Jason Todd's Kris

And it’s even funnier with Elros because this guy wasn’t just raised by elves, he was raised by—due to kidnap-adoption circumstance—the fucking Noldor of all elves. Not just any Noldor but a son of Fëanor, freshly departed from the courtly halls of Aman. They invented the world ‘nostalgia’ when the guy who wrote the dictionary took one look at Maglor Fëanorian. What’s more, he grew up in what was the most devastating war the world had ever seen. So I am sure that Elros’ views are somewhat archaic at best. He makes your extremely conservative grandpa sound like Che Guevera.

Oh, and elves are technically hardier etc, so any time there’s a shortage in Númenor this guy is literally out here saying ‘let them eat cake’ and genuinely means it well, because he, Elros Tar-Minyatur, has on multiple occasions survived by eating one small bite of cake a day. I just know that in the last fifty years of his reign, he blanket vetoed every single workplace hazard control measure because he thinks ‘health and safety has gone mad’. He doesn’t see the point of paving a road. He tries to outlaw whatever the Númenorean version of a miniskirt is and his daughter has to literally threaten him out of it. The whole ‘dancing bears’ thing happened because the wrong people caught Elros and his hunting buddies having yet another post-hunt cock measuring competition and afterparty at the ripe young age of 250 and the royal PR team had to come up with something. And does his language shift and adapt to the needs of society? Absolutely not. In his last decade, 80% of his vocabulary is considered a slur.

And the cherry on this cake? The cherry on this cake is the fact that, once again canonically, my guy Elros was pretty young and spry until he was literally dying. And I assume that meant he also looked pretty young and spry because there’s no way for a human body to look 500 years old. So imagine sitting in at the royal council trying to, idk, bring forth the idea of indoor plumbing and the crankiest old man stands up and gives a speech about how in HIS day people just shat in a pot under the bed and emptied it the next day and HE’S five hundred years old so CLEARLY it’s not going to kill people to not have a sewage system. “I pissed in a pot the day I was born and I pissed in a pot this morning, and I’ll piss in a pot on my deathday” and you can’t even go ‘okay grandpa time for bed’ and wheel him out. Because he’s 6’4 and built like a brick shithouse and has the smoothest skin you have ever seen. ‘Grandpa’ would put you in a fucking headlock if you tried to wheel him to bed. ‘Grandpa’ is your king.

Also the fact that he just randomly decided to die at 500. My personal headcanon here is that that was the morning he woke up with his first hangover ever. He has spent 400 years drinking and fucking and eating enough for ten people and one fine morning he wakes up with a mildly dry mouth and a slight headache. Motherfucker marches off to his son’s room, throws the door open, fucking yeets the crown onto his head, and promptly lays down to die because a world in which he, Elros Tar-Minyatur, is subject to a mild hangover, is not a world which he, Elros Tar-Minyatur, wishes to occupy.

Think about that. The Peredhel line, mired in tragedy, sunk neck deep in mortal consequences and political suicides and passive endurance. And this one guy, who one hundred percent had a fuckchair that he used to his dying day, who chose to die when he did purely because his life was fucking great and he wanted to go out on a high.

What a hopeful mythos!!!

Curufin bites back the urge to snap at her. He does not know what game she is playing, smiling at him as though they are friends, but that he wants no part of it. “I would not want to intrude on your conversation,” he says, trying to pull away, but her grip only tightens. 

“Not at all,” says Galadriel, in a cheerfully bright tone that does not match the ice in her eyes. “You see, we were just talking about Tylepë.”

“Oh?” That catches Curufin's attention. His son, newly reembodied, currently rests in Lórien. Sauron had damaged him far beyond what even Nienna could repair, and so it is up to Estë to continue the long work of healing his soul. 

“Aiwener has some opinions about his return to life,” continues Galadriel, gesturing at the other elf. “I think you’d find them fascinating.”

“I was only voicing a concern,” says Aiwener. Curufin has never seen him before and sizes him up quickly. The other elf is young, Vanyarian from his style of dressing, and clearly a fool in how he does not seem to recognize who Curufin is. 

“Really?” Curufin’s smile sharpens. “Do share.”

“It is only,” says Aiwener, “that he was held captive by the Enemy for so long and in such a brutal capacity. Sauron did all he could to break into his mind. How do we know that such evil does not still linger within him, waiting to take root and destroy our blessed land? Even a single seed of Sauron’s malice could blossom into terrible fruit if left unchecked. Would it not be better for the Valar to unravel his soul entirely?”

“You would erase him?” Curufin’s voice matches Galadriel’s now: false cheer that barely masks the fire beginning to burn beneath his tongue. 

“I would sacrifice him for the greater good, yes,” says Aiwener. He frowns, unhappy with Curufin’s clear dislike of the idea. “You don’t agree?”

“Not at all,” says Curufin. “You, cousin?”

“I disagree with the idea as well,” she says. 

Curufin is not surprised. Celebrimbor has always been the one Fëanorian that Galadriel has always loved, even before everything between their families broke so disastrously. And why wouldn’t he be? Who could not love Celebrimbor, brilliant and brave and better than all the rest of them put together?

But Aiwener does not understand. “I can see why Lady Artanis would be against such a thing, for her wide heart and merciful nature are well known. But why - ” he turns to Curufin “- do you care if he lives or fades to nothing?”

“I am his father,” says Curufin, and he lets some of the fire loose upon that last word. Let’s his eyes blaze as he glares back at this elf who would dare threaten his child. 

Aiwener’s mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for air before managing to stumble out “I see my friend excuse me.” He all but runs away from them, and it is only then that Galadriel releases Curufin’s arm. 

“Ignorant fool,” she mutters. A server passes by them and she snags two glasses of white wine. 

“Indeed,” says Curufin, accepting one of the glasses from her. “I’m surprised he did not know who I was.”

Galadriel scoffs. “Aiwener is young and extremely ignorant of history. Still, that does not stop him from being full of fears.”

“And judgement.” Curufin narrows his eyes. Aiwener has become lost in the crowd, but it wouldn’t be hard to find out more information about him. “Should I be worried?”

“Perhaps,” says Galadriel. She stares down into her wine as though it is her scrying mirror. “He is not the only one to have shared such an idea, only the most vocal. I have heard whispers of a petition collecting support for the idea.”

The thought of losing his son again, in an even worse and final way, makes Curufin’s blood boil. “Your father would not accept such a thing.”

“He wouldn’t,” says Galadriel, “but the petition is not for him.”

“Manwë.” Damn them all! Would Celebrimbor never be allowed peace? Years of courage and sacrifice and being good, all counted for nothing due to a few paranoid, ignorant fools. “We cannot allow that to happen.”

“No,” agrees Galadriel, “we cannot.”

She raises her glass and Curufin touches his against it. Seals their unlikely alliance with that sharp, bright sound.