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The storm was getting worse.

Elrohir had never been to sea before, but storms such as this were surely abnormal, especially along the Straight Road. The sailors Círdan had sent with them muttered to one another constantly and watched the horizon with anxious faces. Whenever the twins stepped on deck for a breath of fresh air, they were quickly shooed below and told they risked being swept overboard if they remained.

Most elves could tolerate staying below deck, but as peredhel, the twins struggled. Elladan had it worst. The rolling waves rocking the boat back and forth left him nauseous and retching. Glorfindel and Erestor stayed with him, but when Elrohir offered to help, he waved him off and gestured to the hold where the rest of their people were gathered. Elrohir grimaced and nodded. It had been hard enough to coax all of their House onto the ship with them. They were no doubt panicking now.

As he approached the hold, he heard the telltale sound of an argument. Rather than announcing himself, he lingered outside the door for a moment to eavesdrop. After a particularly violent lurch of the ship silenced everyone, he recognized the voice of his master-at-arms cut through the room.

“That settles it. We give it one hour. If the storm has not stopped by then, we throw ourselves overboard. Perhaps then Lord Ulmo will allow the ship to pass safely West.”

“But” –

“But nothing! I will run you through myself before I let our lives endanger our lords.”

No more Elladan said in the back of his mind, and Elrohir agreed. He took a moment to adjust his clothes and opened the door. The people of the House of Fëanor had gathered there, each and every one of them wearing a very familiar haunted, guilty expression. Elrohir frowned at them.

“If I have to place you under arrest, Captain, I will be very disappointed.”

His captain met his eyes without flinching. “It is no less than those who sailed with your mother and father promised to do.”

Distantly, he felt Elladan vomit again. Elrohir grimaced, wishing he could do the same. “If anyone tried that on Adar, I’m sure he jumped right in after them. As would we. Either the House of Fëanor is welcome in the West; or we are not and we are following my father to our deaths. I do not believe my father is dead.”

“You and your father are not kinslayers.”

“I do not believe my grandfather is dead, either,” Elrohir said sternly. He considered his options, which were few, then said, “It may be that we are close enough to the Undying Lands for my brother and I to reach Adar and call for aid. We will attempt to do so. You are to remain here, unless doing so would lead to your deaths.”

He did not give them a chance to argue before sweeping out of the room. He did not think he pulled the dramatic exit off half as well as Elrond usually did, but he hoped it got the point across nevertheless.

In the small quarters he shared with his brother, he sat down and crossed his legs. Together, they reached out with their minds, brushing over the familiar minds of their followers and reaching out across the sea, calling desperately for Elrond. At first, silence was their only answer. But then something reached back. Whatever it was, it was not their father, nor an elf or anything they had ever encountered. It was the pounding of waves against the shore, the rolling deep, the dancing stream, the roaring river. Vast beyond imagining, they sat a moment in awe. This could only be a Vala.

Most elves (or half-elves) would likely rejoice at connecting with a Vala via ósanwë. But Elrohir and Elladan had seen their father’s grief. They had seen their grandfather’s scars and saw how even now, their people cowered in terror, certain that they were condemned for crimes committed millennia before the twins had even been born. Elladan fled from the contact immediately, disgusted, but Elrohir hesitated. Despite all he had seen, something about Ulmo (and surely this could only about Ulmo) soothed him. He reached out, pleading and defiant and all at once, begging for mercy and insisting that he would not forsake his people to die, not even to save himself.

Ulmo’s response put him in mind of the running of the river-water through the valley.

“Oh,” Elrohir said as they separated, suddenly calm. He blinked a few times, shaking his head. “He’s not trying to kill us. He’s just trying to scare them.”

Even now, the storm began to calm around them. A prank, even a prank in bad taste, could be forgiven, Elrohir decided. After seeing to his brother, he checked first on his people and then ascended to the deck and spoke to the sailors, telling them of what had passed and assuring them of their safety. They looked at him in awe.

“Your line has ever been favoured by Lord Ulmo,” one said, and Elrohir snorted.

“My line has not had favour of the Valar for a long time.”

They sailed through the night, the curve of the world falling away below them. They would arrive in Valinor with the dawn, the sailors reported. But as they approached, Gil-Estel changed its due course, setting faster and further south than ever before. The sailors muttered at that.

“First the storm, and now another ill omen. If Gil-Estel will not shine on our passage, what hope is there for us? We should never have allowed the Fëanorians onto the ship.”

Elrohir and Elladan disliked the omen, too, but for different reasons. They communicated their fears and plans via ósanwë until their minds worked as one to come to a solution. For as much as they hated to acknowledge it, Eärendil who was Gil-Estel was their grandfather by blood. And though he had not said a word on the matter, they knew a part of Elrond had feared Valinor, no matter how much their real grandfather had promised him a living paradise. The strange motion of Gil-Estel may well be an omen that Elrond’s fear had been justified.

If so, they decided, it would be easy enough to judge from the ship. If when they docked a stranger was there in place of their grandfather, they would know Elrond was not acting of his own free will. Their father would never acknowledge Eärendil before his real fathers. They would have to work swiftly then, stealing their father and mother and the ship they had sailed on and fleeing – somewhere. North, to begin with, to buy themselves time. But if their grandfather Maglor was there, then they would know all was well and good and could disembark safely.

Together, they took news of their plan to their people in the hold. There was much weeping at the thought of re-exile now they were so close to home, but not one of their folk accepted their offer of remaining behind. It was agreed nothing could persuade Elrond to willingly forsake their House, so if he had done so, they would do whatever it took to retrieve him.

Elrohir, who had befriended many of the sailors with his curiosity and interest in sailing during the journey, went up to deck to keep watch while Elladan stayed below with their people. The first thing he saw was a brilliant light like a star. As they approached, he saw the light was bound to the prow of a ship, and he realized with a lurch he was looking at a Silmaril. Elladan looked through his eyes also, and together they despaired of a peaceful future. Could they find the Straight Road back East and return home, or was that way forever closed to them?

But then they grew closer still and Elrohir saw the crowd gathered waiting for them. Their mother and father were there of course, and Elrohir’s heart leapt at the first sight of his mother in centuries. And while a tall blond stranger was with them, Maglor was with them, also, as was a tall redhead that could only be Maedhros, who stood with an elf wearing golden ribbons in his hair. There also was a tall elf with dark hair who looked exactly like Elrond’s portraits of Gil-galad and a black-haired stranger Elrohir could not place but bore a strong resemblance to their grandfathers.

Distantly, he was aware of Elladan passing the good news on to their people. There would be rejoicing down below. There was rejoicing up above, too, of a much more worshipful kind as people pointed at the ship and whispered,

“That is Vingilót!”

They did not wait on formalities when they landed, dashing to shore to reunite with their mother as soon as possible. Celebrían wept tears of joy to have them back in her arms, praising them both and wiping the tears from their faces while ignoring her own. After a moment, they allowed Elrond in on the reunion, too, embracing and hugging their father while they wept.

The reunion was one of both joy and sorrow. They had lingered in Middle Earth for nearly a century after Arwen’s death. Among their things, they promised, were crates of letters from Arwen written throughout her life: many to Elrond, some few to Maglor, but most to Celebrían, to whom she had started writing as soon as she had made the decision to remain in Middle Earth.

It was only after much weeping and many half-started conversations that they began to greet the rest of their kin. Maglor was first, of course, looking as surprised as ever by the love and affection he was shown. Maedhros and his husband Fingon followed. They coped better, Elrohir judged, but Maedhros still seemed unsure of his welcome, as if he had not been the hero of half the stories Elrohir had heard as a child. Well, if Elrond alone had not been able to convince him of his welcome, Elrohir and his brother would add their voices to the chorus. Even Maglor had stopped protesting their compliments after a decade. But then Elrond beckoned over the blond stranger and said,

“And this is is your other grandfather, Eärendil.”

Elrohir exchanged a long look with his brother, assessing different strategies. Elladan tried the gentle approach first, putting a hand on Elrond’s shoulder and saying,

“Ada, you have two fathers, remember? Makalaurë and Maedhros.”

“I know it is a change from what I have said in the past,” Elrond said with a wry smile. “But I do not see why I should not have three fathers – four, if we count Atar, that is, Findekáno.”

Counting Fingon for his marriage to Maedhros was one thing, but Elrohir had his limits. He lifted his chin haughtily and said,

“You raised us in the House of Fëanor, Ada. So I remain. I will have no other House and I will not recognize this impostor.”

He felt a savage stab of satisfaction at the dismay that spread across Eärendil's face, his mouth twisting into a frown and his eyes downcast. Behind him, he heard a snort from Maglor. Both he and Elrond looked at him and Maglor said,

“Don’t even think of complaining, Elrond. Eärendil may deserve a better welcome, but Elrohir is much more polite than you were to Ñolofinwë.”

Elrond let out a sigh, but when he looked at Elrohir, there was a twinkle of pride in his eyes.

“I am glad you still hold pride in our House, but Adar” –

“You call him Adar?!” Elrohir exclaimed, outraged.

“That is how I felt!” the dark-haired stranger interrupted, aggressively gesturing to Elrohir. “But he will not stop, no matter what you tell him! He has taken it into his own head that Eärendil is to be honoured as a father despite not being of our House, and all my kin are arrayed against me.”

“Yes, Grandfather, we’ve betrayed you horribly,” Elrond said drily. “Elladan, Elrohir, this is your great-grandfather, Fëanáro. Grandfather, these are my sons. The one starting a fight is Elrohir, and the one who remembers his manners is Elladan.”

Elrohir inclined his head slightly and smiled. “Given our family history, I did not think I would be meeting a new grandfather and great-grandfather today. I am pleased to be proven wrong.”

The last stranger to be introduced was Gil-galad, who was delighted to meet them after many years of stories. Both Elladan and Elrohir loved him immediately, knowing almost as much of him from Elrond’s stories as they had of Maedhros and Maglor before meeting them.

*

They spent their first night in Valinor by the coast. Their people would need time to decide what to do next, Elrond said, and to recover from the journey. Elrohir did not disagree, but he wondered what decisions his father thought there were to make. Their people would follow them, of course. Lindësirnan, the valley where Elrond had settled, surely had room enough for them all.

But when Elrond discussed the matter with them, many of the people who had sailed West with Elladan and Elrohir murmured to one another and exchanged unhappy looks. They asked to speak to Elrond and his sons alone, and they agreed. Once alone, their captain spoke and said,

“Gladly would we follow you, Lord Elrond, or your fathers or sons; but not all among us would consent to follow Fëanáro again, even if you have chosen to do so. Many of us love him still as lord and King and would follow him to any end, but some have come to resent him for all that came to pass. If you and he quarrel, our people will be divided.”

Elrohir gaped. He could never have imagined such disloyalty from his people and did not know what to do in the face of it. He could not imagine how his father smiled so gently at the dreadful words.

“I think I understand. Let me start by soothing your fears: I remain the lord of the House of Fëanáro. My grandfather Fëanáro is much healed from when you knew him last and wiser, I think, than you remember, but moreover he has remembered he has little taste for court life or the drudgeries of leadership.”

Elrond gave them all a few moments to digest those words then added in a dry tone,

“Since I have managed, so far, not to ruin our House, and show almost enough respect for his name, he decided my lordship could be permitted. But in truth I value his advice. We argue, often, but he is dear to me, and I am most grateful for his return.”

The first sentence won a few nervous laughs from the crowd which Elrond rewarded with a bright, beaming smile.

“I will not say you must come live with us, for of course you should do as you wish. But I do hope you will at least come visit. I have missed you all very badly.”

If Elrond had hoped for the session to remain dignified, that was the last thing he should have said, Elrohir thought. His people swarmed him, all wanting to hug their lord and tell him personally how much they, too, had missed him. Elrond laughed and wept at once, disappearing in a sea of red. Laughing softly to himself, Elrohir returned to the main room so he could sit by his mother’s side once more.

*

To Elrohir’s relief, Eärendil left with the sunset, waving off Maglor’s offer to walk with him to the docks. To his dismay, as soon as he was gone Elrond sat them down and said,

“I do not demand that you love him, but I do expect you to be polite to him. And I do ask that you listen to me explain why I have come to love him, despite all I said in the past.”

Neither twin was happy with this deal, but they knew from bitter experience that arguing with their father was a vain effort, so they each took a seat on either side of Celebrían and settled in for a lecture.

“The night Atto died, your uncle Elros and I made a plan. I was to go to Eärendil and weep, and call him Adar, and generally humiliate myself as necessary until I had won his trust enough to ask for the Silmaril; and then I would take it, even if it burned me, and hold it as mine until the Oath was fulfilled.”

This all seemed very reasonable to the twins, but the blood drained from Maedhros’ face and Maglor squawked,

“What do you mean, ‘even if it burned you’?”

A pinched look passed over Elrond’s face. Elrohir exchanged a look with his brother. It was an expression they had never seen Elrond wear before their grandfather had shown up, but Maglor seemed to have a special talent for getting under Elrond’s skin in a specific way.

“It seemed plausible to us that the Silmaril would burn me since I was claiming it for you; to say nothing of my decision to heal your burn regardless of the Valar’s opinion. But a hand is a small price to pay in return for your safety.”

“Elrond, Varda hallowed the Silmaril to burn that which is evil,” Maedhros said gently.

Elrond gave a derisive snort. “Clearly not, for they burned you and Atya.”

“Ada has a point. I’ve never seen Grandfather do anything evil,” Elrohir chimed in, knowing he had to speak quickly or Maglor would say something self-deprecating. Elladan countered with a story of some good deed Maglor had done, asking with pensive expression if that was evil, and the two of them went back and forth in that manner for a while as Maglor sank further and further into his seat, hiding his face from embarrassment. Elrond beamed at the two of them. After a few rounds back and forth, their mother joined in their game, at which point Elrond started to laugh with delight.

“If I had known compliments were such an effective way to stop you worrying, Atya, I would have tried this years ago,” Elrond teased.

Once the fuss had settled down, Elrond continued with his story.

“As I said, my plan was to deceive Eärendil. But when I went to him, he recognized me, and apologized for leaving Elros and I, and spoke dismissively of the Silmaril. He gave it to me without me even having to ask,” Elrond said, his tone turning warm and fond. “And when I told him after why I had needed it, he asked only if my fathers had been good to me.”

Elladan thought for a moment before allowing reluctantly, “Well, if he helped our family, I can give him a chance.”

Elrohir looked at his brother in horror. The handing out of Silmarils was no basis for deciding who should be counted as part of their family. He tried to guess how things had come to pass and made a stab in the dark.

“So you started calling him ‘Adar’ as part of the plan and got attached?”

It seemed plausible. Elrond did get attached to people easily. Elrohir had lost count of how many stray children had been fostered as his brothers and sisters over the years. But rather than agreeing, Elrond cringed and ducked his head.

“Eönwë came, and I thought it would be right to call Eärendil ‘Adar’ once before I died, though it felt strange to do so. But I did not die, and it plainly made him so happy that I could not bear to take it back. Please, I beg you, do not tell him why I started to call him so. It would break his heart to know the truth.”

Their father had been right to cringe at the admission. The table exploded into argument. Maglor had known Eönwë had come, but had apparently underestimated how grimly Elrond had interpreted his presence. That, Elrohir thought, was a rarity and a red flag. He could not remember any other time Maglor had underestimated how dreadful a situation could be. Fëanor, who also knew Eönwë had come, took great offence to the admission, declaring that if Elrond only called Eärendil ‘Adar’ out of pity it would be kinder to cut him out of the family now. But the worst by far was poor Maedhros, who had somehow not been told that Eönwë had come that night and was now faced with the realization Elrond had been willing to face death or worse to reclaim him from the Halls of Mandos.

“Adar helped resolve the issue. He talked Eönwë down. I am alive, I am well, and I have come to love him, strange though he is. I am proud to count him as one of my fathers.”

“Elrond, yonya, your definition of strange might be a little biased,” Maglor said fondly.

Elrond narrowed his eyes. “Have you two been gossiping about me again?”

“He found a portrait of you and Elros as babies and showed it to me. We’re getting copies made so I can have one.”

“It is a very sweet portrait,” Maedhros chimed in.

“Atto, not you, too,” Elrond whined.

Elrohir exchanged a look with his brother, raising an eyebrow. There had been a time when it had seemed as if half of Middle Earth had looked to Elrond as a father figure. The idea of Elrond in his youth, let alone as a child, had seemed laughable. But Maglor’s return had brought a new youthfulness out in their father that the twins judged to be good for him. It seemed even the very old and wise had once been troublesome children. But now, to see him reduced to such whining embarrassment, it was difficult not to laugh. Again, they had no doubt it was a good thing. Both Elrohir and his brother could feel the joy emanating down the fëa bonds they had with each of their family members, and Elrond stopped whining a moment later to turn back to serious discussion.

*

When they set out the next day, every elf from Imladris who had sailed with them declared they wished to come live with them in Lindësirnan. Elrond wept with joy at the news. Annoyed, Elrohir slipped his brother a gold coin, the stakes of the bet they had made that Elrond would do just that when they confirmed their choice. Elladan snickered.

The valley felt like home as soon as they arrived. It was not Imladris, but it was familiar enough that Elrohir felt tension leave him that he had been carrying since he had left his home. A part of him would always miss Imladris, of course, but already he could tell that in some ways, this place may be even better. Their father had built Imladris alone. Here, already, he could feel his grandfather’s influence, and he was sure he would come to recognize more signs of his family in time.

“I have never seen country like this,” Elladan said.

The land was indeed strange. Though there were many plants Elrohir recognized, he saw also silvery trees with grey-green leaves and bright yellow bunches of small, round flowers, and the birdsong was strange. Both Elrond and Celebrían took that as an invitation to point out things that were new to them, for there was much in this land that grew that had never been seen in Middle Earth. As they passed the neat orchards of fruit trees which fed the settlement, Celebrían pointed to a small cluster of trees with bright red fruits and said,

“Those are my favourite.”

“Celebrían,” Elrond groaned, ducking his head in embarrassment.

“I lived in Tirion before your father joined me and these were always my favourite fruit. The tree doesn’t grow naturally this far north outside the Gardens of Yavanna. Your father used to ride to Tirion twice a week to buy them for me until Nerdanel convinced him to pray to Yavanna and ask to grow them here. They do not taste precisely the same, but I like these ones better.”

Elrohir stared at his mother in astonishment. It was easy enough for him to picture Elrond riding hours each week just to fetch Celebrían her favourite food, but he could not imagine him praying. He had never spoken a word against the Valar, but nor had Elrohir heard him praise them. He had seen him pray only at funerals.

“They’re your favourite,” Elrond said, all but whining the words.

If anything could get Adar to pray, it would be Ammë, Elladan reasoned, which was a point Elrohir had to concede. Still, he glanced back at the blossoming trees in astonishment. Could Elrond have been wrong about the Valar?

“How did the prayer work?” Elrohir asked curiously.

Elrond then described to him the prayer he had used and the bargain he had struck. In return for information on how he used her plants to heal, Yavanna taught him how to drive the growth of plants as a Maia would. Melian’s blood was diluted and it was more difficult for Elrond than Yavanna had anticipated, but they had found a solution, tying his power to music as Elrond was used to.

Listening to him describe it, Elrohir was reminded more of tales he had heard in his youth of Elrond negotiating treaties on behalf of the High King than anything his maternal grandparents had ever taught him about the Valar. He breathed a sigh of relief. It was a reassurance to know that some things, at least, were constant in this strange place.

The eight-pointed star over the door of the house promised the twins they had come home. After all the strangeness he had endured since leaving Imladris, Elrohir nearly wept from relief at the sight. That star had been with him his entire life. His first clear memory was of Elrond holding him in his arms and singing to him, a circlet with that star upon his brow. At the time, he had been too young to think anything of it, but now, looking back, he found himself grateful for it. He had never doubted who he was or who his father’s people were. Even when Maglor had been absent and ill, he had not suffered for a lack of family, for every soldier of the House of Fëanor that had followed Elrond to Imladris had doted on him. The eight-pointed star was the sign of his family and Elrohir loved it with fierce loyalty.

They were given a tour of the house and shown their rooms, which were much like those they had left in Imladris but larger. The size of the family wing was staggering to Elrohir. He had grown up with rooms for himself and his siblings and his parents, and a room also that had sat sad and empty until their grandfather had returned. In addition to the rooms Imladris once held, though, there were rooms for Maedhros and Fingon, and for Fëanor, and rooms still empty for Nerdanel (who, they were told, preferred still to live separately) and Celebrimbor and many others who had not returned. In the very next room over, the one wing in the house without any heraldry of the House of Fëanor, there were rooms for Gil-galad (whom Elrohir approved of), Eärendil (whom he did not), Fingolfin (who apparently visited often, to the despair of Fëanor), and many others close to their family who either lived with them or visited often enough to warrant their own rooms. It was, Elrohir thought with satisfaction, precisely the home he would have expected his parents to build.

*

The arrival of the twins was celebrated with a great feast. At first, Elrohir enjoyed himself, drinking and making merry and listening to the minstrels sing. He had not thought it was possible for his grandfather to improve in talent, but somehow Maglor had, or else returning to Valinor had healed him still further of some unseen wound, for he sang more sweetly that night than Elrohir had ever heard.

All was well until the food was brought out. Elrohir took his seat at his father’s right hand and immediately leaned forward to make panicked eye contact with his brother, seated by Celebrían. It had been a long time since they had attended or hosted any formal banquet. Elrohir was not certain he had ever attended a banquet this formal before. The selection of cutlery before him was dizzying.

He risked a glance to his left, hoping to copy his father. The last thing he wanted to do was embarrass him in front of their extended family. But as he did so, he heard Maglor beside him hum a familiar tune and his eyes lit up.

“Of course! The Cutlery Song!”

He ran through the song quickly in his head and selected the right fork. The thrill of victory was undercut by the sound of Gil-galad snickering opposite him. When Elrohir glared at him, he held up his hands in surrender and said,

“I am laughing at your father, not at you. I should have known he’d teach you all of Maglor’s songs.”

“Well, what else was I supposed to do?” Elrond asked. “I have no complaints with respect to my childhood. I told myself when you were born that if I could raise you half as well as Atto and Atya raised Elros and me, I would count myself as a good father.”

A little further down the table, Elrohir heard cutlery hit the floor. Gil-galad’s eyes darted to the side and a smile spread over his face.

“I think Maedhros heard you.”

“Good,” Elrond said with a serene smile on his face. “He and Atya need to be reminded of such things every now and then.”

Elrohir risked a glance at Maglor. He was staring at Elrond with wide eyes, his lower lip trembling and his eyes filled with tears. He reached out and patted his grandfather on the arm reassuringly.

“You are an excellent grandfather, too. I missed you, when you left.”

The food, when it arrived, was more elaborate than anything Elrohir had seen in his life. He spent the evening drinking and feasting and trading stories with his family and went to bed with his head spinning and his heart full.

*

Elrohir’s head felt like it was about to split in two. His stomach rolled and there was a foul taste in his mouth, as if some small creature had crawled in while he slept and died in there. He groaned. For a while he drifted in and out of miserable sleep. There was a knocked the door to his chambers and he groaned again, louder this time. When the door opened, he buried his face deeper in the pillow and said,

“Fuck off, Elladan, I don’t want to be the Wise and Venerable Lord Elrond today.”

“Fortunately, that role is taken,” Elrond said drily.

The bed dipped as he took a seat on the edge. When he held out a glass containing some mysterious blend of herbs, Elrohir seized it and swallowed it in one gulp without question. He may not entirely forgive his father for the mortal blood that cursed him with hangover cures, but at least in dedicating himself to healing he had found a way to ameliorate his sins.

Within a few minutes, the headache began to clear. As it did, he realized what he had said to his father and flushed with embarrassment.

“When I said I didn’t want to be you today, I meant only”--

Ai, it was no use. Elrond raised an eyebrow at him. There was no escaping without an explanation, then.

“We didn’t mean to pretend to be you,” he began, avoiding his father’s gaze. This would be easier, he thought, if he could not hear the whining note in his own voice. He tried again and managed a more level tone.

“Men would come from villages to the East. Not our kin, less learned Men who had heard rumours that a powerful elven lord lived in the Hidden Valley and could cure any ill. They would not believe you had gone. We could hear them shouting at poor Erestor, demanding he fetch you at once.”

Elrond pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, but he did not interrupt, so Elrohir continued.

“Elladan went down to explain and they dropped to their knees and started calling him by your name. And, well, all they wanted was one of your pneumonia tonics, and even I can make those, so it seemed easier to go along with it. Until they came back. And you know even some elves have trouble telling Elladan and I apart, so when they saw me, they assumed” –

“I get the picture,” Elrond said.

He sounded exhausted. Elrohir cringed. They had told themselves Elrond would not be angry with them, but apparently they were wrong. But when he risked a glance at Elrond’s face, there was no anger, only wry resignation.

“Elrohir, part of the reason I left you and Elladan in Imladris was to learn to stand on your own two feet. I wished for you to know what it is to be a lord in your own right and not only my sons.”

“And we did,” Elrohir insisted. “We just, I don’t know, cheated sometimes. When we were tired, or some less educated Man was being particularly stubborn.”

“Cheated,” Elrond said skeptically. His face gave nothing away, but Elrohir recognised the warm hum of amusement underlying his voice.

“I promise not to do it again?” he offered with a sheepish grin.

That won him a laugh. “I very much hope you do not. I think our family would notice if I suddenly grew several inches.”

Elrond left him, then, to prepare for the day. Within a few minutes, he felt the lingering headache from Elladan’s side of the twin-bond begin to ease. Satisfied, Elrohir got out of bed and made his way to the bathing chamber to prepare for the day.

*

As much as the twins wanted to haunt Celebrían's every waking moment, they knew that if both of them did so, Elrond would catch on to their plan and sit them down to speak about their feelings. That, they agreed, should be avoided at all costs. Instead, they came up with a schedule. At any given moment, one of them would visit their mother while the other found other amusement. And if whoever was away from Celebrían spent half his time watching through his brother’s eyes, frightened she would be snatched away – well. So long as Elrond did not find out, everything would be fine.

Three days after their arrival, Elrohir found himself training arms with Fëanor out front of the house. There was no need for such training, or so they were told, but Elrohir would trust in his own strength over the promise of strangers, no matter how mighty, renowned, or even holy those strangers may be. He counted the fact that Elrond, too, kept up his training as proof of the wisdom in his decision.

He was in the middle of a fierce sparring match when Fëanor froze as if struck with some sudden, mortal blow. The sword fell from his hand. He stared over Elrohir’s shoulder in desperation and awe. Had Elrohir not been paying attention, he would have beheaded him, or at least badly bruised his neck with the training blade. Instead, he redirected the blow to skim harmlessly over his head, though he was not sure Fëanor even noticed. As he turned to see what had caught Fëanor's attention, Fëanor breathed reverently,

“Nerdanel.”

A tall nís with broad shoulders stood in the middle of the pathway, watching them. Elrohir could not glean a hint of her mood from her expression. She had not dressed to impress, wearing a practical work dress and braiding her long, fiery hair in a simple style. Even her jewellery was minimal by Noldor standards. She met Fëanor's eyes and said,

“I’m not here for you. I’m here for Celebrían.”

Though the silence that followed could only have lasted a second or so, it felt as though it lasted an age. She then turned her gaze to Elrohir and her gaze softened. “You must be one of the twins.”

“Elrohir,” he answered with a bow. “My brother, Elladan, is with my mother.”

“Your parents told me a great deal about you. I am glad to finally meet you.”

“I can take you to Celebrían,” Fëanor blurted.

Both Nerdanel and Elrohir turned to look at him. In the tales, they spoke often of Fëanor as angry, or passionate, or fey, but they never described him as nervous, yet nervous he was. There was something pleading in his eyes. Nerdanel looked at him long, considering, before nodding her assent and stepping forward. Still hesitant, he held out an arm. There was another pause before Nerdanel took it. Then Fëanor led her into the house and presumably to Celebrían.

Baffled by the interaction, Elrohir went in search of his father. He found him and Maglor sitting in the sunshine together discussing the musical traditions of some kingdom long since fallen.

“Hello, Adar, Grandfather. I just met Nerdanel.”

Maglor sat bolt upright from where he was reclining. “Ammë is here?”

He and Elrond exchanged a look. Elrond said, “You find your mother. I will distract Grandfather.”

Before they could spring into action, Elrohir cleared his throat and said, “They’re together, actually.”

He watched as the blood drained from Maglor’s face and Elrond’s expression settled into what Elrohir thought of as his Diplomatic Face. That, Elrohir thought, was fascinating. It took a great deal for Elrond to pull out the Diplomatic Face in front of family.

“Perhaps you could tell us how things went.”

Elrohir recounted what he had seen as faithfully as he could. It was surprisingly difficult. As fraught with tension as it had been, the interaction had been entirely mundane, but his father and grandfather hung on every word and let out twin gasps of surprise at every full stop.

“She took his arm?” Maglor whispered, half terrified, half hopeful.

“Oh, he’s going to be insufferable, isn’t he?” Elrond groaned, but there was a smile on his face. To Elrohir, he said, “You witnessed something I was not sure any of us would ever see. She has not spoken to him since he returned from the Halls of Mandos.”

“Oh,” said Elrohir.

He tried to imagine how long that had been. It was said the world had once been lit not by the sun and moon but by two Trees. Those Trees had shone still the last time Fëanor and Nerdanel had met. It was a mind-boggling thought.

A few moments later, Fëanor staggered from the house with a poleaxed expression and sat down in a chair.

“She took my arm,” he said, awed. He looked at his own arm then as though it were something wonderful. He then looked to Elrond and said, “She came for Celebrían. She said she once brought her letters from Nelyo before she ever had hope of seeing him again and had heard Celebrían had received similar letters from her daughter. But she let me walk her there.”

“Ah, that at least explains why she came here,” Elrond said, his voice warm with affection. “I am not surprised it was concern for another that convinced Grandmother to finally visit.”

“Aye, she has always been generous,” Fëanor agreed absently. “It is likely where you get it from.”

There was another pause as everyone processed that, wondering if it was worth pointing out that Elrond’s personality had been formed long before he had met Nerdanel. Then Fëanor said again, just as awed as the last time,

“She took my arm.”

*

They had thought their ruse was clever, but less than a month passed before Elrond cornered his sons and said,

“I know what you are doing. I understand what you are doing. But you cannot keep following your mother around forever.”

“Watch me,” Elrohir said sullenly.

“I did nearly the same thing, you know,” Elrond confessed.

That startled both the twins, and they looked at their father in surprise. They could hardly imagine him chasing pathetically after Celebrían, terrified that she might disappear if he turned his gaze for so much as a moment. But there was a horrible understanding in his eyes. Even as he smiled gently at them, Elrohir remembered the dreadful, overwhelming grief Elrond had barely managed to contain after Celebrían had left. Perhaps it wasn’t so unbelievable. That, somehow, was worse. Elrond continued,

“I had more to keep me busy than you. I had a house to build and an Oath to fulfil. But even when we were parted, I would reach for Celebrían constantly, and when we had the opportunity to be together I scarcely gave her a moment of peace. But after a time she spoke sternly with me and asked me to trust her and that she would not disappear.”

“It’s not that we don’t trust her,” Elladan protested.

The look Elrond gave him was almost worse than a verbal scolding. Instead of arguing with them, he said,

“I am going to Tirion today. You are both coming with me.”

Elrohir grimaced. He knew that tone of voice. Whether they liked it or not, they would be going with their father to Tirion.

*

Tirion, when they arrived, was a marvel. Even amidst his worry for his mother, Elrohir could not help but be enraptured by the beauty of the soaring towers and tall growing trees. Musicians played in the streets and everywhere he looked, elves in fine clothes went about their business. Some stared at their group, which unsettled him and made his father laugh.

“They are curious (and likely concerned) about new members of our House. They were much worse when I first arrived. I would have made more of a show of it if Atya had not been so worried, but you know what your grandfather is like.”

Adopting a voice that sounded very little like his grandfather, Elladan said, “Oh, Elrond, how can you bear to call yourself my son, when I, Makalaurë, am the most horrid nér ever born, for one time I wrote a song that was a little bit rude.”

Elrond laughed, the sound at once affectionate and bittersweet. “You have no idea how much you sound like your uncle when you do that. He would be so proud if he could see you both now.” But then he cautioned, “Little as I like to admit it, my fathers have both done dreadful things. Fëanáro, also. It is one thing to make light of them to us, but to those who endured those deeds, your words may be taken as insult.”

Elrohir considered that. The kinslayings had always seemed like a far-away, abstract concept. He tried to imagine his grandfathers invading Tirion even now, slaying any in their path in search of some treasure. He could, if he tried very hard, imagine Maedhros as something fey and terrible, but it was scarcely more convincing than imagining his father in such a role. And he found he could not imagine Maglor doing such a thing at all. Either the deed or something since must have wounded him greatly, Elrohir realised, for surely Maglor would break down weeping before he attacked anyone.

“You have always spoken of their goodness. Why now, when they are returned, do you speak of their crimes?” Elladan wanted to know.

Elrond looked thoughtful then changed direction, gesturing for his sons to follow. As they walked, he said, “They are good. So I believe, and so they have always been to me. I trust them with my life, and with your lives, and with Celebrían. They are my fathers and I love them. But I do not deny anything that they did.”

“But – grandfather!” Elrohir protested, which he thought explained itself. Surely gentle Maglor had not done those things. The protest won him a look of pride and affection from his father, but Elrond sighed and said,

“Yes, including Atya. Come. I will introduce you to a friend of mine and beg use of a room in his house. It seems we must have an uncomfortable conversation and I would rather not do so in the streets.”

The friend, to Elrohir and Elladan’s mutual horror, was former High King Fingolfin.

“Is Ada friends with every High King?” Elladan wondered in a whisper.

Elrohir counted them off on his fingers as he thought. Fëanor, Maedhros, Fingolfin, Fingon, Gil-galad, only Turgon was missing from the list.

Fingolfin was away when they arrived, but an attendant let them in and showed them to a sitting room. The room they were offered was as luxurious as any in their new home. Elrond took a seat in a blue velvet chair near the window and gestured for his sons to sit where they would. After some internal debate, Elrohir took a seat opposite his father. There was a sudden restlessness in his chest he could not quell. Elrond was supposed to defend his fathers, not insult them. He began by saying,

“At home, there were none left who had not made their peace with the First Age. Here there are many who hold old grievances still. There are those our kin hurt and even killed in this land. There is a reason many from Sirion resent me for who I have become. I love my family. I love Atto and Atya. But at no point have I been under any illusions about what they are capable of and what they have done.”

Elladan hesitated, then said, “You never told us exactly what happened. I know our grandfathers went to Sirion for the Silmaril and found you there, and that many died, but” –

Elrond closed his eyes, deep grief written into every line of his face. “Let us be honest, Elladan. They went to Sirion for the Silmaril and killed all in their path. You know that. It was not the first time they had done so. Some of our own folk turned against them and they killed them, also.”

The twins took a moment to digest that. Even when their father put it so bluntly, it was hard to imagine.

“My mother, Elwing hid at the top of a tower by the sea with Elros and I. Four guards held the door and I do not know how many more were stationed throughout the tower. You must understand, these guards were known to me. They were as Erestor and Larcion and many others of our House were to you in your youth. Atya reached us only because he slew them. I saw them dead and dying as he carried me from the tower, though he bid me not to look.”

Elrohir exchanged a look with his brother. He was not sure what was worse: the idea of their dear friends being killed in their name, the idea of Maglor as a violent kinslayer, or the dreadful, haunted grief on Elrond’s face.

“Ada?” he asked, quietly.

Elrond shook his head and exhaled slowly. “They did not know Atya was not going to harm us. Those still alive wept to see Elros and I with him, thinking it would have been better for us to have been slain already and been gifted a swift death. That is the reputation our family has. That is why Atya is filled with such guilt and Atto hates himself so, for the reputation is not wholly unearned.”

“But you love them,” Elrohir insisted, stubbornly. The smile Elrond gave him in response was both proud and bittersweet.

“Yes. I love them. I saw both Atto and Atya kill and still I came to like them, and love them, and call them Atto and Atya and mean it. They did not hide any of their deeds from us. Elros and I chose to call them family knowing full well who we loved. But we did love them, more than those stubborn fools understand even now, and I do not regret my choice for a moment. I love my family. I love my House, and the people that serve it, even knowing the blood that stains their hands. But to deny that blood would do both them and their victims a disservice.”

The twins were silent for a few moments. They shared their thoughts with one another freely via ósanwë, letting their two minds mingle and disagree and finally start to strive towards common purpose. This changed nothing, they decided. Their kin had no more blood on their hands now than they had that morning. And they trusted both their father’s judgement and their grandfathers’ repentance.

After a few moments of thought, Elladan risked a question. “So when people stared at us in the streets, they thought we had killed people, also?”

“Most likely,” Elrond said, and did nothing to hide his grief. “As I said, I made a great show of our House when I arrived and would have done more if not for Atya’s nerves. There were unpleasant rumours for the first few weeks. I have never before understood why it distressed Atya so much when they made such assumptions about me, for I am used to it, but for you! You should not have to bear such a burden.”

If that was true, Elrohir reasoned, Elrond had changed minds at home alone. This time, he would not be alone.

“It is no burden. Our family is not something to be ashamed of,” he decided. “If they would ascribe the deeds of our kin long ago to us, that is their failing and their shame. I will not be intimidated into abandoning my family.”

“Nor I,” Elladan agreed fervently.

Elrond wept then and embraced them both, telling them how proud he was and confessing what a relief it was to hear them decide so. The twins exchanged a look and let their thoughts mingle once more. Once they had all calmed down a little, they risked a confession.

“Adar, when we approached Valinor, we saw Gil-Estel set strangely,” Elladan said, deciding to start with an observation. Elrond gave him a wry little smile. Before he could say anything positive about Eärendil, Elrohir said,

“We feared some enchantment had befallen you. We knew you would never turn against our House and our family of your own will, so with our people we made a plan. If there was no sign of Grandfather (Maglor, I mean) but you were accompanied by a stranger matching Eärendil's description, we did not intend to disembark peacefully. We would take you, and our mother, and seize the ship ourselves, by force if necessary, and sail north and, if we could, home East.”

For a moment Elrond stared at them, stunned. That, the twins agreed silently, was a bad sign. It took a great deal to stun their father into silence. Instead of the rage (or worse, disappointment) they had feared, he leaned back in his seat and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. After a long pause, he declared,

“I should be horrified.”

After another pause, he said, “I am horrified, but not as horrified as I ought to be. I would be lying if I said I had made no provisions for keeping Atya safe when we arrived.”

“Oh,” Elladan said, while Elrohir stared. “We didn’t think of that.”

“And you will say nothing of it,” Elrond said sternly. “Violence was, of course, a last resort, but I do not think Atto and Atya could handle knowing I had even considered it.”

It had been rare for Elrond to leave Imladris by the time Maglor arrived, but it did happen. The first time he rode afield for battle and left his father behind, they returned to find Maglor weeping and wailing, convinced Elrond was dead or dying or captured by the enemy. He had followed Elrond like a shadow for months afterwards. Elrohir did not know how Elrond had the patience to endure it, but he had taken Maglor’s fussing with good grace and a patient smile. If Maglor reacted so to violence against orcs, Elrohir shuddered to think how he would react to the idea of his family assaulting elves.

“I suppose they wouldn’t approve of our plan, either,” Elrohir mused.

“I don’t like your plan,” Elrond reminded them sternly, but the fact that they had escaped a sterner scolding so far soothed the sting of his disapproval. “I cannot believe I have to say this to you two, but you are not to kill anyone unless it is in self defence or I give you explicit permission. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Adar,” the twins sighed in unison.

The rules, at least, were simple enough. They were the same rules any Fëanorian soldier involved in a kinslaying was placed under. Perhaps they should be offended to be placed under the same restrictions as the rest of their House, but they were lax enough that neither Elrohir nor Elladan could bring themselves to mind. Especially when Elrond’s stern expression softened and he beckoned them both forward so he could hug each of them.

There was weeping then as Elrond praised them and scolded them in equal measure, kissing their foreheads and holding them close. As welcome as the affection was, it implied they had frightened their father, and that unsettled the twins more than anything so far.

When things had at last calmed down, Elrohir asked,

“You said you made a show of things when you arrived.”

“Barely,” Elrond laughed. “Atya could not have handled the kind of display Elros and I used to put on. But I wore red more often than not, and I spoke Quenya at every opportunity so that people might hear how I speak, and I took Atya with me whenever I could, knowing how he would fuss.”

The twins nodded. No one could see their grandfather fussing and worrying over Elrond and mistake him for a threat. And they had heard enough stories from their father of the mischief he and Elros had once caused upon joining Gil-galad’s court to know poor Maglor may well have worried himself to death if Elrond had pushed himself.

After several stories, a new voice said, “I do not think even you can pretend you were restrained when we met, Elrond.”

“Nolo!” Elrond beamed.

He leaped to his feet and embraced the newcomer as family before introducing him to the twins. As he did so, he told the tale of how they had met and the offence Elrond had taken when Fingolfin had not acknowledged his connection to the House of Fëanor. As far as Elrohir was concerned, Fingolfin’s saving grace was that he had corrected course immediately. Furthermore, he did not misstate Elladan or Elrohir’s House. He only made one strange comment, his tone arch and his eyebrows raised as he said,

“And I suppose your sons have made no better choices than you?”

Before either twin could take offence, Elrond laughed and said, “Worse, they will argue with you in earnest. They make me look as if I am ashamed of my House.”

If not for the obvious pride colouring Elrond’s tone, Elrohir may have thought he was being scolded again. He then explained the strange game he played with Fingolfin, where Fingolfin would insult him and his House and Elrond would angrily snap back. With a warm smile, Fingolfin observed,

“You need it less, these days.”

“Perhaps you just have less opportunity, with Grandfather around,” Elrond teased. “He does not handle it well.”

“He scolded me for it, last we met,” Fingolfin said, sounding deeply amused. “It was not Fëanáro’s usual rage, no, he has at last accepted that I am only playing with you. But he is still convinced it may do you some harm.”

“And I thought Atto was overprotective,” Elrond said with a grimace. “He ambushes me, you know, to praise me and remind me how proud he is. And I am grateful, truly, but he is overwhelming at times.”

“For all his faults, he always supported his sons,” Fingolfin conceded.

“He has been nothing but welcoming to us,” Elrohir said. He was not sure he liked the implication of faults, however true they may be. He liked it even less when Fingolfin laughed and said,

“I’m sure he has!”

They stayed in discussion with Fingolfin for a long time. When at last they left, Elladan observed,

“He does not like our House.”

“He does not trust Fëanáro,” Elrond corrected. “He has no problem with my fathers, nor with you or I. But grandfather wronged him. While their relationship is healing, it is slow. If you hear Fëanáro speak of him, you will find he is much more open about his dislike of Nolo than Nolo is of him.”

They returned to the markets. As they walked, Elrond talked them through the history of the Years of the Trees, this time treating it not as history, but as family gossip. It was a strange way to look at things, but now they lived among figures from legend, it was apparently how they would need to think from now on.

Once they reached the market, their pace was slowed as Elladan and Elrohir exclaimed in wonder at every stall. They rushed to and fro, astonished by the luxury and intricate craftsmanship on display. Elrond followed with an indulgent smile and an open coin-purse, lingering to purchase anything they showed particular interest in. It was not long before his arms were laden with gifts, but he said not a word of complaint. After the market, they spent the rest of the day exploring Tirion, delighting in the high towers and flowing fountains.

When at last they returned home, they rushed to find their mother immediately. She was in the library, bent over some massive tome in a language neither twin recognised and arguing with Fëanor and Daeron. Judging from the posture of the latter two, Celebrían was winning. The twins exchanged a look and closed the door as silently as possible. She would never forgive them for interrupting now.

Elrond raised an eyebrow when they both returned. “And here I thought you would run straight to your mother.”

“She’s with Fëanáro and Daeron.”

“I wouldn’t want to interrupt them, either,” Elrond said with a conspiratorial wink. “Come, then. Let me see if I can find Atto. We were meant to spar this afternoon. Two more will be welcome.”

They found Maedhros in the gardens, lying on his back with his head in Fingon’s lap as Fingon read aloud from a book. He paused his reading as the three of them approached.

“How was Tirion?”

“Pleasant, as always,” Elrond said with a smile. “Your father sends his regards.”

They made small talk for a while before heading together to the training grounds. When asked about their experience in warfare, Elrohir answered,

“We have been trained with sword, spear, and bow; we hunted orcs often and rode to war against Sauron in the final days of the War of the Ring. Elladan is a skilled archer, but I am better with a longsword.”

They began with archery. Elrohir could not deny nerves at shooting before two heroes of the First Age, but he did not let it affect his performance. Arrow after arrow struck his target. After a few moments, he heard Maedhros murmur,

“They are both much better than you at this, yonya.”

“They are,” Elrond agreed, his voice rich with pride.

After some time, Fingon disappeared and returned with two great longbows. Each bow was made in the manner of bows from the First Age, of which Elrohir had read of but never seen. They were taller and thicker than the longbows he was used to, each reaching seven foot tall and strung with fine silk.

“I am told the skill of crafting and using such bows was lost in the latter days. It is time you learned their use,” Fingon told them.

The arrows he offered were long and slender, fletched with fine half-feathers of some bird Elrohir could not recognise. He took the bow and arrows and set up. Beside him, Elladan examined the bow and the arrows they had been given and then turned to Fingon and said,

“We will not be able to draw these.”

There was only one way to find out. Elrohir nocked his arrow, lifted his bow and attempted to draw the string. He managed to pull it back perhaps half of the draw distance before he gave up, his shoulders protesting at the weight. Elladan attempted to draw his bow, also, though without bothering to nock an arrow first.

Fingon was openly dismayed at their failure. “But why?”

“Perhaps because we are peredhil?” Elrohir asked, little though he liked the answer.

“I think, rather, it is a matter of training,” Elrond said, “and also, perhaps, due to your recent arrival. The air is different here. I have felt myself grow stronger since I arrived. I am sure you will both see similar effects.”

Elrohir accepted his father’s words, but Elladan was not satisfied. He begged leave to train with a bow of intermediate strength to work towards his goal. Elrond agreed and the three of them left him at the archery range while they progressed to the salle. There Elrohir trained for many hours with his father and grandfathers. His father, always annoyingly skilled with a sword, appeared to have improved still further. He danced circles around Elrohir no matter what he tried. It was both satisfying and alarming to watch Maedhros and Fingon each take their turn with Elrond, putting him on the back foot and constantly critiquing his form. They were gentler with Elrohir, adapting their training to his level, but with Elrond, they were ruthless.

When they decided to set swords aside for the day, Maedhros complimented Elrohir on his skills. Elrohir scoffed, but Maedhros said,

“You are accustomed to large battles facing many opponents. Even had you not told me, it is plain from the way you move. Duelling another elf is different.”

“I suppose when I taught my sons to fight, I had different goals to you teaching Elros and I,” Elrond mused.

Putting two and two together, Elrohir stopped in his tracks. The blood drained from his face as he stared at Maedhros in abject horror. He tried to imagine his father as a child learning to kill elves. He could not. His father was too gentle, too peaceful by far. Nor could he imagine Maglor consenting to let his sons fight other elves on his behalf, even if Maedhros had been willing to let them do so.

Oblivious to Elrohir’s horror, Maedhros replied, “Of course. You had no reason to fear you would ever be a threat to your sons. They did not need to be able to defend themselves from you.”

Oh, Eru, it was even worse than Elrohir had assumed. He tried, this time, to re-imagine his training as a child interspersed by warnings from Elrond that he may one day be a threat and that Elrohir may one day need to kill him. The very idea made him nauseous. But Elrond laughed at the idea and teased Maedhros back, plainly refusing to take the idea of defending himself against Maedhros seriously. They bickered for a while until Elrond said, frustrated,

“Atto, we never looked to you as threat. You were the one we wanted whenever we were afraid.”

In any other situation, Elrohir would have laughed at the shock writ large across Maedhros’ face. As it was, his heart twisted in empathy. He was reminded horribly of the awful shadow of an elf Maglor had been when he had first arrived in Imladris. It had taken years for him to find his feet. But Maglor, at least, followed their guidance easily, even if he did occasionally have fits of grief and guilt. Elrohir recognised the stubborn glint he saw in Maedhros’ eyes. He had seen the same look on his own face and his father’s face too often to see it and expect anything but trouble.

Before trouble could come, Fingon said, “That would explain why we could not remove you from his side for so long after the incident with Thingol.”

Elrond avoided eye contact with everyone. “I did not think I was so obvious.”

Elrohir listened to the exchange in silent horror. He had heard of Elrond’s adventure in Thingol’s realm, but it had never once occurred to him that his father might have been scared. Elrond was never scared. If he had been afraid, Elrohir decided, Thingol must have behaved worse than he had been told.

He watched Maedhros fret over Elrond as they walked back to the house, even after collecting Elladan.

“I would not ordinarily sacrifice your father’s pride in such a gambit,” Fingon told them in a low voice, “but to keep Maedhros from panicking, I think, he will not mind.”

“Was Thingol’s behaviour truly so bad?” Elladan wanted to know.

Fingon hesitated for a moment. He looked at Elrond with open grief in his face and told them,

“I do not know all that took place between them, and what I do know it is not my place to say. But if ever you are to meet him, you must never let yourselves be alone with him.”

Elladan and Elrohir exchanged a dark look. If they did ever find themselves alone with Thingol, they decided, it was Thingol who should be afraid. He would pay for whatever he had done to their father.

They were greeted at the entrance to the house by their mother and Maglor, the latter of whom scolded them for being sweaty and filthy so close to dinner and sent Elrond, Elladan, and Elrohir to change. Elrond made eye contact with his sons and pulled a dramatic grimace as he was scolded, sending both of them into helpless giggles. That did not stop him from fussing over them just the same as they reached their quarters, making a perfect (if unwitting) imitation of Maglor himself.

*

The worst days were those when Eärendil visited.

He came often and stayed all day, spending most of his time with Elrond but often disappearing for hours at a time with Maglor. Sometimes Elrond would leave Lindësirnan with him for the day, or worse, spend a night away with him. Elrohir mistrusted it. But even Fëanor assured him such trips were normal, so he set his fears aside and stayed up each night Elrond spent away, obsessively watching Gil-Estel. He had already had one parent vanish on him. He would not risk another.

His one relief was that the path of Gil-Estel was seasonal. He and Elladan had arrived late enough in the year that it was only a short time before the annual Festival of Gil-Estel. In Imladris, the festival consisted of drinking and feasting and many solemn hymns sung of Eärendil by all different kinds of elves while Elrond and his children locked themselves away in the house and spoke to no one. Even when Elrond had acknowledged the connection, in Middle Earth he had seen little reason to celebrate the anniversary of Gil-Estel rising for the first time.

In Lindësirnan, the rest of the inhabitants carried on as usual, but Elrond’s habits were completely changed. Eärendil slept in his chambers in Lindësirnan while Elrond organised the stocking of Vingilótë’s hold. Even Elladan and Elrohir were recruited to help. They packed fine wine, fruit preserves, cheese that would last for many weeks, and many other luxury foods that, Elrond told them, Vingilótë would not provide.

“Food does appear in the kitchen, adequate for a feast by the standards of Beleriand. As a child, I would have been envious.”

They did not stop at food. Next came a large stack of books, empty journals and writing implements; a few musical instruments Maglor had apparently been teaching Eärendil to play; new clothes and jewellery; and many blankets and pillows made of the softest, warmest fabrics Elrond had been able to find. The blanket on top of the pile was navy, but when Elrohir lifted it up, he found the blankets beneath were deep crimson. He glared at his father accusingly.

“You may call him Adar, but he is not of our House.”

Elrond flipped the blue blanket back down and said airily, “This is not the exact shade we use to show our House. I would not presume to claim Adar like that.”

“If he falls for that, he is even more foolish than I thought,” Elrohir said flatly.

“I have not even put our heraldry on it!”

Maglor, walking past, laughed at him. “You will not fool Eärendil with that excuse. If he tries to give you something from his House when he comes home next, you had best not complain.”

Both Elrond and Elrohir shuddered at that. Defensively, Elrond protested, “That, certainly, he is too wise for. He knows to which House I belong.”

“He does,” Maglor agreed. He hesitated, put down the load he was carrying, then came over to them. He took a moment to tuck one of Elrond’s braids behind his ears and kissed his forehead. “I love you, yonya, and I could not be prouder of you. But I think you underestimate how much that hurts Eärendil at times, just as your brother Gil-galad does not see how Maedhros flinches each time he says something against our House.”

Elrond looked thoughtful. “I do not want to hurt him, but I cannot be other than I am.”

“He is not asking you to be,” Maglor countered softly. “But you could, perhaps, be a bit less vehement in your rejection?”

“I will try.”

Maglor rewarded him with a beaming smile and a tight hug. Elrohir looked away, disgusted. Less vehement protests were the opposite of what he thought should happen, and he had hoped his grandfather would agree.

The only enjoyable part of the day was the time Elrohir spent on Vingilótë. As much as he hated the ship and what it stood for, his trip across the Sea had woken something in him. At night, he dreamed of infinite stars mirrored above and below as waves crashed about him. He longed for the sight and sound of the Sea. The salt air filled his lungs and relaxed a tension he had not realised was within him.

When Eärendil set sail that evening, Elrond did not hide in his rooms as was his habit for the rising of Gil-Estel. Instead, he was at the quay with his father. He hugged him and said goodbye for another year, demanding promises from Eärendil that he take care of himself and promising in return to do the same. When Vingilótë sailed, it was Elrond and Maglor who sang it farewell. They did not sing one of the traditional, solemn hymns Elrohir was used to. The song they sang was rather silly, much like many written in Imladris over the years, detailing many unrealistic adventures Eärendil should apparently expect over the course of the year. The chorus emphasised the theme of waiting, reminding him again and again that he would return in six months and that he had family waiting for him when he did.

Once Vingilótë was well out of ear-shot, the song trailed off. Elrond leaned against Maglor and hid his face in his shoulder.

*

There had been many holidays celebrated in Imladris, and Lindësirnan was no different. The Noldorin holidays were more raucous than ever now that they had been joined by many Noldor who had dwelt in Aman before Elrond’s arrival. The Sindarin holidays proceeded much the same as ever, but the Silvan holidays seemed oddly subdued.

It was the Númenorean holidays which surprised Elrohir. He was used to spending those days with his siblings and his father only. In later years, Maglor had joined them, his worn face anxious and filled with grief, and he and Elrond both had shed many tears for Elros. Now they were joined by not just Maglor and Celebrían, but also by Maedhros, Gil-galad, and, to Elrohir’s surprise, Fëanor. Of all of them, Fëanor seemed the least confident and comfortable, but he saw them through with a grim determination.

One such holiday took them to the coast. In Imladris, they had made do with the river, but the crashing of the waves and the tang of salt on the air fit the ceremony well. They sang of the sea, and of Númenor’s ships, and asked for safety for her sailors as though they were not all long gone.

The roaring of the waves increased. Elrohir felt a presence touch the edge of his mind. It was the same presence he had felt on the ship. Ulmo was gentle, asking for permission to speak via ósanwë when Elrohir had no doubt he needed no such thing. For that, as much as anything, Elrohir allowed it.

Why? Ulmo asked, and with it came context: Elrond by the sea performing this and other ceremonies; Elrond speaking to Eärendil of Elros and Númenor with affection and pride in his voice; Ulmo’s genuine confusion as to why they still thought of Númenor after so long and after what Númenor had done.

The question baffled Elrohir as much as their behaviour confused Ulmo. Of course they grieved. There had been innocent souls on Númenor, and right or wrong the Númenoreans had been their kin. Even Elrohir felt the pain of their loss. He had only glimpsed the grief inside his father’s mind once, but it had been so deep Elrohir had feared drowning in it. He showed all this to Ulmo, trying to make him understand.

The Sea rushed out. Ulmo recoiled, breaking contact. When it crashed back in again, he returned, projecting calmness and peace and healing. It was Elrohir’s turn to recoil, but not before he gave a curt explanation:

Our grief is our own. We will not surrender it.

The waves roiled before them. His grandfathers exchanged anxious looks. Maedhros stepped towards the shoreline to where Elrond was, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Yonya, I think it might be wise to leave this place.”

Elrond did not respond. He stood, rooted in place, staring out to Sea as tears streamed down his face. The waves grew taller. Celebrían made to step forward but Fëanor grasped her wrist and shook his head, speaking to her too quietly for Elrohir to hear.

A great wave rolled in towards them. Elrohir swallowed. He should have listened to his father’s fears and not trusted the Valar. In trusting Ulmo, he had killed them all.

But the wave did not crash over them. It broke and crashed right before Elrond, covering him and Maedhros both in sea spray. When the wave retreated, it left what looked to be a small circlet behind. Elrond fell to his knees. He grabbed the circlet and held it to his chest, sobbing. The ocean roiled for a few moments longer and then calmed.

Maedhros crouched beside Elrond, keeping one hand on his shoulder. Elrond looked up at him, smiling despite the tears streaming down his face.

“It was Elros’. They buried it with him. Lord Ulmo asked and,” Elrond began to explain before dissolving into tears again.

“Then we owe him our thanks,” Maedhros said, and Elrond nodded.

Once Elrond had recovered enough to show them the crown, Elrohir found himself taken aback by how plain it was. Salt and grime had dulled any shine, but the band was simple and the gems were plain.

“He insisted on a crown made by the Men of Númenor, even though we knew smiths of much greater skill,” Elrond explained. “His son had a new one made. By then their skill had increased many times over and some people wondered why Elros still wore this one. But it was made by his people, the first of his people to follow him.”

He then frowned, rubbing at a dark spot with one thumb. He looked to Fëanor and asked, “Will you help me clean it?”

Elrohir hid a smile at that. For all the stories he had heard of Fëanor's ruthlessness, none had mentioned his tendency to indulge and dote on his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.

“Of course,” Fëanor said. “You will look splendid in it, I am certain.”

Elrond recoiled, staring at him with his mouth hanging open in horror. “I’m not going to wear it! It’s going in the museum.”

“Never mind that he has circlets that most elves would value more than that crown. He couldn’t possibly wear a crown,” Gil-galad muttered, earning him an elbow in the ribs from Celebrían.

The crown, as promised, was displayed prominently in Elrond’s house once cleaned and polished. Whenever he passed it, Elrond looked at it with a small smile. Seeing how grateful his father was, Elrohir sent a quick, awkward prayer of gratitude to Ulmo. Perhaps at least one of the Valar was worth listening to.

*

They had been in Lindësirnan for several months when it happened. Elladan looked at Elrohir. Elrohir stared back.

“I’m bored,” Elladan said, astonishment plain in his voice.

Elrohir agreed. It was, all in all, a novel feeling, and one they enjoyed for all of a few hours. After that, they went in search of their family for advice. They found their parents by the river, sharing wine and watching the water as it flowed by. For a moment, Elrohir was filled with fear. What if boredom was a sign they weren’t meant to be here? Everyone else seemed content.

“We’re bored,” Elladan announced, apparently sharing none of his fears.

Elrond sighed, tilting his face up towards them with a smile. “Do you have any idea how long it has been since I heard you say that?”

“Adar, this is serious!”

“It is a good thing. We were so busy, back home, keeping Imladris safe and the Shadow at bay. But there is time for leisure here.”

The twins exchanged a look. In Imladris, they had devoted every waking second to hunting orcs to avenge their mother. With Celebrían sitting in front of them alive and well, it seemed a strange thing to confess to.

“That’s all well and good, but what do we do?” Elrohir wanted to know, unable to keep a whining note from his voice.

“You need a craft,” Elrond decided. “Some task that you are passionate about that you can devote your days to. There is a reason the Noldor ended up prioritising our work and hobbies the way we do.”

“I’m not setting foot in your Halls,” Elrohir said quickly. “You have enough recruits!”

That caused both their parents to laugh. Elrond and Celebrían exchanged an affectionate look before Celebrían said,

“You need something more physical than that, I think. But take some time and think on it. Come back to us with a list of things you would like to try.”

*

Elladan and Elrohir made their list together, as they did all things. Elrohir put down seafaring and shipbuilding; Elladan suggested stone-masonry and glasswork; they both agreed on smithing. Once done, they stared at the list in dismay. Their father could likely help them in the forge, but who could teach them the rest?

They took the list to Elrond at breakfast the morning.

“I suppose it is time you learnt your way around the forge,” he mused.

“Will you teach us?”

Across the table, Fëanor choked on his drink. Elrond’s lips twitched in a poorly suppressed smile.

“You would ask for me, when one of the greatest smiths ever born sits at this very table?”

“One of?” Fëanor asked, narrowing his eyes, but Elrond smiled brightly and reminded him,

“Celebrimbor.”

The fury in Fëanor's face melted immediately. “Very well. But you, Elrond, are forbidden from teaching.”

“I’m an embarrassment,” Elrond said in a loud whisper, winking at Elrohir.

“You are not!” Fëanor said hotly. “You have potential. Given a few centuries of practice, you may make a fair smith, if you applied yourself.”

Instead of taking offence, Elrond’s eyes widened and his mouth parted a little before settling into a wide smile. “Thank you, Grandfather. I think that might be the most honest compliment you ever gave my work.”

“That was a compliment?” Elladan asked skeptically.

“By Fëanáro's standards, certainly,” Elrond laughed. “He is not a patient teacher. But even he will concede I have improved my skill many times over under his guidance.”

“There was a time when apprentices would trade their weight in mithril for a single day of my attention, as if I could be swayed by petty trinkets in place of true skill,” Fëanor boasted. “But I would be delighted to teach my great-grandsons, even if you have no more talent than your father.”

“That is one teacher settled, then!” Elrond said. “Let me see the rest of the list.”

Elladan passed it over. Elrond looked at it, then looked long at each of them, his expression thoughtful.

“Stonework and statuary is easy enough. It will be good for you to spend more time with Nerdanel. Glasswork will be trickier, but I can speak to some people in Tirion.”

“And shipbuilding and sailing?” Elrohir asked.

He winced at the eager note that bled into his tone. His humiliation only grew when his father raised his eyebrows.

“Well, I can show you some basic skills. But if you wish to learn properly, from a real master of the craft, you will have to get over your dislike of Eärendil.”

Elrohir’s face fell. “If you know of such things, can you not teach us?”

“Where do you think I learned them?” Elrond asked. “Adar and I have been building a boat together and both he and Elros taught me to sail. I will show you our ship and the techniques I have learnt so far. As for sailing, we should be able to borrow something from those settled by the docks.”

With that sorted, their fate was sealed. After breakfast, Fëanor dragged them both down to the forge to learn the basics. As Elrond had warned, he was a stern teacher and difficult to please, but when satisfied, his pride was contagious and addictive. They fell into a habit of spending two full days per week in the forge, sweating and struggling to meet Fëanor's impossibly high standards.

*

The ship Elrond was building was not of elven style, but Númenorean. He showed them the designs he and Eärendil had constructed from Elrond’s memories of Númenorean ships and a small scale model they had made to test their plan. The ship itself, however, they had scarcely started work on. When they asked why it was taking so long, Elrond gave them a sheepish smile and said,

“I am not building it to have a ship. I am building it to spend time with Adar. We only work on it when he is around.”

Elladan and Elrohir exchanged a look. At this rate, their ship would take centuries to finish. But there was no denying Eärendil had taught their father well. He could not teach them how to build a ship from beginning to end, but the skills he did have he was confident in and could explain as clearly as his own craft. Elrohir hung on every word, fascinated by the process.

The next time they rode down to the sea, Elrond borrowed a boat and taught them to sail. For each term he taught them, he told them the Quenya, Sindarin, and Númenorean names.

“For we are Men as much as we are elves,” he reminded them. “If we do not remember how things were done, who will?”

After two sailing sessions, Elladan said, “I will remember the deeds of our kin on land. I am not setting foot on a ship again, not for all the mithril in Moria. I will use the time to train with Findekáno's great bow.”

Elrohir, on the other hand, could not get enough of the Sea. The days he spent with his father on their little borrowed boat were his favourites. It was not long before he matched his father in skill and surpassed him in confidence, and though Elrond still came with him when he sailed, he no longer gave instruction.

The months trickled slowly by. He tried many different crafts with his brother, but while Elladan lost patience with them all, Elrohir’s heart turned again and again to the sea.

Nearly six months after their first lesson, Elrond said, “I have seen how much you love the time we spend out here. If you wish your skills to improve, you will need a better teacher than I.”

Elrohir’s heart sank. “You speak of Eärendil.”

“He understands better than you think. He knows I am of the House of Fëanor and does not ask me to be otherwise. It would be the same for you.”

Elrohir took a moment to organise his complaints. Elrond’s reassurance addressed many of his fears, but not all of them. After some thought, he said,

“He left you.”

When Celebrían had left, they had all understood that she had no choice. It had not been so for Eärendil. However highly Elrond spoke of him, Elrohir was not sure he could respect someone who left his children behind in danger.

Elrond hummed. He shifted his weight and stroked his chin as he thought before he asked, “Do you remember the plan we had for if Imladris was breached?”

The very memory made Elrohir’s blood run cold, but he answered. “Elladan and I were to take Arwen and get to Mithlond.”

“And I would remain behind to distract Sauron’s forces,” Elrond nodded. He was infuriatingly calm, as though speaking of his certain death meant nothing to him. But then he continued, “Though Adar was the one to leave, he made no lesser sacrifice. He set out on a quest no one had yet survived to beg the Valar for aid, for without intervention there was no future in Beleriand. Sooner or later, Morgoth would have destroyed us all.”

Elrohir considered that. It was, in the end, a good thing that Eärendil had left, and he could see Elrond’s logic, but some bitter corner of his heart screamed that it was unfair. When he said as much, Elrond gave him a sad smile.

“It was unfair. Much of his life is unfair. All we can do is decide what happens next.”

*

The sun was high in the sky on the day Eärendil returned. Elrond greeted him joyfully, abandoning the book he had been perusing to greet him with a hug. He stopped a few paces away and stared. Eärendil's face was ashen and there were shadows under his eyes.

“Adar?”

“Your mother has gone to stay with her kin in New Doriath,” Eärendil said. He sounded shaken.

Elrohir’s eyes dropped to the letter held in Eärendil's hand and felt a stab of disgust towards his grandmother. She hadn’t even bothered to tell Eärendil in person.

The letter, apparently, explained that she had been invited by Thingol and Nimloth and had agreed after much persuasion. She would be given rooms in the palace and treated as the princess she was. Her one regret was that Eärendil could not visit, for all Noldor had been banned from New Doriath until her lost son repented his madness and came home to Elwing and Thingol. Given Eärendil was now divided in his time and his loyalty between her and Elrond, she did not regret it as much as she might have. Eärendil's voice broke several times as he read the last part. It was only when he started to weep that Elrond took the letter from him and pulled him into a hug.

“If you ceased visiting me and told her we quarrelled, she might” –

“No,” Eärendil said, holding Elrond tighter. “No. I lost you once. I can’t lose you again.”

“Adar,” Elrond said, sounding helpless.

Elladan tugged on Elrohir’s sleeve, giving him a stern look. Taking the hint, they crept from the room and left Elrond and Eärendil to themselves.

*

Against his own better judgement, Elrohir agreed to sailing lessons with Eärendil.

He told himself it was not out of pity. It had nothing to do with the weeks he had spent watching Elrond and Maglor fret over Eärendil while Eärendil insisted he was fine. Eärendil was simply the best candidate to teach him further. His father, at least, guessed the truth and thanked him with a fierce hug.

“Be gentle with him,” Elrond begged, and Elrohir promised to do so.

Eärendil was ecstatic with his decision. The haggard grief eased from his face and he smiled for the first time that year.

“I would be honoured to teach you.”

To Elrohir’s surprise, Eärendil proved an excellent teacher. He was patient and gentle, explaining things as many times as Elrohir needed and clear and steady in his instructions. Best of all, his enthusiasm for his work was contagious. He loved the sea. The Eärendil that Elrohir came to know while sailing seemed utterly different from the grieving shadow of a man that now visited their house almost daily. Out on the sea, he laughed, and the wind whipped at his hair, and he let his fingers dip over the edge of their ship to brush the surface of the water.

Many weeks of lessons passed before Eärendil confessed, “When Elrond said one of his sons wished to learn to sail, I did not expect it to be you. You were outspoken in your dislike of me when we first met.”

Elrohir flushed at the remember of his behaviour, but he squared his shoulders and looked Eärendil in the eyes. “I stand by at least half of what I said. I am of the House of Fëanor. I won’t change that.”

“Nor should you,” Eärendil replied. He smiled at Elrohir, the expression so wide the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Did you really think your father would have acknowledged me had I not accepted him as he is?”

When Eärendil put it like that, it sounded so obvious. Elrond was no less proud of his House and his family than he had been the day he had left Imladris. But Elrohir had not known that when he had first arrived.

“I was uncertain, at first, but even though I did not know him, I loved Elrond more than I hated the House of Fëanor. And that hate is long since gone. They gave my son a home when I could not.”

Elrohir considered that, eyeing Eärendil suspiciously. “Some call my grandfathers kidnappers. Would you?”

It was Eärendil's turn to hesitate. He stared out at the Sea, his face troubled, staring at the rolling waves. “When my wife said our sons had been taken, I thought she had seen it happen. I thought they had been taken by force and she had scarcely escaped with her life. But it was not so. Maglor is a kinslayer, yes; it was fear of him that drove my love to what she must have thought was her death; but” –

Eärendil cut himself off. His grip on the edge of the ship tightened and he turned his face away. “Forgive me. I should not burden you with this.”

“Adar always says that such things are lighter to carry when shared.”

He could only see a sliver of Eärendil's face, but it was enough to see his lips quirk upwards in a tiny smile. “Aye, that sounds like my Elrond. He would carry the burdens for all the world if we would let him.”

“He would. But he is right when he says this.”

After what felt like a long silence, Eärendil lifted his head and looked at the horizon. “When my love leapt from that window, she took the Silmaril with her but left our sons behind with an elf she thought would kill them. I try not to blame her. I know she was afraid. But they were our sons.”

His voice cracked on the last word. Any bitterness Elrohir had felt on his father’s behalf vanished. He stepped forward to hug his grandfather, letting him lean against him as he wept.

“Does Adar remember how it happened?”

The answering laugh from Eärendil was hollow. “I asked him and he showed me. If I did not know how greatly Elwing fears Maglor, I fear I would struggle to understand her actions.”

Did fear justify anything? Elrohir did not know. He could not imagine any level of terror that would have driven Elrond away if he and his brother were in danger. But perhaps Elwing was different. There had to be some reason Eärendil loved her, after all, though Elrohir was certain that he would never forgive her.

He spent a long time listening to Eärendil speak of Elwing and what had motivated her to leave her sons behind. The more he spoke, the clearer it became that no matter how much he insisted he understood and respected Elwing’s motives, he was deeply distressed by how her decisions had separated him from his sons. Eventually, Elrohir dared say,

“I really think you should talk to Adar about this.”

Eärendil let out a damp chuckle as he wiped his eyes dry. “If I spoke openly, I fear he would go straight to New Doriath to reconcile with her. There is nothing I desire more than the thought of the three of us, together, as a family, but not at that cost. I will not let him sacrifice himself for what he thinks will bring me joy.”

If Eärendil's grief had been any less potent, Elrohir might have laughed at how wrong he had been about his grandfather. Here he had been worrying that Eärendil did not truly know Elrond well enough to love him, and yet here he demonstrated both deep knowledge and fierce love.

*

While Elrohir learnt to sail, Elladan rotated through craft after craft. Elrohir joined him when he had the time, but all too often he left his brother on his own. It grieved him, to be at sea and feel a sudden burst of frustration that was not his own, but when he took his concerns to his father, Elrond said that Elladan needed time to find himself.

His time in the forge ended with a row with Fëanor loud enough to be heard throughout the house. His time with their great-grandmother Nerdanel went better, and Elrohir dared hope his brother had found something he enjoyed, but it was not to be.

“I love Nerdanel and have the utmost respect for her craft, but I cannot fathom how she lives such a boring life.”

Gardening resulted in angry hobbits chasing Elladan away from their vegetable patch and glassblowing ended abruptly when Elrond was summoned to heal the dreadful burns Elladan had given both himself and his teacher. He did not have the patience to last in the library, whether he was transcribing books or studying linguistic details. In desperation, he even volunteered to help Elrond in the Halls of Healing. Both twins had learnt the basics of healing from their father long ago and while they were competent, it was not something that brought either of them joy. Elladan lasted a week before fleeing the house entirely.

After each failure, he returned to the training yard with Fingon’s great bow. The first time he managed to draw it, he let out a cry of joy. But even if he could draw it, he did not yet have the strength to hold it steady enough to aim. Frustrated, he visited a bowyer to learn how such bows were crafted. He returned a week later, examined the bow, and let out a cry of frustration.

“Ai, no wonder I cannot aim this! It’s a quarter radian straighter on the upper limb.”

He disappeared into the workshop, determined to make something he could actually use. He spent hours at a time at work and snapped at anyone who interrupted him.

“If I cannot find my craft,” he said, “I will at least have a weapon I can use.”

“No one tell him,” Elrond said, the second Elladan had left the room. “He must figure this out for himself.”

“But” –

“If you must do something about it, your Uncle Gil-galad is running a betting ring on when he will figure it out. If anyone asks, I know nothing about it.”

*

After many weeks of sailing with Eärendil during the day, Elrohir resolved to sail with him at night. He did not ask for permission. He told his parents where he was going and they smiled and nodded and told him to pack a warm cloak, for it grew cold up in the sky. Elrond fussed over him when he set out, but it was the same concern he showed any time Elrohir left the house for a night.

He met Eärendil as he journeyed down the river to the quay. “Hello, Grandfather.”

Eärendil's head lifted and his shoulder’s straightened. “Elrohir.”

“It is a fine night for sailing. Such things are better enjoyed with company.”

A smile spread across Eärendil's face. They set off together in a fine mood, and Elrohir sang a cheerful, foolish song he had learnt in Imladris long ago.

Vingilótë was not like the ships he was used to. The hull was made of mithril and elven-glass, a strong, clear material that was hard yet flexible. There was no familiar wooden creak as the waves rocked the vessel. Worst of all, as they lifted from the water to the sky, the rocking of the waves ceased and Vingilótë cut smoothly through the air.

As they sailed, Eärendil taught him the quirks particular to sailing the sky with Vingilótë. He smiled and gave every appearance of contentment, but Elrohir was not fooled. He had seen Eärendil on the sea, laughing as the wind whipped at his fair hair. The skies were no place for a mariner. True, he may take pleasure in it now and then, but for an eternity? Elrohir shuddered at the very thought.

He said nothing to his grandfather, instead focusing on the task at hand and delighting at the sight of Middle Earth beneath him. When he returned home, he slept, and when he woke he went straight to his father.

“Adar, why does Eärendil sail the sky?”

Elrond took a long draught from his tea and carefully set his cup on the table before replying.

“The Valar decreed it. When he reached these lands, he was taken before Manwë and pleaded for the Valar to aid Beleriand. Aid was given. A choice was given, also, to him, Elwing, and all who followed in his line, of which kindred they would belong to. That is why we are able to dwell here among our elven kin. At the same time, it was decided he would sail the sky with the Silmaril.”

Elrohir’s blood ran cold at the implication. Elrond had not said that there was any connection between the decisions, but his father was not clumsy with his words. There was no confirmed connection between the decisions, but to deliver the three judgements of aid, choice, and stardom at once implied a connection. No wonder Eärendil did not complain of his fate.

The sound of a fist slamming against the table startled them both. Fëanor glared down the table at them. “That is thralldom.”

Elrond grimaced. “So it would seem.”

Fëanor cursed and stormed from the room. Elrond sighed, sounding exhausted. “As long as he does not take his anger out on Adar, I will be content.”

“He is right to be angry. We have to do something.”

“Elrohir, have patience. I find the situation as disagreeable as you do. The moment I have a viable plan to win Adar some freedom, you have my word I will act on it. For now, all I can do is support him.”

Something in Elrohir shattered. A fundamental truth of his life was that Elrond fixed things. He could count on one hand the number of times Elrond had failed to do so. To have him fail now, with something that was so important, seemed somehow worse than every other little let down combined. Elrohir lifted his chin high and declared,

“Then I will sail with him more often, so at least he is not alone.”

Pride and grief warred in his father’s face. “I think that would make him very happy.”

*

Elrohir did not sail with Eärendil every night, but he sailed more often than not. His confidence in handling Vingilótë grew. It was not long before they could take turns handling the ship, Eärendil sneaking below deck to steal some much-needed rest or Elrohir ducking into the galley to fetch food for them both.

As the weeks slid by, their voyages grew longer and longer as Vingilótë’s path took them ever further from the land. One by one, Elrohir felt the fëa-bonds to his family fade and flare back to life as he returned to them. Maglor was the first lost, then Celebrían. The first time he lost any sense of his father, a shudder ran down his spine. Only Elladan’s comforting presence kept him from losing his stomach and vomiting over the edge of the ship.

Then Elladan vanished.

Perhaps he should have expected it, given what had happened with the rest of his kin. But Elladan had always been there. There had not been one single second of Elrohir’s life where he had not had his brother’s presence in his mind, as familiar to him as his own. And he was gone. Elrohir’s knees buckled and the rope he was holding slipped from his hands. He hit the deck of Vingilótë with a thud. Across the deck, he heard Eärendil shout his name. He could feel his heart pounding erratically in his chest. His mind scrambled, reaching for his brother, but no matter how he strained, he could not reach him.

Desperately, he latched on to the only nearby mind. Eärendil did not take naturally to ósanwë and felt nothing like the family Elrohir was used to, but he was family. And there was something there that was familiar, something like the roaring of the waves and salt on the sea air. He gasped. For a moment, he saw himself from Eärendil's eyes and felt Eärendil's fear at the sight of his still body. Moving still seemed too difficult, but he tried to soothe his grandfather the same way he would have soothed Elladan. Instead of taking any comfort from it, Eärendil vomited on the deck and his panic grew. He didn’t understand, Elrohir realised with dawning horror. He was so unused to ósanwë he could not even communicate this way.

Elrohir let out a small groan. It was a weak, pathetic little noise, but he congratulated himself for it nonetheless. Eärendil staggered over and fell to his knees beside him. He pulled him close to his chest and held him there, kissing his hair and weeping.

“Elladan,” Elrohir managed. “I can’t feel Elladan.”

“I can turn back” –

Elrohir shook his head. One of his first lessons when sailing Vingilótë was that the route was non-negotiable. Varda had dictated he would sail this path and so this was the path he sailed. He could not turn back simply because Elrohir had lost contact with his brother.

“I’ll live.”

He took a deep breath. With some difficulty, he rolled out of Eärendil's arms to a kneeling position. He swayed there a moment or two before stabilising. He could get used to this. He had to get used to this. Decision made, he forced himself to his feet. His vision turned white and his knees buckled again, but before he could drop more than an inch, Eärendil caught him.

“If you will not let me turn back, at least rest.”

“For now,” Elrohir agreed reluctantly.

Time drifted by as Elrohir sat with his back propped up against Vingilótë’s mast. He watched his grandfather work with vague interest and wondered how long it would be before he felt his brother again. He did not like being alone in his head. It was small, and petty, and he did not like his own humour half as much as he enjoyed Elladan’s.

Something not-quite-Elladan brushed against his consciousness. He responded and the next thing he knew, Elladan was there, back in his mind where he belonged. For one baffling moment, he found himself in Elladan’s body, sitting in a carriage with their entire family gathered around him. He looked up at Elrond with tears in his eyes. He blinked. He was looking at Elladan through Elrond’s eyes, and that sensation startled him firmly back to his own body.

You could not reach each other alone, Elrond said, and Elrohir could hear the regret behind the words.

He wondered, for a moment, how Elrond understood so well that he had needed this. As soon as he had the thought, he felt Elladan sob.

He died, Elladan thought helplessly. Adar was like us and Elros died.

Grief threatened to swallow them both. Tears began to stream down Elrohir’s face. He could not comprehend a world where Elladan was dead. The idea that their father had lived like this for years, for centuries, was intolerable. How had he survived?

A hand appeared on his shoulder. Elrohir startled and looked up to find Eärendil crouched before him. He pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped away Elrohir’s tears, concern written in every line of his face. For his sake, Elrohir tried to smile.

“Adar helped us. I can feel Elladan and Adar again.”

“That’s good,” Eärendil said cautiously, but there was a question there. Elrohir’s smile turned crooked and his eyes filled with tears again.

“Adar’s brother died.”

Eärendil took in a sharp breath. He had caught Elrohir’s meaning completely. If losing contact for a couple of scarce hours had done this to Elladan and Elrohir, what had Elros’ death done to Elrond?

Elrohir was very little use for the rest of the voyage, but he did his best to keep Eärendil entertained with updates from their family. There would be a large party waiting to greet them, he warned. Elladan’s reaction to losing Elrohir had been no less dramatic than Elrohir’s loss. As soon as he was close enough to maintain the bond with Elladan alone, he felt Elrond bid him farewell and slip away, leaving Elladan and Elrohir in their typical state once more.

The port was a blaze of light as they approached. Their family stood closest to their landing site: Elladan, Elrond, and Celebrían at the fore, and Gil-galad with them, one hand on Elrond’s shoulder; Maglor, Maedhros, Fingon, and Fëanor a step back. Many others of their house were gathered further down the quay, watching with anxious expressions.

Elrohir rushed to Elladan at the first opportunity and they collided in a hug, clinging to each other and weeping. A few minutes later, Eärendil stepped from the boat. He touched Elrohir’s shoulder as he passed but went straight to Elrond. Elrohir did not listen to the conversation that passed between them, but later, he regretted it, for Eärendil let out a pained cry and pulled Elrond into an embrace.

“They will be discussing Uncle Elros,” Elladan said quietly. “When you vanished, I reached out for Adar. I know he always warned us to be careful with ósanwë, that no one else could handle living as you and I do, but I didn’t think. I panicked.”

“I did the same to Grandfather. Eärendil. He vomited.”

“Adar didn’t. He let me lean on him as much as I needed and he didn’t even flinch,” Elladan said, sounding chilled by the very memory. “But I saw things he usually keeps from us: Beleriand, all those wars he was in, Uncle Elros. Oh, Elrohir, Uncle Elros, he – they shared as much as we do. More, even.”

A broken laugh escaped from Elladan and he added, “And then Adar apologised for burdening me.”

Elrohir snorted. “Yes, that sounds like Adar.”

They were likely the only two left alive who could understand how Elrond had suffered when he had lost his brother. He could have come to them at any point over the past few centuries and they would have listened to him. Instead, he had stayed silent, refusing to burden his sons with his own grief.

There was a great fuss made over both the twins as the group returned home. Several days passed before they could venture out without at least one relative hovering nearby. But before long, the sailing urge began to build in Elrohir again. At first, he distracted himself, dragging his brother to the coast on hot days to swim and play in the waves. But he could not hold himself from the ships forever. He spoke long with his brother about it, knowing his decision did not only affect himself. Elladan wept at the prospect of separation but insisted he would cope.

They practised together, pulling their minds apart while still in the same room as one another. Losing Elladan was agony, but it was an agony he could endure so long as he could see him and touch him and reassure himself he yet lived. Moving to adjoining rooms so they could only hear one another speak was harder. Half his self had vanished. He had no idea how to calm his panic when Elladan was not there, but slowly he learned. In time, they could be out of sight and out of earshot for ten whole minutes without panicking.

That very night, Elladan sent him to the docks. Eärendil smiled at the sight of him and shook his head sadly.

“You know I will be going too far for you tonight, indyo.”

There was a time Elrohir would have bristled at the idea of Eärendil calling him ‘grandson’, but now he only smiled as he greeted him with a hug.

“Elladan and I have been practising. I can manage.”

Eärendil wavered. While he hesitated, Elrohir stepped past him and onto the ship. “You will not change my mind. Unless you mean to remove me physically, you will have to sail with me.”

“You are as stubborn as your father is,” Eärendil sighed, but he could not hide a smile as he stepped onto the ship to join him.

This time, Elrohir and Elladan were braced for the disconnection. It still made Elrohir flinch, but he remained standing. He took several moments to lean over the edge of Vingilótë and stare down at the world beneath him. Nausea rolled in his gut. If he vomited, he wondered, would some poor Man down in Middle Earth have an unpleasant surprise as he walked under the stars? The mental image was enough to lift his spirits and distract him from the discomfort. He turned back to the deck and found Eärendil watching him in silent worry. He smiled.

“You say I am as stubborn as Adar; I say you worry as much as Maglor.”

His words startled a laugh from Eärendil. “As deeply as I care for your grandfather, I think I should be insulted.”

“Then prove me wrong. Give me a task.”

The tasks Eärendil assigned him for the rest of the voyage were simple, but Elrohir did not complain. Simple was all he could manage for now. He kept one eye on the navigation process and kept half of his mind free to reach for Elladan. For most of the night, he felt nothing. When they at last made contact once more, he let out a cry of joy. As delighted as he was by the reunion, he did not let it distract him from his task. He pulled out a small notebook and noted where he had lost and regained contact with his brother.

He repeated the process several times over the course of a month until he had an approximate range on how far he could go without losing Elladan. From there, he calculated how often he would be out of range for the entirety of Eärendil's voyage. There would be a month of no contact whatsoever if he took Eärendil's place permanently, but for the rest of the year he would have at least a few minutes of contact each day.

He discussed the idea with his brother first.

“I understand pitying him his fate, but this seems drastic.”

“He’s alone up there for six months of the year,” Elrohir reasoned. “Having a companion eases the way, I know it does. And it will be better experience than the odd night here and there.”

Elladan’s face screwed up in grief. “I know you’re right. I know it’s the right thing to do. But I will miss you.”

Elrohir countered that he would miss Elladan just as much.

The next task was convincing his parents. He fretted for days about how to do so. When he finally gathered his courage, he found Celebrían alone and spoke quietly with her, asking if she would be safe and happy if he left. Celebrían hugged him, holding him close for a moment before saying,

“If this will make you happy, then it is the right choice and I will be well.”

“But?” Elrohir asked, sensing a condition, and Celebrían's face hardened.

“If anything happens to you, I will be holding Eärendil accountable.”

The next challenge was Elrond. He was visibly conflicted when Elrohir gave him the news. He was delighted Elrohir had found something he wanted to do and even happier that he would be spending more time with Eärendil, but the knowledge that they would soon be separated pained him.

The hardest of all to convince was Eärendil. He baulked at the suggestion, staring at Elrohir in horror. He cut Elrohir off mid-explanation and said,

“No. I cannot let you do this.”

“But” –

“There is a difference between sailing for a night or two and sailing for six months,” Eärendil said grimly. “The way is cold and dark and lonely. There will be no turning back when you realise what you have committed to. Elrohir, I cannot let you do this.”

“I cannot tolerate letting you do it alone any longer,” Elrohir countered. “I have made my decision, Grandfather.”

“Your father” –

“Already knows and has given his consent, as has my mother, though the decision does not lie with either of them. It is mine and mine alone.”

“Ai,” Eärendil said, looking at him in despair. “Elrohir, it is not that I do not want your company. I do not want you unhappy.”

“I will be unhappy if I am left behind.”

Their argument continued for nearly an hour before Eärendil conceded he would think about it.

Over the coming weeks, Elrohir and Eärendil worked to renovate the living quarters on Vingilótë. They added a second bed to the sleeping quarters and fitted both beds with the most comfortable mattresses available. They added a dedicated storage chest for Elrohir to keep things private and discussed the layout of the hold. With Elrond’s support, the storage hold was filled with fine food, warm blankets, books, and several musical instruments Elrohir had varying levels of experience with.

When at last the time came to sail, Elrohir’s entire family escorted him to the docks. Eärendil looked at him, eyes heavy with grief even as a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Last chance to remain behind, indyo.”

“I’m coming,” Elrohir said firmly.

He wept to leave his family behind, but he did not let his tears nor anyone else’s dissuade him from his purpose. He watched from the stern as the boat as the land retreated behind them. Once they were so far gone that he could not even hear Elrond and Maglor sing to them, he turned his mind to his task. He had an adventure before him and he intended to enjoy every minute of it.