Economics
Economics raids mother's closet (mathematics) and plays dress up stomping around in her most fancy and intimidating notation with none of her precision or grace.
It would be cute, but Economics is pushing 100, feral, and lives in the walls.
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D - Dress-up
Happy birthday @eunoiaastralwings 💗 It's your boy Erestor...Fëanorian Erestor after @maglor-my-beloved's HC of Erestor as Moryo's son lol
Words: 739
Characters: Erestor (and a non-specified lover)
Warnings: sadness, specific HC, ah well...Happy Birthday nonetheless
Erestor stared at the pale, forbidding elf gazing back at him pensively from his mirror with a mix of apprehension and disgust—this was not him; it couldn’t be.
The dark red velvet of his tunic made his skin look translucent and pallid while it gave his dark, intense eyes an almost frightening sheen—he never wore those colours, and he couldn’t reconcile the sight of stately decorum he saw with the anguish he felt within his quaking heart.
The longer he looked at this stranger, the more he thought he saw echoes of his father’s sour expression and judgemental scepticism rippling through a face that felt more foreign and upsetting to him with every passing moment.
Imladris had ever been the sanctuary and refuge of those who had nowhere else to go, and he had worked so hard to leave the past behind; he had reinvented himself, building a name and a reputation that were independent and unsoiled by the deeds of his father, so why would he now throw all of that effort away?
He knew who he was here, within these gracious, forgiving walls, but that certainty was quickly waning now as his fingers clasped the pendant—so tiny, so discreet—until his palms screamed in agony. It was but a star, it couldn’t hurt anyone, could it?
With a revolted sigh, he finally turned away from the mirror, but he was unable to let go of this last memento—usually buried under layers of winter clothing at the bottom of his chest—and cast it back into the depths of oblivion from whence he had dug it out.
Lord Elrond knew, of course, having been raised by those Erestor himself would never call “uncles”, not even in his own mind. Admitting the bond of blood—of wrath, of fury, of insanity—that tethered him to a fallen line would lead him down a slippery slope he’d rather avoid.
What about his lover then? Did they, radiant and innocent, suspect what darkness was woven into his flesh and bone? Had they surprised hints of his smouldering ire or his cold disdain, wiped off his fair brow as quickly as they had arisen, and guessed the terrible, degrading truth?
Holding the delicate chain—Curufinwë the Younger’s craft, beyond a doubt—up and watching the eight-pointed star dance in the light of the flickering taper, Erestor groaned softly.
He couldn’t bear the idea that the person he wanted most in all of Arda would end up agreeing with him that he was unworthy—especially not if it were the crimes and trespasses of others that would ultimately cost him his most precious and fragile dream.
After all, he could neither have prevented nor amended the horrible deeds of the kin he so adamantly disavowed, could he?
Music and laughter resounded faintly outside of his door and Erestor forced his awareness back into the immediate future—he was expected, and he was already late.
A decision would have to be made.
Would he wear the insignia of a dead house and thus grant Lord Elrond a quantum of solace on this busy night? Or would he stubbornly and selfishly hide that part of himself and the admission of belonging that his tongue dared not speak?
Ever-rational, Erestor tucked the pendant into his pocket; he would survey the crowd first and only then would he decide whether it was safe and reasonable to openly display his loyalties. For now, he was an esteemed counsellor and a diligent librarian and nothing more.
As he strode into the hall though, he instantly caught the wistful, longing gaze with which Elrond seemed to caress the rippling landscape—bathed in dancing shadows and cut through by blades of silver moonlight—just beyond the high windows. Unlike Erestor, the Lord of Imladris thought of them all the time—he even had the generosity of heart to miss them and wish they would come back to him.
Resolutely, Erestor extricated his accursed necklace from the folds of his tunic and fastened it around his neck like a rope by which he’d be led to his execution.
You are not alone, it said.
I remember as well, it admitted.
We’re in this together, it promised.
I hope they’re all right, it sighed.
Elrond turned around and—upon seeing that gleaming star underneath a stern, impassive face—he smiled as brightly as only Eärendil’s son ever could have.
@fellowshipofthefics here's another one...
-> Masterlist
Lots of love from me
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