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b2mem2015-03-12 11:56 pm
starbrow.livejournal.com) wrote in b2mem2015-03-12 11:56 pm
"The Affirmations Of Elrond" by Amy Fortuna
B2MeM Challenge: General Prompts: the fading of beauty.
Format: Experimental (Um. Basically songfic.)
Genre: Ficlet series - 4500 words total.
Rating: R for suggestiveness and discussion of physical/mental trauma (implied rape)
Warnings: No warnings, but some potentially distressing/disturbing content & a bit of swearing.
Characters: Elrond, Gil-galad, Celebrian, Aragorn, Arwen, Lindir, Maedhros, Maglor, Finrod, Beor, Elladan & Elrohir, various others
Pairings: Elrond/Gil-galad, Elrond/Celebrian, referenced Fingon/Maedhros, Finrod/Beor, and Aragorn/Arwen
Creators' Notes (optional): The specific 'answer' to the prompt is "I believe you don't know what you've got until you say goodbye' although the theme of the prompt runs through the whole series.
Summary: This is a series of double and triple drabbles about Elrond's life, as inspired by lines from Savage Garden's song 'Affirmation'.
I believe the sun should never set upon an argument
“You are abandoning us,” Elrond charged bitterly. It was his trump card, his final play. “You took us away from everyone who loved us, and now you are leaving us for this fool’s errand which can only bring great sorrow. The worst is that I - we - loved you. We thought you loved us!”
Maglor turned his head away, eyes glimmering with tears unshed, taking the accusation silently, absorbing it as he always did everything. But Maedhros, eyes fiery, stared back at Elrond.
“We have no choice!” His voice was tormented, full of pain and anger. “We damned ourselves long ago, when the Oath we swore. We have abandoned far more than you for its sake, and destroyed all we once held dear. Now all that remains is the Dark.” His hand tightened on Maglor’s shoulder. “Leave, Elrond. We cannot be dissuaded.”
Elrond cast a last look, full of rage and pain, at them, and left the room, slamming the door with unwonted force. He stood on the other side, breathing hard, then left the house, not to return for some days. When he did, they were long gone.
Later, he deeply regretted his last words to Maedhros, lost in fire.
I believe we place our happiness in other people's hands
The wedding feast was long and merry, happiness after great sorrow and pain. So many of their kin, and their last High King, lay unburied in the marshlands far away, and Sauron’s seeming defeat was tempered by Isildur’s fall.
The beginning of the Third Age was tumultuous and troublesome, no less for Elrond’s heart than anything else. The king he had been devoted to since his youth was now gone, but his silver-haired queen danced beside him, her eyes alight with love and joy as she looked on him.
“You have distant eyes,” she said in his ear, understanding, calm. “The journey has been long, has it not, to this day, to this moment?”
“Long indeed,” Elrond said, “and dark the way at times. Yet no more dark shall it be, for now you are my light.”
He bent to kiss her, and a flash of foreboding struck his heart, a vision of her silver hair, unkempt, dirtied, torn, of her light, quenched and broken.
She caught the shiver that ran all through him, but only looked at him, saying nothing. She, Galadriel’s daughter, was wise enough to know that oft ill fortune was better left a mystery, unread.
I believe that junk food tastes so good because it's bad for you
“Oh, Elros,” Elrond said, deeply worried at finding his brother in their tent, several empty wine bottles scattered around him. For all that, Elros’ eyes were surprisingly sober.
“What, I can’t have a drink?” he said, throwing the latest empty bottle to the ground.
“A drink is one thing, but this is more than that,” Elrond said, crouching down next to his twin. “I know it has been a hard day….”
Elros reached out and grabbed Elrond’s shoulder. “I’m not even wounded, that’s the worst of it. So many of my company lie dead in the field, and I don’t have a fucking scratch on me!” He collapsed forward into Elrond’s arms. Elrond gathered him in, sinking down on the blankets, and just holding him for a long while.
At last Elros raised his head. “When - Sirion - happened, did Maedhros cover your eyes, as Maglor did mine, when we left with them?
“Yes,” Elrond said, remembering being carried in the dark for a long while.
“It makes me sick to think - what I saw today is what they spared us from seeing, then.” Elros did look sick, faintly greenish. Elrond moved quickly, just in time to escape being vomited on.
I believe your parents did the best job they knew how to do
Elrond has four parents. One’s a bird, one’s the Evening Star, and two are accursed Kinslayers.
At first, he clung to the memory of his mother, tiny and beautiful, always surrounded by light and yet so sad. His father was a dim golden blur, strong young voice, faint laughter. When he was there was the only time he ever saw his mother smile. He tried to hate Maedhros and Maglor, for taking his parents away, but even at the age of six, he knew deep inside they were already gone from him, each devoted to things he could not comprehend.
Later, Maedhros and Maglor became his parents. He called them both Father at first, unsure how to address them. As he grew, they encouraged him to simply call them by their names, but in his heart they were always Ada. Even for years after Maedhros burned and Maglor wandered the broken shorelines, he called for them inside his mind.
Eventually Maglor came back to him, worn, weary, thin and shattered. And through his tears Elrond whispered “Ada, Ada,” clinging like a child.
For the first time Maglor answered him as he always wished, clinging back. “Yonya,” he said. “My son.”
I believe that beauty magazines promote low self-esteem
Arwen was very young when the whispers began. Some Sindarin Elves who survived the ruin of Doriath now lived in Rivendell, and it was undoubtedly they who began it, but rumours spread quickly throughout the house. “She is the very likeness of Luthien the Beloved!”
Then it was, “Their fates shall be alike,” as well. For a while they were matching Arwen up with every mortal man who stepped foot in Imladris.
Once the latest Man to pass by was fairly settled under their roof as befitted his guest, Elrond sought out his daughter, hiding in her favourite spot among the white beech trees. His arms around her, he held her as she cried, sobbing out that she feared she /had/ to marry a mortal, would she or no.
“Do not fear, my little girl,” he said at last, lifting her chin up to face him. “You shall marry only by your own choice and desire, I promise you. Whether you choose one of the Elven kindred to marry, or a mortal Man like Luthien, and in so doing choose her fate, I shall only ever seek your happiness.”
Later, he would speak very sternly indeed to the rumour-mongers.
I believe I'm loved when I'm completely by myself alone
His company encamped on the grasslands, Elrond made his way toward the mountains, where he heard the sounds of running water. He sought a river-valley, a hidden spot, where they could camp and be safe from the Orcs who prowled the lands.
He swung down a steep bank, and before him ran a wide river, deep, but not unfordable. He crossed it, making note of the plants that grew on its banks, and headed further on toward the Misty Mountains. A short way on was a small hill, top rounded, trees growing over it, white beech trees. He made his way into the wood, and dismounted from his horse, looking around. In the distance the hills rose sharply, cliffs protecting the area on three sides. It was a valley inside a river-formed canyon, almost, a cleft at the foot of the mountains, dividing them from the grasslands, but invisible from both mountains and plains.
A sense of peace and rightness filled him. Alone he stood silent, watching the sun on her downward course lighting up the trees with golden fire.
“Imladris I name you,” he said at last to the empty land. “Here will I build my home.”
I believe in karma, what you give is what you get returned
Imladris quickly became known as the Hidden Refuge, the Last Homely House. If you could find it, the whispers said, they would take you in, no matter your race or kindred.
“I heard tell that Elrond even admits that Feanorion Maglor to his home and his table,” a travelling Elf once, long years later, said to Lindir, out on the banks of the Bruinen on a summer’s evening.
Lindir, as he was somewhat of a mischief-maker, replied, “I have heard tell, myself, that Maglor is the finest of musicians. I also have heard that he is deadly with the sword, as would befit a Feanorion, and utterly abhors the phrase ‘tra-la-la-lally.’ Might you sing one of your other improvised compositions for us soon? I do not think the dwarves much enjoyed your very fine verses.”
The Elf, whose name history does not record, made his excuses and quickly fled. A dark shadow slipped down from the trees shortly afterward and approached Lindir.
“Will there be a fourth Kinslaying tonight, then?” Lindir said, strumming his lyre dramatically.
“You should not jest of such things,” Maglor answered seriously, but then smiled. “And alas, no, I forgot my sword!”
I believe you can't appreciate real love ’til you've been burned
Elrond’s whole life is a series of abandonments, from a certain point of view. Earendil abandoned him to sail the pitiless Sea, Elwing abandoned him to the Silmaril. Maedhros and Maglor also abandoned him for Silmarils, and for their Oath, more deadly than Morgoth’s curses. For the life of him, Elrond cannot understand why - and will not, until two Ages of the world have passed by, and yet again, shiny jewellery threatens everything.
Elros abandoned him for the fate of Men and for an island shaped like a star. He often wonders if Elros feels better about Earendil than he does, if he found peace in the fact that their father watched over him.
Gil-galad abandoned him too, heroic though it might have been, for death, a last stand against a force too strong. He can’t help but recall the old tales of Fingolfin’s death-and-glory ride to Angband, a suicide challenge.
Celebrian abandoned him to her own pain and grief, fading even within the walls of Imladris. Even the power of Vilya could not hold her there, and at the last Elrond had to let her go over the Sea, or let her go to Mandos.
He was abandoned every time a foster-child grew up, grew old, and died. He loved them all.
Arwen abandoned him, like Elros had, for a mortal life, for love. Elladan and Elrohir he left behind, but by choosing not to come with him, they abandoned him too. Their choice - unknown, their lives in their own hands.
He feels his love for them all burning inside him, a collective ache, a burden that only grows with time. They all loved him. They all left him behind, the youngest Elf of the Eldar Days, the steady constant among the winds of change.
I believe the grass is no more greener on the other side
Some part of him always knew they would walk separate paths. Although they loved each other greatly, Elrond and Elros were always unlike each other in character, word, and deed. Elrond ever preferred study and learning, desiring only to fight at need, whereas Elros was a natural leader, a terror on the battlefield, a force to be reckoned with.
“I want it to be over someday, Elrond,” Elros said, as they considered their choices in Eonwe’s wake, walking the sandy shoreline. “There is a look on the faces of some Men, near death, that is of such peace. I would have that - a life well lived, and then at last to lay it down and depart whither all men go, in blessedness and acceptance.”
Elrond looked out to the Sea for a moment. An ancient comparison between Men and Elves came into his mind - the slowly foundering Elven-ship and around it boats that carried the race of Men far away, to a destination unknown and mysterious.
“I will stay with the ship,” he said carefully, “and trust that the One who made us will not let us drown, at the last.”
Elros hugged him fiercely. “So it is done.”
I believe you don't know what you've got until you say goodbye
He stood on the bank of the river, looking back up the hill at Imladris, her carved steps and curve of roof. Every bend and shape of her he knew, better now than he knew the remembered bodies of his loved ones, much of her made with his own hands, stone by stone built and shaped.
His sons stood by him, a twin on either side. Their arms were around him, and they were content to let him look his last.
There would be a house over the Sea - he and Celebrian had planned it, before she went away, as an exercise in keeping her mind off darker matters - but it would not be Imladris. Nothing and nowhere would be home like this was home, here where he had raised his children, here where he had kept the memories of the Ages secure against the Dark.
The ring on his hand shone openly now. As it faded, and when he left, doomed Imladris would fade too. Her walls would fall, her stones crumble, her statues shatter and break. The forest would return. In a thousand years’ time, Imladris would be gone.
“Farewell!” he said at last. “Farewell, home I loved.”
I believe you can't control or choose your sexuality
“My Findekano always said,” Maedhros began, and as ever when he mentioned the name of Fingon, a light came into his eyes, “love is a mysterious force, not born entirely of the will, nor yet of the body, but of both, the spark lighting the Flame, and the commitment to see it through.” He tousled Elrond’s hair, and Elrond ducked away, smiling. “Time will tell if this new affection will yet prove true for you.”
Elrond sighed. “Speak not to me of time! I am impatient when I do not see her, and the days drag until I can behold her again.”
Maedhros laughed, not unsympathetically. “Tell me, little one, does she know you exist yet?”
Elrond blushed. “No, not yet.”
Maedhros pulled him into a one-armed hug. “Perhaps, little one, you should be valiant like your kinsman, and pursue your desires, even as he did me.” For a moment his eyes were lost to a happy memory from long ago.
But despite Maedhros’ words, Elrond never did have courage to speak to the pretty maiden. However, years later, when he met Gil-galad, tall and strong, who stirred his heart like no other before, he remembered, and pursued.
I believe that trust is more important than monogamy
“Does it matter to you that I have other lovers?” Gil-galad asked as they lay in bed one morning, fresh from a delicious romp under the covers. Elrond looked puzzled; he had always known Gil-galad was very …free… with his affections, and had never even thought to consider demanding monogamy from his king.
“No, of course not,” Elrond said. “We are not halves of each other’s soul, or whatever other nonsense the poets dream up. Yes, I love you, in many ways, my king and friend and beloved, but I do not ever think that entitles me to possess you or to put demands on your time and your affections.”
Gil-galad smiled. “Elrond, you are very possibly the kindest and most generous person I have known. And you have something I do not give easily, something that it takes far more than a romp in bed to win from me: my trust.”
Elrond grinned mischievously, sliding his hand down Gil-galad’s thigh. “Then you won’t be expecting this!” he exclaimed, and launched an all-out tickling offensive straight to the back of the knee.
“Alas, I am betrayed!” Gil-galad managed to choke out, through his giggles.
I believe your most attractive features are your heart and soul
Elrond had raised many of the Dunedain as his foster children; all of little Estel’s ancestors for years uncounted. He was fond of them all, but in Estel was something different, some fire and passion that drove him even from early childhood. He was eager for learning and lore as few of his ancestors had been, ready to listen to any tales Elrond could tell, and yet keen to train physically as well, a force of fury on the battlefield as soon as he was allowed to go out with Elrond’s sons.
It was not that he was particularly more beautiful than any of his ancestors, but a flash of his swift smile would light up his whole face, making him seem almost - for a heartbreaking moment - like Elros, gone so very long ago.
It was time. Yes, it was time to tell him.
“Estel,” he said the next time the boy rushed past him, on his way to some pursuit or other.
“Yes, father?” he said with a heart-stopping grin. Elrond could not resist stepping forward and embracing Estel, who looked slightly surprised - they had grown out of the habit of hugs as he grew older - but submitted happily.
“Tomorrow morn, meet me in the library,” he said. “For your twentieth birthday will be here, and there is much to speak of.” Estel agreed, rushing off as soon as Elrond released him. How quickly they grew, these mortals! Elrond walked on, reflecting that even bright Estel, beloved Aragorn, the best of them, would one day be done with the world, even as Elros had been.
A sad day, far away, flashed into his mind, and an instant of Arwen’s face in grief. He stilled, trying to recapture the vision, to understand it, but it was gone from him.
I believe that family is worth more than money or gold
He never understood his mother’s choice to, in the end, jump to what she surely must have thought was her death, rather than give up the Silmaril. For her actions abandoned her family, left her children all but orphans. Did she not think of them at all, as she fell, as she rose and soared?
Was the Silmaril so very important? He remembered, dimly, glimpses of her wearing it, only rarely, only in private. It is true it was full of light. It is true her face was filled with beauty and strength at those times, but always a remote beauty, a strength born of pain. This Jewel, after all, bore Mablung down to the ground from the weight of it, and Elwing was very small and light to begin with.
“Does it hurt?” he asked once, at the look on her face, reaching out to embrace her, a healer even then. She shook her head, but pain was in her eyes nonetheless.
Thousands of years later, when they met again, Elrond searched his mother’s face for traces of remembered pain, but the only pain in her eyes faded as she looked on him, as she held out her arms.
I believe the struggle for financial freedom is unfair, I believe the only ones who disagree are millionaires
“I fear this quest may not succeed, Mithrandir,” Elrond said, sitting down next to the wizard. He was busily engaged in smoking a pipe and blew several smoke rings before turning to his host.
“It has as good a chance as any, Elrond,” he said at last, meditatively. “What would an army avail against a dragon? You know all the old stories, dragons are generally only slain in single combat with Heroes.”
Elrond winced, thinking of the father who sailed the night skies, the father he scarcely remembered, the hero-father who had slain a dragon. “Do you think Thorin is that hero, then?” he asked. “He is noble and fair; there is much in him to like, but there is also darkness in him, the shadow of greed. And pardon me, Mithrandir, but you can’t be expecting Bilbo the hobbit to slay a dragon?”
“We shall see what is to come in time,” Mithrandir said, tapping out his pipe. “How much are dragons to be pitied, in a way? They have wealth untold, but cannot bring themselves to share it, and so cannot ever enjoy it.” He glanced around at Imladris, and smiled at Elrond. “I think your wealth far greater than Smaug’s, not hidden away in halls of gold, but built into lives saved and treasured -“ he gestured to young Estel, who ran past just then, “- into healing and kindness to all who cross your path. You have taken what was given you, and done only good, despite loss and sorrow.”
Elrond looked around. A gentle summer breeze drifted by. From the grounds below laughter arose. All was contented, joyous, at peace, here.
“Far rather would I dwell here, and be as I am,” he said, certain of this, “than possess all the treasure in the Lonely Mountain.”
I believe forgiveness is the key to your unhappiness
“I am so sorry,” were her first words, lying there, cold and too still, brought back to consciousness after days spent wandering in evil dreams. She had not known her sons, or even Elrond, at first, had shrunk away from her sons even as they rescued her, burning flames of wrath that they were, slaughtering every Orc who had dared to touch her.
Elrond’s first instinct, hearing those words, was to cry aloud that she had nothing to be sorry for, no reason to be ashamed. But he quelled it, knowing from long experience as a healer that whatever else you may do with one who has been wounded in spirit, you do not reject their heart-spoken pain.
“Why?” he asked instead, his hand gentle, neutral, open, touching her shoulder, remembering his training. (Touch the patient if possible but no more than they wish. One who has been violated may fear all touch, may flinch away from everything. It is not personal rejection.)
“I did not die,” she answered. “Should I not have died?” Her voice was high and broken, ragged and desperate.
Tears welled up inside him. He fought not to let them fall. (It is important to remain calm in front of the patient.)
“Survival is a very deep instinct,” he said carefully, but then broke, just a little, leaning forward. “Oh my love, I am so glad you did survive.”
She gave him a puzzled, strange look, like he knew nothing of her at all. He drew back again, feeling that he had made a mistake, had confused this broken, lost, creature with the shining Celebrian.
Some time later, the patient sleeping a drugged sleep once more, far away in another room Elrond broke down entirely, weeping for his wife until he could weep no more.
I believe that wedded bliss negates the need to be undressed
The crate of notebooks was not large nor heavy, but had been carefully preserved through the years. Its keeper, once an Elf of Nargothrond, had Finrod’s personal notebooks in his possession, had saved them from the ruins of Nargothrond, and later, the ruins of Beleriand itself, and brought them to Elrond at last at Imladris.
The box was so secure, even dust had not marred the books filled with writing inside, and Elrond carefully unlocked it to find the pages preserved perfectly, as though Finrod had set his last thoughts down just the day before.
The oldest books were full of musings on plants and philosophy, half-drawn maps of Beleriand, sketches of plants and animals, early designs for Nargothrond’s caves and tunnels.
Then the notebooks changed dramatically. It started with a sketch, a naked Man, bearded, dark hair covering his chest, reclining on cushions, smiling at Finrod. A briefly-written account of Finrod’s first meeting with the Edain followed. So the Man must have been Beor - and the conclusion Elrond came to was proved right a few pages later, when Finrod drew another picture of Beor sleeping peacefully, and labelled it ‘my lovely Balan.’
The tales and sketches that followed were most illuminating. Finrod seemed bent on recording every detail about Beor, sketch after sketch of him filling the pages, many thousands of words recording everything they did together, and not just in bed.
Several notebooks later, Beor visibly growing older in each sketch, a tear-stained page appeared, on it four words in Finrod’s hand, clearly shaken: “I do not understand.”
Elrond put the notebook down, laying it carefully back into the box. These notebooks were too private, too personal for the library of Imladris. He would keep them himself, and one day, give them back to Finrod.
I believe that God does not endorse TV evangelists
“What do you think?” Gil-galad asked, once they were alone in the king’s apartments. All day they had been speaking with Annatar, hearing him discuss his plans and desires for Lindon.
Elrond frowned, drawing off his gloves. “Something, I do not know what, feels wrong about him. He is charming to be sure, and fair, but fair face may hide false heart, and has done so before.”
Gil-galad nodded. “I feel much the same. There is a -“ he paused, struggling for the right words, “- a glibness to him. He is too practised, too ready with replies. Words come to him too easily to be spontaneous, which suggests that they are calculated.” He shrugged out of his cloak, laying it down on the chest at the foot of the bed.
“But what are his real desires, then?” Elrond asked. “What does he truly want?”
“That I could not tell,” Gil-galad said. “Yet I feel I would not be able to trust him, and I do not like him here.” He lifted a hand, tracing Elrond’s face. “You seem deeply troubled, sweet.”
“If we sent him from here, where would he go?” Elrond asked, leaning into Gil-galad’s touch.
I believe in love surviving death into eternity
What could be said at the last goodbye to a daughter whose fate was now sundered from your own, perhaps eternally? Thousands of years since saying the same goodbye to your brother, your twin, and still the farewell from him ached, as it would for the woman by your side, the wife, the queen. She, all now that she would ever be, all made for this fate, and you never to hold her in your arms again, who held her as a babe, who soothed her tears, who counselled and taught her?
“I trust,” Elrond said, looking in Arwen’s eyes, in which unshed tears burned, “that the One who made us will not forever divide us, and that some day, long hence, I shall look upon thee again, beloved Arwen. Until then in my memory and in my thoughts I shall hold thee always.”
Her answer was a sob. Like the child she had not been for so many years, she clung to Elrond for the final time, tasting the first of the bitter dregs of the cup she chose, but not the last. “Not Namarie shall I say then, dearest father,” she whispered, “but only ‘until we meet again.’”
Format: Experimental (Um. Basically songfic.)
Genre: Ficlet series - 4500 words total.
Rating: R for suggestiveness and discussion of physical/mental trauma (implied rape)
Warnings: No warnings, but some potentially distressing/disturbing content & a bit of swearing.
Characters: Elrond, Gil-galad, Celebrian, Aragorn, Arwen, Lindir, Maedhros, Maglor, Finrod, Beor, Elladan & Elrohir, various others
Pairings: Elrond/Gil-galad, Elrond/Celebrian, referenced Fingon/Maedhros, Finrod/Beor, and Aragorn/Arwen
Creators' Notes (optional): The specific 'answer' to the prompt is "I believe you don't know what you've got until you say goodbye' although the theme of the prompt runs through the whole series.
Summary: This is a series of double and triple drabbles about Elrond's life, as inspired by lines from Savage Garden's song 'Affirmation'.
I believe the sun should never set upon an argument
“You are abandoning us,” Elrond charged bitterly. It was his trump card, his final play. “You took us away from everyone who loved us, and now you are leaving us for this fool’s errand which can only bring great sorrow. The worst is that I - we - loved you. We thought you loved us!”
Maglor turned his head away, eyes glimmering with tears unshed, taking the accusation silently, absorbing it as he always did everything. But Maedhros, eyes fiery, stared back at Elrond.
“We have no choice!” His voice was tormented, full of pain and anger. “We damned ourselves long ago, when the Oath we swore. We have abandoned far more than you for its sake, and destroyed all we once held dear. Now all that remains is the Dark.” His hand tightened on Maglor’s shoulder. “Leave, Elrond. We cannot be dissuaded.”
Elrond cast a last look, full of rage and pain, at them, and left the room, slamming the door with unwonted force. He stood on the other side, breathing hard, then left the house, not to return for some days. When he did, they were long gone.
Later, he deeply regretted his last words to Maedhros, lost in fire.
I believe we place our happiness in other people's hands
The wedding feast was long and merry, happiness after great sorrow and pain. So many of their kin, and their last High King, lay unburied in the marshlands far away, and Sauron’s seeming defeat was tempered by Isildur’s fall.
The beginning of the Third Age was tumultuous and troublesome, no less for Elrond’s heart than anything else. The king he had been devoted to since his youth was now gone, but his silver-haired queen danced beside him, her eyes alight with love and joy as she looked on him.
“You have distant eyes,” she said in his ear, understanding, calm. “The journey has been long, has it not, to this day, to this moment?”
“Long indeed,” Elrond said, “and dark the way at times. Yet no more dark shall it be, for now you are my light.”
He bent to kiss her, and a flash of foreboding struck his heart, a vision of her silver hair, unkempt, dirtied, torn, of her light, quenched and broken.
She caught the shiver that ran all through him, but only looked at him, saying nothing. She, Galadriel’s daughter, was wise enough to know that oft ill fortune was better left a mystery, unread.
I believe that junk food tastes so good because it's bad for you
“Oh, Elros,” Elrond said, deeply worried at finding his brother in their tent, several empty wine bottles scattered around him. For all that, Elros’ eyes were surprisingly sober.
“What, I can’t have a drink?” he said, throwing the latest empty bottle to the ground.
“A drink is one thing, but this is more than that,” Elrond said, crouching down next to his twin. “I know it has been a hard day….”
Elros reached out and grabbed Elrond’s shoulder. “I’m not even wounded, that’s the worst of it. So many of my company lie dead in the field, and I don’t have a fucking scratch on me!” He collapsed forward into Elrond’s arms. Elrond gathered him in, sinking down on the blankets, and just holding him for a long while.
At last Elros raised his head. “When - Sirion - happened, did Maedhros cover your eyes, as Maglor did mine, when we left with them?
“Yes,” Elrond said, remembering being carried in the dark for a long while.
“It makes me sick to think - what I saw today is what they spared us from seeing, then.” Elros did look sick, faintly greenish. Elrond moved quickly, just in time to escape being vomited on.
I believe your parents did the best job they knew how to do
Elrond has four parents. One’s a bird, one’s the Evening Star, and two are accursed Kinslayers.
At first, he clung to the memory of his mother, tiny and beautiful, always surrounded by light and yet so sad. His father was a dim golden blur, strong young voice, faint laughter. When he was there was the only time he ever saw his mother smile. He tried to hate Maedhros and Maglor, for taking his parents away, but even at the age of six, he knew deep inside they were already gone from him, each devoted to things he could not comprehend.
Later, Maedhros and Maglor became his parents. He called them both Father at first, unsure how to address them. As he grew, they encouraged him to simply call them by their names, but in his heart they were always Ada. Even for years after Maedhros burned and Maglor wandered the broken shorelines, he called for them inside his mind.
Eventually Maglor came back to him, worn, weary, thin and shattered. And through his tears Elrond whispered “Ada, Ada,” clinging like a child.
For the first time Maglor answered him as he always wished, clinging back. “Yonya,” he said. “My son.”
I believe that beauty magazines promote low self-esteem
Arwen was very young when the whispers began. Some Sindarin Elves who survived the ruin of Doriath now lived in Rivendell, and it was undoubtedly they who began it, but rumours spread quickly throughout the house. “She is the very likeness of Luthien the Beloved!”
Then it was, “Their fates shall be alike,” as well. For a while they were matching Arwen up with every mortal man who stepped foot in Imladris.
Once the latest Man to pass by was fairly settled under their roof as befitted his guest, Elrond sought out his daughter, hiding in her favourite spot among the white beech trees. His arms around her, he held her as she cried, sobbing out that she feared she /had/ to marry a mortal, would she or no.
“Do not fear, my little girl,” he said at last, lifting her chin up to face him. “You shall marry only by your own choice and desire, I promise you. Whether you choose one of the Elven kindred to marry, or a mortal Man like Luthien, and in so doing choose her fate, I shall only ever seek your happiness.”
Later, he would speak very sternly indeed to the rumour-mongers.
I believe I'm loved when I'm completely by myself alone
His company encamped on the grasslands, Elrond made his way toward the mountains, where he heard the sounds of running water. He sought a river-valley, a hidden spot, where they could camp and be safe from the Orcs who prowled the lands.
He swung down a steep bank, and before him ran a wide river, deep, but not unfordable. He crossed it, making note of the plants that grew on its banks, and headed further on toward the Misty Mountains. A short way on was a small hill, top rounded, trees growing over it, white beech trees. He made his way into the wood, and dismounted from his horse, looking around. In the distance the hills rose sharply, cliffs protecting the area on three sides. It was a valley inside a river-formed canyon, almost, a cleft at the foot of the mountains, dividing them from the grasslands, but invisible from both mountains and plains.
A sense of peace and rightness filled him. Alone he stood silent, watching the sun on her downward course lighting up the trees with golden fire.
“Imladris I name you,” he said at last to the empty land. “Here will I build my home.”
I believe in karma, what you give is what you get returned
Imladris quickly became known as the Hidden Refuge, the Last Homely House. If you could find it, the whispers said, they would take you in, no matter your race or kindred.
“I heard tell that Elrond even admits that Feanorion Maglor to his home and his table,” a travelling Elf once, long years later, said to Lindir, out on the banks of the Bruinen on a summer’s evening.
Lindir, as he was somewhat of a mischief-maker, replied, “I have heard tell, myself, that Maglor is the finest of musicians. I also have heard that he is deadly with the sword, as would befit a Feanorion, and utterly abhors the phrase ‘tra-la-la-lally.’ Might you sing one of your other improvised compositions for us soon? I do not think the dwarves much enjoyed your very fine verses.”
The Elf, whose name history does not record, made his excuses and quickly fled. A dark shadow slipped down from the trees shortly afterward and approached Lindir.
“Will there be a fourth Kinslaying tonight, then?” Lindir said, strumming his lyre dramatically.
“You should not jest of such things,” Maglor answered seriously, but then smiled. “And alas, no, I forgot my sword!”
I believe you can't appreciate real love ’til you've been burned
Elrond’s whole life is a series of abandonments, from a certain point of view. Earendil abandoned him to sail the pitiless Sea, Elwing abandoned him to the Silmaril. Maedhros and Maglor also abandoned him for Silmarils, and for their Oath, more deadly than Morgoth’s curses. For the life of him, Elrond cannot understand why - and will not, until two Ages of the world have passed by, and yet again, shiny jewellery threatens everything.
Elros abandoned him for the fate of Men and for an island shaped like a star. He often wonders if Elros feels better about Earendil than he does, if he found peace in the fact that their father watched over him.
Gil-galad abandoned him too, heroic though it might have been, for death, a last stand against a force too strong. He can’t help but recall the old tales of Fingolfin’s death-and-glory ride to Angband, a suicide challenge.
Celebrian abandoned him to her own pain and grief, fading even within the walls of Imladris. Even the power of Vilya could not hold her there, and at the last Elrond had to let her go over the Sea, or let her go to Mandos.
He was abandoned every time a foster-child grew up, grew old, and died. He loved them all.
Arwen abandoned him, like Elros had, for a mortal life, for love. Elladan and Elrohir he left behind, but by choosing not to come with him, they abandoned him too. Their choice - unknown, their lives in their own hands.
He feels his love for them all burning inside him, a collective ache, a burden that only grows with time. They all loved him. They all left him behind, the youngest Elf of the Eldar Days, the steady constant among the winds of change.
I believe the grass is no more greener on the other side
Some part of him always knew they would walk separate paths. Although they loved each other greatly, Elrond and Elros were always unlike each other in character, word, and deed. Elrond ever preferred study and learning, desiring only to fight at need, whereas Elros was a natural leader, a terror on the battlefield, a force to be reckoned with.
“I want it to be over someday, Elrond,” Elros said, as they considered their choices in Eonwe’s wake, walking the sandy shoreline. “There is a look on the faces of some Men, near death, that is of such peace. I would have that - a life well lived, and then at last to lay it down and depart whither all men go, in blessedness and acceptance.”
Elrond looked out to the Sea for a moment. An ancient comparison between Men and Elves came into his mind - the slowly foundering Elven-ship and around it boats that carried the race of Men far away, to a destination unknown and mysterious.
“I will stay with the ship,” he said carefully, “and trust that the One who made us will not let us drown, at the last.”
Elros hugged him fiercely. “So it is done.”
I believe you don't know what you've got until you say goodbye
He stood on the bank of the river, looking back up the hill at Imladris, her carved steps and curve of roof. Every bend and shape of her he knew, better now than he knew the remembered bodies of his loved ones, much of her made with his own hands, stone by stone built and shaped.
His sons stood by him, a twin on either side. Their arms were around him, and they were content to let him look his last.
There would be a house over the Sea - he and Celebrian had planned it, before she went away, as an exercise in keeping her mind off darker matters - but it would not be Imladris. Nothing and nowhere would be home like this was home, here where he had raised his children, here where he had kept the memories of the Ages secure against the Dark.
The ring on his hand shone openly now. As it faded, and when he left, doomed Imladris would fade too. Her walls would fall, her stones crumble, her statues shatter and break. The forest would return. In a thousand years’ time, Imladris would be gone.
“Farewell!” he said at last. “Farewell, home I loved.”
I believe you can't control or choose your sexuality
“My Findekano always said,” Maedhros began, and as ever when he mentioned the name of Fingon, a light came into his eyes, “love is a mysterious force, not born entirely of the will, nor yet of the body, but of both, the spark lighting the Flame, and the commitment to see it through.” He tousled Elrond’s hair, and Elrond ducked away, smiling. “Time will tell if this new affection will yet prove true for you.”
Elrond sighed. “Speak not to me of time! I am impatient when I do not see her, and the days drag until I can behold her again.”
Maedhros laughed, not unsympathetically. “Tell me, little one, does she know you exist yet?”
Elrond blushed. “No, not yet.”
Maedhros pulled him into a one-armed hug. “Perhaps, little one, you should be valiant like your kinsman, and pursue your desires, even as he did me.” For a moment his eyes were lost to a happy memory from long ago.
But despite Maedhros’ words, Elrond never did have courage to speak to the pretty maiden. However, years later, when he met Gil-galad, tall and strong, who stirred his heart like no other before, he remembered, and pursued.
I believe that trust is more important than monogamy
“Does it matter to you that I have other lovers?” Gil-galad asked as they lay in bed one morning, fresh from a delicious romp under the covers. Elrond looked puzzled; he had always known Gil-galad was very …free… with his affections, and had never even thought to consider demanding monogamy from his king.
“No, of course not,” Elrond said. “We are not halves of each other’s soul, or whatever other nonsense the poets dream up. Yes, I love you, in many ways, my king and friend and beloved, but I do not ever think that entitles me to possess you or to put demands on your time and your affections.”
Gil-galad smiled. “Elrond, you are very possibly the kindest and most generous person I have known. And you have something I do not give easily, something that it takes far more than a romp in bed to win from me: my trust.”
Elrond grinned mischievously, sliding his hand down Gil-galad’s thigh. “Then you won’t be expecting this!” he exclaimed, and launched an all-out tickling offensive straight to the back of the knee.
“Alas, I am betrayed!” Gil-galad managed to choke out, through his giggles.
I believe your most attractive features are your heart and soul
Elrond had raised many of the Dunedain as his foster children; all of little Estel’s ancestors for years uncounted. He was fond of them all, but in Estel was something different, some fire and passion that drove him even from early childhood. He was eager for learning and lore as few of his ancestors had been, ready to listen to any tales Elrond could tell, and yet keen to train physically as well, a force of fury on the battlefield as soon as he was allowed to go out with Elrond’s sons.
It was not that he was particularly more beautiful than any of his ancestors, but a flash of his swift smile would light up his whole face, making him seem almost - for a heartbreaking moment - like Elros, gone so very long ago.
It was time. Yes, it was time to tell him.
“Estel,” he said the next time the boy rushed past him, on his way to some pursuit or other.
“Yes, father?” he said with a heart-stopping grin. Elrond could not resist stepping forward and embracing Estel, who looked slightly surprised - they had grown out of the habit of hugs as he grew older - but submitted happily.
“Tomorrow morn, meet me in the library,” he said. “For your twentieth birthday will be here, and there is much to speak of.” Estel agreed, rushing off as soon as Elrond released him. How quickly they grew, these mortals! Elrond walked on, reflecting that even bright Estel, beloved Aragorn, the best of them, would one day be done with the world, even as Elros had been.
A sad day, far away, flashed into his mind, and an instant of Arwen’s face in grief. He stilled, trying to recapture the vision, to understand it, but it was gone from him.
I believe that family is worth more than money or gold
He never understood his mother’s choice to, in the end, jump to what she surely must have thought was her death, rather than give up the Silmaril. For her actions abandoned her family, left her children all but orphans. Did she not think of them at all, as she fell, as she rose and soared?
Was the Silmaril so very important? He remembered, dimly, glimpses of her wearing it, only rarely, only in private. It is true it was full of light. It is true her face was filled with beauty and strength at those times, but always a remote beauty, a strength born of pain. This Jewel, after all, bore Mablung down to the ground from the weight of it, and Elwing was very small and light to begin with.
“Does it hurt?” he asked once, at the look on her face, reaching out to embrace her, a healer even then. She shook her head, but pain was in her eyes nonetheless.
Thousands of years later, when they met again, Elrond searched his mother’s face for traces of remembered pain, but the only pain in her eyes faded as she looked on him, as she held out her arms.
I believe the struggle for financial freedom is unfair, I believe the only ones who disagree are millionaires
“I fear this quest may not succeed, Mithrandir,” Elrond said, sitting down next to the wizard. He was busily engaged in smoking a pipe and blew several smoke rings before turning to his host.
“It has as good a chance as any, Elrond,” he said at last, meditatively. “What would an army avail against a dragon? You know all the old stories, dragons are generally only slain in single combat with Heroes.”
Elrond winced, thinking of the father who sailed the night skies, the father he scarcely remembered, the hero-father who had slain a dragon. “Do you think Thorin is that hero, then?” he asked. “He is noble and fair; there is much in him to like, but there is also darkness in him, the shadow of greed. And pardon me, Mithrandir, but you can’t be expecting Bilbo the hobbit to slay a dragon?”
“We shall see what is to come in time,” Mithrandir said, tapping out his pipe. “How much are dragons to be pitied, in a way? They have wealth untold, but cannot bring themselves to share it, and so cannot ever enjoy it.” He glanced around at Imladris, and smiled at Elrond. “I think your wealth far greater than Smaug’s, not hidden away in halls of gold, but built into lives saved and treasured -“ he gestured to young Estel, who ran past just then, “- into healing and kindness to all who cross your path. You have taken what was given you, and done only good, despite loss and sorrow.”
Elrond looked around. A gentle summer breeze drifted by. From the grounds below laughter arose. All was contented, joyous, at peace, here.
“Far rather would I dwell here, and be as I am,” he said, certain of this, “than possess all the treasure in the Lonely Mountain.”
I believe forgiveness is the key to your unhappiness
“I am so sorry,” were her first words, lying there, cold and too still, brought back to consciousness after days spent wandering in evil dreams. She had not known her sons, or even Elrond, at first, had shrunk away from her sons even as they rescued her, burning flames of wrath that they were, slaughtering every Orc who had dared to touch her.
Elrond’s first instinct, hearing those words, was to cry aloud that she had nothing to be sorry for, no reason to be ashamed. But he quelled it, knowing from long experience as a healer that whatever else you may do with one who has been wounded in spirit, you do not reject their heart-spoken pain.
“Why?” he asked instead, his hand gentle, neutral, open, touching her shoulder, remembering his training. (Touch the patient if possible but no more than they wish. One who has been violated may fear all touch, may flinch away from everything. It is not personal rejection.)
“I did not die,” she answered. “Should I not have died?” Her voice was high and broken, ragged and desperate.
Tears welled up inside him. He fought not to let them fall. (It is important to remain calm in front of the patient.)
“Survival is a very deep instinct,” he said carefully, but then broke, just a little, leaning forward. “Oh my love, I am so glad you did survive.”
She gave him a puzzled, strange look, like he knew nothing of her at all. He drew back again, feeling that he had made a mistake, had confused this broken, lost, creature with the shining Celebrian.
Some time later, the patient sleeping a drugged sleep once more, far away in another room Elrond broke down entirely, weeping for his wife until he could weep no more.
I believe that wedded bliss negates the need to be undressed
The crate of notebooks was not large nor heavy, but had been carefully preserved through the years. Its keeper, once an Elf of Nargothrond, had Finrod’s personal notebooks in his possession, had saved them from the ruins of Nargothrond, and later, the ruins of Beleriand itself, and brought them to Elrond at last at Imladris.
The box was so secure, even dust had not marred the books filled with writing inside, and Elrond carefully unlocked it to find the pages preserved perfectly, as though Finrod had set his last thoughts down just the day before.
The oldest books were full of musings on plants and philosophy, half-drawn maps of Beleriand, sketches of plants and animals, early designs for Nargothrond’s caves and tunnels.
Then the notebooks changed dramatically. It started with a sketch, a naked Man, bearded, dark hair covering his chest, reclining on cushions, smiling at Finrod. A briefly-written account of Finrod’s first meeting with the Edain followed. So the Man must have been Beor - and the conclusion Elrond came to was proved right a few pages later, when Finrod drew another picture of Beor sleeping peacefully, and labelled it ‘my lovely Balan.’
The tales and sketches that followed were most illuminating. Finrod seemed bent on recording every detail about Beor, sketch after sketch of him filling the pages, many thousands of words recording everything they did together, and not just in bed.
Several notebooks later, Beor visibly growing older in each sketch, a tear-stained page appeared, on it four words in Finrod’s hand, clearly shaken: “I do not understand.”
Elrond put the notebook down, laying it carefully back into the box. These notebooks were too private, too personal for the library of Imladris. He would keep them himself, and one day, give them back to Finrod.
I believe that God does not endorse TV evangelists
“What do you think?” Gil-galad asked, once they were alone in the king’s apartments. All day they had been speaking with Annatar, hearing him discuss his plans and desires for Lindon.
Elrond frowned, drawing off his gloves. “Something, I do not know what, feels wrong about him. He is charming to be sure, and fair, but fair face may hide false heart, and has done so before.”
Gil-galad nodded. “I feel much the same. There is a -“ he paused, struggling for the right words, “- a glibness to him. He is too practised, too ready with replies. Words come to him too easily to be spontaneous, which suggests that they are calculated.” He shrugged out of his cloak, laying it down on the chest at the foot of the bed.
“But what are his real desires, then?” Elrond asked. “What does he truly want?”
“That I could not tell,” Gil-galad said. “Yet I feel I would not be able to trust him, and I do not like him here.” He lifted a hand, tracing Elrond’s face. “You seem deeply troubled, sweet.”
“If we sent him from here, where would he go?” Elrond asked, leaning into Gil-galad’s touch.
I believe in love surviving death into eternity
What could be said at the last goodbye to a daughter whose fate was now sundered from your own, perhaps eternally? Thousands of years since saying the same goodbye to your brother, your twin, and still the farewell from him ached, as it would for the woman by your side, the wife, the queen. She, all now that she would ever be, all made for this fate, and you never to hold her in your arms again, who held her as a babe, who soothed her tears, who counselled and taught her?
“I trust,” Elrond said, looking in Arwen’s eyes, in which unshed tears burned, “that the One who made us will not forever divide us, and that some day, long hence, I shall look upon thee again, beloved Arwen. Until then in my memory and in my thoughts I shall hold thee always.”
Her answer was a sob. Like the child she had not been for so many years, she clung to Elrond for the final time, tasting the first of the bitter dregs of the cup she chose, but not the last. “Not Namarie shall I say then, dearest father,” she whispered, “but only ‘until we meet again.’”
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- Erulisse (one L)
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But I think my favorite was his conversation with Gandalf:
"“We shall see what is to come in time,” Mithrandir said, tapping out his pipe. “How much are dragons to be pitied, in a way? They have wealth untold, but cannot bring themselves to share it, and so cannot ever enjoy it.” He glanced around at Imladris, and smiled at Elrond. “I think your wealth far greater than Smaug’s, not hidden away in halls of gold, but built into lives saved and treasured -“ he gestured to young Estel, who ran past just then, “- into healing and kindness to all who cross your path. You have taken what was given you, and done only good, despite loss and sorrow.”
Elrond looked around. A gentle summer breeze drifted by. From the grounds below laughter arose. All was contented, joyous, at peace, here.
“Far rather would I dwell here, and be as I am,” he said, certain of this, “than possess all the treasure in the Lonely Mountain.”
It reminds me of his generosity, and his long friendship with that hobbit who did not slay a dragon, but gave up treasure for friendship. And that Thorin finally learned in the end the lesson that Elrond already knew.
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Thank you for this.
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