Elrond can't remember his parents' faces. He can't remember Elros's voice, or what Maedhros smelled like, or the texture of Maglor's fingertips. And he clings to what he does remember of the ones he's loved and lost, guarding his memories like a dragon guards its gold.
Arwen didn't cry when Celebrían came back broken, or when her mother sailed. She didn't cry when she left everything she'd ever known to live in Gondor. She has never cried in her life.
She is physically unable to shed tears, and she hates it.
Elladan has nightmares about finding Elrohir, beaten and bloodied in an Orcish stronghold — the same way they found Celebrían.
Elrohir couldn't care less about vengeance. He follows Elladan on Orc-raids to keep his brother safe.
Melpomaen's friends all think that the scars on his face and torso were caused by an Orc. He doesn't contradict them; he doesn't like talking about his older brothers.
(He dreams about them sometimes, and wakes up shaking.)
There's a reason that Lindir always wears long sleeves, and it isn't that he gets cold easily.
Every morning, Erestor wakes up. Every day, he goes through the motions of life.
And every night, he prays to Námo and begs to die in his sleep.
The Balrog didn't pull him down. Glorfindel jumped.
He's hated himself ever since: not only did he fail to protect Gondolin, he didn't even manage to die properly.
Galadriel would like to believe that she is no longer the aggressive girl who left Aman in search of glory. But somewhere, deep down, she still is.
Celeborn has never fallen for anyone in his life — he loves Galadriel, but he isn't in love with her. He's tried, but he doesn't think he's capable of feeling romantically about anybody.
Haldir is a nearly obsessive perfectionist; everyone knows this.
What they don't know is that he starves himself to instill self-discipline and as punishment for imagined failings.
One of Orophin's fighting instructors sexually abused him. He hasn't said because he doesn't want his brothers to become Kinslayers for that bastard.
Rúmil is desperately, hopelessly in love with his liege lord.
He knows intellectually that they're only elflings' tales — but Saelbeth still believes in the fey.
Thranduil's king's mask is just that: a mask, and one that cracks just a little bit more with every time he sees his son fall further into ice and apathy.
Legolas measures his worth by the frequency of his father's smiles.
They're getting rarer now, so he becomes the perfect prince that Thranduil has wanted him to be. It doesn't seem to help. He doesn't understand what it is he's doing wrong.
The wandering harpist can't recall his own name.