I have two other writing projects I need to work on. Yet, here it is, my second Hobbit fic in a week. I include this in the Hobbit because it uses visual cues from the film for Thranduil (slight spoilers?).

Like my previous one-shot, A Different Kind of Brave, this is really a processing sort of fic. I'm dealing with grief. Thus, I write.

It was always curious how the pool of water never seemed to reflect much light, leaving the stone walls unadorned but for their own shadows and features.

No, Elrond thought. It does reflect some, just not much. It has to.

Or perhaps that was simply the Elvenking's magic. Perhaps Thranduil, who sat just a few steps away, wished to mask the light from the water, without darkening the room. It seemed that the king of Greenwood the Great was ever toying with this power of his – a power, Elrond admitted, that was frightening at times.

The Lord of Imladris looked at his own Ring of Power, the object responsible for the protection of The Last Homely House. Elrond had no magic of his own – none of the Ringbearers had any such magic. Yet, Thranduil had no ring.

He felt so odd. Sitting here in Thranduil's private quarters, recalling to his memory the lineage of the Sindar elf. He felt as though he was avoiding the actuality of his visit. Avoiding grief.

"Where is your wife?"

The Elvenking's voice startled the Peredhil. "She is with your son. Trying to bring him comfort."

Thranduil turned his head, just a little, enough for Elrond to see the muscle and sinew that Thranduil was always so careful to hide. "You should be with her."

Elrond chuckled. "She said I should be with you." His humor faded. "You should not have to grieve alone."

Thranduil turned away. "You know very little of grief."

Elrond frowned. "Melon nin, I have known grief in my time. I know what it feels-"

"You know nothing!" Thranduil stood and twisted around quickly, hissing out his words, the sinew quivering, blood veins that could not exist creeping angrily into his white eye. "You only know the grief of a friend. You only know the loss of acquaintances, the loss of those whose fellowship you once cherished. But you do not know of my grief. You do not know what it is to lose love."

The Elven Lord nodded in deference to the Elvenking. "You are right. I do not know of such a loss."

Thranduil sat back down, apparently satisfied.

"But I remember when my brother died."

The son of Oropher hunched over slightly, head turning further away.

"That was no easy loss, Thranduil. That was the feeling of my soul being ripped to pieces, that was losing a part of myself."

Thranduil scoffed. "A part of your soul. Yes, I suppose that is right. That was the feeling of my father, the sight of his body broken and torn in the midst of a battlefield. That was the moment when time stood still and the weight of his world rested itself on my shoulders, when the error of men became the destruction of a people my father loved.

"This, however, is different. This wasn't my soul. This was my light. My light is gone. The essence of joy, the very breath that kept me strong. She was so much more than my soul. She was my heart."

Elrond remained silent. He hadn't words for this.

"Return to your wife, Elrond."

"I do not wish to leave you alone to your grief."

It was a moan that escaped the Elvenking's lips. "Grief is sacred. That which is sacred, ought not be disturbed."

Elrond felt his heart's pace quicken. "Yes, you must grieve. Grieve and then live, you have a people who need you. A son who will require his father's guidance and strength." He sighed. "There is a chance you will see her again."

"A chance to see her in Valinor. I cannot sail to the Grey Havens. Not now, not yet. To leave these people – the very people that wanted my father as their king! - that is too much. Even for her, I cannot." He laughed suddenly, darkly. "No, to see her in Valinor so soon, if Mandos is so kind to let her into the land of the light, I would rejoice to have her beauty and light grace my sight once more, yet I know she would be disappointed in my decision to retire as king.

"Elrond, if I shall ever see her again, it does not change the fact that she is gone now." Thranduil said no reply. His chin rested on his hands, and Elrond could see where his knuckles nearly touched his wounds.

"There is a way to heal that, Thranduil. You needn't always cover it with magic."

Long fingers absent mindedly floated over the gaping wound. They curled and lowered away. "I do not wish to be healed." He turned one last time to Elrond, his face full of sadness. "Now go to your wife. Please."

Meeting his gaze, Elrond found that obedience was his only choice.

Grief did indeed feel sacred this day.

Grief not only feels sacred, it's also very hard to put into words. It's a weird sort of detachment that occurs. So, I apologize if this feels odd. -Jimmy C.