A/N: This angst piece was authored by myself and someone on Lord of the Rings Plaza, whose name I appear to have misremembered. I very much appreciate reviews, as they help me improve. Thanks for reading!
Elrohir stepped outside his bedchambers into the heavy downpour. Slowly, methodically, he trudged through swiftly flowing rivulets of rainwater reflecting in their steadily rippling expanses the gray of the evening and the dark, dripping images of ancient stone edifices and arboreous streets. His countenance was as dark as the day. He wanted to be alone – away from the redundant array of empty, useless commiserations that, despite their intent, did little to comfort him. It was an abiding fancy for silence that bid him leave; a longing for a place to collect his thoughts – to think, to reflect, and to weep.
Past the musty, dull gray of the stones and the sound of waterfalls merging with the sound of rain he continued. His feet sloshed aimlessly through murky puddles, splashing mud thickly upon his blue leggings. Rain snaked sinuously through his dark hair and off his shoulders, but he didn't even notice. Presently, he halted, sighed, and looked down. He could hear her crying out for help, but no sooner had the cry come than it faded into the distance – tenuous, diaphanous to the ear – and was heard not again.
It was growing late, but Elrohir wished never to return. To sleep was torture. He would but close his eyes and she was before him, pleading, imploring him to save her, and yet he could not.
Elrohir turned his back to a tree, sat, and buried his face in his hands. So many differing, confusing feelings had wrested from him his heart and adamantly refused to return it – despair and hatred, guilt and self-loathing, disappointment and fear.
The death had been sudden and unforeseeable. A scream for help. An arrow's whistle. The hateful impact. An immortal breath expiring. And help coming too late. His help. Elrohir's help. Too late.
The arrow that had pierced her heart had pierced his heart, besides. His wound was more profound though; deeper than mortal wounds – the immortal sorrow, the blame. And who to blame but himself? He had caused the argument between them, and she had retreated into the solitude of the woods, where some roving goblins had come upon her. Such a waste! Such an injustice! And yet Elrohir knew that no amount of arguing the justice of the incident would alter what had taken place. She was lost to him.
He finally felt the cold rain pricking his skin. He was glad that the weather at least matched the occasion – and his mood. He was soaked to the skin but cared very little. Why should he care about his own comfort when she could do longer feel comfort or pain?
They had buried her that very afternoon. Elrohir himself had placed the black silk veil over her fair face, but could do no more before he succumbed to grief and had to depart from the funeral assembly.
The last remnants of light were fading behind Rivendell in the distance, leaving cold, wet, night to console Elrohir. The rain had lessened some, and there was an icy wind to replace it. It screamed through the distant buildings, and whispered harshly through the trees – accusations. The leaves rustled acrimoniously, pointing at him with many long, pitiless fingers.
A silhouette moved through the darkness. Elrohir, in his deadened state, was aware of the motion much later than he should have been. Instinctively putting a hand to his knife only to remember that he bore no arms, Elrohir could only watch as the figure got closer. If this was death, he didn't care any more.
"Elrohir?" His twin brother Elladan stepped out of the gloomy cover of the trees. Mists swirled around his foot as he stepped, making him seem ethereal and lofty while he, his brother, languished in the mud and slop. Elrohir looked away again, having no desire of the comfort that his brother obviously purposed to bring. Elladan sat beside him anyway, determined whether his twin willed it or no. "Brother, if I had been an enemy, you would be dead," Elladan said gently.
"It doesn't matter to me any more," Elrohir said, knowing and not caring that he sounded like a spoiled child. He didn't care about much of anything at the moment. Elladan sighed, as though something had just been confirmed. "Ada's been worried about you," he said.
Elrohir didn't answer. Why should anyone be worried about him? He didn't deserve it. He deserved to be forgotten, erased. Her parents were who they should be worried about. Her parents probably never wanted to see him again.
"I've been worried about you, too," Elladan continued, his voice soft in the pelting rain. Elrohir looked up, at this confession. Elladan never worried. Elladan was always laughing, always knew what to do. Angry, maybe, but worried? Never.
"Why?" He looked away again. "It's my fault." The tears began and would not stop. Elrohir was glad his face was already wet. He couldn't cry in front of his brother. Fairly soon, the news would get out about their argument, and then he would be ostracized, an outcast.
But Elladan knew. He put a hand on his twin's shoulder. "Nillossiel's death was not of your making."
Elrohir abandoned all pretense of composure at the name that he had been avoiding thinking about for so long. It was as though the name were tied to all the memories they had shared together, and would never make again. All because of him.