One pill makes you larger
And one pill makes you small
And the ones that mother gives you
Don’t do anything at all
Go ask Alice
When she’s ten feet tall –Jefferson Airplane, “White Rabbit”
I…
I am…
I float
(float we all float)
through nothingness that goes on forever. I am small, a fraction of a drop of water. I am tiny, a sliver of a grain of sand. I am a mote of dust, infinitesimal.
I think I was remembering…something.
But it’s faded now, if it was ever there at all. What if this is all there ever was?
Am I still me?
Do I still be?
“I think therefore I am.” Or something like that? But what if this is not thought? What if these things we call thoughts are just fragments of consciousness which happen to collide for a moment, for a lifetime?
November chill turns into December cold. Winter sweeps in from further north, covering Detroit in a white, icy shroud. Pedestrians shiver beneath their winter coats and layers of fabric. Radios blaring from passing cars warn listeners about a blizzard coming toward the city and predicts another two or three feet of snow. Elrond lets it wash over him. There is a strange comfort in the snow and ice, as if the landscape itself has turned bleak to reflect his mood.
Fred shall never harm or threaten anyone ever again, but there is no satisfaction in knowing this, for it makes no difference in Nichelle’s condition. He had carried some dim, romantic notion that, if he resolved this matter, if he did for Nichelle what he failed to do for
(Celebrían)
(Gil-galad)
(Celebrimbor)
everyone for so long, her eyes would flutter open, and, reunited at last, all would be as it was. Of course, in the real world, it never happens that way, and certainly not for him. He still reads to her, and it is as fruitless now as it was when he began, but he, fool as he is, cannot help hoping that his words will reach her if he tries hard enough. He completes the final novel of The Dark Tower series, and when he reaches the final page, a pang of recognition stabs him through the very core of his fae.
The final words of the story haunt him for several days. During rare hours of rest, he dreams he walks beneath a blazing hot sun across a sea of white sand. Forward, forward, ever forward he goes, refusing to stop lest he look back and find that there are bones peeking out of his footprints.
He carries a new book toward the hospital now, a tale titled Beloved by a storyteller of Nichelle’s people named Toni Morrison. It would not have been his preference to select a story so…difficult, but Lady Twinkie has assured him that it is one of Nichelle’s favorites despite the subject matter.
Though he cannot fathom why a mother would harm her own children, cannot imagine himself doing the same to Arwen or Elladan or Elrohir, he will tell her this story. The brutal poetry of each line printed on the yellowing pages horrifies as it exhilarates, but he will say the words.
He will do it for the same reason that he sits by her side and holds her hand for many hours every day. He will do it for the same reason he brings her flowers or takes her to a restaurant that serves her favorite dishes. He will do it for the same reason that he carved and painted wooden figurines for his sons when they were small and had tea with Arwen and her dolls when she was but a babe. What other reason does he need?
As he speeds up to a brisk walk along the street where the hospital sits, a sharp-eyed onlooker may notice that he leaves no tracks in the snow.
Darkness.
Silence.
What is this? What’s going on? Am I dead? No, I’m breathing. I think I’m breathing. Maybe this is a trick my mind plays on itself, and I’m just remembering breathing.
Where am I? I wanna open my eyes. I wanna see–
I can’t. Why can’t I open my eyes?
Maybe I can reach and– I can’t move. Why can’t I move?
No, I’m moving. Weightless, no friction.
Is this flying? No, I’m…I’m floating….floating like a…like a balloon bobbing on its silver string in the hands of a
(monster)
(spider)
(Thing)
clown in a bright, baggy jumpsuit with three big, orange pom-poms.
(”Hey, there, Nicki! Want a balloon? They float. They allll float, Nicki. We all flooooat down here. And when you’re down here with me, you’ll float too!”)
What the hell is going on? What’s happened to me? What’s happening to me?
Tien snuggles closer to him for warmth and giggles as he squirms when her cold feet presses against his legs. It’s been so oddly chilly lately, even here in California. She can’t stand the cold, hates even the hint of her breath on the air. Instead of telling her to put on socks, he holds her tighter in his arms. He only does this when something is bothering him.
“You’re worrying about him again,” she says.
“No,” says Thranduil.
“It’s been a few weeks.”
“So what of it?”
He would say that. He doesn’t like to appear weak or uncertain in front of others. It is his habit to hide his true feelings even from her, as if caring about somebody other than himself were a flaw. Such a thing can be good in a king, but it’s frustrating as hell in a husband.
It used to infuriate her, but now she finds it amusing. It took her the better part of twenty years to figure out that smiling or laughing at his worst habits does more to change his behavior than arguing with him does. He needs to see himself as a very serious and important person. He needs everyone to know he’s the king of the jungle and be awed by his grace and power. But she knows his secret, even if he at times forgets it: underneath, he’s just a big pussycat.
“You will feel better if you see him.”
“I’m fine,” he says. They both know he’s not fooling anyone.
“Not for you, idiot. You should go make sure he hasn’t done something stupid.”
This is a dance they’ve done for over forty years. He pretends he’s above such a lowly notion as giving a damn about anything or anyone. She gently–well, not so-gently–puffs up his ego by insinuating that it’s the other person who needs someone smart and strong and capable to make sure everything is alright. Works like a charm every time.
“I suppose it’s wise to visit and make sure he hasn’t burned Detroit to the ground,” says Thranduil. Tien kisses him on the cheek.
I hear a voice, or maybe I’m hearing things.
(Nichelle, Lasto beth nîn, tolo dan nan galad.)
Nichelle? What is Nichelle?
Wait, that’s not right. Nichelle isn’t a what. Nichelle is a who.
Who is Nichelle?
Nichelle…Nichelle…Nichelle…
I remember now! That’s what they used to call me.
Nichelle.
I remember, or I think I remember…
I was at the shop. Someone came. A customer? No, not a customer. What did they want?
(“It is to our mutual benefit for you to consider our offer.”)
(”Sign the contract, Miss Washington.”)
Someone came, and then–
(“Have it your way, then. Fred, persuade her.”)
(fist. gut.)
(punch. face.)
(”Sign the contract, Miss Washington.”)
and then–
(BANG! blood. pain.)
Did I…did I get hurt?
There was…smoke…a fire…?
(I can’t breathe)
Yes, a fire. The store burned down, and I was
(left to die)
trapped inside.
I should be dead, but I’m not alive either.
I linger between spaces.
Can’t go on, can’t go back.
I
(float they float they all float down here)
glide through this…whatever it is.
Is this what death is like?
Lucky comes back to work the day before Chanukah. It’s a good thing, too, because there’s usually an influx of emergencies this time of year. It’s as though fate has decided that while everyone is either on vacation or staying at home and spending time with their families is the perfect time to make someone have a heart attack or get hit by a car.
The emergency room is even more understaffed than usual for the season. Pat and Brenda retired a few months ago, so it’s just him and a handful of nurses during the night shift, and that’s when he doesn’t have to pull a double. David has no idea how the hell they’re gonna get through the new year without losing most of their patients, but when Lucky comes in wearing scrubs, it’s as though the heavens have parted, and God has personally delivered salvation to Henry Ford Hospital. Thank the God he’s not sure he believes in.
Lucky’s got short hair now, some classic cut that reminds David of Golden Age movie stars. It sets off his penetrating eyes and shows off more of his face–he’s all high cheekbones, flawless complexion, and a jawline for days–as if anyone needed more reason to envy his good looks.
(Which reminds him–he needs to pick up candles for the menorah. The story doesn’t mean anything to him personally–he’s firmly agnostic and strictly secular as far as observance goes–but the menorah is the only thing Bubbe had left of her family, all of whom died in Auschwitz.)
As soon as Lucky gets to work, he may as well have never left. To tell the truth, it’s like having another doctor there, one more knowledgeable and experienced than he will ever hope to be. If he had a God complex like a lot of other doctors out there, he’d hate Lucky’s guts, but there’s no room for ego when patients are in shock or go into cardiac arrest.
This place needs all the help it can get.
Shards of dream and bits of memory float
(they all float)
around me simultaneously.
a ripe red rose blossoms
“my lady, it’s a girl”
its center as bright
as a thousand suns
the smell of fresh-baked
chocolate chip cookies
a huge black tower
made with a grandmother’s love
no, not black, for that
is not dark enough–
children squealing
rising from a field of red roses
with laughter and shouting
humming the song
“trick or treat”
of creation.
(lasto beth nîn, tolo dan nan galad)
waterfalls rushing
into the river roaring
the man in black
by the deep cleft
flees across the desert
of a fertile valley
and the gunslinger follows
When Thranduil arrives in Detroit, the city is not, as he briefly imagined, on fire. He rents a sensible Volvo with all-wheel drive. It’s a relaxing fifteen-minute trip to the hospital. Despite the sleet and falling snow, the car weaves through traffic with practiced ease.
He does not find Nichelle or Elrond in the ICU. A vacuum opens up in the bottom of his gut. What if he has come too late? She may already be
(dead)
gone. Hesitantly, he approaches the nurses’ desk.
“Can I help you?” asks an old woman wearing a name tag that says Mary. She has yellow-gray hair that must have been flaming red in her youth. There is, in her face, a certain resemblance to
(Tauriel)
that girl his son was so fond of. Or perhaps that is merely his memory taking over his sight again.
“Yes,” he says, his words strangely shaky, as if he has any reason whatsoever to be shy or unsure around this person.
“I’m looking for a friend of mine who works here. His name is Elrond.”
Mary smiles. She says, “He’s not allowed to come to work until tomorrow night. Doctor’s orders.”
“Is something wrong?”
“He pulled a triple and three doubles back-to-back. I tell ya, that guy never sleeps. Why don’t ya try calling him?”
“He doesn’t answer.”
“It can get pretty hectic here.”
“Thank you,” says Thranduil. This should be the end of it. Elrond’s coworker just confirmed that he is neither missing nor dead. But Nichelle…
“Excuse me. I don’t mean to bother you, Miss Mary,” he says. Mary looks up from a chart. Her eyes light up with her smile.
“Do you know what happened to a patient who was here? Her name is Nichelle Washngton.“
“Washington? Oh, her. She was relocated to a long-term facility.”
“Was there any change in her condition?”
Mary shakes her head.
“Thank you again.”
Thranduil spends the next thirty-six hours exploring Detroit. Empty, decaying homes and buildings are everywhere, but there are pockets of life that suggest that Motown may return to some semblance of the thriving metropolis it once was. The new generation of hip hop artists reclaim vacant storefronts as their jury-rigged studios. Graffiti artists spray-paint vibrant patterns over drab gray walls. The city’s infrastructure may be crumbling, but the people are determined and resilient. In a way, they resemble the Rangers of the North. Where despair once clung to the city like a bloated tick, hope has taken root.
Thranduil wants to believe this means that things will get better for this place and its people, but hard experience tells him that things tend to get much worse after the seem to get better. The shadowy presence was dealt a blow, at least for a time (which he suspects Elrond is directly responsible for), but an evil of that nature never simply goes away. It bides its time then unleashes something even more terrible.
It’s almost midnight when he returns to the hospital. The student nurse manning the front desk of the lobby kindly but firmly informs him that Elrond is with patients, so he will have to wait until he goes on break. Were he in Mirkwood, he would have barged into the emergency room, permission or no, and demanded to be taken to Elrond that very instant.
But he isn’t a king anymore, so he waits and fidgets. He waits and fidgets for four hours.
Elrond finally emerges from the emergency room. There’s blood on his hands–no, those are gloves. When he peels them off, his hands are (still) clean. In fact, he seems perfectly fine, although–
“You cut your hair.”
“So I have noticed,” says Elrond. He disposes the bloody gloves in a box marked “bio-hazard.”
“But you–why?”
“Have you really come all this way to interrogate me about my personal grooming?”
“No, I came to because…”
I wanted to see if you were OK, he thinks, but he says, “I hear Nichelle was moved to a long-term facility.”
Pain flickers in Elrond’s eyes, and Thranduil immediately wishes he never brought her up. Today seems to be his day for stumbling around Elrond’s minefield of trauma. Damn, why does this have to be so hard? A mocking voice that sounds a lot like Mithrandir’s says that it is only difficult because he makes it so. Thranduil mentally tells that voice to shut up.
Looking at Elrond now, free from the demands of his job and his vengeance, he seems so…lost. It’s clear now why he throws himself into his work with such zeal. He is like a spinning top that has to be kept spinning lest it topple and fall off the edge of its world. Thranduil knows that look. It’s the same one he saw on the face of his son after informing him that his mother the queen had fallen in Gundabad. How desperately Legolas must have needed comfort from him, and how abysmal a father he must have been not to have noticed it.
Before he can think better of it, Thranduil steps forward and carefully wraps his arms around Elrond, whose arms dangle by his sides as the tension melts out of him. It is odd to embrace him, for he feels simultaneously more substantial than other Elves and more ethereal. Perhaps if he had done this instead of given him a gun, Elrond would have picked up the phone when he called.
i take the blue pill and shrink so small that a single atom dwarfs me.
i take the red pill and grow so large a universe can fit within my womb.
.esrevinu eht fo gninnigeb eht litnu kcab yaw
,neht erofeb neve dna noitpecnoc ym fo tnemom eht litun won morf og i
.sdrawkcab swolf emit
then loops back and seems to move forward again
nothing (no thing)
nowhere (now here)
memory
fragmented
thought
incoherent
i am
slipping away
dissolving
i am
becoming
i
am
(as i am)
(as i will be)
beep…beep…beep…beep…
(“She’s waking up.”)
Nichelle awakens to white. As her eyes slide open, something moist and soft presses against her forehead, her temple, her cheek. White fuzzes into pale gray then into blotches of color and shapes. Voices whisper. Footsteps march back and forth all around her. There is mild discomfort in her throat and between her legs as something subtly shifts inside her stomach, bladder, and bowels. She tries to feel for whoever or whatever is doing this to her, but her arms don’t move. She wants to turn her head to get a look at them, but she can’t turn her head, can’t even fully open her eyes.
Where the hell is she? Why can’t she see? Why can’t she move? What the fuck are they doing to her? What the hell is going on here? Stop it! Don’t touch me! Leave me alone! Hot tears leak out of her eyes.
Warmth and softness cup her cheek, wiping away the tears. She wants to lean into it, craves the comfort it offers, but she can’t move, can’t do anything but lie here in this (she thinks) bed that feels like a coffin. Her whole body shakes with sobs.
“Be at peace. You need no be afraid,” coos a gentle voice, though whether it speaks to her ears or to her mind she cannot tell. She lets herself be cradled in the smooth flow of words, clinging to it as a baby clings to her mother’s breast. Here, no harsh brightness disturbs her peace. Here, there is only softness, warmth, and comfort. The voice carries her to…
…the edge of the harbor where a swan-white ship floats on deep blue waters. It is almost ready to bear her hence. The Sea is so close she can smell the salt of its waters, but in her heart she remains in a deep valley overlooking a fast-flowing river.
Strong, warm arms hold her in a tender embrace. She snuggles into layers of silk and velvet, takes in the scents of parchment and leather, the smell of books, his first love.
“Stay,” he whispers. How desperately she wishes she could. If only his love could cure all her hurts. If only her fears could be banished with his touch and all her pains dispelled with his kiss. But she has seen the future of what will happen if she stays.
There will come a time when, desperate to be as close to her as flesh will allow, he will reach for her, and instead of responding with joy and desire, she will shrink from him. She will hate herself for not being able to find pleasure with him, and he will hate himself for reminding her of how she suffered. They wil try to make it work, to find some way beyond the fear and pain, but they will only wound each other when they are most vulnerable, and their passion for one another will turn to ashes.
No, she must board the ship and let it take her across the Sea.
When Nichelle awakens again, she lies in a hospital bed. Her eyes hurt. Elrond sits next to her, his fingers laced with hers. Sunlight streaking from the window makes lines of light and shadow on his figure. He brings her hand to his lips, kissing ever so gently. She wants to ask him so many questions–What happened? How long was I out? Where’s Twinkie? When did he cut his hair?–but the words sink back into her throat as if they weigh a thousand pounds.
“Hush, my love,” coos Elrond, “you need to rest. All will be answered in time.”
He kisses her on the cheek, then on the mouth, painstakingly careful, as if he fears she may break. His lips are unbelievably soft, like a woman’s, awakening her craving for him. God, she wants this so bad. She doesn’t care that she’s lying in a hospital bed, or that some nurse could walk in on them any minute. She needs to feel his heat, his flesh, on top of her, inside her. Her hand comes to life and slides along the thin mattress to rest upon his inner thigh.
Why is he wearing clothes? They need to come off. She deepens the kiss. Elrond moans. The sound sends a quiver between her legs. She squirms, jostling the catheter, and winces at the discomfort. Damn.
“Diheno nin,” says Elrond.
“It’s OK,” she says, her words rasping against her throat like sandpaper.
“I shall retrieve the nurse,” he says.
“Don’t go,” she wants to say, but she’s still too weak to talk much. He’s gone as soon as she tries to say the words, and she’s never felt so alone. What’s gotten into her? Why is she so fucking needy all of a sudden?
Elrond’s only away for a couple of minutes. He returns, holding the door open for the nurse, blissfully oblivious to how it makes her heart flutter. The nurse–her name tag reads “Alice” or “Alicia,” Nichelle’s still groggy so she can’t be sure–gives the spiel about the months of physical therapy Nichelle has to look forward to, and, if there is no further injury, a full recovery time of roughly a year and a half. Even with a smooth recovery, her mobility and fine motor skills may be permanently impaired, and it may lead to a slight deterioration of her long-term and short-term memory.
After Alice or Alicia or whatever the fuck her name is leaves, Elrond turns to her and says, “That actually does not sound too ba–”
then shuts up as soon as he sees the withering look upon her face.
For an Elf, days and weeks must slide by like minutes, but for Nichelle, they inch along at a snail’s pace. Day after day, she does nothing but stare at walls and watch television between visits from Elrond, Twinkie, and Thranduil.
Twinkie comes by to chat and do her hair, what little of it’s left. She doesn’t talk about being kidnapped (and Nichelle only knows because Elrond told her). Every time Nichelle asks, Twinkie brushes it off or changes the subject. But Twinkie flinches and trembles at the sound of a siren, so there has to be more to it than some men in ski masks snatching her out her house.
Thanduil sneaks her delicious, greasy burgers from the cafeteria downstairs. Her bowels make her pay for it later, but god, real food is delicious. Of course, he steals her fries, knowing good and well she can’t slap him on the hand for it. He drinks most of her soda too. Bastard.
Elrond, for his part, brings her books, which he patiently holds open for her and turns the pages when she taps him. He also, in his own words, ensures that she receives the best of care, which translates to him interrogating the nurses and bossing them around. She shouldn’t laugh. The doctors and nurses are only doing their jobs, but it’s funny to see Elrond that way and imagine how much of a tyrant he must’ve been as a healer in Middle-earth. She can picture it now. Elrond striding through sick beds like a general, questioning the terrified apprentices to make sure their habits pass muster.
“When did you last change those bandages, private?”
“Day before yesterday, sir.”
“Unacceptable. I want those bandages changed frequently, daily at minimum. You will clean bed pans tonight.”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
She can’t help the chuckles rippling out of her, and her diaphragm aches from disuse. It’s good to laugh again, especially after…
“Sign the contract, Miss Washington.”
(“Squeal for me, Elf bitch.”)
She wakes up in a cold sweat most nights, heart racing and nerves jittering, terrified but not knowing why. She can’t remember what her dreams are about, but she has a hazy memory of a huge shadow tormenting her as others watch. If she were true badass like the Bride from Kill Bill, she’d be whupping their asses left and right by now. She wishes she could be like Beatrix Kiddo, code name Black Mamba, but she’s not. She’s just Nichelle. Small, weak, afraid. Like everybody else.
“The nurses inform me that you are able to sit up without assistance,” says Elrond.
Nichelle sits up to show him. She has to be deliberate about it, and her arms are pretty tired afterward, but she does it. Elrond’s eyes go wide as if he just watched Lazarus rise from the grave. His eyes drink in the sight of her, and he’s beaming like that kid in that Christmas movie who finally got his Red Ryder BB gun.
“They said it would be at least June, if ever, before you could–” he says, reaching for her as though testing to make sure she’s real and not a dream. He’s so, so careful, dreading that she would turn to dust at his touch. He kisses her softly, and she kisses him back, moaning softly as he scoots closer. As he pulls back, his eyes glisten with joyful tears.
Now is the perfect time for her to get sappy and exchange maudlin words of love and devotion, but she needs something different right now, and there’s a hot Half-Elf sitting right there whose very presence stirs primal appetites she has not sated in–December, January, February, March–four months.
“You cannot be serious,” he says. Fuck, she forgot he can read her mind.
“I might be,” says Nichelle, grinning ear to ear as she imagines all the things her sexy Half-Elf stud can do with his famously healing hands. Elrond’s eyebrow arcs so high it nearly goes through the roof.
“How are you able to think of that in your condition?”
“My condition?” she asks, clumsily stroking his inner thigh because her fine motor skills aren’t quite reliable yet.
“My dear,” he says, then lowers his voice, “we are in a hospital, and you are still in recovery. Even if I agree to this, someone could walk in at any moment.”
“That’s what the curtain’s for. But if you really don’t want to, I can wait until I get outta here.”
He sits on the bed for a moment thinking it over, glancing at her a few times as his fingers absently toy with her hand resting on his thigh. She should be patient and let him think it through, but an idea occurs to her.
“We can make it a reward system.”
He tilts his head just so. It’s so cute her heart flips over several times.
“Well, how about this? Every time I can do something that I couldn’t before, we get to try something new.”
“What would you have us do, meleth-nin?”
It’s a good thing she’s not wearing panties because his voice would’ve made them melt.
“Um…” she says, mind swimming with possibilities, “I guess I just wanna touch it.”
“I see,” he says. Then he stands up and pulls the curtain around the bed.
Nichelle’s coordination improves drastically over the next few weeks. Sex, as it turns out, is a wonderful motivator. The physical therapist, a young white woman named Rhonda, says that she’s never met a patient so eager for PT. If she only knew.
The only thing she looks forward to more than physical therapy is Elrond stopping by. He gets into the spirit of their little game remarkably quickly, and for someone who claims he lacks imagination, he can be surprisingly inventive in his “rewards” for her progress.
“I finished the coloring book Twinkie gave me,” she tells him one day, showing how good a job she did coloring inside the lines. For her prize, he spends his entire visit paying loving attention to her tits.
A couple of weeks later, she says, “I used the wheelchair and went to the bathroom all by myself today.”
“Have you, now?” he asks, lifting the hospital gown and rubbing between her legs.
Some weeks after that, she says, “I stood up on crutches.”
“Good girl,” he says. Then he kneels on the floor and tastes between her legs.
As April rounds the corner into May, she says, “If I keep getting better at this rate, I can go home this month.”
“Is that so? I believe that requires something rather special, do you not agree?”
He has her lie across his lap and lie perfectly still while his fingers plunge into her hot, wet core and his tongue swirls around her puckered sphincter.
Between Elrond indulging her with “treats,” Thranduil makes many pointed comments about her good mood and seems to know when Elrond has come by. Twinkie outright says that the room smells like sex.
“Y’all some nasty muthafuckas for doin’ that shit.”
The hospital releases Nichelle on the Thursday before Memorial Day. There are follow-up doctor’s appointments and pain meds, plus weeks or months of physical therapy to follow, but she’s happy to finally get out of that room and into the warmth and sunshine.
Elrond escorts her to a bench near the entrance, and they sit in companionable silence as they wait for Uber to get there.
The air is thick with the smells of spring, and the fine coat of pollen on parked cars makes a promise of many days spent sneezing and blowing her nose. Fifteen minutes later, a gray sedan pulls into the passenger pickup area.
During the ride back to her apartment, she puts the window down, letting the breeze caress her face as the car zips through the city. The sun kisses her face with rays of light and warmth. She soaks it up, lets it seep into her flesh and bones, awakening every cell in her body with its energy. She understands now why people used to worship the sun.
Elrond is staring at her, mirror-sheen eyes unblinking and so clear that she can see herself in them.
“What?”
“You seem different,” he says.
“Different how?”
“You have a glow about you,” he says, “as if your spirit shines from within.”
“Yeah? What’s it look like?”
Elrond strokes her cheek and says, “Like you are made of golden light. Though, it may be my love for you that makes it seem so.”
Is she different? Maybe she is. Before Elrond committed a breaking and entering to be in her life, she would be disturbed by how easily he penetrates the veils she puts up between herself and the world. If this were five years ago, the prospect of being so known, so seen, by someone would have terrified her, and she would have run from it even if staying would have made her happy.
No thanks to She Who Shall Not Be Named (also known as You Know Who as well as Her), fear of being hurt is a big part of that, but it has always been in her nature to withhold the deepest parts of herself. Everything that happens to her changes only the surface while the core of her, the essence, remains untouched. In the ways that matter most, she has been, at heart, a virgin.
Then Elrond crashed into her life from another world, and shaking up everything she thought she knew about the world and herself. Only now does she begin to register the seismic shifts in her psyche. It lays bare fear and pain, but it deepens her capacity for joy and passion and–
“What is it?” he asks. His eyes are wise and kind, with the subtlest hint of raw animal passion. How hadn’t she noticed it before?
“I love you,” she whispers, a tinge of please don’t hurt me creeping into her voice even though she knows he’d rather kill himself than cause her pain. He opens his mouth to speak, once, twice, three times, but the words never come. He shakes his head and remains silent.
The car stops in front of her building. In the light of day, it’s looks nothing like the gothic palace she often imagined it to be. But it’s hers, and she’s here. Elrond is already outside opening the door for her. He offers his hand to her. She hesitates, considering the layers of meaning underneath this silent, simple gesture. Can she? Will she? With him?
She puts her hand in his. It’s strong, warm, and gentle, like the rest of him. When Elrond’s fingers close around her hand, it feels so…right.
“Welcome home, my lady.”