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English
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Published:
2024-11-15
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1,155
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1/1
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The Sun Yet Shines

Summary:

In Imladris, Galadriel thinks of Elrond, his kindness, and what is to come for his future.

"Galadriel knows there will come a day when Elrond will be clad in that intricate metal, blade in his writer's hand and spitting blood from his poet's mouth. She dreads it."

Notes:

Helloooo lovely readers :)

I know I have not updated my other two fics...it will happen soon but the writers block hit and this was me taking a moment of inspiration to drag myself out of it😂

Be warned, I did just wake up, so mistakes are likely.

Enjoy :)

TW: references to PTSD

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Elrond is small without his armour, Galadriel thinks. She finds him changed very little since he was but an Elfling boy, burned and thirsty in the flames of kinslayers. He is taller, yes, experienced, wise and mature, but he is still small.

He is also damaged.

Galadriel and Elrond share a tent in their sanctuary, to accommodate the growing numbers arriving there and the fewer shelters to go around. She sees Elrond's wounds, body and mind, laid bare before her as a result.

Random are her bursts of energy, and she finds she can do little more than eat a few bites of food and watch her friend from her bed when they come to her.

Elrond's torso blooms with bruises brighter than the bluebells of spring, they coat his sharp ribs and colour his pale skin. Some of that skin is littered with cuts, some little, some deep, some stretching across his back. Some of these cuts bleed and some will scar badly.

He is shaken and Galadriel wishes she never teased him for his politics, wishes she never said any of those cruelties to him, wishes she never compared their sufferings, for he had now seen plenty, and she wishes it were not so.

The bruises are a mere shadow of the true damage. Bruises do not reflect the nightmares that he wakes from, screaming. Nor can they exemplify the severity of the trembling he encounters day and night, that refuse to leave him. They cannot show the fear in his eyes when Galadriel is forced to pin him down to stop him hurting someone, or himself when he is trapped in a memory. The wounds on his skin can never highlight the guilt plaguing his heart and the panic that overcomes him like some great wave.

He looks small in his bed, huddled under the covers without his armour. Galadriel feels as though Elrond never had the chance to be a child, even when he looks as small as he does now.

He is exhausted, angry, guilt-ridden, panic-plagued and world-weary as he should not be.

But then Galadriel thinks of when he sings for the children, when she sees him smile in a meeting at some inside-joke between himself and the King, when he looks at Imladris during a pause in the day and simply breathes, simply smiles.

The wounds and the shaking cannot reflect the damage done, but nor do they define Elrond. Wounds of the body and of the mind cannot dispell the purity of kindness and blissful joy when it comes to the heart. It cannot take away the peaceful smile when Elrond pens a letter to Durin, it cannot remove the laughter from the valley or the singing that cheers the children, it will never take the moments of rare quiet between Elrond and Camnir, or the friendly, golden mornings when Gil-Galad can be Ereinion and simply be with Elrond for a time, and it would never destroy the bloodied hope that covered them all.

Elrond would never be cruel, all the hurt had made him kind, like a sturdy geranium flourishing under burning heat. 

The kindnesses come to him easily and Galadriel is pleased he is not so easily changed by the wounds of war. 

She wishes she were so. 

Her wounds had turned her to revenge and she desired to spend her remaining days attempting to remedy it. Elrond, of course, assured her she had no need to prove her gentleness to anyone, and certainly not to him. It was another kindness he had offered her, and without a single hesitation prodding his heart. She had accepted it in the only way she could; tears and leaning on his shoulder, waiting for him to spare another kindness and wrap his arms around her. That particular kindness was given to Galadriel many times, and she took care to return it.

Galadriel thinks Elrond is good at being gentle and good at being fierce, as it has been since he was a child. But now, their peoples hurt and trodden on, the blend of ferocity and warmth within Elrond had come forth in unexpected roles: commander and healer.

She sees why he is drawn to healing. A patient himself many times, he knows what it is to be healed but also what is needed to be comforted throughout days spent on cots surrounded by herbs and the sick. It is that half-elven experience that gentles his hands and soothes worries and heals others before himself.

Galadriel has felt his power, the open warmth he offers between his own bouts of melancholy and war-sickness, healing her heart before she even had the chance to ask after his.

She does get the chance when she brews him a tea in the dark of night, when he awakes shaking like the weakening autumn leaves. He talks with her in mumbled confessions and, with tears in both of their eyes, he allows Galadriel to warm his soul with a tight hug, and cease the cracking that happens so quietly within him.

He drinks the tea and falls asleep and she thinks he still looks small, but he also looks peaceful. 

His armour still sits nearby, just above the salvaged Eregion scrolls. Galadriel thinks it an irony that the armour rests above them, she knows the part of Elrond that will be neglected in favour of that armour. She also knows that part will never be eradicated from him, and that brings her peace.

Galadriel knows there will come a day when Elrond will be clad in that intricate metal, blade in his writer's hand and spitting blood from his poet's mouth. She dreads it.

Elrond still looks small, and Galadriel is glad of it. She hopes he will never look mighty in his armour again, if it means he is safe and tucked away in some bright and untouched corner of the earth, somewhere green and blooming flowers.

She looks out at Imladris. It is green and the flowers will come tenfold by late spring.

Perhaps, when this is over, Elrond will put away his armour forever.

Nenya sings on Galadriel's finger, and she sees a glimpse of a place that is homely and warm, somewhere hearts are healed and armour has no need. The place feels right, and it feels loving. It feels kind as summer and Galadriel knows it will be Elrond's. Her heart fills with tentative joy that the boy sleeping peacefully on the cot before her will one day offer his plentiful kindnesses to hundreds, and that those offerings will be felt in return.

The clang of sword practise and grave discussions can be heard from beyond their tent, but one day it will pass and the sound of healing hearts will be the music that rings throughout the valley, accompanied by Elrond's Mannish and musical laugh.

Hope, Galadriel thinks, is never mere, even when it is meager.

Notes:

Hope you enjoyed, I have no idea what bewitched me to write this but I'm not complaining!
Kudos appreciated and comments feed me, I take each one to my hoard of dragon treasure. :)