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Top of head: parental affection

Míriel looked out at the large mounted crossbow on her balcony that was really more a large artifice of war, at the shattered boat in the garden below her window, and then to the side at the gagged and tied up blond haired man she had left on the couch in her small sitting room.

Then she glanced down at the mithil circlet she had been prying the settings free from around the jewel it held.

She straightened her back and put on her best virtuous martyr voice, "well in my day we didn't consider magical floating boats in the sky natural."

// I’m so sorry I don’t have my laptop currently and no photoshop x-x

The sound of Elrond’s voice brought Caranthir up sharply. He was standing in the middle of a corridor, staring vacant and lost in thought and memory at the great carved door behind which lay the archives of Imladris.

He had not yet been able to bring himself to enter.

Behind that door lay all the books of history and lore from the long Ages after his own death. Behind that door lay books written in his brothers’ hands, their own words captured there inexorable and terrible.

He had watched the tapestries for a little while, after he had died. And then he had stopped. He had drifted away from them, unable to watch the unfolding of events in which he could have no part, could affect nothing.

But all of what he’d missed was here, behind those doors.