Letters and Hobbit Weed
By Alone Dreaming
Rating: K
Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings, though I do owe part of my soul to Professor Tolkien.
Warnings: For once, astoundingly, none.
Author's Note: A snippet from the lives of Elrond and Gandalf with a side touch of Aragorn (in spirit). Written for the November Teitho Contest, "Bad Habits," and second place winner (astoundingly). Enjoy.
Even if rumors propagated him as a deeply pensive creature, Elrond of Rivendell rarely spent his time staring out windows, contemplating Arda. As master of a large house, he had little time to spare for such things; in fact, a moment alone to think of anything became so unusual as the years passed that Elrond of Rivendell could only distantly remember it. Yes, he had the spare time to sit and sip tea but usually he had a letter in hand or a companion with whom to discuss pressing matters with. So, even he found it unusual as he gazed down through the aged buildings and into the valleys below, his hands behind his back. The letter in his hand hung loosely between his thumb and forefinger, light and yet, heavy in his mind.
"Where are you, child?" he whispered to the wind. "And what has become of you?"
"It is his greatest flaw, I fear," a voice said behind him, "to disappear as such. A bad habit of sorts. Along with grinding his teeth, of course."
A slight smile came to his lips. "Ah, a wizard would know, I suppose." He tilted his head so he could see Gandalf, shaggy, old and undoubtedly, knowledgeable, in the doorway of the hall. "How now, my friend?"
"Passing through," the wizard replied. "And upon hearing that the Lord of Rivendell canceled his evening meetings and missed dinner, I felt it prudent to happen upon him before I departed."
"I see," the half-elven murmured, turning back to the river, trees and slowly setting sun. "Be assured that there is nothing amiss. I merely seek time to," he paused, "ruminate."
Gandalf closed the distance between them, settling himself on the bench Elrond stood by. He moved like an old man, hunched up, rickety, but did not deceive the half-elf next to him. The twinkle in his eyes and the swiftness in which he produced his pipe correlated with a man much, much younger. He packed the pipe and lit it. "Yes, rumination is good for the soul though I find laughter and celebration to be better substitutes."
"And smoking," Elrond observed. "Another habit you acquired from the halflings, no doubt?"
Gandalf drew in a breath and let the smoke trickle through his nose. "Vices come in many shapes and sizes. I find this to be the least of mine and, certainly, the most beneficial."
"Beneficial?" Elrond echoed, trying to smooth his countenance despite the irritation of the fumes.
"Aye," the Wizard said. "Beneficial. Now, tell me, what does our wanderer have to say?"
He did not inquire as to how Gandalf knew the letter came from Aragorn. Over the years, he'd come to accept that Gandalf knew many things and most of them were neither widely nor easily acquired. "Very little," he told the wizard. "His writing belies weakness, though, for it is crooked and unsophisticated in craft. Estel never had such poor penmanship and was ever graceful with his words." He squeezed the paper, feeling the roughness between the pads of his fingers.
"He would not worry you with things beyond your control," Gandalf deduced. "Not intentionally. Perhaps another bad habit to go along with the rarity of letters. Though," he added, "a good trait in a king."
"I would know more even if the situation was dire and beyond my control," said Elrond, carefully not addressing the last part. "While we may disagree on certain aspects of his heritage and future, he is still my son."
The wizard blew a smoke ring. "And as your son, he wishes to protect you from the worry."
"I am not a child nor faint of heart," Elrond had to control his voice. He had no reason to blame the wizard for giving him the truth. "And having only half the facts burdens me more than having all of them." He turned suddenly, a thought occurring to him. "What has he said to you?"
Gandalf, unlike those of his household, did not flinch at the glare. "Nothing more than in that letter, no doubt, though I cannot be certain without reading." Unperturbed, he locked eyes with Elrond. "I am not a child either, Lord of Rivendell. Such ire does not frighten me. Now, calm yourself. I would not hide anything from you that I deemed important."
"You know more than you say," he accused boldly. "And you know that it would ease my heart to have the truth. Why do you hide it from me?"
"For the same reasons Aragorn has chosen to omit them from his letter," Gandalf told him. "The issues are not pressing and you have many, many things which require your attention. Even if your son was ill or injured, my friend, he does not dwell close enough for you to help him. Even if some tragedy has struck, you cannot do anything for him from here which will keep him from ruin." He added, somewhat more gently, "He is no longer a child, Elrond. He is an adult and a leader for his people. Unlike in his youth, he understands the pangs of responsibility and as such, will not add to yours."
Bitterness entered him through his mouth, leaving his tongue heavy. He paced a distance, his hand in a fist about the letter so that the sheet crumbled. His heart thrummed quickly, driven by self-righteous anger, annoyance and, distantly, understanding. With all of this, came the gentle strumming of pain; the pain of a parent who realizes that his or her child has outgrown him or her. He returned to his original place and brought the letter before him so he could see the twisted letters and wandering phrases.
"I apologize," he whispered. "You do not deserve my anger."
The wizard smiled. "I cannot hold it against you as I indulge in some good hobbit weed. After all, one bad habit deserves another."
"And what habit are you referring to?"
Gandalf's laugh was deep, rich and relieving, like a warm bath on a winter's day or good wine after a long struggle. "Fretting about things outside of your control, Elrond; instead of seeing the good, that he has written, and enjoying what he has said, you fear the shadows of what may be behind the words."
He opened his mouth to argue only to let it close once more. A smile twitched his lips. "Aye, my friend, I suppose I do."