Chapter Text
Elrond peeled back the bandage and had to school his face at the sight. The skin had just started to grow back over the fracture, covering it in a red layer of scab. He looked up at the carpenter and forced a smile on his face: “It’s healing, which is a great sign, given how delicate the skin is over your phalanges. Please continue keeping your fingers as still as possible and you’ll be back on carving duty in no time. I could use the break on carving the swans in the library,” he added, a touch of humour in his reassuring speech.
The carpenter let out a little sigh of relief and looked down on his two forefingers as Elrond changed the bandage carefully: “To be honest, it has been quite frustrating, keeping them still, it feels like weeks. I imagine having not to work or use my hands has made the time feel longer,” he said with an apologetic smile.
Elrond tied the bandage before returning the smile. Truth be told, that wound should have healed in the first three days after the carpenter had driven his chisel into his phalanges. Yet, here he stood, two weeks later, still having to replace his bandage every other day. Elrond knew he had kept the worry from showing on his features, but he couldn’t help it from worming its way into his heart. It was far from the only benign wound that was taking too long to heal. His entire healing house was full of scrapes that would not have made him blink twice, but healed too slowly, or refused to heal, festering with pus or, in one special case, a pitch-black infection spreading slowly.
Galadriel still believed Nenya could protect her fully, using her power to purge herself every few weeks, hidden away in Elrond’s chambers, where no one could see the lingering effects of darkness. No one but her closest friend. Elrond had long given up on direct confrontation. Galadriel was too stubborn (as was he but he refused to see it) to listen, so he relied mostly on close observation and on elanor tea to support her.
The other healers were starting to worry, he could see it on their faces and their hurried whispers. In the first seasons, the effects of the war in Ost-in-Edhil and the brutal change in diet explained away some of the effects. Those explanations, however, were wearing off as summer turned into autumn.
“I can’t wait for the Feast of Autumn,” the carpenter said to break the awkward silence.
Elrond looked up, pausing an instant before dispelling the clouds of worry wrapped around his heart. He smiled and this time, it felt more since: “Me neither, it has been a long summer. We deserve joy and celebrations,” he replied encouragingly.
“Will we hear your legendary lute skills tonight, my lord?” the carpenter asked with an air of conspiracy on his features.
“I was thinking about the harp,” the healer said, his voice faint and dream-like with thought. “It is a special occasion after all.”
“The end of building, when we can finally harvest what we sowed,” the carpenter hummed in agreement.
Behind him, Elrond saw Camnir pace nervously, waiting for him to be finished. The healer nodded at him before turning back to the wounded carpenter.
“I will see you there,” Elrond nodded, “but I better not see you bend your fingers,” he warned playfully.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, my lord,” the carpenter answered as Elrond turned to find Camnir.
His young assistant bowed his head slightly as he was wont to do, no matter how many times Elrond had told him he needed not do it. He couldn’t really blame him, however, since he continued to bow to his own lord, Gil-Galad, whenever he saw him.
“What is it, Camnir?” Elrond asked in his soft, careful healer voice.
“The last of the gifts have arrived, my lord,” the young elf declared. “I have taken the liberty of putting them in your rooms.”
“Thank you, Camnir,” Elrond replied. “I will see to them directly. How are the kitchens coping with the preparations?” He asked as he walked out of the House of Healing, leaving behind his soft and reassuring healer demeanour for a stronger commanding presence. He was never as domineering as the Golden King, but his voice was louder, more determined, and he held his chin higher when walking in the corridors.
“They have assured me that the mead will be on the tables on time but the pies are still cooking and might only be ready after the first dances,” Camnir summarized, talking quickly as he walked in stride with Elrond.
“As long as the mead flows, I doubt we will mind the pies being delayed,” Elrond answered with a smile. He didn’t intend to indulge in the mead that night, but he knew his Elves enough to know that togetherness and joy were the main reasons why they will attend the Feast of Autumn. Mead would help in that regard.
When they arrived at the doors, Elrond turned to Camnir and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder: “You have worked well today, go rest and get ready for the feast: we don’t know how much sleep we will have tonight.”
“Of course, my lord,” Camnir answered, deferentially before leaving with another bow.
Elrond opened the double doors leading to his chambers. Being the lord of these lands had many advantages, such as having vast chambers and no one questioning how many books were brought and hoarded into those rooms.
The chambers were almost bare, just like most of the palace. Even though the main construction was done, they were still a few years away from getting to the splendour of Lindon. Everything felt vast and empty, awaiting finery and carvings. Elrond had already started carving stars and ships on his bedframe, but the half-finished work, constantly interrupted by duties, emphasized the emptiness rather than concealed it. One part of his chambers felt full, however…
In the middle of the room, facing the bed, stood a long oak table, laden with gifts. They were all strategy gifts from other kingdoms, offered to the new lord in order to curry his favour and prepare negotiations with the nascent power of this new elven force. Elrond had started receiving them as soon as he had sent his first messenger to his friend Durin. He had not, however, touched any of them, other than to line them on the table in the order in which they had arrived.
Elrond ran his fingers on the smooth surface of the table, contemplating the gifts, each marked with the seal of the ruler that had sent it, and with the date they had been brough to him. Numenor’s gift had just arrived, a wonderful leather harness with a silver bit, carved with intricate feather details. Elrond felt pain swell in his chest and throat. He had not mounted another horse ever since his white mare had fallen on the banks of the Glanduin. The pain was still raw, and imagining bonding with another horse brought it back in fresh waves. The gift was exquisite, however, and he was loathe to waste it, withering away in grief and despair…
He shook his head, pulling his focus back to his important task: spies.
He had been very selective with the information he had shared in his correspondence. He had not explicitly told anyone about the progress of the construction, except for Cirdan, whose knowledge he had heavily relied on. Not even Durin had been privy to his doubts and decisions regarding his new palace and the role that had been bestowed on him. Yet, here were the gifts, laying on the table, awaiting his appraisal.
Numenor’s gift was late: their relationship strained by the distance and the mysterious new advisor to their Elven-defiant king. That meant no spies had been lingering among his builders. He couldn’t say the same about the Iron Hills Halls: their lord, Gròr, had sent him a small chest of emeralds to celebrate the beauty of the surrounding forests he had declared in his letter. The chest had been received before the roof of the palace had been finished, a feat not even the lightest-footed courier could have accomplished. Elrond still needed to determine whether the lord had bought himself a spy among his people or Durin’s. He touched the other gifts idly, the very welcome herbs and ointments Cirdan had sent him, the fierce arrows from the nascent Pelargir, arrived just late enough to cover the fact that their leader had intercepted one of his other couriers, and…
Elrond frowned and tilted his head: at the very end of the table, the last gift to arrive, laid a small chest forged entirely in silver. An exquisite, if inexplicable gift. There were no seal and no letter accompanying it. Camnir had probably forgotten to include it: all the other gifts had a letter attached, full of solicitude and advice on lordly duties. Elrond lifted the chest, raising it to his curious eyes, turning it around to examine it. The chest was covered in foliage engraving, very faint, barely visible, but noticeable under his fingers. On the bottom, he thought he could guess at the engraving of a tree. What realm could that be? Whose lord was it? As he looked at the bottom, the lid opened, no lock protecting its content, and the gift inside spilled out on his fingers.
First, Elrond thought it was fresh fallen snow, kept intact by unknown magic. Then, as he watched it fall to his feet, he imagined a pile of lissuin petals, soft and fragrant despite their travels.
He bent to retrieve it and, as his fingers closed around it, he felt it: silk.
It was a sheer silk robe, meant to be worn against his skin as he slept or bathed.
The realisation puzzled him and, in spite of his best efforts, made his ears and cheeks burn.
Elrond put the chest back on the table to seize the robe with two hands, holding it against the light, marvelling at the seamless weaving, the garment looking both made of one piece like a wave and intricately woven at the same time. It looked sheer, and yet, the autumnal light of the afternoon didn’t seem to filter through it…
So many contradictions, Elrond thought, marvelling at the gift, followed what he thought was a lighter thread.
He was surprised by a knock on the door, startling him more than it should have. He blinked twice, tearing his eyes away from the robe.
On the other side of the side, Camnir’s shy voice called: “Your harp has been brought to the garden, my lord, we are…” he wanted to say ‘waiting’ but refrained, “ready for you, my lord.”
Elrond looked at the window and saw the light of the afternoon much dimmed. So soon! It seemed like the crux of the afternoon barely a minute ago. Summer was truly declining into autumn, the evening showing its bright pink, orange, and purple hues sooner and sooner.
“I will be with you in a minute, Camnir,” Elrond called out, “could you please check on the pies? I will meet you on the garden steps.”
“Of course, my lord,” Camnir answered, his voice soon followed by hurried steps, fading into the corridors.
Elrond had meant to change and wear his finest ceremonial robes, comb his hair, wear the jewellery he had forgotten for months during the construction… But time seemed to have slipped past his fingers, and he had to hurry to the feast, as much as was lordly possible.
He put the robe back in the chest, his hand loathing to part from the soft fabric, so much so, that he had to force himself to open his fingers, as if fighting a strange pull. What could have possibly made such fine silk, he had not the slightest idea, but that was an inquiry for his own private library later that night, after the feast.
For a second, he thought about wearing the robe for the feast under his ceremonial robes but decided not to. Such delicate silk was meant for quiet nights, for the intimacy of his chambers. So he pulled his healer robes off, throwing them over his bed in haste before opening the chest of the foot of his bed where his ceremonial silver robes laid. They were made of pale grey mulberry silk, silver strands woven in a star shape in the middle of his chest and in feathers over his back and shoulders. He had always found the collar a little restrictive, so he left it open, hiding the hated jewel shapes decorating it. He knew he should have called Camnir in and let him assist, the way he himself had assisted Gil-Galad for many years, but he did not want anyone to feel for him the sick longing he had felt for his king for so long.
He had meant to wear silver rings on several fingers, as Gil-Galad did with his golden finery, but his hands still smelled like salve and athelas, which Elrond found a contrast too jarring with intricate jewellery. Instead, he decided to celebrate the end of summer with what he had always loved most about the season of the Sun: he pulled his boots off and remained both ringless and shoeless. The freedom of bare hands and feet made him feel lighter and less burdened. This is what he needed, one last hold on summer. Elrond had always loved summer as a child under Maglor and Maedhros’ care: the season was always filled with joyful music, long fishing mornings and campsite tales where he would fall asleep with his head on Maglor’s lap, under the star-studded night sky. Tonight, this is what he would celebrate, with pies, mead, and the harp.
He did put a thin silver circlet over his unbrushed curls, a thin sapphire shining at his brow: he was about to be formally pronounced lord of this strange, empty palace after all.
Elrond opened the door to his chambers and, before he could catch himself, looked back to the chest where the robe laid, patient, fascinating, shimmering as if with a pale inner light. He felt a cold shiver run down his back, like a half-felt touch, and slammed the door behind him.
The feast was starting to gain momentum in the hypostyle and the gardens. Long tables were dressed and laden with fruit, honey, and drink. The smell of venison being cooked over fire mixed with peals of laughter and lively conversations. Elrond hesitated on the last steps before the hypostyle, feeling like he was about to change his life, his fate, his very soul with a single step. He tried not to think of the last time he had to make such a momentous choice. He licked his lips nervously and was about to step forward when he felt Gil-Galad’s sharp, penetrating eyes turn to him.
He was standing by the head of the table, a gold goblet in hand. He looked… stunning, as usual. Elrond stood there, transfixed by his grace as he turned to him and, after a slight pause, walked towards him. He was statuesque, regal, impassible, and just about as unreachable as the statue of a conqueror. There had been talks of a rivalry between the King and his Commander as soon as the construction had started, but nothing could have been further from Elrond’s mind: he would give Gil-Galad his palace, his titles, his… everything, if he only asked. He never asked, of course, only overpowered him with his height, the closeness of his strong body, the whisper of his heavy silk golden robes wafting the smell of amber that always went straight to Elrond’s head. The peredhel could feel it, lodged in his throat, threatening to burst through his chest, the sick longing for recognition, touch, and…
“It is your fate, Elrond,” Gil-Galad told him, his voice equal, unbothered, deep.
Elrond nodded in return, his silver eyes getting lost in his King’s. So many things he wished to say: he wished Celebrimbor were here, a gentle hand on his shoulder, guiding him to his fate, he wished Gil-Galad saw both more of him and less of him, he wished Elros had made the same choice he had. He wished the construction had never been completed and that they could live in tents together, the work and its companionship never finished. He knew, however, that a lord never whined over unrequited feelings, loneliness, and the weight of the decisions.
Gil-Galad touched the sapphire at his brow in a soft gesture, over too quickly to be savoured: “It is high time you stopped lingering in my shadow, or Galadriel’s. Stars are meant to shine.”
Elrond felt the longing tighten his chest and it robbed him of breath. His desire for his King had always felt shameful, wrong, like a stain that would forever mar his palms. It had been his duty to prevent that stain from ever touching the Elven King. It had always felt deeply wrong, and yet his heart tugged towards his golden light. He wanted to ask Gil-Galad if, now they were finally equals, he would finally bed him, if he would finally allow him to shine by his side, but he knew the answer too well.
“I intend to make my fathers proud,” he replied, bowing his head slightly. And make the choices they couldn’t, he thought, but his throat was too tight for such confessions.
Gil-Galad touched his shoulder, barely the whisper of a caress, as he was wont to do, as if afraid of breaking him… or be stained by him, his mind treacherously provided.
Elrond took a step to the side and passed Gil-Galad, leaving him a step behind as he walked into the hypostyle.
All heads turned to him as he did so, the music and the laughter quietening until only the faint song of the last cicadas could be heard. Elrond stood in front of them, a pale silver glimmer in the dying light of the sun. He looked at each of his companions in turn and spoke unto them:
“Here we stand, weary warriors,” he said, nodding to Galadriel, “wounded soldiers,” to Vorohil, “hesitant blooms,” to Camnir, “and mighty king,” to Gil-Galad, standing a step behind him. “We have seen more darkness than we thought we could endure. We have faced the dark foes our fathers had fought so relentlessly to ban from our lands. We have seen the end of what we thought immortal and, in powerful jaws, glimpsed at our very end. We have lost much and made sacrifices we had believed belonged in the past…” Elrond paused, letting silence linger as he watched his people look deep into their hearts, remembering what they had loved and lost. Galadriel rubbed the unhealed wound on her shoulder.
“But we have endured this great darkness. We have looked into its face and refused it passage into our minds and our hearts. We stand here today, the remnants of hope against a foe we once thought couldn’t be pushed back. From the darkness, we have created more light and more hope. We have built ourselves a new palace, a foothold against our foe, a claim on Arda that no one can tear away from us. In the midst of despair, we have built ourselves a home in this deep valley. So shall be known our palace, Imladris, a home for weary hearts, wounded travellers, and anyone who dares to believe in a refuge against darkness,” concluded Elrond, smiling kindly at his people now standing straighter, willing their hearts to be lighter, to regain hope.
He had mulled these words over and over again, trying to imagine what Gil-Galad would say, what Cirdan would say, what Maedhros would say… After too many hours of torment, he had decided to confront himself and force open his own heart. If these Elves were to reside with him, they deserved to know him. A Home, that was what he wished most of all, a place where he finally, finally belonged. A place he could call his.
Elrond walked down the stairs of the hypostyle to the little dais standing under the huge beech tree. The Elves remained silent as they watched him sit by the harp, his fingers touching the strings before starting to hum the song.
His first song as a lord had also been the object of many hours of reflexion before he had decided to follow the same logic: he would sing what he longed for the most. It was not a song of great deeds, mighty battles, sprawling journeys through dangerous lands… It was a fishing song. Maglor had sung it on the shores of the Great Sea, using it to lull to sleep the two orphans he had spared, then Maedhros had sung it as he taught them to fish themselves. Finally, they had all sung it when coming home with their bounty of fish, excited about grilling it over a fire under the stars. Elrond sung it now for his people, feeling his throat tight with sadness and his heart glad with nostalgia. He closed his eyes as he sung the simple words in Maglor’s old Quenya, his fingers plucking happy notes on the harp strings.
His people watched him, the light of the stars catching on his long silver sleeves like foam on the dark waves of the folds of his robe. His hair had grown long and now touched the top of his shoulders and his voice was deep, pensive, a note of sadness embedded on the happy words. He looked like Maglor reincarnate, Galadriel couldn’t help but think, but old and young, a hopelessly tangled mass of contradictions. Gil-Galad looked at the sapphire on his brow, glimmering faintly, like the last effort of hope in the midst of an unsurmountable war. He looked very much like his father, chuckling half with despair as he embarked on his last voyage.
After the last note has been plucked, Elrond didn’t let his hands fall away from the harp, but immediately started another song, humming the first notes until the Elves remembered it. It was a working song: something happy, almost mindless, made for repetitive tasks, meant to be sung in unison to work in cadence. Several of them chuckled, remembering how they had sung it repeatedly at the beginning of the construction. They picked it up with Elrond and, following his harp, sung it again. This time, however, they drank in cadence instead of erecting walls.
The party was well underway, several Elves drunk, dancing barefooted in the grass. The pies had come out perfectly, embalming the night with the smell of berries and rhubarb, and the mead flowed generously. Galadriel was in a drinking competition with Gil-Galad who was swearing he wanted no part in it, but still kept matching her drink for drink. Vorohil was dancing close to the dais, his cheeks flushed with drink, his shirt opened halfway down his chest, trying his best to capture Elrond’s eyes.
The new lord, however, kept his eyes wandering from face to face, only pausing long enough to sip at his goblet of mead. He was revelling in the music tonight, more than in the company of the Elves. He loved the soothing effect of playing music and how easily the words flowed from his lips. He was entirely focused on the music when he felt a leaf fall on his shoulder. His fingers barely skipped on the strings, but he did shudder, the contact soft but unexpected. It was the first falling leaf of the Autumn after all.
Elrond finished the song and let Camnir with the tambourin take over with a lively dancing song. He turned to pick the leaf, planning to press it between the pages of his new guide to Imladris flora and fauna, and stopped before he could turn fully.
It was not a leaf he could feel on his shoulder, but a hand.
Elrond stared at it, feeling his face pale and his entire body grow cold as if he had just been toppled over into an icy river.
The hand was resting on his shoulder, motionless, almost lifeless, but seemed to have extended from a great puddle of darkness behind him, where all the light of the stars and the torches was being swallowed and lost. Elrond could not see them distinctly with the angle, but he felt the unyielding metal of numerous rings digging into his shoulder.
The fear of discovering a strange, disembodied hand touching him in the middle of the joyous feast was nothing next to the profound dread that filled him at the sight of what was clutching at him.
The skin, it was…burnt black.
It was burnt and the contact burnt him, not like a great fire, but like a stalactite of ice being held too long to his skin. The cold seized Elrond’s heart, filled it with unnamed terror preventing him from pulling away, from escaping the contact. He felt a scream form in his throat, shrill and hopeless, but his lips were too cold to let it out. He could barely feel his body, but he knew he needed to scream, to warm, to run, to run, to run.
“Elrond, are you well?” a familiar voice pulled him away from the vision.
He turned back, startled again, to meet Vorohil’s concerned eyes.
Around them, the feast was still roaring with life, joy, and music, and only then Elrond realized that the vision had not only swallowed light but also sound. He shook his head, trying to dispel either the feast or the hand, and found himself only touched by his former guard whose hand on his other shoulder felt too warm.
“Yes, I am well, Vorohil, my apologies, the mead… It has been too long since I have indulged and my tolerance has revealed itself to be quite weak,” Elrond made up an excuse, offering a reassuring smile to cover for his faint voice.
He knew the mead had nothing to do with what he had just seen… and felt. Nothing that could be eaten or drunk could have produced such abject terror, such horrifying stillness.
“You’ve had a long day,” Vorohil used his own excuse against him, “please let me lead you to your quarters. Even lords need to rest from time to time.”
Elrond was wary with the offer, he knew too well what that glint in Vorohil’s eyes meant. Leaving the feast alone, stealing away in the shadows would not look good, however. It would look like their new lord now looked down on the Elves that had worked tirelessly to give him his new palace. Leaving the feast with his guard would arouse many rumours Elrond found very displeasing but look less haughty on his part. After a few years in his position, looks will matter less, but for now, he needed to build trust between himself and the Elves of Imladris.
Elrond nodded silently, licking his lips nervously. Vorohil’s breath caught in his chest: he had not expected Elrond to acquiesce so quickly. The redhead guard took Elrond’s hand in his. His hand was dry, callused, feeling a little rough, but the familiarity was somewhat soothing. He pulled Elrond to his feet and away from the dais. Someone whistled and Camnir looked away quickly. Elrond didn’t dare look in Gil-Galad’s direction: whatever he would see there would destroy him.
Vorohil pulled him away from the hypostyle, further back into the palace. Now that all the Elves were gathered at the feast instead of running down the corridors, carrying bits and pieces of doors and furniture, the palace seemed eerily empty, as if deserted instead of slowly filling with life.
Somehow, the closer they got to Elrond’s chambers, the darker the corridors appeared. It felt like walking right into a moonless night. The peredhel tried not to think about it. He was too sober to confront such quiet terror, and Vorohil was not sober enough.
Vorohil pressed him against his doors and immediately started kissing him, deep and urgent, just as they were wont to do while marching to Ost-in-Edhil. This time, however, Elrond pulled away, turning his head to the side to escape his kisses: “No, not tonight, Vorohil,” he said, gentle but firm. He pushed against his chest, making him take a step back.
“I’m not that drunk, I can still please you, my lord,” Vorohil answered, nuzzling his neck.
Elrond shook his head and stepped to the side, creating more space between them: “It’s not why. I’m not ready yet,” he said, staring at his guard as if he could root him to the spot with his silver eyes.
Vorohil chuckled mirthlessly, unable to look away from Elrond: “When? Will it take another war? I have half a mind to start one right now if it meant having you again. You don’t have to choose me for all eternity, forsaking all others,” they both knew of whom he spoke, “just for tonight,” Vorohil ended his plea in a whisper.
The truth was… The ugly truth… Grabbing Vorohil by his belt and pulling him to his tent had been the death of hope in Elrond’s mind. No more hoping that Gil-Galad would ever look at him as other than a pathetic little herald to be manipulated as he pleased. No more hoping he could negotiate with stubborn enemies. No more hoping he would survive the war. But he had. Against all hope, he had survived. He had survived the failure of protecting Ost-in-Edhil, the failure of bringing Durin to his rescue, the failure of saving Celebrimbor, the failure of dying like a hero. But he had rebuilt something from the ashes of destruction, and now that he tasted the faintest glimmer of hope, he was afraid of tasting despair again on his guard’s lips.
“I don’t know when. Please return to the feast. You’re one of the bravest warriors of the Ost-in-Edhil battle, you’ll have no trouble finding someone else. If anything, you’ll have to ward off many suitors,” Elrond answered, trying to soothe the hurt he was inflicting on his guard, but he was uttering no lies: Vorohil had his share of suitors vying for his attention.
Vorohil took a step back, letting Elrond turn around and open one of the doors, just enough so he could slip through. Before he could escape him, Vorohil put his hand on the door next to his, not quite touching him: “What will you do, Elrond? Spend another night alone, untouched, when I…” He cut himself short but his eyes finished the question.
Elrond tried to smile but he knew it looked more like a grimace in the darkness of the corridor: “If I call for anyone, it will be you,” he whispered before finally slipping away, closing the door behind him.
Vorohil’s words haunted him with their uncomfortable truth, and he wanted to think about anything else. Elrond disrobed, draping his sliver clothes over the back of the unique chair in his unfinished chambers. Only wearing his silver circlet, he poured water from his pitcher into a simple clay goblet and drank away the sour taste of the conversation.
The night seemed unusually dark, as if the moon had deserted his window, leaving Elrond to navigate through memory, his fingers extended in the shadows. His fingers met the long table where the gifts were laying. Immediately, Elrond’s mind turned to the silk robe, its softness, the delicate make of it, and the way it had shone strangely in the light of the afternoon.
It would be perfect for a long night’s sleep, the idea came onto him. It would be soft and comforting, like a caress. He would not be hounded by questions, thoughts, and regrets. Only blissful dreams. The peredhel felt a pull towards the small chest, taking a step towards it before he could realize, and he reached to open it…
A sudden image snapped at him, the pain like a whip just behind his eyes. It invaded his mind, a great darkness… Not even a darkness, a great formless, silent Void, where light was not even a memory. In the middle of it, piercing through the Void like a knife, a formidable shard of piercing white light that looked like the blade of a sword, or…
The broken piece of a jewel.
Elrond woke up with a start as Camnir entered his chambers. He sat up in his bed, heart beating fast in his chest, his eyes darting from one corner of the room to the next, looking at the familiar scene with bewilderment.
His room was exactly the same as it had been since the construction had ended. The light of the first autumn morning filtered into the room, illuminating the same stone floors, wash basin, and letters on his escritoire… Somehow, he had thought they would look different.
“My lord, I have managed to salvage some pie for your breakfast, since you didn’t have any last…Oh.”
Camnir stood on the threshold like a stone statue, staring, mouth half open for a second before turning abruptly away. Elrond looked down only to realize that he was naked, his circlet laying on the covers next to him. His bed looked like a battlefield. He pulled the covers to hide his nudity and cleared his throat to signal to Camnir that he could turn back.
“Do you happen to have any niphredil tea as well?” Elrond asked, playing the card of mead-sickness.
“It is in high demand this morning,” Camnir replied, looking like he was very much in need of it himself, “but I’m sure I can secure some for the lords of Imladris,” he answered with a smile. He left with Elrond’s thanks.
Elrond looked around him for pieces of something he had lost. But he couldn’t remember what exactly had been lost. His robes were a likely candidate, so he rose and grabbed them, his mind still reeling with incomprehensible uncertainty.
He had never tasted a cherry pie that delicious. He ate it with the ravenousness his human half provided him. He moaned when the tartness of the fruit hit his tongue at the same time as the sweetness of the preserves. His silver robes draped over his naked form haphazardly, he was standing in front of the window, letting the morning sun warm his night-chilled skin, eating the first cherry pie of the season. He closed his eyes, moaning with pleasure in this pocket of peace, stillness, and cherries.
**
The peace did not last long, however. He had to wash and dress before Camnir could return with his tea and his duties. Unlike Gil-Galad, Elrond did not need his herald to list him all the duties he needed to attend in the morning, nor did he need help to get dressed. That belonged to kings with sick little half-Elven heralds who would have given anything to be useful. Elrond wondered if he refused Camnir’s help because he knew it would reveal some damning insight from Gil-Galad’s perspective in that very position.
Camnir did, however, inform him about the state of the palace, the progress of the work, and how full or depleted the kitchens were. Recently, he had also given him detailed accounts as to the comings and goings of couriers in his new land. Elrond knew that he would have him entirely dedicated to that last task soon, as he sent replies and gifts back to his allies. For now, he enjoyed Camnir’s solicitude in describing every single shelf that had been emptied out during the feast.
They were walking past the hypostyle to the House of Healing, and Elrond noticed how much gentler the sun seemed, as if summer, jealous of the feast, had withdrawn immediately. In the gardens, the last Elves were waking up, shaking the remnants of heavy sleep and revelries. Vorohil was not among them, Elrond noticed, scolding himself for it.
He did not have time to linger on his own feelings however: the House of Healing was in a state of frantic disarray, healers running to and fro, arms laden with alarming doses of athelas and wet compresses. He barely had time to step in before one of them grabbed him by the wrist: “Your carpenter, my lord, he’s… agitated,” he said, short of breath, eyes wild with worry and… incomprehension. Elrond didn’t wait for any more precise explanations but hurried over to the cot where he had met the carpenter the day before.
He stopped in his tracks, hand on the rough, heavy curtain that had been drawn around the agitated patient.
And agitated he was: he was kneeling on the floor, his head between his thighs, forehead on the floor, his body folded in unnatural angles. He was mumbling phrases in a language that seemed half-familiar half-bizarre, his voice trailing off in pathetic, pained moans.
The healers stood around him, a silent, uncertain chorus, ointments and compresses ready in their hands as they did not dare move closer.
Elrond had no such qualms, and he knelt by the carpenter’s side, bending his head to try and see what ailed him: “What happened?” He asked, unable to keep the worry from his usual calm healer voice.
“He just arrived this morning, asking about you,” one of the healers answered, “he said the infection had gotten worse, so I pulled the bandage, and he fell to the floor like this.”
“He was shouting a few moments before,” another healer added, handing him a compress.
“Did you understand what he said?” Elrond asked, taking the compress and turning his head to examine the carpenter’s hand. The bandage had been taken off, revealing the gash on his fingers, dull red, open, pieces of white bone protruding as if the wound had been inflicted mere seconds before. It looked fresh but also deeply infected, the contrast worrying Elrond’s mind with incomprehension. He touched the compress to the wound, hoping to relieve some of the pain or clean out the infection, but it had the opposite effect. The carpenter seemed to roar to life, his body unfolding like a great predator pouncing on his prey. And on the menu today was the new lord of Imladris.
Elrond found himself thrown back, his head slamming against the ground, the carpenter climbing over him, his work-callused hands grabbing both of Elrond’s wrists, preventing him from defending himself as the carpenter straddled him, holding him down. Elrond felt the wind knocked out of him, and leaden walls of darkness fell down around them, enclosing them in a dark cage. Elrond was cut off from the world he knew, rooted to the ground, as if a great hook was piercing his belly and pulling him down with a great unknown force. A cold terror slammed into Elrond’s mind as he looked up at the face that had been so gentle the day before, trying to soothe that gentleness back to him.
His eyes widened as he stared up unto the carpenter’s face and recognized nothing.
It was not him. It was barely even an Elf. His face was slack as if uninhabited, mouth slightly open as in sleep, no movement animating the rest of his features… But his eyes. Elrond felt shivers wracking his spine as he stared into his eyes.
They were not just black. They were Void. Empty wells threatening to spill nothingness unto him and swallow him whole. Panic seized his heart, and in that moment, Elrond was no longer a lord, a healer, or a warrior, he was only prey, fighting for his life, ready to gnaw at its own arm in order to be free. He pulled his arms violently down, trying to free his wrists, but the creature that wore the carpenter’s skin only held down stronger. Neither the hook nor the puppet moved when Elrond started kicking.
It lowered itself to his face, its lifeless lips opening with a movement that seemed wholly unnatural, as if animated by too awkward a puppeteer. Spit spilled from the slack lips, dripping on Elrond’s face. It muttered words, jumbled, unable to be articulated correctly, but the voice was cold and dark enough sounding like it was coming from distant, unreachable lands of ice and shadows: “Your house is slanted, lord. Darkness is everywhere. Light will be eaten…”
The puppet didn’t have time to finish its sentence but crumbled down in a heap on top of Elrond, making him grunt with the weight, less than the body should have weighed, but still substantial. As it fell, so did the walls of darkness and the great hook piercing his belly. The healer immediately crawled out from under the body, repulsion driving him on. Only when he was free of the puppet did Elrond look around him, the world suddenly reappeared, emerging back from a cage of shadows.
Over the lifeless puppet, Galadriel stood, the tip of her sword still on the heap of what had once been the carpenter. Her hair was dishevelled and her face was pale and drawn. She looked up from her sword back to Elrond to make sure he was unharmed. They shared a long silent gaze in grave understanding.
“I need to write to Cirdan,” Elrond stated, voice faint with horror.