you be my heartbeat

Disclaimer: If I owned LotR, this would be canon. All of it.

Air:

I hold onto my breath as the river pulls me down and spins me around until I can't tell which way is up. I don't struggle; it is pointless, and I will need my strength.

Minutes pass. The current pulls me across the rocks until I'm battered and bruised, but compared to my screaming lungs I barely notice the impact.

Where are you, Elrond? I'm your heartbeat and you're my air, that was our deal, but I have no air and I need you more than ever. Where are you?

I slowly give up hope of ever drawing another breath, but some part of me clings to the air still in my lungs.

Le melin. I love you.

I close my eyes and surrender myself to the ice-cold water.

Namarie. Goodbye.

Butterfly:

"How is she?" Thranduil sat down beside Elrond on the bed.

Elrond's face was calm, but his eyes were weary. "No better. No worse." He made a valiant effort at a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "She still hasn't woken up."

Arwen had been unconscious for nearly a day and a half after the attack. Thranduil's wounds had healed, but hers hadn't. "I only wish I'd gotten there sooner," he said. "If I find him…"

Elrond nodded in agreement. "She seems so delicate." He traced one of the pale cuts. "All it takes to kill a butterfly is a touch to the wing."

Our butterfly, they'd always called her.

They watched their daughter for a few more minutes in silence.

Thranduil twined his fingers with Arwen's with one hand and Elrond's with the other. "She's the strongest butterfly who ever lived. It would take more than a touch to the wing to kill her."

Two days later, Thranduil turned out to be right.

Comb:

When Elrond went back to their rooms after the council adjourned he was visibly annoyed. Thranduil sat down on the bed behind him with a comb, a silent offer, and Elrond leaned back into his touch, a silent request.

Long pale fingers moved through shadow-dark hair, undoing complex braids and moving in small circles on Elrond's scalp. "What did he want?" The soft question didn't break the silence so much as bend it.

"He wanted land. It was nothing we couldn't spare, not for the amount of soldiers he agreed to send, but he insisted on surveying the plot on two dozen different maps before he signed."

Thranduil hmmed in sympathy. "Needlessly long and needlessly dull. I would be annoyed too."

They fell back into a comfortable silence, and when the imaginary snarls were gone and braids redone, they both left the room calmer.

Drunken:

Footsteps echo down the hall behind us. Ro ducks into a doorway to hide, and I follow his lead: any Elves drunk enough to have footsteps that loud are too drunk to notice us.

They're laughing about something. I don't know what but I recognize the voices. Thranduil and Ada, Ro and I think at once. We glance at each other.

We should go, Ro's voice murmurs in the back of my mind. C'mon, Ella.

They'd catch us! I hiss back. He seems to see the truth in that, and we stay where we are.

Thranduil holds Ada by the shoulders and I bite down hard on my lip to keep in an embarrassed laugh as their lips lock. From what I can tell it's sloppy and unskilled, but if the sounds they're making are any indication, they don't agree. I don't think we're going to be able to look them in the face tomorrow, I think to myself, careful to keep my twin from hearing. If he blushes any harder he won't have enough blood left for the rest of him.

Can we go now? Ro thinks at me. Apparently I underestimated his blood capacity.

I glance at our fathers, evaluating the danger level. Shut up, that's all I was doing. They're too wrapped up in one another to notice us. Let's.

Eternity:

The were Elves, and they were supposed to have eternity.

Thranduil drowned one year after the end of the Third Age.

Elrond sailed to Valinor one year later. He found a small house, far away from other Elves, and lived alone.

Legolas stayed in Middle-Earth until Aragorn's death, as he had promised. He took Gimli west, and they traveled together until Gimli's death.

Arwen chose a mortal life, and faded shortly after her husband's death. She died alone in Lothlorien.

Elladan and Elrohir chose to be counted among the Eldar, but they did not sail until fifty year after their younger brother had, three years after Gimli's passing. They lived with Legolas, near their remaining father, and made lives for themselves.

They were Elves. They were supposed to have eternity.

That doesn't mean they always did.

Fellowship:

You have my sword.

And my bow.

And my axe!

When Thranduil opened the letter the first words popped out at him, and everything else blurred.

Estel and Legolas journey to Mordor. Arwen plans to choose the fate of Luthien.

A few moments later he was exceedingly grateful that he had been alone. At the time, he didn't care who heard the sobbing scream that escaped his lips.

Nobody should have to bury their child.

It was one of the few sentiments shared by all.

Grieving:

There was one day of the year when Elrond mourned.

He'd never actually told me this, but anybody with eyes could have seen, and I was closer to him than most.

"What's different about today?"

His face was blank as he stared out of his window and off into space, but his voice cracked as he answered. "It's nothing." He knew full well I wouldn't believe it, so he continued. "An anniversary, nothing more." He wouldn't look at me. "An anniversary that my brother no longer honors, but that I still do."

"You have a brother?" I hadn't known. "What's his name?"

Elrond sighed. "Not have. Had." He turned to face me and I saw for the first time the tear tracks that ran down his face. "And his name was Elros."

He walked past me and left the room, eyes unseeing and mind sheathed in distant memory.

He never told me more, and I never asked.

Heartbeat:

You lay there, curled into him, head against his chest.

Other people count sheep, seconds, blinks, when they sleep. You measure his heartbeat.

When Celebrían was fading her heartbeat slowed until it was about to stop.

Thranduil's is slow, but strong. Steady. The heartbeat of sleep, not of dying.

As long as his heart keeps beating, so will yours.

Independent:

Nobody is truly independent.

I didn't learn this until the death of Lannian, my wife and Queen. Until then, I had thought that I didn't need anyone.

That was folly.

I needed her.

I needed-need-Legolas.

And now, more than anything, I need Elrond.

Jealousy:

Political Elrond was a very different person than Personal Elrond. Thranduil couldn't help thinking that he much preferred Personal Elrond.

He was currently sitting at council, far too far away from his herven for his personal comfort, glaring daggers at Erestor. Elrond and his Chief Advisor were obviously working together, each almost seeming to know what the other was thinking, and while Thranduil knew they'd secured many treaties with their united front he still felt rage snake up his spine at their closeness.

"Who is he to you?" Thranduil hissed. He leaned forward over the edge of Elrond's desk.

Elrond glanced up from his papers. "Erestor, you mean?" Thranduil nodded. "He's my advisor. He's my friend. When Celebrían sailed he was a shoulder to cry on. But he was never what you are."

Thranduil smiled. "Good." He pressed a territorial kiss to Elrond's lips. "Because you're mine."

Kiss:

Somehow, whenever the two of you kiss, it feels like more.

Because it is more. Sometimes a declaration of love, sometimes claiming ownership, sometimes a comforting gesture, and sometimes a passion-filled rush of want.

It was how Thranduil approached you for the first time. It was how you announced your relationship to your people.

It is everything you need it to be.

Laughter:

"Legolas?"

I'd been looking out the window, watching the twins' swordfighting training. "Yes, Ada?"

Thranduil sat down next to me. "I'm going to ask Elrond to marry me." He must have noticed me tense, because he followed this with, "Do I have your blessing?"

"Come on, Legolas," Elrond said softly. "It won't be that bad.

I crossed my arms and shook my head, resolutely Not Moving. It was an art I'd all but perfected.

Elrond sighed and walked over to me. "Why not?" It was hard to do, but I managed to keep silent. He reached over and-batted at my hair?

I let out a surprised laugh. I hadn't realized he was so childish.

"See? I made you laugh." He took my hand and started walking in the direction of the council meeting I was required to attend. "I promise the advisors don't bite."

Thranduil was staring at me, obviously worried. "You have it," I said, and hugged him. "I love you, Ada, and you've just found a way to hold moonbeams. It's great to see you happy."

Having Elrond as a second father wouldn't be a problem at all.

Moonbeams:

He doesn't notice the crack in my voice when I call him friend. He doesn't notice the hitch in my breath when he comes too close, and he doesn't notice how my hands clench into fists to hide their shaking.

He doesn't notice, but Legolas does.

"Ada?" Legolas says to me after dinner. "Whenever you're around Lord Elrond, you try to hold moonbeams." I glance down at my hands and he's right, my fingernails dig into my hands.

I release my death grip on my heart. At the base of each of my palms there are four crescent-shaped cuts.

Legolas slips his hands into mine. "Even you can't capture moonbeams, Ada." He's unusually serious and when I look at him I see him for the first time not as a young prince but as a future king.

"I know, ion nin," I say. "I know I can't. But I try anyway, just in case."

Legolas seems satisfied by this, and he keeps walking. I follow.

I stand on the balcony, skin turned silver in the moonlight.

I know, ion nin. I know I can't. But I try anyway, just in case.

I reach out a hand to grasp at moonbeams.

Night:

During the day, at least at this point between them, they act relatively normal. Perhaps they will tell the world of their love one day; perhaps they will not.

The day belongs to other people: to their realms, to their people.

But the nights are theirs and theirs alone, and when they are pressed together, knowing nothing but one another, they almost don't care who knows.

Almost.

But even then, not quite.

Ocean:

Waves will crash on the shore.

He will pace the length of the ship, waiting for you. You will both wish, not for the first time, that your sons were here, but Legolas will not sail until Aragorn Elessar has died, and Elladan and Elrohir wait for him.

You will walk Bilbo onto the ship, and you and he will stand side by side. The hobbits will give Frodo tearful goodbyes. Galadriel and I will smile, at them and at each other, and I'll take Frodo's arm and bring him on the boat.

You and your herven will stay together for the entire voyage. Once we arrive in Valinor you will not separate.

Poetry:

Thranduil had clear eyes and an emerald voice.

Thranduil had clear eyes and an emerald voice, and whenever Elrond heard it his first thought was that he could listen to that voice forever.

Which, incidentally, was what he was doing now, leaning back into Thranduil's chest and listening as his herven read aloud. The book lay open on Elrond's lap as Thranduil's emerald voice curled around him.

"I love you," Elrond said between lines of poetry.

Thranduil pressed his cheek into Elrond's hair and kept reading.

Question:

"You and Thranduil seem much less guarded now that you're friends. Or whatever it is that you are."

Elrond looked sharply at his daughter. Arwen had seemed engrossed in her book, until Mirkwood's king had left the room. "Arwen, what are you talking about?"

She looked up at him, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that her storm-cloud grey eyes could see through him. She reminded him of Brían.

"You laugh more when he's here," she said simply. "You seem happier. Your eyes don't look so tired." Arwen's lips curled into a smile, and Elrond was reminded even more of her mother. "Just so you know, the twins and I have given our blessing since he could tell apart Ro and Ella." She went back to the book as if the exchange hadn't occured.

Arwen was wrong. Elrond didn't feel that way about Thranduil.

They were just friends.

Nothing more.

...Right?

Rain:

"Did you open the window?" Thranduil spoke in a half-asleep murmur.

"Yes." Elrond slid back into their bed, reclaiming the pool of warmth his body had left. "Why do you ask?"

"You do know that it's pouring rain, don't you?'

Elrond smiled as Thranduil's arms wrapped protectively around him. "I like the rain." It was true; he did like rain, and he always had. He and his brother had curled up together as children whenever rain pounded on their roof, and he would always treasure the memories.

"You're so weird," Thranduil murmured as he slipped back into sleep. Elrond shifted until their bodies were pressed together.

"I love you too."

Sunlight

Whenever you see him, you think that he shines like the sun.

And in a way, you are correct. Elrond Peredhel has a light of his own, but it isn't quite sunlight. The sun burns your eyes when you look too close.

However long you watch him, Elrond's sunlight never burns. It only ever warms.

Twins:

The twins are excellent swordsmen. Elladan slashes his way through a battlefield and leaves wide paths of dead foes in his wake, while Elrohir finds a single opponent and dodges and parries and deflects in swift, fluid motions.

Sparring together, they are both brutal and beautiful.

Thranduil smiles as he watches from the branches of a tree. He still cannot identify which one is which by looks alone, but even so he can identify them as easily as Elrond and Arwen can. By their stances (Elladan is prouder, his chest forward and shoulders back; Elrohir gathers himself in), by their voices (Elladan shouts without meaning to, while Elrohir speaks softly and rarely), and by their actions.

They did not accept him as family until long after their sister had.

Arwen invited him in from the beginning, but Elladan and Elrohir waited until he could tell them apart to do the same.

Umbrella:

Two figures stood in the rain.

The dark-haired one was silent, looking upwards. It looks like the sky is falling. The blonde one stood behind him, keeping up a steady stream of commentary. He ignored it. Or like I'm speeding upward into the clouds.

"Why, again, did we leave our umbrella at home?" They were both soaked. The strands of pale gold hair that had escaped the ribbon that tied them back fell over the blonde one's face in a makeshift curtain.

Dove grey eyes didn't turn from silvery grey sky. "Because we don't need it," he said absentmindedly. "Look up. It's beautiful."

"What's so beautiful about being wet?" But he stepped forward so their shoulders brushed and tilted his chin upward.

Two figures stood in the rain.

Vivid:

When you see him, all you can think of is life.

Because Thranduil of Mirkwood is quite possibly the most vivid person you have ever met. Around him, tastes are stronger, colors are brighter, everything feels like more.

And your heart beats faster, in a way that it hasn't since Celebrian sailed into the West.

Winter:

Snow swirled around them and gathered in a thick white carpet at their feet. Winter was his time, part of his realm, but here among the frozen fields and snowflake-dusted trees they seemed even more alive.

They didn't see him. Harvests rarely did.

He watched them running across the snow, laughing like a pair of elflings. Thousands of years old they were, yet to him they were children. What are millenia, when one has seen the creation of the universe and will see it snuffed out? The dark-haired one finally caught the other, who twirled him around and clasped their hands together, fingers twined.

"I love you," the blonde one murmured. The dark-haired one didn't reply, but they gathered each other closer until their foreheads brushed.

They are happy together. It wasn't something that generally concerned him, with harvests, but these two had found their way into even his heart. Another day. Another year. Another century, even. Let them be together a while longer.

He knew of each and every death, both past and future. The day would come that they would be torn from one another, but it was not this day.

The long black cloak and the scythe made no mark in the snow…

...as the Reaper turned his back on the harvest and faded into the mist.

Xeniality:

Elrond pulls me away while we're in Rivendell. I don't mind in the slightest. The dwarves' irrational hatred of this places is getting on my nerves. Rivendell is nice. I could see myself living here.

"If you want to get to the Lonely Mountain," he says quietly, "you will need to go through Mirkwood."

I have no idea where Mirkwood is. I have no idea why he's telling me this in a hushed tone, like he doesn't want anybody else to hear. But I nod and go along with it, because the information could be useful.

"King Thranduil is…" He grimaces. "Not overly fond of dwarves." And I'm sure that the dwarves aren't overly fond of him either. "But, if you tell him that I treated you as guests, he should at least let you pass."

Wandering the halls of the Elvenking's palace, I almost wish I had been visible when the others were captured. I could've followed Lord Elrond's whispered advice.

I wonder how he was so sure.

Yinyang:

He is the yin to your yang, the scholar to your soldier.

He is the yang to your yin, the close bonds to your cool detachment.

He is the yin to your yang, the water to your fire.

He is the yang to your yin, the sword to your arrow.

He is the yin to your yang, the quiet strength to your pride.

He is the yang to your yin, the light to your darkness.

Neither of you could live without the other.

Zero:

When I pull you out of the river you're broken. Your skin, once pale and perfect, is littered with scrapes and bruises, and more than one bone was shattered against the rocks.

Your face is somehow peaceful, as if in sleep, but your eyes are closed, and when I check you aren't breathing. I press my fingertips against your wrist but our heart has stopped.

I should have been there, is all I can think. That was the deal we made, that you were my heartbeat and I was your air. But you drowned, you died from lack of air, and I am left to keep my heart going.

I cradle your broken body in my arms and carry you home.

Our sons take the news with varying degrees of reaction. Elrohir comforts Elladan as he sobs, but Legolas simply meets my eyes, nods, and leaves the room. He's trying to hide his tears, so I pretend I don't see them.

I don't leave your side for days, until Erestor and the twins and I must ride back to Imladris. I mutely follow.

Legolas makes a good king. You would be proud of him.

Tomorrow I sail for Valinor. I wish you were with me.

Le melin. I love you.

Namarie. Goodbye.

3 to the power of 3:

I wonder who that is. Legolas and Elrohir lived in Valinor, fairly near here, but neither had told him they were visiting. Maybe Brían?

There was another, more hesitant knock. Elrond got to his feet, abandoning his book, and opened the door. "Hello?"

Thranduil stood in front of him, a living angel. A cautious smile graced his features. "Hello. May I come in?"

He was back.

Thranduil was back.

"O-of course. Come in-meleth nin?" He wished he sounded more certain.

Thranduil, naturally, didn't acknowledge how his voice cracked and broke, instead stepping over the threshold of the small house and enveloping Elrond in an embrace so tight it could have been called desperate without exaggeration. "I love you, I've missed you," he murmured over and over, and Elrond held him and listened and, when he was done, dried Thranduil's tears.

Their ending wasn't quite a Happily Ever After; is was not so idyllic as that.

But the two of them were never separated again.

The End

Elvish translations:

ada: father (informal)

ion nin: my son

meleth nin: my love

le melin: I love you

namarie: farewell

estel: hope, childhood name of Aragorn

Notice on Matters Concerning Canon:

When Elves die, they're reborn in Valinor a few centuries later. THIS IS A CANON THING. I did not pull that out of my ass as a deus ex machina. That is the sign of a hack writer, which I'd like to think I'm not.

Yes, I am aware that Elves don't get drunk. But Elrond is half-elven, and Thranduil was drinking a lot.