Companion piece to Erinyator. Elrond, son and father.

But if he did not speak, then who would remember? If he did not tell them, his children would not know how much HE owed to Maglor, Maedhros. And he could not have his children think so badly of them.

So he nestled Elrohir’s head against his shoulder and began. ‘Once, long long ago, there were two small boys, twins…’

‘Like Elladan and me.’

Maedhros had not intended any of this.

The thought came to him as he watched the sleeping children snuggled under their blankets with the red light of the hearth fire against the softness of their cheeks, their dark heads just over the top of the blankets.

The smaller one snuffled and rubbed his nose in his sleep and Maedhros automatically smoothed his hand over the warm dark head and hummed the lullaby he had hummed over countless ages to other small boys. All dead now but one.

And this was not life. 

No. He had not intended this.

His stump itched and he scratched it carelessly; it did that when he remembered.

In Tirion, Nelyo and Findekáno. Realising