"Depression, most people know, used to be termed "melancholia," a word which…would still appear to be a far more apt and evocative word for the blacker forms of the disorder…[depression is] a true wimp of a word for such a major illness." William Styron, Darkness Visible
Chapter 1Elrohir put the concealer on his face like war paint.
He pressed lightly under his eyes, spreading the color to hide dark circles. He brushed and dabbed at his cheekbones and jaw, covering the bruises there. They always appeared mysteriously, likely remnants from a late-night training session.
When he was done, his face looked less gaunt. He put the powder and cream away. It was his mother's; he had not told her he was using it. It had become a necessity when his face displayed too obviously the late nights that he spent training alone, and the missed meals.
It had started four weeks ago.
Elrohir had not realized that he was asleep until he jolted awake.
He let out a groggy groan and rubbed at his eyes, running his hands over his face in a feeble attempt to wake up. He stood, and his muscles protested, awkward and sore from sleeping at his desk.
He glanced out the window.
Shit!
He was so late! He threw on his training tunic and slammed the door behind him.
The training session was well underway by now, and Glorfindel stood at the center of it all. There were six trainees in their group, Elladan and himself included, all between the ages of ninety-five and one hundred. On the benches near the sidelines sat Celebrían and Elrond, watching intently. Elrohir's heart dropped.
Elrond whispered something to Celebrían, pointing into the fray of trainees. Celebrían laughed at the comment. Her head came to rest on Elrond's shoulder. They were unconcerned by his absence.
The thought that they had forgotten about him was so terrible that it rang in his head for several moments, and he could neither hear nor see anything before him with the force of the revelation—it nearly knocked him off his feet. When he came back to himself, he was still standing in the doorway to the House. His hand had risen to grip at the doorframe as he swayed, dumbfounded.
He did not go to training that day.
Elrohir returned to his room.
When he had fallen asleep, he'd been working on a paper that was due Monday at his lessons with Erestor. He sat at his desk again and looked over the notes he had taken. The words swam before his eyes. His mind was too jumbled to focus on his work. He couldn't write; his hand trembled too fiercely. An hour passed thus, before he was interrupted.
"Little brother!" came the cheerful voice from outside. Without warning Elladan burst in, covered in a thin sheen of sweat from training. "Where were you today? Glorfindel says you have to do extra laps next time for skipping!"
Elrohir shrugged and sighed.
"Learn to knock, Elladan. I fell asleep."
Elladan just laughed, and Elrohir felt a surge of irritation go through him.
"It's the middle of the day, El!"
"I know that." Elrohir grit his teeth. Elladan was always so damn cheery after training. "It was by accident."
Still, Elladan smiled.
"Are you done with your paper?"
"Nearly," Elrohir lied. He was still doing initial research. He'd likely spend most of tomorrow finishing the paper.
"I haven't started!" Elladan groaned. "I'll have to do it tomorrow, but it is so tedious. Why must Erestor give us work on our day off?"
Elrohir had nothing to say to that. His lack of response seemed to bore Elladan, who went through the door to the family living room, bound for his bedroom.
Elrohir picked up a quill and opened his book to take notes on it. The anger steadied his hand. He was soon lost in the whirlwind of work.
The sun fell and the bell for dinner rang, but Elrohir was not hungry. By the time the paper was finished, it was nearly dawn. He hadn't meant to do it all in one sitting, but he supposed it was a good thing—tomorrow (or today, rather) was Sunday, the weekly day off from training and lessons, and now he would have it completely free. Elrohir felt too tired to change into a nightshirt, so he climbed into bed in his trousers and lay there.
Without work to occupy him, Elrohir could not force his whirling mind to rest. The sense of betrayal had lingered in his chest since he had seen his family enjoying themselves without him. How could they have forgotten about him? Had they forgotten about him? Or had they just not cared when they saw he wasn't there? He lay there, still and silent, thinking and turning the situation over in his head until it ached.
He stood up and looked at the mess on his desk, resisting the urge to push it onto the floor. He paced around the room with long, fast strides, hoping to ease the restlessness that was growing in his limbs.
It barely helped. He threw the window open and looked outside. The world had descended to darkness, and outside, it was still and silent. The training fields were empty. He was tempted to run down there and make up for the missed training, but he could tell that dawn was coming. The field would be used starting at dawn for the rest of the day.
An idea crept into his mind. The training fields would always be empty this late. There was no reason he couldn't use them on a more convenient night. There was no need for him to feel so constantly behind in training; he could achieve more if he worked more. The thought filled him with hope and a sense of purpose. He sat at his desk, cleared a spot to write, and began to plan.
He spent Sunday alone, leaving his room only for dinner. That night, Elrohir burst into the cool night air and sucked in a breath of relief at the feeling of freedom, of quiet. He had taken the back door, where there were no guards.
He made his way to the training field and then to the armory. He chose a sword from the rack and drew it from its sheath, looking at the steel that glittered in the low light. It was heavy, uncomfortably so, and the hilt was cool in his hand.
He went out onto the field. He swung the blade in a slow arc, trying to get accustomed to its weight. Usually at training he used a wooden practice sword, and this blade was much longer and heavier than he was used to.
He swung violently, letting out a growl. He'd looked at books about training and planned all day, but now that he was here, the plans faded in the face of his anger, which grew the longer he held the blade. There was a dummy to the side, low and squat in the shape of an orc, and he swung at it. His teeth were gritted and his eyes dark, and he swung and swung and swung. Each swing took a bite from the dummy, exposing the feathers and stuffing within that held it in the right shape. Sweat dripped down the side of his face, and his hands bled, chafed from the contact with the hilt of the sword.
He did not stop until the dummy fell apart completely, the metal and wood holding it together broken, and the entire thing toppled to its side. Still, he did not feel satisfied.
He felt rather sick.
He dropped the blade with a clatter. He kicked the dummy's head as hard as he could, ignoring the sudden burst of pain in his foot—the head was made of a wooden sphere filled with heavy rocks, and it barely moved as he kicked it over and over with all his might. He let out a cry of frustration, and continued to kick until finally the pain in his toes overwhelmed his anger. He stumbled backwards and whimpered.
It took a moment for his vision to clear. At last he looked at the destruction he had wrought with wide eyes. He stood there for a long moment, startled by his own behavior. When he managed to tear his gaze away, he limped slowly back to the House.
When he woke the next morning, it was to his throbbing foot. Elrohir let out a low groan, burying his face in his pillow and squeezing his eyes shut. After a moment he sat up, looking to his boots with trepidation.
The first came off easily, for it was on his unhurt foot. The second was more challenging. He tugged at the boot, and pain exploded in his toes. He growled. He yanked hard and at last it came off, but not without a wave of agony that made him teary-eyed.
He gritted his teeth and examined his toes. None were obviously broken, though his healing knowledge was admittedly limited. His toes were a dark purple and bruised deep. He stood on his good leg and hobbled over to the bath, running cool water to bathe his foot and try to numb it. When he bathed it, the pain diminished, but it still ached. He washed his chafed hands.
The sun was already high; he was late for his lessons. Why had no one come to wake him?
He dressed slowly, careful of his foot, and pulled on socks. He glanced warily at his boots, and decided against putting them on.
He tried to hide his limp as he went down the hall towards the library.
As he entered the library, Erestor's eyes snapped to him. Elladan was already working.
"I apologize for my lateness," Elrohir said as he approached Erestor's desk.
"What is your excuse?" Erestor said. One eyebrow was quirked.
"I overslept," Elrohir said, and he met Erestor's gaze. Erestor looked over him critically.
"What happened to your hands? Why aren't you wearing shoes?"
"I fell," Elrohir said easily. "Outside, in the courtyard—I went for a walk last night. I bruised my foot rather badly, and my hands were scraped by the stone."
Erestor looked Elrohir in the eye for another long moment, tense and full of scrutiny. It was obvious that Erestor did not believe him, but luckily for Elrohir, he did not pry. Erestor sighed as he handed Elrohir the stack of papers for the day's work.
Elrohir took the stack and went to his desk, barely sparing a glance for Elladan, who had looked up from his work to stare at him.
Elrohir wrote and wrote, finishing the assignment. When he finished, blood coated his hands and quill. The wounds on his hands had opened anew. He looked at them for a moment. It was strange to see himself bleeding and not feel any pain.
Elladan's eyes jerked up from his work, and he gasped as he saw the state of Elrohir's hands.
"You're bleeding!"
"It is not something you need to worry yourself over, Elladan." Elrohir kept his tone cool.
"Yes, it is!" Elladan cried, standing as well. "I'll—!"
"Just leave it, Elladan! Just leave it."
He walked past the dumbstruck Elladan and went to Erestor, putting his papers on the councilor's desk.
"May I go take care of my hands?" he asked. "I'm finished with my work."
Erestor looked to him.
"Go to your father," he instructed. "I want them treated properly."
Elrohir shook his head.
"I can do it myself."
Erestor's eyes narrowed. "You will go to your father," he said firmly. "If you do not, you will receive a failing grade on today's assignment."
Elrohir recoiled, brows furrowing. Erestor had spoken to Elladan thus before, but Elrohir he was always more lenient with, giving his near perfect record as a student.
"It will be…as you wish, Master Erestor." That was a lie. He would not go to his father for anything in the world now.
This is important, Elrohir! The only thing he had over Elladan was his academic skills.
Important it may be, but I will not go to him.
"May I go?"
Erestor nodded, and Elrohir turned on his heel, hobbling back out the door.
Training came more quickly today than usual, it seemed. Perhaps it was the dread in his gut at the thought of facing Glorfindel, having missed Saturday's practice.
He dressed and quickly went down the stairs, determined to be present and on time.
"Elrohir."
Elrohir spun around. He tensed when he saw it was Glorfindel who stood there, tall and proud.
"Master Glorfindel," he said, and his head was bowed; he dared not look the balrog-slayer in the eye.
"You decided not to come last practice," Glorfindel said, deep blue eyes calm. "Why?"
Oh, how he hated this. This interrogation—at first from Erestor and now from Glorfindel. What had he done to deserve such scrutiny? He had always tried his best, but no matter what he did, Elladan would continue as their favorite.
The word vibrated inside him, resounding through his chest.
Elladan is their favorite.
"I was asleep." It came out colder than he had intended. With such thoughts running rampant, his tone did not surprise him.
One of Glorfindel's eyebrows shot sharply up.
"Very well." Glorfindel's voice was disappointed, just as Erestor's had been, and it only angered Elrohir further. "You'll be well rested for your extra laps, then. Twenty-five."
A harsh punishment—twenty-five laps around the entirety of the large training field. Elrohir bit hard on his lip to hold back a retort. He let the anger, hot in his blood, fuel his running as he started on the task.
A few minutes passed before the rest of the trainees arrived, Elladan among them. They were sent to warm up as well, and they began a steady jog around the field. They were running faster than Elrohir was. Elrohir pushed himself harder. He didn't want to look at their faces.
"Elrohir!"
The voice so close behind him meant that they had caught up—that Elladan had caught up. His face was red from the strain of running and humiliation. His foot throbbed.
"Little brother!" Elladan exclaimed, running up beside his twin with a grin. "You decided to come today! How many laps is Glorfindel making you do?"
"Twenty-five," Elrohir muttered, face dark. Elladan laughed. A few of the other trainees did as well.
"We only have to do five," Elladan said, patting his brother's shoulder. Elrohir shied away. "See you when you're finished, El."
When Elrohir finished his laps, he was sweaty, dizzy from exertion. His hands were numb from the cold, but his foot felt it was on fire. The other trainees had finished their warmups and lined up to practice blocking. Elrohir went quickly to pick up a practice sword from the bin, trying his best not to limp, and saw that Elladan had paired up with a young woman in their group named Gladiel. Elrohir joined with the only elf left missing a partner, the ever-stoic Rammasdir.
"Partners on the right will be blocking first," Glorfindel said, pointing to Elrohir's line. "Partners on the left, try to give a variety of swings at different heights and strengths. Remember that it is important to be on your toes and that blocking should involve not only the blade but the movement of your body as well. Begin!"
Rammasdir swung for Elrohir's hip, and Elrohir brought his sword vertically to block the blow. Rammasdir drew back and reset, trying a variety of different blows, and Elrohir managed to block all of them. He felt a surge of strength, confidence.
He spotted Elladan, who was to his right. Elladan's face was serious, and Gladiel was swinging harder and faster than Rammasdir, not taking time to reset. Elladan caught each of her blows, his body moving in tandem with his sword as if it were an extension of his being. In comparison, Elrohir's own blocking was clumsy, weak. Rammasdir's practice blade tapped lightly on his hip and Elrohir's attention jolted back to him.
"Apologies," Elrohir said. "Can you start again?"
Rammasdir did so. Elrohir caught the blade in his own several more times, but his hand was shaking now. He couldn't tell if his trembling was born from tiredness or upset.
"You're too stiff, Elrohir. Your arm should not be the only thing moving," he heard Glorfindel say. Glorfindel was breathing down his neck during the next few swings, during which he tried to move his torso.
"Your feet too, Elrohir," Glorfindel said firmly. "On your toes."
He rose to his toes and immediately regretted it as a wave of agony rolled up from his foot through his entire leg. Rammasdir seemed to see his pain and opened his mouth to speak, but Elrohir grit his teeth.
"What are you waiting for?" he asked sharply. Rammasdir appeared reluctant, but eventually he swung again. A few trials later and Glorfindel was apparently content, as he withdrew and went to observe the next pair. Elrohir sighed with relief.
Anxiety gnawed at Elrohir's gut. It always took Erestor exactly a week to grade and return their assignments, and it had been a week since he had declined to go to his father about his hands. He worried at one of the canker sores on the inside of his lip.
The bell rang to indicate that breakfast had ended. He hadn't gone.
He had noticed Erestor's gaze and the way it lingered uncomfortably on him over the past week. Erestor must've known that he didn't go to Elrond.
One...two...three...four…
His hands were cold and were becoming clammy even as he counted.
Sixty...sixty-one...sixty-two...sixty-three…
Elrohir held his hands together, lacing the fingers and staring at them as he waited for them to stop their trembling. Why was he so afraid?
One hundred and eighteen...one hundred and nineteen...one hundred and twenty.
He pushed the door open and entered.
Erestor was, as always, at his desk, and he did not so much as glance up at Elrohir. Elrohir was glad for the lack of his kinsman's sharp gaze as he sat at his desk. Upon the wooden surface was the paper from the previous week, and it was lying face down so that the grade could not be seen. Elrohir turned it over.
FAILURE was written on the top in red ink.
Elrohir sighed; he had not really expected Erestor to go through with giving him no credit for the work. He did not speak, and neither did Erestor, as Elrohir set to the assignment that was laid out for the day.
Elladan entered the library a few minutes later, but Elrohir did not look up from his paper.
"The assignment is on your desk, Elladan," Erestor said. Elrohir heard Elladan sigh as he sat.
Elrohir could feel Elladan's eyes rest on him every few minutes throughout the next hour. His grip on his quill was painfully tight. He couldn't focus with those eyes boring into his back, burning through him.
Elladan finished his work before Elrohir. The older twin went to Erestor's desk and handed over his assignment. Erestor looked it over, leafing through the papers to see that they were all filled out, and then nodded tersely to his pupil.
"You are dismissed."
Elladan turned on his heel. As he passed Elrohir's desk, he paused. Out of the corner of his eye, Elrohir could see him hesitate.
"I'll see you at training today, little brother," he said. There was a long pause before Elrohir spoke.
"Do not call me that."
He was finished. He pushed past Elladan, letting their shoulders bump. He heard Elladan leave.
Elrohir put his work on Erestor's desk, and was going to turn to leave when he felt Erestor's eyes on him. He let out a barely audible sigh, turning back to his teacher and waiting for him to speak.
"Elrohir."
Elrohir looked to Erestor's face and saw the irritation there, but kept his own face neutral. "Yes?"
"You did not go to your father."
"No."
"You deliberately did not do as I asked you to."
"Yes."
Erestor's eye twitched, and his eyes hardened. "You would do well to give me more than one-word answers, young lord, and you will explain yourself. Now."
"I did not want to," he said. Erestor's face turned stony.
"You not wanting to is not an excuse."
"I am nearly grown."
Elrohir did not know where this brashness was coming from, but it was tight and coiled in his chest, pulling at the inside of him and refusing to let go. Perhaps it was pride, but he did not think so...it was anger. Anger that he would never be good enough and that Erestor did not trust him to take care of himself. Anger that now Elladan had become better than him in a place he had always held dominance: Erestor's opinion.
Erestor's face became unreadable. Elrohir felt a pang of regret. It faded to nothing.
"You are dismissed," Erestor said. His voice was cold. Elrohir turned his back, grabbed his graded paper and left, slamming the door behind him.
Weeks had passed since then. Thus, that brought Elrohir to where he was, standing at the mirror and willing himself to look more alive. The concealer helped.
It had been almost four weeks since he had started training at night. He was now constantly exhausted, hungry, irritable from lack of sleep, but he could see himself improving. His swordsmanship and archery were both markedly more precise, and the thought kept him rising from his bed every night. He'd done drills for endurance, speed, and strength, and now appeared as strong as Elladan, though perhaps wirier, for he rarely ate three meals a day as Elladan did.
In the daytime, he went to lessons and trained with Elladan and the other trainees under Glorfindel. Elrohir was more confident now that he practiced so much, but also more easily frustrated with difficult tasks. He could feel his schoolwork deteriorating. It was a price he was willing to pay.
He put the concealer back on the shelf, at last ready to face the day.
A/N: This story is the revised/updated version of my unfinished fic "Alone" from 2015. The old version of the story will be deleted on September 1st.
This story is currently finished and has 12 chapters (4 parts with 3 chapters each) plus an epilogue. Chapters will post weekly on Sundays.
This story will contain some triggering elements. If you are concerned about this, please PM me and I will detail the triggering topics. ALL chapters with sensitive content will have a reader discretion warning at the beginning of the chapter and a description of the triggering content at the end, so that if you are concerned about the content you can scroll to the bottom of the chapter quickly and read the summary to know if you will be comfortable reading it. These summaries will give enough detail so that if you do not feel comfortable reading the chapter, you can still read the story's later chapters without losing your understanding of the plot.
Thank you for your support! Please leave a review.