And he laughed; there really was no other response he could think of for the graceless dance Elladan performed, trying both to hold the fox and hug him.
“I am certain he will, titta melin,” he chuckled, then looked to the little fox.
“And you, titta rusco,” and now, his voice took a turn for the serious as he knelt to meet her eyes. “Take care of melinya. Watch over him as you would your own kit, and see that no harm comes to him or his brother, understood?”
He knew she did, of course. More than anything, this was a show for Elladan, that he knew she was that much more clever than the average fox.
A certainty there was, also, that his parents would thrice-damn him if they knew from whence the little kit came…. And moreso if they knew how close he had let their son come to being consumed by a warg.
“Elladan,” he began, looking the child over. There was a choice, now, that he had to make. If they knew, he could count on Elladan being kept safe and sound inside Imladris, protected from all harm but… miserable. He was not made to be cooped up thus. In the end, he supposed, it was the ellon’s decision.
“Whether or not you tell your parents of the warg is on you, but it is my council that it be kept a secret. They love you dearly, and I would not fault them if they were to keep you safe in your home for quite some time, but I do not think you would be happy.”
With that, he gave a brief wave of his hand, and (perhaps a bit more showily thank was necessary) a spot of light appeared on the floor which shimmered a moment before shooting off to the door at the end, lighting the way for Elladan to return to his family.
“Take care, little love. I will wait for you,” he bade, giving a brief bow and half a smirk.
With nothing else to say, and his parents probably worried sick on the other side, Elladan hugged Memory tightly once more, and hurried through the glowing doorway. With a brilliant flash of light, the toddler appeared on the rocky shoreline, the white fox kit hopping out of his arms to investigate all the new smells and nooks and crannies!
A quarter of a mile downriver from their campsite, but to the little elfling, it seemed more like a league! Looking left, and then right, Elladan caught sight of the warg tracks, still gouged deep and angry into the stony bank, the shifting sand beneath kicked up by the force of the clawed steps. Warily, Elladan gathered his new pet into his arms, a small hand petting gently over her soft head.
“I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid. Not afraid. ” He mumbled to himself, mouth pursed defiantly as he tried to ignore the crawling down down his spine- grey eyes peeking out from behind the fox’s ears, looking out for the return of the warg.
Surely Memory wouldn’t put him down, just to be a warg’s dinner! But wargs were sneaky creatures, Elladan was sure… “Nana? Ada?” He said in a small voice, clinging to the childish little hope that his parents would somehow, magically, be there to make everything alright.
"Elladan!" Elrond called, gazing frantically about in the woods. He’d woken with such a start, a dark vision of his little boy torn asunder by warg claws, and as soon as he stood, he’d shooed Celebrian back to Imladris, Elrohir clutched close to her breast. She’d wanted to stay, wanted to come with her husband to find their son…
But Elrond, well she knew, could hold his own, and Elrohir needed her protection.
He’d searched, tracked to the best of his ability for what had felt to be ages, and yet could not find his son. There was no light save the moon, which peaked here and there through the treetops and threw shadows where little bodies could be left, if anything was left at all…
He knew that voice! ”Elladan!” he called, racing through the brush to slide to his knees at the river’s side, scooping his son—fox and all—into his arms and holding him tight to his breast. “You’re alright… you’re alright. Oh, penneth…”
“The other night, dear,
as I lay sleeping,
I dreamt I held you in my arms.
When I awoke, dear,
I was mistaken,
so I held my head and cried.”
She would never sleep, the night before Father’s Day, no matter how he begged her to come to bed.
"I have errands to run," she’d laugh, and swat at him playfully, and in the end he’d sigh and smile and love her all the more for her bullheadedness. And in the morning, when he woke, it was always to the smell of some delicious treat she would make with the twins and little Arwen.
The first year without her was the hardest, waking on Father’s Day to a cold bed and tear tracks on his face.
‘And it is told of Maglor that he could not endure the pain with which the Silmaril tormented him; and he cast it at last into the Sea, and thereafter he wandered ever upon the shores, singing in pain and regret beside the waves.’ -Of the Voyage of Eärendil, The Silmarillion
Maglor, by giubian
Father’s Day is a time reserved for his sons, and little Arwen, and so Elrond always makes a point of being home on that day. But to the end of the day, if one wishes to find him, they should look down to the Bruinen where they might find the Lord of Imladris setting sail a small, corked bottle with a letter rolled inside and lovingly tied at its middle. He doesn’t know if Ulmo has any love for his people, but he prays he can put aside his anger for a day and help this one, little thing to reach the elves he calls Fathers.
Elrond went with purpose, as ever. Political ties between Mirkwood and Rivendell had to be upheld, and as a result, he found himself on a routine visit to Eryn Lasgalen. A group of elves travelled with him, bottles of wine and various commodities from West of the Mountains carried among them - an offering of good will.
Slowly, the caravan came to a halt before the city walls, and Elrond shouted up to the Elven guard, “Let his Majesty know that we have arrived, and would see him, if he is amenable to it.”
"Ada-" "Ada!" The twin’s voices are in unison as the little elflings run down the hall, a plate precariously balanced between them. Both looking hugely proud of themselves as they hold up a plate of slightly-lopsided cookies.
"Nana helped—" "So you know—" "They taste—" "Really good!" A fact that didn’t diminish their lively, 4-year-old enthusiasm, apparently. With jam in their hair, and flour on their cheeks; both dressed in grey it was impossible to tell them apart!
"Happy Ada’s Day!"
He’d resigned himself to another day of paperwork - Lindir and he had been up late last night trying to sort through some mess involving Mirkwood and a miscommunication regarding stationing, and they’d barely breeched the surface of the towering stack of paperwork on his desk. After a time, he’d told his aide to go, get some rest - and yes, yes, of course he would sleep as well.
Eight hours later, and with the burgeoning start of what promised to be a thrice-damnable migraine, he heard the telltale pattering of little ellon feet and looked up.
A wide smile, honest and surprised, bloomed on his face and he had to laugh at himself, taking the tray from his boys and bringing them up to sit one on either knee.
"Your Ada," he told them, looking from one to the other, "is a silly, silly Elf who would forget his own head if his sons were not around to remind him of it. I’d all but forgotten today was Ada’s Day—and look at how many treats you’ve made. There’s no way one silly Ada can eat all of these."
He laughed, and kissed them one after the other, holding them carefully and nodding to the plate. In his most serious, decision-making voice, he said, “No, there’s nothing for it. You’ll have to help me eat them!”