Grudgingly, Thorin Oakenshield could admit that Rivendell was beautiful. It was beautiful in a way that made Thorin and all those the elves deemed 'lesser' than their own crude, ugly. mishapen.

The wizard had brought them here to stay and seek rest in the halls of Lord Elrond. the only reason Thorin had even considered to comply was the map, one that had belonged to his grandfather and would seek to restore him to the throne of Erebor.

Lord Elrond had been civil enough. he had granted sufficient supplies, food and shelter for his company. But behind the lord's back, he could sense the feelings of those who stayed there. Elves, curious and condescending alike, would poke at the dwarves' tempers with questions and snide remarks. It took all but of his temper and the desire to stay calm in front of his nephews, who were positively (ridiculous, silly) interested in all this (damned) elven culture.

The elves had talked about him, there was no doubt in that. Whispers flew down the warmly lit halls and they spoke of madness. How insanity plagued their race and how it would reach them again. He stopped in front of a painting that was hanging near the display of the broken shards of Narsil (when he had learnt of their existence it took Gloin and Bofur both to pin down Balin who had wanted to see the shards and study them in the middle of the night).

The painting loomed above him, a masterpiece of brushstrokes that invoked a sense of darkness and something else Thorin hated, inferiority. it was a recognisable scene, well enough. The fall of the Dark Lord, he dared not speak the name, hundreds of years ago on the plains of Mordor, Dagor Dagorlad. A battle where the Elves and Dwarves had fought together for the fate of Arda.

He stared at the Dark Lord's visage where the Ring was a glowing glint of gold, visible on his hand. He moved on, one should never dwell on these dark memories of the past.

There was a smaller painting next to the frame. He would not have noticed it at all had it not been hanging askance. Moving forward, he leaned in to examine the artwork. There were two elves, no four. Two grown and smaller elflings. Strange, he had never seen an elven child before but he guessed even the coldest of beings felt love for their children.

The two elves at the back were clearly related through their features while one, with the most striking hair, the colour of the purest fire, swept up with a single strand woven with gold. And the other far shorter with sharper features and dark hair, long and silky. But it was their eyes that stuck him. They shared the same eyes that held light and were the colour of the purest water frozen in ice. They wore finery with an emblem of an eight pointed star, a gold one for the taller one and a silver one for the other.

The smaller children were twins who shared the same grey eyes and dark hair as they clutched the two elder elves. Everyone looked so happy and content in the photo with each other, Thorin couldn't help but allow a soft twitch of the lips.

A cough behind drew his attention. He was face to face with Lord Elrond who, too was staring at the painting with incredible fondness in his eyes, the grey starlight not so dimmed. Something struck him.

"Is that -?"

The elf moved forward, "Yes. This was painted a long time ago, when my brother and I were still young."

Thorin glanced at the portrait, "You had a brother?'

If Thorin did not know better, he would say the elf had mournfulness etched over his ageless, smooth face. "I did. but Elros chose the Gift of Men two ages ago."

Elros. The name sounded so familiar. A legend out of his old history lessons when he was just a young dwarfling who would have much rathered be out on the battlements with his grandfather than with a tutor who spoke of things that happened thousands of years ago.

"Who are the other two elves?", he asked as delicately as he could (a rare feat, one might say), out of trepidation that they might be two other dead elves who the lord knew. Did elves even cry?

Too late. The elf grew even quieter and Mahal, were all elves this tragic? at last, Elrond spoke, "They were my foster fathers. They raised my brother and I when my mother jumped to her fate where she would rather lose her sons than the possession of a jewel that could have spared her people from their fate."

Thorin knew vaguely of what he spoke, the three Elven jewels that had caused catastrophe and endless bloodshed in the First Age, a time when not even Gandalf had walked the earth.

"What were their names?" something had clicked in his mind, the taller one's hair and the star. But he couldn't place any recognition to any of the old tales that would have so excited Balin and Ori to hear about.

"Maedhros was the elder one and Maglor, the other. Maedhros was sterner and much more reserved with us. He had suffered much and it had not been in his heart to take us in at the start. Maglor was more open but just as melancholy, they had seen battles and had lived through far more pain."

Thorin paused, he had heard of the elves that Elrond spoke of, but he still could not understand, nor remember who they were and why they were important. "What happened to them?"

"Maedhros, burdened by the pains and guilt of his past, jumped to his death over a chasm of fire." Elrond paused, a shadow of grief over his face. Thorin drew a breath, he had never heard, no, imagined that one would take his own life, most definitely not an immortal elf.

"and Maglor?"

"He wandered the shores for an age, mourning the loss of his family, his house and his people. And -" suddenly, Lord Elrond stopped. "Ai, but Master Dwarf, I would be boring you with these tales and woes of an old heart. I bid you take some rest with your kin, for they would be in search of you." And with that, he bowed low (alright, the Elf did not have any need to make a point of his height, the damned elf) and took his leave, a swirl of silk and robes.

Thorin stood alone there for a moment as he took in what Lord Elrond had said. He allowed himself to feel some sympathy for the elf. What parent would forsake their children to a stone? Any sort of treasure? No, not even a dwarf would allow that which he crafted most to take such a hold over his own heart.

Silently, he made his way back to the Company who peppered him with questions and he told them he had just taken a walk, speaking nothing of his meeting with the Lord of Imladris.