Chapter Text
Elrond awoke to screaming.
“WHERE IS MY KNIFE?! DID YOU TAKE IT?! DID YOU?!”
“HOW SHOULD I KNOW WHERE YOUR OLD KNIFE IS, YOU BIG SMELLY PILE OF SHEEP’S DROPPINGS?!”
“I KNOW YOU STOLE IT, YOU HORRIBLE THIEF!”
“LIAR!”
There was a sudden sound of a crash, followed by a bang, and a long, drawn-out wail.
“MOOOTHEEEER! CLEA STRUCK ME!”
“I BARELY TOUCHED YOU, YOU WEASEL!”
Another crash, followed by Katya’s yell; “THAT IS ENOUGH!”
Dead silence fell over the castle. Elrond sat up, rubbing at his sleepy eyes.
It had been a week since Elrond and Sirea had come to the Stormcrow Province—and Elrond felt it was the quietest and yet most nerve-wracking week he had experienced in centuries.
The guest rooms were very beautiful—Elrond’s chambers were named “The Water Lily Room” by the castle staff.
It was stone, of course, like the rest of the castle—but it was hung with tapestries and wall hangings of many shades of blue—while a dressing screen dominated a corner of the room, painted with the flowers of the room’s namesake. These same flowers were carved into the wooden hearth, in which last night’s fire still smoldered.
Elrond’s bed was warm and soft; blanketed with a sky-blue coverlet and hung with gauzy blue velvet curtains. Morning sun streamed through the north-facing windows.
Sirea was next door in the Ivy Room—which was hung with quiet shades of dark green, and filigreed with curling strands of painted ivy upon the bedposts and hearth; with green velvet curtains upon the bed. It was much closer and darker than the open, airy space of the Water Lily Room.
Luxurious as they were, however, the locked doors, and meals delivered upon trays, made it feel like a prison.
His leg had healed over the past few days—Katya returned intermittently to change the bandages and apply a sharp-scented, numbing tincture, which brought life back into the corrupted flesh of his leg.
She also brought, each day, a fresh stack of books and toys for Sirea, claiming the Lady Melina was no tormentor of children—and she was loathe to keep a child in boredom.
Each day, Elrond entertained Sirea with stories and games, trying to keep her mind from the dismal fact of imprisonment. He smiled for her. Sang. Laughed. Told tales of his own childhood.
By night, he sat by Sirea’s bedside, holding her hand, whilst she cried herself to sleep, or woke, screaming, from nightmares—before sneaking to his own chambers for much needed rest.
Elrond stood abruptly, moving behind the screen to dress himself for the day. Melina had provided tunics of dark, muted shades of black, blue, and green—with several warm cloaks and wool stockings.
When he came out, he nearly fell over in shock when he saw Sirea, fully dressed, calmly seated upon his bed with her eerie blue eyes fixed upon him.
Elrond hadn’t heard her enter.
“You might try knocking,” he said, exhaling, with a small laugh as he overcame his surprise.
Sirea did not answer. She simply stared at him intently.
“Sirea,” Elrond moved over to the bed and sat down beside her. “Sirea, what is wrong?”
“I woke up this morning cold,” Sirea whispered. She touched her scars on her neck, trembling. “And I shivered. It felt…as though a snake slithered over my grave.”
Elrond hesitated, then gently wrapped an arm around her, consolingly.
“It will be alright,” he murmured. “We will return home. You’ll see your mother again.”
“I hope so,” Sirea whispered, clasping and unclasping her hands nervously.
The rasp of a key turning in a lock suddenly cut through the air. Elrond and Sirea turned toward the door, which opened to admit none other than Lady Melina herself—gowned in a muted, dark red gown with black embroidery. Her veil was scarlet today—and she had painted her lips a scandalous shade of cherry to accompany the velvet of her gown. She bore a tray within her arms—upon it were two sweet-scented bowls of porridge, a bowl of fruit, and another pile of toys.
She set it upon the sideboard with a dismissive sigh.
“Katya is…otherwise occupied this morning, and I could not spare any of the other staff,” she said, by means of explanation.
“So, we heard,” Elrond raised an eyebrow.
On cue, another sounded from crash sounded from upstairs.
“YOU GIVE THAT BACK!”
“NOT UNTIL YOU APOLOGIZE YOU SMELLY GOBLIN!”
“MOOOOTHEEEEEEEEER!”
Melina’s face of stone twitched—ever-so-slightly.
“Are they…yours?” Elrond dared to ask.
“Yes,” Melina said quietly, refusing to meet his eyes as she adjusted a spoon in one of the bowls. “My…my two youngest. If they had lived but five millennia ago,” she added, straightening up, “They might’ve been sent to Angband, and thus sent the Great Enemy Morgoth fleeing for his life.”
Elrond did not bother to correct her facetious rhetoric—knowing full well the Dark Lord, and all of his servants, would delightedly torment even the smallest child into a hollow, ghostly shell by means of his sorceries and engines.
Instead, Elrond said, “Youngest. What of your oldest?”
It was as if a flame had been smothered in Melina’s gaze. She became cold and closed-off once more.
“She is no longer with us.” Melina said abruptly.
Elrond’s throat went dry, and he realized he committed a dreadful error simply by asking.
Melina tapped the pile of items on the tray—which upon closer inspection, seemed to be several books, a set of carved wooden figurines in a box, a doll, and a set of spinning tops—colorfully painted in mesmerizing, kaleidoscope patterns which certainly unraveled in great beauty once they were in motion.
“I am not a heartless woman,” she said coldly, “And I am also a mother. Far be it from me to lock a child in her bedchamber without entertainment—though I suspect it would be far crueler to the one who keeps her.”
Elrond snorted at this, amused despite himself.
“My lady, if I may be so candid, I do believe you are an enigma I cannot yet unravel.”
Melina smiled faintly at this.
“I will return.” She said, sweeping out of the room.
Elrond sighed heavily, leaning his head backward to reduce the strain upon his neck. He felt so very tired.
He startled from his reverie by a clatter, and his eyes snapped open to see Sirea gently tugging the carved animals from the pile of gifts and sitting herself down upon the rug to gently rub and finger them curiously.
Elrond knelt beside her. He was halfway tempted to tell her to put them back—to reject Melina’s goodwill. Gil-Galad and Galadriel might’ve done it—and he knew it well. But he could not. Sirea was just a child—caught in a devastating political rift.
“They are very beautiful,” he observed, rubbing a little hare with his fingertips. “What are you going to do with them?”
Sirea shrugged.
“I don’t know.” She answered. “But I like them. Melina is good.”
“I don’t know about that,” Elrond exhaled.
“I do.” Sirea put her hand right over Elrond’s heart. “And so are you.”
Elrond smiled gently at this.
“Why don’t we eat breakfast?” he suggested. “Then perhaps we may play with the tops.”
Sirea nodded, giggling.
They ate hungrily.
The porridge was filling—sweetened with cream and honey and cinnamon. It appeared the Stormcrows’ cuisine was that of a heady, strongly flavored variety—sweet and spiced all at once.
Sirea ate hers ravenously—it appeared her starvation amongst the orcs had not yet released its’ bitter hold upon her body. Elrond ate his in a much quieter fashion—until he looked up and saw Sirea looking at him. He burst out laughing.
“Did you eat any of that porridge, Sirea, or paint yourself with it?” Elrond chuckled.
Sirea looked at him, confused.
“Go wash up,” Elrond instructed. “You are quite sticky.”
Sirea nodded, skipping toward her own chambers—which connected to Elrond’s by a door in the hearth—and disappeared.
Elrond chuckled to himself, and busied himself with the bowls, clearing them away and setting them gently upon the tray when he heard a sound which made his blood run cold.
A pick, scraping and scratching at the lock. His mouth turned to ash, as his throat clenched—he parted his lips, desperate to call out to Sirea—but by then, the door was flung open by a violent presence.
“I KNEW IT!” A young girl, no more than ten winters old, crashed into the room, dressed in a brown wool gown—her black hair flying from its’ braids as she wielded a lock pick triumphantly. “I KNEW MOTHER WAS HIDING SOMETHING IN HERE!”
An older boy—closer to twelve years old—followed her. His black hair and brown skin clearly relating him to Melina—though he had Dmitri’s brown eyes.
He closed the door quietly behind them and stared in wide-eyed wonder at Elrond.
“Elves…” he breathed. “Mother and father…are hosting Elves?”
“What’s going on?” Sirea poked her head into the room, eyes round with concern. The young girl let out a happy squeal.
“ANOTHER ONE! HOW MANY ARE THERE OF YOU?!”
Elrond was beginning to suspect this child did not speak in anything other than roars. She knelt down, poking her head beneath the skirt of Elrond’s bed, as if she expected an army of the Eldar to be cloistered there upon the floor.
“It is just us, little one,” Elrond could not help but laugh, despite himself. “You must be Melina’s ilk?”
“Yes,” the girl wriggled out from under the bed, rolling onto her back, beaming up at him from the floor. “I am Clea. That is my brother, Rowan.”
Rowan frowned at her.
“We aren’t supposed to be here,” he pointed out. “Father said he’d have our hides if he found us snooping in the guest chambers.”
“Well, he can’t have anything if he doesn’t find us,” Clea scrambled to her feet and began poking at the pile of toys Melina had brought. “And they won’t tell, will you?” she pivoted sharply, eyeing Elrond suspiciously.
“I…” Elrond exhaled with a hearty laugh. “No, I suppose we won’t!”
Sirea had cautiously sidled into the room, eyeing Rowan and Clea with some wariness—Clea in particular; as if she expected the girl to go mad and bite her.
Clea squealed happily.
“What’s your name?” She demanded breathlessly of Sirea, rushing over and snagging her by the hand. “This is going to be sooo much fun! I haven’t had anyone to play with except for dumb old Rowan—and he isn’t enjoyable company at all. I—”
Clea chattered on. Sirea shot Elrond a very agonized look which communicated “Help me” in everything but words.
“How old are you?” Clea began turning Sirea in circles. “You look as though you are almost my size. Perhaps we could play dress-up in my closet someday!”
“We aren’t allowed to leave these rooms,” Sirea protested, still frantically glancing at Elrond.
“WHAT?!” Clea shrieked. “Oh, by the stars, you must be so BORED. Are you bored? We can play with you! We—”
“That’s enough,” Elrond cut in with a laugh, detaching Clea from Sirea. “I would not press your luck, little one. From your speech, I have the impression you ought not be in here.”
“He’s right,” Rowan tugged Clea’s sleeve. “You promised it would just be a quick look. We need to go back downstairs before Katya finds out we were poking around up here.”
“But that was before we found out they were Elves,” Clea rolled her eyes. “I have sooo many questions! What—”
“Someone’s coming!” Rowan hissed. “Under the bed! Now!”
With wriggles and giggles, both Stormcrow children dove beneath Elrond’s bed, just as the door flew open and Katya staggered into the room.
“Why is this door unlocked?” Katya moaned.
She frowned suspiciously at Sirea’s still very startled countenance, and Elrond’s amused expression before the pieces fell into place within her eyes.
Marching over to the bed, Katya knelt down, seized something, and proceeded to drag Rowan and Clea into view by their ankles.
“You were told,” Katya said, “Not to come in here. What do you have to say for yourselves?”
“Nothing,” Rowan mumbled. “It was Clea’s idea.”
“It was not!” Clea protested.
“You were the one who said—”
“Enough!” Katya’s voice penetrated the screeches with terrifying clarity. “Both of you will come with me. Your mother and father will hear of this forthwith. March!”
With this, she dragged them toward the door and slammed it behind them.
Elrond sank onto the bed.
“What…just happened?” Sirea wanted to know.
Elrond was still trying to process it himself.
“I’m not entirely certain,” he admitted. He began to laugh heartily. “But I think you have just earned us our first friends in the Stormcrow Province.”
Sirea winced, settling herself next to Elrond and, to his immense surprise, leaning against him as if he were her father.
“Clea is scary,” she admitted. “But…I think she is very kind.”
“So do I.” Elrond hesitated, before gently placing a hand on her shoulders and pulling her close.