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A lone figure walked along a remote stretch of Aman’s shore, the setting sun painting him in a wash of pink and mauve.
It was not unusual for Elrond to take long walks up the stretching coastlines of Valinor. This was not of course a daily habit, there was always so much to do even in Valinor, but if the mood took him, he could be found exploring the wildlife of the rockpools by sunset, or collecting gorse on the clifftops.
Normally, he’d be spoilt for choice of company if he so desired it; of that there was no shortage. It had been jarring to know that so many people from legend had wanted to befriend him, or to hear his council. It was certainly odd to discuss the specifics of herblore or the changing weather with those he had only ever known in bedtime stories. Who knew that Tuor would be so passionate about fishing, or Finarfin about oil pastels? One of the more bizarre of times had been when Caranthir had been visiting Erestor, once a member of Caranthir’s household and his rumoured son. Caranthir, who was not exactly renowned for any excess of extroversion at the best of times, had talked at length to Elrond about the ideal methods of dyeing embroidery thread. Strange didn’t quite begin to cut it.
Perhaps it had been something in his tone or posture that spoke of melancholy or the desire for solitude that evening, but his household had not disturbed him with offers of companionship as he had left for the shore. As much as he appreciated and enjoyed company on most days, there were times in which no amount of proffered friendship would lift his mood; it only ever sought to remind him of painful absences.
And if he was being honest with himself, not that he’d ever admit to such thoughts if asked outright, walking alone allowed him to feel closer to Maglor in a roundabout way, mirroring his same such pilgrimage across the sea and by the shore. He never had found Maglor in the end, though Elrond knew he still lived. He had searched for two Ages, following every rumour however small, but traces of Maglor had been far and few in between. He knew that he could not have searched harder for Maglor if he tried, but the guilt and the hurt still clung to him. Not even Valinor, the so-called land of rebirth and healing, could prevent such wounds from closing.
He exhaled deeply into the salty air, re-pinning the brooch of his cloak to wrap it a little tighter around him, hoping to ward off the chill of a fading summer. Soft breezes swept across the sand, grains chasing each other gleefully up the beach that stretched far beyond view, up and around corners of Valinor’s coastline.
Up into the sky appeared the silver light of the Valarcirca. The seven stars were beginning to emerge through the soft shades of gold that were washed across the skies, commencing their curve over the rocky cliffs that lined the coastal landscape.
A sharp wind picked up unexpectedly, washing the nearby waves up the shore, foamy surf toppling over the hem of his robes and staining them a dark blue. The chimes of ringing silver rang out as the breeze swept around his hair and ears, whipping at the jewellery that adorned them.
He twisted Vilya around his finger, a nervous habit formed long ago when he had first received it following the death of Gil-galad. Whether it was because he knew that Vilya had been forged by Celebrimbor, an elf who knew something of loss and what it was like to care for complicated people, or because it reminded him of Imladris and the family he had built and indeed hidden there, he did not know.
It was nothing more than a pretty ring now, its power having long since waned since the destruction of the One and subsequent defeat of Sauron. That had been over two centuries ago now, but Vilya still brought him comfort when the memory of loss threatened to take over.
And today was one of the times when he found that he needed its comfort most.
He turned eastwards to face the sea, the sunset falling behind him and casting long shadows. His gaze lingered towards the midst of the sea, but he knew that he would never again find what he knew to be there.
Númenor was no more now than a sealed tomb. Who would visit the graves but the creatures who dwelled on the seabed? Would they know that they swam among the white marble pillars of Armenelos, or drifted by colourful mosaics that had once lined temple floors? No more would Meneltarma tower skywards, nor would he hear the voices of the shipwrights ring out from the harbour.
It was hard to face certain people in these moments, and Elrond had no desire to inflict such moroseness on others. It was not easy to see people and be reminded that they could only ever understand a part of him, and not the true whole. There was no one else left to remember the Elros he knew.
There were those that had tried to certainly, and even those who came close to doing so. And whilst he was no doubt grateful to them, without undergoing the grief that he himself had experienced, how could they truly hope to understand? It wasn’t as if twins were common among the Eldar.
It was not of course, particularly fair or kind of him to think this way. He knew his thoughts were veering towards callousness, but whoever said that life was just; that loss was anything but cruel? Loss in Valinor always seemed to come with the promise of eventual rebirth. What good did that do him?
He had lived hundreds of lifetimes without Elros, was now far older than his brother would ever be, and yet the weight of grief still caught him off guard him at times, as heavy as it was when fresh. It smarted like a slap.
Elrond could never resent Elros for his choice, though he had certainly tried to in the beginning. He was often glad that it hadn’t lasted longer than a week. In some measure of foresight, or perhaps purely with the innate knowledge of being a twin, he had always known that he and Elros would walk separate paths.
Elrond shook his head in an attempt to dislodge downtrodden thoughts. His brother had lived a long life, longer than most mortals, and had raised Númenor to great heights, leaving an even greater legacy behind him. Elros had been happy, so very happy, surrounded by his family and friends until the end of his days. How could Elrond ever begrudge him for that? It was all he had every wanted for his brother.
And so, in his memory, ever had he listened out for news of Westernesse, until the reign of Ar-Gimilzôr, from whence he knew no more of the happenings of Númenor but for the scant news of the Faithful. And though his brother’s kingdom had fallen, he still maintained his watch over the Exiles of Númenor. He harboured Elendil’s descendants in Imladris when the Dúnedain became the wandering folk, and maintained the shards of Narsil until its re-forging in a western flame. Ever did he do it out of love of his descendants; for Elros. Always for Elros.
But he had still lost him all the same, and had known that he was going to lose him for all of those four hundred and ten years. The one person who knew him inside out would eventually leave him, and he would be alone for the first time in his life. They were used to being left behind, whether by choice, oath, or otherwise, but never were they without each other. Eärendil had sailed, Elwing had flown, Maedhros had burned, and Maglor had vanished for thousands of years. But not Elros, never Elros.
If Elrond was like a gentle morning in early summer, then Elros was like the sunset on a late summer’s evening. If Elros wore red, then Elrond wore blue. If Elrond had talent with a sword, then Elros had excelled with a bow. If Elrond cried, then Elros steeled his jaw as tears dripped down his own face, as if sharing in his suffering. If Elros laughed, then Elrond laughed with him, unable to stop the contagion. Maglor had often joked that they were so in tune that they would simply forget to speak if he wasn’t with them. Maedhros had just looked at them, smiling sadly.
But it was no longer an and or an if.
Just Elrond.
The sun was lower now, lighting the white horses up in a fiery orange. They galloped along the blue waves, disappearing out to the eastward sea and beyond. Elrond watched them for a while, jostling each other for the prize of the most dramatic crash. A small smile played around his lips.
When he had been a boy, he and Elros had often played this game. They would each pick a wave, and the winner would be whoever’s had lasted either the longest, or had the most dramatic crash. Over and over had they entertained themselves this way. It had led to many an argument that had to be sorted out by Elwing, or later on by Maedhros. Maglor often said that they had tied first place in order to prevent the petty bickering before it began, even if there had very clearly been a winner. They could always rely on Maedhros to be more honest with those sorts of trivialities.
Now in the present, he was simply happy to watch them gallop pass, thinking of fonder times, even if they hurt.
The sea continued to glint on and off the rays of the setting sun, rippling in the breeze. He turned his head to face the West.
The sun was almost blinding, with little cloud cover to shade him. Bright colours of red, orange and yellow flashed in his vision like summer, and flecks of a joyful pink scattered within the mauve of the deepening sky. He ought to cover his eyes, he realised half-heartedly, but he couldn’t look away from the setting sun, fearful that it would vanish the moment he blinked.
The surf continued to bubble louder and louder in his ears, but he paid it no heed for the present. It was as if he knew it was too early to turn, though what he was waiting for, he did not know.
Not yet, whispered the sea.
Not yet.
And so, he stood entranced, his eyes remaining fixed on the merging of stars and sun, watching the blurring threshold of day and night and the opening of the doorway that lay between the two. Time condensed and expanded in that moment, and he was hardly aware if it passed at all. He simply watched the colours grow richer and deeper, the silver and gold growing brighter and bolder, as if a great tapestry were weaving itself anew in front of his very eyes.
And still the waters thundered behind him, pulsing and breathing, spraying and stilling. The sea foam was gathering ever stronger around his ankles, lapping around his legs in swirling patterns. The Sickle of the Valar pulsated with a glow so bright that it rivalled the very glow of Arien, doming the darkening skies in its arms.
Elrond blinked, and everything stopped—
His heart leaped. He could feel it beating ever stronger in his chest as he reached up to fold a hand over it.
Now!
Now! roared the sea.
It was time to turn around.
The sea had almost ceased to flow, sticky-slow in its movements, and yet the foam continued to dance around Elrond’s feet like it knew he was a dear friend being invited to play. Out into the near distance emerged something, or perhaps someone, who seemed to rise out of the very tides. Elrond shieled his eyes, and then blinked rapidly. This was no mirage. He blinked again.
The figure, for he could now make out that it was not an it, was getting closer.
Although not close enough to make out any defining features, Elrond could tell that they had dark hair, shot through with silvery strands, if their glimmer by starlight was anything to go by.
With every step closer did Elrond’s breath quicken, and his limbs trembled. It couldn’t be; surely not.
It was impossible. And yet--
Elrond ran, crashing through the thick foam until it was up to his knees, and knocked the figure into the shallow sea, holding them in a tight hug that spoke of too many years apart, of whole lifetimes unwitnessed. Tears rolled down his face as he cried into the figure’s neck, uncaring of how his robes were getting soaked, or how his silver jewellery was tangling in his hair.
Elros Tar-Minyatur, for it was indeed Elros, sobbed a broken laugh, and returned the embrace with full strength. He was back where he belonged; at least for a short while.
“Elros, Elros,” wept Elrond, unable to say anything other than his brother’s name. Names could convey much, and a name did so now, holding love and mourning in equal measure.
“I am here, Elrond, I am here,” replied Elros through salty tears, holding the back of his brother’s head and smoothing his hair.
“You died, Elros, you died,” whispered Elrond. “I have been alone for so long that I hardly know whether this is a cruel vision or a dream.” He sniffed, still not letting go of Elros, but sitting them up among the surf. “And yet I do not think I mind overly much if either is so, if only because it means that you are here with me. I have missed you so much.”
Elros pressed a firm kiss to the top of Elrond’s head. “And I you, Elrond. Whoever may be responsible for this; friend or foe I do not care to guess, but I cannot bring myself to begrudge them for it.”
“Over six-thousand years,” sniffed Elrond with a wet chuckle, “it was worth the wait.”
They pulled back from each other, both unable to contain their laughter, the tears still running in rivulets down their faces.
Elros looked younger than the last time Elrond had seen him, but he still carried the quiet dignity of a king. He looked like he did as a young adult, dark hair cut to the shoulder and waving as it dried, not yet having grown a beard. He wore a simple tunic and a pair of trousers in a deep red, although they looked rather more purple in the tide. He seemed lighter to Elrond somehow, with the same hint of mischief that he had carried in his youth.
For a while, they simply leaned into one another, bowing their heads together amidst the passing of the slow current. Elros squeezed Elrond’s hand tightly, which Elrond returned in equal measure. Deep down, Elrond knew the full depth of this gesture, easily slotting back into the well-worn familiarity of communication. It was easy to guess what Elros was trying to say, no words were necessary.
“We promised to have no apologies between us on this matter, remember? I could never truly hate you for your decision to be counted among the Edain, just as you never despised me for my decision to be counted among the Eldar. We both knew what would happen. It wasn’t our fault.”
“I know El. But I am sorry all the same; it didn’t make it any easier for either of us, no matter how much we planned for it.”
“So am I, ‘Ros. So am I.”
For how long they sat in silence together, or whether it would last another hour, they could not say. For now, it was enough to simply sit next to one another, slotting back into each other’s side like they had never been separated at all.
The domed stars in the vaulted night sky mirrored the stars that shimmered on the foam of the sea and spray of the saltwater.
Two halves of the same whole united once more.
(Later on, it was said by the stars and sea that not one, but two sets of footprints were washed away by the waves.
And perhaps, when the world was thinner again, and the seven stars appeared with the bright setting sun; when fathers had returned from distant shores and gloomy halls, would further prints be washed away by the tides.)