Eärendil offered a hesitant smile to his son, a whispered thanking on his lips, before leading him upstairs. The bundle of papers was almost-carefully shoved into one corner on the desk, before moving to sit heavily on the bed. He tugged his feet up to sit crossed legged, feeling uncomfortably childish even in the presence of his son.
Unsure of what to say, his eyes absently drifting out of the window and towards the sea as they always had. He could not quite make it properly out from here - another reason to choose this inn - but still something in the back of his mind called to it. It always had, and probably always would.
When Elrond spoke, he blinked harshly, and turned to look properly at him. The ghosts of an apology found its way to his lips in an awkward smile.
“Your mother fares as well as she ever does,” Eärendil considered Elrond for a moment, trying to work out what the rest of the question was supposed to be. Unable to do so, he settled for expanding on the answer; surely he had been away too long to know, and he could not imagine Elwing minding the explanation. “That is to say, when she in her tower or around the townsfolk she knows she manages, but to be surrounded by strangers she panics still. She tried to come south, but when an unfamiliar fishing village made her unwell…” he gestured indistinctly around the room rather than finishing his sentence.
“Well, she sends her love, if you wish for it, and her apologies regardless… There’s a letter from her…” he frowned, looking around for where he had left it, and pointed at a bag in the corner. “In one of the pockets. She also sent some biscuits for yourself and your wife, though I have no idea if they are still good to eat.”
It was so much easier to play messenger, but that was not exactly… Were they exchanging questions of pleasantries, and if so what were they? Was he supposed to leave it open for Elrond to make a comment? Had he already said far too much with anxious rambling? It… Had been far too long since he had thought of social conventions, “Speaking of your wife, is she…” what word was appropriate? “safe?”
It… Was most likely not the correct word at all, but the only one he could quite put to the phrase.
It was an uncomfortable feeling, strangely familiar, and Elrond resisted the urge to shudder as his father looked past him out the window. It was almost like Elrond was not there at all, like Eärendil was looking through him. But before it could draw on too long his father’s gaze at last focused on him.
A letter. His eyes darted to the bag, and his feet itched to go fish out the precious paper from its pocket, but he did not go. He would get it when he left–it would do neither of them any good for his father to watch him read it.
He doubted that any biscuits could survive three months, and if his heart were more hardy he might chuckle. As it was, a hesitant smile pulled at one side of his mouth.
“I suppose not,” he said. “I am sorry I waited until the very last minute to come. I…tend to do that.” He thought to the age spent pining for his now-wife, and though he had thought it wise at the time to wait he realized later it might have been more adequately described as severe procrastination, born from his nervousness.
He took pause at the question, thinking. In the three months since he had arrived he had been very rarely parted from Celebrían, and this was his longest journey alone since then–he had thought about bringing her, but he knew that this would be hard enough without having to try and describe his feelings to her in the immediate aftermath.
“She is well,” he said softly. “If changed. She has been here a long time.” Five hundred years of separation was a long time, but they were beginning to understand each other again.
“If–” He hesitated. “W-when I go to see Mother I will bring her, if you want to meet her.”
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