Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings and all its characters, races, and creatures, as well as our beloved Middle Earth, belongs to JRR Tolkien.
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Several hours later, at midafternoon, Jeren was in the library returning the book she'd been reading about war. Rhyse had gone in search of Elladan, and Jeren was sure it was to ask him if he was ready to return to the settlement. She wanted to forget about Rhyse and all the complications he brought to her life right now, and what better way to do that than to read?
As she returned the book she had borrowed to the place where she'd found it, she ran her finger along the multi-colored spines of the books near it, searching for another by Captain Thorongil, but could find no more that had been written by him. He'd used many examples of battles he'd fought in, but they'd occurred in distant parts of the land. It seemed as if he'd spent a good bit of his time in Rohan and even Gondor. Jeren wondered where he was now, if he even still lived.
She'd learned a great deal from his writing, having never given much thought to strategy in war. She often wondered at the reasons why the officers she'd dealt with chose to do the things that they did. Often times she found herself agreeing with senior officers—such as Aragorn or Lord Glorfindel—but sometimes, it seemed as if there was no logic to the orders the younger officers gave—Joem, for instance. She wondered if that was because he truly did not know what he was doing, as she suspected, or if she was merely ignorant of the finer points of battle strategy. She thought it was not that, because her mind was quick, and she seemed to instinctively know how a battle might play out. But how would she ever know for sure, if she could not study the subject further?
"Jeren," Rhyse said, out of breath from running, apparently. "I didn't think I was ever going to find you." He was smiling, and Jeren could only assume it was because he'd found someone to accompany him—and her—back to the settlement. She'd hoped to put off telling him a little longer that she had no intention of going back there, at least for the time being.
Erestor was sitting at a desk a few feet away, and he looked up, a nasty scowl on his lips. Jeren wanted to laugh at the face he made, but knew he wouldn't appreciate it. Instead, she took Rhyse's hand and led him out onto the veranda off the library.
The library was all but open to this outside terrace, and a low stone barrier with pillars rising up from it every several feet served as a wall. So Jeren led the way further into the garden, so as not to disturb Erestor or anyone else who might be trying to work within the library itself. The tiles making up the floor extended outward to a very tall hedge that closed the garden in, making it seem like a massive, outdoor room. Benches were placed along the perimeter several paces apart. There were stone pillars built intermittently throughout the terrace, holding up a wrought iron trellis that served as a ceiling of sorts. At this far end of the garden, wisteria hung in cascading bunches off the framework, now in full bloom. Its clusters of fragrant, purple flowers hung down, but the trellis was high, so the blossoms did not hang low enough to touch anyone. When darkness stole into this garden, small lanterns attached to the trellis were lit, making it seem as if it was the sky above, and one was witnessing a starry night. It was very beautiful, whatever the time of day.
"Elladan has agreed to leave for the settlement tomorrow," Rhyse said. It broke Jeren's heart to hear the excitement in his voice, knowing she was going to be the reason for his enthusiasm to fade.
She walked a short distance from him. "I cannot go back with you yet, Rhyse," she said quietly.
"You want to keep working with Lord Elrond in order to get your arm to work again, don't you?" Rhyse asked. He walked toward her, until he was standing beside her again.
She looked at him, not knowing what exactly to say. She could simply agree with him and there might be less arguing. But she decided to be completely honest with him. She owed him that, she thought.
"Yes, partly," she answered. "He has high hopes, but I do not have any of his optimism. He can make my fingers work faintly, when he uses his healing power and concentrates very hard at it. I'm not moving my hand using my own strength."
Rhyse grimaced, and took her good left hand in his.
"Lord Elrond says there's a good chance you could train your left arm to do what your right knew to do automatically."
"A chance!" Jeren scoffed. By her tone it was hard to tell if she was more scornful or more despondent. "I use my right hand for everything—at least I used to."
"A good chance," Rhyse said, ignoring her remark. He was determined not to listen to her excuses this afternoon.
"Rhyse, I am never going to wield my weapons again." There, she'd said it. And it was exactly how she felt. Why go back to the settlement, if she had no hope of being a ranger again?
"Certainly you won't with that attitude."
"Have you even heard what I've been trying to tell you? I barely have feeling in this hand, and I definitely cannot hold a weapon with it." She was beginning to show some life at last. Her endless lethargy was something that had been trying Rhyse's patience since his arrival.
He looked at her for a long moment, then he shook his head slightly as he said, "Jeren—it's not like you to give up without a fight."
"I have been fighting! I have tried repeatedly to do the things Lord Elrond has asked me to do. My hand does not work, Rhyse. I am not giving up, I am merely facing reality."
"When was the time you ever faced reality?" he asked her bluntly. "You—"
"How can you say that to me?" she asked him, her voice calm, but her mood turning from something other than hopeless, which was exactly what Rhyse had been after. "I've had 'reality' knock me down and use me, Rhyse. If anyone knows how to face reality, I certainly do."
He looked into her face, seeing her hurt expression, and was instantly regretting his careless words. He took hold of her arms with both of his hands, and said, "You are right, Jeren. I'm sorry. That was a stupid thing to say. It is just that you've always known what you wanted, and then you've made it happen, whether it was customary or reasonable—or based on reality, for that matter."
"Those days are over Rhyse."
Her disheartened tone had returned. Rhyse dropped his hands to his sides, frustrated, but not yet ready to call defeat. "So easily?"
"None of this is easy."
"But you'd give up on your life so quickly?"
"I didn't give up on my life—it gave up on me."
"Ah, the classic speech of someone in the throes of feeling sorry for herself!" he said, more sharply than he had been speaking before. "You seem to lack ambition, yet you certainly do not lack self-pity. Come on, Jeren. This moping child guise you have adopted does not suit you. I have no desire to be around you when you act in this way."
"Then leave. No one is stopping you."
He looked at her intently for a moment. "I think that might be what you truly want, is it not?" he asked her. She looked away.
"If I go, I will not be returning," Rhyse warned quietly. "I mean it Jeren. You have been sulking like a spoiled child for weeks—even before this injury of yours—and I've grown tired of it." He walked a short distance from her. He glanced back, so that she could hear what he said, but he did not come nearer. "I do not know what to say to you anymore."
"You speak of me and my lack of drive, yet you have no patience with me at all. Can you not give me a little more time? Time to adjust to a life without blades or bows? I've lived my entire existence with one or the other in my hand—in my right hand, Rhyse—and that hand will no longer hold them."
"Time I could give you, but you refuse to use that time in constructive ways. You sit and pine; I've not seen you do the exercises Lord Elrond has given to you. I cannot abide you when you don't even try."
"I am telling you—I have tried. You've only been here a few days; I've been working at this for weeks. We simply must face facts—I will no longer be a warrior, Rhyse, nor a ranger. It would be best if we both grew accustomed to that reality.
Rhyse walked further away from Jeren, stopping momentarily to lean heavily against a pillar on the terrace. He turned back toward her, but stayed where he was, the distance seeming like an ocean to Jeren.
"That is not a reality I want to imagine—or accept. I cannot even grasp that concept. That is who you are, Jeren—who I love—a warrior, a ranger. I cannot think at all in terms of you never being either of those things again."
Jeren said nothing, but a tear dripped from one eye. And then another dropped from the other one. Jeren wiped her face with her fingers, but the tears would not stop. Rhyse had not said it—yet—but she heard it loud and clear. He was telling her goodbye.
"For Valar's sake, you aren't crying now, are you?" he asked, obviously irritated and without any sympathy. "I've never seen the Jeren I know cry, at least not for herself." He stepped angrily toward her, stopping inches from her side. "I've only seen you weep on one occasion, and it was for someone else—for Elrohir, when he was wounded. And now you not only brood, you cry as well? I cannot take it!"
"Then go away!" she said raggedly, in almost a whisper. He was right, she thought, she truly seemed to have no fight left in her. Her face was awash, but she couldn't make herself care, now not even attempting to wipe the tears away.
"I thought I knew you," he said, even angrier, by now standing over her, "but I find I never did. This is not the warrior I fell in love with. This is some tired woman with no will to do anything. I need a partner, Jeren. I will not be saddled with an old, crying and whining life mate. I cannot marry someone who acts as you do."
"Then don't!" she shouted. It seemed as if Rhyse had at last stoked the fires of her anger, which, in calling her old, at the very least, was enough to finally get her ire up. "I find you are not who I thought you were, either. You are harsh and intolerant—just like your father!"
Jeren could not have said anything that would have inflamed Rhyse more. His eyes bored into hers, his face set in a cold, hard frown.
"At least I am not a coward," he said, the venom in his voice—and even in his eyes—unmistakable, "nor a quitter." He was standing very close to her now, towering over her. "What do you fear? It can't be hard work; I've seen you work harder than any man. Why will you not work at this? You will not even attempt to get better!" He circled her like a cat cornering a mouse, and when he spoke again, it was in a deadly calm voice. "I thought that perhaps this injury had changed you, but I think you were probably this way from the start, you were just hiding your true nature from me. You put on a good show—you did not know the word 'quit' when you wanted to be a ranger with the Dúnedain. How I admired you! But now your life has become difficult, so instead of fighting it, you give in to it. You are a cowardly person, Jeren, unfit to wear the star of your forebears!" By the time he'd finished his speech, he was shouting at her again.
"Rhyse." His name was spoken softly, but not by Jeren. "It must be time for you to take your leave," Elrohir said firmly.
Rhyse looked at Elrohir, angry at the intrusion. "I was under the impression that this was a private conversation."
"It would be, were it being held somewhere besides the terrace outside the library," was the Elf's terse reply.
Jeren had seen Elrohir angry before, and he was angry now, although Jeren could not fathom why this argument she was having with Rhyse would set him off. The tension around his mouth, the faint downward drawing of his lips over his clenched teeth, the furrow between his brows, the barest flinch of his eyes—all were warning signs that she shouldn't ignore, but she could not summon the will to do anything about it.
"I'm not finished talking to Jeren."
In three long strides Elrohir was upon Rhyse, with the man's tunic bunched up in his fist.
"Oh, you are finished." The Elf's eyes flashed with undisguised malice.
"Elrohir." Even though only one word had been uttered—his name—it was a quiet command from his father. As neither Jeren nor Rhyse had heard Elrohir's approach, none of those present had been aware that Elrond had joined them, either.
Elrohir slowly let go of Rhyse's tunic front, his hand finally dropping to his side.
"Go. Wait for me in my study," was Elrond's demand. Elrohir said not another word, he just turned and left, his anger still very apparent, barely controlled.
Jeren wondered how the Elves happened to be here just now, but decided it had to do with the loudness of the argument she'd been having with Rhyse—and their cursed Elven hearing.
Elrond turned his solemn eyes to Rhyse, who could not look the Elf lord in the face.
"I thought to ask some inane question, as 'is all right out here?' But I can see it is not, without voicing such nonsense." Jeren did not look up, she stood where she was, one hand covering her eyes, quietly weeping.
"All is right, my lord," Rhyse finally answered. "I think Jeren and I have said all—and more—than we thought to ever say to one another." Then looking Elrond in the eyes, he continued, "I find my presence here is not only unwelcome, it is definitely not needed." He cleared his throat and said with more formality, "Thank you for your gracious hospitality, Lord Elrond, but I find I must be on my way. I am needed back at the settlement. They are hard-pressed for warriors." He paused, and then, looking directly at Jeren, he finished, "They have lost one of their best; I am sorely needed."
Elrond nodded and Rhyse walked away, his footsteps echoing on the tile outside the library. Jeren still did not look up, so Elrond went to her, and bowing his head just a little to better see into her face, he took her left hand, which had been covering her eyes, into his. Patting it gently, he let it fall to her side. He then cupped her face in his two hands, almost insisting that she look at him. Her swimming eyes, reddened from tears, looked back into his and his heart broke just a little. He embraced her then, needing to comfort her almost as much as she needed him to do it, just as he had when she was that young teenage girl many years ago.
"Think not about it for now," he advised her, his voice soothing. "Think about nothing."
Jeren could feel herself slowly relax, and knew for a fact that he was using some vague and mysterious Elven power on her. With an arm around her shoulders, he guided her back inside.
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Elrond sat Jeren down in his study. They'd walked the halls of Imladris quietly, making their way to this sanctuary together, neither saying a word. Only the sound of Jeren's occasional sniffing broke the silence between them.
Elrohir was already in the room, standing at the windows that looked out over the valley of Rivendell. His attention was now focused on Jeren, and Elrond saw how much it hurt his son to see her weep. Their strong, warrior woman seemed reduced to a shattered girl with nothing to live for.
Elrond filled a glass from the decanter on a stand in the corner and brought it to her. He'd never offered her the Elven drink of Miruvor before, but he thought if ever someone's spirit needed help in its very survival, this was the time. He went down on one knee, again taking her left hand away from her tearful eyes. He placed the goblet into it, pressing her fingers around the bowl so that he was assured she would not drop it. For the past several weeks, the Elf lord had seen plenty of glimpses of the much younger girl who had first come to Imladris some ten years ago—the unsure girl with little confidence that she could do anything right and that everything must somehow be her fault. He wanted not to tempt fate. If the glass slipped from her good hand, she would see that as another failure on her part, so he wanted to ward that chance away before it could occur.
He urged the goblet to her lips, and she took a small sip. She grimaced and all but sputtered it out of her mouth again.
"I cannot drink this," she was finally able to say, as she swallowed convulsively and stifled a cough. She shoved the glass back into Elrond's hands.
"I know you do not care for it much, but a little will not make you ill, and it will do much for your spirit."
She continued to hold the goblet out to him, but he slowly pushed it back toward her with the palm of his hand. She sighed and took another small sip, screwing up her face and shuddering as the drink burned its way down her throat.
"That's it," he soothed. "Just one more decent swallow, and I'll let you be." When she looked at him with a plaintive expression, he smiled. "For me?" he asked, in his best 'father's voice'.
She exhaled loudly and did as he asked, and this time as she shivered at its awful taste, Elrond took the goblet from her and placed it on the corner of his desk.
"Now," he said, his voice still kind, "what was all that commotion with Rhyse about?"
"He no longer wants to take me as his wife." She stopped, unable to continue, burying her face in her hand again. He gently took it in his, holding it fast. She looked back into his eyes, hers flooded in tears. "It is as if he may not have been telling me the truth before, when he told me he loved me. I thought if you were to wed someone, you loved her in spite of her ills. If I am not a warrior, he wants nothing more to do with me."
"Who says you are not a warrior?" he asked, his formidable brows drawn together over eyes growing fierce.
Grabbing the sleeve of her all but lifeless right arm with her left hand, and lifting it aloft, she said, "This says so."
"But Dear One," he said, his voice now that of her healer, "it's been such a short while—only a little over a month since your injury. I would not expect—even with miraculous results—that your arm would be much farther into recovery than it is. You need time."
"He is unwilling to give me time."
"I think he is merely afraid. When your life changed, so did his, and he doesn't know any more how to deal with it than you do. He did not want to show you his fear, so he gave you his anger instead. He does love you—how could he not?" He paused for a few seconds, hoping the smile on his face would penetrate the despair that she now felt. "He will come to his senses. He is a good and decent man."
"He is a fool," Elrohir put in bitterly.
Elrond gave his son a dour look, and Elrohir turned back toward the window again. The Elf lord stood and took Jeren's hand once more, pulling her up from the chair. "Let's get you to your room. You need some rest. All this upheaval slows your recovery." He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, ready to walk her to her room.
But she stopped, gently pulling free. "No, my lord; I'll go—you can trust me to see myself upstairs. Truthfully, I have no will to do other than sleep. You need not bother walking with me."
"I will be only too happy to do so."
Jeren smiled, thanking the Valar again that she had such genuine love in her life. Then she aimed a meaningful glance toward Elrohir as she said, "You have more important matters to see to."
Elrond looked at his son, then back at her, nodding slightly. He kissed her forehead, and then opened the door, allowing her to pass in front of him, and then quietly closed it again after her. He then walked toward his son and stopped beside him. Elrohir looked at his father, and Elrond could see anguish in his eyes—and also fear.
"So," the Elf lord said as he stepped away, "what possessed you to lay your hands upon a guest in our house?" He waited for Elrohir's reply for almost a full minute, before turning around to face his son again. "Elrohir? I expect an answer."
"I am no longer a youngling for you to discipline. If I lay my hands on someone here, it is because they needed hands lain on them."
Elrond frowned, not liking the tone or the answer given. "I have afforded you endless patience, Elrohir," he said, and his very tone was a warning, "as have so many others in your life. Jeren, Elladan—even Glorfindel! They all tell a similar story, with no hint as to any reason for your behavior. You have been surly, impatient and careless of others' feelings. Were I not sure it was impossible, I would think you had exchanged natures with your brother!"
Elrohir fought it, but he could not keep the faint smile from his face. "I am sorry, Father. My behavior does leave much to be desired these days."
Elrond walked closer to his son. "I can see in your eyes that there is a grave reason for your change in attitude. Tell me, Elrohir, what is so dire in your life that it would change your very spirit?"
Elrohir turned back toward the window. "I cannot say, Father."
"Cannot or will not?" Elrond asked.
"I cannot speak of it. I do not have the heart to see your eyes cloud in disgust at my disclosure."
Elrond had not thought it possible, considering all he'd lived through these many millennia, but he was genuinely shocked by what Elrohir had just said.
"What could you have possibly done that would elicit any response other than pride from me? That is, if one leaves out the incident earlier today with Rhyse?"
Elrohir smiled wanly again, then looked toward the floor. "This is too vile. It has turned my mind black."
"Perhaps if we had another mind healing session, that might ease your way into telling this—secret—that has you in its clutches."
"My attitude about fighting in a battle with Jeren anywhere near never eased, even with your repeated attempts to change it with mind healing. I never overcame my fear that Jeren would be hurt in a battle we both fought in."
Elrond frowned. "I find it difficult to believe you had no results from our sessions. You found no relief from my intervention?"
Elrohir shook his head. "Not so I could tell. No, I think it will not help with this either. Besides, who knows what other wretchedness lies within the reaches of my mind? I am tainted. Something has turned me evil."
Elrond was at a loss. What else was there to do? He could not order his son to tell him his troubles. He wished that Elrohir were an Elfling once again. Problems such as these—which seemed so large and impossible to his young son—always turned out to be simple to resolve. But Elrohir was long grown, with adult problems not so easily solved.
Elrohir went to the table on which sat the Miruvor. There was also a decanter of wine, and Elrohir poured himself a glass. He turned toward his father, holding the glass aloft in silent question, asking if Elrond might join him.
Elrond nodded and Elrohir poured, handing the goblet to his father. The younger Elf took a large swallow, and Elrond hoped the wine would do its work and perhaps loosen his son's tongue just enough so that Elrohir might free the thing from his mind that was so horrible that he could not even utter it.
Elrohir sat in the chair that Jeren had vacated, and Elrond took his customary seat behind his desk. They sat in silence for a few moments, each thinking his own thoughts.
"So this is not a thing you have done, it is just something repulsive that keeps eating at your mind?" Elrond asked carefully.
Elrohir nodded, but said nothing. He sat with his elbows on the arms of the chair, the goblet of wine dangling between the fingers of both hands.
"When did it begin?"
Elrohir waited so long to speak that Elrond thought he might not answer. "It's hard to say. It is something that came on gradually—probably starting eight or nine months ago—but it has gotten worse with time, especially when Jeren returned from a scouting mission with Joem's patrol—not this most recent one, but about three months ago."
"Then it has to do with Jeren?" Elrond asked, his brows drawn together in concentration.
Elrohir winced, as if knowing he'd already said too much. Then he huffed out a haunted laugh. "Yes, it has to do with Jeren."
Elrond thought for several minutes about what his son had said. What could be so unspeakable that could possibly involve Jeren? He could not for the life of him cipher this out. Elrohir loved Jeren, and it was apparent that that had not changed. But if Elrond was honest with himself, he had noticed that Elrohir avoided Jeren when he could. It did not make sense. What could it be?
"Just say it, Elrohir," Elrond said calmly.
Hearing this tone in his father's voice made Elrohir suspect that the Elf lord might be attempting to use his mind healing methods on him in spite of his protests, and he did not want that to happen. He did not remember the sessions he'd had several months ago, and then again a few months later, so he could not really tell what Elrond had said at the time, or the tone of voice he had used. But he had no way of knowing if the filth that had been surfacing recently and gnawing at him night and day was all that there was to find in the dark places of his psyche. The thoughts he'd had for the past several months were terrible enough—he in no way wanted to make the whole matter worse unintentionally.
Yet he knew he could not continue living the way he had been—if one could call it living. He'd felt so vile; he felt as if he were only existing, and others around him were suffering the consequences.
"Just say it," Elrond repeated. "I hold no judgment of you, son. I know you. You are incapable of what you fear—that you are becoming evil—that you might be tainted. No such thing is occurring, and I think if you will share with me what is on your mind, I can help you see that."
Elrohir placed his wine glass on his father's desk, and buried his face in his hands. He stayed that way, unable to look at the Elf lord—or rather, unwilling to see the revulsion on his father's face that he would be unable to suppress, if Elrohir ever worked up the courage to speak.
But speak, he finally did…
"My feelings for Jeren have changed," he finally said, his voice muffled somewhat. He was still looking at the floor, although his hands were now holding the sides of his face, his elbows in his lap.
"In what way? I can detect no change, other than the fact that you are treating her in the same ill way you treat everyone else."
Elrohir reluctantly looked up. "When I first met Jeren, I felt as if I were an older brother to her, but gradually that changed. I began to feel as if I were her father, and she my beloved daughter. I've loved her more than I ever thought to love another Human, Father. Not since Estel.
"With Estel, as he grew older and wiser, it was easier to treat him as a peer. And I'd hoped the same could be said for my feelings for Jeren. However—gradually—my fatherly feelings for her have turned lustful. I've begun to notice her as a woman. What father has feelings such as these for his own flesh and blood?"
"But she is not your flesh and blood, Elrohir," Elrond replied quickly. The Elf lord thought his heart would break at the expression of pure shame on his son's face. He got up from his chair and came around to the front of the desk, sitting on the corner of it, closer to Elrohir. "You have no reason to feel so stained by these thoughts."
"How would you feel, Father, if one day Arwen walked past you and you lusted after her? She embraced you and you could not control how your body reacted to her nearness?" Elrohir asked angrily.
Elrond stood, and held up a hand. "I get your point, son. There is no need to continue speaking in that vein." He walked toward the window behind the desk, pondering quietly. He suddenly turned around, as if some answer might have occurred to him.
"Your own flesh and blood..." He repeated the words he himself had used just moments ago. "Elrohir, those are the same words that I used during the mind healing sessions we had. Do you remember nothing of what went on in those sessions?"
Elrohir shook his head, looking to the floor again, as if ashamed.
Elrond knelt next to his son and lifted his face so that he could be sure Elrohir would hear exactly what he was going to say. "I told you repeatedly that Jeren was not your own flesh and blood; that you need not worry over her as a father might." Elrohir tried to look away again, but Elrond would not let him. "Do you not see what has happened? You listened to me! That is all that is wrong with you, son." Elrond finished with raised brows and a smile on his face.
The relief that washed over Elrohir's features was a blessing to his father. Elrohir embraced the Elf lord, as he had when he was an Elfling, and his Ada had helped him to fix a youngling's dire problem.
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"So I no longer have the fatherly feelings for Jeren that I once had because of the mind-healing sessions I had with you?" Elrohir asked his father, for probably the third time. He could hardly believe that the anguish he had felt all these months had such a logical solution.
"It certainly explains everything to me," Elrond declared. "When I perform mind healing on someone, I try to choose my words carefully, because I leave the suggestion of what I am saying in the person's mind. I want to be sure that what I am leaving behind is what I mean to leave behind. And in your case, what I told you was exactly what was needed. You worried as a parent, and I dissuaded that logic in your mind. You are not related to her, so you need not worry over her as a father might. She is a woman grown, who can take care of herself. I told you these things and your unconscious mind believed them. But your unconscious mind did not share with you consciously what it now held as fact."
"I am so thankful to know this," Elrohir said, his voice almost weary. Elrond could hardly believe the change in his son's face. Before, it was obvious that Elrohir felt the weight of the world on his shoulders, but now, while he didn't exactly look carefree, he was clearly relieved.
Now Elrond's face was wearing an expression of doubt and worry. He'd never dreamed that Elrohir would react to his mind-healing methods in this way. It certainly posed a problem. "What will you do concerning these new-found feelings you have discovered for Jeren? You know how fool-hardy it is to fall in love with a Human."
"It is difficult to sort out," Elrohir said almost to himself. "I love her—I've always loved her—but now I have many conflicting emotions." He paused for a moment. "Why did my feelings change at all? Why did they not just stay those of an older sibling for a younger one? I fight alongside Estel and Elladan without feeling responsible for them. Why could I not just do the same with her?"
"You probably loved her this way all along," Elrond said reluctantly. He did not want to give Elrohir any indication that he encouraged any sort of union between him and Jeren. But as a healer and a father, he had to give the counsel his son so craved.
"I think you were more than likely protecting yourself, whether you knew it on a conscious level or not," Elrond said. "Jeren always had feelings for your brother, and you did not want to compete with that, so you told yourself—deep within your psyche—that your feelings did not stray into that area. It was much safer to love her as a sibling might, or a father, for that matter. But when I stripped that away in your mind, all the feelings you ever held for her—consciously and unconsciously—came to the fore.
"We could have more sessions to rid you of this notion, too," Elrond said calmly, although he did not feel calm in the least. The last thing he ever wanted was for one of his children to be drawn toward the life of Humans, and the easiest way for that to happen, in the Elf Lord's viewpoint, was for one of them to fall in love with one.
"I think I will leave the mind healing alone for the present," Elrohir said dryly. "It has done much to wreak havoc in my life."
"You have not answered my question," Elrond persisted. "What are you going to do about this?"
Elrohir looked at his father sadly for a moment. Then he said, in a matter-of-fact tone, "She's betrothed to someone else. Even though Rhyse left her in tears today, her love for him is not something that will fall away because of anything I might disclose about my feelings for her. And she has told me before—she loves me as a brother. There is no reason for her to change those feelings overnight, as she might think I have done."
Elrohir picked up his glass, seeming to look into the garnet depths of the wine. "I will do nothing about this for now." He glanced up at his father. "Her life is much too chaotic at present to add this revelation to the mix. I love her, Father; to suddenly declare myself in love with her would be cruel."
He leaned back in the chair, finally relaxing after months of self-torture. "For now, I am thankful to know there is a reasonable basis for this change in me. For now, that is enough."
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A/N: Well, you now know what Elrohir has been worried about. Maybe it was a shocker, maybe not. I have long resisted pairing Elves and Humans, but when Elf in a Bottle reviewed Chapter 15 of "Follow Your Heart", she inadvertently set me on the path to this story. And Sadie Sil—you also had a hand in this plot line. Thanks, Sadie and Elf in a Bottle!
