the age beyond

house of elrond (sideblog)

[lastsons]

“But my memory reaches back even to the Elder Days. Eärendil was my sire, who was born in Gondolin before its fall; and my mother was Elwing, daughter of Dior, son of Lúthien of Doriath. I have seen three ages in the West of the world, and many defeats, and many fruitless victories.”

— Elrond, The Fellowship of the Ring, “The Council of Elrond.”

[maskend]

Hope had grown strange to him. It had been a flighty friend since the Darkening, at times escaping him entirely for decades. Each time it returned, it was new wind beneath his wings, pushing him away from the brink of surrender. And yet every year and every battle wore away at it, until the news of Laurefindelë's death dealt a final blow, extinguishing its light. It had only been the twins, bringing to his life new purpose and futures, that had returned to him an echo of hope. Makalaurë clung to it desperately.

They studied Elerossë, his fiery reaction, and wondered if Maitimo shared his sentiment.

"I care that he hopes," Makalaurë answered earnestly. As if to look for him, they turned their gaze over their shoulder, back to the house upon the island hill. Yet there was naught to see but the thin line of smoke from the fire and Maitimo's cloak hung out to dry, fluttering in the winds. "It is a gift to see such pain and still find hope. It will bring him strength, just as it will cost him. Time will teach him lessons, and yet ..." With a brief sigh, they turned back to Elerossë and his stormy eyes. "I admit I wish he would keep his hope. Tempered, perhaps, but alive."

The young man's bitterness was an uncomfortable truth held up to its perpetrator. Yet he could not, this time, choose the comfort of turning away from it. "You love him, therefore you wish to protect him from pain. And yet you know, as I do, that that is a false dream. That try as we might, he will know pain again. Do not think him blind to that, Elerossë. But you are his brother; let him turn to you when he is in pain. You may not share in his hopes, but take them not from him. It would be a cruelty you may never forgive yourself for."

[lastsons]

"is that what you do?" the words rolled off his tongue before he had the time to think through them. no matter. for elros found a steam that he was not hurried to stop. "do you hold to the vow not because you believe in it but because you wish not to be cruel to your brother? or is that what maitimo does for you?"

elros stiffened his spine, planted his feet to the ground and found—not for the first time—that he did not flinch from sharp words or targeted strikes. it was more curious in their childhood, where he puzzled over what set a gloom over elrond's mood. now it was just what he saw when he looked into himself; his reflection had looked distinct from elrond's not for their self-same faces, but the differing materials they reflected off of. while elrond was often tranquil and pensive, elros had found his face in choppier waters.

"we knew what you spoke of, you know. we might not have understood the tongue, you cared to converse out of our earshot, but you could not hide the mood between you from children who were on edge and looking for signs of discord. if it were nelyafinwe alone, we would not stand here now at this shore. " he frowned, not from anger or pain, but some long-held vexation and perhaps frustration. "i could not figure which is more perplexing: why you did not heed your brother's advice, or why he indulged your fancy despite his objection."

elros crossed his arms. like a rock tumbling down the hill, or water reaching the edge of a fall, he barreled towards a metaphorical gravity. "will you not speak of your own hope? the one that you hold or the one that you protect? what would you not forgive yourself for?"

[maskend]

When did it happen? When did the twins grow so tall, so out of reach? Perhaps he had been too preoccupied with the wonder of watching them grow to see the heights they had reached. Nor had he understood the depths to which they had studied him, in turn, believing himself, in the arrogance of age, to be beyond the understanding of children. But Elerossë spoke no longer with the witty retorts of a bullheaded child. Ought he at last to admit to himself that the twins had grown into men?

Of course he remembered. The innocence in Elerondo's question had been so thoroughly disarming, Makalaurë, golden-tongued, found himself at a loss for an answer. Even what he once considered righteous truth had then felt dubious, and the fire in his heart had cooled too much to scorn their mother a thief to the childrens' faces.

A moment of silence passed, where, listening only to the wind and the gurgling of the water in the hollows by the rocks, Makalaurë attempted to reassemble themself. Not six brothers nor centuries of war had prepared them for the disarming honesty of youths. Though this moment was precious in its rarity alone, and so they wished not to disturb it.

Still they could not make of Elerossë's words what he thought of them. What surprise he would hope for and what he would believe. There had always been a veil the Noldo could not quite see through. They couldn't but silently wish it were not so, all the while wondering if he had today granted them a glimpse. The question, then, was carefully probing, wearing on his face a genuine but measured curiousity.

"Do you believe his hope weakens him?"

[lastsons]

"no." a sharp edge to his voice, like a hook. a fishhook, unseen under the surface of the water, until the light catches it just right to find a chilling glint. "hope does not weaken my brother. it hurts him." behind him, the water ebbs and flows, glittering like some kind of scaly creature lurks under the waves. is that not the truth for them? that there always lurks in the background a nameless beast, at times dormant, at times emerging to the surface of their life? maglor ignores the beast; elrond wants to tame it; maedhros in his stately and arrogant fury must've named it and tried to claim it.

elros just wants to look it in the eye, size up its shape and mass, and each roams these waters, knowing one another.

there are worse things in the world than a sea beast, the young elf lord surmises, just like there must be greater treasures than the three jewels, and graver tragedies than having fathers who are not dead but flawed, or a people who yet lives but never knows you as grown. sometimes his world feels so small, not because of the vast sea calling him from the mythical west, but because those he loves have convinced themselves that their chosen fates are inevitable.

elros feels himself miffed, working to control his temper as the memory of the argument with his brother comes to the surface.

"do you care that he might be weak, or that he hopes? i admit i would rather his hope extinguished, for i cannot stand to see him hurt, and i am not one who could make his hope true—...a world as kind as he; i can't make it, for i cannot see it." he pauses, letting out a short snort. "does that make me more a son of fëanor, or what?"

[walkpathe-arch]

"they will hate me. they already hate the ones i love." @lastsons / elrond to gil-galad

elrond's voice is low and tinged with doubt, yet gil-galad hears him well over the gentle water sounds of the fountain they stand near.  it is one of the newest constructions, as important to the young ruler as the strength of lindon's defenses; meant to uplift, to bring forth joy and levity, a reprieve from grim survival. he surveys the beautiful work of masonry a few moments longer, how the white of the stone glints in the sun, before turning towards the younger elf.

'' they will do no such thing. ''   a shake of his head, certainty shining through the bright star-silver of his eyes.  they will bear him no ill will. they will not dare impart any cruelty on him, borne out of deep rooted mistrust of the sons of feänor. that, ereinion understands. yet elrond and his brother shall have nought to do with it. here in golden lindon, at the very least, the high king of the noldor can attest to it. '' you are now under my care. a slight done unto you is a slight done unto me, you should bear this in mind. ''

his expression softens into a smile, setting aside the sterness his position often dictates. he wishes for elrond to be free of strife in this safe haven they have built.

'' you are safe here. ''

[lastsons]

lindon was far. far from haven, far from the isle of balar, far from amon ereb now submerged... everywhere he once called home before the breaking of the world. he looks out, following gil-galad's gaze to the newly formed fountain. the trickle of water reminds him of the waterfalls of haven, and the shores of balar. the only time he was ever far from water was in amon ereb... elrond never thought much of it when the sons of fëanor moved them to the isle, fleeing the growing darkness of the north. it is only now, that elrond finds the sound of clear streams bringing both memory and grief.

"even if i still think of them? still cherish their memory?" he asks tentative first, then with conviction. "even if i were to say, they are under my care, and a slight done unto them is a slight done unto me?" he looks up at the high king of noldor, a sad smile coming to his lips as the king's hair and eyes remind him of the stars when he looks into the night sky, searching for his father's light.

"and you know i speak not of elros... tar-minyatur, the king of númenor, first of his name, shall be a great fiend to the elves. for he is the son of eärendil the mariner, who sailed to valinor on vingilot and brought the host of valar, to rid the middle earth of its grave corruption." all of this, gil-galad no doubt knows, but elrond wants to remind the high king of his lineage before venturing to make his next request: "the sons of fëanor are lost. a poet's tale like the songs of gondolin. from the flames maedhros the tall shall not return... still the waterlogged memory of maglor the minstrel is yet not far from my mind. i cannot believe he's lost to me forever... should your people happen upon him on these new formed shores, it will pain me to see him harmed."

[griefsung]

there was an undeniable curiousity prickling under his skin, desiring to know what had pushed the twins apart for the afternoon. though he could guess at the undercurrent, which had stirred them all into an unease greater than even that brought by their flight from amon ereb, maglor could not glean the specifics from elros' eyes alone.

he needed not suffer uncertainty long; the question placed before him told enough.

even when elros turned away, his guardian's eyes remained upon him. they seemed suddenly to recognise how much he had grown. they could not recall the shift to have been so sudden in their brothers or their nephew, though such memories were clouded with the forbidden sweetness of a home long lost and the fog of war. after a moment's silent contemplation, the noldo offered the only true answer they could give.

"i do not know."

it would not satisfy elros, of that he was certain. his gaze drifted away, out onto the water as he imagined eärendil's return upon the white ship, gleaming with the light of the stolen gem. yet what grasped first at the elf's heart was not the thought of the silmaril, but a sudden, jealous vision of the twins departing at their father's side, never to return to him. and he alone dreaded eärendil's return, for between the twins and his brother, maglor would be called to betray one or the other, and knew it would take from him the children he loved.

he spoke again, giving voice to the coursing of his thoughts. "my brother would not relinquish our task. for an oath we swore, and too much have we lost to remain, at the end, empty handed." finally, he gave into the magnetic pull of the western horizon, drawing his eyes with a longing so great, it stole his breath for a moment. "and yet ... could i turn my sword against you? no more easily could i betray my own brother. so it is that i cannot know."

they tore their eyes from the water to return to elros. elerossë, their glistening star. did he still dream of his father's return? had he asked in resentment or in hope? "was that what you thought i might say?"

[lastsons]

honest, as he expected. elros felt the memories old and new cling to his skin in the damp seaside air, and let it tug at the corners of his lips into a faint, helpless smile. he studied his hands, hanging onto the corner of the net, smoothing over its fraying edges.

"you did not surprise me," he admitted, pulling the net into his arms, bundling up like a parcel, or a living thing to be swaddled. he did not look to maglor when he shrugged, "yet perhaps i was hoping to be surprised."

he bent down quickly then, gathering the net with the rest of the tools next to the bucket of the day's catch. "elerondo, infectious is his hope, at times. i am not impervious to it, not for the lack of practice. he will always hope for... something. not for you to betray your oath, or nelyafinwë; neither could he be convinced that you would ever harm him—not in flesh, at the least."

when elros stood again, he realized he was still wearing the faint smile on his lips. he searched his heart for bitterness and came up empty. like looking through the bottom of a broken net, all he felt was a pragmatic sense of weariness.

"you remember what he asked, yes? could you not share? such fancy. he would not give up on that hope, you understand? it's just as well... there is not disappointment in it for him, and no moral conflict in it for you. eärendil is never returning. he would have already if he were." he met maglor's eyes. "i find comfort in that; elerondo does not."

[griefsung]

he was pulling up the net when he heard footsteps. elros @lastsons didn't turn, narrowing his focus on the pull of the net, minding any snag or uneven resistance. a handful of fish in the basket of water by his side, enough for supper, and some surplus to dry and cure for later use.

"does he know you're here?" the question was only half rhetorical. he doubted his twin brother would complain about their early disagreement to the fëanorean at his expense. rather, little escaped elrond's notice these days. his tenderhearted mirror-self, seeing too much and caring too much. he took one last pull of the net, feeling the heft of the water draining through the mesh. two silvery fish caught in the net, bouncing off the ground in a last desperate attempt to get free.

"i hadn't meant to upset him. but i could not regret speaking what is true on my mind. i wouldn't lie to him—i won't." elros tossed the fish into the basket after untangling them from the net. he sighed then, whipping his hair back. two single braids by his temples, pulled back to together behind his head. they kept the hair out of his face, at least, though not from falling in front of his shoulders as he bent down to work. at last elros stood and turned to face maglor. he looked upon the noldor, their captor and guardian; keeper in more ways than one—proof in elros' world the self-same nature of boon and bane.

his eyes were grey, paler in the light like mist, or ash. they softened in the way of a setting moon. "...i won't lie to you either," issued like a challenge and a promise.

it did not take a great search to find elros at the shore, net in hand and the breeze in his face. their greeting was plucked from their mouth before it could be spoken, silenced by a question that needed no clarification as to who he was. "he might guess." the elf stopped a few paces away from their charge and waited, watching as elros pulled in the net. for a moment, his movements mirrored a young maitimo. they had to remind themself that, of course, it had been the very same maitimo teaching the twins how to fish. the observation passed, unspoken.

"he did not send me, nor tell of your argument."

strife between the twins troubled maglor. he had ever sought to retain peace between his own brothers and found tragedy to follow imbalance among them. here, not all too far from the mouths of sirion, the water yet carried the haven's memories, and the isle bore traces of its previous inhabitants. from the moment of their arrival on the isle, maglor had felt it stir something within him and watched more carefully over the two young men, whose hearts he believed more affected.

he found a seat on a rock that had been sharpened by the tides, far enough from the water to not be touched by the waves, but close enough to feel the seaspray on his face. his hair fell down his back in a long, heavy braid that had begun to show threads of silver ever since the massacre at the havens. a headband, no more than two fingers wide and of a deep scarlet, kept stray strands out of his face. the taste of seasalt on his tongue carried a longing, as if urging his gaze westward. it took a great effort to hold against it.

instead, he studied elros' eyes. their pale grey that could gleam like a knife, or shine softly as the waxing glow of telperion. there was in their heart a certain pride at watching the twins grow into curious and witty young men. a stolen thing, not rightly his, and yet he held it closely, as cherished their joy and weathered their storms.

"that is well," maglor spoke calmly. "i would not like you to lie to me. as have i not lied to you." at least, no more than the little lies one told children. they held the young one's gaze, the deep brown of their eyes cool and open, like a hand outstretched.

"if there is aught you wish to say to me, elerosse, i will hear it."

@lastsons

[lastsons]

elros tweedled the net in his hands, playing at detangling the knots wrung together by the waves. he hadn't thought of scoffing this time when the fëanorean proclaimed their honesty. honesty and integrity were made of different stuff; overtime, he had come to accept the former from maglor. it was a strange thing, to trust someone in this way.

"there is nothing to speak of." he paused, then amended, "none you could resolve."

a knot cannot untie itself any more than the fish could swim itself out of the net, every thrashing attempt wrap the mesh tighter around its scaled trunk. he had long ceased to be fearful of harm from the brothers who had become his wards since the last day of havens. the specter of threat never realized. still, elros—elerosse—hesitated to overshare his thoughts, unsure whether he was the fish or the net.

but then, he trusted maglor to be honest.

"what would you have done? if earendil returned this eve, the jewel betwixt his brows?" it was... a version of the conversation he had with elrond—his twin with whom he'd had an unspoken pact with to never utter the name of the jewels that derailed their life. he observed this rule mostly for elrond's benefit, and elrond—elros reckoned—for the fëanoreans' benefit, more than his own.

he looked out to the water again before maglor could answer. in the days they had spent on the isle, they had discovered more traces of the elves who once fled to and sheltered here. they had gathered, now, a rough sense of where the refugees had gone for a more permanent home. the discovery made them restless, dredged up old conversations, and unresolved contention.

the difference now... he didn't feel like hiding it from maglor.

[lastsons]

very old (unfinished) video edit of the twins...

[geryone]

House is an Enigma, Emma Bolden

[griefsung]

"what was he like?" @lastsons

the music has long faded, crept away into the early night's mist, dispersing. pearls of it linger glistening in the elda's eye, sediments of the melody hummed over the careful mending of maitimo's cloak. he blinks, turning to young elrond sitting at his feet. his own voice is low when it comes. "he? ah…" understanding falls into place, its impact sending a ripple of pain through him. pain not of the shooting kind, but the one that slowly slices his chest open from sternum to midriff and sets old things free. makalaurë had not allowed himself to look into this rift in a long time. were he not sitting, his knees would have felt weak.

laurefindelë's memory is a glow kept so close by his heart, he could not hold it up far away enough to recall his countenance.

"kind," is the first word to come to mind, spoken softly. it does not feel large enough. "the kindest man i ever knew. he was brave, stubborn, beautiful. radiant. the light of laurelin lived within him. even in exile he shone with it. not the glow we calaquendi carry in our eyes, but a light that was his."

a breath loosens something. the pebble holding the water back dislodged, and memory pours in. for a long moment, makalaurë is lost in it. they grasp at fading dreams, trying in vain to see his face before their inner eye. their words instead try to reconstruct his likeness in the shape of his spirit.

"he was bold, just as he was gentle. his heart was ever true; not once did he turn his back on a friend."

nor on me, though i betrayed him twice over. the ñoldo forces themself away from such thoughts, lest they waver in front of the boy. he must already know their pain by the tone of their voice, perceptive as the youngling is, yet they would not let him see the depths of their grief. they turn, instead, to memory of laurefindelë in life. in light.

"i met him in the time before the sun and moon. i was young then and thought every hour not spent on music a wasted one, for i knew no greater worry." the sweetness of the memory feels fragile, forbidden. so old and hidden, so plain and yet carefully guarded. he looks upon it as an outsider. as though the ñoldorin princeling had been someone else entirely. still he is lost in it, speaking now without effort, and seeing nothing of the world around him.

"we held many festivals in those days. once, he visited, for he was my cousin's friend. i was playing music when our eyes met for the first time. he asked me to dance... how beautiful he was. fierce as a hawk, elegant and charming. he made me laugh, demanded nothing and gave me everything i could have ever wanted. i loved him from the very beginning. and i have loved no other since."

the scene fades. a chill through the open window. maglor tries in vain to swallow around the sorrow that floods the space it leaves behind. finally, his gaze turns to the boy at his feet, who fills his hollow heart with love again.

"he was everything that is good in this world. and he would have adored you and your brother both."

[saovaene-moved]

THERE IS A HURT IN HIM. he can see it. even now, maglor can see it in elrond's eyes. you were there all along? a twinge of regret tugs at him, yet he knows in his heart it ought to be as it was. elrond and elros were right when they left, that they could not remain tied forever, much though as he mourned their absence then. there was a time when he had wanted nothing more than to see him, but in his sharpest hours he would turn from the thought. the tales, though, he heard all. that elrond had wedded, had had children, that he wrought a sanctuary and was known to be wise. he sees him now, elegant, wise, and grown, and feels his heart swell with pride indeed.

all the more does it ache to see desperation upon him.

❛ elrond ... ❜ at first they protest quietly, unmoving even as the elflord's fingers grip their arm tight enough to hurt. for a moment he is as he was, once. young again, bright-eyed and eager to please. the name becomes a plea. ❛ elrond, stop ... ❜ their palm comes to rest against the side of elrond's arm that grips them, but their own touch is light, as if to draw him from his panicked pleas.

❛ listen to me. you did not fail me. ❜ he would impress this upon him a thousand times. again and again until his dying breath, if necessary. it breathes something of life into his weary bones, brought upon by naught more than the undying wish to take care of the half-elf who pleads with him now. in truth, his decision is made the moment elrond first asks him not to leave. perhaps it would be merciful to deny him, to turn away and close the chapter. maglor finds himself lacking the strength for such cruelty.

their eyes, dark with the weight of ages and grief unending, lay gently upon him and their other hand rises to cradle his cheek. ❛ i shall stay a while, if you wish it. to know you again, your home, your family ... would be an honour. ❜ there is an absence that lingers. a third that is missing. they remember the goodbye but faintly, sometimes uncertain if it was a dream their mind wished to believe. elros has departed, from them and then the world of the living. elros, ever wise in his own ways, knew it a mercy to die. the space he left will always remain hollow.

a sadness has crept into the old minstrel's faint smile. ❛ but my body and mind both are weary, ❜ they confess quietly. it hardly needs saying; elrond had been there, at the end of it all. had found them half-mad and aching so thoroughly. maglor lets go of him. ❛ i feel the doom upon me. i would not have you see me so... ❜

[lastsons]

stop. a single word reaches him like a lash; elrond snatches his hand away as if burnt, even while releasing hurts just as much (more). he is behaving like a child. how foolish it is to think that he has grown, only to be undone at the slightest hint of his failing. everyone fails. he knows this, having learned from two pairs of deeply flawed guardians. and he has loved them all the same. the knowledge of failing of even the noblest among them broadens his heart; he has always wished to be generous and forgiving. but it appears that the most difficult wrongs to forgive will always be one's own.

but maglor forgives him. it seems so impossible for a moment that he could not comprehend it. but you left, the words lodge in his throat like driftwood. you left, and you stayed away. you found another kin who could love you and care for you in the way you needed. he shouldn't feel this hurt, dimly, elrond knows. he should be glad that maglor had been cared for, had lived among kin and had presumably enjoyed their company and had his own presence appreciated. it was more than maglor had for a while, elrond knows.

he knows these things because he is inconveniently wise and sensible. not sensible enough to not feel the warm compression in his chest when maglor agrees to stay (elrond has the distant feeling that he has pestered maglor into giving in, like he would as a child, gentle in his stubbornness, but stubborn nonetheless).

"the honor will be mine to host you," he could not contain the relief in his voice. "it would be a blessing to have you meet my family. i have longed for it, not knowing it could be a reality." the pang returns, but he smooths it down like a wrinkle in his robe. and like a wrinkle, elrond knows it will always return, for as long as he still has the need to move and walk the mortal realm. it will become another thing he lives with.

"yours shall not be the only weary body and mind." elrond hasn't himself understood what compels him to say this. perhaps some instinctive part of him thinks maglor needs to know that he is not alone in his wounds. or perhaps some part of elrond needs to himself not be alone in his. "these days have not been without troubles. many still bear the wounds and pain from the last war." (last war—he wishes he had phrased it differently the moment he said it, and could only hope that maglor did not notice the implication that there may be a next).

"this is what rivendell stands for—a place of respite." he holds out his hands now, not touching maglor this time, but offering for them to take. "you will not be an imposition. i had never deceived you, and i will not with this. i love you, father. you may not have always been, but you have been. i will see you in any moment, any state. i will find it a greater comfort than your absence."

[saovaene-moved]

THE GROUND IS UNSTEADY. such has become a most intimate sensation. feeling as though at any moment, the world's plane might shift out of balance, and he slip and fall into some great abyss. that it would shake like a ship's floor in the waves. maglor looks at elrond and despite his reassurance does not quite know if he is real. wraiths have appeared too much so, at times. neither had he been certain if those blurred memories of elrond's careful tending to his burnt hands, his guiding voice and unending patience, were truth or some other haunting, dreamed by a mind frayed in the aftermath of watching maitimo, undone by madness and agony, disappear into the flames. nor does he know how to speak to elrond now. what prevails, in the end, is the never ending desire to shield him from pain.

❛ they are courageous and kind young men, ❜ maglor agrees quietly at the mention of elladan and elrohir, to whom they now owe their life and this very moment. ❛ you are right to be proud. ❜ the faintest smile passes over their face, smoothing scarred features and tired eyes. it lightens the old elf's heart in unspeakable ways: to know elrond here, his potential realised, his line continued. war may not have passed him by, but it has not left him broken nor changed. he has grown into the brightest version of the boy he was. ❛ as was i, when i heard tale of the lord of rivendell. ❜ it is a quiet addition, though sincere to its core. their final star of hope shines bright in the peredhil's eyes.

yet it is swept away by the tides when the inevitable question comes. where have you been? maglor ponders the extents of his confession. elrond need not know all of it. need not know that he had surrendered himself to the waters, only to be rejected. too much has he already seen of his pain. he ought to be spared the worst of it.

❛ i dwelt for a time with my nephew, ❜ he recounts, eyes straying to the windows, and the light of the late afternoon that falls in. ❛ i never trusted the so-called emissary of the valar, who seemed to turn him to an obsession i should have known was too familiar. i left for a time. how long i cannot say, only that i returned when i heard ... ❜ brows briefly furrowing, he breaks off. does not mention pulling telperinquar's remains off the banner upon which he had been mockingly strung, nor burying him in the same manner he had his father. a moment's silence passes, ere they speak again. measured, weary. ❛ after that, i wandered. named myself gaeglim, though with time, the edain would come to call me gwaelin, the wind's song. none knew who i was. ❜

finally, their eyes return to elrond. they linger there, softening. ❛ i did not keep away for a lack of love, elrond. but that i do not belong here. ❜

[lastsons]

he feels a wet warmth in his nose. hope is a practice. hope is a discipline and elrond is well schooled in it, so adept to its various different shapes and edges. hope is the light breeze, sweeping through rivendell and rustling the golden leaves; hope is the trickling of fountains, and the bell-like laughter of elves from around middle-earth, staying or visiting; hope weighs seven pounds, in the shape of a babe cradled in his arms, with a mirror-image nestled against their mother's breast. hope is... looking into the mirror and seeing six thousand years flash before his eyes—eyes that search for another pair of cool grey in the past (they are so hard to find now. time and distance, sons and mothers have washed those gemstone eyes with all the colors of mankind. and elrond loves them all. still... his heart seizes at the sight of grey, like their forefather is gazing, from beyond the ages, back at him).

when elrond rose this morn to the first ray of the sun, he did not expect to find yet another shape of hope. he thought he had learned them all, and how foolish he was for it.

maglor lays their eyes upon him o'-so-softly like foam on water. elrond suddenly couldn't breathe. his lungs filled with a wetness that expands, and he must hold his breath or he might drown in its vastness. maglor is proud of him. his legs tingle, threaten to turn into liquid. he feels utterly unworthy.

but i lost you! he wants to cry. i couldn't find you, and i stopped looking... hope stung him, then, too. everyday felt like the day, the day that he would again see that familiar streak of black, hear that deep resonant voice. he threw himself at the pain, day after day, until it would no longer take him, until he let himself walk away. i should've stayed longer, tried harder, searched further...... it is childish, now, to want to cry out and bury his face in maglor's chest to be consoled and forgiven.

"with your nephew—" he is startled by his own voice. it sounds almost... steady, regal. three ages of discipline has schooled him into this, this strength that can hold himself upright even while he feels like crumbling. "celebrimbor..." he touches his hand to the sapphire ring again, the elven power that the peerless smith gave his life to protect. "you were... you were there, all along?" now he hears it, the crack in his voice. elrond has to remind himself to breathe. all these years, he thought maglor lost, to elrond's carelessness or his weak will (he should've kept searching...) but to know that maglor had been mobile and lucid, and simply chose not to be found...

hope is a physical pain; elrond feels it tearing at him like a familiar animal. maglor had been there, all along, through the war—all that carnage and blood, all the death and loss and defeat and triumph... all this burden of pain, they could have shared it ('tis a selfish thought, elrond chastises himself but couldn't let go of it, like an insolent child). and maglor says...

"no!" he cries out, audibly this time. his hand moves before he could stop it (he hasn't been, after all, as disciplined as he thought, it seems). he seizes maglor by the arm harder than he meant to. "—don't leave! please... i am sorry i failed you. i should have known... i should've noticed— i should've tried harder- or known better. i have seen and learned, all these years... i swear— please stay... let me prove it, give me a chance... let me prove that you belong "

[cheesy-cryptid]

Elrond and Celebrían

[3bagshotrow]

the return of the king, j.r.r. tolkien // the return of the king (2003), peter jackson // the silmarillion, "the music of the ainur," j.r.r. tolkien // eärendil, tolkien gateway // the mariner, daniel oxford // the silmarillion, "valaquenta," j.r.r. tolkien // into the west, annie lennox and howard shore // tuor's first view of the sea by anke katrin eißmann // the unfinished tales, "the mariner's wife," j.r.r. tolkien // the unfinished tales, "of tuor and his coming to gondolin," j.r.r. tolkien // and his heart was filled with longing, jenny dolfen // the gray swan ship, alan lee // the return of the king, j.r.r. tolkien // the return of the king (2003), peter jackson

[asoftepiloguemylove]

BUT I WAS LITTLE TOO // ON THE FAILURE OF FATHERS

Michael Wasson This Dusk In A Mouth Full of Prayer // Ocean Vuong Someday I'll Love Ocean Vuong // Aftersun (2022) dir. Charlotte Wells // Mitski A Burning Hill // Franz Kafka Letter to His Father // Disco Elysium (2019) cr. ZA/UM // Sharon Olds I Wanted to Be There When My Father Died // Daniel Lavery & Cecillia Corrigan FROM THE MAKERS OF "TWO-MOM ENERGY DRINK," IT'S "LET YOUR FATHER DIE" ENERGY DRINK // pinterest // pinterest // @inkskinned Red Blood, Black Ink // Arcade Fire Windowsill

[saovaene-moved]

HINDSIGHT PARTS A VEIL, draped over memory and mind. perhaps, maglor thinks now, as he holds in his hands his only love that remains, he should have come sooner. some part of him had feared what he might find, while some other had thought it wiser for elrond to be allowed to close chapters and look toward the future. he had misjudged, perhaps, his grief. and then, deep within, there was shame. he would not have elrond tending to his tattered mind for an eternity.

the reassurance is met with a small smile of relief that never quite reaches their eyes. ❛ you look well, ❜ they tell him quietly, earnestly. but their gaze turns to the ring. vilya, the ring of air. how fitting, they think, yet a shadow of grief passes over their eyes at the sight of their nephew's legacy. and so it goes on and on, this curse of their line: artifacts of beauty, corrupted into power, raining death. perhaps if any could hold such a thing and not fall to it, it would be elrond. maglor would like to believe that. still, it unsettles their heart faintly.

to lose even him would mean the end of all things.

the elder lets go, his hands sinking, til he. he settles into sindarin, as is proper and expected, as is the way in which they used to speak. save when memory and present converged, and his mother tongue was the only he could utter. but such days are rarer now. ❛ i apologise, my lord, for my appearance. i come travel-worn and empty handed ... ❜ for all that the last ages have had him live in modesty, a courtly upbringing is not so quickly forgotten. and being in a place of such beauty, the old elf's sorry state only becomes more apparent. everything to him is dulled; his hair, the bits of metal to his clothes, fabrics threadbare and worn. stiff and trembling hands cannot guide a needle as once they did, leaving the parts he had mended lacking. his old blade and the broken harp were handed over at the gates. ❛ i had not expected an audience. ❜

[lastsons]

there is a formality about maglor that brings an unexpected pang to elrond's chest. unexpected, because maglor has always been courtly, a lord that he is (was). elrond never forgot that, even in those moments where maglor seemed to slip away right before his eyes—a vanishing version of himself, like a faded mural on the wall. or a withering great tree. it is a particular pain, to watch someone he once looked up to for shelter and strength grow dim, becoming feeble and weak. he holds maglor's arms, hands supporting their elbows as though bracing them from falling. still, he could not help his vision from twinning this image of maglor with the graceful noldo in his memory.

...you remember everything, elrond. you don't let go of anything. ...it's going to hurt you. he remembers elros' words (he couldn't even forget that).

"do not apologize. you have brought me the greatest gift—" he watches the noldo back away, resisting the urge to grab them by the wrist. he remembers himself, that he is a lord venerated as one of the wise, that he is no longer a child who could run after maglor looking to be indulged. "you haven't thought that i would turn you away? elladan and elrohir know better than to abandon a kindred at our door without bringing them to me. and for that they have greatly pleased me this day." a warmth swells in his heart, full of love and pride. he opens his mouth again, to offer maglor clothes, lodging, and food. his mind races like a shooting star, to which he could nearly wish upon an image of his children, kin of his house, and maglor, sitting around a table, as a family...

then he sees maglor's eyes on his finger. the light of the blue gem too subdued to reflect in the noldo's gaze. still, elrond finds himself covering it with his other hand. is this why maglor has come? the thought comes to him like a cold draft. elrond feels his blood congealing. and for a moment, elrond is disgusted with himself. what kind of a lord is he, to think of the man who raised him as robber and thief? still, memory stirs, spitting embers from cinder, red as blood, searing like betrayal.

it's going to hurt you. elros' voice again. they so often argued when it came to memory and forgetting. it took elrond long, sons and daughters after sons and daughters, before he began to understand elros' wisdom. men's ages are short. they start anew when a new generation is begotten; their memory fades, passing into history known truly only to those who lived it. whereas an elf's memory is long. it ebbs and flows, waxing and waning to the changing of time like tides against the shore. but the ocean itself does not dry. it holds it all, the currents and their shipwrecks.

"...where have you been? i heard— the songs and tales told that you were swept away by the sea..."

[saovaene-moved]

HE HAD NOT HOPED TO ADVANCE THIS FAR. in fact, he had not planned to come even as close as to meet any soul or be spied at all. in this makalaurë had failed miserably. near falling to his death, then escorted by the dark haired twins he had at first mistaken for their father and uncle, his ruptured mind slipping away from him and what he knew to be true; that elrond lived as lord of rivendell, while elros had passed in sunken kingdom of númenor. the minstrel had only wished to see it for himself. rivendell, said to be a place of beauty and calm. a safe haven, not to be tainted by the wretched shadows that follow the last living son of fëanor.

now, accompanied by the valiant pair and surrounded by all too many people for their liking, maglor awaits their lord's coming with some nervous mixture of longing and anxiety. their mind has cleared somewhat in their approach, which has in turn only brought upon the return of concerns. 'twas a selfish thing, to come here at all.

there remains but a shadow of the elf he once was. prince, regent, commander ... some old grace has not yet been banished from him, keeping his back upright and a fluidity to his movements, slowed though they are. and there is yet some pride in the way he holds himself, though his chin is not raised, and his shoulders sloped with a weight upon them. he waits standing entirely still until steps approach. upon his entering, maglor's eyes instantly lock with elrond's, and this time it is a rush of relief down his back, gripping his heart. his voice, then, almost shatters what remaining composure the noldo has managed to cling to.

it is a relief to be alone with him. maglor finds themself in his embrace ere they can utter so much as a word. after only a moment, the gesture is returned, arms wrapped around the younger elf in relief and in soothing alike. ❛ i am lord of nothing, ❜ he reminds him in quiet quenya. ❛ it is i who ought to call you that, dearest elerondo. ❜ with that he withdraws part way, remaining close enough to lift his hands and cradle in tender, trembling palms elrond's cheeks. ❛ how glad am i, how glad ... to see you again, my child, hale and hearty. ❜ there is a moment's hesitation. a thumb brushing along a cheekbone, his light-less eyes search those of the half-elf he loves as a son.

❛ it is you, is it not? you are not some ghost ... some figment of my imagination— ❜

[lastsons]

elerondo... he has not heard that name spoken in centuries. it was rarely spoken regardless, save for by one. a whole age of silence passed him by, and elrond thought he had grown used to the absence. one by one they left him, leaving behind cherished tombs in his heart. only, one remained empty, unsealed despite the urging of time. maglor's presence breaks it open entirely; a whole mausoleum's worth of crumbling that shakes the earth. he could lose his footing. at one point he might have—when he was younger, lighter, more fragile with a sensitive heart that let in too much. it still does.

"i never stopped hoping—" hope is all he has, in the dark days. it was in hope that he built rivendell; in hope that he wedded celebrían (and in hope that he let her go); in hope he raised his children and his house, that shelters and fosters the line of isildur... holding onto the shards of narsil to one day be reforged he wants to believe that given time, anything could heal, in one manner or another.

he pulls himself away from maglor by sheer will power, taking solace in the touch upon his cheeks that the man before him would not vanish in front of his eyes. he has changed much, but also not at all. a silver circlet sits upon his brows, signifying his station and responsibility. as he clasps his hand over maglor's hand cradling his cheek, the blue ring of sapphire gives off a subtle, temperate shine. it has none of the brilliance of the silmarils, nor the fiery fortitude and indomitable radiance of narya and nenya. it is quiet, tender. merciful. it glints softly as a drop of tear slides down elrond's cheek to be caught in the band of the ring.

"yes, it's me," he gasps urgently, breathlessly, fearful that if he misses a single second to respond, maglor would pull away and disappear out the door. "it's me, elerondo... it's me. father—i- i thought i lost— i am so sorry... you must've– that i-..." he rambles a mixture of quenya and sindarin, losing track on the linguistic map as time and all the ages collapse around him. "how i have missed you." in the end, that is all he musters: something true. "not a day goes by have i not thought of you... the days— there are a great so many things i wish to share with you. and a great so many things..." he breathes, forcing some composure upon himself as he takes maglor by the shoulders, scanning him for any signs of injury or suffering.:

[lastsons]

elrond hurries down the stairs as pressingly as he could while still maintaining his poise. his silver robe sweeps the steps as he rounds a corner into the hall. your sons return not alone, the herald told him, they have brought someone with them—a strange elf that was found wandering the outskirts of the valley. he may be wounded, for your sons requested healers. this hasn't happened for some time. it almost brings elrond back to a more troubling time, when daily he received refugees, elves who were driven out of their homes by sauron's vicious forces. much blood had been spilled and lives lost before evil was driven back into its den, and peaceful seasons were upon them (still, he knows a piece of the darkness remains, stirring in the shadows like a beast, wounded but not expired).

such are the thoughts weighing heavily on the mind of the lord of rivendell when he steps into the room where his sons and their guest await, considering in his mind all manners of herbs and medicine, or even assistance he would call upon if necessary. but none of it would prepare him for what—or whom—he finds in his halls.

"h-" he opens his mouth, and thinks he must've dissolved, because no words come out but what sounds like the wind. something wrenches and aches in him, and it takes elrond too long to realize it was his lungs begging for air. grey, starlit gaze meets those brown eyes that used to be so familiar—sweet, warm, gentle and full of grief. he sucks in a breath so violently it could knock him to his feet

"father—" the word leaps out of him in quenya like a hatchling and stuns the room into silence. he knows his sons' eyes grow large, can feel their jaws drop and all the questions and thoughts flooding to their lips. that's more than the attendants could muster as they are shocked into a standstill. in another time, elrond would have the mind to soothe them, to assure that everything is well and taken care of. but not now. not in this moment, where the world breaks open and all the stars arch over the sky to turn back time to the elder days.

"everybody out, now!" he commands, and his voice allows no room for debate. it takes all the patience and control he's accumulated through the ages to wait until the last person has left the room before he surges forward. "my lord...?" there is a split second of hesitation, before he takes the man's hands in his, turning them over and seeing those scars burnt into the flesh of elven hands. "how—" there is a choking sound in elrond's throat, and the once herald could not speak. he simply lurches, throwing his arms over maglor, and pulls him into a tight embrace after centuries of mourning. @saovaene