Adarond Week - Day 1: First Impressions
Elrond
Adar was not at all what Elrond had expected from the commander of a savage people. He sat so regally and serene, he seemed to be presiding over a great hall from a gilded throne instead of a rough-hewn wooden chair inside a ramshackle hut. Elrond refused to be intimidated.
Elrond stared evenly. Strange eyes stared back at him. They were old and full of suffering, to be certain - Elrond had expected that - but they were also warm. Not warm like dying embers; warm like a blazing fireplace seen through a frigid window - full of love reserved for someone else.
Adar
Elrond was almost precisely what Adar had expected. With Lúthien's wit, Thingol's wisdom, Turgon's obstinacy, Fingolfin's daring, and decidedly mannish acceptance of sacrifice, he hardly deviated from the enigmatic “Elrond Peredhel” Adar had researched. (The letters had gone on about his unassuming nature coupled with his apparently striking resemblance to every single one of his ancestors ad nauseum).
Adar’s sources had failed to mention beauty. Haphazard curls gracefully framing an icy face, every scrap of light in the tent reeled in to reflect in his eyes and glint off his razor-edged cheekbones. “You have the beauty of your foremother, Melian.”