Curate, connect, and discover
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!