He Has His Own Secrets

He has his own secrets

He has his own secrets.

It’s not as if he enjoys it, like he relishes the idea of having to hide things from his brother, but Elrond has always felt just a bit too deeply and there’s no telling what he’d do if he knew.

(it wouldn’t even be on purpose, he knows, but Elrond would bottle it up and up until he burst, and he is far to close to the Lieutenant, either by way of Maglor or his job, and there is no way Elros could ever lie to either of them. They’ve done too much for him, he couldn’t stand it.)

There’s a small hollow just behind his room. The crack to reach it is only about a finger’s width wide, but he can sing himself into it easily enough. It’s maybe three steps wide and he has to hunch over because the ceiling is just too low, but it’s all his. All his and no-one else knows about it and no-one else can bother him in it. 

Because the Lieutenant may dote on him and his brother, and Maglor may cosset them far more than they really need, but sometimes he just can’t stand it. He knows Elrond enjoys it, his brother has always been horribly scared that he would be left behind alone and unloved, and he can’t begrudge his brother anything, so he smiles and puts up with it.

(He wants to blame their mother, their mother who was far too young, who still carried the horror of seeing her mother and father die, and could not help it if she called them the wrong names when she felt so alone, who thought the Feanorions mad enough to follow her and dash themselves on the cliffs below and spare her sons. He can’t bring himself too.)

In his room he hides things away. The rags of a co-worker who fell victim to necrosis, the lucky necklace of one of the men who helped till the fields until his body collapsed under him. An old blanket he thinks came from the havens. Nothing awful, nothing seditious, just... things he would rather remember. Because he loves Elrond, and Maglor, and Maedhros, and the Lieutenant, and His Highness, but he knows deep down he is not quite like them, that he may Sing as sweetly as his brother, but they are inherently not the same and there are some times he just wants to be alone and sink into his thoughts. And if all the things he’s collected help him, well, it’s not exactly like anyone was using them.

(And if sometimes he sits in his hollow and dreams of a future without the Lieutenant and His Highness, a future where he has grown old and grey and his twin looks over him still gleaming with youth and he smiles as tears steam down Elrond’s face as he takes one long laborious breath and bids him a a final farewell, well. That’s his private dream. If he wishes beyond anything to experience the vibrancy of life without becoming worn down and world weary as time becomes meaningless, he doesn’t have to tell anyone. It would only upset them anyway to know. They would be happier in ignorance.)

He has his own secrets.

Namo headcanon

 He does not exist within time, not truly, not like others of their order. Or rather, he does not experience time like others do.

It is a curious affliction he shares with his brother and his wife, although Irmo suffers it far less. A dreamer will always wake, but the dead are more...permanent. And Doom comes to many, those that have-been and never-were and will-be and should-have-been.

Sometimes, when he sees too much, he wishes another could have his job. Let Manwe have it, he wishes bitterly, so that at least he may understand the pain-anguish-terror his dearest brother has wrought upon Arda. Let the High King come down from his mountain and finally open his eyes to the suffering of what he claims are his people.

Time passes by him like a current that has pulled everyone else under, concealing a threat that lingers on the water’s surface that he can only catch glimpses of as he desperately tries to stay afloat. Irmo, in this metaphor, is a desperate survivor clinging to him as he surfaces for brief periods of time, oblivious to the oncoming danger.

Vaire is floating, everything visible to her, but she is unable to describe it in such a way that conveys the danger in any meaningful way until it has already passed.

He does not try to change the future. He has tried- sending Feanor to Formenos in the hope the smith would find happiness away from his brothers, setting a Doom upon the Noldor so they wouldn't leave can’t you comprehend the pain you bring on yourselves! You will find nothing but death and loss and suffering and you do not deserve it!

And it is for this reason he cannot hate any that enter his halls. Not even Feanor; bright and flaming and desperate to return to his sons. Not his sons who come to him, terrified and shaking shades of the vibrant happy ellons they were in life. Doom comes for all no matter how hard they fight it, and all he can do is sooth their hurts and temper their fears.

The Dagor Dagorath is coming. Pandemonium incarnate will break free of the Void and will ravage the world with its lover Wildfire at its side. Namo has Seen it, has lived it a million times over, will live it a million times over again until it suddenly becomes manifest far too late for him to realise it’s real. 

For now though, the Doomsman is pulled into the current once again, and will act as Judge.

Celegorm! He’s got his grandmother’s albinism and he cuts his hair with the elvish equivalent of plastic kid’s scissors.

If anyone wants Tolkien music listen to literally anything by Oonagh- she’s a really good German singer and she does songs in German, Quenya, and Sindarin based on Tolkien’s work. They’re all really good!

I’m trying to get better at digital painting, so here’s a Mairon wip!

Sing for me, my Elrond

Peredhels get...hungry in Angband.