It all began with me shattering my little mirror. For three days the title of this story literally stared at me, before i found the rignt words to write a story.
Shattered mirror
It was always the two of them. They were born together, they were meant to be. Two kindred spirits, two halves of one soul. Inseparable.
He knew him like he knew himself. There was no force in Middle-Earth to tear them apart. And yet... The face he knew so well, saw everyday for centuries, was now nothing but his own reflection in a mirror. How was he ever going to look at himself and not see his twin brother?
The delicate frame with the mirror flew across the chamber, tossed away. Bright crystal spread all over the floor. Elrohir stood in the middle, frozen, unable to make a move. Crystal shards shone brightly, mocking him, sparkling, yes, but no longer showing the face he longed to see. Wished to see. Hated to see.
They had fought countless battles together, always facing enemy with pride, sometimes with pure fury, sometimes with cold revenge. They were close to death many times, yet always managed to survive. The War was over, the time of Elves in Middle-Earth had faded. The twin sons of Elrond were enjoying their last days before making a choice they were meant to make. The accident in the mountains during their last trip, the sudden avalanche took one brother with her, leaving the other in pieces.
For that's what he was now. A shattered mirror without reflection. Tossed, broken, crushed into pieces beyond repair. He had suffered parting and loss before, but nothing had ever prepared him to bear the grief that came with Elladan's passing. There was no place for him in the world, nor in the one he knew, nor in the mysterious West, where he could be healed.
Imladris was empty, having faded itself after the elves had travelled west. Elrohir had brought his brother home and spent countless hours watching him, guarding his tomb.
The one thing he wanted to do most in the world, to lay beside his brother and fall asleep, was the one he couldn't do. Elrohir was a Peredhel, but he felt an Elf. He did not feel the call to stay as human in Middle-Earth, like Arwen did. And if his staying would mean to watch his sister face the mortal life burdened with the grief for Elladan... No, Elrohir wasn't ready for it.
For Arwen's knowing, her brothers left Middle-Earth and sailed west to Valinor. That was the best option, the one that saved her from grief. And Elrohir felt at least one of the three of them owed their parents to go, to bring the last words from their children. From Arwen, for Elladan had not had a chance to pass them anything.
Except love. Elrohir would lie, if he had to, but he would give their mother at least that. What else would he tell her after five centuries of separation? A truth, or a merciful lie, if there was even such a thing? Had he known the truth at all? He wished, he hoped Elladan had made his choice before his death. Elrohir did not know, but this was the only thing he had, that hope his brother would come back one day. For now, he did not know and he was going to have a long time to think about it. All the way through the sea. And all the eternity to try and bring the shattered pieces together, though he doubted anyone would ever succeed, if Elladan had died as a man, not an elf.