Chapter Text
There is blood spattered on the kitchen tiles, and he is scared.
He tries not to be - he is the man of the house, after all. He pretends not to be, when his mother asks if he’s ok before she goes to help try and heal the wounded. There are apparently many wounded, and so he won’t be the reason she stays behind instead of helping, instead of healing. It is what his mother does.
But there is blood spattered on the kitchen tiles, and a human tied to a chair that is responsible. A human tied to the chair that tried to kill them all.
His companions killed many, wounded more, in this small area they call home. In this house most of the blood, however, is the would be killer’s own. His grandmother still grips the blade that did it. It had hung on the wall for as long as he remembers. He’s never thought it was anything but decoration.
Never thought that it fit in her hand, but it does with an ease that does not match her. She sings him songs, she teaches him tricks, she sneaks him small cakes when his mom isn’t looking (when she catches them, his mother says ‘mom’ in almost the same way he does when he’s annoyed with her, and he can’t help but find that funny).
But the sword fits in her hand with an ease, which means just maybe it does match her after all.
“We were supposed to be done with all this a long time ago” she tells him, and he’s never thought she truly sounded old before even though he's always known she's ancient.
Well. Except when her and mom had been whispering in badly hushed tones after, when she’d tied the human up.
Why not just kill him and be done with it?
Information, darling.
He’s not quite sure how to comprehend his mother advocating for killing, but he wasn’t supposed to hear it so he is doing his best not to.
“Junior” his grandmother calls, which helps stop him from thinking about not thinking about it again. “Can you get me the locked chest from under my bed?”
He knows what’s under her bed because he knows all the good hiding spots in this house. Usually for fun, but tonight he’d hidden in the little space behind the cabinets and not made noise because his mother had begged him to hide and she was afraid so he was afraid.
But that moment was not under the bed. Under the bed is still safe, only memories of play there, and so it is easy to leave the kitchen, the blood, the unconscious tied human, his grandmother with her sword, and go somewhere that remains untouched. It is harder to come back out. If his grandmother is to ask why it takes longer than needed, he thinks he can blame the chest for being heavy - but she does not ask so he does not have to lie about clinging to the safety of those shadows a little longer.
“Thank you, young Halandil” is all she says, though her using his full name as she so rarely does is wrong in its own way. Like the sword is wrong, the man is wrong, like blood on the kitchen tiles is wrong.
Like the mask she removes from deep within the chest is wrong, white and crying and so very unusual. But not as unusual as what his grandmother does next - grabbing the hair of the unconscious man and shoving the mask in his face.
When the mask shudders and then blinks, alien and wrong, he can no longer pretend that he’s not scared. He hides behind her because she has always meant safety, even before there was a blade in her hand. He hides behind her because she has always helped him know what to do and tonight, after everything, he needs that certainty.
But his grandmother is not afraid. Instead she smiles, a smile that he will many years later realize equals apology and love and sorrow and so many things he does not understand now, as he clutches to her leg as only a child can.
“Hello Uncle” Grandmother Shadia says - and the mask, unbelievably, smiles back.