Eldritch Elrond - Blog Posts

Adar knows how King and Court think of the Peredhel, like some bittersweet tale of fantasy, like the scion of some distant history told to sleepy little elflings by the fire - but do not fear, gwinig, for the beautiful prince was saved from his cruel captors to live in happiness forever after with us. They speak of him like he's something quaint. Doesn't he look so like Lúthien, so like his forefather Fingolfin? Isn’t he as dignified as the Princess Idril? Isn’t he wise like Elu Thingol? How sweet!

And so in the golden light of Lindon do they lie to themselves - for Elu Thingol was ruthless, unshakeable in his convictions even unto his death; yet the courtiers tut at Lord Elrond’s stubbornness. Idril Celebrindal was trapped, as hidden as her city as darkness crept up the walls and into her home; yet Lady Galadriel shrugs off her friend’s warnings. Fingolfin held Morgoth at bay for four hundred years, unfailing strength carved into his very bones; yet the King both censures his Herald for his forcefulness.

And Lúthien, ai! Tinúviel, wrathful, relentless, unearthly - when friends flinch from your gaze and Lords shift uneasily when you talk, when the wise cannot bring themselves to look on you for fear of what they will see, when Kings lie and placate and spin gossamer traps because they know you could unmake them - that is Lúthien.

- from the fic I’m writing about Elrond from Adar’s perspective. I'm on 100 words so far and idk how I'm going to make it to 5k... you're welcome to talk to me about it tho :)

With the braziers long gone cold, the night lies close and heavy, darkness impenetrable. It’s imôr - the deep night. Men call this time the bewitching hour and as Adar gazes on the apparition lying beside him, he can’t help feeling that they might have a point.

The Elvenking’s Herald looks unearthly in Adar’s bed, more like a mirage of grey starlight and hazy shadow than a creature of flesh. It seems there must be some trick of the light at play, one that makes an Uruk out of canvas tent walls and a Maia out of tangled sheets. But despite the guiles of dappled starlight, Elrond’s breath is warm and steady and undeniably real against Adar’s hand as he raises a finger to those sweet lips -

Lips parted and eyes closed in true sleep. Is it his mortal blood that makes him sleep so deeply? Or, like an Elf, has he collapsed into oblivion as his strength runs dry?

What is he - Elf or Man of Maia, all at once or something else entirely? Elrond Peredhel, half Elf, half other, descendent of Lúthien whose shadowy hair and radiant face have ever drawn the eyes of monsters. Kinslayers, Úmaiar… and Adar. Wonderous thing, he thinks. Wonderous, beautiful, hunted thing.

- from the fic I’m writing about Elrond from Adar’s perspective. I promised 5k of fangirling and I intend to deliver. Hang in there!

Y'all the worldbuilding is getting intense rn, I'm having so many thoughts, because Elrond is a mosaic of dozens of different people, so many facets and multitudes, and different people see different things in him. People see his starry grey eyes and dark hair and hear his Voice and think of Lúthien, think of Maglor. They see his braids and attribute it to Turgon’s preference for traditional styles rather than that well-known Fëanorian obsession. His gracious courtly manners are from Melian or Idril, though clearly taught by Maedhros, who learned from Finwë. His skills and wisdom and bearing are clearly passed down from any or all of the 20+ different kings, queens, lords and princesses he is associated with. He dances like Lúthien and Idril. He is as courageous as Fingon and Beren and Eärendil, as fierce in battle as Fingolfin and Maedhros and, Eru forbid, Fëanor. He speaks archaic Quenya, just like the Gondolindrim, if only one ignores the Fëanorian accent. His giggle is Elwing’s, birdlike and odd; his laugh is rich and merry like Finwë’s; that half-despairing chuckle is Beren’s; the endearingly awkward titter is Finarfin’s; the exhilarated whoop is Fingon’s; the manic mid-battle cackle is Fëanor through and through. He fights left-handed like Eärendil and Maedhros, plays the harp right-handed like Fingon and Finrod and Maglor; he can write with either hand, producing a spindly scrawl with his left (so like Maedhros, so like Elwing) and authoritative calligraphy with his right (so like Fëanor, so like Thingol). His eyes are the chasm of the heavens - he gets that from Melian - but did Maeglin not also inherit his piercing gaze from Aredhel? He has his father’s jaw and his mother’s hair, or was it Turgon’’s jaw and Finwë’s hair, or maybe those angular bones came from fair Nimloth and the little flick of a curl at his temple from Beren. In certain lights he’s the spitting image of Thingol - or was it Fingolfin? The tilt of his wrist is as bird-like and fragile as Dior’s, as graceful and deliberate as Idril’s. His cheeks dimple when he smiles, just like Fingon, and his eyes crease when his face softens with fondness, just like Tuor, who looks little like Haleth but in moments like this. When he’s concentrating, the furrow of his brow is Thingol’s and the lip between his teeth is Beren’s, who took after Bëor. That eyebrow raise brings to mind 15 different people, all of them dead. One may look at Elrond and see a lost loved one in his profile, until the light shifts just slightly and he becomes the one who killed them, before he turns his head just so and suddenly looks like a complete stranger. Elrond is a Silmaril of ghosts, each facet a memory, love and terror and awe and joy and grief reflected and refracted upon one another again and again, radiant, hypnotic, infinite.