Title: Whispers of the mind
Author: fazy
Pairing: Haldir/ Elrond.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: 1st person narrative. 21st century Scotland, Haldir feels his husband is neglecting him.
Warnings: Mpreg, fatalism, depression, self-harm, eventual character deaths.
A/N: for those unfamilliar with the elvish of the fandom, 'hervenn' means 'husband', 'im mil le' is popularly taken as 'i love you' and 'uireb' is 'forever'.
I am miserable. The love of my life does not see me anymore. I am slowly growing invisible to him. Two weeks have passed, and the book of baby names sits untouched in the bottom drawer of my cabinet. I lie in bed most days now. I don't quite see the point of getting up, only to drift aimlessly around the house. I don't quite see the point of getting dressed if he's only going to look at me unseeingly.
I sigh heavily. It's been two weeks, and I haven't brought up the subject again since dinner that night. I just never had the strength to. He wasn't interested anyway. I choke back a sob. I had been looking forward to it so much! I wanted him to be a part of it, but he was so distant.
I sigh again and make my decision. If he did not wish to be part of the process then so be it. It was time to take charge of my own life. Like a vengeful spirit, I rise from the bed and retrieve the book from my cabinet-- still in it's shrink wrap-- and return to my cozy spot on the bed. Slowly, regretfully, I tear open the plastic covering. I feel like I am tearing up my hopes and dreams as well. I had hoped to show him the book, and sit down with him together to pour over it's contents. I had always imagined that we would tear off the wrapping together. And now I feel as if my hopeful vision of my heart is being ripped to shreds.
I flip open to the first page, and skim the introduction listlessly. I am in no mood for the cheery congratulations of the writers. Instead, I flip forward, past the contents and the astrology pages and dive straight into the list of names for boys.
A-- Aaron: Hebrew, (Aharon). "Lofty or exhalted," Aaron, brother of Moses, qualified and enlightened, was exalted as the first high priest of the Hebrews. Aaron Burr, 3rd Vice-President of the U.S. English variation: Aron. Foreign variation: Haroun (Arabic).
I swallow hard and close my eyes to steady myself. Aeron. It was my pet name for my husband, a modern, simplified form of 'Elrond' that i had thought up for him. Aeron. It was my own private name for him, a name I called him when I was being playful and he was being indulgent. I raise my hand to my mouth to down my grief. So many memories, so much laughter, so many smiles. When was the last time my Aeron had smiled at me? I bite my wrist, concentrating on the pain in my hand rather than the ache in my heart. Ai, Aeron, my Aeron, my husband… im mil le... uireb...
Abel: Herbrew (Heb-hel) "Breath, evanescence." Abel was the second son of Adam and Eve.
Abelard: Old German. (Adelhard) "Nobly resolute." Pierre Abelard, 12th century French philosopher, renowned for his romance with Heloise.
Abner: Herbrew. (Abhner) "Father of light." Abner Doubleday, inventor of baseball.
Reading through the lists of names, I feel the strength drain from my fingers. I cannot concentrate on the task at hand. All I can think of are the times my husband and I played together, and how he no longer spends time with me. We were supposed to do this together! He was supposed to be here with me, smiling and indulgent, as I sit in his lap. He would wrap an arm around my waist, and we would pour over the names together, laughing and joking about them, trying them on for size. And now as i think it, I feel so agonizingly lonely, sitting here in the room while my husband busies himself in his study. Ai hervenn... im mil le... i love you... don't you love me too?
Abraham: Hebrew. "Father of the multitude." The most exhaulted founder of the Hebrew people. Abraham Lincoln, 16th president of the U.S. English names: Abe, Abie, Bram. Foreign variations: Abramo, Abraham (Italian), Abraham (Spanish), Ibrahim (Arabic).
Abram: Hebrew. "The lofty one is father" Abram Newkrik, American Episcopal bishop, 1824-1901. English variations: Abe, Abie. Foreign variations: Abramo (Italian), Bram (Dutch)
I cannot take it anymore. My fingers can no longer support the weight of the book, and I let it fall from my hands and onto the bed sheets. I cover my face and sob chokingly. Where is my husband when I need him? He was supposed to be here with me as I pour through the names. It was supposed to be something we would do together! It was our child, for goodness sake, why wasn't he bothered at all? Didn't he care anymore?
In my desperation, I cast my eyes across the room, and eventually they come to rest on a small glass vial perched neatly on the bedside table. The vial is another slap in the face. My-husband-the-healer has prescribed anti-depressants for me. He thinks I need medication. What I really need is his love.
I fall back into bed and weep piteously. Can't he see that I am falling apart before him? Can't he see that I am desperate for his attention? He neglects me emotionally and when I get upset he blames it on a chemical imbalance. It kills me. I feel invalidated, that he would not even acknowledge the reality of my upset. I don't need any foreign substances in my body. What I need, what I crave, what I am desperate for is for him to spend time with me… for him to support me, to be with me, to love me. It makes me feel as if he doesn't care about me anymore, and that the contents in the vial were just a convenient way out for him to deny me the right of my emotions.
He has removed all sharp objects from the room, and with good reason. The very memory of his arms around me contrasts too harshly with the emptiness I feel now. It hurts. I hurts so badly that I want to stab myself in the arm to distract myself from the pain. I cannot take it any longer. It is simply unbearable. I am an elf. I heal quickly. Such an act will leave no lasting damage on my body, but the pain of the physical will distract my mind from the hurt I feel inside. I close my eyes and imagine how good it would feel to plunge a knife into my arm, to stab at myself again and again until all my frustration is spent, to feel the warm redness of blood seep through my broken skin, and to finally have something else to focus on besides the gnawing agony inside.
TBC...