When he was young, Eärendil wanted to be a star. Those that dabbled in philosophical thought came to the conclusion that he simply wished to be part of the Song and part of Varda. They were wrong.
Eärendil had heard the Silmarils likened to stars once and, with a head full of fantasies of being a star and his own belief, brought on by how elves, bitter with rage and sorrow, would claim that they had more right than any to a Silmaril.
Elwing had one. It was the one her father had given her before she escaped, it was the one Lúthien and Beren took from Morgoth. It was the one that killed her brothers, her father, her people. In Menegroth, when her father was still alive, elves would tell her stories of the undying lands, of Valinor. They spoke of a city that seemed harsh and stark under one blossom but soft and incredible under another. They spoke of shipwrights with such incredible skill, they spoke of a King who worked with his own for everything. They spoke of beauty and talent, of maths and science, art and philosophy, of unrivalled craftsmanship. With the Silmarill in her hands, she could believe it. They said it was crafted by Fëanor, but they spoke of him with hate and rage. So how could he make the Silmaril?
Gilthornthêl spoke of Valinor with longing and pain. When Elwing had gone up to her and asked how Fëanor could have made the Silmarils she had told Elwing of Valinor once again, but this time she spoke of darkness creeping in, the Valar misinterpreting, swords drawn during a council meeting and aimed at a brother, lies whispered and rumors spread, the discrediting of a prince, a woman who chose death, that nothing was thought of dying because you would just return to the living. She spoke of blood spilt upon gem-filled sand and ships burnt. She spoke of dead that would never comeback, of a brother betrayed. And then she spoke of ice, mile after mile of it, snowflakes that were sharp and bitter to behold, cracks covered with snow, children dying first, the feeling of hunger as it overcame all other feelings save from the cold, of how tears froze to the cheeks and skin was torn away by the howling winds that swept across the land. She spoke of elves who gave up, of putting your life in a game and hoping you lose. She spoke of eyes reflecting nothing but whiteness and death. She spoke of how, when they arrived in Beriland, no help was offered to them, of how, she was informed, almost casually, that her sister had died protecting her lord.
Gilthornthêl had lived this, Elwing knew. So she stopped believing that the Silmarill was good, but she was still drawn to it.
Eärendil's grandfather was Turgon, brother of Fingon. Both had seen the Silmarills and could not describe them- of course, Fingon was dead and thus, could not talk and he had never met his grandfather. But still.
They had no warning, why would they? The first they knew of it was a horn call from outside, followed by a black haired elf walking into the city. The elf either did not care or did not notice the looks aimed his way. Dior, her father, had gone out to meet him, all of his guards following him, in contrast to how the elf walked alone, as if he needed no protection. Gilthornthêl seized her by the wrist and dragged her away, telling her that she must take the Silmaril and go. She had fought back, protested, she wanted to see what would happen, and she wanted her brothers. Gilthornthêl had sighed and hurried of to look for them, leaving Elwing clutching the Silmaril and listening to her father's conversation with the strange elf.
"My pardons, Maedhros was unable to come. He is waiting outside."
"What do you want, Maglor?" Her father had growled.
There it was, a name to go with the face. Maglor Fëanorian, kinslayer, blood-traitor and musician. The last sounded so out of place.
"The Silmaril."
"You cannot have it!" Dior had shouted, "It is not yours!"
"I have an army. And as much as I would dislike to have to kill you and your children, if you will not give it to us, you will die." The way Malgor said it was calm but a fire was burning in his eyes and Elwing knew that he meant every word. She ran to Gilthornthêl, escaped in time to see the army that stood waiting funnel into the city. She escaped with the Silmarill.
She escaped without her brothers.
Her brothers are dead.
She is alive.
Years pass.
Eärendil met Elwing on one of his adventures. Elwing had a Silmaril, and his fascination with the gem soon meant a friendship with Elwing and Gilthornthêl. Over time Elwing and him became more than friends and he took to sailing. He missed the birth of his sons, missed their first steps, first words, and what was presumed to be their last. When he heard the news, Maglor and Maedhros had gone after the Silmaril, he hoped they were talking about the ones that still lived in Morgoth's crown. When Elwing flew to him, clutching the Silmaril, he knew that hope to be false. The first thing she said was;
"They killed my brothers." He knew. "They have killed our sons." He knew.
"What did you call them?" He whispered.
"Elrond and Elros. Oh, Eärendil, I wish you could have met them."
"Tell me about them, please."
"Elrond was quiet, he read so many books, Elros was the opposite. They were twins." The last statement was unnecessary, but important. If he would never meet them, then he wanted to know as much about them as he could. "My brothers were twins." It was little more than a whisper.
"I know."
"They would have loved you." He didn't know if she was referring to his sons or to her brothers.
When he was younger, he wanted to be a star.