#I enjoy writing young and angry and unsure Elrond

[amethysttribble]

Caught at Low Tide

Hey, @aeondelirium  (or rather, @aeondecember) I’m your Secret Santa! I hope enjoy this fic!!

Thank you to @officialtolkiensecretsanta for organizing this event!

Elrond mourns his brother, and so, naturally, he finds himself in the water and at the mercy of Ulmo, as his family always does in times of turmoil.

Today, the smells of muck and brine and smoke were thick in the sky. Everything felt heavy, weighed down by the oppressive moisture in the air that was trapped and pressed low by the dark gray clouds above. It wasn’t raining yet, though. No rain, but sharp wind, tumultuous wind.

“The king of Arda mourns,” Vardamir had said, eyes closed but lids fluttering, head tilted towards the stormy sky.

Elrond- and this was not his proudest moment- had snorted.

That certainly put a damper on the grim but glorious funeral proceedings of King Elros Tar-Minyatur. 

To think, the king’s Elven brother exhibiting obvious and loud disbelief at the idea of Manwe’s consideration. Disdain at the idea. 

And short-lived Men had so little personal experience with the Valar, they were so insecure and impressionable about if they were loved by Eru’s steward. Morgoth’s whispers still ran deep in their history and lore. Their fledgling faith lived on interpretable spectacle and small signs and little blessings. The weather probably was a sign from Manwe too! It was all just a harmless expression of grief and desire for comfort, and Elrond- 

Elros had always held so much respect and awe and love for the Valar after the War of the Wrath and Elrond successfully unwound a good bit of his work building trust for them in Numenor with one snort.

Stupid.

His nephew forgave him, though. How could he not? Vardamir was a father, a grandfather, and an eldest child. He was made of nothing but grace and patience for tempestuous youths.

Elrond did not feel like a youth. He wasn’t one, though the Elves eternally thought of him as Earendil and Elwing’s sad little boy, and the Men? His traitorous niece and nephews had aged to the point of graying and not respected him since. Even his little brother, in his last years, had treated him gently and sweetly, like he was a child.

It was humiliating, but what was more humiliating- Elrond felt as he sat in Elros’s chair in Elros’s study and felt small in the shadow of Elros’s death- was that he was validating them by acting like a child. 

Can’t I be forgiven today? he thought bitterly, twirling an eagle-feather quill that he gifted Elros in his hands. 

He already knew that he’d long since been forgiven for any indiscretion. He’d be forgiven anything this week. Fuck, but Elrond had been forgiven for everything his entire life, by everyone, with no hesitation, no quibbling, no reservations. Not even loving kinslayers or refusing the personal invitation of Manwe and Varda to join his parents in Valinor was beyond the good grace of Gil-galad and his court of the well-intentioned.

Ai, Elwing and Earendil’s little boy has suffered so much, give him time, we Elves have so much time.

Elros, though, noble Elros, Earendil and Elwing’s kingly son, he had not so much time and what wondrous things he did with it. He matured so quickly didn’t he?

But none of them- not the court of Lindon, not the children of Numenor whose predecessors had aged and turned over so many times the Elros was following in the wake of hundreds of his true friends, not even his nieces and nephews- knew Elros as Elrond had known him. They did not know him angry. They did not know him sad. They did not know him scared. They did not know him filled with regret and loss until his last, not nearly so unwavering as the many speeches given in his honor suggested.

My hands are shaking, Elros had said to him in their last private conversation together. I don’t know why. Fear? Excitement? Strain from hanging on? Or, perhaps it’s just death setting in.

He’d laughed.

All of that, maybe.

Elrond was taken with the urge to snap the quill in his hands in half. No one could get mad at him for that. He’d given this quill to Elros. No one could get mad at him for breaking it.

Slowly, Elrond set it back down.

He didn’t know why he was sitting here. Well, he did. He knew why. Vardamir wanted him to give a speech, and this was the only place where he might reasonably be left in peace to write one. The new king still balked at entering his father’s study. His siblings were not quite so deterred, but after Elrond glared Manwedil from the room, none had tried again to bring refreshments. 

Elrond didn’t want refreshments. He wanted to wail for his fucking brother, the version of him that only he knew. That was the only version of Tar-Minyatur he could think to write of, but no one wanted to hear of that boy.

An Elros who was not perfectly magnanimous, perfectly in control, perfectly at peace all the time? Perish the thought. No, really, perish it. The first King of Numenor could not be remembered as anything but perfect.

Whenever Elrond had complained about the spectacle he was currently living through to his brother in years leading up to his death- during the long planning of a funeral that wasn’t yet needed, something that still baffled Elrond- Elros had just smirked.

“Come now, I know you appreciate the importance of a good show. We were taught the same lessons after all.”

Yes, he had been, and Elrond was still sure that Maglor would find this week-long event just as macabre and odd as he did.

But Men were odd creatures. Well, at least as odd as Elves, but unlike the former, Elrond had never claimed to understand Men. He’d understood none but one, but through him- and Elros through Elrond- he’d felt like he’d understood the whole world. And now…

Now, Elrond pushed back from his brother’s chair to stand, and turned towards the large, open space at his back. Past two glass doors that were hardly ever closed was Elros’s ‘balcony’, though it was as large as a courtyard, strewn about with couches and chairs and braziers; cushions, tables, and children’s toys. There was a telescope mounted in one corner, a liquor cabinet in another. This is where Elros's family had practically lived. 

Deserted now, except for Elrond, at Elrond's own desire. He’d feel selfish for monopolizing this space in these days of mourning, which were different but no less hard for his nieces and nephews, but the weather was so bad. No one would want to sit out here anyway.

He meandered outside.

With the day so dark and gray and miserable, it was no wonder that it was starting to drizzle. Manwe must have had a hand in the weather, because this was truly how mournful days should look; all the poets and singers agreed. Strange then, how overcast always took Elrond back to days that made sense.

Back in the days where Morgoth’s smog clouded the sky so heavily and consistently, they hardly ever saw the sun and moon, and never the stars- except for one. Now knowing that the silmaril sailed the sky, even in those days, Elrond often mused that if he’d just put a little thought into it, he might have realized what that bright light up there was. Maedhros and Maglor certainly did. But they never told and Elrond and Elros never figured it out. They were far too busy.

Survival occupied their every day.

During their roaming march- never in one place for long for fear of assault; ostensibly from Morgoth’s forces, but assaults from other peoples was always an unspoken possibility- there was never any time for long bouts of contemplation. Everyone worked. Elrond and Elros gathered wood, set up tents, trapped animals, fished, cooked, cleaned, bore wine and water during war meetings between the Sons of Feanor and their commanders. 

And in between their chore, they learned, learned, learned.

“Are they not princes of the House of Finwe?” Maedhros had once growled at a former mathematician turned spearman who was foolish enough to question what the point of schooling in this day and age was. “They will learn how to compunct themselves as proper lords; polite, learned lords. Has Morgoth taken our pride, sir? Or just yours? No prince of the Noldor shall go uneducated.”

He’d spit that word like a curse, ‘uneducated’. That had always stuck with Elrond, it was so different to how their mother thought. Elwing had prioritized knowing the most beautiful songs- that sounded just a little prettier in her voice- and understanding the ebb and flow of nature. Maedhros wanted them to know grammar.

And Elros and Elrond hated it, they really did. The days went in and out like that, chores and lessons, lessons then chores, meals spattered in between, and it was exhausting. They slept hard at night. Things were simple, though. Those days were occupied with routine, with familiarity, with certainty. 

Routine, familiarity, and certainty can bring fondness to even the most gruesome of times, as long as they came with fairness. Or complete lack thereof. Nothing was fair in Morgoth’s Middle-earth, but that was its own kind of equality. It was the kind of cruel environment that brought clarity, like who you could afford to have as an enemy and who you couldn’t. 

Like grief is a feeling that is inevitable and should be dwelled on for as short a time as possible. Spending too long on grief just brought more of it.

Now, though, with Morgoth vanquished, they all just had too much time on their hands. At least, that's how Elrond felt about it. Too much time for funerals, too much time for kindness, too much time for thinking. 

“All I do these days,” Elrond muttered to himself, head tilted back towards the rain, “is think until I’m miserable.”

And now he did not even have Elros as a sounding board to tell him that he was being stupid.

A sob welled up again in Elrond's throat, and he swallowed it with a shout, stomping up and down. Dammit, dammit, dammit, he was tired of crying. He was tired of crowd-appropriate sorrow. He wanted to move, he wanted to-

 Elrond danced miserably- stamping his feet with great power every time he landed- around the patio where he and Elros had so many joyous moments, so much happiness and love that they couldn't even imagine as children, and he hated all of this.

Elros lived such a good life. He lived such a good life. A happy, full life, overflowing with legacy that was being celebrated and carried on, and he’d been content to die. Elrond had helped his brother make this choice, he thought he would be content to see Elros die when the day came. But he wasn’t.

He fucking wasn’t.

Taken by a manic fury, Elrond sprang across the balcony towards the telescope, climbing his way onto the balustrade it was perched on, and leaned. He latched one hand around the pole that held up the telescope, planted one foot on the slippery rock beneath him, and leaned over the edge, one leg in the air.

“Why does everyone leave me!” he screamed at the sea and the sky and the western horizon of Valinor.

Elrond received a mouthful of seawater for his efforts.

Hacking and coughing, he looked ruefully at the waters below. Elros’s study was a hundred feet above the shoreline and it was low tide. If water was reaching so high up just to make Elrond’s day that little bit worse, it must be…

Elrond started to climb down the cliffside.

Damn Ulmo, he thought as he started painstakingly maneuvering his way down the sheer, wet rocks of Numenor’s western edge. Damn his water and his oceans and his meddling rivers.

Oh, how annoying they had been when they were children, trying to sweep them down stream, away from the kinslayers. To where, Elrond had always wondered. Surely not all the way to Balar. The ainur efforts at liberating them never came to anything but inconvenience, they were always plucked out of the waters by worried guardians.

Maedhros always worried they would drown. It was Maglor who exhaustedly explained that, no, the grandsons of Tuor must be beloved by the waters. Ulmo was trying to send them home.

Elros and Elrond had no scope to appreciate either sentiment. They were just tired and wet and scared.

Elrond was tired and wet now. His hands cut open by cold rock, knees scraped, limbs straining, he was angry, he was also as angry at Ulmo as when the Lord of the Tides had stooped before him and his brother and told them of the boon he gave their mother. As his feet hit the mucky sand of low tide and he shoved his sopping hair out of his face, he had the same demand for him.

Could you think of nothing more helpful to do?

“Oi!” Elrond yelled as he strode forward into the sea, “Do you have something to say!”

The sea was massively loud, churning and twisting as it had been doing all morning, the wind whipping it up into a frenzy. Elrond had to fight every step, both against being pulled forward and by being pushed backwards by the tide. And down. The sand was soft and grasping. It seemed like Ulmo had quite a lot to say, and if Elrond was in a more philosophical mood, he’d unplug his ears and listen to what the Lord of Tides’ domain was trying to communicate.

But that was a habit that Elros always rolled his eyes at and called, “So Elvish,” with a stupid smirk and then Elrond would tackle him to the ground and they’d wrestle until one of them had mud forcibly rubbed behind his ears, and-

And those days were gone. Those days were gone without any possibility for recovery and Elrond scarcely comprehended how short they’d been. So long for Elros, so short for him. 

Battered and deafened by the sea, Elrond finally screamed at the top of his lungs.

He yelled until the breath ran short in his throat and then he drew in a large gulp of air, and cried out again, tilting his head back. This time, his throat burned when all the air was gone, but now that he’d started, Elrond wasn’t done. No one on Numenor could hear him here. No subjects to draw conclusions, no nieces and nephews to baby him, no Gil-galad so soon to arrive with his soft understanding that didn’t understand anything.

No Elf could understand this. No Man could understand this. 

To be separated in fate from the one person who had been consistent throughout your life? Even when you’d both made those choices with eyes wide open and sure, it was… The dissonance could scarcely be comprehended.

So Elrond screamed until his voice was raw.

He let his knees give out and collapsed into the surf. The sand was soft beneath him and ruining his black mourning clothes, but damn, it was the calmest he’d felt since…

When Elrond tilted his head back towards the misting rain, he closed his eyes and was lying in bed with Elros once more. His little brother was wheezing with each breath, so drained and weak he could hardly sit up, but it did not impair their conversation. They were talking about being younger, the wild years of Numenor’s construction, when Elrond would leave the equally unfinished Lindon and they’d roam, alone and together around the lands of Eriador. 

“It was Nîn-in-Eilph that I’ve missed in these infirm years. I loved it there. Every step was an adventure,” Elrod said in his creaky voice, and Elrond had smiled.

Lying on his side, face half covered by pillows, holding Elros’s hand, he said, “All of the Bruinen is beautiful. Do you remember that valley we found? I keep meaning to go back there, I keep thinking of it.”

Elros chuckled weakly.

“Only you would find yourself entranced with a patch of land so near troll dens. Oh, I worry about you, Elrond. What shall you do without me, hm? Without Numenor and the wisdom of Men to come running to when you are annoyed with your Elves?”

“And what about you?” Elrond replied softly. “What shall you do once you cross and you’re surrounded by only mortals? Where will Elrond be then and his Elvish wisdom to save you when you are annoyed by Men?”

Elros did not reply to that; Elrond supposed that they were too close to that eternal uncertainty for it to be funny.

He squeezed his brother’s hand.

“Don’t worry about me,” Elrond had whispered. “I’ll be fine. You know me. Comfortable everywhere.”

“And home nowhere,” Elros muttered in reply, squeezing back. He turned away with a slight smile, though, the knowing kind old Men and elder Elves got. “Too brave, too adventurous for your own good. But, no, no… You’ll be fine. I know it in my heart that you’ll find your home one day, Elrond. First, you just have to do everything and talk to everyone!”

“I will taste the world,” Elrond said, smirking. 

Elros had chuckled, and started to drift then. Elrond sang for him. His brother napped for the last time, because when he awoke in just two hours, he summoned everyone important to his side and said his final goodbyes. Elros was gone before sundown. 

Opening his mouth for the rain and the salty mist, Elrond thought they tasted very bitter. He did not want them, suddenly. He did not feel brave and adventurous; he did not feel like King Elros’s wild Elven brother with hands that could heal any ailment. Elrond felt very like everything he’d ever known was burning at his back and he didn’t want to run from the thing that caused that loss. After all, what did it hurt to embrace that which had destroyed you when there was nothing left behind you?

Not for the first time, Elrond wondered what it would be like to have made a different choice. Would he and Elros have died hand-in-hand as they’d been born hand-in-hand? 

But his heart tugged and pulled, and he found himself bitterly wondering instead what it would be like right not if Elros had chosen differently. He would have liked that better. It wasn’t how it was, though.

Nothing was ever how Elrond would have liked it. 

Which brought him right back around to the self-pity that had dragged him out to the sea which had stolen so much from him and still taunted. Mother, father, brother, Maglor, all of them stupidly entranced by the ocean water when Elrond thought he’d rather go rot in a river valley. Maybe he should just go lay down in the mud near that troll land and stay there for an age until he was subsumed and made part of the very earth, watching it all pass.

And when he awoke from that most natural slumber, perhaps the grief would be gone. Perhaps he would not mind being alone.

“Bah!” Elrond cried, letting out all his air with his exhalation. He threw himself back into the water, clueless as to what else to do with the storm in his chest. Under the water, Elrond drank and tried to say, Ulmo, if you’re to interfere, turn me into something else and let me fly away.

His lungs ached, his raw throat burned, and it felt good to focus on that pain. Everything was dark and white noise beneath the waves and he was free. 

Which was why he was so annoyed when a gentle hand cupped the back of his head and lifted him up. 

As he hacked and coughed and wiped at his salty face, Elrond glared miserably at the watery visage of Ulmo, Lord of the Tides. That transparent, saltwater form just raised a coy eyebrow at him, and Elrond spit some of the water from his mouth. It had been some time since he’d seen or spoken to this entity, but he felt no surprise; or awe.

“I knew you must be near,” Elrond muttered petulantly.

“I’m always near,” Ulmo intoned, voice bubbling like a creek, every word a song unto itself.

“Shall I find a desert, then, and see if you appear?”

“Cheeky.”

Elrond managed a strained quirk of his lips and not much else.

Ulmo blinked lazily at him, water flicking off his viscous eyelashes. Such a strange creature, even more timeless and unreadable than the most enlightened Elves. There was something alluring about such infinity to Elrond, but it did not come with reverence. Not for the first time, he was taken with the desire to stick his hands into an Ainur’s fea and dissect what he found there.

“Yet,” Ulmo burbled, “you were cheekier still in the days when we spoke often. Sweet child, sharp tongue. Wide eyes, stern stance. Gentle hands, long sword. You were scared, then. You are scared now.”

And Elrond sighed. 

“I suppose so, my lord,” he mumbled, holding onto his ankles and leaning back. He turned his gaze towards the setting sun and pretended to study the clouds.

“Fear is not something to be ashamed of.”

“I know, my lord.” “Especially when faced with situations we have never known before.”

Elronnd’s eye twitched, and for the fourth time today, his temper got the better of him. He splashed water at Lord Ulmo, dismissing him and his words, and glared. 

“Never known before and never again,” he snapped. “I only have one brother, one constant companion to lose. In fact, I am the only one who has ever known such a thing, and with a little luck, am likely to be the only one ever. So, yes, I am scared and cheeky in the face of such a thing. It is always I who is asked by Iluvatar to suffer strange and singular pains, so I hope you’ll forgive me for not acting with perfect grace.”

“The Valar have lost siblings to unknown and diverged fates,” Ulmo said and Elrond’s eyes went massive as shock and fury battled within him.

“Do not compare my brother to Morgoth,” he hissed quietly and the water around him grew unnaturally still, only the slightest ripple of tension emerging in a circle around him.

Ulmo did not look phased. 

He merely said, “I meant myself, truly.”

Elrond floundered. Anger and indignation had been building, and just as suddenly, they fled from him, the waves moving once more. Lukewarm sea water splashed up his back, and Ellrond merely stared, stunned and lost. Ulmo, thankfully, explained.

“Myself, and the others whom you know. Our Manwe, our Varda, our Yavanna, so on. And our Melkor. Those of us who came to shape Arda left kin behind and we knew when we did that we would never return. Tulkas feels this choice most keenly. We still miss those left behind as I’m sure they miss us, but it was a choice made with open eyes. To leave, to stay. It was what was desired, needed by each individual. Sometimes we must leave loved ones behind when our paths diverge too heavily, and that is as natural a thing as… Well, as my rivers diverging never to meet again! Some, most, rather, come back together in the ocean, but some lonely few do not. Only the breaking of the world will reunite us.”

Ulmo tilted his head, hair dipping and dripping back into the sea.

“Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” Elrond whispered, looking away. He was suddenly embarrassed by his outburst, by his… lack of perspective. Yes, of course the Valar might be the only of Iluvatar’s children who understood him. How strange to not be alone in this pain. How… bitter. “Yes, I see now. I’m sorry.”

Slowly and gently, a water-light touch lifted his chin. Ulmo had no eyes, not in the traditional sense. In the liquid facsimile of a face, there were pockets of light where one's eyeballs typically were. They were infinitely deep and Elrond wished for such a perspective. He wished he could see instead of being bound by his hroa.

“Do not apologize, like a child caught with dirty hands. You do suffer uniquely. But even with Elros’s equally unique existence diverged beyond you, you are not alone.”

“I do know that,” Elrond said, sadness gripping him. He did, he did know he was not alone. 

For all he dreaded having to see and feel Gil-galad’s grief and sympathy, Elrond knew he would embrace his almost, nearly brother like the world was ending all over again as soon as he saw him. He knew that Galadriel would be just as annoyed with the spectacle of this funeral and let him curse the world without judgement and Celeborn would hold him up without any fuss or trouble, easy to let love him. Celebrimbor would never flinch when Elrond wanted to talk about the strange and politically-difficult childhood he shared with his brother, and would let him cry bitterly for who wasn’t here. There was Thranduil and the other children of the War of the Wrath who would pass him a bottle, no questions asked, and not treat him as fragile.

But being alone and being alone were two different things. Elrond and Elros, Elros and Elrond… Who was just ‘Elrond’? He didn’t know. He was scared to find out.

As soon as Elrond’s face crumbled, Ulmo’s giant, watery hand began to caress his head and for the twelve-billionth time, he cried.

“When will it end?” Elrond blubbered around his tears. “When will it stop feeling like the right choice was to stay together?”

“Oh, child, never. You need be more concerned with if you ever start to feel like the right choice was for you to have made for Men. I don’t think you feel that way. I think you wish you could have had it both ways. That you could have had your choice and your brother. But you would have never wished miserable immortality on him just as he would have never wished miserable mortality on you. It is a tragedy; there were no perfect ends.”

“It hurts so much,” he wailed. His eyes and the sky and Ulmo were all so wet and blurry that it was hard to distinguish. The only thing clear was the star of Earendil rising in the sky. “We all keep having to make these choices and it hurts so much!”

“I know, child. The waters never stop moving, and it is cruel and it is glorious. My heart is filled with sorrow for you, but also hope.”

Elrond was hiccuping around his tears, shaking his head. Hope, hope, hope, what was it Maedhros said about hope? That it was for lovers and martyrs. Elrond did not want to be a martyr, but he did know love. He just… was so tired of that love bringing him pain. Of those he loved all but fleeing from him.

His love for Elros had not gone with his brother’s soul to the place of the Men. It was still here and it was heavy. Right now, Elrond had little hope of that love not drowning him.

“I’m scared,” he rasped, wiping at his eyes. “I knew it was coming, but I don’t know how to live with this eternity I’ve chosen without him. I’ve never done… anything without him.”

Ulmo made a noise like a rumbling waterfall, that washed away his fears as easily as cleaning up silt.

“Nonsense,” he rumbled. “You have made a home of Lindon without him. You have forged friendships without him. Traveled west of the Misty Mountains without him. Written treatises on the nature of the world without him. What you have not done is lived your life without him in your heart. You never will; I still remember our kin beyond the edge of Arda and you will always remember your brother. But what you will find is that the place in your heart he is held in will grow fonder and gentler in time. Lighter. Every weight feels heavier at low-tide.”

“Low-tide?” Elrond snorted, wetly and then had to cough around his tight throat.

“Yes,” Ulmo said, patting his head with one hand that just further drenched his hair while the other gestured at the drawn out tide around them. “Low-tide. The currents of life and time wash us up and pull us out, leaving us stranded for a time. But as long as we choose to keep trudging forward, the waters always come back.”

Elrond briefly considered telling Ulmo that this metaphor felt a little stretched, but… no. Woe betide him to reject poetry in times of pain. It was Elros who had preferred prose. 

“But we still come back to the main issue,” Elrond said. “I don’t know how to swim alone.”

Ulmo shook his head at him, but did not scold. He merely said, “You don’t need to know how, you have done so all along. But if you are so frightened, think of it this way. Like a duckling, it will come naturally to you, after a time. You just need to let life carry you, follow the flows of water down the diverging paths according to what feels strongest, and you’ll get there. I know you, Elrond. The never-ending chase inspires you. You are scared now because you have found yourself in one of life’s many low-tides. You are stuck. But the waters will pick back up again, in time, and take you along. Be scared. But know that you will keep going.”

“I guess that’s what I signed up for,” Elrond laughed wryly, “to keep going and going and going. My Eru. I’m already tired.”

“You’ve hardly begun, child. There are many more tired days ahead of you.”

“So the Men keep telling me when they call me child,” Elrond said, glaring at Lord Ulmo once more, but this time it was with a slight smile on his lips.

“You are a child,” Ulmo sang, and he was already melting back into the waters. “Enjoy your wandering feet, Elrond. Let them take you where they need you to go. Search for all the answers your heart and mind taunt you to find, and then enjoy the days where you might call others ‘child’.”

Elrond, small and alone, didn’t think he’d ever know enough to call another ‘child’ so surely. But he… he… When he thought of following Elros beyond, he balked, because he wanted to learn. There was so much more to see and understand. 

He was still sad that he did not have Elros to share it with.

On leaden limbs, Elrond stood. He could not sit in the sand forever. He was sure that his absence had already been noticed and Vardamir had sent people looking for him. Numenor loomed so largely before him, though. Elrond didn’t want to climb up its vaulted walls.

As he was considering the value of calling for help, he felt the water start to rise and come back in; and, more importantly, he felt the waters start to tug his legs to the left. 

A boon, a melodic voice whispered in his ear, and Elrond decided that, well, he wasn’t a child anymore. He would follow the waters of Ulmo where they would take him today. He did not have anyone else to go running scared to, after all.

The tides carried him around the edge of Numenor’s slopping cliffs where the oldest parts of the grand city were built. They dipped lower as Elrond trudged forward until they gave way to grassy beach. Still, the waters guided him onward. As his legs started to ache and his feet grew sore, this strange path towards an unknown destination did not feel like a boon.

The night was growing closer, the star of Earendil bright but far away. Elrond walked, confused, in the dark until a familiar song greeted him from a distance. He moved faster, after he heard that, until a strange silhouette emerged before him, and Elros’s whispers about a shadow that visited him in the night made sense.

Yes, there was someone who knew and mounted Elros the peredhil and not Elros the king.

Out from Ulmo’s waters, Elrond ran for Maglor. When the music stopped, he was greeted with open arms. He breathed in harp polish, brine, and seared flesh, and felt at peace for the first time since Elros’s hand slipped from his. 

Someone had come back to Elrond.