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Years later Elrond would call it fate. Years later, when he’d finally acknowledged the gravity of his feelings, when he had finally admitted to himself that despite his desperate attempt to the contrary, he’d let himself love again. He’d let himself feel warmth, he’d let himself feel connection to another being who was destined to leave him. Years later, cursing destiny as it took away the last person he’d hoped so dearly to keep close- as he saw Arwen return with that steely, determined look on her face that told him she had decided to stay in Arda, despite the loss of nearly all hope - he had remembered a meeting that he’d thought was chance.
Really, he should have known. Nothing that involved Durin IV ever had anything to do with chance. The dwarf was much too sturdy for that - both too predictable and too wondrous. Of course the Valar had chosen to let Elrond meet yet another person in his long life that would command his affection only to leave him aching, broken and utterly untethered when the inevitable happened. But as Elrond sat in a room adjacent to where Arwen was lying, waiting for Andúril to be reforged, he didn’t let himself think about the fall- he didn’t let himself think about how complicated everything had gotten. For one moment, Elrond Halfelven let himself bask in the warmth, the bright red gold memory of his friend, Durin IV.
Friend. The word seemed utterly incapable to contain all the feelings that had plagued Elrond during the Second Age, every moment he spent in Durin’s presence and every moment since. He could not think of a single work in Quenya, Sindarin, Common or even the few words he’d been allowed of the Dwarven language that could encompass who Durin was to him.
He had not expected it. It was ludicrous, really, that an elf- well, a half-elf, could ever feel such depth of emotion for a dwarf. And yet, Elrond was the very product of two unions that had been thought utterly ludicrous just a few millenia ago.
He’d first met Durin in a dark forest. Once, when Disa had asked him about their first meeting, he’d exaggerated his own heroics in the situation just as Durin had exaggerated his own. They’d settled for dinner together in Disa and Durin’s home and Elrond had tentatively let himself be at home for the first time since- well, since his brother’s death. It wasn’t just Durin- no, Disa, lovely, kind, fierce and utterly fascinating - she was just as important to Elrond’s brief happiness as Durin was. And he had hoped that, for a time at least, he contributed some happiness to her as well. To both of them.
The dark forest hadn’t really been quite as important to his chance meeting- or perhaps the destiny that the Valar had decreed for him - or was it Ilúvatar? Elrond didn’t know. Sometimes he mused that whoever had a hand in crafting his life had a rather cruel sense of humour. But he had long found a way to live with that- such was his lot in Middle-Earth: To love so fiercely his heart nearly gave out, to find solace in friends, family, lovers, even- but for none of them to stay. Whether it be ripped away by the Valar, doomed (or blessed) to sail across the sky, dying a slow but inescapable death, being nearly torn apart by wargs and sailing to the Undying Lands in search of relief- or now, to remain with a mortal, to make the choice that Elrond never dared to - Elrond had lost most of those dear to him to death or to Valinor.
He shook his head, looking down at a single piece of metal that he still carried in a pouch hidden underneath layers of clothing. It was joined by a golden lock of hair that Celebrian had given him before her departure, a small plaque of gold that Disa had once pushed into his hands, grumbling something about it not measuring up to Durin’s gift and a small, round stone that Elros had found on the shores of the sea once, when they were young. The pouch was sown out of a piece of his parents’ sail.
Now, as he waited for his last journey through Middle Earth to deliver Andúril to his brother’s descendant, Elrond seemed strangely drawn to the mithril that Durin had given him that fateful day - the day he’d made a vow quite unlike any other he’d ever uttered before.
Durin had looked up at him with such fierce conviction in his eyes that Elrond had been utterly incapable of not promising Durin everything the dwarf wanted.
That did seem to happen a lot, he mused, letting a sad smile cross his face. He pushed back his hair from where it had fallen into his face, missing the shortness that he’d sported when he’d met Durin. Now his hair, just like his long years on this earth weighed heavily on him.
There had been two mountain trolls that day, no matter what Durin said. Elrond had been sent on an errand by Gil-Galad that led him through what was now known as Hollin. At some point during his journey he’d heard a clang in the distance, followed by a howl of pain. Worried, Elrond had followed the sound, even if it was miles off of his path and he came onto a clearing. What he saw was strange, to say the least.
A single dwarf with hair as red as the setting sun stood his ground against two monstrous mountain trolls who seemed to be quite intent on having him for dinner. The dwarf yelled indignantly but Elrond could see that he was tired, his armour missing in chunks and his pack destroyed by what must have been the troll’s attacks.
‘Come get me, ya bastards!’, the dwarf yelled and Elrond was struck by the complete fearlessness in his voice. Subconsciously, he’d drawn his sword, ready to leap into action for a dwarf he’d never met.
‘If you’d rather have a little more fodder’, he said, grinning and stepping into the clearing.
The trolls swirled around and the dwarf turned his gaze towards Elrond. He frowned and Elrond couldn’t stop himself from twirling his swords artfully. He might not have been as practised in the art of war as Galadriel, but he was more than capable of helping this dwarf defeat some mountain trolls.
‘Khulm’, the dwarf hissed, low enough that Elrond thought he believed it to be a private whisper.
Interesting, Elrond thought. He does not seem to know many elves. Or he’s unaware of how good our ears are.
The trolls weren’t deterred by flashy sword twirls. One of them started running towards Elrond, the other turned back towards the dwarf. With a sigh, Elrond stepped back, letting the monster barrel past him as he used the cover of the nearby trees to clamber up into their branches and land on the back of the troll, quickly and efficiently thrusting his sword into the troll’s brain.
The beast let out a painful groan and started to wobble and Elrond took the opportunity to swing back onto the trees, not wanting to collapse with the troll. Swiftly, he jumped into the next tree and hurried back towards the clearing where the dwarf was valiantly holding his own.
He must be tired, Elrond thought as he jumped next to the dwarf.
‘Are you quite alright?’, he asked carefully as he dodged the troll’s next swing and stabbed it in the arm.
The dwarf grunted something in Khuzdul that Elrond couldn’t understand and swung his axe at the monster’s leg. The troll roared and bared its neck and Elrond grabbed his throwing knife and embedded it in the troll’s soft chin. With a pitiful groan, the troll swayed and Elrond felt a strong hand on his arm. The dwarf pulled him back, making sure that he wasn’t crushed by the felled troll that toppled forwards.
‘Oh’, he said, staring at the mountain of dead troll in front of him. He turned to his rescuer. ‘Thank you.’
The dwarf in front of him raised a bushy eyebrow and for just a moment, Elrond found himself captivated by the way the stars reflected in his green eyes.
‘Well, that’s a first’, the dwarf said. ‘Never heard an elf thank a dwarf before.’
Elrond laughed, almost unused to the sound. He hadn’t done much of that in the time after his brother’s death.
‘I have always heard it good manners to thank one who saves your life’, he said, bending down to remove his knife from the troll’s grey chin.
He looked back at the dwarf who was studying him with a pensive expression.
‘Suppose I should thank you too, then’, the dwarf said. ‘Not that I needed saving.’
Elrond couldn’t stop the smile on his face from forming.
‘Oh - no, you were utterly in control of the situation’, he answered, getting out a cloth to clean off his dagger. ‘I merely stepped in in case you were… fatigued.’
Now both the dwarf’s eyebrows were up and Elrond could hear a rumbling sound come from somewhere. Belatedly, he realised that the dwarf was laughing.
‘First he thanks me and then he’s funny’, the dwarf said. ‘Who might you be then, elf?’
Elrond did not bother correcting him.
‘I am Elrond, son of Eärendil’, he proclaimed in the voice he usually reserved for court.
The dwarf chuckled again.
‘Ah, well, Elrond, son of Eärendil. I am Durin. Son of Durin.’
Elrond’s eyes widened.
‘Oh- pardon me, my lord-’
Durin held up his hand.
‘No, no, none of that. I’m not the king- just the no-good son. I don’t do all that- silly bravado.’
Elrond blinked a few times.
‘Still, Prince Durin-’
‘Oi’, Durin said. ‘Just. Durin. You killed two trolls for me, I think that warrants first names, don’t you?’
A slow smile spread over Elrond’s face.
‘Well. I suppose, if you were to put it that way- yes. It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Durin.’
Durin’s eyes twinkled, inclining his head gently and his beard moved in a way that Elrond later learned meant that he was pleased. Something in the elf stirred at the view in front of him - a warmth that he had not felt in many years. A companionship - perhaps like the one he shared with Galadriel who had been away on her… quest for almost a hundred years already - but perhaps more than that. It would inevitably become more than mere companionship, but Elrond had not foreseen just how important Durin, son of Durin, would be to him.
He’d simply walked over to the first troll he’d killed and pulled out his sword, turning back to Durin who was scrutinising him.
‘Yer weapon’s a bit worse for wear’, Durin said, narrowing his eyes. Elrond looked down, unable to see what the dwarf was referring to.
‘It’s dull, khulm’, Durin explained with no malice in his voice. ‘Tell ya what. You don’t breathe a word of how I had to be saved by an elf to anyone and I’ll show you a place where we can get your sword fixed up.’
Elrond smiled.
‘I- thank you. That is very kind of you.’
‘Ah’, Durin said, stepping closer and scratching his beard. ‘’T’s just a favour for a favour. Can’t stand to see a weapon be that bloody dull.’
Elrond smirked lightly.
‘Yes. Of course. A favour for a favour.’
‘Yeah, yeah’, Durin grumbled. ‘Come along, elf.’
‘Half-elf’, Elrond corrected him.
Durin turned towards him and for a second Elrond had the unnerving thought that he wouldn’t mind if the dwarf spent hours looking at him- not when it meant that he could study the depth of green in his eyes, the vibrant red of his hair and the softness of the fine lines on his face.
‘Well aren’t you something’, Durin mumbled and Elrond’s heart was glad.