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You had come to this open, airy hall to take your mind off of things, but peering outside, you find that it is to no avail. Even the palace garden is stripped of color. The birds do not sing, the trees do not sway, and Rivendell’s famous sunshine hides behind clouds. It had been one day since the return of Rivendell’s company of elves, and the grief is still fresh throughout the land.
Your grip on the arch of a window tightens. You had to get away. You could not bear to be among the mourning and sorrowful for too long. You had not lost anyone in the battle, but it was because everyone that you could have lost had been lost long ago.
Death always hit the elves hardest in the event of a battle. Death was hardly ever considered in Rivendell—or in any elven part of the Middle Earth, for that matter. Rivendell had braced itself many months for the casualties of war, but no one ever expected such a great number of elves to not make it back home. You brush away tears. You did not cry for brothers or cousins or a father or an uncle. You cry for a race, a people, a land. Their grief is your grief, united with the losses of old.
A sound distracts you, and you turn away from the window. Lord Elrond stands at a different window down the hall. You blush and wipe your face. To run and hide from Lord Elrond would be a cowardly. Elrond is a friend, and all of Rivendell is in mourning. Surely, he would understand, you decide, and you patiently wait for him to approach you.
“Good afternoon, my lord,” you greet, bowing your head slightly. Having lost your father and mother and brother to a war, you had become adept in hiding your tears. You even try for a smile, but in the presence of Elrond and the darkness outside, your smile falters.
“Good afternoon,” says Elrond, surveying you. It does not take him long to touch upon your emotional state. “What troubles you?”
You are certain that he must have an idea; he absolutely must. What else could be so troubling as to bring tears to the eyes of the merriest folk in Middle Earth? Elrond himself had lost good friends and allies and men; you were sure. Many a chair was empty at the dinner table last night. However, you do not speak to open fresh wounds. Instead, you speak to make some form of pleasant conversation.
“The weather is grim,” you begin, “ The garden looks melancholy.” You glance at him to see his reaction. He is still observing at you, trying to decipher your choice of words. You are not lying, and yet you are not speaking about that which he expected from you. Elrond patient expression spurs you on.
“Hopefully, the clouds will bring rain,” you continue, speaking quickly. “Rain is always good for the garden. It had been long since the last rain, and with a good amount, the garden will be even greener and brighter than before.”
There is no biting slant to your voice, only the endless, understated optimism that is the result of orphancy. You feel Elrond’s eyes boring into your soul, and you decide that perhaps it is time to leave.
“Well, my lord, if you’ll excuse me—”
“You are wise beyond your years,” Elrond says. You cease retreating to stare at him. His face is filled with an indescribable sadness—perhaps one that comes from seeing and doing and loving so much for so long, for centuries, all to have it snatched away in the blink of an eye. You had once worn the very same look, one matched with mourning white for years. Tears begin to fall.
“Do not cry, lovely one.”
You gaze outside at the garden once more before allowing Elrond fold you into his arms. He smells like leaves and ink and flowers and soap, and you cling to him. He holds you for a long time, remaining perfectly silent and still, as you weep, your shoulders shaking. As your sobs die down, and you match the pace of your breathing to his breathing, Elrond begins to rub your shoulders, his hands making delicate, deliberate circles down your back. At some point, his long, dark hair tickles your face, and you can’t help but laugh into his chest, startling him. Elrond holds you at arm’s length critically.
“Are you—?”
“Much better,” you say, almost cheekily. You see a hint of a smile play across Elrond’s features. The shift in mood is almost astounding. Elrond clears his throat, and his face becomes neutral.
“You should sit with me at dinner,” Elrond says quietly.
A lump forms in your throat as you look up at him, the sadness threatening to comeback into his face. So many officers and generals and officials had been laid to rest that it was perfectly possible for you to sit with Elrond. There were plenty of seats to choose from.
You bow your head. “I would be honored to sit with you.”
Elrond reaches for your hand and kisses it. “Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, my lord,” you call after him when the shock wears off. You could feel something bright and sharp in the air. Rivendell would soon be a place of happiness again; you could feel it.