"Is he not beautiful, Ada?"
Elrond looked up at his daughter. Her hair was tangled into ebony knots, her face still pale from child birth, but her eyes were glowing with a light of love, that of motherhood. She seemed to shine with joy, her smile still entrancing him, as it had from the first time he saw it, and then down to the child in his arms. The baby's eyes were closed, but beneath the fluttering eyelids he caught a hint of grey iris. Black curls covered his forehead, and tiny, perfect hands grasped sleepily at Elrond's tunic.
He swallowed. "He is beautiful, Arwen."
Looking back down, he slowly covered the infant hand with his own battle-scarred one, and was taken to another time, when the little hand that held his was that of his daughter's, when he had first kissed the black hair and held her in his arms to see the stars.
Elrond smiled faintly, as he remembered Ëarendil's star reflected in her blue eyes, and had sworn that he would never, never let her go, not for jewels or any other thing.
Celebrían by his side, silver hair in unbound beauty, tender arms around him, a delicate face on his shoulder, a loving heart beating in gentle rhythm to his own.
How many times had he woken to infant wails? Far too many to count, and yet he had never regretted one moment of soothing his daughter back to sleep.
Little hands clenching his own as she struggled to take her first steps.
Arms thrown around his neck in an impulsive embrace.
The delighted cries of "Ada! Ada!"
Walking in the gardens in the dawn with her, and her face lifted to his as she earnestly recounted the events of yesterday to him, her sweet voice never stopping in its prattle, and he never wished it too.
Pain. He had felt her pain as she huddled beside him, weeping, Imladris empty after its Silver Lady had gone, house no longer home, mother no longer there.
And Elrond had strove with all the strength left in him to play the role of both mother and father to his grieving daughter and vengeance-seeking sons, to calm and soothe, to comfort, to love, to hold both the tender hand and the hand hardened with the sword.
Of those twenty years of in which the Dúnedan was raised within his house, knowing the fate was unavoidable.
The pain had consumed him, of hearing the choice of his daughter, to die, to leave him forever. Arwen and he had wept together that night. She come to him, and tried to comfort him, but she needed it more than he, and she wept on his shoulder as he held his daughter tight.
Waiting. War. Victory.
The Evenstar's face had shone with tears of hope unlooked for made true, and of joy at the wedding, and Elrond could not help but smile at her happiness.
And now this, her own child.
Celebrían's words rang clear and soft in his ears. Keep her safe, keep her happy. He smiled, and said softly aloud. "Yes. Yes, I did."
The two looked at him in surprise, for they had said nothing more, entranced with each other and their child. "What was that, Ada?" asked Arwen, the slight dimple appearing that had always made him give way. But not this time. No.
"Nothing, tithen el." he said, and carefully handed back the baby. "He is beautiful, Arwen. Very beautiful. He reminds of another baby, long ago."
The Undómiel looked at him. "Yes, Ada. I think he does."