Bitter Water
(Or, in which Elrond is, within the next thirty seconds, about to begin work on inventing a combination epipen/antitoxin/antidote barely an hour after arriving in Valinor)
Did I have OTHER THINGS to do before leaving for work today? YES! Did they fall by the wayside in favor of this premise I was playing around with suddenly taking over my brain for the space of a one-shot ficlet? ALSO YES!
(I'll probably stick this on AO3 on my lunch break) (Edit: here)
TW: deadly allergies, family reunions, valinor as a horrifying place, sort of
“I need to begin by saying,” Eärendil says, “that it is not overall a bad place to live. Valinor.” He grimaces. “At least, I must assume there are worse ones.”
Out of all the things Elrond has thought his father might say upon their reunion, upon opening the door to find Eärendil the Mariner on his doorstep, this…is not expected.
“How so?” he asks, because he cannot think of anything else to say. If his father had hugged him, he would have embraced him back. If there had been heartfelt words, he would have tried to respond in kind.
But this?
“It is safe,” Eärendil says. “You can be safe here. And there is peace. But—.” He hesitates. “It is not…meant for mortal kindreds.”
“I am aware,” Elrond says, keeping his voice as even as possible. What is Eärendil referring to? Prejudiced attitudes towards mortal heritage? Spiritual difficulties?
Eärendil shakes his head when Elrond inquires. “No—not like that. It’s—everything. You—.” He looks, suddenly, very frightened. “You haven’t eaten anything, have you? Since arriving?”
Given that Elrond has only just arrived in his wife’s home from the docks, the answer to that is no. “I have not,” he says. “…Why does that matter?”
“You have to be really, really careful,” Eärendil says, and what is in his eyes—it is veiled, because Elrond does not know him, but it is not a comfortable expression. “Your mother—she would be here today, she will feel horrible to have missed meeting you from the start—but we didn’t know. We’re usually so careful, but the latest shipment of grain—it came from somewhere else, and they don’t exactly track that because it doesn’t matter to them, but the toxins in the soil—.”
He breaks off, shaking his head. “You need to be careful,” he said again, so urgent and worried it makes Elronds heart seize. “They never need to notice. They never need to care. It isn’t toxic to them, any of it. And there’s inconsistencies—what is lethal to me, what makes me sick—it isn’t always the same as your mother, it’ll probably be different for you. It is in the food, it is in the water. There are spaces where the air is—different—too, and we cannot abide that, but they can, so they don’t even notice.”
“…Adar,” Elrond says, even though the word feels strange on its tongue, too formal and too presumptive both. “Are you saying—are you saying Naneth is dead?”
Eärendil grimaces. “She’ll be back soon,” he says, an answer that nevertheless avoids directly saying so. “It doesn’t take either of us so long, anymore. The Ainur don’t like to think about it, and we don’t want them thinking too hard about it either.”
There are so many horrifying implications in that one statement.
“Come in, please,” Elrond says. “And—we can speak further on this.” He glances around. The streets around Celebrían’s home are quiet; this strange reunion, it seems, has passed by unwitnessed.
Elrond half-suspects, already, that that is a blessing with no divine source.
“Over tea,” he finishes. “If—can we drink the tea?”
Eärendil comes in when Elrond steps aside. “Perhaps,” he says cautiously. “It does depend—on where it was grown, and on where your water comes from. I can take a look—I mostly know what works for us, and you might be…different.”
“All right,” Elrond says, starting to feel—faint. He has discovered, over the years, what is toxic to him, what his heritage does not abide, but—
Those have all been—very small reactions.
Judging by his father’s dire tones and what he has said, such things are not small matters at all, here.
“Let me try it first,” Eärendil says. “Please. You should not spend your first day here in Mandos, if we guess wrong.” He winces. “It might be so anyway, but—it’s a better chance than anything else.”
Elrond’s head hurts.
He wants to—
“Oh,” Eärendil says softly, and then there are arms around him.
“I didn’t expect—,” Elrond says blankly.
His father is holding him, and it is strange and feels awkward, but is also—good.
It is good to feel his father as strong arms and warmth and not as the distant light of the star or a distant absence in memory.
“I know,” Eärendil says. “I—it’s been so long, for us. And I am so glad to see you. I am so far beyond glad I cannot say so in words, not properly. I only hope—oh, I only hope I do not have to watch you die, today.”
There is an ache in his voice that goes beyond all hope, beyond all remedy. Elrond knows that ache, bone-deep and terrible.
It is the pain of a father who does not want to watch his child die.
It is not precisely the same as the pain that now sits uncompromising in Elrond’s heart, but he knows Eärendil must understand that one, as well.
“I hope you do not, either,” Elrond says, hoping whatever words he has come out sounding right. “That would be a tragedy for both of us.
He can feel the shuddered breath that wracks Eärendil’s body, at that. The reluctance to release Elrond.
Elrond does not want him to stop either.
But there is much to speak of. There are answers Elrond needs.
“Come, then,” he says, once Eärendil steps back and wipes the tears off his face. “We can sit and talk, and forgo the tea, for now. There are things I must learn.” A hysterical laugh wants to escape his throat; he does not let it. “It seems the peace and plenty in Valinor is not quite what I was led to believe.”
“It is peaceful, here,” Eärendil says as he follows Elrond into the sitting room. “We enjoy the peace, your mother and I. When we can. It is only—,” he hesitates, seemingly searching for the right word. “It is only…stressful. At times.”
Elrond imagines the stress is the least of it.
“Come, then,” he says, settling himself in a comfortable chair. “Tell me of it.”
