terminally millennial

"I will return and find them this night," said he,

"I must." The Lord of Menegroth, who still warmed his hands by the bonfire, lifted his eyes to the Herald whose clothes had barely begun to dry. The rain now showered onto the raised tents the hunting party had raised to keep out of the storm. Lord Amnir sat upon a felled tree, whereas Elrond stood—crossed-armed and with his eyes transfixed upon the fire.

"You cannot go now," contested he with a look of apprehensiveness, "The woodland will be ravaged. However will you guide a horse through it? You had seen the earth slip and sink beneath my feet." The Herald did not answer.

"And the storm is yet to still—wait at least until the coming of morning, Herald Elrond. I plead with you."

Elrond stilled his features and held his gaze low as to conceal that he held no intention of minding his Lordship's words. He could not afford to wait so long—to let the King over all Elven Realms remain unfound for such length.

Amnir relented his stare upon the elf when no response followed on his behalf.

"...The king is my responsibility. I cannot rest without knowing whether he is well and alive." answered Elrond then, without meeting the Lord's eye.

"I do not understand why he went after her." muttered Amnir as he shifted upon the stem, inching closer to the flame. Elrond cast his eyes unto him and saw the fire throw warm light and soft shadow upon his face.

"It was not as if they knew another—at least not to my knowledge." Elrond remained silent. He knew differently, even if he knew not all of their history. Somewhere behind the worry that clouded his heart was anger. Anger at the King's thoughtlessness—the lack of hesitation behind his decision to follow her without granting the action even an instant of reflection. When he had come upon them in the woods, he'd felt something between the two. Something charged.

Something unfinished.

Whether they had been in conflict? He did not know. All he knew was that nobody could know.  But now and here, as he watched the last remnants of day fade away, Elrond knew the King's brusque action would waken the exact opposite of disinterest in anyone that would hear of it if he acted uncarefully now. He had to find them.

"Take some sustenance with you?"  Elrond ceased to tighten the saddle of his horse and turned to find Amnir watching him prepare for departure.

"I will not need it." He smiled, "I do not intend on resting. Not until I have found him."

"You will ride all night?"

Elrond nodded. "Until morning," said he, " and noon... if I must." Amnir answered not this time—only nodded in acceptance, before he receded a step.

"I shall await your return."

Elrond returned his farewell with a nod of his own. Then, without another word, he rode out into the rain without looking back.  Covering his head at first with the leathern hood of his cape, Elrond rode with a restless, ruminating mind. The wind still whipped frail twigs and foliage, and the rain still fell with force. But alas, the thunders seemed to grow ever more distant into the deep of night. Sharpening his eye, he watched for blocks in the road, sudden pits and hollows, manoeuvring his horse through waterlogged soil and mud, knowing that what he saw now under the black veil of the night was only the half of it.  The storm had carried such violence, such rage that it had somehow felt as though it had been born from the anger of the Gods. He'd felt it even more when he had found himself in its midst. Only at his arrival in the camp had he noticed the scratches flying twigs and pebbles had marked into the back of the hand he'd extended to rescue Lord Amnir from his fall.

This storm could have taken, yes—could have killed anything it wanted to. He could only wish it hadn't.  In the deep blue of early twilight, he began to perceive the mist rising from the wet ground beneath him... and the ravages of the after. The hanging limbs of leaning trees, stripped of their bark or robbed of the vivid moss that had once coated them, surrounded him. Long-travelled paths lay buried beneath scattered twigs and foliage; torn leaves and rogue pine needles carpeted the ground.  He heard no bird raise its voice to welcome the new day; the forest was cursed with an awful and strange silence. A distinct silence. One that followed after ruin.

Yes, thought Elrond to himself as he looked about.

Loss and sorrow hung in the damp, earthy air.

"Noro, roch nin." whispered the Herald as he patted the beast's neck to go on.  "Noro."

He laid the palm of his hand upon hers, intertwining their fingers as he guided it onto his back. She was lost in the warm embrace of his lips upon her own, sedated by the pleasure that bloomed from his tender, loving, deep strokes. Between her thighs, he gardened this carnal flowering, coveting her elation by every thrust and every caress... every kiss he placed against her flesh. Through fluttering eyes she watched the fire beside them dance, flicker—and glow ever brighter.  His deep eyes were brimmed with passion; replete with a pure, almost innocent desire. In them too, glimmered a freedom, one which only livened in his eyes when he lookedat her. Ardent thrill, hot and titillating, sprung from the core of him and began to claim every inch of his flesh. Its intensity unravelled the kiss he'd pressed unto her forehead into stripped and vulnerable soughs. Spirituous tears trailed from his eyes as he closed them and surrendered himself to the feeling. Her voice, sweet and raw, found his ear as his hands enveloped her. Gasping out loud from the burning sension that began to weaken him, he cushioned his shallow breaths in her naked shoulder. Sensing the tips of her fingernails trail across the tremoring muscles of his back and the sensitive nape of his neck sent exhilarating shivers through him.

Locking her raised, trembling legs around him, she sunk her nails into the dimples of the quaking, sweat-pearled median of his back.

Aligning her face to his own, his hands rose to cradle her flushed cheeks, caressing them with such fervour that the sensation steepened the throbbing and burning roiling he nursed by his fervent, amorous thrusts. Then her lips parted, and she fought for air to breathe.

"My love..." muttered she in their tongue.

"My heart." answered he between her sighs and cracking whimpers. "Look at me." A tear trailed from his eye and joined the fleeting droplet that trailed from her own as she opened them.  And in their joined voices, in their joint bliss and sorrow, their coming, forceful as the storm itself, touched them as thunder had touched the ether. 

     "High-King!" called Elrond as he stirred the beast about,

     "High-King!"  The storm had ceased; now poured only the rain. And there came no answer to his call, neither appreared traces in the earth that one could follow into sight. No. There arrived no relief to his worry. It was as though he'd vanished into thin air. Consternated, Elrond removed his hood and caught his breath in silence. Bittered, he closed his eyes and grit the teeth behind his tightened jaws. Forgetting too, to breathe, when his horse suddenly stopped without his command.

Forced to open them, he found himself gazing upon an abrupt and sudden hollow that had concealed itself behind low bushes. At the sight of the eroded slope, the Herald's heart froze with new fear.

Wide-eyed, he stared down into the open depth and found nothing. There in its midst leaned a stricken tree—its bark, black and charred to the wood—and suddenly he thought what if he had gotten hurt?  What if he had fallen and found himself buried under the dirt the torrent had gathered in this wide pit? His heart trembled, skipping a beat in his chest before it, by terror anew, regained its beating.

"H..High-King!" yelled he as he quickly dismounted the horse, stepping so close that his own footing began to slip at its edge.

"High King!" repeated he, ready to bruise his hands on the thorned bushes to make his way down the hollow. His eyes began to burn with tears when only the sound of his own voice ricocheted yet again to answer him.

"High Ki—" began he, yet unexpectedly came to a strange pause as the cry died at the tip of his tongue.

Elrond stared half affright when by his frenzied, searching eyes he perceived out of his left corner the dark shape of a haven not far away,

concealed behind the thickening mist.

By its reins had he bound the horse before marching on alone. His steps upon the wilting fallen leaves—slow, as though he approached the keep in uncertainty—in doubt of whether what he saw was not simply a mirage, appeared in a moment of despair.  The rain fell still, yet in that moment the Herald seemed to have forgotten his hood and cloak. The precipitation had matted his brown hair to his head and darkened the turquoise silk of his tunic. As he now found himself in the mist, the uneasiness he'd first felt as he'd beheld the hold slowly faded. Yet and still, as he advanced with his hand upon the hilt of his sword, he asked himself why he'd only seen it so suddenly... and not before. He did not recognize this keep. He knew he had not been everywhere, hadn't seen every inch of the King's realm. But he had entered those same woods before. Never had he noticed what seemed to be an abandoned structure in these parts. Neither had the king ever mentioned such a build. "Was it abandoned?", he wondered, looking down the narrow hollow on each of his sides as he crossed the bridge. Its high, wooden doors came into view, and he told himself that they must be heavy and difficult to open on one's own—even more so against the ferocious winds of a storm.  "Maybe he hadn't been alone—maybe he'd found her."And the king was of strong build.  "... He could have managed.", said he to himself, despite knowing it to be more of a hope than certainty. There was no new trace of contact to be found upon the entrance. But maybe there had been, he thought—maybe the storm had faded the marks as quickly as they had been left.

Elrond exhaled, becoming still and hearing the rain fall around him. Then, he slowly raised his hands and placed them against the left panel, feeling its coarse and worn surface against his palm and fingers. He hoped, as he braced himself to push it open, that the King was behind those doors

Alone? Or with her? He could not give thought to.  All his time by his side, Elrond had never truly thought about his Liege as anything else than the King—mightiest between the mountain and the sea—something else entirely than a being. Capable of severity, of regret, but not of anger or sorrow. Of pride, yet not happiness. Not in need of companionship.  Incapable of errors or acts of compulsion.

But he was wrong—and had been cruel in his assumptions. Realizing it now, he understood not why he'd seen him so. The moments of the hunt and thereafter then repeated again in his mind.  He'd been angry; he'd seen it yet refused to recognize it as such. He knew the King's anger; it was silent—still.  "And she", thought he, "had seemed the same..."

Friends, he thought. Old friends—parted for so many significant years that only estrangement could've remained of any former bond they'd shared.

What could have been said between two people who no longer knew one another that could've led to such dim ambience? Such strife? Such consequence?

Abhor? Could it live between people who'd cared so much for one another in their lifetimes? The Herald, suddenly cognisant of his nascent and callow eye upon the world, held not the answers. And yet, the consequences of those mysteries weighed heavy upon his shoulders, for their discovery by another, less loyal, risked bringing great toil to the court. Whatever waited behind those onerous doors, Elrond hoped, would be the very least of what he surmised. And so, drawing a deep breath, moved the great entrance with all the strength he could muster.

At its opening, Elrond stared into a corridor, broad and dim from the lack of light.  Placing one foot across the threshold, the Herald would find himself between the sound of softly falling rain and the silence of vacuity.  Staring and holding the door open as he searched, he at last exhaled. A small fog came from his lips.

But he saw no one... and found nothing. 

Yet he felt warmth—of an intensity which could not have endured in a long lorn structure as this. Fully stepping inside, he latched his eye onto the first torch that sparked a flame on its own. One after the other then followed, coming alight and guiding his gaze down the corridor until their flare belit a door at its end.  Its old wood bore equally old and chipping colour; the image or pattern no longer recognizable, even less in the dimness of the place. Elrond's stare broke when the rain which dripped off his hair and cloak, caused—to him—audible sounds as they met the plastered floor beneath his feet. He felt suddenly too aware of his own presence and the risk of being noticed by whatever lay on the other side of those doors—or was otherwise present in the keep.  Calling out he knew could not be the wise choice when he'd found no intimation to orient a question after.  Growing tense and chary, Elrond stilled his arm and curled his fingers around the hilt of his blade to lock it in place, away from his moving legs. Brushing and holding aside his deep teal cloak with his other hand, he moved to set his first step. Slowly and deliberately, the heel of his right boot soundlessly met the sanded laterite ground before the remaining, wet sole followed. With a racing heart, he stared at the door, watching unyieldingly for any movement with each hazardous step that he took. Feeling his breath tremble as he advanced—beginning to feel a distracting warmth and forgetting which trails of water upon his skin were the rain or his own sweat. Nearer and nearer he stepped, realizing not that the torches were eclipsing in his back—learning so only when his surroundings had dimmed so that a cold streak of light from the doors he'd thought shut crossed his foot.

Then he stopped.

All—movement, breath, and thought.

     And looked.

Inhaling a breath so deep and quiet, only audible to his own ear, he awoke. He was dreary, so much the weight of his lashes had burdened the gaping of his eyes. Still, he found

cold morning light had doused the room in a melancholic, dark azure.

And her even face.  And heartache gripped him at the sight, for he knew in that moment that their wish had not stopped the sands of time.  His breath, even and silent before that hurt, caught in his chest as though the failing had been his doing. His hand, pale in the dimness started up, and midair, began to tremble. Long lingered his gaze on her still face. And heavy became his eyes with a glistening, and grief and love in tandem.

And madly did his eyes tremble as they looked and looked his love over and over again as though she'd been long lost to him.

But so it was not; for he had not found her, but lost her with the fading of twilight. Slowly did his hand repose against the skin of her shoulder, and long did the back of his finger trail across its bow.... only for a tear to fall as his eyes caught up to his hand. Her ebony hair, dark against her tawny skin, fell alike a long, gentle river across her shoulder and cheek.

So soundly did she sleep that he wished to behold her like this until the ending of the world.

     "Teiya," breathed he in an open whisper.

     "... my Teiya." He remembered her pain, her anguish... and its cry.

     "Release me." had she said with a breaking voice and quaking breaths,

     "Release me." The first tear slipped from the corner of his eye as he remembered holding her in the darkness of night and the gloom and shadow of midnight fire.  And recalled then his wish to never lose her.

"Is this your hideaway?" she asked, staring out onto the river,.

His nose sought her first, turning her way. Then followed his eyes . "... My father's house?"

"This place." said she.

"... No." uttered he as if he had said it to himself.  The other place... could only be found with her.

"Here is just home." had he answered.

"Ci dôl nín.", uttered he as she shifted at his touch, and leaned into his warmth of his hand.

"You are my hideaway."

Safe had she lain in the embrace of his body, and whole had he felt in her arms. Shadow had wandered and danced had flame as they'd joined flesh and soul. And deep into his hide had she set the memory of her touch. Vividly lived there the sensation of her fingers drawing circles into the center of his back—as though they lingered there still,

right where his skin still breathed bare, unmarked by the sacred inscriptions.

Right where was meant to bloom...

... the fruit of their wish.

" Dígo nin. " said he with shattering, solemn amour as he beheld her and caressed her curls,

" Dígo nin, erin i meth hen... meleth-nîn. " Teary grew his eyes anew as his heart silently made the decision to heed her words.

"... Adlennin le."  promised he with a voice full of love, despite that promise feeling like death to the heart—and ail to every part of his being.

"I release you." 

In heavy dejection, Elrond watched the King's closed eyes bleed final tears ere he leaned near to press a kiss to her forehead.

So affected was he by this witnessing that he stepped into the cover of the dark hall to blink away the tear that had pooled in his eye. 

The Herald recalled not how he'd found the way into the court garden, only how fast his paces had grown after the first step.  Four blocks of blooming, seemingly evergreen growths surrounded him. Between them, light and sandy paths between vivid grass led to its center. The ochre earth beneath his soles softened to young mud and white rose petals drooped with the tears of heaven.

Stare did he into the misty air, his spirit so weighed with feeling that at first no thought dared form in his mind nor dared new breath find his lungs. Hot burned his ears with malaise and a strange fear.

And fast paced his heart with rue and tension.

He had observed something unmeant for his eyes.

And it had felt as though he'd seen a God bleed from a wound they were never meant to suffer.

He hadn't known, thought he,

—never would have dared to imagine such circumstance. Hard tried he to silence the rising, noxious thoughts of his mind—yet still they rose, and still he heard them.

She was an Orphan.

Motherless and fatherless—without history.

A common soldier.

Such was who the King had fallen for... and wept over. Were the court of Lords ever to learn of this union-

The secrecy of such union would grow to become a scandal.

A crack which would gape an already open wound and risk the undoing of the crown.

He was his Herald.  He was the one supposed to know upon seeing, and if not, find a way to understand.  But he failed in this moment. And if even he could not understand, he thought as a shuddered breath escaped him, how would another?

Elrond knew the impossible position he now found himself in. Knew that as the voice of the King, it was his duty to disclose all that could endanger the kingdom and the crown.

Yet only now was it that he realized king and crown were not one—and that the previous assumption of such had ever only been an illusion—one which had necessitated sacrifice in bounds he'd never before considered. The weight of his words would, in the act of their impartation, guard the crown... but unendingly wound the one who'd borne and paid so much for it. That once this secret passed his lips, it would not remain the confidence of those he had entrusted it with. The tiding would pass on until the last ear in the Lindon had heard its echo.

His silence or parole would be the feather which could tip the scale of fate and consequence—a sudden encumbrance he all but cherished, cognisant that the outcome of whatever he decided would doubtlessly befall him too, if not, first.

Yet and still, despite all that risked falling apart, he couldn't find it in himself to judge, nor betray the King.

For any hurt he would suffer by his impartation, the one he loved would, without high station or protection, suffer tenfold.

And the King's safety, too, was his duty.                ...Maybe his greatest.

He could never wrong his friend. Never could he be the one to take from one who had possibly given and relinquished everything. 

Foremost if such thing even the Valar would refuse to part or deny. At this contemplation, the sound of rain slowly seeped back into his hearing. Loud. But the drops fell fine as thread... and gentle as touch. 

Slowly, Elrond drew breath, closing his eyes the moment the beat of his resolved heart livened his chest. Warmth started up in it despite the sorrow and uncertainty which now dwelt there. Slowly but steadily, it straightened again his hanging head and strengthened his shoulders.

Until it found his fingertips and closed open, trembling hands, now resilient and steadfast.

For warm was mercy in the face of difficulty and pain.

For silence born not of courage or hope, nor of selflessness and compassion, was no good deed done to anyone.

On the rain poured as the Herald for last raised his eyes to behold the statue before which he'd stopped. 

In worn limestone stood they, male and female, embracing one another as though they knew they were to be parted

be it by fate, the fading of time... or death. Climbing vines of young bagflowers curled around their feet. And roses, bright as hope and long as devotion, blossomed about them as though they fed not from the earth but from their love.  Even if would come their time to wilt away. Still, their fate, just like the lovers', was not made of mere winters. Eternally would they dance with the summers, springs, and autumns of life.

And love.

Such was its course. Fixed—and forever bound to repeat.

Beholding them, the Herald felt their tragedy... and perseverance. And knew thusly, that what he could give—what he could vow, if anything,

was mercy upon their love.

Sindarin translations:Noro, roch nìn — Go on, my horse Noro — Go on Ci dôl nín — You are my refuge Dígo nin, erin i meth hen... meleth-nîn — Forgive me. forigive me this one last time...my love Adlennin le — I release you