reached land only a few minutes later, wading through the shallows and only took the time to wring out their hair before hurrying toward the couple still sitting on the beach.
Celebrían stood before they got to her, Elrond just behind her. She caught the pair when they reached her and felt tears falling down her face as she embraced them. Her husband's arms came around her from behind, supporting her while she clung to them, her heart healing of its final wounds as she held the last of her beloved children in her arms.
"Welcome, my sons," said Elrond, his voice rumbling in her ear, and then she could feel the tears dripping on her neck as he lowered his head and wept as well.
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#64 – The Image of Perfection
Glorfindel had decided not to join the celebrations tonight. Instead, he stood in the shadows and watched the mingling elves, their murmured conversations and quiet laughs trickling over to him. There was the occasional boisterous laugh as one of his warriors told an amusing story, and he could even see the few bottles of wine that were surreptitiously being passed around the group of minstrels playing their songs.
He didn't actually see or hear any of that, his thoughts turned inward. He knew how he appeared to everyone else – the famed Balrog-slayer returned by the Valar themselves, with startling blue eyes and golden hair that tumbled in glorious waves to his waist. The legends and songs that had been written about him were numbered beyond count, his adoring followers many...and yet he hated the attention at times.
He hated the fact that there had been many more heroes on that fateful day Gondolin fell, so many more who had done far more than him – Ecthelion, for example, who had killed the Lord of the Balrogs himself, and died in the attempt! – and yet he was the one sent back. Hadn't he completed his objective the first time around? Were his efforts in his previous life so pitiful that he needed to be given another chance to garner a better effort?
Hadn't he earned a respite from this entire dispute, the killing of mindless creatures? Glorfindel took a gulp from the goblet of wine he had snuck into the corner with him, still considering his second life. He had been returned to 'protect the immortal descendants of Turgon,' and had found that the only one was Elrond Peredhel, and later his children. Until such time as Elrond decided to sail – and his children with him (or not) – Glorfindel was to stay in Arda and keep them safe with his last breath.
That apparently extended to fighting the Úlairi as well. The face-off with the Witch-King of Angmar wasn't nearly as memorable as his fight with the Balrog, but it was still his most terrifying encounter in his second life – which was saying a lot, as he had fought almost every other imaginable creature since coming back.
Glorfindel's musings were suddenly and rudely interrupted when the goblet was snatched from his hand. Startled, he looked to his side to find Erestor next to him, tossing back the rest of the wine that had been in the chalice.
Erestor handed the cup back and sighed, surveying the scattered crowds before them. "Another typical night," he said, and cast a look sideways at Glorfindel. "I'm surprised you're not out there."
Glorfindel turned his now-empty goblet in his hands and peered into it. He finally shrugged and let his hands fall to his side. "Taking a break from everyone who wants a story," he offered, and Erestor apparently accepted it.
They fell into a peaceful silence, but Glorfindel's thoughts of Gondolin and his rebirth had been driven away by the dark-clad adviser. He found that he couldn't bring them back, and then discovered that he really didn't care.
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#67 – Failed Attempt
Elrond sat silently beside his sleeping wife's bed. He studied her pale features; once merry and smiling, her silver eyes were closed in slumber, dark circles underneath. Her lips were cracked and bloodless, her cheeks drawn and gaunt. A long, barely-healing scar ran from the bottom of her pointed ear to her collarbone, just barely shallow enough to avoid cutting a vital artery.
The rest of her body, one he had labored over for hours to try and heal, was covered in cuts, packed and bandaged – the white cloths that were now spotting with blood swathed her entire torso, and most of her legs.
The once-exquisite wife of the ruler of Imladris who was renowned to be 'powerful' was marred by the filthiest creatures to walk earth. She was still beautiful in Elrond's eyes, though, just diminished in spirit…and fading.
Elrond could no longer deny the obvious. He had thought that he would be strong enough – his healing powers would be adequate – but he was wrong. She was obviously fading from this world, her skin already becoming translucent enough to see the slow-beating blood vessels beneath. Sleep was the only comfort she had now, her waking hours haunted by remembered visions of the foul beasts that had blemished her body and soul.
Celebrían stirred now, the memories Elrond had pushed away returning. Her eyelids flickered and she let out a pained whimper, but Elrond was there immediately. He reached out and wrapped long fingers around her slender broken ones, the nail-beds raw and reddened from where the orcs had pulled her fingernails out. Fighting off furious thoughts of revenge – she needed him here right now – Elrond curled his fingers around her hand and tightened reassuringly.
Celebrían tensed in her sleep for a moment, but then she sighed and lapsed back into comfortable memories of happier times. The ring on Elrond's hand flashed a dull white for a moment, visible only to him, but then it faded back to its original color and remained silent.
Elrond released a shuddering breath and he waited for dawn and the return of his wife's consciousness and terror.
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#73 – Destruction
It really wasn't his business, but Lindir didn't get up and leave when the two horses stumbled into the courtyard from the front gate. He sat silently, the flute lowered into his lap, as Elladan and Elrohir practically fell from their horses, exhaustion weighing down their features.
Lord Elrond came into the courtyard a moment later, Erestor following him with a disapproving moue. They ordered a few servants nearby to assist with the horses, and then helped the twins out of the courtyard and toward the Healing Rooms.
Lindir couldn't help but notice the blood that stained Elladan's tunic, and Elrohir's limp that he tried to conceal. Their faces were cold, though, and Lindir couldn't bring himself to go aid them. He just watched quietly as they were supported by Lord Elrond and Erestor, sure that they would leave again within the next few days.
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#88 – Murderer
The door burst open to Erestor's study and a tiny elfling darted in, screaming at the top of her lungs. She didn't pause, but shot over to Erestor's desk, rounded the corner, and clambered up onto the adviser's lap.
Erestor sat there stunned for a moment before he looked down at the still-screaming elfling. "Arwen," he said, trying to use a calm voice, "what are you doing?"
"They have a spee-ider!" Arwen squeaked, managing to stop screaming. She buried her face in Erestor's robes. Her voice was considerably more muffled when she spoke again. "And they is chasing me with it!"
"Who are 'they'?" inquired Erestor, and gave the open door a suspicious look – just as a pair of identical fully-grown elves dashed through. They skidded to a stop immediately upon seeing Erestor's glare, and both affected innocent expressions.
"Elladan," Erestor addressed the elder of the twins. "What, exactly, are you doing?"
The one on the right shuffled his feet awkwardly. "We were just teasing her."
Erestor arched an eyebrow, seeming to mimic Lord Elrond. "Oh? She didn't seem to like it."
"I didn't wike it," Arwen asserted, popping her head up for a brief moment before hiding her head again.
"It's not even alive," Elrohir tried to convince her, lifting up a massive spider almost the size of his hand. It flopped limply, and Erestor didn't manage to contain a shudder.
"Get that filthy creature out of here!" he ordered.
Arwen slowly peered over the edge of the desk to look at her older brothers again. "You killed it?" she whispered.
"Yes, it's dead," Elrohir said, and wiggled it.
Arwen's eyes popped. "You is a murderer!" She screamed and slid off Erestor's lap, then dove under his chair where she wrapped herself in the ends of Erestor's robes.
Erestor glowered at the two. "Get out."
Elladan and Elrohir exchanged odd looks before they turned and scurried out. Erestor could still hear them whispering – no doubt planning something else to torment a family member.