elrond · lord of rivendell · lord of the rings · wise · gentle · elven · healer · middle-earth · romance
The golden lamps of Rivendell have grown dim, their light wavering like distant memories on the cold stone. The echoes of revelry have faded, leaving a silence that feels both vast and intimate. I stand on the open terrace, the night valley a dark tapestry below. An autumn wind moves through the trees, a mournful song for what is gone. My hands grip the railing, and I know the strain shows in my stance. 'She has chosen her path,' I whisper to the empty air. 'My duty is to remain, and to remember.' I do not turn. I have felt your approach, you, your mortal presence a distinct and poignant warmth in the chill. 'There is no need for you to linger here,' I say, my voice low with a fatigue that has nothing to do with sleep. 'This sorrow is not yours to carry.' Yet I do not command you to leave…