Got bitten fingernails and a head full of the past
and everybody's gone at last...
It's a sweet, sweet smile that's fading fast
cause everybody's gone at last...

You don't get upset about it
No, not anymore.
There's nothing wrong
that wasn't wrong before.

Got a broken heart and your name on my cast
and everybody's gone at last...
Everybody's gone at last.
-Elliott Smith

Elrond watched Estel disappear around the corner and stood, transfixed where he stood. What had he done? This was no stranger or enemy; this was his Estel. No matter how quickly he had grown up into the wandering, fighting, bearded man, inside, he was still the toddler he had held in his arms and declared "Estel" - the hope of the Dunedain, the hope of the world. He was still the same boy who had watched him working with, bright, earnest eyes, eager to learn, to help, to please. Somehow, he had turned him into something else in his mind, yet the moment he had turned around to find the man so wounded from his words, guilt had begun slowly seeping out of somewhere inside him.

"I'm sorry, my son," he whispered, placing a steadying hand on his desk.

Yet he had had the chance to apologize to the man, to reassure him of his love for him. But he had merely stood, unable to back down after condemning him with such finality. He had felt regret for being so harsh, yet something kept him holding his ground, incapable of contradicting himself and comforting the man.

He slowly sat down, deep in thought. He had not meant to hurt Estel so deeply, that much he knew. But had he been fundamentally wrong in the matter, or had it merely been poor execution?

It was wrong of him to directly disobey me and ask for my daugher's hand, he assured himself, silently. It was wrong of him to assume he was worthy of her, to act on his desires, to bring her to pain and death. His words echoed through his mind and he winced. Nay, nay. He has always felt unworthy--you can see it in his eyes whenever she is mentioned, and... I have no way of knowing who acted first. He knew not that she was in Lothlorien when he entered; he could not have known. He did not go there for the purpose of seeing her. But as to my third accusation... He drew a cold hand over his white face and breathed deeply.

He would not get angry; he must remain calm and objective. He was searching for the truth, he reminded himself, just as in any situation. Only this was far more difficult, for it involved himself, and the people he held dearest. Even thinking this, he was still angry.

I must ask myself why I am angry. Immediately, visions of Arwen arose. Arwen lying awake during the lonely hours of the night, unable to sleep for fear Estel should be killed. Arwen growing old, her black hair faded and grey, her fair skin marred and wrinkled, her bright eyes dulled and defeated. And he saw himself leaving for the Valinor, alone, returning to Celebrian to tell her that their daughter had chosen not to come, that she would rather live a few happy years with Aragorn and die, than be with them forever. Was it Arwen then, whom he was truly angry at?

A tear ran down the elf's stony face. Something inside him was aching--a hole deep within him... an ever-growing hole that had begun with Earendil setting out on his voyage to beg forgiveness from the Valar, with Elwing clutching the Silmaril to her breast and throwing herself out her window--some said she had grown wings and flown to her husband, but all Elrond knew for certain was that he had never seen her again. The hole had deepened with every crime Maglor commited, as he realized he could not stop or save him, and it grew even more with his abandonment of his brother and himself. And with Elros' choice and ultimate death, he had felt his heart nearly swallowed in the hole. Year by year, it had been patched under Gil-Galad's care. The mighty Elven King had been more of a father to him than either Earendil or Maglor; as his squire and herald, he had followed him many a time into battle, and he had watched him fall under Sauron's force. Yet he had gone on stoically, for he had the fair Celebrian at his side, and she slowly brought him back to life.

"Meleth-nin. Ai, meleth-nin..." came the muffled cry from his sleeve where his head lay upon the table. "Why did you leave me? Why did you have to leave?"

He felt cruel to wish her to have stayed by him in Middle-Earth, weak and frail as she was. He knew not how long the orcs had tortured her--she would not speak of it--and he did not want to know. She had only said that she could not remain any longer, and so he had let her go. So many years had passed since he had held her in his arms and gazed upon her clear, blue eyes and felt the warmth of the sunlight captured in her golden hair.

If not for but one thing, he surely would never have lived on past that day, or else he would have abandoned his post and fled with his love to the Valinor, leaving his brother's descendants to fend for themselves or perish. One thing had kept him alive and whole: his children--Celebrian's children. Especially his Undomiel, for his sons reminded him too much of himself, while Arwen, though much his likeness in appearance, wore her mother's eyes and he could hear her laughing when Arwen laughed, and see her smile in her smile.

Yes, he realized, he was angry at Arwen--angry for not loving him as much as he loved her, for not realizing how she had filled his too-oft-broken heart with joy, for growing up too quickly, for no longer needing him, for abandoning him as everyone had, and choosing instead, death.

Yet how could he blame his beautiful, innocent, young daughter? Nay, it was not in him to bear ill feelings toward her. Instead, he had turned to the young man who had stolen her heart. It was easy to transfer his wrath to Aragorn; he was nearly unrecognizable from the boy who had sat upon his lap, unlike Arwen, who's face was ever unchanging. And the man was so like to himself, he realized--more so even than the twins. Subconsciously, he had felt that there would be less pain involved with lashing out at Estel.

But he did feel pain.

"I must make amends with him," he realized, rising from his chair. "And," he continued, hesitating for a long, thoughtful moment. "And I must... let her go. She cannot remain my little girl for eternity; I must let her go, as I let her mother go." He breathed deeply, a resolute light in his eyes. "I must let Aragorn go to her, just as I must go to my Celebrian."

At that moment, Elrohir entered the room. He stopped when he saw his father standing by his desk, one hand holding onto the top of the chair, staring intently at nothing.

"Ada?" he said questioningly, one eyebrow raised.

Elrond blinked in surpise, mentally jarred from his deep contemplation. He turned to his son, a faraway, yet calm expression on his face.

"Is everything alright?" asked Elrohir quietly, seeing the red in his father's eyes and the tear-tracks on his pale face.

The Elf Lord nodded, even smiled and brought an arm out to rest on his son's shoulder. "Yes, my son," he replied. "All is as it should be."

Elrohir returned his smile. Though still confused, he sensed that his father had been thinking very hard and had come to some sort of conclusion, and in doing so, was at peace with himself. As long as he could remember, which was a rather significant amount of time, his father had seemed wise, fair, kind, brave, noble, but never happy. His face was rigid with self-discipline and self-denial, his eyes dark shields to the world. For an elf, he appeared actually old, the years wore him down so. But at this moment, Elrohir saw his father smile, and it seemed thousands of years were lifted from him.