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Catharsis, from Greek κάθαρσις, katharsis, meaning "purification" or "cleansing" or "clarification", is the purification and purgation of emotions—particularly pity and fear—through an extreme change in emotion that results in renewal and restoration.
***
By midday there was still no sign of Valinor, no distant ivory blob which outlined the deathless lands; merely a horizontal axis of sea-like sky where day met night and the clouds greeted the stars. It was so odd, and yet so fitting- the sky was devoid of wind, yet it rippled like the ocean. The sea was vast and expansive, yet the eye could see naught past the horizon. If then the sky had its own obscuring point at which no one could see any further, then who was he to question the will of the Gods’, who had made the sea and the sky akin?
Still, it vexed him.
The afternoon passed largely in the same fashion as all the prior afternoons for the last eleven days; suffice to say tediously enough that Elrond was bothering to count them. His gaze was ever fixed upon the distant nothingness, in the hope of seeing something more, yet still the anticipated lands eluded him; there was only the sky, as it mirrored the sea, and the boat on which he sat- hands folded curtly in his lap and his eyebrows furrowed in a half-annoyed, half-exasperated frown.
Was he not supposed to be the patient one?
But Elrond had been patient. He had waited, for so very long he had waited, as the age darkened and the nights lengthened; there was no sleep for the restless, and he could not bring himself to sleep alone in a bed which was made for two. He had been patiently enduring, as his brother passed beyond the seams of the world and Gil-Galad fell and his wife, Celebrían, sailed away from him and the home they had built together, leaving where once were two hearts now one half of a whole .
And though he was not overly materialistic and could name many treasures that had been bestowed upon him by the family he had long been deprived of- his beautiful, remarkable children, whom were very much not dead but who he grieved dearly nonetheless- he had so little of them in themselves, so very few, very personable things that were not gifted to him but inherited, material objects which demonstrated so precisely the personalities he had been sundered from.
All he had left of what was truly theirs was a sceptre, a broken crown and a willow tree planted in early March. All he had wanted was for them to stay.
Necessity was the seed of resilience. Elrond had continued as was expected of him, because there were so very many people who relied on him and far too many perils which could befall said subjects. He had carried on because there was no alternative, not then; Vilya had no home but his finger and Sauron was a prospect that Elrond still feared in his very bone marrow. What choice had been given to him but to rise from his bed of grief and throw bereavement to the wind, each and every time?
There was no such need now. The hierarchy of evil, installed in Middle-Earth since the first age, had been crumpled and vanquished. Elrond’s people departed in the masses each day, yearning for peace and prosperity in a land where mortal death had no claim. For Elrond himself, who had long been known as the Peredhel, rather than just one of an expansive clan, the longing for his sundered kin and a home which needn’t be stronghold, where he could close his eyes without dreaming of bloodshed, had grown far too urgent to be ignored. And he would have stayed for his daughter, he would have- in fact he had insisted upon it for months- yet in the end he could not be selfish, and he knew in his heart of hearts that his daughter would be better off, tenfold so, living happily and dying peacefully knowing that he was safe, in a land undying, as a pose to watching him fade out of weariness and longing for his wife.
“The Eldar always did linger in the past.” Elrond muttered to himself, rising from his seated position on the starboard side of the ship’s deck. The breeze was cool against his face, and its touch was welcomed by his clammy skin. He closed his eyes and basked in the gentle wind, momentarily relishing in the quiet of the evening,
“Brooding again, Master Elrond?” A frail voice interrupted his musings, and Elrond turned sharply to find Bilbo staring up at him. He chuckled at the earnest concern which was written in his young friend’s features.
“When you are as old as I am, I find it is hard not to!” Elrond replied laughingly, arching an eloquent eyebrow towards the old hobbit before turning back to the ship’s railing. “In truth, it is the knowledge of what awaits ahead which draws me to the past.”
“Yes, yes, I take your meaning, Elrond- there are many heroes of old in Valinor; and don’t I know it! Everybody in Rivendell is always babbling about your lineage!” His friend’s tone was almost accusatory, and Elrond could not help but to laugh.
“I am sure my people find their tales very reverent, but do remember that every tale is the bias of its author; I have heard more than a few inaccurate, albeit audacious, stories regarding my own parentage in my time.”
“Oh yes, about that old song I sung, Master Elrond-”
“About my father?” Elrond shook his head in exasperation before smiling fondly at the flustered hobbit. “Don’t worry so, Bilbo! Your song about my father was as the music of a nightingale, which has ever lulled the babe to sleep. Never mind your cheeky lyrics; I enjoyed them.”
“Well then, I have a mind to inquire what all of the fuss was about!”
“My people…” Elrond trailed off with a wave of his hands, sighing deeply into the breeze. “Imladris stemmed from the belief in one concept, and ever my people have clung to that same idealism. When you take the very embodiment of such emotion- that being my father- and write a song about him with any sort of ambiguity, you stand the chance of crumpling the very parapets upon which my stronghold was established.”
He ran a hand through his long tresses, biting his lip in a childish habit that he was seemingly unable to outgrow. “Does that make sense?”
The baffled look on the hobbit’s face answered his question better than courtesy ever could.
“My father stands for hope.” Elrond explained, “When he rose in the sky....it was a symbol of hope, before aught else. I built Imladris as a stronghold against fear and darkness, long before you were born; to many it was a symbol of hope in trying times, that against all odds we had survived and even won a small victory; a home, though back then it was a mere gathering of tents! But my people remember those days, or the tales of them, and we etch hope into our hearts to ward off all else. So if you were to take my father’s name, and write a song about how his voyage was useless and his star unremarkable, do you see the havoc that may have wrought?”
“Why, I would never have sung such things in the House of Elrond! The cheek-” The hobbit continued to blabber until Elrond rested a gentle hand upon his shoulder.
“I know you wouldn’t have, my old friend.” He soothed, “But that doesn’t mean that you couldn’t have- none heard your lyrics before they were vocalised, save Estel, whose own opinions of his lineage back then were rather bittersweet!”
“I suppose I never saw it like that.”
Elrond smiled fondly, and his joy met his eyes for the first time in many days. He opened his mouth to say something more, but the ringing of a bell from within the ship’s crew cabin made his head snap sharply upward.
“Land ahoy!” The sailor’s apprentice exclaimed. Elrond hastened to the ship’s railing in three quick strides.
“The undying lands,” He breathed, for he could say no more. Valinor was less of a defined land and more of a gleaming star, its soil practically glowing as the ship glided towards it. The shores were whiter than the brightest ivory, and its meadows more vigorously green than any other field in Arda Marred. There was a raiment of pearl about the heavens, like a veil woven of clouds, and when they passed through it the sky turned from cyan to turquoise, liquidising into the most beautifully reflective ocean his eyes had ever beheld. A swell of excitement rose in his chest, and Elrond did not even try to deny himself this- this pure and untainted happiness, which he had been denied for so long, too long.
“How long until we reach land?” Elrond asked the nearest ship-hand, and the eagerness in his voice made him sound amusingly childlike, for one so wise.
“Nigh 2 hours, if the winds are kind.”
“My thanks,” Elrond leant precariously over the ship’s edge, reaching out a tentative hand and brushing it lightly against the sea spray. White foam flickered up at his touch and sprayed the vessel’s oak timbers. Closing his eyes, Elrond smiled a half-smile of anticipation, allowing his body to relax at the prospect of many reunions ahead.
***
Elrond wrung his hands in nervousness as the docks physicalized before their vessel; a harbour without ships which was characterized by an uneroded beach of glittering sands and crystal-rocks. It was as though every fae story which had been whispered to him as a child- every fantasy land which he had imagined under the stars- had been wrought before his eyes, and if Elrond had been paying attention to the land itself, he may have found himself awestruck.
It was not the landscape which met his gaze and left him suddenly breathless.
There was a platform, stood upon four mahogany pillars and drifting atop the sea’s pearly surface, and even his half-elvish eyes could not have missed the pinprick of silver hair and pale skin as she whom had long plagued his dreams, in longing and agony both, raised her hand in greeting.
“Mae govannen, Celebrían.” He whispered, and the wind carried his words to her. She laughed into his mind, and every fibre in Elrond’s body rejoiced at the sound.
In his eyes, there was no hale God in Valinor who could ever match her for radiance.
When Elrond departed the ship, when he raised a tentative hand to his wife’s long tresses, the crowds did not miss how his hands trembled. They did not miss the solitary tear which slid down his face and wetted his lips.
“Are you well, my dear?” He breathed into her ears, and there was such concern and elation in his voice that even Elrond could not say whether he was laughing or weeping. A sound of raw emotion escaped his lips as she nodded in affirmation- that yes, his beloved wife was well- and with a gentle hand he pressed her face against his chest. He adorned her hair with tentative kisses and mumbled promises of ardent love until the crowds had scattered, like leaves before the wind; leaving only he, and the woman he so adored.
“The children,” He mumbled, overwhelmed. “Ai, Celebrían- Arwen!”
There was no name for the impalpable feeling of fear, joviality and grief which had long lingered in his chest at the thought of his children. A fingertip upon his lips silenced his frantic murmurings.
“Elrond, I know.” Was all she said, and his eyes sparkled with long unshed tears.
“How?” He whispered, his voice trembling.
“There are many prophesises here, and they all say the same; So shall the sundered lines of the half-elven twine and become one, once more. The boys are both wed, Elrond- I knew that it would be either you or Arwen. And since I behold you here before me now…”
“You-” Elrond’s mind reeled to process the information which had just been thrown at him. “You knew? And you thought that I would- that I could have....moved on? Without you? ”
He stared at his wife in utter disbelief.
“Three hundred years is a long time- how could I have blamed you? Would you have blamed me?”
“No!” Elrond exclaimed, a pang of the old guilt clawing at his chest as the fervency of his voice made his wife startle. “It would be what you deserve; I failed, as your healer and as your Lord but above all as your husband , to save you from wounds you should never have had to bear! Our time together...it was as the mating of the deer and stag. The stag will fight for the deer he desires, but when he proves himself to be unworthy, unfit for husbandry, so then does the deer move on.”
Solemnly, he met her gaze for a moment, and with their eyes still locked he phrased the question;
“Have you found love with another?”
“Of course I haven’t!” Elrond smiled sadly as she shook her head in exasperation, “Elrond, I bound myself to you . Is there another Lord of Imladris walking about here that I am as yet unaware of?”
“No, there is only this one.”
“Well then, it is good that this one is in my favour.”
“I love you,” Elrond told her, for the breathlessness had returned. He cupped his wife’s face in his hands and her lips graced him with a light kiss once more.
“Celebrían,” He said, rubbing a finger against his Lady’s cheek. “I am so weary. If you would allow me into your home…”
He smiled as she nodded, his eyes glimmering like the waves when met with sunlight.
“Then let us go home.”
***
Their Homely House, West of The Sea, was the finest cottage that his eyes had ever beheld; second only to Imladris. It’s walls were made of sandstone embellished with seashells and the door was painted dove-white with a pale teal doorknob, carved in the fashion of a leaping dolphin. It had been erected atop a limestone cliff- a position which would’ve been impossible elsewhere due to the precarity of permanently residing in a place so readily weathered by the wind or by the rain- and its arching bay windows were adorned with dream-catchers woven of violet and turquoise beads, ensnaring the early morning sun and holding it until the evening. It was bliss, and Elrond squeezed Celebrían’s hand within his own in a show of gratitude beyond expression.
“This...it’s beautiful. You’re beautiful, m’Lady.” He told her shyly, and two ages prior, he might have blushed. He had perfected the art of stoicism only after many years of Lordship.
“Lord Elrond, you flatter me!” his wife ribbed, pinching his cheekbone endearingly. “But anyway, come see what I bought for you.”
A childlike thrill grasped Elrond’s heart as they ran, hand in hand, through the cottage, his pulse beating wildly as she tugged him through the hallway.
“Oh, Celebrían...” He exclaimed when they stopped, sweeping his eyes over the site before him appreciatively. They stood upon a marble veranda, made of ivory pillars and swirled tiling of deep opal and pristine white, overlooking the far-stretching shores and rippling oceans as they glimmered by the sunlight. Matching armchairs made of turquoise wool were the veranda’s sole furnishings, and Elrond settled himself within the largest of the two, contentedly breathing in the salty smell of fishmonger’s markets and expansive coral seas.
“I made this place with you in mind. The whole house is in your name, Elrond.”
“This is all so wonderful. More than I deserve, but you’re brilliant for it, nonetheless.” He kissed her ring finger, relishing in the smell of his wife’s sweet fruit perfumes.
“You smell divine.” He mused, burrowing his nose within her silky tresses. He recognised that smell, distantly, though from where he could not say; it was as though the scent had materialised from some long forgotten dream that he could not quite place.
“My thanks; the perfume is from your cousin, actually.”
“My cousin? I am rather full in that department; which one was it? Don’t tell me Oropher- but then again he was always fond of you.”
“No, no, not he! A cousin you were close to.”
He would play his wife’s guessing game. “Celebrimbor?”
“No!”
“Oh, I don’t know! How many cousins of mine are acquaintances of yours?”
“Why, it was Gil-Galad of course!”
“Gil-Galad.” Elrond blinked, bemused. “I’m sorry, who?”
“Don’t tease, Elrond. Can I not receive nice things from people who knew you as well as I did?”
“Well, of course! I wasn’t aware you knew him, that is all. Then again, you have been here for longer than I have…”
Elrond stretched his legs out towards the veranda’s iron-wrought railing, flexing his long ligaments- the sun’s heat made him feel rather docile.
“Gil-Galad,” Elrond turned the name over in his mind, and a small, elated chuckle rumbled in his stomach. “Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time.”
“He misses you. I would know it even if I didn’t know him.”
“And I am him. I have missed you all for so long, really.” He visibly frowned before shaking his head in dismissal, blowing the cobwebs away. “I should like to visit everyone in time, but for now I am so fatigued…”
“I understand. Shall I show you to bed?”
His Lady’s hand was so inviting, that Elrond reckoned even the most insomniac ellon could not have denied her.
***
The palace at Tirion was a grandiose structure, built of glistening white stone and painted gold embellishments. It stood in the midst of a bustling market town, with buzzing crowds and loud, imposing sellers who flapped their arms about in exaggerated movements as they boasted of silver jewellery wrought of stars and tunics so airy that they may as well have been sewn from wind and leaves.
“Stones from Gondolin!” One seller exclaimed, shoving a glistening river-stone into Elrond’s eyeline. “Get your stones from Gondolin fallen, here!”
“No, thank you.” Elrond waved the stone away, attempting to twist his way through the compact market.
“But are you sure, Sir? They are of Gondolin’s own castle, touched by the ruling family, as it were!”
“If I desired a stone touched by Turgon, I would very well ask him for one. As it stands, I do not.” The day’s heat had begun to take its toll on Elrond and he swotted irately at the seller like he was some pesky fly obscuring a pleasant view.
“If you say so, sir!” The booming man laughed. Elrond grimaced in a half-hearted smile before slotting past him.
“Gondolin was made of white stone, not cream.” He muttered to himself, allowing his wife’s thumb to rub his hand and calm him.
“Come, love. We are nearly there.”
The Palace of Finarfin consisted of many corridors and levels, entire floors allocated to the diminished line of former High King’s. Had Elrond’s mind not been preoccupied by countless other things, he may have wondered whether or not he himself would have had an allocated royal quarter, so fit for an assembly of King’s.
It was, after all, only at the last minute that he had pulled out.
Gil-Galad’s rooms were only a quarter away now, and Elrond could feel the nerves returning in hot, sweaty flushes. They had left so very much unsaid- so very many conversations, unfinished- and Elrond wished now more than ever for a sense of finality in their former relationship as King and Herald as well as cousins , though indeed they had been more like brothers.
“We were two halves of the same coin.” Elrond had told his children. He had meant it, back then, when the wound was still healing. It was Celebrimbor who had taught him that copper did not bend, only break; nor could any glue salvage a liquidised metal.
How did one repair what was broken? How could a splintered coin, defying all odds, return to its previous form?
“Are you ready?” Celebrían asked him, and Elrond realised that they had reached a varnished mahogany door embellished with golden brass. Swallowing down his anxiety, Elrond nodded quickly and held the brass knocker in hand.
Knock, knock, knock. The brass clunked rhythmically on the door. Elrond held his breath and counted to ten.
“Hello?” A maid-servant appeared at the door, appraising him from behind a silver latch. “I’m afraid these are Lord Gil-galad’s private chambers, but if you’d like a private audience-”
“I would.”
“-then you can take a seat on the leather sofas over there, and he’ll be with you in just a moment!” The maid finished, looking slightly flustered at his interruption. Elrond nodded jerkily and took a seat on the provided chair, clasping his hands between his knees. It was only a heartbeat later that he realised his wife had deserted him.
That traitor! He thought to himself, though in his heart he found no room to be truly angry. Celebrían had told him only last night that she had no intention of intruding on a dire hour between herald and king, where they would- potentially- alleviate their long years of individuality and bereavement.
“Has someone seen to you?” A voice roused him from his musing, and Elrond had to conceal his disappointment at finding the speaker far too womanly to be his cousin.
“Yes, thank you.” He replied, inspecting his hands in his lap. Elrond was patient, he really was, but he was far too ready to dismiss his nerves as nonsense. Please let everything be alright.
“ Oh, lovely. I’ll just be- but wait one moment, is that you, Elrond?”
His head snapped up at the use of his name. The woman before him had a round face set with glistening, beadlike eyes and a full, welcoming smile. She was short and plump, with curly grey locks that went down to her shoulder blades and a familiar apron that Elrond knew all too well.
“Laseri!” He cried, jumping to his feet. Laseri had been one of the maids in the court of Lindon- the very same maid who had attended to Elrond’s every need, when he was little more than a reserved child with a love of trees and books and the escapism they provided from his blood-bathed past and incomprehensible future. Laseri’s maternal nature had proved invaluable to Elrond- who had sorely lacked a mother figure for quite some time- and she had become akin to a grandmother, as well as a confident who matched Elrond’s cheeky sense of humour with a quick wit of her own. At her smile, shining fondly upon him once more, Elrond laughed delightedly.
“It is so wonderful to see you!” He exclaimed, embracing the old nís so tightly that she could do naught but chuckle exasperatedly. Elrond smiled crookedly as the maid resurfaced gasping for air.
“Now, Elrond, mind my old windpipes!”
“Forgive me, Laseri. I have tarried for a long while in a world where I was the oldest, if you could believe such a thing.”
“Oh, poppet, I know.” She squeezed his arm in consolidation, holding him at arm’s length. “Now, let me get a good look at you...but my, how you’ve grown! Were you always so tall?”
“Yes, Laseri, I have always been this tall. But perhaps you have shrunk?” Elrond grinned impishly, earning him a light smack on the arm.
“Cheeky mare,” She muttered, resting a veiny hand against his face. “Oh, I am so very sorry, dear. I shouldn’t have left you in that wretched place, not after hearing all that you’ve suffered.”
“You wanted to follow your husband here.” Elrond finished for her, seeing the distress written on her face. “I understand that. To wait for one’s loved one to emerge from the halls for such an arduously long time is as honourable as any battle victory.”
“Oh, darling…” Laseri watched his face for a moment, but then- to Elrond’s horror- her face crumpled and she began to weep.
“We’ve all missed you so much.” She sniffled, shakily pulling a handkerchief from her pocket. “And we’ve all been grasping for knowledge about you, and your life in Imladris, and oh, the things we’ve heard, Elrond…”
She clutched a handful of his robes within her fingers, a desperate sorrow within her eyes.
“Your beautiful wife...your beautiful children … and we missed it all!”
A pitiful longing coursed through Elrond’s body at the mention of his children, one which he pushed away immediately.
“Laseri, I have missed you too. All of you, so much. But I promise you, I am fine, and I am here. Please don’t weep on my account.” Elrond held the woman around her shoulders, looking down upon her so their eyes met.
“You beautiful, brilliant boy. But, oh, you’ve come here to see Ereinion, of course you have. Come along then, dear, you’ve waited long enough.” She held out a frail hand to Elrond, as though he were still a little child, yet he took it gladly nonetheless; despite being so ridiculously tall that he had to crouch to hold it. They exchanged a brief, fond smile before she escorted him through the halls.
“He’s always babbling about you, Elrond.” She explained as they moved through the corridor. “On particularly boring days I catch him just staring wistfully off into the distance, and I know he’s thinking about his little ward. Oh, when he sees how you’ve grown…”
It turned out that Elrond’s cousin was not in his private chambers at all, but rather in a luxurious greenhouse; one corner of which had been converted into a library adorned with overhanging ivy and potted herbs. Laseri squeezed his arm once more.
“You wait here, poppet. I’ll go and speak to him.”
Elrond stayed as told, brushing his thumb against a particularly archaic scroll which, upon further inspection, smelt like rosemary and damp; the very same smell that had lingered within his own books, in Imladris. He smiled to himself in reminiscence.
“They’re yours.”
Elrond spun round on his heels, his fingers immediately grasping his empty sword-belt. He swept his eyes over the face of his cousin, and lips parted in a silent;
“Oh.”
“Sorry, I didn’t intend to startle you. But the books do belong to you. From Lindon”
“No, it’s fine, I-” You what? You didn’t expect to see him here. Fool, treating your cousin like an enemy you ignorantfoolish-
“Elrond,” Gil-galad touched his arm, and he perceived the concern written in his King’s gaze. “Don’t fret. It doesn’t matter.”
This was not how it was supposed to happen; not at all like the reunion that Elrond had so carefully planned out in his head. His and Celebrian’s reunion had been so natural, so desirable- but then again, it had been a long time.
“It’s good to see you,” Elrond managed to breathe out at last, sweeping his eyes over Gil-galad’s unchanged form. “It’s certainly been a while.”
“Yes. A while.”
“I...uh, I hope you are well?” Elrond ventured sheepishly, because by the Valar this is awkward. And suddenly Elrond realised why this felt so different, so unnatural; the precise reasoning behind why his mind was devoid of words and utterly unable to function. His cousin had been dead , and it was Elrond who had buried him, had gently shut his burnt-out eyelids and locked his coffin door, weeping all the while. He had mourned this man, his prior King and for an entire age he had known him as dead. Yet here he stood, the same as ever, and something within Elrond found such a temperament to be deeply, irreversibly unsettling.
“Yes, I am well. You have aged.”
“And you haven’t.” His cousin blinked, and Elrond realised his mistake. It was all going wrong, so hopelessly wrong . He did not need foresight to acknowledge that this would end disastrously. “But I am glad that you are well.”
“Elrond,” Gil-galad said, and Elrond saw how his eyes swept over his body, perceiving its changes. “We have much to catch up on. Shall we take our conversation out of doors? Tirion is truly wonderful in the summer.”
“So I have heard.” He replied, allowing Gil-galad to take the lead. Had Elrond been younger, he may have wrung his hands and stooped his posture, yet now he walked with a rigid back and his head held high, every inch a Lord of the Eldar.
“This balcony…” Elrond exclaimed, awed, once they had stopped. The balcony was made of mahogany panelling and glass-framed rails, but the embellishment that struck Elrond was how filled-to-the-brim it was with plants, from draping wisteria and creeping bushes to eloquent flower-boxes of daffodils and lavender.
“It reminds me of our balcony, back in Lindon.”
“It does look like that doesn’t it. The plants remind me of you; do you remember that tiny herb garden you had?”
“Of course! Cook said that the kitchens were no place for experimentation, and the gardeners wouldn’t let me come anywhere near their prize array, so they had to be grown on the balcony. You hated it though, I recall.” He mused, staring confusedly at all of the plants. Had Gil-galad really grown all this merely out of yearning for him?
He was answered only by silence, both he and his King lost to reminiscence. Elrond opened his mouth to speak, but he was silenced by Gil-galad’s words;
“I can’t imagine how difficult things have been for you.”
Elrond sighed, letting his elbows rest upon the railing. The sun glimmered upon the glass, and the sky was beginning to fade into dusk. The smell of salt arose from the fishmongers’ market, and it made him think about Celebrían, and the home she had made for them. He placed his chin upon his palm, watching the crowds disperse for the evening.
“Things haven’t been the easiest, no,” He admitted, enjoying the touch of the breeze upon his skin. “But I do wish everybody would stop saying so. I’m here now, alive, and the war is won. I don’t desire to talk about evil, or suffering, or anything besides. Not yet.”
“Forgive me.”
Elrond felt his cousin settle beside him, their tunics rustling against one another. For a moment, he caught a glimpse of the sorrow that Gil-galad held within him, and he bumped his arm light-heartedly against the King’s own in a gesture reminiscent of his former playfulness.
“You are talking about apologies far too frequently, your majesty!” He teased.
“I know, it's just... do you hold my death against me, Elrond?”
“Never!” Elrond turned to face his king, bemusement warring with concern in his expression. “Your death was a tragedy, and it grieved me greatly to be parted from you. It was hard , to do all that you once did so flawlessly- you never mentioned how trying all that paperwork is- but the fact of the matter remains true; you died for an honourable cause. I would never, ever hold that against you. Not for the world.”
At his words, Gil-galad pulled him into an embrace; a hold which Elrond reciprocated fervently.
“I have missed you so, my Herald. Lord, I even began gardening in your name! But tell me everything that happened after my demise; your marriage, your children, Imladris- all of it.”
And, as the ever-faithful herald that he once was and, at heart, was still, Elrond told it all from the start; Gil-galad’s funeral, his return to Imladris, his proposal to Celebrían and subsequent marriage- all the way up to the ring-quest and his departure from his children. When he spoke of Arwen, tears sparkled in his eyes; and by the end of it both he and his dearest friend were weeping.
“Do you miss her terribly, your daughter?” Gil-galad asked him sombrely.
“If I were being honest, I would tell you that though I miss her, I am glad she is well, pursuing happiness and achieving everything that I always wanted for her- as well as a little bit more. It is her joy that keeps me from missing her terribly.
But if I were being even more honest, I might confess that there is an itching, cynical part of me that despairs desperately for her fate; that in my heart I hold a gnawing fear that she will be bitter at the end, when death approaches.”
“Perhaps, Elrond, but if you have learnt anything at all from me, it is surely to not look too closely into the future. I am sure your daughter will feel blessed towards the end to have had such a loving, gentle Father.”
“I- thank you, Gil-galad. That means a lot to me.” Elrond turned grateful eyes upon his former mentor, reciprocating the kind smile that was bestowed upon him.
The sun sank lower in the sky.
***
“I can’t do this.” Elrond fretted, twisting his wedding ring about his finger. “What if they hate me, what if they-”
“Elrond.” Mithrandír, or Olórin- Elrond was yet unclear as to what the Maia’s preferences were, regarding his many facades- put up a staying hand. “What reason do your parents have to hate you?”
“I lived amongst Fëanorians for several years! I called their foes my Atari-”
“I see no folly there. You were a child when you named the Sons of Fëanor your kinsmen, and even if you were not, such a fate is the product of a mishap on your parents’ part.”
“Even so-”
“It was they who left you, Elrond, for better or for worse.” Mithrandír reminded him gently. “Though I swore neutrality, you are not any more at fault than they are. Look not to the past, my old friend! It is long behind us.”
“A past tainted by blood is hard to forget.”
“But not impossible. Enough delay; in you go!” The wizard knocked harshly upon the pebble door with his staff, the sound reverberating impertinently through the cove. As though on cue, the door swung open; preventing Elrond from fleeing before it was too late, as he had a mind too. Mithrandír steered him inside.
His parents’ home was more ordinary than he had imagined. It consisted primarily of seashell wrought furnishings, and the colour scheme seemed to match this pattern; patterned ivory rugs adorned the oak-wood floor, with a faded coral corner sofa sat by an open window. The rooms were covered with paintings and sailors’ sketches; on one side of the living room, an entire wall had been dedicated to an elaborate painting of three white birds, a mother and two babes, soaring past the sun.
“Eärendil!” Mithrandir called, and Elrond’s heart fluttered upon hearing his father’s name. “I have brought you your son!”
A soft thud was heard from upstairs.
“Elrond? Is that truly you?” This was the second time someone had caught him unawares, and Elrond snapped his head round to meet the gaze of a woman who was simultaneously familiar and a stranger.
“Mother.” He whispered bemusedly, recognising the pearly eyes and long, dark tresses as akin to his own.
“Oh, Elrond.” His mother exclaimed, her eyes sweeping over his form. She was so slight, he acknowledged with surprise. It was as though he beheld a smaller, thinner version of himself, a replica of his daughter; suddenly his heart was being clenched by a vice wrought of raw emotion, words dying on his tongue.
“I never thought the day would come, when my son would stand before me.”
“And you are here too, Naneth. After all these years.”
“Indeed, I- but, wait just there, Elrond.” His mother turned in a flurry of robes and hastened up the stairs. “Eärendil, come downstairs darling! Our son has returned!”
A lot of clomping later, and a sandy-haired man with a distinctly-set jawline stood before Elrond, gaping. Elrond smiled a sad sort of smile, before awkwardly holding out a hand. He had little to no recollection of his father, and the fragments he had were so distorted by his warped, childlike visions of what a father should be that he could not rightfully say whether or not they were real, or figments of his imagination that he had clung too at times of despair.
“My Lord,” He acknowledged, bowing low. A strong hand hooked under his armpits and heaved him upwards, like a fish caught on a rod.
“You are my son , Elrond.” The older ellon reprimanded. “And the hefty amounts you’ve done, in your life...it is I who should be bowing!” His father swept into an eloquent bow which made Elrond feel slightly nauseous.
“You flatter me Sir, but I am no hero. I’m just...well, I’m your son.”
“You are.”
“Is that enough for you?” Elrond pressed, emboldened by The Old Heartache. “Because I’ve been your son all along. But, Eärendil...you haven’t always been a father to me.”
“The Fëanorians” His mother murmured, grimacing to herself. Still, Elrond was unrelenting.
“Yes, the Fëanorians. But mother…” He met his mother’s gaze with a stoic, determined look of his own. “I love you, and I have missed you. I want us to have a relationship, but in order to do so, we must not run from complications when encountered.”
“They burnt our home!”
“Mother, please.” Elrond admonished softly, taking a step towards the scowling woman. “I too have resented them for what they did in Sirion. Yet my nature is not to live with anger as a constant companion. I love you both so much, and I understand why you both did what you did; I too have fought for the greater good. But every event in life has an equal and opposite, and just as you saved the world, so did you sacrifice me and my brother as your children, for a time.
But the fact remained that two frightened six year olds needed a home and a guardian, nonetheless. As children we yearned nothing more for stability and loving parents. Maglor provided that, for a time, and we were grateful for it; how could we not be? There is not a child in Arda who would bite the hand that feeds. Love did grow between us, and I do not regret it- for so did I survive. And if such truths upset you, then I will grieve that alone.
When we came of age we were presented with a choice, but not The Choice you are surely thinking of, though they are linked. When Gil-galad offered us a home despite being unable to save us in Sirion, or perhaps even before that, when Gil-estel rose in the sky, Elros and I had to choose between forgiveness and resentment. Love our kin, or despise them for their deeds. Live with joy or suffering.
We chose to forgive. And though I can not speak for my brother, whose path was estranged from mine long ago, I can tell you truly that I have never ceased to forgive. I have lived for many years, and experienced much in the withering world; enough to know that fire can not be fought with fire, and every time you defeat an enemy, so do you gain two more- it is better to be without foes to begin with.
I perceived Maglor and Maedhros perhaps with more unbiased eyes than even those who never knew them at all; for you did not truly know them, mother. Both brothers committed terrible deeds, thrice and then again, but I have seen how bitterly they repented them. I have seen their lack of control and the impalpable reins with which the oath bound them. Yet Maglor sang me to sleep as a mewling infant, and Maedhros taught me to defend myself because he could not bear the alternative. They raised me, cared for me and even loved me, in a way which you- for all your greatness- denied me.
But I am not bitter- I am not, mother, father- because I do understand . So when Celebrimbor made me a charm bracelet, as a begetting day gift on my hundredth winter, I had it engraved with not one family emblem but two;
The sigil of an eight-pointed star, and a great white bird soaring over a Noldorin ship.”
Elrond finished his speech, eyes brimmed with tears, to find his father’s course hand on his arm.
“You are enough, my son.” Eärendil told him, his cheeks stained by tears. “You are more than we could ask for and more than we deserve.”
“Truly, Elrond.” His mother reaffirmed, brushing her thumb against his cheekbone. “If you can forgive, after all you’ve been through, then your father and I can certainly find it in our hearts to do the same.” His parents nodded determinedly at one another, before enfolding him in their tight embrace, faint tendrils of morning light adorning the living room floor.
And from afar, the cuckoo sang.