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Disclaimer: I don't own Tolkien's works.
Warnings for mature themes.
Friends and Brothers
Elrond does not often pray, but today he asks the Valar for clear skies and a bright sun. His clothes are not unusual for him: a tunic Gil-Galad had gifted to him, and a pair of old trousers he dons when he is not obliged to impress anyone. He wants this day to be pleasant, and not in the contrived fashion of evening parties, where smiles are worn like jewellery. It will be just two of them and a pot of steaming tea. Elrond would ask for stem ginger biscuits, but Elros can no longer chew those.
As Elrond pushes open the stained-glass windows, the salty tang of the sea breeze catches his nose, and he takes a long breath. He notes, with some disappointment, that thick clouds are obscuring the sun. Fishing boats – brittle toys from Elrond's position in the tower – bob on the dark, steel-grey sea.
"Great heavens," Elros says from his bed, and wraps his crimson, woolen shawl more snugly about his shoulders. His voice is gravel and sandpaper, but still demands to be listened to. "It's cold. Shut the bleeding windows." He rubs his spotted hands together; they are swollen and clumsy, barely able to grasp the hilt of a sword.
Elrond finds it quite warm; his tunic is beginning to stick to his back with sweat. But he does as told and then settles himself in the wicker chair by the bed. Carefully keeping his back straight, he pours tea into willow-pattern cups, adding a dash of milk and two spoons of honey to his brother's.
"You still take your tea black," Elros says with a scoff. "You're as boring as you always were. Black tea, shoes older than some of the trees outside, hair in that stupid, tight plait. How do you even put up with yourself?" He slurps his tea and then wipes his chin with his plaid handkerchief, which is always kept on his bedside table.
Elrond manages a smile. He hopes it does not look brittle. This day has to be pleasant. It has to.
"It's like you've given up on life even though you're alive," Elros continues.
Elrond purses his lips, stung. For a moment he says nothing. "I – "
"Change out of those clothes. I want to see you in your best robes. Those red silk ones with the gold embroidery. Go on. Shoo." Elros waves his hand, as if Elrond is a bothersome fly.
"I want to sit here," snaps Elrond, growing irate despite himself.
"I'm not going to die in the next half hour."
Elrond drops his gaze to his lap, where his own hands, smooth and slender and strong, are folded. That is precisely what he is afraid of: that he will walk out of the chamber, or turn away for some trivial task, and not be there in his brother's last moments.
"Elrond," says Elros with a scowl. "Move your arse or I'll make you."
"You smug, incorrigible – "
"That's better. Off you go." He takes another sip of his tea, a serene look on his face.
Elrond gets up, grumbling to himself about inconsiderate people. He advances through the hallway, his footsteps echoing faintly. At length, he pauses and looks out one of the windows. The clouds are rolling back, and the sun is beginning to shine. Reaching outside the window, he catches a beam of buttery light on the palm of his hand. A smile creeps upon his face at the warmth.
Perhaps it would be pleasant to wear his finest robes just for his brother.
-end-
Note: If you'd like to read more about Elrond and Elros, you can check out 'The Starlit Sky'.