Chapter Text
The first time should have been the last, for it carved into Elrond’s mind the apprehension of narrow spaces and rooms with only one door and no windows. He was chasing Elros, pretending that he was the Balrog and his brother the noble warrior with a blade of pure light, when Elros tricked him and nipped behind the door of their mother’s wardrobe, closing it behind him.
“Ah-hah! I’ve trapped you in your own keep!” Elros crowed on the other side.
Elrond roared on cue, scratching the wood and beating his hands like fierce wings. “But the Balrog is stronger and breaks out!” He rammed his shoulder into the door, yelping in surprise when it throbbed all the way down his arm.
“You’re not strong enough for Elvish magic!” Elros cheered. “Now I skewer the Balrog between the bars!” He stabbed his wooden sword against polished cedar (leaving scratches that Amille would scold them for later), and Elrond gave his best death holler before collapsing against the wall.
“All right, now I get to be the Elven king,” he said, shoving on the door and scowling when it held fast. “Elrooos! The Balrog died. Let me out!”
“Finnne,” Elros grumbled, yanking on the latch. The rattling became more insistent and he started kicking the base of the wardrobe. “Push it from the inside, Ro.”
“I am!”
“Well, push harder!”
“It won’t move!”
Panic jolted Elros’s breaths and suddenly the rattling stopped. Pounding with his fist, Elrond yelled, “Elros!”
“I’m getting Amille!”
“Don’t leave me!”
“Just pretend you’re Beren and we’re getting Lúthien — and keep trying to kick it open!”
Elrond snarled, throwing himself against the door, but it didn’t even wobble the wardrobe. “Elrosss!”
This time no one answered him. He backed up the short span and jumped, smashing with his shoulder, and howled when he was smothered in a curtain of falling dresses. “Elros! Get — me — out!”
Repeated slams to the door only bruised his shoulders, but he felt nothing save the weightless terror that slowly blotted out the light from the keyhole. Finally he collapsed against the door, burying his face in his hands so that he could pretend the darkness was of his own making. He didn’t know how long he cried, only that he started to fall asleep as the nest of fallen dresses got too hot and his head started spinning.
He was jostled awake when the keyhole snicked and the door suddenly opened, spilling him onto the floor. He looked up with glazed eyes, wiping clammy sweat from his forehead, and suddenly it wasn’t his father stooping to pluck him up but a sailor as noble as any king, crowned with a gleaming star and robed with the night sky. Then strong hands lifted him and it was only Eärendil, fitting Elrond just right underneath his chin as he rubbed his quivering shoulders.
“I don’t want to be the Balrog anymore,” Elrond hiccupped, twisting around so he could see the sunlit window and feel the wind drying his hair.
“That’s okay, Ro,” Elros sympathized, clasping his foot to comfort him. “Next time you can be the cave troll.”