Dignity.
That is the lifeblood, the core, of the Lord of Imladris.
They call him wise - he has seen countless years of this world, and in those ancient ages, he has gained knowledge and judgement beyond measure. They call him strong - because of those eons in Middle-earth, endless pain has been his lot, and he has borne it. They call him beloved, for he is - he is kind; he is soft when he wishes to be; he is gentle as the summer breeze, warm and calming as a pool of water as the sun shines. I think him sad - for all these reasons.
Ever beneath his stern serenity, there lingers in his eyes, in the lines of his face, a quiet grief, long there and never to fade. So much kindness, so much care - and so much loss. But never, no matter how brightly the sadness shines, has any ever seen him without the natural grace and dignity that are his in the same way his hair and his flesh are his own.
And for all this, I love him. I cannot remember a time when I did not.
I am young in the eyes of my people, though ancient to those of mortal race. From my earliest memories, he was a distant figure - our lord, our rightful king, some even said. Stately, regal, awe-inspiring - but his face was quick to turn from a stern, imposing expression into a gentle smile, his eyes softening. All loved him for it, as they always will.
As my childhood slipped away, my childish love, my inherent trust, my youthful awe, all became something more - something elusive, something I knew somewhere inside myself but didn't know how to voice. The only thing I knew for certain was that I loved Lord Elrond. As I do. As I will.
Here in the sanctuary of Imladris, our little world is one of peace - of learning. I spend my days in the great libraries, filled with lore and legend. I often see him there. I suppose I am a fixture of the place to him - the libraries without me tucked away in them somewhere would not be right. Sometimes, when he passes me, a paternal smile crosses his lips, and I feel warm; I feel as though some balm has just soothed a wound I did not know I had.
He knows naught of my feelings - at least not from me. Perhaps, with his great wisdom and piercing eyes, he has discerned my secret, but I know not. The shadows suit my heart well. But there are times when I waver. When I am the one to pass him a goblet for some festival, and our eyes lock. When he speaks to me, and my heart leaps. Yes, there are times when I almost want him to know. And, as I muse on it, perhaps he does know after all.
There comes a night where the sky is black and the stars shine like jewels. I sit at a window in the library, an open book lying forgotten on my lap as my gaze remains fixed on the heavens. I peer at a particularly bright star, wondering if it is our beloved Eärendil, the mariner who once sailed across the sea of Arda and now does the same in the vault of heaven.
My attention is diverted when I hear the tread of footsteps; I know it is him. I turn my head, and I see that the ever-present sadness in the blue depths of his eyes is bright tonight. Lord Elrond sighs, resting his forehead against a bookcase, one hand gripping a shelf. Compassion twists my heart.
"My lord," I murmur, just loudly enough for my voice to carry. He raises his head; he is not surprised that I am here. "You look weary," I continue. "Will you not come sit with me a while?"
His robes whisper softly as he complies, sinking into a chair beside my cushion in the window nook. "It is very late, my child," he says quietly. "I think you will find most of Imladris asleep. Would it not be wise for you to join them?"
I smile shyly, my eyes downcast. "I like it here, my lord, when all are asleep but the stars. The moonlight often streams through the windows to caress the books; it is a beautiful sight." What of Imladris is not beautiful?
"Such beauty is sacred, indeed," he agrees, gazing at the silver-lit room. The lines on his face are very evident tonight.
"My lord," I peep timidly, and he turns to look at me. "If I may - I - you see-"
He cuts me off gently - "Speak, my child."
I tentatively meet his gaze, fearful of being impertinent. "What troubles you, my lord?" I whisper. "You are sorrowful this night." I raise my trembling hand to cup his cheek, and, to my surprise, he leans into my touch and covers my hand with his own, his eyes closed. My name is a sigh upon his lips. His palm is warm, and I do not want him to withdraw his touch. Here, in the moonlight, surrounded by ancient, leather-bound volumes, with Lord Elrond so close and his touch so tender, I feel safe.
This silence seems almost sacred - reverent, a thing not to be intruded upon - and I hesitate to breach it; my words are barely audible - "Is there naught I can do to ease you, my lord?" His eyes drift open, almost reluctantly, and our hands drop, although his fingers still touch mine.
"Would you read to me?" he asks. "There is something about you that brings me peace, little one."
I smile at that, pleased at the sentiment, and I fetch a book of poetry of which I know he is fond. We sit there together, bathed in the glow of the observant stars, the soft melody of my voice calming his aching soul. And in this moment, that is all I could wish.