He has almost finished the letter to Thranduil, thoroughly explaining that his son's condition is no longer serious so the Elvenking does not march to the gates of Imladris with an army. Once more humming as he works, it takes a few times for him to notice that he is not the only one making sound. Legolas gives a whimper that grows in intensity until it is near a wail.
Elrond has four children, he knows nightmares. The ones that have foundations in memory and those that come purely from imagination. And he knows how to comfort each of his children in their own way.
Elrohir is stubborn, insisting nothing is wrong so they will sit in silence until the dam inevitably breaks. It floods out in shuddering sobs and grasping hands like a drowning man. Elrond cradles him, face pressed in dark hair, and tries to keep his own head above water.
Elladan loathes touch. He wants nothing to do with embraces or gentle, stroking hands. They do not appear to him as kind in the roiling waves of his nightmares. But he does not want to be left alone either. So Elrond will stay and wait, at the end of the bed, until sleep returns to the elf's eyes.
Estel needs music. Lullabies, lyrical poems, stories, even mindless rambling that can be set to melody. Music discerns conscious reality from the realm of dreams where spoken word is all he hears. Elrond sits beside him, one hand untangling the short curls, singing quietly as the man trembles.
Arwen is always cold, bitterly cold when she wakes. Shivering violently no matter the temperature, weather, or season. Her nightmares are the most foreign to him, he does not know what they are born from, not entirely, and she will not tell him. But he knows to stoke the fire and lay another blanket upon her. Elrond holds her hands in his own, hoping his warmth can thaw whatever ice has pierced her soul.
But despite Legolas' numerous visits to Rivendell, Elrond does not know how to soothe the wood-elf from nightmare. He had borne witness to them before, yes. Of any elfling or mannish child he knows, Legolas would be most likely to have a collection. Mirkwood was an ever darkening place and the prince was so deeply immersed in the emotions of his people that it was no surprise. He tried holding the elf, staying close to him, singing to him, comforting him. But none of them seem to work in the way they do for his other children. Shame rises in his throat that he has never just asked Legolas, asked him what he needed, what was best for him. And now, when the young elf needed that, whatever it was, he couldn't offer it.
Legolas twists his head into the pillow beneath him, brow pinching. Exhaustion keeps his eyelids fully closed, it will take a few days of good rest before he sleeps with them open. A hand lifts from the blankets, attempting to reach his ear, but the limb is too weak and it falls back down.
A burst of alarm rushes in the older elf's veins, "Do you still hear them, penneth?"
The whispering voice that escapes Legolas' lips is not like his own. It comes from the same lungs, the same diaphragm, it is the same and yet somehow it is not. "Edhel erynuin ed-nalldh - lasto!" Elf of the forest, it calls you - listen!
"Legolas, wake. You are in Imladris, you are safe."
Legolas tenses, eyes squeezing shut tightly before opening. Elrond places his hands on the elf's shoulders, "Legolas, I need you to answer me. Do you still hear them?"
"No. It's silent."
"Good. You were speaking about the trees in your sleep. They were calling out for you and telling you to listen."
Legolas' face twists in confusion and he brushes a hand along his ear. "The trees? It wasn't the trees…" The words he speaks come out absentmindedly as though he forgot Elrond was there.
"What do you mean it wasn't the trees? Who speaks to you, young one?"
The younger elf jerks himself out of whatever trace had momentarily consumed him and gives the other a small smile, "It was nothing but a peculiar dream."
The elflord does not look convinced but concedes to let the topic rest for now.
"What time is it?"
"Just after moonpeak. You arrived here before the evening meal."
"Where is Estel?!" A tinge of panic bleeds into the young elf's voice as memories of leaving the man to fend for himself in that forest resurface.
"He is unharmed and resting, as you will be again soon. Is there anything you'd like to eat? Estel said he hadn't been able to get you to eat since entering the forest."
"Some fruit maybe?"
"Of course. The cherry trees have been abundant this year and we have plenty. I'll fetch some right now." Elrond smiles at him before exiting the chamber.
The windows in the room are shut against the night chill but he can still hear that voice calling to him from outside, "Edhel erynuin ed-nalldh - lasto!" Elf of the forest, it calls you - listen! It is different from the trees, older and more mysterious. The calls are lingering, they have been ever since Estel and he visited Lothlórien nearly a year prior.
"What am I supposed to listen to?" He screams in frustration, tossing his blankets off and running to the window. "Who is calling me?"
The burst of energy he had flees him and he sinks to the floor beneath the sill. A sob breaks loose from his throat and the wall he had so carefully built of stone finally cracks. Misery fully overtakes the young elf. He does not hear the chamber door open, nor the worried cries of Elrond, nor the ceaseless ethereal voice.
For this moment in the echoing halls of Imladris, the prince of Mirkwood cannot hear anything.
When sensation returns to his body, there are arms around him. They are not Estel's well-built muscled arms, but the lithe strength of his own kind. With a rush of embarrassment, he realises that Elrond is sitting against the wall holding him.
He lurches upright and takes a few hasty steps away. "My apologies, Lord Elrond. I did not mean to disturb you."
"You've done nothing of the sort, Legolas, I assure you. There is a bowl of cherries on the table as well as some strawberries. I know they are your favourite." The elflord extends his hands placatingly as he stands. He can read in the prince's body language that he wants no mention of what just occurred. Doing so would do nothing but stress him further. "Come eat and then it is back to sleep."
The young elf eats only a few cherries but all of the strawberries before climbing beneath the blankets. As Elrond watches his charge's eyelids close, he feels the need to revise his letter to Thranduil. Perhaps, the prince's condition may be more dire than they thought; his fëa is suffocating.
He turns his face towards the sky - towards the star that his father had worn upon his brow, had carried into Elbereth's realm, had fought and struggled for - and says a silent prayer for guidance.
Atar, cast your merciful green eyes upon this child who is so clearly drowning in sorrow. Let the light of your jewelled star bestow him with peace and find him respite. Guide him through this advancing darkness until the dawn of the sun is all he must face.