Sorry, no continuation of the Family Visit AU this time, though the next chapter for that is in the works. It's just that I felt it necessary to do something with Elvaethor first, seeing as how I've been dropping some hints about his background in The Book lately. And if you weren't aware, I'm back to writing for The Book and it's updated every Sunday.
So, enjoy!
Chapter 16
Elvaethor: A Promise Made
This time she [Cathy] was sure she saw the grief pass his face. That wound hadn't closed and she had suspected as much. Most of the time he had a tight control over his emotions and as far as she knew he had only slipped up once and she wasn't supposed to have seen him then. But she had, very shortly after her father had passed and had been buried. Elvaethor had been staying in Erebor at the time and when she had been unable to find him inside, she had at last thought to look outside. And there she had found him, in front of her parents' tomb, on his knees, tears on his face, sobs shaking his shoulders. 'Not again,' he'd said. 'Please, not again.' Deciding that this was a private moment, she had turned on her heels and left. Of course, she hadn't stopped wondering about what he had meant by 'not again,' but it wasn't her place to ask.
The Book, Chapter 7: Of Elves and Dwarves
It is the strangest thing, Elvaethor reflects, that both times he has interacted intensively with other races, it has been the result of the marriage of a dwarvish male to a mannish female. He ought to have learned his lesson from the first couple, from Dari and Inga. He knows the friendship can't last for long, knows that both will inevitably die while he will live on, indefinitely if battle doesn't claim him. He ought to have learned his lesson then and he really thought he had. After he had been too late to save Inga's life when she died in childbirth and incapable of convincing Dari that there were still things to live for even after his beloved's demise, he turned his back and fled back into the forest of his people. He hasn't left the woods since. The short trips to the town of Esgaroth hardly count, for he avoids contact with the men there, only speaks to them about business and then he is gone again. It works well for several centuries.
Yet here he is.
There is something about these two that would have drawn his eye even if Gandalf had not asked of him to watch out for them. They have something he has not seen in a very long time and he finds it hard to put his finger on it. And for a few days the answer keeps eluding him. Not so when he sees them stand before his king, both of them bound, but far more alive than any other in the hall. They are alive and they are fighting, for their quest and for one another and in doing so, they make Elvaethor's people pale in comparison.
It's something he has always missed in his own people, long before he could even identify what it even was he was missing. He loves his people, for they are wise in many things and even-tempered. At times it seems as though nothing can rile them, nothing can snap them out their serene sense of just being, never changing, never growing. They used to, Elvaethor remembers a time when they did, back when the world was young. But those times are long gone and his people have sunk into complacency. It was his disapproval of that and the longing for something more that had catapulted him into the lives of Dari and Inga in the first place. It had been wonderful and he had been honoured to be their friend, but the hurt when they passed on had been more than he thinks he can bear a second time.
And still, here he is.
Maybe it is because Thorin Oakenshield reminds him of Dari, in both looks and character. The dwarf has made no secret of his dislike for his captors and the captain of the guard in particular, but then, Dari needed some time to see beyond his prejudices too. Elvaethor is prepared to wait. He shouldn't be getting attached, because Thorin is on a mission to reclaim his Mountain from a dragon. Certain death is lying ahead. It cannot end well.
And still, he is not running.
Because then there's Catherine – or Kate, as she prefers to be called, he later learns – who is nothing like Inga, who is loud-mouthed where his friend was soft-spoken, who is abrasive and angry where Inga was gentle and content, who is grey-eyed and red-haired where she was blue-eyed and fair-haired. They could not be more different, but yet they are alike as well. Both have given up everything in order to be where they ended up being. Both have more loyalty than could be found in all of Mirkwood and Elvaethor is blown away in awe once more.
He knows he won't be running.
And so he sets them free, against his king's wishes, against his orders and against his better judgement. He knows where they will go and he knows they are walking towards their own deaths, but he cannot let them end in a cell in Thranduil's dungeons. They shine too brightly for that. He does not lie to Kate – the name still tastes foreign on his tongue, but it suits her well – when he tells her that her story is worthy of song, worthy of a far better ending than they will have here. She does not believe him. Truth be told, Elvaethor doesn't think she likes him much better than her husband does. It should dissuade him from getting any more involved than he already is.
Instead he is drawn to the two like a moth to a flame.
It is mere coincidence that on his way towards Erebor he passes close to the graves of the two people whose memory he honours by running after the two who so remind him of them. He has never been here after he buried Dari with his own hands. He remembers how little the body weighed when he laid him to rest in the cold and unyielding winter ground. He remembers how Dari's face had finally reflected a peace he hadn't seen since Inga's death. Despite being created by two different Makers, Dari had never doubted for even a moment he would find his wife again beyond the veil of death. For that matter neither did Elvaethor, but it had not eased the insistent ache in his chest and neither had it consoled the two young children standing quietly in the background while their father was buried by elven hands. Tilly, the girl and the eldest, a mere seven years old stood still as a statue, her brother's little hand in hers and the baby in a basket by her feet. The boys had not even been old enough to understand what had happened and Elvaethor had been unable to offer much in the way of comfort. As it was, he could barely see beyond his own grief. And so he had escorted them to a sister of Inga's willing to take them in and he had left, swearing never to return.
But here he is again.
'I beg your forgiveness,' he says. 'I failed them and I wronged you.' The eyes of Inga's statue, the one made by Dari's own loving hands, look at him in silent reproach. There is no statue of her husband. Elvaethor should have done something about that, but he hasn't. It's one more wrong that he will have to right. Still, Elvaethor does not need a physical reminder of his friend's face. He is an elf; he has perfect recall. And if Dari were here now, he would tell Elvaethor to stop dwelling on the past and do something useful about the future. As it happens, Elvaethor intends to do just that. 'I will look better after these two, Valar willing,' he continues. 'They remind me of you. They shine so very brightly and yet they do not realise it themselves. Their song deserves a better ending than the sad one you were given.' It has nothing to do with politics, nothing to do with favours granted to wizards and nothing to do with the elusive "Right Thing" and the more elusive "Greater Good." He has seen something he long thought lost and it is filling him with fire and purpose more than it did in those days long since gone. He is not ready to lose it again. 'Forgive me. I shall do better,' he vows.
This time, he won't turn tail and run.
And they are magnificent. He barely makes it inside the Mountain in time to witness Smaug's final moments. The dragon does not notice him and neither do any of the dwarves or the invisible hobbit. He watches and admires and something tugs at his heart, growing stronger with every breath he takes. He admires Thorin's courage and the way Kate takes charge in the aftermath. It does not matter that she snaps at him for making himself at home on the throne – in hindsight not his best move – or when Thorin grumbles at him. They live and they remind him so much of that other couple it is almost a physical ache. But they live, they have a future. Investing in friendship seems like a real possibility. Something changes and he fears that this time is more permanent than it ever was with Dari and Inga.
Even if he wanted to, he doesn't think he can run.
Of course it is never simple and he finds that very soon Erebor is under siege. And the more he learns, the less he thinks his people have the right of it in this conflict. His king ought not to be there, demanding gold and riches, and the dwarves ought not to be trapped inside their own Mountain. So it is without remorse that he makes the trek up the Mountain to the side door every other day to deliver the food that will keep Thorin's company alive long enough until such time that a satisfactory solution can be found. And it gives him time to get to know the one half of the couple that so intrigues him. Kate is wary and suspicious at first, but as time passes she opens up and they talk.
It fills a void in Elvaethor's heart he was barely aware existed. He has always been friendly with his peers, but he never found the kind of friendship among them that he needed, that he still needs. Among his own people he has always been the odd one out, the one that never truly fit in. He doesn't here either, but this is one misfit finding friendship with another, kindred spirits if you like. He hasn't quite realised how much he has missed conversations like these since Dari until he found them anew. I could have told you that a whole lot sooner, my elvish fool of a friend. He lets the memory of Dari into his mind and for the first time in centuries he doesn't shy away from the pain and the cascade of bittersweet memories it unleashes.
Of course, he might jeopardize the friendship by borrowing Kate's book and reading it. It leaves him stunned, with more questions than answers. And maybe it is for the better that he brings it up in the middle of a battle, because else she might have bitten his head off. But she confirms what he was thinking but would have thought impossible: she hails from another world. If he did not admire and respect her before, he does so now. And he fears it may well be irreversible.
When she calls him my friend in the aftermath of the battle, he knows it is. She has indicated she counts him a dear friend before, but to hear it so casually spoken, as if it is the most natural thing in the world when it is anything but, that warms his heart.
He knows that it cannot last forever, he knows that both Thorin and Kate will inevitably die while he must live on indefinitely. He ought to have learned his lesson with Dari and Inga.
Yet here he is.
The area around the Mountain does not look much more inviting than it did a year ago, but the winter snows are early this year and give the land a gentler look. It is for the better in Elvaethor's opinion. No matter how old he will become, battles never become any easier. They weigh heavily on his soul, more so with each passing century.
But it is good to be back. It has taken him a year to find his way back and while it is nothing more than the blink of an eye for his kind he knows that it is not so for other races. And many things have changed.
'Hello there, stranger.' Kate smiles when he's granted entrance to the royal apartment. He hasn't told anyone of his coming, so she has not been expecting him. Truth be told, he was not sure that his duties would allow him time to come until the very last moment. Thranduil has kept him busy this past year, no doubt in an attempt to create some distance between himself and some of his so-called questionable acquaintances. If not for his sister's invaluable help, he might not have found the time at all. 'Good to see you again.' He finds himself caught in a welcoming embrace and for a moment it reminds him so much of Dari, his eyes burn.
But he is firmly back in control of himself when she lets go of him and he manages a sincere smile. 'And you, my lady.' He lifts her hand and presses a kiss on it.
Kate grimaces. 'That is not my name, Elvaethor. No titles among friends, please. It's bad enough I can't seem to break Lufur of the habit. Don't make me go through it all with you as well.'
'Very well, my Lady Kate,' he says. He is teasing her, but it is done in good humour and he knows she will take it as such.
Indeed the corners of her mouth do curl up. 'Not a bad start, I suppose. Take a seat. Can I offer you something to drink? You see,' she continues, throwing in a mischievous smile and a wink for good measure, 'this time I am actually capable of offering you a refreshment you hadn't had to bring yourself to my doorstep first.'
He laughs at that. 'I would appreciate that,' he says honestly.
'It's the least I can do,' Kate points out. 'After everything you did for us. I wouldn't even know where to start paying you back for all the risks you took on our behalf.'
'There is no need,' Elvaethor reminds her. Already she has started to take on dwarvish mannerisms, forever insisting that one service should be rewarded with another. He remembers that from Dari too. And then Inga would tell them what he will tell his new friend now. 'It was done in service to a friend. It does not require payment in either gold or favour.'
She hands him a cup of steaming tea, over which she raises an eyebrow at him. 'Well, it may not have occurred to you, but sometimes one wants to do something in return, you know, because they are friends. It shouldn't become one-sided.'
Stubborn as a dwarf too. There is not much of Inga in her – except for that loyalty of hers that will never cease to amaze and humble him – but so much of Dari. He knows they are not the same and Kate could never replace his old friend – nor would he want her to – but there are so very many similarities.
Some of his emotions must finally have made it onto his face, because Kate's face sets to frowning. 'Is something wrong?' she asks.
'Just memories, my Lady Kate,' he replies. When she doesn't appear satisfied with this answer, he adds: 'You remind me of a dwarf I once knew. You and he are in your ways remarkably alike.'
Now she understands. 'Dari, right?'
He nods. 'Indeed.'
Because he has known her for a while, he knows that she tends to make light of situations that involve unpleasant emotions. He expects her to do so now. 'Tell me about him?' She doesn't.
Elvaethor blinks and for the first time in a long while, he is rendered speechless.
Of course, Kate misinterprets. 'Tell you what, I'll swap you. A story for a story. I owe you mine anyway.'
As a matter of fact, he had wanted to know. The mystery of her has kept him wondering, although he had assumed – correctly, as it turns out – that Gandalf has played some part or other in the matter of her coming to this world. He listens in astonishment as her tale unfolds, a tale of magic and books and finding home in the most unexpected of places. A tale of struggle and heartbreak and fights that will, he is sure, be remembered for ages to come. It's the tale of a quest the like of which he did not expect to find in the world today.
So in return he tells her of Dari and Inga. He doesn't tell her the tale as it is told by the people of the Lake and Dale, but tells her of his own memories, ashamed though he might be of his own conduct, especially after their passing. He doesn't hide behind smiles and word games, not now. It is not a novel experience – he has done this before – but it feels like one all the same.
'You really are the odd one out, aren't you?' Kate remarks when his tale has been concluded. She doesn't give him a chance to reply, before she continues: 'Well, just so you know, we'll keep a room ready for you in case you need a place to crash.'
He cannot stop smiling even if he would want to.
He doesn't.
Dwarves don't have a particular love for outsiders, but among the members of Thorin's company he is at least tolerated. Kate's oldest brother is none too fond of him – but then, it appears he is none too fond of anyone who isn't close kin – but the other two slowly warm to him, especially Ori. Bofur is the first one to invite him over and to teach him a game of cards he doesn't know. It's from Glóin he learns that he has in fact acquired a nickname. Apparently they call him the Insect, for he is like one in so many ways: he is buzzing around their heads, driving them crazy, inducing the urgent need to squash it and always just out of reach. Had he not had previous experience with dwarves, he might have been insulted. He might still have been, had Kate not interjected: 'Not that we'd want to be rid of you, mind. You're one of our heroes.'
And so he doesn't run.
Or, in fact, he does, but he is not running back towards Mirkwood. He is running towards Erebor whenever he can. His king doesn't like it and his peers do not understand it. They wonder why he would willingly seek out the company of dwarves. They are too rowdy, too crude, too blunt. They lack in wisdom and grace. And they do. Elvaethor does not deny that their blunt honesty does take some getting used to, but when he does, it is like a breath of fresh air through a dusty cupboard. And while the wisdom they possess is nothing like his people's, it's wisdom all the same. It is simpler, more use in everyday life and dwarves don't hold with abstract concepts. They are too practical for that.
The first time the combined force of Bofur and Bombur convinces him to attend a dwarvish celebration, one in honour of the birth of Thorin and Kate's second son, he is overwhelmed by the noise. Dwarves are having shouted conversations everywhere, there is a food fight going on somewhere to his left and the whole thing is topped off by the loud music that serves as general background noise. It's an assault on all his senses and his first instinct is to turn tail and find a quiet corner, but Bofur's grip is quite strong and he is led into the chaos all the same. And then there is just no leaving. Nori shoves a plate in his direction, Lufur engages him in conversation and Thora drags him to the floor for a dance. To his own surprise he finds he does enjoy himself. Naturally he does prefer music that isn't played at headache inducing volume, and he could have done without being pelted with potatoes, but no elven party he has ever attended has made him smile like this one has.
So the next time Lainor accuses the dwarves of being noisy and crude and blunt, he quite agrees. They are. 'But they enjoy life,' he says. The words do not suffice. To truly comprehend the meaning one has to have been there. And he cannot see Lainor willingly step foot inside the Mountain. Nor does Elvaethor want him to.
Slowly but surely the room Kate has offered him is starting to show signs of being lived in. He keeps some of his clothes there for ease of use. There isn't any point in carrying them to and fro every time he visits and by now he has accepted that he does a lot of visiting. There are some books on the desk as well and some other personal belongings. On the other hand, his quarters in Mirkwood look decidedly emptier these days.
Valar be praised that Thranduil has quite given up trying to keep him within his boundaries. He did try, the first three years or so. But there isn't anything that is really keeping Elvaethor there. Tauriel is captain of the guard now and there is not much call for more guards. The threat of spiders and orcs is much abated. He finds himself without a purpose in the land he used to call his home. He finds he is not even all that welcome anymore, not so long as he does not give up his friendships in the Kingdom under the Mountain. His people think him unreliable. They do not trust him not to choose the side of the dwarves again in the case of a potential future conflict. Elvaethor cannot in truth assure them that their fears are unfounded. The price he has paid for helping Thorin and his company is a steep one, yet he cannot bring himself to regret it. His conscience is at peace.
And so he spends more and more time away from home. He visits kin in both Lórien and Rivendell. He even once makes it as far as the Shire, to pay a call to one very flustered Bilbo Baggins, who hardly knows what to make of him or what to do now that he is there. Neither do his relatives and neighbours, but that doesn't stop them from peeking in through the windows to catch a glimpse of him. It is quite the experience, but Elvaethor does not think he will return soon. The Shire will be talking about this for many years. If he were to come back, some of the hobbits might spontaneously combust out of sheer shock and excitement. Also, he fears he may have quite destroyed whatever was left of poor Bilbo's reputation. As Kate phrases it when he tells her of his travels, 'they won't be calling him respectable ever again now that they have seen with their own eyes that he keeps the company of elves.'
And it is to Erebor that he returns to tell of his exploits. It is there that he feels he can breathe freely. It is, he tells Kate on one particular occasion, as if the heart can breathe instead of only the lungs. His friend accuses him playfully of being a poet in disguise, but by the look in her eyes he can see that she knows what he means. Like as not, she has experienced the feeling herself.
He does not get the opportunity to ask, for her sons are at his feet, clamouring for stories from their "Uncle Elf." The name comes from Thoren and dates back to the time he was too young to properly pronounce his name. Thorin shook his head in disbelief when he first heard it, but he lets it pass time and again until the lads don't call him anything else.
His relation with the King under the Mountain is still shaky at best. Thorin Oakenshield is slow to trust and his distrust of elves runs deep. He has good reason to. Elvaethor knows this only too well. He himself cannot help but feel ashamed of Thranduil's conduct in the wake of Smaug's attack. His people have not behaved with honour and it is too late to make amends. They would not be welcome.
Something is about to change, though, because orcs are beginning to roam the area once more and something has to be done about them. The kings of Erebor and Dale make an alliance to address the problem. Kate at the time is pregnant again and she does not like the idea of her husband riding out to battle. It frustrates her even more that she cannot do a single thing. Not that she says as much. Instead she grumbles about 'bloody orcs' that 'breed like bloody rabbits' and 'can't they just crawl under a rock and die or something?'
Elvaethor does not know about crawling under rocks, but he knows something has to be done and there is something he can do to speed up their demise. And so he saddles a horse and announces to a dumbstruck Thorin that he will ride out with him.
When the King under the Mountain eventually does find his tongue again, he gets nothing but a brusque 'why?' as a reward for his troubles. It's hardly a secret Thorin does not like him, may not even fully trust him and somehow it keeps on stinging.
Elvaethor shrugs. 'It is the duty of every sentient being to battle the threat of orcs wherever they may find it.' It's true enough and he can't stand the sight of the abominations, but it's not the whole truth. Come to think of it, he might not even truly comprehend his own motives. But explaining that to Thorin is more of a challenge than Elvaethor can face.
Thorin mutters something almost inaudible about passing on the message to Thranduil, but doesn't tell him to leave. That in itself is more of a victory than he has achieved with Kate's husband to date. Back in the day it was Dari he had always felt more of a bond with. Inga had always hovered in the background, permanently astounded that one of the elven race would even honour them with a second of his time, never mind coming back again and again. Thorin is like Dari in so many ways that it sometimes hurts to look at him, but Dari had never felt such deep hatred for elves as Thorin does. He has good reason to, Elvaethor knows, but the heart still aches.
And for Thorin Oakenshield, nothing but deeds will do. Words are empty, but deeds mean something. It is a code both Kate and Thorin live by, even though words were Kate's trade once.
'Thranduil is afraid,' Elvaethor explains late at night at a campfire. They are still two days of marching away from where the scouts claim the foul creatures have their current hideout. There is no tension, not yet.
'He is afraid of his own shadow,' Thorin scoffs. He doesn't look at Elvaethor as he says it, but he is talking and that is progress indeed.
Elvaethor smiles. 'Not quite,' he says. 'But he has suffered in the past. His father fell in battle with the orcs and he has feared them ever since.' It was no reason to hide behind trees, had never been in Elvaethor's opinion, but it made Thranduil's behaviour make some kind of sense.
The look on Thorin's face says that he too has suffered losses at the hands of orcs and more recent ones at that, yet he will not be found cowering behind the mighty walls of his kingdom. The contempt is written all over his face. 'I see.'
Elvaethor chuckles. 'You do,' he agrees. 'But you do not approve. And neither do I.' It has always been a most frustrating thing how his king plays hide and seek with the orcs, forever hiding behind trees. Of course, the orcs know better than to launch a direct attack, because that Thranduil cannot stand for. But as long as they don't bother the elves, they can pretty much do whatever they want in the area. And if the men or dwarves come knocking, asking for aid, Thranduil sends them away with the excuse that it is not his problem. Elvaethor has recently explained this to Kate and she was quite vocal about it.
Her husband is not so bent on making himself heard, but he doesn't need to. Thorin can communicate with stares and frowns as well as his wife can with words. This time however he makes an exception. 'Indeed. You are here.' While your king is not. Those last words he doesn't speak, but Elvaethor hears them all the same.
'So I am,' he agrees and he does not leave. True to his word he makes sure to stay close to Thorin when the fight begins. He takes down an orc that plans to stab the King under the Mountain in the back. He pays for it with a heavily bleeding shoulder wound and a broken leg, courtesy of the first orc he's ever seen wielding a war hammer, but is immensely relieved to find that Thorin has come through the battle with nothing but a few scratches and one cut that needs stitching. Dari was never as reckless as Thorin undoubtedly is and so he knows that Kate was very right to worry about his safety. And that means that Elvaethor has to watch out for him when she cannot, because he is not ready to lose either of them.
He spends the way back to Erebor in a cart with the ill-tempered healer Óin taking care of him. He grumbles and then pretends not to hear Elvaethor's retorts. He's mostly complaining about stubborn elves that refuse to do as they are told and if his patient won't lie still this instant, he will tie him down. Elvaethor knows better than to doubt it.
'What were you doing?' Thorin demands when they make camp one night and Elvaethor has bartered and blackmailed his way out of the wretched cart. The king has found him by the nearest fire. To his utter frustration his leg will not carry him any further. He has to sit down and give it the rest it needs. It will heal faster than any of the dwarves' injuries, but it still needs time. And Elvaethor has little patience for such matters.
'Thorin,' he acknowledges.
The king only scowls at him and repeats the question.
'I watched your back,' Elvaethor replies truthfully. He has. Not because he promised Kate, although he has more than suggested to her that he would see her husband safely home again, but because he cannot bear loss. He knows that it will come one day, but there are decades yet in which they ought to be alive. Not yet, not yet. There is time still. And he will see to it that those years will be filled with life.
It is not answer enough for Thorin. 'Why?'
Maybe spending so much time with dwarves is starting to rub off on him, because he answers directly: 'Because you are worthy of life.' And because Kate is as well. And without him, he doesn't know how long she will survive. Thorin is all that keeps her in this world. He anchors her here.
Thorin does not contradict him, but neither does he agree. 'Kate tells me this is not the first time you've spent time with my kind.'
The change of subject is abrupt, but Elvaethor goes with it. 'Yes,' he says. 'Dari,' he adds. The name of his old friend is still not spoken without waking grief and regret anew, but he can bear speaking of him now. It gets easier too. 'I considered him a close friend.'
Thorin doesn't ask how the tale ends. Like as not he already knows. Thorin and Kate do not generally keep secrets from one another. In fact, she has asked his permission to share his story with her husband, so Thorin might have known for years.
'You were a fool for endangering your life,' Thorin says brusquely. Elvaethor has the uncomfortable feeling that Thorin knows exactly why he acted as he had on the battlefield. That he doesn't say so in so many words means nothing. Words are only wind, after all.
'You live,' he points out. 'And so do I.'
Thorin gives a very unsubtle look in the general direction of Elvaethor's leg. 'I see.' He sees more than Elvaethor has told him, that's clear beyond the shadow of a doubt. And yet he does not understand, not fully. Elvaethor would like to keep it that way, because he doesn't think he can bear to have Thorin know of his cowardice when Dari died. He will seek to erase it and he has sworn to do better.
He can only hope that he will be strong enough when the time comes.
He spends little time in Mirkwood in the following years. His stupidity – as both Thorin and Kate refer to it – on the battlefield has won him Thorin's trust and maybe even reluctant friendship. He's been made to feel welcome when he visits. It is not yet the friendship that he enjoyed with Dari, but it may yet become something of the sort. After all, when Kate has a miscarriage three years after Duria is born, it is Thorin who sends the note to Elvaethor that he is needed. It's not a good time. Kate withdraws into herself to grieve and Thorin does not know what to do with both his own grief and hers. Elvaethor feels their pain, but is unable to do much beside sitting with Kate and holding her as she cries. It has been long since he felt this powerless. In the end he has an idea, marches over to Thorin's study and lets himself in before Thorin has told him he can.
'What are you doing here?' the King under the Mountain demands. 'I thought you had devoted yourself to my wife's care.' The accusation is very clear in his voice.
'It is not me she needs,' Elvaethor tells him, bracing himself for the storm of protest he is sure will follow. 'It is you. And you need her.' He curses himself for a fool for not seeing it before. Time has been wasted. 'Go to her.'
True to expectations Thorin's eyebrows make a very threatening move. 'You presume to tell me my business, elf?'
The derisive elf makes Elvaethor cringe inside, but he presses on. It is not for his own sake that he is doing this. 'I think I do, in this matter. Kate will no more ask for your company than she would ask for an audience with my king, but that does not mean that she does not need it.' He thinks on this for a moment, and then adds: 'Though she does not need an audience with my king.'
Had circumstances been different, Thorin might even have smiled. Now he only looks at Elvaethor with a deep frown etched into his forehead. 'Dwalin has told me the same.' It looks like he's trying to figure out whether or not Dwalin has in fact put Elvaethor up to this.
He hasn't, but it doesn't really matter. 'Then he is wise,' he says. 'And you would do well to heed his words.' Thorin might never act on the words of an elf, but he will listen to his oldest friend.
But maybe, just maybe he has some influence after all. The same hour Thorin gets up and makes his way towards his chambers. He tells Elvaethor to leave and to not disturb them and he exhales in relief.
Still, leaving is hard. And so he stays. He teaches the lads some Sindarin. In later life they might have a need of it and Elvaethor is better qualified to teach it than any other under the Mountain. He experiments with healing techniques with Thora, discusses history with a lively dwarrowdam called Síf and to his own surprise, finds himself sparring with Dwalin one day. He is not quite convinced the dwarf likes him, but he gets the commentary that he isn't half bad afterwards and is invited to a drink with Dwalin and some other dwarves. He makes some new friends that night.
He still travels much and his official home is still in Mirkwood. Thranduil can still command him and does so on occasion. But eventually Erebor calls to him again and he cannot let that call go unanswered. He has felt peace within those walls that has long eluded him. He feels he can laugh without restraint, talk without deceit and breathe without regret. It is not mere happiness he finds there, but a sense of belonging that both elates and frightens him.
He knows it cannot last forever. But he will make it last as long as he can.
And then he nearly loses it long before he is ready. He is in Dale on his king's business when Thorin's note finds him. Kate has gone into labour. You are needed. He knows how bad it is by merely looking at the messenger's face. Never once has he laid eyes on Nori without seeing some kind of mischief in his face. There is none now.
He mounts his horse and gallops down the road to Erebor as fast as he can, leaving Nori far behind. His heart thunders and he can't seem to breathe. He does not see the road. He only sees the memories: getting a note in Dari's hand, riding long and hard to make it in time. He had seen Inga alive, but she had been too far gone for him to do anything. He remembers her pale and cold and Dari next to her, devastated. He remembers how that story ended.
Not again, he prays. Please, not again. Please, let her live. Give them more time. Let them not end as my old friends did.
It is a good thing that the horse knows the way, because tears are blurring his vision. And he cannot let them show, he knows this. So he forces his emotions back under control. When he reaches the gates, no one is able to tell he has wept. Ori is the one to welcome him and guide him to where he needs to be.
'Save her,' he tells Elvaethor. It is completely out of character for Ori to give commands of any kind, so it is telling that he does so today.
He doesn't say I will, because he cannot give promises he might not be able to keep, but he gives Kate's brother the next best thing. 'I will do all that is in my power,' he vows. Valar give that it will be enough.
He knows the moment that he steps into the room that not all is lost. He has not merely arrived in time to be a spectator to her final moments. But he also knows that if nothing is done, she will not live to see another sunset. Give me strength, he prays.
And then he sets to work. His first order of business is to remove Dori and his endless fussing from the room. Kate hates that kind of thing, he knows. Thorin's eyes betray his anxiety, but Elvaethor has not the heart to repeat Dori's treatment on him. The day is not yet won and Thorin would never forgive him if he was not here. Neither would Elvaethor forgive himself for that matter.
It is a long day and time ceases to matter as he fights to deliver the children, twins, as he had suspected for some months, and keep Kate alive. And all this time fear clenches its poisonous hand around his heart, whispering of failure, painting him pictures of the aftermath. He is an elf, so he is never cold, but he experiences it today. Fear chills him to the bone, but he cannot let it show.
Thorin is mostly silent, but his face speaks for him. Elvaethor knows the dwarf has known more loss than anybody should ever be forced to endure. He is not sure his heart can recover from even one more. He prays he will not need to find out for years.
The sun has long since set when he knows they are victorious. Kate is pale and exhausted, but she manages a tired smile from over two tiny babes. Thorin is at her side, where he has been all this time, where he will be for a long time. He will not let Kate out of his sight for some time to come yet. Elvaethor can see the relief in his eyes, an emotion so strong that it brings tears to his eyes and he knows that he is very privileged indeed that he is allowed to see it.
'I'm telling you one thing,' Kate says. 'I am never doing that again.'
Elvaethor and Thorin exchange a look that Kate doesn't see. Good, Elvaethor thinks. Do not make us go through this again.
'A wise decision,' he replies.
He only now lets himself feel it, the triumph, the overwhelming relief that this is not the end, that he has not failed twice. He feels both hot and cold at the same time and to his astonishment, he finds that his hands are shaking and that his vision is blurring again. He quickly excuses himself and goes to find a quiet corner where the tears finally overtake him and he weeps his relief. He is unused to such strong emotions, doesn't rightly know what to do with them. Elves feel deeply, but they seldom let those emotions see the light of day. But Elvaethor knows he has never been much like his own people. He feels things differently and, he fears, stronger.
It takes him a long time to realise he is not alone and when he does, he startles. His senses ought to have alerted him to another's presence long ago, especially given the fact that it's his friend Thora who's managed to find his hiding place.
'Don't get up on my account,' she tells him when he makes to move. 'And don't you go trying to hide those tears either.' She hands over a glass. Wine, Elvaethor sees. 'Something to help,' Thora explains. 'Go on, you'll feel better.'
He looks at her with confusion. 'I am not unwell.'
Thora shrugs. 'I know. Does that matter?' She lightly taps his head and then his chest. 'That's where it hurts, right?'
Elvaethor accepts the glass, but doesn't drink yet. 'How do you live?' he asks. 'If even good emotions can hurt. How do you live?' Dwarves, he reckons, must have the answers. From what he has seen of them, they live life to the full. They must therefore be intimately acquainted with both grief and joy.
'Everything hurts when it is too much, friend,' Thora tells him sensibly. 'And you have just given yourself the best medicine there is for such ailments.'
'The wine?' he asks. He hasn't touched it yet.
The young healer rolls her eyes at him. Clearly she thinks this a stupid question. 'Having a good cry,' she clarifies when he remains at a loss for what he means. 'You let it out. Very healthy habit, that. We all know it when we're infants, but then, as we grow older, we seem to forget. Crying helps.'
It's the height of dwarven wisdom. It's the practical kind that Elvaethor so often finds lacking among his own people. He finds himself smiling through the last tears.
'See, you're doing better already.' Thora seems pleased to see it. 'A lot of folk will tell you differently, but there is no shame in tears, tears of joy or tears of sadness. Or, indeed, tears of relief. It's all very natural. Just not for an elf, but then, you're more of a dwarf anyway, aren't you?'
This coaxes the first real laugh of the day out of him. 'Most people would disagree on that matter.'
'Most people are fools,' Thora retorts. 'Come on now, do as you're told by your healer and drink your wine. Then you and I are going to find the rest of my family and you will be celebrating the new prince and princess with us. And I'll not have an argument from you,' she warns when she sees Elvaethor is on the verge of making one. 'I'll not have you be by yourself on such a joyous night. And I have a husband and some brothers by marriage who would be glad of the opportunity to thank you for saving their sister's life.' She gets to her feet and extends her hand to him. 'Come on, you. All is well. You made sure of that. Now come and celebrate.'
'You are a wise healer, Mistress Thora,' Elvaethor says as he lets her help him to his feet. He still is uncertain if the tears are really gone, but he feels that maybe he ought to take the risk. What's one more when he has already risked so much?
She grins. 'And don't you go forgetting it.'
He doesn't.
He thinks long and hard on her words in the years that follow and the conclusion that takes shape in his mind is one that both surprises and not surprises him. He has never looked at the people of Middle Earth in the way Thora clearly does, defining them by personality traits rather than by things like life expectancy, physical features and Maker. To Elvaethor his people were the Firstborn, men the Secondborn, dwarves the children of Aulë, Hobbits something of a big-footed mystery and orcs an abomination. He only now realises that he physically fits in with the Firstborn, but his heart has never been quite like theirs. It's for that very reason he found such friendship in Dari and Inga. It is the very reason that these days his dwarven friends far outnumber his elven ones.
'Thora can be quite wise when she puts her mind to it,' Kate agrees when Elvaethor finally shares his observations with her some years later. 'You've got the heart of a dwarf, my friend. And it's a thing to be proud of.'
'You and I are much the same, it seems,' Elvaethor remarks.
Kate laughs. 'Quite,' she says. 'Odd though it feels to be saying it. But here we are and look at us, we're dwarves without beards.' She ponders this for a moment and then favours him with an inquisitive look. 'How are you, really? We've had word from Mirkwood that Thranduil is making your life difficult lately.'
'How did you come by that news?' he asks. There are none that he could think of who would send such a note and no dwarves have gone near Mirkwood for a good long while.
'Your sister is concerned for you,' Kate answers. 'She expressed the wish we would look after you.' A smile tugs at her lips. 'And I feel I must warn you, because many of us have taken her words to heart.'
'Then my heart feels lighter already,' Elvaethor says.
The hospitality of the dwarves should be old news by now, but he will never cease being amazed and humbled by it, these friends he never expected to find. Of course, there are still those in Erebor who would feel better if he never darkened their doors again, but their number decreases steadily. Most of them are used to his comings and goings. Many of them are pleased to see his face. And Kate's words move him.
'Then it's true,' she concludes and she is frowning. 'Thranduil is making your life hell again.'
'One day you must tell me what this hell is that you so often speak of,' Elvaethor says. He has wondered many times.
'One day you will stop trying to change the subject.' Kate doesn't miss a beat and she is not to be distracted from this course.
'It does not matter,' Elvaethor assures her. 'I am here now.'
It only angers his friend. 'Well, you weren't a week ago and it does matter to me and your other friends in Erebor. You know, the thing about dwarves is that they don't like it when their friends are mistreated. You are undeserving of any disdain or ill treatment.'
In truth, he is not mistreated as such. But the distrust in palpable and he only gets the most irrelevant chores and duties to complete. He finds that conversations dry up in his presence and people avoid him in the streets. Thranduil, he suspects, does nothing to change this. Elvaethor fears that he might encourage it and even if he does not, then Galas does. And no one will tell him to stop either.
'You are kind,' he says. Kinder than many people he knows, though she hides it well.
She hides it so well that she does not even recognise it herself. 'Well, I've been called many things, but certainly not kind. I'm just calling it like I see it, Elvaethor, and so are a good many others. It's the truth, nothing more or less.'
'I stand by my assessment.' He will not be dissuaded from this.
'Stubborn as a dwarf.' Kate clearly approves. 'You should stay for a while, keep in touch with that loyal dwarven heart of yours. I think you'll find you won't be idle for a good long while. We're good at detaining those we do not wish to leave, you know.'
'I have the utmost faith in that.'
He does not wish to leave.
So he doesn't.
Of course he does not stay indefinitely, but he also finds that when he does go, he cannot bear to be absent for more than a few months altogether. Almost without realising it, he finds he has some duties he cannot forsake for long. No doubt this is the result of some clever planning by some of his friends, but he does not mind. Teaching Sindarin becomes something of an occupation. Thoren and Thráin bring their friends to lessons and then those friends start bringing siblings and more friends until he one day finds he has a whole classroom full of dwarflings on his hands, awaiting his instruction. And when he is not busy teaching – not something he had ever imagined himself doing – Thora or one of her healer friends drags him off to work with them. And he enjoys that too.
His room in Mirkwood is all but empty. There are some trinkets there he does not care for much that remain, and a few clothes, but other than that, all his belongings are in Erebor, where he knows they will be well looked after.
He likes being around to watch Thorin and Kate's children grow up. Thoren comes to him one day, not so much mischief now as in previous days, asking for aid in understanding elven culture as well as the language. If he means to do well in his father's stead one day, he must know such things, he tells Elvaethor. He enjoys teaching the lad. He's a quick study, who maybe does not enjoy learning much, but who is intelligent. It's not long before Duria, the little scholar of the family, starts attending too. With her he has long discussions on the differences between elves and dwarves and their different views on history. Of course Duria leans more toward the dwarven view of the debate, but she never becomes spiteful, like so many others of her kind do.
Thráin he sees a lot of too, but this boy does not ask for Sindarin or history, he asks for the stories of Elvaethor's travels, like he did when he was younger. There is a wanderlust in him that will not be extinguished and before long, he means to take off. Elvaethor goes with him that first, not only to soothe his parents' nerves, but also his own. The wilds are no place for the amateur wanderer, but it soon turns out it's not merely a fancy of Thráin's. He knows what he is about. The next time he goes, he goes unaccompanied and he returns with tales of his own that he takes great delight in telling. Elvaethor in turn takes great delight in listening.
Cathy is always seeking out his company too. She looks like her mother, but younger, and with fewer burdens. There's always a smile to be coaxed out of her; she is hard to anger or sadden. 'She has a gift for contentment,' Kate remarks one day and it is just what it is. It is also very rare. Most people never find it.
Jack certainly does not. He is a happy child, always getting into some kind of trouble with his cousin and best friend Flói. But then he grows and grows and becomes as tall as a man and he begins to understand what people say about him. The careless laughter vanishes and the mischief melts away. Elvaethor sees him change and he does not like what he sees. It worries him deeply to see such resentment, such deep-seated unhappiness. He knows that it is even harder for Thorin and Kate. And there is not a single thing he can say that can make things better. Jack is the living embodiment of a major consequence that came of the unconventional choice his parents made. He cannot forget it and the world never lets him.
Elvaethor bears witness to it and wonders time and again if it was ever like this for Dari and Inga's children. It's far too late now to find out, even if he should find the courage to do so. Men do not keep such excellent records as dwarves do and what records there were have been destroyed when Dale was laid to waste in Smaug's fire. But he can wonder and he does, thinking. He has made many mistakes in the past. He ought to have been there. He should have spoken words of comfort to Tilly, he should have held Einar as he cried, he should have rocked a fussy Fryr back to sleep. He should not have walked when their parents died. And of course it is easy to say this with the benefits of hindsight. But he also knows he cannot arrive at this conclusion and behave no different when grief will inevitably find him again. And he does not know if he possesses the strength not to run from the heartache.
As it is, the first tendrils of fear make themselves at home. They curl around his heart and squeeze, tighter and tighter as time marches ever on. It turns Thorin's hair grey, leaves wrinkles in Kate's face. The King under the Mountain is still vital, strong as he ever was, despite the grey. The change in Kate is harder to ignore. Sometimes it feels as though he only has to blink and she ages in front of him. The red in her hair fades to silver, slowly but surely, and one day he comes into her study to find she has acquired glasses for reading. 'My eyes aren't as young as they used to be,' she says and she's flippant about it, but Elvaethor finds that words fail him. Dread settles in his stomach.
This is what he always wanted for Thorin and Kate, he knows. He wanted for them to have a full life, filled with joy and laughter and all the good things of life. They have been given that. By some miracle they have survived the most dangerous of quests, the loss of an unborn child and the almost disastrous birthing of the twins. No sickness has put a stain on their lives. They have lived. But as the turn of the millennium grows closer and passes, Elvaethor knows that time is starting to run out.
Thorin knows this too. He never says so, but Elvaethor sees it in his eyes sometimes. He too is measuring time, praying for just that little longer, for just one more day, one more week, one more month, one more year. They have been blessed, but slowly watching as time leaves its mark is an almost greater burden than he can shoulder.
'The two of you are being very silly about it all,' Kate declares one day, a little after Durin's Day of the year 3002 of the Third Age. Elvaethor has come for the celebrations and has decided to stay after. 'I'm getting old, is all. It's the most natural thing in all the world.'
'Not for elves,' Elvaethor reminds her. 'We are unused to such things.'
Kate smiles, eyes twinkling at him from behind her glasses. 'Indeed, my friend. You look exactly like you did when we first met. I can't believe it's been over sixty years now. My, time does fly.'
'It flies too fast,' Elvaethor says. For many of his people sixty years are nothing. For men they are all they have. He knows this, but he cannot let go, not yet. It's too soon, he keeps telling himself. There must be some time left. They cannot have reached the end already.
Kate frowns at him. 'Like I said, you're being very silly about this all. I've had a good life, you know. Ups and downs and everything, but good on the whole. I can't rightly ask for anything else.' She sees in his eyes that he finds that she should and the frown deepens. 'Okay, you listen to me now.' Her stare keeps him silent, though he wishes to protest. 'No, listen. I know that it isn't so for your kind, but it is for mine. We know that one day, we will die. It's the one thing in life we can be absolutely certain of. So we accept that. We don't accept it if folk die before their time, but when we're old there's a point that we know, it's enough now. It's how we're made, just as you were not made for dying.' She smiles sadly. 'Truthfully, that does sound like hell.'
His head snaps up and he looks at her in astonishment. 'How can you say that?'
The sadness becomes clearer and he almost thinks he can see a measure of pity in her eyes as well. 'Well, we dwarves and men, we grow old and die when our time is up. We know that eventually those we love will do the same and one way or another, we'll find each other again after death. But you have to watch us grow old and die, unable to do anything about it. You just remain while we move on. It seems to me that yours is the crueller fate.'
She has grown wise in her later years and he knows this. It's not the wisdom of his people, but it is wisdom all the same. He can recognise it as such. But at the same time he silently rages against the truth of it. He cannot let go yet. And the way Kate is talking has made the dread return stronger than it has ever been before. It takes him by the throat and squeezes until it feels like he cannot get the air he breathes all the way into his lungs. She is speaking of dying as if she is not worried about it. Even worse, she is speaking of it as though she knows the end is near.
'What will you do?' she asks softly. She has the kindness not to remark on the tears on his face that he cannot contain any longer. 'When we have died, what will you do?'
That her concern is for him and not for herself almost enrages him again, but he fights for control and wins. 'I do not know,' he replies truthfully. Oh, how he wishes to run. But where, he does not know. He has severed the ties to his homeland too thoroughly to ever belong there again, even though not all cords have been cut. There is still something calling him there from time to time. But those bonds are not strong enough to prevent him from drifting when Erebor no longer holds appeal to him. And he dare not think about it too long.
'Well, if you won't have too many pressing demands on your time, maybe you could keep an eye on my offspring, pop by every once in a while.' The suggestion is made in a gentle way that is not much like her. Kate generally barrels on with the determination and devastation of a stone avalanche, without much care for the reactions and opinions of others. That has little changed. It's only for those she truly cares for that she makes the effort. Elvaethor feels honoured knowing himself among their number. 'Maker knows they need looking after.'
It's as if he was dying of thirst in a southern desert and she has given him water. With a few words he knows what he will do, what he must do, what he always had to do. With a few words she has told him that he cannot run, that he will need to do better this time. This is his chance for redemption, a chance to set right what had been done wrong in the past. Not that she knows any of this. Elvaethor is well aware that she would disagree with his interpretation of her words, quite loudly too if he knows her at all. She has never agreed with his assessment of his own conduct after Dari and Inga.
So he tells her nothing of it. 'I swear to you that I will not abandon them,' he vows.
Kate arches an eyebrow in a way she must have learned from her husband. 'There is really no need to be so formal about it, Elvaethor,' she says. She sounds mildly suspicious. She has every right to be.
'There is,' he disagrees and then attempts to explain it: 'You've given me a gift, Kate. I must not allow myself to waste it.'
Elvaethor thinks she understands more than she says, because there is a distinct lack of objections. There is understanding in her eyes. 'I am not Inga,' she reminds him instead. 'And Thorin is not Dari. Our children are grown. They can fend for themselves. I would just rest easier knowing there is someone keeping an eye on them, especially considering the days that are still to come. And they cannot be very far from us now.'
They have touched upon the subject before and Elvaethor is well aware that she knows of events that must still come to pass. She is careful with her knowledge and rightly so. All Elvaethor knows is that somewhere in her world, there is another book and it describes the fate of this world, of things that must still happen.
'When they come, I will be here,' he promises.
She smiles. 'That does put my heart at rest,' Kate says.
Elvaethor feels marginally better for having done so.
But the fear persists.
And he knows soon enough that he has been very right in doing so. It's only a fortnight later when a note in Thráin's hand finds him in Dale. Elvaethor has been there for only half a day to deliver some documents to the court of King Bain of Dale. The mannish town is close enough that he felt secure enough to leave for the day.
He has been wrong in doing so, for while he had woken at dawn, the eyes of his dearest friend never opened again.
The news finds him in the crowded marketplace and for once he does not care that all those around him can see his grief. It hits him like a sledgehammer to the chest, leaving him with a gaping but invisible hole in his chest, unable to breathe. If not for the steady hand of Flói, he would have crumbled to the ground. The pain is as raw and overwhelming as it had been centuries ago. It's no easier to endure the second time. One might even say it is even harder, for he has had months to imagine just how bad it will be. And now that the moment has arrived at last, he knows that nothing could ever have prepared him for the pain that strikes him out of nowhere and consumes his soul.
The sound that comes from his mouth is almost animalistic, but he is only vaguely aware of people backing away in shock. Never before has an elf cried such tears over the loss of a mortal friend and the sight must be startling if nothing else. Elvaethor finds that he does not care for their thoughts. There is no room for that.
Flói escorts him back to the Mountain, quiet all that time. Elvaethor is more grateful than he can say. Words would mean nothing now. There are none that can ease the pain, none that can make him feel better. He knows the end of an age has come and he cannot help but mourn its passage. Too soon. It is still too soon. Knowing that Kate herself had made peace with it does not help him.
Neither does it help Thorin. The King under the Mountain does not speak. He has withdrawn into himself, but Elvaethor knows this look. He has seen it before, he has lived this story before. He will not linger here long. With astounding certainty Elvaethor knows that Thorin Oakenshield will not live to see another summer. Nor does he want to.
Kate is lying on the bed, pale and cold. Her eyes are closed, as if in sleep. But there is no more breath in her body and Elvaethor knows that her spirit has fled. Thráin's note had said that she had passed on in her sleep. It must have been peaceful; it is reflected on her face. There are no more fights to fight, not for her. Her cares have fallen away.
'Farewell,' he speaks softly. 'Farewell, my friend. Thank you for shining so brightly.' He has never spoken those words while she lived and he knows he should have. 'You will be greatly missed.' He presses a kiss to her forehead that she does not feel anymore.
Thorin has watched him throughout, without speaking. The grief in his eyes is more intense than Elvaethor can face for long. The end is written in them, more plainly than it could have ever been written in words. Looking at that feels like being stabbed in the chest over and over again and so he is quick to look away.
No words are spoken. For just once, dwarf and elf understand each other perfectly.
It's not until days later that he finally finds a way to express his heartache. He stands on the mountainside and the words come to him in his own tongue, carried on a melody that he knows he will remember for all his long years, but that he will never sing again. He remembers Thora's advice from years back to let the emotions flow freely, because it is the best medicine she knows.
It aids him not.
His heart yearns for rest, yearns for fresh air and home. But Elvaethor does not know where home is anymore and though he wishes for peace, he finds none of it. How can it, when the tale is not completed just yet? And he knows that it must end, will soon end. Thorin Oakenshield has not smiled since that day, nor will he again in life.
Elvaethor does not leave. He must see this through to the bitter end. He has made a promise and he will see it upheld. And when it all draws to the close, there are five good reasons not to run. He promised their mother. But Valar give him strength, he does not know how well he will do.
Not well, as it turns out. Barely four months have passed when he is fetched just after dawn by Lufur. The guardsman's solemn expression tells him the news he knows had been coming. Four months only. Dari lasted for two more before he followed his wife into the grave. And he wore the same expression Thorin wears now: peace. The King under the Mountain knew where he was heading. There is a quiet reassurance in that, but Elvaethor can barely feel it for all the pain in his soul.
It's as he tells a mourning Duria. 'He died when Kate passed on. His mind only needed a little more time to catch up to where his heart had already gone.' He knows this like he knows that the sun will rise in the east and will set in the west. It's a truth he cannot deny. But now he also knows that there is such a thing as a hard truth. He is forced into accepting it, but he does not do so willingly.
But he knows that in the end there was never any choice. His will cannot keep them here. In truth, he never truly wished for Thorin to linger long after Kate's demise. It would have been a cruel and selfish wish.
And so he only feels empty, standing in front of the tomb long after everyone else has gone back inside after the funeral. He has no wish for company or food. It's solitude he requires now. He cannot accept the sympathy of others yet. Their consolations would be meaningless and he would not accept them with the grace that is expected of him. And so he is here, on his knees. He has tried to remain on his feet, but his feet refuse to obey his will. The weight of his sorrow is pressing him down and crushing his heart between cold fingers. There is a finality to the closed tomb. The story has ended and he experiences loss for the second time in his long life. And even though he begs for respite when his weeping allows him air to do so, he knows it is futile. He cannot make time turn back on itself and return his friends to him.
The only reason that he is not running – and a destination no longer seems to matter as long as it is far away from this place of grief – is that oath he swore to his friend. He will not break it. It is the very last thing he can do to honour her memory. And he means to honour it, not shame it.
He is chilled to the bone and weary with sorrow, but Elvaethor does not run.
He has always known that this friendship could not last forever, has always known that both Thorin and Kate will inevitably die while he must live on indefinitely. He ought to have learned his lesson with Dari and Inga.
Still, here he is.
I think this was one of the hardest pieces I've ever written, which is why it has taken so long to finish this, but I'm actually quite pleased with the result. And I hope you are too.
Reviews would be most welcome. I would love some feedback on this. Did you love it, hate it? Let me know. And as always, thank you for reading!