Long Was the Way that Fate Them Bore by sallysavestheday

Long Was the Way That Fate Them Bore

Elrond grows weary of reminding people of Lúthien. Celeborn’s eyes always soften and shine in his presence, misting over with memories when he thinks Elrond is not watching. Thranduil makes terrible jokes about hair and escapes and unusual romances to mask his unease at Elrond’s resemblance to that fair ghost from the depths of his childhood. Galadriel is not surprised when the roses blossom at his song, and the waters rise, and the nightingales nest in Rivendell's groves. The cant of his eyes and the stars in his hair and the exceptional lightness of his feet spark a certain reverence among the disparate peoples he leads. Lúthien’s blood runs true, they all whisper. Lúthien is with us, still. 

He is needed, it seems, to be that brave, lost princess, reborn -- that symbol of lingering power in the long years of the fading of the Elves. But the air of legend grows stale; the invisible cloak of expectation clings. 

He complains about it once to Glorfindel, after too much wine and yet another rendition of the Lay of Leithian by a nostalgic Iathrin guest. Glorfindel narrows his eyes, assessing him as one might consider a portrait in some elegant gallery. He snorts as Elrond’s shoulders rise and his lips purse with irritation.   

"I never met your fair ancestress," Glorfindel laughs, "but your pout is entirely Turgon’s!" He pats Elrond’s arm consolingly and chuckles again. "It will be a fine fight to claim you in Valinor when you eventually Sail. So many horses in that race! Perhaps we should start a betting pool over who will get to you first."  

At Elrond’s outraged glare, Glorfindel only grins more brilliantly. "Never fear, Tinúviel! My lord has the longest arms of any of them, and a sharper blocking elbow you never will see. He'll have you off in the mountains designing new cities before Elwing can even open her wings. You can drink his wine and admire his fountains and march your matching serious frowns back and forth along the parapets until you're ready to be flown away."  

Elrond pelts him with pillows, then, and the wine bottle tips over onto the priceless carpet, and in their giggling scramble to prevent disaster the moment's frustration passes.  

And Turgon is a generous and engaging host, when the time eventually comes. There is a particular joy in building when the urgency of defense is removed from the equation, and the Prince of New Gondolin has a dry, soft wit that Elrond recognizes as an echo of his own. If Glorfindel laughs every time he finds them bent together over a map, or exaggerates a pinch-mouthed scowl in passing, Elrond doesn’t complain.

Aman has given him space, at last, to find all of himself: the airy fierceness he shares with his mother as they chase the gulls around her tower in the North; Tuor and Eärendil’s earthy humor and Idril’s relentless kindness. The vivid, focused joy of Maedhros after his Return; of Maglor, radiant and renewed. Nimloth’s singing kinship with the trees and Turgon’s solidity, built into the mountains, speaking of home.

Now, when Elrond feels the stars trembling under his skin, or his hair lifting on an imagined breeze, he welcomes it. He wanders the woven woods of Valinor, dances by himself in the darkling glades. He lifts his pale arms to the sky and sings, on the cool grass, untroubling.

Chapter End Notes

Language in the last paragraph is a callback to the Tale of Beren and Luthien as Aragorn tells it in The Fellowship of the Ring.