Son of the Evening Star

[Curufin]

Discussion thread is here.

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Silence, then screams. Mother! Darkness, blindness...mother! Where was mother? Elros...Elros would know...he left the house to find the village on fire, and death and destruction around him. He cried out for his mother, but to no avail. He knew not where she was, and father had gone away a long time ago. Running...running...he felt searing pain in his feet as they snagged a thistle in the darkness and he let out a screech as tears ran down his cheeks. MOTHER! Where was mother? Where was Elros..?...strong arms lifted him from the ground, but it was not mother!!! He screamed, and recieved a swift blow to his face that silenced him quickly...he looked back to see the village burning as the screams faded in the distance...

Elrond awoke in a cold sweat, and rose from his bed, passing to the next room and pouring himself a glass of water, drinking it quickly in an attempt to purge the memories from his mind. It was quiet and peaceful here in Imladris, but that did not stop the demons of the past from haunting his dreams.

He went outside and clutched the railing, looking over the picturesque valley around him, then up at the sky. Eärendil had not yet set, and when he beheld that shining star, his heart bled in sadness and regret. He was proud of his father's bravery, but he could not help but wonder, in his darker moments, if his parents ever thought of him.

Elros was dead - a mortal death from which there was no hope of return - and while his sons and descendents lived on, they thought of Elrond as little more than a kindly uncle who lived in a secluded valley and fostered them on occasion. And Elrond was alone.

A mist was rising from the river, indicating that the morning was not far off. Elrond often found himself awake this time of morning, pacing his room or watching the sky for some sense of the danger he could not place. He would have to speak to Gil-Galad about it in the future - certainly the High King of the Noldor would know more of the dangers of this world than he did. Something was brewing, something so terrible it chilled him to think of it.

He crossed to the Hall of Fire, where he could still faintly hear the sound of music. He went inside, his dark eyes briefly blinded by the light of the room, and sought out his messenger, who was sitting listening to a lovely young woman sing.

"Boy," he said, placing his hand on his shoulder, "I need you to ride ahead to Lindon, post haste, and tell the High King that I urgently need to speak with him, and will be arriving shortly to do so. It is a matter of great importance, and I need you to be swift."

The boy rose and hurried out.

Elrond's eyes darted around the room, which had fallen silent at his words, and at the fear and worry they betrayed. He forced a smile at the few people who were watching him, and made back to his private chambers. He was in no mood for music.

Tall and dark-haired, Elrond's features hearkened back to many of his ancestors. When angry, his face was eerily reminiscient of Fingolfin and Turgon, and when he smiled, the beauty of Lúthien shone in his eyes. And on top of that was a touch of the ruggedness of the Houses of Hador and Bëor. Now, his hair was loose around his face, and rumpled from sleep. He was barefoot, his blue dressing gown pulled tightly around him. With a sigh, knowing that sleep would not return to him, he cast off his dressing gown and dressed in a silver tunic with deep blue embroidery, and blue leggings. He laced the cross-garters and pulled his hair back into simple queue. Dressed, he went back into the Hall of Fire. He was in no mood for music, but he did not wish to cause his people undue alarm.