Here we go.
First I don't own, I make no money. Tolkein created, and his estate and other people own the rights.
Secondly, this is the sequel to my first short story "Hopeless Union." While you don't have to read that story first, it is highly recommended because this story would ruin the surprise at the end for you.
Thirdly, I wasn't going to write a sequel at all, but I got such nice reviews and
e-mails, That I decided to "add on" while still preserving the original story as a one shot.
This first chapter appears (to me anyway) to be a touch more angsty than the original.
Also, I might need to raise the rating later on, please notify me if you think its should be pg-13 instead of pg.
A very tipsy Elrond sat languidly at the banquet table. His only goal of the day accomplished, he was quickly returning to the bad humor that had been his constant companion for what seemed like five generations of Hobbits. He was only attending this odious affair because he had been kindly reminded of his position. Etiquette demanded that one of such importance as himself should attend the wedding of the only child of Galadriel. Basically having no choice but to go, he decided to make the traitorous wench hurt as much as possible. Normally, he would not refer to her in such a derogatory manner, even in his thoughts. But, the alcohol was getting to his brain releasing a morose personality usually hidden beneath his calm demeanor.
He had already succeeded in driving her off earlier in the evening, and thus had very little else to do but sit in his own self-pity. And, he reflected, that was much better than his second option. Which was, of course, ripping of Thranduil's face the next time he made a comment about how blissfully happy he would be with his bride. A bout of raucous laughter to something the (relatively) new King of Mirkwood said spawned another option. That being ripping something a touch more personal off of Thranduil the next time he said something off color about his soon-to-be wife.
Elrond growled something unintelligible in response to a question asked to him by his compatriot Glorfindel. Honestly, one would think that there was something to rejoice about in this wedding! Seeing that he had gotten his overly bubbly friend to leave him alone, he returned to his thoughts. He knew that Celebrian would make Thranduil a perfect mate. How could she not? She was perfect. The epitome of someone much higher in life than anyone else could ever be, not even her own mother. The problem was that Thranduil could never give her the perfect husband she needed. Elrond sincerely doubted that the golden haired elf could ever understand or fulfill the complexities of her personality. Not, that Thranduil was not a good king, he just wasn't a great one. As far as the person underneath, he was a touch plain for her. She needed someone complex to unravel.
Looking at the elf, he wondered what had ever possessed her to accept his proposal. What had ever possessed her parents to agree to it. Oh, he had received her letter about the affair. How she had summarily denounced any love for him. How she talked of how his lineage would only bring shame to her family. His blood was beneath hers. Thranduil was much closer in stock to her Mother's people. Though his forests were not as grand as Lothlorien, she would be more comfortable with there than in Imladris.
He recalled the night that he got that letter from her. He sobbed harder than when
Gil-Galad had died. He cried harder than when his brother had died. He cried until all that was left was a heartbroken man convulsing as when his brother had chosen to leave him for a mortal life. A mortal mate. He had cursed his ancestors for joining pure elven blood with that of a mortal. Just as he had when his brother had chosen.
In a rash of anger, he had pulled himself off of his floor to burn the letter in his fireplace, screaming as he did so, as his soul ripped in two. He only became cognizant sometime later when he was aware of Glorfindel wrapping his hands in bandages. Apparently he had held onto the steel fire poker that he used to stoke the fire. He had never taken it out after he tossed her betrayal into the hungry flames.
Hungry, that was something he was not for weeks after her letter. His friends had tried to get him to open up about what was wrong, but he could not. All he wanted was to die. And, he was succeeding. Logically, he knew that he would end up in the halls of Mandos or some such place, but the thought of death appealed to his morbid mortal side. Then she sent him another letter. Addressed in the same way their love letters had been. A friendly, if hurried script, not the stiff formal one she had used to address her damming message. How DARE she!! After she had crushed him into a million pieces! That she should assume that he would wish to talk of politics or tell tales to her after what she had knowingly done. His indignation had filled the void she had dug out. It gave him vigor. A dark and gloomy vigor, but vigor none the less.
He burned that letter. Returned the next. And did similar things to all that followed without ever reading a word. He did that until he had the courage to tell her to cease. After sitting at his desk for three hours, he decided to give the task to one of his lesser aids. One who would keep his mouth shut and not pester him as Glorfindel had.
Speaking of Glorfindel, a faint buzzing in his ear told him his boisterous friend had returned. Elrond accepted the glass of wine offered and rose to "get some air." In truth, his anger and plans for revenge had dissipated the instant he watched her leave from the table. Perhaps the rest of the guests had not noticed her melancholy, but he had. He felt the taste of victory in his mouth. It was not sweet, he reflected. It tasted rather like Orc blood that found its way to his tongue in fierce battle. He realized, belatedly, that he could not wish her ill no matter her heart towards him.
With determined stride, he made his way back to the table to set down his glass and announce his retirement for the night. Most of the well-wishers had already retired, so it was no surprise that he should also wish to take his leave.
That left only one duty left for the night. He would have to apologize to his lady. he would have to fight the bile in his throat and wish her a blissful union. He would have to laugh off his coldness as a child like pettiness born of a simple broken crush instead of a rendered heart. He would have to do it tonight. There would be no time tomorrow. That left the problem of reaching her. Going through the inner passages of her living structure would mean getting caught and scolded. That left only the option of scaling the trees until he could swing to her window and hope to find it open. With a grimace, he started his ascent. Ready to deny his heart in order to help heal her pride.
NOTE: I realize I might have made Glorfindel look a little stupid that he couldn't figure out what was going on. But, I needed him that way for the story.