Going Through These Stages by Lyra

4.

His tears had dried up, and so had his prayers. Life, somehow, went on. The rain continued to fall, the wind continued to blow, the seasons kept on turning: Fall to winter, winter to spring. Elrond went about his work mechanically, ate without pleasure, limited his conversations to the bare minimum. Young shoots began to spring from the thawing ground, and he felt no joy at their beauty. Daylight returned, flooding the woods and the passages of the Elven city as if to mock Elrond's pain.

The time for spring cleaning came, and he finally picked up the letters, smoothing the crumpled papyrus on his desk. He fully intended to read them, but he could not focus on the words; the writing blurred in front of his eyes. He stared through them for the rest of the afternoon before he finally put them into an empty document box. He wondered why he was even bothering to clean, since he had no intention of letting anybody inside his study. It was something to do, but it served no purpose.

Indeed, he felt that he no longer had a purpose. He had his duties, of course. No matter how taciturn and sullen he had become, Ereinion still insisted on his counsel. Ereinion insisted on involving him in the preparations for the New Year's celebrations*, which were approaching quickly as the days lengthened and the first flowers began to blossom. Perhaps Ereinion was hoping that by spending a great deal of thought on festive matters, on light and joy, on the return of life, Elrond himself would rediscover light and joy in his heart. He did not. It only wore him out. When he was not needed, he lay on his bed, pulling the curtains shut against the young leaves dancing in the sunlight. There was one life that would not return with spring, and it was the only life that mattered to him.

On Mettarë, as all of Imladris gathered to bid the old year farewell and welcome the new, Elrond locked his door and buried his head under his pillow; he did not want to hear the singing and the revelling. Nonetheless, he could not avoid hearing the knock on his door. It was an imperious, rather persistent knock, and when he did not answer it at first, he could hear Ereinion's voice, "I command you to open that door, Elrond!"

He opened the door a crack, just wide enough to glower at his king, who unceremoniously pushed the door all the way open.
"There's a visitor for you," he declared, jerking his head back at a gaunt, hooded figure waiting quietly behind him. From Ereinion's tense posture and angry speech, Elrond got the impression that Ereinion did not much like the visitor. He decided that he did not like him either.
"I do not wish to see anyone," Elrond said.

"You will see him," Ereinion retorted sharply. "I have searched for him and smuggled him into this place for your sake only, and you will at the very least speak with him."
Elrond glared at the visitor, who in his turn held out his open hands in a gesture of peace and invitation, and Elrond would not have cared one bit for it. Except that the palms of those hands were marked by horrid, strangely angular burn scars that recalled the facets of a masterfully cut jewel.
With a half-strangled moan, Elrond rushed forward to sob against Maglor's shoulder.

Chapter End Notes

* The Reckoning of Imladris places the end of the old year and the beginning of the new year close to the vernal equinox, towards the end of March by our calendar - unlike the King's Reckoning used by the Dúnedain, where the old year ends with the winter solstice.