Work Text:
There was a rule put upon Valinor, that any that had committed kinslaying was obliged to go before a high King and paint their hands red with ink.
It was ritual formality for most of the Sailed and Reembodied, more of a show of innocence and good will than anything else. Nobody expected each and every one of them to do it, and all the leaders were clear-handed for centuries now.
So when the Imladris contingent walked in, the peredhel lord flanked by shining Glorfindel, in all the glory of a returning Champion, and another half-elf with black hair, a piercing gaze and the face of a Feanorion, nobody expected anything revolutionary to happen.
Glorfindel grinned at King Arafinwë, a roguish thing, and promptly knelt before his throne. -My King.- he looked up. – We all require quite a bit of ink.-
The court fell silent.
-What?-
-Ink, my King. Red. For our hands.- the Balrog Slayer tilted his head. -Or has this tradition fallen out of use?-
-But. You?!-
- My King. Middle-Earth is not a kind place.- he shrugged. – And I am a warrior.-
-And your companions?!-
Elrond stepped out. -We are both kin to the Firstborn and Secondborn. We are red-handed, no matter from which side one looks.-
A murmur of distress rose, but they paid it no heed.
-The ink, my King.- Glorfindel reminded him gently.