mithril

XXVII.

— XXVII —

The Hidden Valley is brilliant against the pinks and oranges of the setting sun when we finally round the winding path between the tall, pale cliffs. Tilda's reaction to the Last Homely House of the West has me smiling. I understand the magic of Imladris. Its beauty, enchanted by the surrounding waterfalls. Now, with the pale buildings arching elegantly and framed by the sky beyond, it feels more sweet than ever. My first home, familiar as ever.

I wish I could still speak of it as coming home, but it isn't quite that anymore. Arriving in Imladris after so long is more like crossing into a comfortable village, one that is guaranteed to provide me with food and bed, yet knowing my journey will still take me beyond it.

Elrond treats us to the excellence of his home, with just as much extravagance as I have always enjoyed. The Mirkwood horses are taken care of instantly, leaving the company to be guided to our respective rooms. I find my room untouched, the various books and scrolls plastered about from my haste to pack. I was last here months ago, standing with an unnamed and common sword, thinking I would emerge from the journey unscathed. I was naive. I was foolish. Oh, if only I had known.

I sink to my knees amongst the mess, picking up the closest book. It's an ancient Elven work, singing the great song of Beren and Lúthien across its aged yellow pages. I close the book and place it onto the nearest shelf gently. I repeat this several more times until my gaze is snagged by the dresser that sits stoically next to the bookshelves. My hand is lifting to the abandoned silver circlet as a figure pauses at the open door.

Elladan leans against the frame, blocking the light from the hallway. His dark eyes are calculating. He watches my fingers brush against the cold metal before I turn and leave it behind.

"You love him."

I compose myself before looking up at my brother. His expression is guarded for only a second longer before he relaxes and regards me gently. The entire weight of the past months seems to hit me all at once. I sink onto my bed, staring blankly at the flagstone floor. Elladan moves into the room and sits next to me.

My brother. Always there for me. Always saving me. How many times had he put himself between me and danger? Elladan had known my uncle, my grandfather, and many, many more of my bloodline. He had rode beside them all. He had watched them all perish in the Wild from their mortal lives. How could he possibly retain the capability to look at me with so much care when I would end up being just a blip in his endless lifetime. A mortal girl that he treated like one of his own.

"I do," I answer softly. My hands rise to my face, rubbing at my temples as I attempt, poorly, to push away to the weight of my melancholy.

"I never thought I would see my sister choose Dwarves over Elves," he jokes. He's trying to cheer me up.

"What, you didn't look at me as a child and go...'Yes, this one will fall for a Dwarf'?" I jest, but my voice is somewhat flat. My smirk fails before it lifts the corners of my mouth.

"If I had, I would have trained you in an entirely different way." His face falls. "How are you? The wounds–"

"They ache, Elladan. They hurt every day without release. I lost a part of myself that day and I know I am emptier for it. I feel like a shell and it scares me." I hadn't fully admitted that fear to myself yet, but as the words fall from my mouth, I know they are true.

"Wars change people. The dark things you experience infiltrate your mind, taint your heart. I would not blame you for coming away from those horrors as a different person entirely."

"I don't want to be changed," I whisper. My hand drops to my chest, to the dull ache that sits there. I'm not sure when it started, but it's even worse here in Imladris. Perhaps only because I grant it attention now and not while we traveled.