The leaves crunched sharply underfoot like thousands of tiny bones - and Elrond winced. The forest had its own music, and this was one of the many notes in its natural symphony, but it was the elf's least favourite. It always reminded him of that musty, damp smell of mould, and the murky browns of mud puddles. Nor did he like the way the leaves his tread echo throughout the woods, alerting every creature nearby to his presence.
Elrond was not an elf of the outdoors - his brother had occupied that role when they were children, while he himself recoiled from dirt, stones, and sharp twigs; which Elros liked to collect in his hair and clothes. Much to the despair of their guardians.
But one who didn't mind the crunch of leaves - in fact he took joy in scooping up handfuls and throwing them upwards - was Arador.
He was entering his early pubescence, a confusing time of growth spurts, unexpected hair growth, and a loss of a child's contentment in their own being. The young man inched closer towards inheriting the mantle of chieftain; a concept that seemed so far when he was a child, that it was almost imaginary.
But Elrond was always keen to allow his grand-nephews to linger in their childhood's as long as they desired to. For he knew that adulthood was a much longer, and colder road. So why not stay and enjoy the sun while it was still there?
He trailed along after the young man, feeling oddly old next to such youth and exuberance. Elros had always made him feel old too – even when his brother had been white haired, had achy bones, and walked with a stick in one hand; he had an eternal, youthful heart.
Arador eyed a nearby fallen log, and without missing a moment was going over to explore. He identified correctly the moss that grew on the wood, and the insects scuttling about between the cracks. Then, he started to climb it. The log had belonged to a mature willow, that had been uprooted by age and strong winds.
The son of Argonui held out his arms for balance, before taking a few steady steps across.
Elrond did not favor the strength of such a rotten tree. "Arador? Perhaps you should-"
Arador's startled cry rang through the air as he slipped, the wood crumbling underneath his feet like paper and he fell to the forest floor with wide eyes and flailing limbs.
The elf was by his side in the blink of an eye. "Aradir? Ion nin? Are you injured?"
The youth stared up at the sky. "I… do not think so?" He sat up, slowly. Upon his fall he had collected a few stay leaves.
Then Elrond laid his hand upon his chest.
Smoke. Thick and black, and so close it burned the skin and the eyeballs.
The cave was so dark you could not see your own feet.
But the smell.
Rotten flesh, perspiration, every bodily fluid known to man. And blood, it was fresh as well.
That horrible copper smell that made Elrond see white, bile green, and jaundice yellow all at once.
It was offensive.
But the screaming, the echoed cries of pain and fear that bounced off the walls and carried on forever…
Begging, pleading, all to no end.
Elrond knew that voice.
"…Adar?"
Elrond had almost keeled over to one side, his face had drained leaving it pale and wax like, but his hand was still on Arador's chest.
His heart was beating as it should, and the elf used it as a beacon to bring him back.
"…I do believe that is enough of the wilds for one day." He muttered, managing to stand back by some miracle. "Bring forth the horses, Arador."
Arador blinked, bewildered, before standing himself and dusting off his clothes. "Yes, Adar."
He trotted off down whence they had come, whistling for their mounts to come back from gazing to carry them home.
While he was away, Elrond prayed to any Valar that would listen – for a blessing of protection.