half-elven.

––– this is a selective, queue-based rp blog for elladan peredhel from tolkien’s legendarium. a lot of his story is based on headcanons, given the lack of tangible material for elladan.

i go by luca ( he/him ), i’m a trans guy, born in april ‘95. my first language is dutch, but i’ve been rping on tumblr in english since 2011. i tend to lightly format my replies with small text, and use icons unless my partner doesn’t. nsfw isn’t likely to occur here, but it’ll be tagged appropriately if so.

i also write on @mindsmade and @forceblinded.

A smirk cracks, a single canine flashing with the chuckle that escapes from gaining his muted ire. Black chrome fingers tap thrice on the sleek table before leaning back in her chair, relaxing. “Touché.” Minor praise is lobbed for the curt remark, not minding someone with bite and actually preferring it. How precarious it must be to contract hop from one corp to the next and not feel suspicious eyes ever watching. 

Retrieving her datapad, she turns it on and effortlessly twirls it once her hand before sliding it along to table towards him. On it, military grade product designs with MetaCorp’s branding. “Some interesting products confiscated from a DTR shipment before you were headhunted. None are on the list you provided, however.” Leaning back once more, fingers leave the datapad for him to peruse. “We just want to know a little more about MetaCorp’s foray into camouflage technology. Or was that not your sector?” This is all preliminary. The first red flag before a deeper dive.

      Dan catches that grins and mirrors it, albeit slightly less lop-sidedly. He’s glad he’s correctly pegged her as the type to take no joy in lukewarm acquiescence in conversation. No bite, no fun — and as capable as she must be at carrying out orders notwithstanding any reluctance on her end, he reckons it best to pique her interest positively. Boring her to death will have to be a close plan B — yet only if he can guarantee it won’t lead her straight to his doorstep ( so to speak ).

His prior reticence on the subject she cannot fault. Of war they did speak, of the opposing sides and of wounds still fresh. Why reopen those long sutured and breed anew discontent between them. Spindly pale fingers retreat from tracing the ink on parchment, which gives a vague outline of the battle in Calenardhon. The inaccuracies of her people jarring but expected. Gaze falling aside, she crosses her arms, shoulders hunching, as if growing languid in her will to answer.  

“My eyes are as keen as yours.” So starts, a voice quieted as if wanting no one else to hear the words spared. When alone with him, conversing seems forbidden — this pact between former enemies suspect to all else. “Far afield they could see on a day not occluded by the haunt of fog. But I also felt a change of the wind in that moment of your charge. So I went towards it against better judgment.” On a stolen horse the Pultai charged, its former rider disemboweled by their curved blade.

Her eyes may still be keener than his, in fact. His and his brother’s senses have at times failed where their full-blooded kin’s succeeded. He cannot guess the effect of Vezely’s corruption on her physical capabilities, however — so he refrains from guessing altogether. The situation at hand demands his attention far more urgently than his interest in her. That might just mark a first since her arrival many moons ago.

           It is a strange thing, that despite admitting that not much time was spent together, he still held those memories of him, and could recall him clearly–even moreso than herself, his own daughter. It was not how she expected this visit to Rivendell to go. But an opportunity she had never thought of before now lie in front of her, the search for knowledge of gardening forgotten, and turns to her father instead.

        Though her hopes at first soar at the confirmation, then fall a bit at the admission that they were not often together in the same company, it was better than nothing. For most those who had spent time with him were no longer living, or she had simply not met them yet, scattered as the Rangers are. She did not let the lack of time spent together dampen her spirits, instead glancing upon Elladan with a newfound hope. Why had she never thought to ask sooner?

       “Anything!” She breathed, her eagerness clear for how quickly she had answered. But she reined herself in, apologizing quietly. “It’s just–” How could she put into words, what sorrow she carried so heavily? Would he even understand the grief that came with forgetting one so dear? “It’s been so long. I was a child when he passed. The memories…they become harder to recall, as the years go by.” She pauses, composing herself in the following silence. What she would give to remember his voice, his face clearly. But it was not to be so.

     Where to start? There were so many things she wanted to know, and she pondered over the thoughts that threatened to overwhelm her. But one came to mind, and with a curious glint in her eye, she turned to him. “Did he ever speak to you of me? When I was a child?” She was only a few years younger than Aragorn, and her father had lived longer than his–surely he might’ve mentioned her? “Or do you have any stories of him, that you can remember?”

How he wishes now he could say they were close friends, indeed. Companions they were, perhaps, even if only at chosen times. He and Barandir ( and many others ) bonded in the presence of Arathorn, as has nigh always been true with most chieftains. They united their people, and Elladan and Elrohir were all too eager to be included and soak up the sense of belonging amongst them so. Créa’s eagerness coaxes forth memories he had long ago shelved. They feel like stray recollections from a recent past; events he would not soon deem relevant these days without prompting. Yet she prompts him — or her questions do, at least, so he digs deeper.

At length, a vague smile touches upon his face.  ❛  Of course he did.  ❜  What kind of father would he have been if he had not fawned over his beloved child? One unworthy of the title, in Elladan’s mind.  ❛  Admittedly, I only saw him twice when you were young. Once when you were but a babe, some weeks old, and once …  ❜  some months prior to his passing. His smile melts away, revealing the incongruity between what was meant to be a heartening answer, yet turned out a dour account hinting towards Barandir’s death. He shakes the thought and the feeling that engulfs him with it. Créa’s second query grants him the needed opportunity to steer the conversation elsewhere.

Chin lifts and she lets her head lull back to one side, nonchalantly soaking in his words and taking the cool demeanor he fronts for what it is. No one wants to be told to get lost, even if it comes from a vague concern. Besides, what exactly would she tell his superiors if not to throw him under the bus and possibly incriminate herself along with it. With the cover ups he’s given her over the past year, it’s not hard to imagine the rope they’ve tied to each others ankles with a weight large enough to take them to the bottom of the River Thames. The problem is, if she goes through with her own plan to exit this mess, it’s possible she could take him and his job with it. 

The thought is brushed aside. He finishes his speech and she sits in silence until the pause irritates her enough to move. She ungracefully lifts from her chair, the rubber soles of her combat boots squeak as she pivots to walk away from the table to the windowed wall. The view of the London skyline draws her face away from reading his expression. Arms cross and shoulders hunch; her posture be damned. 

“Fine,” she sighs, her voice lacking energy. “I won’t say anything. Just, watch your back huh, for your sake, not mine.” Eyes corner but do not make contact. She hates that she cares at all and so she changes the subject (as if it’d go away). “You don’t suppose they’d let me out for a smoke?”

     Her change isn’t limited to her demeanour, he hears. Even her vocabulary’s different — looser, if he had to label the casual usage of ‘huh‘ in any way. It detracts from the attention he pays to the actual content of her message. She might think he’s ignored it entirely, given the total silence he winds up lingering in. As the memory of her warning fades, Dan takes in the sight of her again. All he can think to himself is whether he has a right to feel played. Fooled, perhaps, would be the better word, and even then he can’t rightfully blame her.

        One’s true colours show when cornered as she was for over a year — or so they say. In this instance, he doubts whether it’s as universal a truth as everyone always claims it to be: Vezely’s shown herself more likely to take on another’s colours ( so to speak ) than stay true to her own. He wonders who her smooth-talking persona was based on all this time.

The weeks in captivity stretch and she is tired, more tired than she felt on route. It’s akin to forgoing sleep for a fortnight, but yet she is sleeping more than usual. Blankly she stares, the hum of the waterfalls ever in her aural periphery and the lulling sway of a gentle breeze caresses her back and this place with air that smells vaguely of flowers. In her hand sits a long black lacquer pipe; a pinch from her dwindling batch of her kretek smoldering in its golden bowl. To the voice, she is slow to turn, but familiarity tells her it is him, the half-elf lord returned and … was he trying to find her?

Chin lifts, lithe body pivots, and eye contact is made finding similar familiarity. “Was it?” So starts a dry retort, a single brow lifting. “It seems with your home rather busy of late, installing a proper dungeon has been pushed back.” She smirks before mouth takes to inhaling from her pipe and exhaling a moment later through the side of her mouth.

         The stark contrast Vez poses to her surroundings renders looking away difficult. Saturated colours surround them, but she lacks them entirely. The one element he would not deem dreary, is the particular part of her personality she exposes him to: humour. It is wry, and perhaps even offensive in the eyes of many. Elladan does not consider it so, which compels him to return the smirk that darts across her face.

Acknowledgment of his expectations being met curve thin lips into a smart smile — he knows his contract with Arasaka comes with certain addendums. She’d get straight to that point if the crack about the weather didn’t gain a huff of a laugh. “Now that would be my sister’s forte.” The one who skews more Brit cannot help herself when it comes to some perfunctory weather chitchat. “And everyone in Night City likes to complain about it. But they haven’t been out of their little bubble to know anything else.” Worldly is not a trait she’d use to describe the average NC denizen. “At least I know you’ve been elsewhere.”

“I just need to go over some intel you provided when you were brought on that doesn’t entirely match up to our own. But I get it.” Dryly she drawls in feigned understanding. “Sometimes our memories are faulty.”

     He’d make his agreement with her statement known, if not for their implied decision not to engage in small talk. So he chooses to wait for her to get to the actual matter at hand instead, adjusting himself in his chair in the meantime. His body straightens to fit more seamlessly against the back rest of the chair, hands loosely clasping in his lap. He tries to look as relaxed as possible and, in a way, he almost starts to believe he is. Though he’s far from safe here, the fact that Arasaka’s bloodhounds are sniffing around him means they haven’t found anything concretely incrimindating ( yet ).

      “Oh, I’ll put it into law, alright,” she elbowed him gently, unable to hide the amused expression he brought forth with his words. “And your punishment will be to organize the lore halls of Minas Tirith.” Forever and a day he would wander those halls, enraptured with all the history and knowledge of yore, knowing very well it would not be a punishment to him, however long and arduous the task.

      But their jesting aside, it was true how strange the last few decades had been. So much had happened in a long yet short amount of time, and though her lifespan was gifted through the blood of her ancestors, it would compare little to the span of his, and his views of it. In her youth she might have tried to understand, and struggle she did. It was simply beyond her understanding as a mortal to envision his experiences.

       Elladan she knew very well. He was not as apt to stir trouble as his brother, nor ruffle feathers, for he was thoughtful and kind, well meaning to all. But such a question held the opposite weight for her, discomfort flitting across her face at his words.

       She shifted her weight, grey eyes cast upwards to glance at the dark clouds of smoke and ash that choked out the moon and stars. How did she answer? Lies did not sit well with her and those who knew her often could see through them; but loathe was she to be honest. She did not want to think of such heavy topics the night before they might meet their doom, for though she knows if they win all will be the better, but their lives will be forever changed–one she is not quite ready for, even after all this time. The fear of admitting that she is selfish and unprepared to face such realities keeps her from being entirely honest. Her ancestors would be ashamed of her.

       Silence sits heavily between them, and Créa draws her arms closer to herself. “I love the North,” she whispers, after a long while. “It’s been my home for many years, and is dear to me. And…and though the life of a Ranger has always been rife with suffering and hardships, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. That freedom to travel, and see so many wonders. To have purpose and duty beside my kin.” How she ached to see the shores of a land she may never see again.

      “It doesn’t matter if I’m ready or not,” she said gravely, her heart heavy in her chest, gaze downcast. “Duty will always come first.”

       Créa’s unease is palpable. It sticks to him like grime — unwanted, and yet too dense to wipe off without smearing it all over himself. Equally so, his regret quickly proves stubborn. He had thought it a joyous occasion to look forward to; something to aid her as they face their doom and seek to overcome it. To learn it is likely to prove quite the opposite notwithstanding the love that tethers her to the challenge that awaits, startles Elladan into silence. His eyebrows knit together in thought, gaze fixated upon her contemplative features.

         There is always more to these matters than meets the eye. Pity saturates his expression, and shame for having brought the subject to an already troubled mind averts his gaze from her. Not until a few seconds later, after heaving a sigh, does he find the courage to look at her again. His face remains awash with sympathy, yet as always, he is intent on finding the positive in something painted out as something unforgivingly negative.  ❛  No one ever said you could never go back to the North. Depending on what happens in the coming days, the long-lost City of Kings in the north will require recuperation.  ❜  A smile finds his features somewhere halfway into that phrase, yet he fears it will not suffice. If she is to become homesick or simply wary of sitting still, she will suffer in Gondor long before anyone can afford looking to the north once more.

“It seems —“ Unsteady voice pauses, will for a more benign tongue. It is as if the comfortable loquaciousness formed between them over these past months yawned and snapped as a faulty branch in the wind. Quieted eyes seek his but fall short to stare at the elaborate silver brooch clasping his high collar, overtly aware of the ways his gaze grasps hers sans hope of escape. It is not without a want to be drowned in him, but rather a need for clarity of her tenuous position here among his people.

Thin lips strain into a frown, head canting as strength to face that which she suddenly fears finds her. Sight searches his, refusing the pull for now. “It seems remarkable in its unlikeliness. An unforeseen and thereafter unknown occurrence which I presume, hastened our defeat.” Emotions are dull; removed as she prefers to be from her past. “I can mark the outlines of your visage on the grass-swept fields. Giants among flaxen-haired men and Gondorian silver.”

     Elladan’s eyes strain against the urge to lower once she looks at him again. The shame of not having been as forthcoming as he should have is out to crush him. It may yet do so, as he thoroughly considers his recognition of the reason behind his lack of total transparency: to keep her near. The incongruence plaguing Vezely has always been present, but with the pull drawing them ever nearer one another, it seems to burgeon. Every part of her that wishes to stay, seems upset by reluctance to upset the balance he has created for his people — and himself, perhaps most importantly.

Head shakes at his apology, eyes cornering on the outline of her tea cup once more. Her knees accidentally brush his in the process. He always apologizes when there’s really no need for it. “I’m sure it will be last minute with no time to make arrangements.” Bitterness hangs to her husky tone; a tongue already bitter from cigarettes. 

This morning provided a jarring flashback to being arrested a year prior. The ambush of officers escorting her to Vauxhall Cross left no time to change her casual attire. No time to don the doll face and professionally chic clothes of her half-sister and mime the facade of a respectable office lady. She looks rough, rougher than some of her worst nights this past year where conversations with him brought her some semblance of calm. Deceiving him is unfortunate but necessary. 

“And how do you plan to do that, hm?” Gaze swings back, beseeching his as a gentler plea forms from a place of concern more than anything. Concern for him in all this. “You’ve done a lot for me, Dan.” His first name still feels strange to say (it’s too personal though they’ve gotten personal), but the admittance does not. He’s done more than he rightly should. “But I think it’s best if you move on from my case before it gets messy again. I’m going to put a request in with your superiors. I want you off my case.” Not that they’ll listen but a point needs to be made.

         He doesn’t outwardly react to the brush of their knees – not beyond letting his eye momentarily fall upon what was the point of contact a second prior. Inwardly, he curses how his heart flutters. It is what it is; he can neither prevent nor change it now. His attention shifts back to her face, where he’s met with similar neutrality. Perhaps Vezely’s expression even veers into the disgruntled. Understandable, that, though his empathy makes it no easier to accept her displeasure. Another member of the team might have had no such difficulty, but he’s long past indifference ( if ever he’s felt such a thing to begin with ).

            Not until her acknowledgement of his efforts does he outwardly pull a face attesting to his bemused anticipation, for appreciative though he is, it seems like a but is inbound. And it is — and not just any, at that. His frown visibly deepens, digging a deep burrow between his eyebrows. For a second or two, he stares at her like so, in complete and utter silence with nothing but the subtle thrum of the AC to break the silence ( or emphasise it, perhaps ).

            Then he looks away, straightening up and reclining into his chair. He’s not sure if it’s her need for distance he’s acquiescing, or the sudden onset of his own. After inhaling sharply, he states:  ❛  You can do that.  ❜  A pause ensues, in which he crosses one leg over the other, his posture closing.  He briefly wonders whether he should ask her why.  ❛  But the head of the operation will want to know why, for administrative purposes and for considerations on whether a suitable replacement is available. Your generosity towards me won’t suffice.  ❜

       He and Elrohir have scarcely returned, and already they must prepare for their next journey. The fate of many of their impromptu visitors will, yet the one that arrived before all others remains uncertain. Vez, the crow that wandered too far from her murder in the east, is held captive, still — yet the circumstances seem different now compared to when he departed Rivendell weeks ago. Though free she is not, it seems she is allowed now to step outside, albeit under unwavering scrutiny from the Imladrim. That, at least, has not changed. The air of unease surrounding her remains unchanged, even at a distance.

No matter of outright finger pointing will find her at his side. For now, she blames herself for accepting that deal one year ago, being led to believe then that once she did her part she’d be free of both the SIS and the triad. Of course, having to do things the former’s way just left it open to negligence. She needs to disappear, her name along with herself, but they won’t let that happen. Instead, she’s going to be locked in some faulty witness protection system for a limited period of time. 

She shakes her head, a smile flickering on dry lips as chin turns to look at him. Her eyes smudged in black, her dress not office attire but cargo pants and combat boots. This is the real her she hardly allowed him to see. Gone is the facade of the perfectly dressed office lady to throw off both the SIS and triad of her doings. The swivel of the chair follows, bringing them knee to knee. 

“Don’t strain yourself in this.” Concern or whatever it is. Shouldn’t he have moved on to another case by now? Why is he still in London? “But I know these people. Was these people. If it’s not tomorrow or next week, it will be in a year from now or four. Driving home from the grocery store or getting the mail.” A single bullet to the head if she’s lucky. She scoffs, the need for a smoke grows. “They want to move me.” Or at least that was mentioned in the prior meeting of their so-called plan. “Do you know where and when?”

      She was these people? That gives him pause more so than her dismissal — or her general coolness around him. Perhaps time had more profound an effect on her feelings about him than it did on his towards her. It is a disappointing conclusion, if he can come to that, even if the sensible part of him deems it relieving. The ties that once bound are no longer. Well, those ties in specific; the ones that rendered saying goodbye those months ago quite as mutually uneasy as it was. The ties that brought them together in the first place seem to exist, still. She wouldn’t be here otherwise ( and neither would he ).

        Dan regards her in silence for a moment, though not entirely consciously. He’s still trying to catch up with what she just said — whilst keeping himself from folding back in on himself and his intrusive thoughts. There’s a pit in his stomach that renders it difficult, however.   ❛  I do,  ❜  he answers at length, shaking his head to break his discomfort’s hold on him.

For this round of banter, the lord does not bite back and for that, the emissary stands surprised. If not for the tensing of a single eyebrow and stalling of response to his next inquiry, it might go unnoticed. Dull in their ordinary grayness and in direct opposition to his piercing pale orbs, eyes question a presumed turn towards corruption. It is not by sorcery that her life finds longevity, but by blood kept hidden. That her path is not of the righteous, is a matter of opinion.

“My intentions are not good for me, but a choice in the matter, I have none.” Near the periphery of the door she walks, her arms still crossed about her chest, stalling there as if to say perhaps their conversation is near the end. “One is beholden to the allegiances they swear, forcibly or not. My labor signed away and what is left but blood on my hands and maybe some coin in my pocket.” The corruption he speaks of, perhaps, began when the ashes of the dead painted her forehead in the name of Maladûm, the Pultic god of war and Sauron in disguise?

Lithe form pivots, chin lifting as she stares back at him; dignity for whatever she’s become perseveres regardless. “I am just trying to survive as everyone else. Perhaps when you speak to your father of the words I spared, you might tell him my fate is inconsequential. Once I exchange what I am bid to tell this Istari, kill me or preferably let me go to die on my own terms. It matters not to the sanctity of your enclave.” Which, she believes, will fall along with the rest of the West once Mordor is unleashed.

      Perhaps he should have phrased it differently, then. He foregoes voicing his thoughts on the literal interpretation of his question, as he cannot rightly blame the intruder for it. ‘Good ‘ is not as clearly defined a term as he wish it were, anyway. What seems righteous to her, will undoubtedly appear the opposite to him. The same might apply vice-versa, if only her apathy would yield. More straightforward his language will be if it must as such.

        For now, though, words may well be futile. Indeed, when faced with a wall of indifference, no fruitful conversation can be had. Perhaps to provoke something in her, then, he foregoes engaging yet again — even if the proclaimed sanctity of this enclave is one of two things that will keep her alive so long as she is here. More importantly, their knowledge of her ancestry will prevent her blood from being shed by them even well outside the borders of Imladris.

Laugh is sequestered but it cracks a smirk on slightly chapped lips. She’s still not used to being known by that relation. Rather it’s her father, sitting in charge of the ECC division of Arasaka Bank, that people connect her to. NC is not the ECC, however. “That’s right. We share the same father.”

 A chrome hand comes to nonchalantly rest next to her coffee cup; she leans in. “She’s either a good or bad acquaintance to make considering her dept.” Oh, she knows Brianne called him in for questioning on his security clearances a week ago — it was her request to do so. “But this is not about her, more so a campaign I’m in charge of. Metacorp is on my radar.”

    The reference to her ( and Brianne’s ) father sounds clinical. Do they share nothing but their innate blood-bond then? It’s a thought he’d further mull over if the circumstances hadn’t put him so on edge. The matter’s dropped within a second as such, making the other’s effort to grab his attention all the more effective in all its effortlessness. It takes but a mention of MetaCorp to have him on high alert, even if the inquiry is to be expected.