Chapter Text
This world is weird, Itachi surmises. He’s lived in these woods for years now – they’re nicely isolated, patrols are usually around the edge and only rarely through the forest, but he’s still spent time at first investigating this new world.
No chakra, was the first thing he discovered. The discovery that he doesn’t have the Sharingan anymore isn’t so much a surprise after that, but rather expected.
What wasn’t expected was the tiny hands and delicate face he sees mirrored back in the water – nor the pointed ears.
Or that he glows in the dark now – not a great thing, in a shinobi profession, being your own personal glowlight and perfectly visible at night.
But he can compensate, Itachi knows, he’s good enough, skilled enough, clever enough, to find ways to compensate for his soft, untrained child-body and glow.
He just doesn’t understand why he has to.
Itachi died. He committed suicide via his brother to set everything right. And his soul was called back to help in the Fourth war. So why is he now in this new body in this new world?
Itachi was tired of life – he’d been tired of life when he was four years old and shown a battlefield of the dead and dying. He’d been tired of life when the councilman ripped out his cousin’s – and best friend’s – eye and Shisui committed suicide. If it hadn’t been Shisui’s last wish and if Sasuke hadn’t been caught in the middle, Itachi would have followed him without hesitation.
So why is he here? In this new world with a new life?
And such a weird world, too.
No shinobi but there are warriors. Like Samurai only not as skilled – except for the adults glowing like him. And the creatures they fight are misshapen, ugly little things. It’s almost nice – easy. In the shinobi world, the prettier you are, the stronger your breeding likely was and also the most likely to be mentally screwed up. (Danzo was an outlier.)
Minato, who slaughtered thousands in seconds, was beautiful, as was his wife whose kill count was only slightly below her husband’s. Kakashi fell into the fold, as did Obito pre-accident. Orochimaru was definitely beautiful – and oh so very deadly. As was Tsunade – really the odds were far more likely that if a person was attractive in their world, they were also rather deadly with little hesitation as most contract killers had few qualms.
And, of course, Itachi counted himself among that number.
But not in this world – in this world the evil was contained in something that looked like it, too. He suspected there’d be outliers too – people who collaborated for power, money, or any number of things they’d wished for or been promised.
There were civilian-people everywhere as well, but the most interesting thing Itachi found was that it wasn’t just humans in this world (quite apart from the evil looking things). There were so-called hobbits (hairy small humans with elf ears), elves (like him only taller, right down to the glow and unearthly pretty-ness), dwarves (also tiny, hairy humans but more likely to be found in caves, mining or smithing) and humans. No Kyubi or other tailed beasts, presumably due to the lack of chakra. Different religion and world history, too, which was interesting.
He'd investigated only casually, having little interest in the history, language or affairs of the people here. Itachi saw battles and farmsteads with families slaughtered by the evil creatures and neither blinked nor moved to intervene. This was not his world.
He contemplated jumping or killing himself, but ended up with a small nest he built for himself inside this forest near Rivendell and just couldn’t bring himself to end it by that point, not when he finally found some peace. Who knew what would happen after his death – would he land in the afterlife here or back home? Or another new-new world, one which may not let him live as peacefully as he is now?
There was only wildlife and the nearby river. No person near him.
No one who would find out just how excellent a killer Itachi made and send him to the frontline, point him at target after target over the next, well, however long he lived for.
Being part of Akatsuki meant that Itachi had grown accustomed to long stretches of silence, of no contact with other people.
This was like that only without waiting for the other stone to drop, without waiting for ANBU to burst in for assassinations or ambitious missing-nin seeking his bounty. Without worrying over Sasuke and fretting every other second. Without loving and loathing Konoha simultaneously with every breath.
It was nice.
Not perfect, but Itachi would have mistrusted anything that was or appeared perfect anyway. So, scraping his soft hands when built a lean to, when he devised a method without chakra for filtering water and borrowed knowledge from his travels all over the Elemental nations, was perfect by its very imperfect nature.
Nevertheless, despite the lack of chakra, it appears he needs to eat more than he currently does, Itachi notes, detachedly poking at his gaunt cheeks. He’d adjusted for average civilian child nutritional intake but apparently an elven child needed more.
His body was unfamiliar and felt constantly like it wasn’t quite part of him. Even in the before, Itachi was a trained shinobi who had learned to shut off annoying responses from his body. He didn’t notice hunger when pain was muted; Itachi’s life was pain. From this strained eyes, his throat rough and sore from repeated coughing, his chest tired and sore, lungs flooding with liquid and even shallow breaths were agonising. He wasn’t sure he remembered what it was like to be without pain. Even before the fatal illness there had been the constant exhaustion tugging at him, drawing him ever closer to the edge, the bruise, burns and other injuries from both missions and constant training (keeping up with twenty-year-olds when you’re eleven physically is, unsurprisingly, hard work).
What Itachi hadn’t expected or planned for was the illness ravaging him midwinter, despite the furs. His body, worn from malnutrition, shudders and is wrecked by shivers and coughs. Shinobi children rarely fall ill as the active chakra system usually helps keep down sickness far more than in civilian children. Itachi doesn’t remember being sick other than the long-term illness with his lungs and is unsure how to proceed.
By the next day, the thought is useless as everything vanishes in a fevered haze. Itachi wonders mildly whether this time he will finally pass on and finds himself indifferent, which, he supposes, is an improvement to actively seeking out his own death as he did in the Elemental Nations.
There’s a vague recollection of a shout and soft, warm hands gathering him up, removing the knife from his wildly swinging hands with ease. He doesn’t have enough knifes to throw, unfortunately, and decides he will deal with the new situation if he survives, giving in and letting himself go slack in the arms holding him.
The person speeds up even more.
The next time Itachi comes to, he’s in a white bed, in a white room – a hospital, he muses idly, reaching a shaking hand out to the water at his bedside. He sniffs it suspiciously before putting a drop on his finger, analysing and finally allowing a small amount in his mouth, swirling it back and forth, trying to discern any poisons or paralytics. Finally, satisfied, he swallows the mouthful and waits. Only after some time has elapsed without additional symptoms does he drain the cup. He puts it back and lies back down.
Sure, he could escape now, but for the moment they don’t appear to have bad intentions, and he’s still fairly hazy, so it would be better to run away when he is in a good enough condition to manage and prolonged evasion and escape.
Itachi drops off fairly quickly after he’s drawn that conclusion, only further reinforcing that he made the right call.
The next time he wakes up, Itachi is not alone anymore. There are two adults near him; one with shiny golden hair which Itachi covets. He would murder quite a number of people to be allowed to touch that hair. He would murder hundreds to ensure the person stays near him.
Hey, no one ever said the Uchiha were a sane clan; there have been many accusations made against them – sanity or lack of obsession has never been one of them. And, well, Itachi was the clan heir, the genius and pride of their clan; he was indulged throughout his childhood with many nice, pretty, shiny things. It’s really a small obsession as far as shinobi – and Uchiha – go, but he has never seen a person with golden hair. Blonde, yes, but not this golden glowing hair.
Itachi wants it.
Still, obsession has never affected his focus before and it doesn’t now (well, not quite, anyway).
Neither of them carry a weapon, both relaxed but both are trained warriors – that much he can tell even at a glance. The golden one (despite being clearly superior in every way as far as Itachi is concerned), is still subordinate to the one with the small crown in his hair. Itachi would call it ostentatious but to be honest he far prefers it to that stupid hat the Hokage wore; much more dignified – so he realises he really doesn’t have much room to talk.
The crowned one is now more focussed on writing in his career (obvious by the faint stains and callouses on his hand) but still trains regularly. Both move quietly and are talking to (at) him. Itachi wonders if maybe he should have put some of his intellect towards learning the language but shrugs it off just as quickly. Who cares what they are saying? Not Itachi. As long as he doesn’t understand what they’re saying he won’t be sent to the frontlines of whatever war they’re waging (one thing Itachi learned at age 4 – there is always a war of some kind he could be sent out to fight in, always).
Be a child, Itachi reminds himself, when he noticed the adoring, indulgent look in their eyes that he had only seen from a few civilians towards himself – the same one he’d undoubtedly given Sasuke often when he was younger himself. So he indulged, for what felt like the first time in his life, and made grabby hands to the blonde one, like he remembered Sasuke doing before Mother rid him of the habit (either that or Father’s harsh reprimands – he isn’t sure, only knows that Itachi came home one day and Sasuke didn’t reach for him anymore. That was not a good day).
After barely a moment’s hesitation, the golden-haired warrior steps towards him, lowering himself into the chair by the bed. Itachi’s already reaching for his hair when he notes the dirt on his hands.
Amaterasu burn him! He nearly touched that perfect hair with hands like this! Although both elves reach for him, Itachi ducks underneath quickly, having already spotted a bowl set out for washing hands and quickly but thoroughly cleans every finger before drying himself off. Both elves are standing within reach but not touching, just watching.
It’s easy enough to grab the sleeves of the golden-haired one and direct him to the chair. Itachi turns the chair away, noticing the stiffness and surprise at the strength of Itachi’s arms and makes a mental note to be more careful with his before losing himself to the obsession.
The hair is so soft, even softer than he had thought it would be, and each strand is perfect and shiny. Itachi loves it. No one intervenes, not even after hours brushing the hair, trying out gentle braids his picture-perfect Sharingan memory remembers his mother tying her own hair into. The elf just sits there patient, motionless, as Itachi indulges in every whimsical thought that flitters across his mind. It’s only when the sun lowers itself towards the horizon and bathes the golden hair in amber, like silken, liquid gold, that Itachi comes back to himself.
It's not the impending darkness but rather the other elf approaching carefully with food and juice for him. Itachi continues his hair adventures – he hasn’t needed to see to know what his hands are doing in a long, long time. A shinobi knows their body. So his face is turned to the newcomer – female this time, also glowing and pointed ears – elf – but with boring brown hair. Not a warrior either, he notes, but a maid of some kind. Unsurprising to any clan brat, Itachi is not familiar enough with their work to tell the difference between a laundry and a cleaning maid. He can tell a cooking one, though, but that’s because of his familiarity with knifes rather than anything else and the smells, like onion, which stick sometimes for days depending on their personal hygiene routine (also an indicator of whether he would ever even touch their food). His eyes don’t leave her, and she looks at him like he’s an adorable baby rather than a shinobi – something he wants, admittedly, and something he used to his benefit more often than not throughout his career, but still something he dislikes.
He worked hard and is known across the Elemental Nations for his prodigious talents and ability to skilfully assassinate even difficult targets. To be regarded as a baby and talked down to, while useful, galls him. Itachi keeps watching her as she leaves, before turning back to the elf in front of him. He can see well enough in the dark. He’s not stopping until the elf makes him.
Unfortunately, that moment comes sooner than expected. Apparently, the food for him means he’s expected to eat it and then go to sleep. Itachi huffs but he does need the facilities – has, in fact, been holding off for some hours because, well, Uchiha obsession are far higher in priority than simple bodily needs – as if Itachi would sink so low as to give in to what his body needs whenever it wants; that’s ludicrous. He doesn’t know how civilians even function subject to the whims of their body at all times.
Regardless, he acquiesces easily hoping that will earn him more time with the golden hair tomorrow – compliance was usually rewarded in shinobi society. He doesn’t know about here, but hopes it holds true nonetheless as he slips into the room he expects is designated as a bathroom.
Figuring out the facilities takes but a moment – it’s similar and yet slightly different from the Elemental Nations. Not as efficient but much more refined. After washing his face and hands thoroughly, Itachi returns to the room to eat. He suspects at this point they are unlikely to poison him given the lack of weapons around him (he is dangerous, damnit) and the general indulgent adoration he receives even for just breathing.
Maybe he will stay for a bit, Itachi decides. Although he had thought he had no chakra, now Itachi is wondering if maybe he has a little, at least internally, given how surprised they were that he would – and could – move the golden-haired warrior while on the chair.
But the moment they try and make him socialise with other children, he’s gone, Itachi decides. For now, it will be nice to be a bit pampered. He does need more flesh around his bones, especially around his wrist. It looks tiny and imminently snappable. If he were an opponent, that’s what he’d go for – that and the heel, of course.
They keep saying things and because it’s golden-hair talking, Itachi listens, but doesn’t understand (not that he tries very hard to). His incomprehension must be visible as the warrior tries other languages and dialects. None of which Itachi understands, or cares to understand. Still, nice effort. After finishing the food, he pats the sleeve of the warrior’s upper arm in consolation.
When the warrior tries to pat Itachi’s hair (or face, he isn’t actually sure), the young elven child scoots back in the bed until he’s well out of reach. The golden-haired warrior’s face grows sad again and Itachi rolls his eyes. So emotional, how did they even survive this long as a species?
“Itachi,” he says, conceding slightly to ensure his golden-haired warrior is happy (and therefore will return tomorrow), pointing at himself.
He chose a good warrior to obsess over, Itachi notes absently, when the man catches on quickly, pointing to Itachi to repeat his name, then himself and introducing himself as “Glorfindel”.
Itachi nods and memorises the name.
Poor golden-haired warrior, he had no idea what he was in for. Uchiha’s were stubborn and Itachi, while following orders obediently, had learned from Sasuke just how to dig his heels in.
Naturally, that’s exactly what he does the next day.
They want him to eat? Well, then.
“Glorfindel,” he says clearly and firmly watching the man with the crown be surprised, then shake his head, introduce himself only to be ignored. Crown guy is not important in the large scheme of things – his obsession is. Itachi will remain as long as he is indulged – when they stop indulging him, he will leave. Easy as that.
Making it clear isn’t that hard, either. Itachi shakes his head firmly, pushes the food away and repeats “Glorfindel” clearly and firmly, holding steady eye contact (foolish back when he had the Sharingan, but they have no way of knowing that).
The crown guy sits back in surprise but then amused fondness ripples across his face and he steps out and talks to one of the people outside, mentioning “Glorfindel” and Itachi smiles, knowing they are conceding to his demands already.
It is ridiculously easy to play these people – admittedly Itachi knows they are letting themselves be played, indulging in what they view as a child, but Itachi has no intention of disabusing them of that notion.
It only takes a few moments for his golden-haired warrior to arrive and Itachi, deliberately making eye contact with crown guy, pulls the food tray towards himself. Both elves laugh, quick and bright, and golden hair sits down next to Itachi in the same position as yesterday. He allows himself a quick touch of the hair (still just as soft and silky and golden as yesterday, Itachi swoons) before turning to the food. He eats everything on the plate and when crown-guy sends him more, Itachi eats that too.
See? He knows how to take orders and as long as they indulge him, he will follow orders. Frankly, he’s killed for a lot less. Eating well beyond capacity is nothing. He suffers the aches and pains and uses the trick Hound taught him for stopping producing sweat – he’s not allowed to use it for long, not in a body this young, but it’s handy. His control over his body is masterful and if Itachi doesn’t want to throw up, he won’t. Simple as that. Once he finishes everything in front of him, he washes his hands and returns to the golden haired obsession, ignoring the concerned looks they are exchanging.
Who cares about that? Gold-hair is his for the rest of the day, as far as Itachi is concerned.
Itachi hadn’t expected them to turn up a few scant hours later with more food – food for both of them, he hopes and turns luckily out to be right. Both eat this time and use the facility. Gold-hair manages to coax him to sit in the sunlight by virtue of putting his own chair out there and setting another one just up behind him with plenty of cushions and ease of access for Itachi to indulge.
He continues braiding and unbraiding, brushing the hair in front of him, but he doesn’t relax anymore. Quite aside from how filled up he is and concentrating on not throwing up (he’s sure that would be the end of their deal – it’s a small challenge but not one Itachi intends to fail. He’s sure they will up the challenge by the next day but that’s tomorrow’s problem), there are so many noises and elves everywhere. And everyone is looking at him.
They’re pretending not to and he doesn’t understand the words, but he sees the glances, the quick smiles, like they all think he will fail. Itachi doesn’t fail is what they don’t understand. Not yet. That’s alright – it will give him more time with gold hair.
Still, his eyes and senses are on high alert, every brush of the wind a shuriken, every birdcall a summons set to attack, every elf walking past a potential opponent or obstacle. From the balcony he can only go back in the room or the ground. Maybe the roof. But he doesn’t know the terrain, doesn’t know how to get out, to get away. He’s uncomfortable until he’s had time to scout and his limbs are still weak and shaky. He’s not fit enough to take on the mass of people walking past. There’s an elf everywhere – further away, close by, Itachi has not felt this defenceless in a long time, not without someone he can rely on by his side.
Gold-hair is many things, but Itachi doesn’t think the man will fight on Itachi’s side if he were to try and fight his way out. Never mind, though, after what he’s done to Sasuke, a brother he loved beyond all reason, killing Gold-hair would be a simple thing should he oppose him. He’d rather not, but there are many things he’d rather not have done and been forced or told to do anyway. It’s honestly low on his list of sins, real and planned.
Gold-hair notices Itachi’s alertness and refusal to relax and is finally sensible enough to return inside. Or maybe Itachi got enough sunshine for Gold-hair’s tastes. Who knows. Then Gold-hair turns to the next foolish endeavour – trying to engage with Itachi over anything but his frankly awe-inspiring hair. He points and tries to name things.
Itachi is frustrated because although he might try to ignore the man, his brain is far too used to taking in many inputs at once so although his main focus is on the hair in his hands, his brain is making note of every word said and Itachi learns, against his will, their language. Gold-hair is disappointed when Itachi doesn’t repeat the words back but seems to notice it sticking regardless as he continues with his efforts to educate Itachi.
Itachi escaped during the night, despite the weakness he still feels. He is tiny and despite glowing, hiding is easy enough as he scouts out the location and perimeter of their city. He spends hours mapping out escape paths before returning to bed just before sunrise.
What is surprising is that instead of upping the amount Itachi has to eat, they reduce it to a semi-comfortable amount and just make sure he eats snacks with high calorific value at regular intervals. Gold-hair is sent to him, so Itachi obeys. He wonders what Gold-hair was bribed with to sit there so calmly and just list words or get him a few hours of sunshine every day, but doesn’t ask.
Weeks pass. To his surprise Itachi learns he has to revise his earlier thoughts – they appeared to have expected Itachi to stop eating on his own accord at some point and have now determined they will decide when that nebulous point between full enough and too full is. Itachi has grown up learning the amount of calories he needs depending on his age and expected exertion level; he has no frame of reference for elves, as he's already seen, and especially none for 'being full'. It's a weird thing to measure, Itachi finds but there never seem to be any bad intentions towards him, no training or pushing him and he doesn’t understand it, doesn’t know how to process it, so it just remains a vague inkling in the back of his mind for interpreting but not touched upon otherwise because since Shisui’s death, and even before it, he doesn’t remember enough to know what kindness is.
On the other hand, Itachi’s strength is back and he could escape, despite the whirlwind of snow outside, and find a new place to survive in. That’s not ever going to be a problem. No, the issue is that Itachi plain doesn’t want to.
It’s new this want-thing – well, no, that’s a lie. Itachi has wanted his entire life, but usually those things are dangled in front of him and then ripped away along with some punishment for wanting in the first place (safety, love, Shisui, Sasuke). But Glorfindel remains. The food increases steadily but remains within increasing comfort levels. He’s given a new room – his own room. And clothing – so much clothing. It’s nothing like the Elemental Nations and yet some parts are oddly reminiscent. Most of his clothing have golden, shiny threads through them and silver, shiny threads. He adores them.
Shinobi clothing was eminently practical, ready to be torn, discarded and replaced at a moment’s notice with an identical one.
This is not that.
Each item is handmade and each individual and pretty. There’s no accounting for fighting, mud or ripping the cloth. There are beautiful flowers and birds etched into his clothing, each so soft and comfortable Itachi would loathe to take them off at night if his sleeping gown didn’t feel like a piece of clouds and heaven. It’s indulgence and luxury at its finest and Itachi loves luxury and is growing to enjoy indulging himself, as well.
He adores and loves them. It is the height of luxury to wear a new one each day, careful and conscious of every move to ensure the cloth is not stained with food or by the ground before cautiously hanging it back up in his wardrobe. His room is even larger than it was at the Uchiha compound and he has his own balcony.
He takes back every negative thing he ever said about this world, Itachi thinks, stroking the golden hair in front of him, eyes admiring the golden threads at his arm leading to a large tree and leaves. He’s glad this one didn’t have the roots painted on it. It’s been two weeks and he has yet to wear a single outfit twice. The shoes he has to wear are a bit weird, but he can accommodate that for the clothes.
Glorfindel brought new picture books with him every day and had yet to coax him out to mingle. Itachi tilted his head, contemplating the new thought. He knows how reciprocity works, but it’s interesting that it’s working on him as well. With no eminently visible motive and only fondness visible on the elves’ faces, Itachi thinks, they have actually made it work. They have given him food, a room, clothing, are teaching him their language and giving him Glorfindel on a daily basis. And Itachi feels the pressing need to return that favour.
The big question, however, is how?
The first attempt – going to the training grounds fails before it even starts when Glorfindel looks like a nervous civilian mother and attempts to scoop him up off the ground and far away from all those pretty, shiny weapons (seriously, he understands why they don’t throw them – Itachi would loathe to loose that prettiness too, but they should invest in utilitarian weapons as well.). The second attempt – helping in the kitchen because Itachi knows how to cook after years in the other world and this world both on his own, but the moment he makes to clamber onto the table towards the cutting boards he’s told to stop. He asks for a cutting board, which he is given, but not the knife. And while Itachi can improvise the moment he tries to do so it’s made clear to him that he is not supposed to cook in any way, shape or form (albeit very, very gently and kindly with very sad eyes).
Thus fails attempt two. Attempt three goes better – until the actual execution, that is.
Uchiha liked pretty things – and dances by and over fire were well-loved but Itachi had already deduced that any jumping over or interacting near fire would send the elves into a collective heart attack. But dancing was pretty and Itachi was pretty and very good at dancing. He’d been sent to more than one geisha for training – it was not just flexibility training but blending in and smoothness. Geisha made for very good shinobi.
Teaching the musicians was easy and they had the rhythm down within moments. Obviously when he told Glorfindel he wanted to dance for them, Gold-hair got overly excited and, Itachi surmised, invited half of Imladris, eyeing the growing crowd. For his comfort, everyone kept well away, the entrances and exits (windows and balconies included) were kept clear and no one had a single weapon (other than the strings on the instruments used by the musicians; not that Itachi hadn’t already found several dozen items which could easily be repurposed into a weapon). But either way, he notices the consideration towards him and gives Gold-hair a regal nod in acknowledgment (ignoring the way crown guy’s face falls when he continues to be ignored).
Itachi knows crown guy is likely responsible for the many and varied indulgences, but as an Uchiha has no intention of not making it clear with whom his allegiance lies (himself, first, then Gold-Hair, that’s it; he’s grateful but he refuses to be indebted – the gifts were freely given, as is this dance, but it is for Gold-Hair mainly, not crown guy (Elrond, his mind says but he ignores it).
What follows is, naturally, a disaster of epic proportions.
Itachi dances beautifully to the song but he is barely half-way through, giving half-lidded eyes and another enticing, gentle sweep of his arm before the music stops and Gold-hair is in front of him, tears shining in his eyes.
Itachi is baffled. What problem do they have with dancing? Glorfindel is carefully not touching him but seems eminently upset as is the rest of the crowd, some even running away to throw up, others blanched, staring dead-eyed at Itachi. Crown guy is shaking with his children touching him gently, still throwing horrified glances at Itachi.
This was meant to be a nice thing. A thank you for all the things they had done. And thing is, Itachi knows his dancing isn’t bad; he’s been sent on repeat missions for it because he is that pretty and that good.
In an effort, because he can see that they are upset (even if he doesn’t understand why), he pats Glorfindel on his head.
Itachi knows it’s a mistake the moment he does it – Gold-hair sees it as tacit acceptance of touch and goes to hug him.
Yeah, no.
Itachi is out.
He jumps and runs to the nearest balcony, easily evading the musicians and scrambling elves, despite still being careful with his lovely (so lovely) garments. He makes it to the most obvious escape route and waits.
It doesn’t take long before Glorfindel shows up, with weapons and bareback on a beautiful, magnificent white shining creature. He’s been missing out, Itachi realises, stepping forward and every eye falls on him and the horses are stopped.
Glorfindel lowers himself to his knees to talk to him but for once Itachi isn’t distracted by the golden shine. It makes sense, Itachi notes absentmindedly, a golden-haired warrior in daylight and a magnificent steed which reflects and shines silver like the moon.
He’s in love, Itachi thinks – not the kind of love like he had for Sasuke, but the affection he had for Kisame. He’d still run him through with a sword without hesitation for Sasuke, but he was held above the other mortal creatures scurrying about.
He approaches slowly, gently, eyes still on the horse which eyes him cautiously. Luckily, Itachi’s pockets are always full these days – he is given more snacks than he is told to eat in case he gets hungry overnight. Itachi is still baffled by the concept, but is grateful now that he can make a proper offering to the magnificent creature.
Glorfindel seems surprised when Itachi ignores him, but is indulgent when he notices where Itachi is headed and shows him by example how to shape his hands. Itachi follows suit, telling the horse how beautiful and shiny and wonderful he is. Magnificent is not quite in his vocabulary, but Itachi resolves to learn it now, noticing how the horse is listening.
So there are clever animals, like the Inuzuka’s dogs, almost, except not capable of human speech. But this brilliant horse is definitely cleverer by half than any others he’s encountered so far, Itachi would wager. The elves all seem to relax now that Itachi is back in sight and disperse (for a given meaning of the word – they spread the word that he’s found and suddenly the streets are filled with elves who make no eye contact but make quick glances, just to assure themselves that he’s still here).
The lips of the horse run searchingly along his hand and Itachi giggles lightly, a sound which echoes in the suddenly quiet Imladris. Then some of the elves have hands over their hearts and tears in their eyes.
So damn emotional, Itachi thinks, rolling his eyes at them, before pressing a gentle kiss to the horse’s face.
That’s it, he decides, he’s sleeping in the barn tonight.
With the horse, of course.
He’s almost sure he can convince the horse – Asfaloth as it turns out – not to kick him during the night.
Besides, shinobi life is dangerous and this- well, Itachi can now decide for himself what is worth the danger and this is.
Unfortunately, that’s not something he can convince Glorfindel of. Despite their indulgence, they are not willing for him to stay in the stables overnight nor for the horse to join him.
Itachi may or not be pouting when he turns into bed, but that only seems to make the elves happier. He still doesn’t know why the dancing made them sad and his vocabulary is dreadfully limited. But tomorrow Itachi will turn his not inconsiderable focus towards learning the language, he has decided and resolve this once and for all.
And to offer proper praise for the darling creature languishing away in the stables without the proper adoration it is due, naturally.