Stars Above, Sea Below
Elrond and Elros before the world changed
The shores of Balar were quiet that day, the gulls wheeling above in lazy spirals, the tide lapping at the sand with a rhythm older than words.
Elrond crouched near the waterline, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth in intense concentration. In his hands: a palm-sized hull of driftwood, carefully shaped with a whittling knife borrowed (without permission) from one of Círdan’s apprentices.
Nearby, Elros, sandy, sun-kissed, and barefoot, was constructing a warship of truly questionable design out of a mollusk shell, a feather, and what appeared to be a length of his own hair.
“That’s not even vaguely aerodynamic,” Elrond muttered.
“It doesn’t need to be aerodynamic,” Elros shot back, adjusting the feather like a sail. “It’s powered by battle fury.”
Their makeshift vessels collided in a miniature naval battle near a tidepool. Elrond’s carefully crafted swanship capsized. Elros whooped in triumph, arms flung skyward like a conqueror.
Círdan, seated beneath the shade of a salt-worn awning, watched with a bemused expression and said nothing. He was mending a net, but his eyes kept drifting to the twins.
“Victory,” Elros declared, “for the Fleet of the Finned Kingdom of—”
“—Shell Hair?” Elrond deadpanned.
“Sea-wolf Fortress!”
“Shell Hair.”
“You’re just jealous.”
They laughed until their sides ached.
Elrond crouched near the waterline, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth in intense concentration. In his hands: a palm-sized hull of driftwood, carefully shaped with a whittling knife borrowed (without permission) from one of Círdan’s apprentices.
Nearby, Elros, sandy, sun-kissed, and barefoot, was constructing a warship of truly questionable design out of a mollusk shell, a feather, and what appeared to be a length of his own hair.
“That’s not even vaguely aerodynamic,” Elrond muttered.
“It doesn’t need to be aerodynamic,” Elros shot back, adjusting the feather like a sail. “It’s powered by battle fury.”
Their makeshift vessels collided in a miniature naval battle near a tidepool. Elrond’s carefully crafted swanship capsized. Elros whooped in triumph, arms flung skyward like a conqueror.
Círdan, seated beneath the shade of a salt-worn awning, watched with a bemused expression and said nothing. He was mending a net, but his eyes kept drifting to the twins.
“Victory,” Elros declared, “for the Fleet of the Finned Kingdom of—”
“—Shell Hair?” Elrond deadpanned.
“Sea-wolf Fortress!”
“Shell Hair.”
“You’re just jealous.”
They laughed until their sides ached.
By midafternoon, the sun had softened, and so had their energy. The boys dozed on the warm rocks, limbs tangled like pups, wrapped in cloaks too big for them.
From a distance, Maglor watched.
He stood where the trees met the sand, arms folded, his hair, dark as night before the stars, whipped by the sea breeze. He carried no sword. Not anymore. Only his harp, slung across his back like a weight he no longer tried to put down.
He watched the sons of Eärendil with eyes that had seen too much and still longed to see more. And for all his grief, for all the ash in his memory, this... this... was the one thing he had done right.
He never sang for crowds anymore. Not since the Silmarils burned his hands. But for these boys, he sang sometimes in the twilight. Songs of starlight. Songs of ships that flew. Songs of their father.
Of Eärendil the Mariner, who dared the wrath of the gods and won the stars. Who bore hope into the darkness and never truly left his sons, not while the evening star still rose.
He would not speak of the oath, or the blood, or the fire that swallowed their house. But he would hum their mother’s lullaby when the nightmares came, and he would stand between them and shadow until the world itself ended.
From a distance, Maglor watched.
He stood where the trees met the sand, arms folded, his hair, dark as night before the stars, whipped by the sea breeze. He carried no sword. Not anymore. Only his harp, slung across his back like a weight he no longer tried to put down.
He watched the sons of Eärendil with eyes that had seen too much and still longed to see more. And for all his grief, for all the ash in his memory, this... this... was the one thing he had done right.
He never sang for crowds anymore. Not since the Silmarils burned his hands. But for these boys, he sang sometimes in the twilight. Songs of starlight. Songs of ships that flew. Songs of their father.
Of Eärendil the Mariner, who dared the wrath of the gods and won the stars. Who bore hope into the darkness and never truly left his sons, not while the evening star still rose.
He would not speak of the oath, or the blood, or the fire that swallowed their house. But he would hum their mother’s lullaby when the nightmares came, and he would stand between them and shadow until the world itself ended.
That night, the boys sat beside Círdan’s fire, wrapped in dry tunics, hair still damp from the sea. Maglor strummed a soft chord nearby, more a presence than a performer.
“Elros,” Elrond said, staring up at the stars. “Do you think Ada sees us?”
“He has to,” Elros replied, not even hesitating. “He’s up there. Sailing. With wings made of light.”
Maglor’s fingers stilled on the strings.
“Do you think,” Elrond said slowly, “he’s proud of us?”
“Obviously,” Elros said, nudging him. “You’re annoying, but clever. And I’m charming, so we’re covered.”
Elrond smirked. “If you say so, Your Highness of Hair Shells.”
Círdan, sitting cross-legged with a cup of mulled cider, chuckled.
“I hope we never have to choose,” Elrond murmured after a moment. “Between sea and sky. Between leaving… or staying.”
Maglor closed his eyes briefly. The fire crackled.
“You will choose one day,” he said quietly. “But not now. And not alone.”
The twins looked up at him. And in the firelight, he did not seem so haunted. Not broken. Just… quiet. Like a harbor waiting for the tide.
“Elros,” Elrond said, staring up at the stars. “Do you think Ada sees us?”
“He has to,” Elros replied, not even hesitating. “He’s up there. Sailing. With wings made of light.”
Maglor’s fingers stilled on the strings.
“Do you think,” Elrond said slowly, “he’s proud of us?”
“Obviously,” Elros said, nudging him. “You’re annoying, but clever. And I’m charming, so we’re covered.”
Elrond smirked. “If you say so, Your Highness of Hair Shells.”
Círdan, sitting cross-legged with a cup of mulled cider, chuckled.
“I hope we never have to choose,” Elrond murmured after a moment. “Between sea and sky. Between leaving… or staying.”
Maglor closed his eyes briefly. The fire crackled.
“You will choose one day,” he said quietly. “But not now. And not alone.”
The twins looked up at him. And in the firelight, he did not seem so haunted. Not broken. Just… quiet. Like a harbor waiting for the tide.
Later, when sleep claimed them, Maglor tucked the cloaks more firmly around their shoulders. Círdan watched him.
“You still think yourself unworthy,” the Shipwright said.
“I know I am.”
Círdan nodded, sipping from his cup. “Then be better. Keep loving them. That is all that matters.”
And Maglor sat beside the fire, harp in his lap, watching the sons of light sleep beneath the stars.
“You still think yourself unworthy,” the Shipwright said.
“I know I am.”
Círdan nodded, sipping from his cup. “Then be better. Keep loving them. That is all that matters.”
And Maglor sat beside the fire, harp in his lap, watching the sons of light sleep beneath the stars.
