Post by Admin on Dec 3, 2022 0:44:51 GMT
Author: Elladan Elrondion
Summary: Elrohir is haunted.
Rating: T
Characters: Elrohir and Elladan
Warnings: Major Character Death
Elrohir’s grief was internal. All of his strongest emotions coiled up into one dense ball, buried within his chest, threatening to burst at any moment. Threatening to supernova and consume him entirely. But for the moment, contained.
He stood waist deep in a pit of dirt, an unmarked grave deep in the woods, as the painful tendrils constricted tighter and tighter around his heart until it could scarcely beat. His face remained even, his breathing untouched. No flicker of emotion passed his face.
He seemed almost uncaring as he dug long into the night. At some point, he deemed the task done, and climbed lightly from the hole in silence. No sound accompanied him. He was alone, and there was no one to speak to, no reason to break the silence.
His trembling hands betrayed him as he knelt carefully beside the waiting body. Cold and unmoving, devoid of any lingering traces of life. He pretended not to notice the unsteady tremor, and there was nobody to witness or call him on it.
He lifted his brother in his arms, and returned to the pit. He leapt down into it and stooped, laying down all that was left of what had once been Elladan. He stood still and silent, looking down at the dark shape, outlined in the moonlight. His mind was following a dozen trails of thought, unable to grasp any.
In the end, he sank slowly to his knees and sat back, leaning against the dirt wall. He had no reason not to. There was nobody here to watch. There was no other place he needed to be.
He didn’t speak - he knew Men often spoke to the deceased. He didn’t understand it. This may be the body that once housed his brother, but it was long empty now. Everything that was once Elladan was now across the sea. Still very much alive, in its own way, in the Halls of Mandos. He would hear nothing Elrohir said, and so he did not waste his breath.
The coil grew denser. Heavier. Elrohir wondered, with a far away detachment, what it would feel like when it all boiled over. He wondered if it would tear him apart.
He still had work to do, and he couldn’t afford to let it out just yet. He closed his eyes, and behind his lids, in the world within his mind, he saw himself standing before it. A shining black sphere, spinning rapidly, out of control. All of his turmoil, grief, and anger. Everything he had pushed aside, and told himself ‘later’.
Everything he had not allowed himself to feel or accept. He looked at it now.
“Soon.” He promised, resigned to the fact that he would, eventually, need to confront himself. “But not yet.” In this inner world of his, he took the ball of pain and hurt, and held it in his hands. It was far heavier then he could ever have imagined, and burned him in its coldness. “Soon,” he repeated.
Opening his eyes to monotone reality, he knew he could not linger here forever. He rose to his feet. His body was chilled, damp with the evening mist and stiff from sitting. The sky was black, and the moon was gone. He must have been lost in thought for hours. Stillness settled over him like a heavy blanket. He knew there was an ocean of grief lingering, somewhere, waiting to drown him. But for now, he felt nothing at all.
It was surprising, even to him, who had always moved through crises with a level of emotionless detachment. He didn’t speak as he filled in the pit, piling lifeless dirt back over the lifeless body. None of it meant anything to him. He knew he had loved Elladan, that was beyond questioning. But even that was an alien emotion at the moment. It had been collected and bundled with all the other things he was not allowed to feel, and rolled together into the raging storm, and locked within. He couldn’t remember it.
Remembering now would break him.
He turned his back on the disturbed earth, kneeling to pick up the bundle he had set aside. His brother’s sword, his bow, and his quiver, all wrapped in his silver-grey cloak. It would be long before Elladan saw them again. He rose and turned his back on the grave without leaving a single token behind to mark it. He walked through the dead of night. Time meant little to him, and he hardly noticed the passing of the moon or the sun. He knew not when he walked in starlight, sunlight, through shadow or day. It all blurred
into one exhausting journey. He ate when his body demanded it, and rested only when his legs gave out and he succumbed to sleep for minutes or hours at a time.
His only goal was to walk West. That was where they had been going, and that was where he would again find Elladan.
When land ended, and his footsteps finally brought him to the sea, there was no feeling of victory or completion. Those feelings were as lost to him as grief and love. He simply stepped out onto the beach, slipping in the shifting sands, and sat heavily under the weight of his physical exhaustion.
He sat with his eyes turned to the horizon as the sun crossed the sky and sank beyond the sea. He had come to the end of his journey. There were no ships left, as they had both known. They had intended to make one together. The way West had been barred years ago, but they had decided that they would sail nonetheless and simply see what happened.
But motivation fled as cold reality sank into his bones. He was utterly spent. He might as well throw himself into the seafoam here and now, for all the good it would do him.
For the first time in his long life, Elrohir found himself devoid of purpose, and wondering; what was the point of it all?
He knew it was unlike himself, and blamed it on the exhaustion. He laid in the sand and wrapped his arms around his brother’s cloak, holding it close. Protectively. He would sleep, and in the morning he would reassess.
-----
He did not wake the next morning, nor the one after that. There was nothing wrong with him, exactly, save that he had pushed himself long past the bounds of his endurance, and was now paying for it. On the third morning though, he woke. His clothing was soaked with sea spray, and there was sand caked in his hair and mouth. He had slept with his eyes closed, instinctively, to protect himself from the wind, the sand, and the salty sea mist. They still felt dry and gritty.
None of this mattered. He was heavily detached from the discomforts of his physical body. He stood slowly, joints stiff and creaking, and brushed sand from his clothing. He set off down the beach, not knowing what he was looking for. Even so, he knew it when he found it. A small cabin - if it could even be called that. More akin to a small tool shed, the pale grey planks of wood were rotting and crumbling, suffering from years of disuse. The door hung off its hinges, and Elrohir pulled it aside and laid it on the sand.
The smell of must assaulted him as he stepped inside. The sad remains of a wooden table and chair sat beside the cold charcoal remains of what may have once been a cook fire. The windows had once held panes of glass, but all that remained were jagged teeth, barely holding on to the frames. In the corner lay a pile of blankets. They smelled, more than anything else in this little shelter, of mould.
Elrohir did not care. He pushed the blankets aside with his boot, and they seemed to crumble and melt at his touch. His face did not even twitch into a grimace. Unbothered, he haphazardly cleared the space, and threw his own blanket on the floor. Over that he threw his cloak.
Finally, after days uncounted, he removed all of his weapons, his backpack, everything that had once belonged to him. He dropped it all on the floor, and finally unburdened, lay himself down on the blankets.
He still held Elladan’s cloak close. With a long, shuddering inhale, he finally set that too aside.
He had come as far West as he could in this state. He could move neither forward nor backward. Here he would remain, frozen in time, a living ghost, until he was able to confront his own emotions. This stasis he had locked himself in had fulfilled its usefulness, and it was time to accept everything that had come to pass.
He would very much have liked to keep those things locked up forever, but he knew it was not possible. He was no longer withholding only his pain, but all of his joys as well. He had not allowed himself to even remember his brother’s face, because any happiness it might bring him was overshadowed by the stabbing pain in his chest, and the raw wound where he was meant to be.
He couldn’t live like this - nor could he even die like this.
He didn’t know if he would survive the storm of emotion raging inside of him, but even if he didn’t, at least he would move forward. At least he could fade in his grief. He did not care if he sailed or faded, for each would bring him home in a way. It was time to wake up.
Elrohir pressed himself into the corner, huddled on the pile of blankets, and shut his eyes. He was scarcely aware of what a pathetic sight he made, but even had he known, he would not have cared. Appearances mattered very little - if at all - to Elrohir now.
Behind his eyes, he was once again sitting in his mind. Alone, it felt uncanny, and the world fell away. It was only him here. He felt tears welling in his eyes as he held up the miniature black hole. They were tears without emotion, falling without reason or permission as his body reacted to something his heart could not.
He wasn’t ready to face this, but he knew he never would be. There would never be a good time. If he wanted to continue as Elrohir, it would have to be done. He could let the pain back into him, and live or die by it. Or he could hide forever until he forgot everything, and became a nameless phantom, haunted by his own heartache.
Elrohir was not ready to give up. It was not in his character.
He took one last breath and lifted the impossibly cold, dense weight to his chest and held it close. “I’m ready now.” He murmured, and felt his heart beat again.
Summary: Elrohir is haunted.
Rating: T
Characters: Elrohir and Elladan
Warnings: Major Character Death
Elrohir’s grief was internal. All of his strongest emotions coiled up into one dense ball, buried within his chest, threatening to burst at any moment. Threatening to supernova and consume him entirely. But for the moment, contained.
He stood waist deep in a pit of dirt, an unmarked grave deep in the woods, as the painful tendrils constricted tighter and tighter around his heart until it could scarcely beat. His face remained even, his breathing untouched. No flicker of emotion passed his face.
He seemed almost uncaring as he dug long into the night. At some point, he deemed the task done, and climbed lightly from the hole in silence. No sound accompanied him. He was alone, and there was no one to speak to, no reason to break the silence.
His trembling hands betrayed him as he knelt carefully beside the waiting body. Cold and unmoving, devoid of any lingering traces of life. He pretended not to notice the unsteady tremor, and there was nobody to witness or call him on it.
He lifted his brother in his arms, and returned to the pit. He leapt down into it and stooped, laying down all that was left of what had once been Elladan. He stood still and silent, looking down at the dark shape, outlined in the moonlight. His mind was following a dozen trails of thought, unable to grasp any.
In the end, he sank slowly to his knees and sat back, leaning against the dirt wall. He had no reason not to. There was nobody here to watch. There was no other place he needed to be.
He didn’t speak - he knew Men often spoke to the deceased. He didn’t understand it. This may be the body that once housed his brother, but it was long empty now. Everything that was once Elladan was now across the sea. Still very much alive, in its own way, in the Halls of Mandos. He would hear nothing Elrohir said, and so he did not waste his breath.
The coil grew denser. Heavier. Elrohir wondered, with a far away detachment, what it would feel like when it all boiled over. He wondered if it would tear him apart.
He still had work to do, and he couldn’t afford to let it out just yet. He closed his eyes, and behind his lids, in the world within his mind, he saw himself standing before it. A shining black sphere, spinning rapidly, out of control. All of his turmoil, grief, and anger. Everything he had pushed aside, and told himself ‘later’.
Everything he had not allowed himself to feel or accept. He looked at it now.
“Soon.” He promised, resigned to the fact that he would, eventually, need to confront himself. “But not yet.” In this inner world of his, he took the ball of pain and hurt, and held it in his hands. It was far heavier then he could ever have imagined, and burned him in its coldness. “Soon,” he repeated.
Opening his eyes to monotone reality, he knew he could not linger here forever. He rose to his feet. His body was chilled, damp with the evening mist and stiff from sitting. The sky was black, and the moon was gone. He must have been lost in thought for hours. Stillness settled over him like a heavy blanket. He knew there was an ocean of grief lingering, somewhere, waiting to drown him. But for now, he felt nothing at all.
It was surprising, even to him, who had always moved through crises with a level of emotionless detachment. He didn’t speak as he filled in the pit, piling lifeless dirt back over the lifeless body. None of it meant anything to him. He knew he had loved Elladan, that was beyond questioning. But even that was an alien emotion at the moment. It had been collected and bundled with all the other things he was not allowed to feel, and rolled together into the raging storm, and locked within. He couldn’t remember it.
Remembering now would break him.
He turned his back on the disturbed earth, kneeling to pick up the bundle he had set aside. His brother’s sword, his bow, and his quiver, all wrapped in his silver-grey cloak. It would be long before Elladan saw them again. He rose and turned his back on the grave without leaving a single token behind to mark it. He walked through the dead of night. Time meant little to him, and he hardly noticed the passing of the moon or the sun. He knew not when he walked in starlight, sunlight, through shadow or day. It all blurred
into one exhausting journey. He ate when his body demanded it, and rested only when his legs gave out and he succumbed to sleep for minutes or hours at a time.
His only goal was to walk West. That was where they had been going, and that was where he would again find Elladan.
When land ended, and his footsteps finally brought him to the sea, there was no feeling of victory or completion. Those feelings were as lost to him as grief and love. He simply stepped out onto the beach, slipping in the shifting sands, and sat heavily under the weight of his physical exhaustion.
He sat with his eyes turned to the horizon as the sun crossed the sky and sank beyond the sea. He had come to the end of his journey. There were no ships left, as they had both known. They had intended to make one together. The way West had been barred years ago, but they had decided that they would sail nonetheless and simply see what happened.
But motivation fled as cold reality sank into his bones. He was utterly spent. He might as well throw himself into the seafoam here and now, for all the good it would do him.
For the first time in his long life, Elrohir found himself devoid of purpose, and wondering; what was the point of it all?
He knew it was unlike himself, and blamed it on the exhaustion. He laid in the sand and wrapped his arms around his brother’s cloak, holding it close. Protectively. He would sleep, and in the morning he would reassess.
-----
He did not wake the next morning, nor the one after that. There was nothing wrong with him, exactly, save that he had pushed himself long past the bounds of his endurance, and was now paying for it. On the third morning though, he woke. His clothing was soaked with sea spray, and there was sand caked in his hair and mouth. He had slept with his eyes closed, instinctively, to protect himself from the wind, the sand, and the salty sea mist. They still felt dry and gritty.
None of this mattered. He was heavily detached from the discomforts of his physical body. He stood slowly, joints stiff and creaking, and brushed sand from his clothing. He set off down the beach, not knowing what he was looking for. Even so, he knew it when he found it. A small cabin - if it could even be called that. More akin to a small tool shed, the pale grey planks of wood were rotting and crumbling, suffering from years of disuse. The door hung off its hinges, and Elrohir pulled it aside and laid it on the sand.
The smell of must assaulted him as he stepped inside. The sad remains of a wooden table and chair sat beside the cold charcoal remains of what may have once been a cook fire. The windows had once held panes of glass, but all that remained were jagged teeth, barely holding on to the frames. In the corner lay a pile of blankets. They smelled, more than anything else in this little shelter, of mould.
Elrohir did not care. He pushed the blankets aside with his boot, and they seemed to crumble and melt at his touch. His face did not even twitch into a grimace. Unbothered, he haphazardly cleared the space, and threw his own blanket on the floor. Over that he threw his cloak.
Finally, after days uncounted, he removed all of his weapons, his backpack, everything that had once belonged to him. He dropped it all on the floor, and finally unburdened, lay himself down on the blankets.
He still held Elladan’s cloak close. With a long, shuddering inhale, he finally set that too aside.
He had come as far West as he could in this state. He could move neither forward nor backward. Here he would remain, frozen in time, a living ghost, until he was able to confront his own emotions. This stasis he had locked himself in had fulfilled its usefulness, and it was time to accept everything that had come to pass.
He would very much have liked to keep those things locked up forever, but he knew it was not possible. He was no longer withholding only his pain, but all of his joys as well. He had not allowed himself to even remember his brother’s face, because any happiness it might bring him was overshadowed by the stabbing pain in his chest, and the raw wound where he was meant to be.
He couldn’t live like this - nor could he even die like this.
He didn’t know if he would survive the storm of emotion raging inside of him, but even if he didn’t, at least he would move forward. At least he could fade in his grief. He did not care if he sailed or faded, for each would bring him home in a way. It was time to wake up.
Elrohir pressed himself into the corner, huddled on the pile of blankets, and shut his eyes. He was scarcely aware of what a pathetic sight he made, but even had he known, he would not have cared. Appearances mattered very little - if at all - to Elrohir now.
Behind his eyes, he was once again sitting in his mind. Alone, it felt uncanny, and the world fell away. It was only him here. He felt tears welling in his eyes as he held up the miniature black hole. They were tears without emotion, falling without reason or permission as his body reacted to something his heart could not.
He wasn’t ready to face this, but he knew he never would be. There would never be a good time. If he wanted to continue as Elrohir, it would have to be done. He could let the pain back into him, and live or die by it. Or he could hide forever until he forgot everything, and became a nameless phantom, haunted by his own heartache.
Elrohir was not ready to give up. It was not in his character.
He took one last breath and lifted the impossibly cold, dense weight to his chest and held it close. “I’m ready now.” He murmured, and felt his heart beat again.