Postcards from Imladris

The ring on the chain dangled from his hand, sometimes hitting against another ring, a much simpler ring of woven silver leaves.

He had only been able to dig it out from his pack when he'd gained enough strength to move about, unable to ask his brother to do it for him, for fear his voice would crack upon requesting it.

He stared down at both of them, nudging them with his finger and watching them swing back and forth, back and forth, like a pendulum. The ring, silver leaves of different styles, had been her brother's, and before that her father's, and before that... and on and on. He had been told the full line, as far back as she could remember it, and when he closed his eyes he could still hear her recounting it, in her own voice. Softly, carefully, with respect and reverence for each name. She had always been reverent. To the land, and her people, to the stories she had memorized. To her kinswoman, to the elves, and to him. Her husband.

( Am I not enough? To keep you here... and happy )

On the first page, there are several sketches of Farandren, dotted here and there with tears. It's obvious Elrohir was the one who drew them, and his hand seems rather steady despite the obvious emotional state.

Page two holds a copy of the baby announcement, folded in so as not to lose it. Underneath the announcement is a small bit of red colored hair, with no accounting of how it got there.

Page three, the one after the announcement, holds a bit of writing.
We are uncles! Uncle is an odd word. Babies are also odd, smelly creatures, that I at least am glad I never have to deal with worrying about. Arwen is still about as big as a house, and she looks about as exhausted and weathered as the older buildings of Minas Tirith. Though of course everyone she lets see her and her precious little bundle of joy would decide to say something else. 'Oh you are glowing, Arwen!' or 'You do not seem nearly as tired as one who just gave birth, Arwen!'. I wish I could have someone about to say such amusingly flattering things to me.

But she is well, baby is well, and we have another little runt around to teach in the ways of sneaking and pranking, so all is well.

Estel especially seems intent on being high on pipeweed in celebration for the next full month.


Page four holds an account of a dream...
It was extremely cold, colder than we had ever experienced in our lives, and we were both shivering, though we were wearing extremely warm clothing. All about us there was falling snow, and yet more snow on upon the ground, snow upon the mountains, snow upon a glassy lake. There are companions around us, though we never see their faces.. a flash of brown hair, red, and golden. There is a stone, though all about it blackness, and then there is a fire, a great fire that engulfs all, and we both awake at the same time.

We neither of us know what the dream means, though we find it odd that we, each of us, see our side of it the same. If it keeps up, I suppose one or the other of us will have to go to Mithrandir or Daernaneth, or some other equally wise and cryptic person...

The ring sparkled in his hand as he turned it. It had been a gorgeous piece when it had been created, by a friend that Elladan himself had commissioned. He remembered hand picking the gems himself, for the way the colors matched all of Elrohir's favorite things - green summers, the golden leaves of both Lorien and Imladris, the snows of the mountains, and the blue of their mother's and sisters - even their own - eyes. When Elrohir had unwrapped the thing, he had sworn never to take it off. At the time, Elladan had decided it would probably lost here or there. On projects with the Dunedain, or in a war. But the ring had managed to survive even the last war, and time itself.

He'd had a hard time believing that Elrohir could give such a thing away. He had seen the giving, from one hand to the other, sharp eyes picking up a glitter, and a gleam... Elrohir had more than one ring, he had told himself, and he would never give this one away. Yet it sat there, in his hand, because it had been found on a wraith, who'd found it on a body, the body of a woman that he realised they should have taken better care of.

( You have grown so serious... )

We aren't meant to be torn apart by anything. Not choices, nor deeds, nor other people. Ada never did, Arwen never did, nor did Arwen's choices.

When he chose, so too did I. Now he chooses again, and I cannot choose with him.

I do not... always understand my brother, for all he is my twin. My other half.


I may need to cut his hair while he's sleeping. Teach him to go making choices without me!

Except then I suppose I would have to cut mine to keep people guessing ...


Life's full of these little dilemmas.