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They had been a quiet comfort to him for centuries, generation after generation of his beloved brother’s kin. They were his last ties to Elros, who had long since succumbed to his choice of mortality while Elrond himself lived on, un-aging.
But now, as he looked down into the face of the boy he had known since birth, sheltered in his own halls, brought up as a brother to his own children, Elrond was troubled by what he saw.
Or rather, by what he did not see. It could be that the change had begun gradually, generations ago, and Elrond had simply been unaware or unwilling to see it.
Now it was clear.
This child, who had been named Aragorn by his mother, and who Elrond had lovingly called Estel, bore very little resemblance to his ancestor. Taking spouses from Gondor, from Rohan, had both strengthened and weakened the bloodline. Time had done the rest.
For centuries, looking into the faces of his brother Elros’ descendants had been a balm to his fractured heart. But there was little hope to be found in Estel’s face.
One day very soon, his brother would be truly lost to him.