When he thought of each of his fosterlings in turn, Elrond was greeted in his mind's eye with a flash of colour - which was often accompanied by an emotion; something like the background tones of a canvas.
Whenever one of his wards would speak, their words were hued with the colour that Elrond's mind had attached to them - becoming part of their essence, their presence. Their footsteps echoed with blue, green, yellow, red, purple; reflecting on the walls and floors and making Elrond happy, because he was surrounded by life.
In time, the pigments occasionally shifted with as the boys matured - sometimes brightening as they entered their prime, or dulling with the approaching winter of old age.
And though he tried to resist it, a violent end coloured his foster sons in new and unpleasant ways; at first, intensified with his grief, the colours became too intense and nauseating to bear. Elrond could not say the name of the dead for many days after. The new stain blocked from view the happier times, like blots of thick, dark ink on what had been a beautiful painting.
Isildur was a murky greenish blue, like that of stagnant river - and the feeling was uncertainty.
There were many blotches on the elf's life now. Some still wet and raw like leakage from an open wound. But even he, as a healer knew not the best way to treat such a sore on the long term. He merely stitched himself back together and moved forward. Always foreward.
There was one, however, who remained distinct to Elrond's mind. Of course each child he cared for was unique, but Arathorn - the first of his name - occupied a niche of his own.
It began with his father, Arassuil; who had started boyhood as an angry red flush that had grown into a pulsating viseral crimson. But he had always been wrathful - his movements thunderous and his voice carrying like the high pitched squeal of a dying rabbit. Occasionally it lowered to an adder's hiss, which was when he was a this most dangerous.
He had not enjoyed his time at Imraldis - and there were several ripped books and cracked porcelain vases that stood as relics of his rage. Elrond has always been surprised how a tiny body could fit so much temper.
But to give him his due, Arassuil had fulfilled his destiny as protecter for the gentler folk from Sauron's spreading corruption - and as predictably as the frost easy year, bore a son to carry on his duty.
Whereas Arassuil's mother had dug her heels into the ground, and did not relinquish her son to the elves until they were two years delayed. This may have been an expression of motherly love, but Elrond was sure it had great consequences down the line.
In contrast, Arathorn arrived right on schedule - one could even say he was early - on a drizzly day in the harvest season.
If Arassuil had developed any tenderness in fatherhood he did not show it then. The child, only five summers old, was deposited with all the care one would take with an unwanted puppy. Wrapped in a cloak that probably was a parting gift from his mother, and left on Elrond's doorstep for him to collect when ready.
His father did linger long enough to see his son picked up, but the moment he was - Arassuil turned his horse sharply and fled into the horizon. Or so Elrond had been told.
Arathorn silently followed the Elevn lord to his office, the cloak dragging behind him like a great wedding gown - when asked if he would like to be carried, he had shaken his head.
In the end, he perched himself on the very edge of one of Elrond's arm chairs; the one closest to the fire, as the elf had been concerned that he might be cold. But even after sitting for a while, Arathorn did not drop the cloak from his shoulders - nor did he request anything, not food, or a drink, or an explanation.
His face, though round and childish, seemed oddly knowing and resided. He had not the quick, clumsy movements nor made any of the soft sounds of most children his age - which always seemed to be tinted canary yellow to Elrond.
Arathorn breathed as quietly as a dormouse, and if he did shuffle around to get comfortable, it was muffled by the cloak.
Finally Elrond reached over to pull it away; wanting if nothing to get a better look at his new charge. He had expected the child to cry, and cling to its conforting blanket; but the boy did not. His dark, burnt wood brown eyes widened only slightly and he watched intently as Elrond deposited his mother's gift on a nearby peg by the door. Then, assured it would not run away, relaxed just slightly.
Arathorn was lightly framed, but long in arm and leg which hinted to him being quite tall when full grown. He seemed even more dwarfed by the large chair in which he occupied. He had Arassuil's vague outline, but his looks had been more informed by his mother - Mormeril - who had hair and eyes that reminded Elrond of midnight, and a voice that was a rich, velvety purple.
"Are you tired, penneth nin?"
Another head shake.
Elrond smiled comfortingly. "Do not be afraid. We met once before, do you remember? I came to visit you and your Nana and Adar."
A nod this time.
So, the boy was not talkative. Erestor would be pleased. He had disliked their more nosy fosterlings.
It was curious to think Arassuil and Arathorn had sprouted from the same family tree. Apart from a passing phyical resemblance, there was nothing to say that this somber, inward, stoney faced boy was any relation to the brash, mischievous, whirlwind-in-bottle that was his father.
So far, Elrond hadn't gotten so much as a flicker of colour.
Normally children shone the brightest. But no, not this one.
However, he did note that the space around Arathorn was saturated somehow - as if he were looking through an aged window. And still he'd yet to say a single word. He did not wish to force the child to chat if he was not up to it; but the silence was becoming oppressive.
Elrond was glad when the rain started to fall, and the tip tap punctuated the air.
Arathorn too, seemed to appreciate it, he turned to watch the drops fall upon the window.
"Do you like the rain?"
Another nod, facing away from him.
Elrond tapped his fingers on one of the leather arms of his seat. "I know this will be very different for you, and that you must miss your parents. But once it is safe they will come and visit, would you like that?"
Arathorn turned around. His brow was slightly wrinkled, as if he hadn't understood.
Elrond glanced towards the cloak that still hung from where he had put it earlier. "...your mother? Would you like to see her soon, Arathorn?"
The boy's expression shifted as if too say, 'ah, now that makes more sense' and once again he nodded.
Perhaps the plural, 'parents', that is his mother and his father wanting to see him was something of an unknown concept. Elrond was not feeling optimistic about Arassuil's parenting thus far.
"Adar?"
One of his twins stepped in, Elrohir, his steps were lavender - his brother's a deep Nolofinwean blue. Elladan had much in him of Findekáno; or so had said Elrond's mother in law.
"Aye, ion nin?"
Elrohir asked if he may escort Arathorn to bed, since the hour was getting late, and he suspected his father might desire to get some work done before retiring himself for the night.
Elrond frowned, then looked outside, and it was indeed darkening. How long had he and Arathorn just sat in the quiet?
The elf looked to the child, who scooted off his seat and went to the younger elf. Elrohir smiled, and offered a hand which the boy took; it was so small and delicate, almost like that of a porcelain doll.
"I could read to you if you wanted? Before you sleep?"
But before disappearing into the hall with Elrohir, Arathorn took a pause, and raised his head to look the elf in the eye for the first time. Elrond felt uncomfortably transparent under such a penetrative stare.
"...Goodnight." It was so soft Elrond nearly missed it, a whisper that was almost lost in the expanse of the room.
Elrond blinked, but then hastily replied. "Goodnight, Arathorn I shall see you-"
The door shut with a soft, tree green click. "-in the morning."
Elrond was alone.
Sighing heavily, he leaned back into his armchair, the fire was slowly dimming - shutting his eyes, but everything was shaded with the hue of Arathorn's words.
Grey.
And the emotion?
Melencholy.
Penneth nin - my child
Nana and Adar - mother and father
Ion nin - my son
