"Hey Fig', wake up!"
Figwit's eyes were still sealed shut; his body refused to wake up completely so soon after his regaining consciousness. But his mind did register that someone was speaking to him and shaking him.
"He's probably dead—ouch! Whuzzat for?!"
"Don't even kid that way, Glorfindel! He might get bad ideas!"
Figwit had sat up by then, and rubbed his eyes. He opened them, and found that he was in his bed, though still in his clothes; his best friend Meorof, and his somewhat less amicable friend Glorfindel, were both sitting at his bedside.
Sunlight filtered in through Figwit's single, tiny window, over his bedroll and the cold stone floor. One more glance at his friends revealed to Figwit the depth of their fretfulness; Meorof, a rather goofy-looking Elf as it were, had a fake smile pasted on his face as he waited for his sleepy friend to say something. Glorfindel had no such expression of eagerness, but Figwit could tell that he was worried.
He and Glorfindel didn't get along famously; Figwit hated Glorfindel's air of superiority, and the both of them would try to one-up the other in their childhood. But their contention was only skin-deep; they both grew up together and knew how to play nice when they needed to. "You slept through most of the day," he said simply, a gesture of concern in disguise.
Indeed, Figwit had overslept; his head throbbed with a headache, and he didn't feel in the least bit rested. On the contrary, memories of last night's conversation with Erestor, and what he could recollect from his nightmares, were advancing slowly to the front line of his thoughts. He stumbled out of bed, staggering past Meorof and Glorfindel without so much as a word to them.
"Wait!" Meorof rushed over to block the doorway. "What happened? You look dead, man."
Figwit stood there and stared blankly through Meorof. He himself wasn't entirely sure what had transpired. He looked down and mumbled under his breath, more for the sake of making noise than of actually communicating.
"C'mon Fig', talking helps." Meorof looked at Figwit, and then shot an annoyed glance at Glorfindel. "Why're you here? He doesn't need you to bother him!"
Glorfindel glared back at Meorof. "I'm not gonna bother him! I said I was worried, didn't I?"
Figwit disregarded their squabbling, though later he was very touched by their concern. He sighed and gently brushed past Meorof, mumbling "don' wanna talkaboudit," or something along those lines. He walked out into the hall, despite his friends' pleas, and out towards the heath that was just over the precipice.
He walked across the field for about a half-hour or so, until he got to a large slab of granite that jutted out of the earth at an angle, and sat in its shade. This was where he went since childhood when he wanted to be alone, or when he wanted to cry without Erestor finding and scolding him. Right now, Figwit sat with his knees drawn to his chest, as a partridge nearby led its young into a nearby copse, out of the sun's rays. He stared into space, with no tears to cry; the reality of last night still hadn't set in. Last night his mind had been a swirling torrent of pain and confusion, with too many thoughts for the young Elf to sort out.
What Erestor had told him must have been the truth, however distorted it might have been. But it still didn't make sense to Figwit. How could Elrond have been so deceitful, to a child no less? Wasn't this the same Elrond who saw straight through the lies of Sauron himself, and had risen above the rabble (as far as High Elves go) that was his people, and had become one of the greatest leaders of all time?
Of course, even Elrond couldn't be perfect. No one was without vice, isn't that what Erestor would always tell Figwit? But this was an act of selfishness, of cowardice, of blatant duplicity, putting him on the same level as Maeglin, traitor of Gondolin. Elrond did it all to preserve his station in life.
No, it just didn't sound right! It was just too indecent a thing for Elrond to have done!
Oh, but that was just it, wasn't it? Who would suspect him of such a thing, what with the way he'd so artfully hidden this secret from everyone but his close associates. His deceit was perfectly executed, and to this day, neither Elrond's wife nor his in-laws suspected a thing. But everything else he'd done was so lofty, so noble, that the Elrond described by Erestor seemed a different being altogether.
Again, Erestor's teachings came to mind. Was Fëanor, the one who led the Noldor to spill the blood of their Teleri brethren, thus putting them for many generations out of the favor of the Valar, not also a great leader? Did not Elu Thingol, a rash and sharp-tongued fool, rule over one of the greatest of his people's kingdoms before he brought about his own demise?
It was all played out in Figwit's mind, as though he was a child again and was sitting in Erestor's classroom once more. Erestor would deflate Figwit's silly, naïve notions with a few of life's hard facts without even trying, it seemed. Things always seemed more dreary and unnerving when Erestor described them. His history lessons would keep the attention of the little boys with their gory detail, though Figwit couldn't help but feel that he was listening to one long tragedy. "Existence is suffering, boy," Erestor would often say to him. "You would do well to remember that."
Before he knew it, Figwit was asleep, curled up under the granite slab. The sun made him drowsy, and the heather made a comfortable bed of itself for the diminutive Elf, as he entered once more into his unpleasant dreams.
Tsuzuku...
Figwit's eyes were still sealed shut; his body refused to wake up completely so soon after his regaining consciousness. But his mind did register that someone was speaking to him and shaking him.
"He's probably dead—ouch! Whuzzat for?!"
"Don't even kid that way, Glorfindel! He might get bad ideas!"
Figwit had sat up by then, and rubbed his eyes. He opened them, and found that he was in his bed, though still in his clothes; his best friend Meorof, and his somewhat less amicable friend Glorfindel, were both sitting at his bedside.
Sunlight filtered in through Figwit's single, tiny window, over his bedroll and the cold stone floor. One more glance at his friends revealed to Figwit the depth of their fretfulness; Meorof, a rather goofy-looking Elf as it were, had a fake smile pasted on his face as he waited for his sleepy friend to say something. Glorfindel had no such expression of eagerness, but Figwit could tell that he was worried.
He and Glorfindel didn't get along famously; Figwit hated Glorfindel's air of superiority, and the both of them would try to one-up the other in their childhood. But their contention was only skin-deep; they both grew up together and knew how to play nice when they needed to. "You slept through most of the day," he said simply, a gesture of concern in disguise.
Indeed, Figwit had overslept; his head throbbed with a headache, and he didn't feel in the least bit rested. On the contrary, memories of last night's conversation with Erestor, and what he could recollect from his nightmares, were advancing slowly to the front line of his thoughts. He stumbled out of bed, staggering past Meorof and Glorfindel without so much as a word to them.
"Wait!" Meorof rushed over to block the doorway. "What happened? You look dead, man."
Figwit stood there and stared blankly through Meorof. He himself wasn't entirely sure what had transpired. He looked down and mumbled under his breath, more for the sake of making noise than of actually communicating.
"C'mon Fig', talking helps." Meorof looked at Figwit, and then shot an annoyed glance at Glorfindel. "Why're you here? He doesn't need you to bother him!"
Glorfindel glared back at Meorof. "I'm not gonna bother him! I said I was worried, didn't I?"
Figwit disregarded their squabbling, though later he was very touched by their concern. He sighed and gently brushed past Meorof, mumbling "don' wanna talkaboudit," or something along those lines. He walked out into the hall, despite his friends' pleas, and out towards the heath that was just over the precipice.
He walked across the field for about a half-hour or so, until he got to a large slab of granite that jutted out of the earth at an angle, and sat in its shade. This was where he went since childhood when he wanted to be alone, or when he wanted to cry without Erestor finding and scolding him. Right now, Figwit sat with his knees drawn to his chest, as a partridge nearby led its young into a nearby copse, out of the sun's rays. He stared into space, with no tears to cry; the reality of last night still hadn't set in. Last night his mind had been a swirling torrent of pain and confusion, with too many thoughts for the young Elf to sort out.
What Erestor had told him must have been the truth, however distorted it might have been. But it still didn't make sense to Figwit. How could Elrond have been so deceitful, to a child no less? Wasn't this the same Elrond who saw straight through the lies of Sauron himself, and had risen above the rabble (as far as High Elves go) that was his people, and had become one of the greatest leaders of all time?
Of course, even Elrond couldn't be perfect. No one was without vice, isn't that what Erestor would always tell Figwit? But this was an act of selfishness, of cowardice, of blatant duplicity, putting him on the same level as Maeglin, traitor of Gondolin. Elrond did it all to preserve his station in life.
No, it just didn't sound right! It was just too indecent a thing for Elrond to have done!
Oh, but that was just it, wasn't it? Who would suspect him of such a thing, what with the way he'd so artfully hidden this secret from everyone but his close associates. His deceit was perfectly executed, and to this day, neither Elrond's wife nor his in-laws suspected a thing. But everything else he'd done was so lofty, so noble, that the Elrond described by Erestor seemed a different being altogether.
Again, Erestor's teachings came to mind. Was Fëanor, the one who led the Noldor to spill the blood of their Teleri brethren, thus putting them for many generations out of the favor of the Valar, not also a great leader? Did not Elu Thingol, a rash and sharp-tongued fool, rule over one of the greatest of his people's kingdoms before he brought about his own demise?
It was all played out in Figwit's mind, as though he was a child again and was sitting in Erestor's classroom once more. Erestor would deflate Figwit's silly, naïve notions with a few of life's hard facts without even trying, it seemed. Things always seemed more dreary and unnerving when Erestor described them. His history lessons would keep the attention of the little boys with their gory detail, though Figwit couldn't help but feel that he was listening to one long tragedy. "Existence is suffering, boy," Erestor would often say to him. "You would do well to remember that."
Before he knew it, Figwit was asleep, curled up under the granite slab. The sun made him drowsy, and the heather made a comfortable bed of itself for the diminutive Elf, as he entered once more into his unpleasant dreams.
Tsuzuku...