::Ties of Kin::
Disclaimer: It's all Tolkien's.
A/N: I thought for quite a long while of abandoning this story, but this little bunny bit me, and I've decided to go on with it. I do not really feel all that happy with this chapter, but I suppose it will have to do.
*
As Elrond looked upon his son, foster son, he reprimanded himself quickly, he felt something twinge in his heart, maybe even in the back of his mind, a memory, a fleeting instinct in an instant. Dark hair and grey eyes, almost Noldorian in his looks even at such a young age, almost a mirror of a visage that long perished from the face of this earth, almost risen from the dead. Innocent eyes that would glint in firelight, revealing maybe a small hint of a wisdom not yet fully nurtured, and small, harmless hands reflecting those of healing, and if Elrond concentrated, almost as scarred and aged as his. Young lips curled in a peaceful smile, ignorant to the world around it, joyful yet at the same time incurably sad, a curse placed on shoulders so alike to his it almost hurt. Like someone raised from the dead, an image so different yet so alike. A mortal soul, a flickering candle that struggled through guttering wind only to fade, diminished with the aeons of time that Elrond had to endure.
Unable to keep his rampant emotions in check, Elrond Peredhel staggered out of the sleeping Estel's room, lurching, almost drunk, for his private gardens that no one dared infringe upon. Something in the mortal face of his youngest son reminded him so much of a part of him forever departed from the shores of Arda, a piece of him torn away, leaving him alone and empty in a world with a family that he never knew, parted beyond the edges of Middle Earth into a darkness to which he could not follow. Almost like a twin image, whenever Elrond looked into the mirror, a twin image so like him, just happier but greying, fading, ageing with time before withering away, an image that would not be seen ever again. Almost Elros, in a way that no other Numenorian had been able to equal, not even his own sons. Elrond wanted, for the first time in a long while, to cry. To cry for all the injustices in this earth inflicted by a force that even he could not fathom, to cry for his duty, for his family's duty that tore them apart, for choices, for time, for age, for everything.
In the depths of his foster son, Elrond knew that he was looking at himself, looking at a self that he wanted to be able to create, to mould, to make happy. Elrond knew that Estel's path was one akin to his own, riddled with blood and misery, a duty and a mission that he wished upon no one. Elrond wanted to clutch at Estel, young Estel, oblivious Estel, to keep him away from himself, away from the horrors of the world that he had to face at that young an age. So at last, in the privacy of his own gardens, Elrond cried, and he could not stop, fear and loneliness from ages long past, haunting memories from the dead, from Adar to Amme, from Elros to Ereinion, from Celebrian, from Lindon and from Beleriand, from everything. But for more than anything, Elrond cried for Estel.
*
Glorfindel frowned. It was early yet, and Estel, young boy of seven as he was, was in bed as usual, but Elrond was nowhere to be found. It was barely past nine off the clock, but the Lord of Rivendell, who was supposed to be going over reports with him, was missing. Not in his beloved library, nor his study, nor with Erestor or any of his other councillors. The golden haired elda furrowed his brow in confusion as he strode purposefully to Estel's rooms, his hand still clutching a stack of parchment that he had brought from his study unconsciously. It was not like Elrond to be anything other than punctual. Cracking the door open just an inch, the balrog slayer only found a peacefully sleeping edain child with no elf lord anywhere in sight. Shutting the door silently, Glorfindel sighed and admitted defeat. Walking a rather longer route than was necessary back to his study, Glorfindel idly flipped through the documents, though not really reading them in the dim light provided by the candles lighted in the corridors.
Then, just as he was about to turn into his rooms, a noise caught his attention. A sniffling noise, slightly muffled, almost like an elf crying. Glorfindel felt something was dreadfully amiss. There were no other rooms near his other than Erestor's and Lindir's, both of whom, Glorfindel knew, were not within their chambers this night. Other than the private areas, there was only one other place near here that was not corridor and walkway, and that was Elrond's private gardens. Documents completely forgotten, Glorfindel turned away from his door and moved into the gardens.
As Elrond's trusted advisor, friend and chief of the Imladris guard, Glorfindel knew that he was privileged enough to prowl in Elrond's gardens, which were strictly off bounds to the general population of Imladris. The only people who dared to enter were Elrond himself, Erestor, Elrond's children and himself. All others were expelled with a mouthful of reprimands and an angry elf lord. Turning past an outcrop of rose bushes, Glorfindel came upon a sight that he had never seen before save once in his entire service to Elrond. The elf was crying.
Dropping his papers to the ground, oblivious to the fact that they scattered about the grass and loam, Glorfindel knelt by his sworn lord's side. Elrond turned his head to look at his seneschal, and croaked in a hoarse voice, 'What are you doing here?'
Glorfindel pulled Elrond up, supporting the peredhel with his own body.
'What do you think, peredhel? To discuss the reports, of course.' he said softly.
Elrond snorted through his miser, but merely slumped back down, boneless against his friend. Tears were streaming down his face, but the lord seemed unaware of it as he glanced up at the sky.
'Earendil shines bright this night, Glor.'
Glorfindel did not need to look up to know that, wordlessly walking Elrond to a stone bench and seating both of them down. Elrond turned to come face to face with a concerned friend and a furrowed brow. Sighing, he took the effort to wipe away the moisture from his cheeks and threw his head back. Quietly, he commented, 'Do you know what day it is, Glor?'
Glorfindel just shook his head, knowing that all Elrond needed at the moment was support.
'It's the day that Elros died, Glor.'
Although his face did not show it, Glorfindel's insides lurched. Elrond had always been reclusive on this date, but the attitude had faded over the years until Estel came to the House. Somehow, Estel managed to drag up memories of Elros that none of the other Dunedain that had come to be fostered in Elrond's house did, just as he had managed to form a bond with Elrond that none of them had. Since then, Elrond had become moodier and emotional on the day his twin left Arda, and few dared to meddle with his temper then. Glorfindel silently cursed himself for forgetting. Elrond continued.
'You know, Glor, that Estel looks more like Elros than any of the others ever have? He reminds me so much of him that I would swear that he just came back from the dead.'
Glorfindel said nothing.
'He is innocent, Glor. He does not deserve this fate, not this madness that will be inflicted upon him, not this burden. But Elros would have been proud, to know that even now the line of Kings is still alive, however threadbare it is.'
'Elros is gone, Elrond. He isn't coming back.'
Glorfindel's voice was quiet, but it spoke volumes. Elrond stopped his tirade and turned to glare at his friend. Anger blossomed over his features for a moment, and he opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words emerged. Taking heart, Glorfindel went on.
'Whatever way fate will bear him, Estel will have to bear his lineage, his duty. Just like you have. The line that your blood follows is riddled with sorrow, Elrond, but at these moments in the darkest of times is when the line of Earendil shows the most courage. Your family has had its share of misery much embedded in the history of these ages, but you cannot hide from it, Elrond. Not then, not now. He needs you, Elrond, just like you need him. When age comes upon him and tears him away just like it took Elros, he will still need you, because you will tie him to his blood, even as he is the last tie to your brother. However you will deny it, the path that Estel has to bear is Aragorn's, not Estel's, for he is not your son by kin, not for you to hide and protect. Elros died for a cause, and you live for one. You have to let him go.'
Glorfindel had crossed the line, and the elda knew it. Elrond stared at his friend, a lifetime of misery and hatred bubbling to the surface, and felt at a loss, unable to contemplate what was going on. For a long while, Elrond felt violent emotions war within him, and for a fleeting instant, all he wanted to do was backhand Glorfindel. But as azure eyes bore into his own, Elrond found that all he could do was close his eyes and cry. Something inside him broke, some link to the past broke, and all his bottled emotions cracked a glass casing of millennia, and for a while, Elros was laid to rest, and Elrond cried onto Glorfindel's shoulder.
So even in the darkest of times, Earendil's line had a guardian, and with his life, Glorfindel worked to pull the house of the Star through, heedless of his own problems and doubts. Somehow, it worked, and somehow, it was enough. The same soul would watch over the mortal line of the house, and would see the last hope of man through, watch him wield his first blade, watch him grow to adulthood, strengthen the line of kings, rise to the throne and finally fade away. But for a moment, that last hope was dormant, and it was also asleep in a warm bed, dreaming of glory for a kingdom far away that he did not know.
Disclaimer: It's all Tolkien's.
A/N: I thought for quite a long while of abandoning this story, but this little bunny bit me, and I've decided to go on with it. I do not really feel all that happy with this chapter, but I suppose it will have to do.
*
As Elrond looked upon his son, foster son, he reprimanded himself quickly, he felt something twinge in his heart, maybe even in the back of his mind, a memory, a fleeting instinct in an instant. Dark hair and grey eyes, almost Noldorian in his looks even at such a young age, almost a mirror of a visage that long perished from the face of this earth, almost risen from the dead. Innocent eyes that would glint in firelight, revealing maybe a small hint of a wisdom not yet fully nurtured, and small, harmless hands reflecting those of healing, and if Elrond concentrated, almost as scarred and aged as his. Young lips curled in a peaceful smile, ignorant to the world around it, joyful yet at the same time incurably sad, a curse placed on shoulders so alike to his it almost hurt. Like someone raised from the dead, an image so different yet so alike. A mortal soul, a flickering candle that struggled through guttering wind only to fade, diminished with the aeons of time that Elrond had to endure.
Unable to keep his rampant emotions in check, Elrond Peredhel staggered out of the sleeping Estel's room, lurching, almost drunk, for his private gardens that no one dared infringe upon. Something in the mortal face of his youngest son reminded him so much of a part of him forever departed from the shores of Arda, a piece of him torn away, leaving him alone and empty in a world with a family that he never knew, parted beyond the edges of Middle Earth into a darkness to which he could not follow. Almost like a twin image, whenever Elrond looked into the mirror, a twin image so like him, just happier but greying, fading, ageing with time before withering away, an image that would not be seen ever again. Almost Elros, in a way that no other Numenorian had been able to equal, not even his own sons. Elrond wanted, for the first time in a long while, to cry. To cry for all the injustices in this earth inflicted by a force that even he could not fathom, to cry for his duty, for his family's duty that tore them apart, for choices, for time, for age, for everything.
In the depths of his foster son, Elrond knew that he was looking at himself, looking at a self that he wanted to be able to create, to mould, to make happy. Elrond knew that Estel's path was one akin to his own, riddled with blood and misery, a duty and a mission that he wished upon no one. Elrond wanted to clutch at Estel, young Estel, oblivious Estel, to keep him away from himself, away from the horrors of the world that he had to face at that young an age. So at last, in the privacy of his own gardens, Elrond cried, and he could not stop, fear and loneliness from ages long past, haunting memories from the dead, from Adar to Amme, from Elros to Ereinion, from Celebrian, from Lindon and from Beleriand, from everything. But for more than anything, Elrond cried for Estel.
*
Glorfindel frowned. It was early yet, and Estel, young boy of seven as he was, was in bed as usual, but Elrond was nowhere to be found. It was barely past nine off the clock, but the Lord of Rivendell, who was supposed to be going over reports with him, was missing. Not in his beloved library, nor his study, nor with Erestor or any of his other councillors. The golden haired elda furrowed his brow in confusion as he strode purposefully to Estel's rooms, his hand still clutching a stack of parchment that he had brought from his study unconsciously. It was not like Elrond to be anything other than punctual. Cracking the door open just an inch, the balrog slayer only found a peacefully sleeping edain child with no elf lord anywhere in sight. Shutting the door silently, Glorfindel sighed and admitted defeat. Walking a rather longer route than was necessary back to his study, Glorfindel idly flipped through the documents, though not really reading them in the dim light provided by the candles lighted in the corridors.
Then, just as he was about to turn into his rooms, a noise caught his attention. A sniffling noise, slightly muffled, almost like an elf crying. Glorfindel felt something was dreadfully amiss. There were no other rooms near his other than Erestor's and Lindir's, both of whom, Glorfindel knew, were not within their chambers this night. Other than the private areas, there was only one other place near here that was not corridor and walkway, and that was Elrond's private gardens. Documents completely forgotten, Glorfindel turned away from his door and moved into the gardens.
As Elrond's trusted advisor, friend and chief of the Imladris guard, Glorfindel knew that he was privileged enough to prowl in Elrond's gardens, which were strictly off bounds to the general population of Imladris. The only people who dared to enter were Elrond himself, Erestor, Elrond's children and himself. All others were expelled with a mouthful of reprimands and an angry elf lord. Turning past an outcrop of rose bushes, Glorfindel came upon a sight that he had never seen before save once in his entire service to Elrond. The elf was crying.
Dropping his papers to the ground, oblivious to the fact that they scattered about the grass and loam, Glorfindel knelt by his sworn lord's side. Elrond turned his head to look at his seneschal, and croaked in a hoarse voice, 'What are you doing here?'
Glorfindel pulled Elrond up, supporting the peredhel with his own body.
'What do you think, peredhel? To discuss the reports, of course.' he said softly.
Elrond snorted through his miser, but merely slumped back down, boneless against his friend. Tears were streaming down his face, but the lord seemed unaware of it as he glanced up at the sky.
'Earendil shines bright this night, Glor.'
Glorfindel did not need to look up to know that, wordlessly walking Elrond to a stone bench and seating both of them down. Elrond turned to come face to face with a concerned friend and a furrowed brow. Sighing, he took the effort to wipe away the moisture from his cheeks and threw his head back. Quietly, he commented, 'Do you know what day it is, Glor?'
Glorfindel just shook his head, knowing that all Elrond needed at the moment was support.
'It's the day that Elros died, Glor.'
Although his face did not show it, Glorfindel's insides lurched. Elrond had always been reclusive on this date, but the attitude had faded over the years until Estel came to the House. Somehow, Estel managed to drag up memories of Elros that none of the other Dunedain that had come to be fostered in Elrond's house did, just as he had managed to form a bond with Elrond that none of them had. Since then, Elrond had become moodier and emotional on the day his twin left Arda, and few dared to meddle with his temper then. Glorfindel silently cursed himself for forgetting. Elrond continued.
'You know, Glor, that Estel looks more like Elros than any of the others ever have? He reminds me so much of him that I would swear that he just came back from the dead.'
Glorfindel said nothing.
'He is innocent, Glor. He does not deserve this fate, not this madness that will be inflicted upon him, not this burden. But Elros would have been proud, to know that even now the line of Kings is still alive, however threadbare it is.'
'Elros is gone, Elrond. He isn't coming back.'
Glorfindel's voice was quiet, but it spoke volumes. Elrond stopped his tirade and turned to glare at his friend. Anger blossomed over his features for a moment, and he opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words emerged. Taking heart, Glorfindel went on.
'Whatever way fate will bear him, Estel will have to bear his lineage, his duty. Just like you have. The line that your blood follows is riddled with sorrow, Elrond, but at these moments in the darkest of times is when the line of Earendil shows the most courage. Your family has had its share of misery much embedded in the history of these ages, but you cannot hide from it, Elrond. Not then, not now. He needs you, Elrond, just like you need him. When age comes upon him and tears him away just like it took Elros, he will still need you, because you will tie him to his blood, even as he is the last tie to your brother. However you will deny it, the path that Estel has to bear is Aragorn's, not Estel's, for he is not your son by kin, not for you to hide and protect. Elros died for a cause, and you live for one. You have to let him go.'
Glorfindel had crossed the line, and the elda knew it. Elrond stared at his friend, a lifetime of misery and hatred bubbling to the surface, and felt at a loss, unable to contemplate what was going on. For a long while, Elrond felt violent emotions war within him, and for a fleeting instant, all he wanted to do was backhand Glorfindel. But as azure eyes bore into his own, Elrond found that all he could do was close his eyes and cry. Something inside him broke, some link to the past broke, and all his bottled emotions cracked a glass casing of millennia, and for a while, Elros was laid to rest, and Elrond cried onto Glorfindel's shoulder.
So even in the darkest of times, Earendil's line had a guardian, and with his life, Glorfindel worked to pull the house of the Star through, heedless of his own problems and doubts. Somehow, it worked, and somehow, it was enough. The same soul would watch over the mortal line of the house, and would see the last hope of man through, watch him wield his first blade, watch him grow to adulthood, strengthen the line of kings, rise to the throne and finally fade away. But for a moment, that last hope was dormant, and it was also asleep in a warm bed, dreaming of glory for a kingdom far away that he did not know.