Eleanor, daughter of the Great Warrior Maethor, is a High Elf entrusted when she was but an infant to Finarfin, Galadriel's father. The youngling is then raised alongside Galadriel and her brothers as a member of their family.
Centuries pass in Val...
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Khazad-dûm, Middle Earth
Now that the Rite of Sigin-tarâg was over, the crowd quickly left, and Durin, Elrond and Elanor followed silently, giving the She-Elf the time to wear her armour once more.
As they walked, Elanor did her best to hide the constantly growing pain in her left leg, although Elrond had not removed his hand from between her shoulders, and the contact was oddly soothing, helping the She-Elf to think about something else.
Durin guided them through the many hallways to a large platform. As they stepped on it, the prince activated a crank that made the platform go up.
On the platform, they were alone and, unable to bear the pain anymore, Elanor collapsed to the floor with a grunt as she held her injured leg. Immediately, Elrond rushed to her.
"I told you not to do it!" He shouted angrily, although his movements were gentle and contrasted with his tone. He rolled up the bottom of her pants to see the skin of her left leg, watching the flesh around and under the sutures, red and swollen once more, and the Half-Elf swore under his breath.
"Sorry..." Elanor pitifully whispered as she placed her right hand over his shoulder, wanting to reassure him. He shook his head slightly as he took out a small pouch of cataplasm from under his cloak and started spreading it; Elanor let out a small sigh of relief as he did so.
Once he was done, Elrond turned to Durin, standing and helping Elanor to her feet. He kept her against him before delicately pressing his hand against her back.
"I never dreamed of finding your city so changed," he declared at Durin's attention.
"Now, twenty years will do that," the prince grumbled, still not looking at the Half-Elf.
"Has it been only twenty?" Elrond exclaimed, seemingly surprised. However, Durin seemed deeply scandalised by his words, even though the Half-Elf did not appear to realise it. "You must tell me your secret!"
After a brief moment of silence, Durin glanced at Elrond, then at Elanor, frowning but staying quiet.
"Durin, have I offended you?" Elrond inquired, stepping closer to the dwarf with a slightly desperate expression.
"To answer that, we'd need a longer lift."
That seemed enough to revive Elrond's anger, and his scowl deepened, his lips tightening.
"If you wish to discharge us without explanation, that is your choice," he exclaimed, and Elanor, feeling his temper taking over, placed a hand over his chest to appease him. It successfully cut him in his sudden exclamation of frustration.
"You bet your feathery shirts it is," Durin mumbled with fury.
His voice rising despite Elanor's soothing presence, Elrond exclaimed:
