though it may look (write it) like disaster by simaetha

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Chapter 1

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Evening, the air beginning to cool; the last light gleaming on the rooftops of Alqualondë, the breaking waves showing white beneath the darkening sky. Elrond leans against the railing of Eärwen’s terrace, sipping occasionally from the tea-bowl in his hand and watching the clouds drift overhead, the breeze catching at his hair.

 

 

 

“I thought you might be out here,” a woman says, behind him; and he turns, smiling, as Celebrían beams at him. She pads barefoot over the stone, wearing a simple sleeveless dress, though her silver braids have been carefully pinned up and woven through with strands of pearls.

 

 

 

“I do understand,” she adds, ignoring the hand he holds out to her and stepping in to drape her arms around his neck instead, “that you’ve acquired rather a lot of family rather quickly, my love – “

 

 

 

“Been introduced to them, certainly – “

 

 

 

“Well, if you want them to leave you alone for a little while, they will, you know. Everyone’s terribly pleased to meet you, but between the stack of letters from different loremasters and both of our entire extended families, I can see how you could be finding it a bit much.”

 

 

 

“How could I object,” Elrond says, “to finding myself so welcomed here?” He smiles again at Celebrían, his eyes warm. “I am, I suppose, beginning to wonder if everyone I meet is going to address me as either nephew or cousin – “

 

 

 

“Oh, good,” Celebrían says, bright with amusement, “because I was going to say - you’ve got another relative asking to see you, and I think you’re probably going to want to meet this one. It’s your side, this time, by the way.”

 

 

 

Elrond blinks, brows drawing together slightly.

 

 

 

“Who – no, let me try to guess. I suppose it can’t be any of the Noldor – “

 

 

 

“Not even close,” Celebrían says, affectionately. She leans in, and kisses him, before drawing back. “You’ll have to tell me about it, afterwards. I think this is going to be interesting.”

 

 

 

“What – “

 

 

 

“You’ll be fine. She – spoke to me, actually, some time back, when I first came here.” A shadow passes across her eyes, for a moment, though the scars running over her arms and throat are old and long-healed – but then she smiles again, ignoring the concern that flares in her husband’s face. “Let me go tell her to come up.”

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

“Grandson,” she says, her voice sweet and resonant, seeming always on the edge of song; and he knows her at once.

 

 

 

“Lady Melian,” he answers, his own voice steady. “Can I offer you some tea?”

 

 

 

She smiles; and he can feel her looking at him wonderingly as he busies himself with the tea-set, drifting closer and settling herself into a chair as lightly as a shadow; she moves with impossible grace, the layers of silk she wears flowing with each motion.

 

 

 

He pours, and for a time, they simply study each other - Elrond returning her gaze with unashamed curiosity. It is, he thinks with sudden amusement, hardly the first time he has met one of the Maiar, but –

 

 

 

She seems to catch his thought, and her smile quirks upwards, on the edge of laughter, at the unwilling comparison to Mithrandir’s insistently shabby clothing and blunt, incisive manner.

 

 

 

He finds himself smiling back. “Lady,” he says, “I am very pleased to meet you. What would you have of me?”

 

 

 

A tilt of the head. Her eyes are summer twilight, warm and luminous.

 

 

 

“I simply wanted,” Melian says, “to welcome you, grandson. And to know you better, if I could.”

 

 

 

Elrond considers this.

 

 

 

“Grandmother,” he ventures; and she seems to glow with pleasure, bright as moonrise.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

Elwing paces, head up and back straight, her skirts flaring out around her feet as she steps; turns; steps. She has, still, the same fierce restlessness Elrond remembers from his childhood, the same reluctance to be caught in place; but though her smiles remain rare, there is less bitterness behind them, now.

 

 

 

“And he is our far-sundered kin, too, this – Aragorn?” she asks. “Is he – “

 

 

 

She hesitates, her steps slowing.

 

 

 

“A good man,” Elrond says, gently. “Worthy of Elros’ line – though only very distantly descended from it, now,” he adds, a little wryly.

 

 

 

An uncertain gesture; she paces to the window, steps back. The light is bright on her face.

 

 

 

“I can hardly fault my granddaughter for choosing as Lúthien did,” she says. “But it is always hard, to lose a child.”

 

 

 

Elrond – hesitates, and Elwing flinches, turning to face him in a swirl of quick movement.

 

 

 

“Elrond – “

 

 

 

“I know,” Elrond says, as gently as he can, “that you thought – “

 

 

 

“No,” she says, abruptly; and she comes and sits facing him again, dropping into her chair. “Please, at least – do not try to comfort me for how I have wronged you. I can assure you that it is very little help.”

 

 

 

“Mother - ” Elrond says, the word unfamiliar in his mouth, and reaches out to take her hand in his, across the wood of the table; she grips it, hard, and looks away. The light from the window catches in her eyes, a pale frost-grey; glints blue-black from her hair.

 

 

 

“Would you tell me more of Imladris, then?” she asks, after a pause. “There is – I do want to know you better, at least. And I would very much like to hear whatever you wish to say.”

 

 

 

“Of course,” Elrond says; and she smiles, a little rueful, wrapping her hands around her elbows as he starts to speak.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

The leaves overhead are a flickering pattern of silver and green, the air freshly-scented with earth and rain. Evening, again, fading towards nightfall; and the throb of birdsong overhead, a series of chirps and a rising liquid trill.

 

 

 

Melian takes his arm as they stroll, the coastal forest around them seeming wider and lovelier in her presence – the trees raising their limbs in high arches overhead; the stands of flowers at their feet blossoming in gentle fragrance.

 

 

 

“I am very glad,” she says, eventually, “for your kindness to Elwing.”

 

 

 

Elrond frowns a little, continuing to walk; and she tilts her head towards him, glancing downwards to follow his eyes.

 

 

 

“When I was young,” he says, after a while, “and we lived at the Havens – my mother said we were Doriathrim. Though we were no more Grey-elves than we were Edain, and my father was as much Noldor as anything else, I suppose.”

 

 

 

His mouth crooks upwards, slightly, and Melian looks at him in curiosity, waiting for him to go on.

 

 

 

“I learned as much of Doriath from Maglor as I did from Elwing – she was barely more than an infant, when Dior Eluchíl bundled her up with a Silmaril and told his retainers to take her and run; the name and the jewel were all she had left. And Maglor did have an eye for detail. He was able to describe Menegroth quite extensively.”

 

 

 

Elrond glances up, and there is pain in Melian’s face; but she meets his gaze, steadily.

 

 

 

“I learned to fight a long time before I learned to heal. But – Maglor and his brother were as kind to me as they had it in them to be, by then, I think. I could never separate it out, the kindness from the rest; I had to learn both together.”

 

 

 

And at that, Melian stops, for a moment, her arm warm against his; so that he must wait for her.

 

 

 

“There have been times,” Melian says, very calmly, “when I wonder if I should have told Elu to leave for Valinor as soon as he could, and his people with him; and forced him, if he did not wish it. I could have. I could have done it more easily than he ever knew.”

 

 

 

Her eyes are grey as shadow, and briefly, the trees around them seem hazed in mist and twilight; a maze that is a trap and a cage and a protection, dream and memory blurring around them.

 

 

 

Then - she smiles, again, warm and sad and resigned, and the forest is only a forest; the song of nightingales around them piercingly sweet.

 

 

 

“Well,” she says. “Elu tried himself, to force our daughter’s will when he thought he meant only good by it; and it came to no good at all, in the end. It was your mother who had to live with our mistakes, afterwards.

 

 

 

“You are also being kind to me, then, I suppose,” she adds, reflective. “I am grateful for that, as well.”

 

 

 

A pause. Song; the movement of leaves with the wind.

 

 

 

“What else am I to do?” Elrond asks, sounding suddenly tired. “Would it help, if I did anything other than this? Let the past keep the past – what use is it, to keep fighting the same battles over again?

 

 

 

“Arwen does love him. Mortals are so often easy to love. And I never wanted her to learn the habit of losing the things she cared about; though I must lose her, now, instead.”

 

 

 

Then he – smiles, ironic; as Melian hesitates, her lips parted to speak.

 

 

 

“I did at least have an example to learn from,” he adds, “though I suppose asking Aragorn for a Silmaril would have been redundant, anyway - ” and Melian laughs, at that; though she gives him a disconcerted glance for it, after.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

Another day. Golden sands, sunlight bright on the clear water as the waves wash steadily at the beach, gulls circling overhead.

 

 

 

Celebrían sprawls on her back, smiling, eyes closed in the light, her pale braids spilling out around her, arms stretched out above her head. Sitting beside her, Elrond reaches out to twine his fingers in a lock of silver hair, his eyes crinkled with warmth.

 

 

 

“Do you know,” Celebrían says, after a while, “I had the strangest conversation with Grandfather Olwë the other day. I think he’d met one of your hobbits, and he was trying to work round to asking me if all mortals were like that, or something. I told him, no, as far as I can tell your – Bilbo? – seems to be inimitable.”

 

 

 

Elrond’s smile widens, hovering on the edge of laughter. “Oh, dear. I suppose he must be rather striking, for someone who’s never even met a Man before.”

 

 

 

“Hah,” Celebrían says, opening her eyes and grinning at him. “You’re having too much fun with this, aren’t you? I’ve had more pointed questions about Middle-earth lately than I have in the last five centuries put together. It’s a bit of a novelty, getting to be the approachable one.”

 

 

 

“I do apologise for – “

 

 

 

“You’re not the least bit sorry. I wish I could have been there for more of it, that’s all.”

 

 

 

Elrond wraps her hair around his fingers, quiet, and Celebrían glances at him, then pulls away, sitting up.

 

 

 

“Oh, love,” she says, sighing, and leans against him, resting her head against his shoulder as he looks down at his hands. The Ring of Air glints blue as the deepest part of the sky; still lovely, but nothing more, now, than ornament and remembrance.

 

 

 

“I am sorry,” she says, eventually. “I – do you remember, I told you, when Melian wanted to meet you? That she – spoke to me, when I first came here?”

 

 

 

The waves continue to break against the sand, sweeping in from the ocean. Elrond, very carefully, takes Celebrían’s hand in his own, and raises it to his mouth, pressing a kiss against the back.

 

 

 

“Love, no-one could have done more than you,” Celebrían says, at last. “I was – I just couldn’t stop being angry. I was angry that no-one stopped it from happening. I was angry with anyone who dared to be happy, when I wasn’t; so I wanted to make sure everyone else was miserable as well. And I knew it was wrong, and I – I was so angry, with myself, for everything, for not being able to stop feeling this way, for not doing better.”

 

 

 

Elrond makes a sound of protest, but she presses on.

 

 

 

“So it helped, when she talked to me. It’s not that I ever thought you blamed me. It’s that I blamed myself. And when she – the thing is, she left, as well. She was one of the Holy Ones, and after her husband died, she couldn’t go on, either.”

 

 

 

She gazes out across the sea, for a moment, her eyes bright.

 

 

 

“Well, you do go on, of course,” she adds, matter-of-fact. “It seems unfair, sometimes. But you can’t even keep being unhappy forever.”

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

Elwing’s balcony is open to the eastern sea, stretching out endlessly, clouds and sky and waves and light, from deep rich turquoise-grey to the glittering reflections of sunset-gold.

 

 

 

Melian sips at her tea, thoughtful, as Elwing herself sits balanced on the balcony-rail, bracing with her hands as she leans back, her hair a dark ribbon in the breeze.

 

 

 

“I’m hardly one of the Maiar,” Elrond protests, a little uncomfortable. “I bore Vilya, that was all; it was another’s art that came to my hand, and any skill I had was only in learning how to wield it.”

 

 

 

Melian raises an eyebrow, but Elwing speaks first, a sudden smile flashing over her face; Elrond is surprised, for a moment, to recognise her expression.

 

 

 

“Well, then,” she says, “it can hardly do any harm to try.”

 

 

 

“How do I – “

 

 

 

Melian hides her own smile behind the tea-bowl, but then sets it down, and reaches out a hand. “Here,” she says, “let me help – “ and there is a twist of power that winds around him, delicate as mist; inviting Elrond to reach back, following the path it makes for him.

 

 

 

Elwing makes a face; and Melian glances over at her, eyes warm with affection.

 

 

 

“You’re making it seem harder than it is,” Elwing says; and laughs. “No, look, this is how you do it – “

 

 

 

She tips herself backwards, starting to fall, spreading her arms to catch the air; and even as Elrond makes a startled jerk of movement, her fall is already turning itself into flight, wings pale against the sky as she beats upwards, transforming in a swift, easy flicker.

 

 

 

She circles round, and steps in one motion back to elven form as she sets herself down on the balcony, laughing again.

 

 

 

“I’m not sure,” says Melian, sounding amused, “that you’re making it look as easy as you think,” as Elrond, himself, glances between them and smiles.