Chapter Text
“He deceived me — I was deceived!”
“You were my friend!”
No more, Elrond’s heart screamed. No more of this. One more betrayal — one more abandonment — one more forsaken ache to stripe his scarred fëa — he couldn’t bear it. Not one more.
Sympathy dredged in his palm and his skin crawled with the sensation. The rings knew loss — their creator had survived it. They understood the cry of an orphan — Celebrimbor’s tears, though not outwardly manifested, still bled through steady hands as they gripped the hammer and crucible.
You need not be alone, the song whispered, coiling in Elrond’s chest like a wire net. Children should not be made to suffer.
He was no child and he would not heed their lies. He was cornered — backed against the falls by kin and king — and the rings cried out when they sensed his intent.
Seek not destruction!
It is not his wish!
Stay!
He brushed them off with a snarl, impertinent and foolish like an Elfling refusing the comforts of sleep, and like a youth they regarded him, pouring into his hröa the power that his fëa resisted.
“I cannot….” Elrond swallowed as his voice pinched and faltered, breaking tone in the Mannish manner which had not plagued him since his early hundreds. “You know that I….”
Again his throat constricted and he instinctively raised a hand to it, shuffling frantically as Galadriel sprang. “Do not stop me —”
Dear Eru, he couldn’t even speak. Too late. He sprang when Gil-Galad did, determined to clear the rocks — and tripped over Elros’s cloak. Small hands caught his momentum and they bled with soft flesh, tiny crescent nails blurring as he tilted and cried out. A child’s voice rang free — helpless and bright and wounded — and he was too shocked to move when large hands scooped him off the stone, carrying him up and up until he was settled against a broad chest.
Now you will be safe, the rings hummed, before the pouch was twisted out of Elrond’s hands.
Dear Eru, what manner of sorcery had he unleashed?
The broad hand settled against his back, pinning and smothering with the lightest touch, and irrational panic swarmed Elrond’s mind. Before he could stamp it down and demand reason, it swallowed him.
Terror spurred Galadriel too late. She cried out for her cousin, nipping forward three steps quicker than Gil-Galad just as Elrond turned to jump. Just like Elwing, as if he expected the same favor whilst he ran from good sense instead of madness. Galadriel’s heart screamed to the Valar to stop him and for once she was heard.
Elrond tripped over his cloak.
He stared at his splayed hands, suddenly looking smaller and more vulnerable for the teal swathe that blanketed his shoulders.
Nae…. He was indeed …..
Galadriel staggered, her breath seizing at the impossibility which knelt mere inches from destruction. Gil-Galad had no such hesitation. He scooped Elrond up, bundling Elros’s cloak around him as the swamping tunic slid over one shoulder. With one hand he braced this… this hína … and with the other he wrestled the pouch from Elrond’s hands.
Immediately Galadriel thought he would cry. Though Elrond would sooner challenge her to battle than weep she could see no other course for pudgy cheeks and dazed eyes, a small upturned nose and shivering hands. Elrond himself seemed well aware of his state. There was no innocence in that stricken gaze which surveyed small hands and the firm fist holding the rings. Grey eyes rolled back and the little one slumped against Gil-Galad’s shoulder, utterly spent.
Panic sliced through the High King’s face as he realized he now held both his quarry and his herald with neither answers nor remedy.
“Dear Eru….” Galadriel whispered.
“Oh sweet Nienna.” Impossible to constrain, Lorel cast down his spear and stooped, crooking one finger to gently flick Elrond’s nose. “Nobody breathe on him, this is probably the first time he’s voluntarily slept in weeks.”
Im possible.
“No arresting that one,” Nuréin acknowledged in a mutter soft enough to deny and just loud enough to scold.
“Inform Yenneth — both of you!” Galadriel ordered, saving Gil-Galad the effort of dismissing his two fools whilst his mind was clearly occupied elsewhere. Ai, how soft were those eyes as they looked down….
But of course.
Resisting the urge to brush her hand down soft curls, Galadriel hastened past him to dismiss the other dawdlers. Lord Arán should see to his horse, Commander Vändel could give his report to Gélnon, and Tuvíel should inform Mellírin that her unluckiest patient might need… special care.
Then she hastened back to Gil-Galad’s side, sharing in his wonder as he cradled this onwë that looked as if he had been plucked straight from Beleriand. Those long lashes shuttered in the exhausted dreams of the very young, who were so easily overwhelmed by their changing world. Small hands fisted instinctively in the golden tunic of one who was older and wiser. Crested ears with just a hint of Mannish roundness were ridiculously large and Galadriel tucked her teeth around a grin as she imagined how precious he must have looked when romping around with his twin…
Ai, but now Gil-Galad took note of her and he scowled as he resumed his air of dignity, hitching the Elfling onto his shoulder as he held up the ringing pouch with implicit command.
“Inform Lord Círdan that his presence is required immediately. No one else is to touch the rings before he is consulted.”
“Not even you, High King?” Galadriel said with the barest hint of mischief, nodding from the hand holding the pouch to the last one who had carried them.
With a touch of perturbed concern Gil-Galad looked around him, flustering without a guard or herald from whom to demand assistance. Swiftly Galadriel stooped to retrieve Elrond’s satchel, holding it open for the king to gingerly deposit the mithril song.
“No one. Touches them,” Gil-Galad insisted needlessly.
I assure you, no one wishes to join Elrond in the nursery, Galadriel wisely did not say.
Her intention was perceived all the same and Gil-Galad glowered at her while he subconsciously shifted Elrond so that the dark head rested comfortably against his neck. “I shall require… things,” he said uncertainly, already compiling a list. “Until this malady is alleviated he should not be allowed to wander. He needs fitting clothes….”
Clothes were the least of their concerns, but it was something Galadriel could fix and she promised thus with relish. Ai, how easily she could adorn him with soft velvet and ribbons and cloaks that were not needed since —
But he was not Celebrían, and should not be perceived with such frivolity. A child with no memory of loss would surely pine without his brother. They would have to mind him carefully and cosset him until his fëa chose to remain.
If Elrond did remember everything up to this fateful morning….
Galadriel had no doubt he would avenge himself for every stroke of misery in his dear little heart. She considered the implications and still couldn’t wait for him to rouse. If he was cheerful, he would be introduced to Mellírin. If he was cross, he would suffer Loreláthon’s cooing and no one would rescue him.
It would almost soothe the rankled irritation which had seethed untempered since their first meeting, when the twins slid that mouse down the back of her tunic.
Yenneth was useless. Gil-Galad had somehow acquired a healthy Half-Elven hína whom she claimed was showing acute levels of stress and exhaustion and must be permitted to rest in a proper bed. (He was sleeping just fine on the king’s shoulder and ought not to be disturbed merely to transfer from one perch to another.)
Self-righteous barbs were exchanged in fierce whispers before a spritely Elleth spontaneously appeared at Gil-Galad’s shoulder, tugging away the child with a contrite murmur, explaining that Herald Elrond always preferred to be seen to in his room and the patient’s comfort must be respected first and foremost.
Yenneth smirked as Mellírin flitted away with her prize, met at the door by her hovering cousin. She had the gall to hand Elrond over — as if he was nothing more than a drowned cat to be passed around and tutted over — and the ease in which the onwë was transitioned and nestled on Nuréin’s shoulder stoked the dragon’s ire.
“You know nothing of what has befallen him!”
“And what manner of patient am I expected to mind in this cluttered pigsty?” Yenneth retorted.
The study was neither untidy nor dingy, for its windows were broad and its towering shelves shivered under duster and broom, but Gil-Galad did not need to defend his own realm.
“My orders are clear!”
“So are mine. You asked for a healer and the healer will tend him. If she chooses to do so in the hína’s room, you will simply have to follow.”
The High King did not follow after his subjects. He allowed matters of court to carry him to Elrond’s room, for the teal cloak would not deliver itself even if it was now long enough to equivocate a nursery blanket.
Dear Eru, he was so small.
Plonked on the bed more suitable for a set of twins, Elrond was awake and lisping in deliberate Sindarin as Nuréin knelt across from him, listening with somber eyes.
“I know who everyone is and I remember everything Galadriel said before I went too close to the edge… yet now it feels distant and loud. I don’t know what happened after I fell down.”
His accent had slipped fully into Quenya. Grey eyes narrowed fiercely as Gil-Galad entered and Elrond slid off the bunk, swaying into Nuréin’s shoulder as his bare feet wobbled under the veritable robe of the tunic belted at his waist.
“Please explain to them that I am of my own mind and I don’t need a healer.”
Such elite soberness in that high pitch — it was a wonder Mellírin hadn’t snatched him away to the aviary to join the rest of the fledglings. Shielding himself with walls of steel, Gil-Galad addressed his herald with the respect deserving of his position.
“You will be seen by a healer and you will not withhold any pertinent information.”
Stubbornness would not save Elrond after that rebellious stint, nor would those stricken eyes that welled up with —
Was that deliberate sabotage or was he truly a captive of youthful exhaustion as Yenneth claimed?
“Elrond, would you prefer to sit in the window until everyone leaves?” Mellírin hinted, tying back the curtains as she leveled her cousin with a glare. “Lorel is taking his time asking for clothes, don’t you think?”
“Five minutes, he said,” Nuréin realized with a curse, dismissing himself even as he looked back with torn gaze while Elrond tried to climb into the window seat with dignity.
By the time the twins were found they had been tall enough to fight on horseback.
“High King,” Mellírin said with a dipped curtsy, blending respect with the fire of one who knew her trade. “It is customary for a patient to be seen in private halls when requested.”
Sterling grey eyes were both wary and weary as they tracked the hands bereft of rings. Gil-Galad nodded but held up his hand for a moment to speak. Reluctantly Mellírin stepped to the side to wait in silence.
“You are fully aware of the present circumstances?” Gil-Galad verified.
“Galadriel brought Þauron to Eregion for healing and he guided Celebrimbor’s hand in the making of the rings,” Elrond answered succinctly.
He never overlooked the chance to justify his plots. Elros had taught him too well.
“You may explain what you understand of your condition and its cause to Mellírin or myself,” Gil-Galad ordered. “Understand that she is expected to report any concerns which merit intervention.”
One crested ear flickered in disgruntlement while Elrond nodded. “I will give her my full report.”
Utter seriousness in a child’s face was simply unnerving. Beckoning for Mellírin to continue, Gil-Galad slipped out and shut the door softly behind him.
How would he ever explain this to Celebrimbor and the Fëanorians?
“Nothing hurts. My lungs are clear. I feel tired. You’re obnoxiously tall.”
Mellírin kept her assessment brief and studious as Elrond rattled off the basics he anticipated from every prior mishap, along with the curious rambles of every little thing that came to mind.
“I still have scars. Shouldn’t they be gone? You don’t usually take your shoes off when you come in. Tell Lorel that I want proper shoes, not someone else’s cut down to size. I’m not going to be restrained to my room, am I? Will that be the king’s punishment? I’m sorry — I don’t know why I’m troubling you — it’s not something they would tell you. Everything is loud and urgent and irritating. I want this off but I don’t have any other clothes.”
He scrabbled irritably at one unraveling sleeve as he spoke, scrunching it back when it flopped over his hand.
“Nur will find you clothes and boots and Lorel will not come in until he knows he’s not allowed to fuss,” Mellírin promised. It took every fiber of willpower not to croon over pouting grey eyes and the cross frown, but she did not train under Yenneth without learning how to veil her feelings. What Elrond needed right now was a reliable comrade to reassure him that he was still astute and cognizant of his centuries and he would be treated thusly.
She didn’t know how she would rein in Nuréin if Elrond started fussing over meals, but one battle at a time. She determined there were no head injuries or stiffened joints and finally sat down for the most difficult part.
“Do you know how this happened?”
“Rings, of course,” Elrond scowled, opening up to his troubles far quicker than she expected as he rolled up his sleeves to the elbow. “They were talking to me and when I tried to jump they tripped me up. Círdan can fix this.”
How quickly he had jumped to the expectation that their wisest elder would have a solution. Mellírin hoped this would be true.
“Until then, it is my responsibility to warn you what to expect,” she said, gathering around herself the softness of a lark and the ruthlessness of a falcon. She must strike swiftly but kindly, for though Elrond’s mind was his own his hröa was centuries more fragile and he had already been overwhelmed in the manner of children who had endured too much too quickly.
She feared it would not be the only episode.
“Your hröa is in its early years of growth,” Mellírin said with the impassivity required for the situation. “Your bones are still soft and will need nourishment or they will ache — no skipping meals, Elrond.”
He bristled at the scold but he needed to understand. Things were simply not the same.
“You will probably tire more quickly. Don’t let the king push you past your limits.” Mellírin wasn’t sure if children of Men tired even more quickly than grown Peredhel, but if she was to compare them to the kittens who landed facedown in the middle of their play, the High King would discover very quickly that he could not shuttle about his herald like a messenger raven. “If you need somewhere quiet, just come to the healing halls. No one will say anything.”
“I was a child before,” Elrond grumbled, twisting his sleeves around until they were printed with fingernail creases. “I know how to look after myself.”
“It’s easy to look past some things once we’re fully grown,” Mellírin said with an encouraging smile. “Please come to me or Yenneth for anything. I’m sure you’ll want to rest now, before you see anyone else.”
“I would rather not be seen,” Erond admitted softly, long lashes fluttering in shame.
Valar, how did he not swoop in every bleeding heart at his age? Resisting the urge to kiss his curls, Mellírin forced herself to be stern. “You may have one day to settle in, but I will not let you isolate yourself. If you would prefer it, I can arrange scheduled times with visitors of your choice.”
“It’s not a broken leg this time, Mellí,” Elrond sighed. When she narrowed her eyes dangerously he heaved a sigh. “All right! Fine. Camnir and Galadriel are allowed. Lorel as long as he knows I will stab him if he tries to carry me. Nuréin is allowed, too.”
Nuréin would not be held back by an iron door and a dragon. Mellírin would never tell Elrond that if his eyes were brown and his hair a little ruddier, he would pass off for her little súyon.
She knew without a doubt that no harm would come to him while Nuréin guarded the outlying hall.
“Rest for now,” she encouraged. “I’ll bring you tea and supper shortly. Remember, you have to eat.”
“Just bring me clothes and I’ll go fetch it myself,” Elrond mumbled. “Hate being locked up in here.”
There was an admission that made her want to launch an owl at the High King’s face.
“You are absolutely free to go wherever you like,” Mellírin established. “Whether that’s here or the library or the woods, no one will stop you.”
In hindsight she was forced to amend, “Please do not wander too far without an escort. Just until Lord Círdan arrives.”
Flipping out one sleeve so that unconventional steel sprang into his palm, Elrond stared her down with a lethal smirk. “I think I know how to fend off a wolf even if it made it past the border patrols.”
It wasn’t wolves that worried Mellírin. Trolls and goblins could still slip past unseen, and there was one recently returned patrol who had little pity for small rabbits and children. “I’m afraid I must insist on this. No leaving the grounds without an escort.”
Flicking the blade in the air to demonstrate his displeasure, Elrond retreated into his sulky shell as Mellírin scampered off to find her cousin.
One dubiously scrupulous guard unaccounted for was trouble. Two of them missing could only mean that something was on fire or a high-ranking official was about to quit for the sheer sake of preserving their sanity.