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Saturday, July 17, 2004
Saturday, July 17, 2004

Disc: Lord of the Rings and all its characters, places, plot, etc. belong to other people. Too many to list them all. No infringement intended. Not claiming it as my own . . . not that it really matters. -sigh-
Warn: Drama. AU-ness.
Note: Hah ha! Oh ho oho ho. Umm . . . hahaha. It's just one of those fics. Hahaha.

Ephemeral

chapter one

He awoke to the warmth of sunlight on his face. It felt miraculously good, and he marveled at the beauty of such a sensation. "The Valar are truly amazing," he thought. "They are able to make such glorious gifts and give them to so undeserving of people." He stretched lazily and swung his legs onto the floor. There had been a chill in the night, and he had shivered for hours under his blankets, so the sun felt exceptionally delightful. He stalked across the room, his bare feet hitting the stone floors and scraping against his callused soles.

He stopped in front of a window and peered outside. A birch tree grew next to the house, its long white branches extended high into the air. Small blue birds perched on its thin branches. He saw them open and close their mouths. They hopped from branch to branch, mouths moving. He could almost remember the sound -- had never paid it much mind when he had been younger. He looked up to the rushing waterfalls and sighed. It had been the comfort of his youth, a steadfast sound that he associated with home. Gone now, he stared at the white and gray water with insubstantial aloofness. The power was lost -- the intimidating presence was lost -- without the roar of the falls.

He turned from the window and stretched. The nightgown pulled up to around his knees, exposing them to the warm sunlight. He lazily untied the lacing and it fell from his shoulders onto the floor in a soft white pool. He pulled his raiment from the trunk at the foot of his bed and tied all of the appropriate laces around his waist and chest. He slipped his feet into thin, small slippers and ran a brush through his long black locks. It was good to have hair again. After his accident, he had awoken to find his head bald and his skull wrapped in bandages. Now, it had grown past his shoulders and was half way down his back. He twirled in front of his mirror, watching the way his hair and blue robes shifted around him. He smiled at his reflection and then darted out the door.

Everything was surreal now. His shoes against the stairs made no noise, and he fancied himself like his Elven family. He had discovered quickly, though, that just because he could not hear his sounds did not mean that he did not make them. He wound through the halls and found the kitchen. There, he grabbed a roll from the table and stuffed it into his mouth. His sister was at the table, delicately eating toast and eggs. She smiled at him warmly and motioned for him to sit beside her. He liked Arwen -- she was the prettiest girl he'd ever seen! He didn't know her too well; she had only been home for seven months. She spent a lot of time with him, playing games and teaching him to write numbers. She was good at writing, and no one else seemed to have the time to teach him. He enjoyed writing and often wrote little poems -- which he never showed anyone -- and read from simple books in the library.

There were many books in the library that he enjoyed reading. He was still new to the written word, so he only had access to the undemanding ones. Small books of poetry and cook books were his favorites to read and it was his favorite pastime. He could do little else. He had been afraid to go near the horses, and he could not play games like normal children could. He couldn't listen to the music that the Elves played, nor could he sing. Well, he could sing, but not being able to hear the music made him less able than he had been before. The library afforded him a place to dwell where he could pass the day and not be in anyone's way. He would miss it when he was gone.

Arwen was smiling at him warmly from her place next to him on the table. She spread jam over her toast and then broke it in half. She handed part of it to Estel, then delicately ate the other side. She tapped her finger against his shoulder to get his attention, then pushed her palms against each other and slowly opened them as she would a book. She kept her eyes on him so she would not miss his response.

He nodded quickly. He had to pack what little he was taking with him, swipe food from the kitchens, and then find a way to sneak from the valley without being caught. He knew why he was leaving, although he did not want to. He had planned this day for months, waiting for the best time and hoping that he would have reason to stay. After his accident, he had spent many months recovering in bed. He had grown weak, had lost muscle. Arwen arrived three months into his recuperation, and had spent many days helping him learn how to walk again and teaching him his letters. His brothers had grown completely distant and after his initial recovery, they had seldom seen him. When coincidence brought them together, Elladan and Elrohir had been grim-faced and uncomfortable. Elrond had explained that they were guilt-ridden with his loss of hearing, and told him that he would discuss the problem with them. A few days after, they had sulked into his room, eyes downcast, and apologized for their lack of kind. They gave the excuse of an influx of orcs that required their attention and vowed to spend more time with him. They had yet to do so.

He did not blame them. He would not wish to be friends with someone as disabled as himself, either. They had planted the first doubt in his mind, but he did not blame them. He did not doubt that they loved him. They were kind to him, and his father still showered him with love and affection. He felt useless, though. He was a burden upon his foster family, and it should not have been their onus to bear. His father grew frustrated with him sometimes. He would ask him something -- to stand aside, or to carry a book to someone -- and would have to repeat himself several times before finally giving up and summoning a servant to do the task or moving the boy himself. Estel had grown very adapt at reading lips. As long as the person was directly in front of him and spoke slowly, he could understand simple requests. The household members were not terribly patient at times -- usually when under stress -- and tended to be bothered by the boy. When he was underfoot, they would push him out of the way. Some of them apologized for it -- he could tell for they looked guilty as they spoke. Others did not.

Sometimes he wished that the horse had just killed him.

It wasn't a common thought, and he felt guilty for thinking it. The Valar knew what they were doing and had evidently wanted him to live. He knew that his death would have made his father sad, and he did not want that. Still, it was a terrible feeling to know that no one wanted him around. He had lasted months, his heart full of doubt, since when the suspicions first entered his mind. Then, he had been stealing cakes from the kitchen when he had seen the elf-lord Glorfindel speaking to his father. Estel had learned to see his own name spoken. He knew the shape that the lips took, the length they held each pose. They were talking about him. He had lurked behind a table, watching. They had been angry and parts of their conversation had been spoken too rapidly for him to decipher. One sentence rang clear, though. It had been spoken slowly enough that he had caught every word, every angry exaggeration of the rancorous face of his beloved father. "Whatever hope we had for him, it is lost. He shall never fulfill his destiny. All we have done for the race of Man has been in vain."

His father had continued to love him after that, but he could not fully appreciate it, knowing that Elrond felt so horribly about it. He had decided that night, while sitting alone in his room staring at the stars outside, that he wouldn't let himself be such a disappointment. He would leave until he was fit to return. He would not be the downfall of Men. He wouldn't let his father be so disgusted with him. Over the following months, he had started filching small things from around the Last Homely House. He had taken a small bag, then extra clothing, finally a knife from the smith, and a little bottle of ink, corked, and a pen. He still needed a few leafs of paper, and food. He would take the blanket from his own bed, and his small riding cloak. He would go to the library as usual, and then leave when Arwen went for lunch. He had it timed -- she would be gone thirty minutes, then return with a tray of food for them, mostly him, to eat. Today, while she was away, he would pack in his room and then stow the bag under his bed. That night, after supper, he would take the leftover bread and meat. There was dried fruit in storage, and he would raid those shelves before his journey. His father was leaving that evening with a party to Mirkwood for several weeks. Estel was not invited. His brothers were going on the trip, and Arwen and Erestor would be running things while they were gone.

Estel would leave then, an hour after his father departed from the valley.

He grinned at Arwen as she stood up and pushed her chair under the table. He followed her actions and then took her hand as she led him down the hall to the library. He was more than capable of going by himself, but he knew that he should savor any company while he still had the opportunity. They entered the library and Arwen went immediately to a little desk in a corner. She pulled a book from the surface and brought it to him. The title was written in gold lettering over a well-worn black leather cover. Celeblor. She opened the first page and pointed to a name written there. He could not read it; it was written in Quenya. Still, her eyes were very awed, and there was a sad little smile on her lips. He turned the next page and looked at the first few words. The script was elegant and precise. Each letter was curved majestically and he wished that he could write like that. All of his words were scratchy and flimsy. He started reading and saw that the text was written in Sindarin. Poems, he saw and his face lit. He wandered into a corner, reading as he walked, and sat upon the floor with the book nestled in his hands.

The poems were enchanting, clever! They blended sound -- the best kind that he could hear in his mind -- with rhyme and riddles. Some were long, some were short. Some of them spelled words with the first letter of each line, and he delighted in reading them. Some had the same sound, repeated until he stumbled in his reading and had to reread constantly. He held the book close to him, unwilling to share this newfound treasure with any of his own personal demons. He saw Arwen rise from the chair in the corner where she had been reading her own tome and pat him on the shoulder as she left the room. He looked outside -- it was lunch time already! He had been reading the poems, and they never seemed to end. Chagrined, he wished that he had known about the book before, so that he could have read it all. He considered taking it with him, but then he would have stolen something that would make others angry. Everything else was of little consequence, but he could tell from the way his sister showed him the treasure that it would be missed if it were gone.

Once she was safely down the hall, he shoved the book onto a shelf -- delicately -- and sped from the room. He had to hurry if he were to pack everything before she returned. His heart was beating wildly in his chest as he left childhood behind him and fell into lies and deceit of Mankind. He was going to prove his worth to everyone.

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next update: Monday, August 16, 2004

Sorry for no update on the ninth. FF.N wouldn't let me log in. -.-