I own nothing.
They were six months old when he came back to Sirion, and Eärendil had not even known that Elwing was with child when he had left. Of course, Eärendil heard the news as soon as Vingilot docked in the harbors of Sirion; there were Elves and humans alike, all rushing to tell him the good news, that the lady of the city had been delivered of healthy twin boys the past winter. Elrond and Elros, she had named them, and Eärendil rushed down the streets to the palace, heart hammering in his throat.
Elwing sat in her chair in the presence chamber, paler and thinner than last Eärendil had seen her, though he did not notice that, the same way he did not notice a furrow between her silver eyes at the sight of him, come home three months after he'd said he would. He was used to her looking as though eaten alive early by her spirit, translucent in the sunlight, and he had never noticed the furrowing of her brow before, so it made sense that he did not now.
She smiled, and was radiant, her blacker-than-black hair gleaming in the early-morning sunlight, the light of the Silmaril about her throat, unhidden today, suffusing her skin, and suddenly she was not translucent in the sunlight, but made of it. Two tiny boys sat on her lap, one half-asleep, and the other tugging in fascination at the beaded bracelet around her left wrist. A single nod from her sent all callers, functionaries, scribes and servants out of the presence chamber, until it was her, him, and the babes on her lap.
"Elwing?" Eärendil asked uncertainly, hesitating in the midst of rushing up to her, blue eyes flickering from her, to the two boys, back to her.
Her brow furrowed, a shadow passing over her face momentarily before being neatly shelved. "They are your sons, Eärendil," she said quietly, no longer smiling. "Will you not greet them?"
The one napping in his mother's lap was Elros, and the one who was staring intently at the lapis beads on Elwing's wrist was Elrond. All four of them came to sit on the floor, Elwing calling softly to their boys, "Elrond, Elros, your father is here. Won't you say hello?"
Eärendil stared over the two of them—my sons, he had to remind himself, over and over again, had to remind himself over and over again that they were both Elwing's sons and his, and not just little beings Elwing had conjured up out of the air while he was gone. It would have been easy to think them wholly Elwing's, he realized, as he examined them, for their bore their father little resemblance. They were dark-haired and pale-skinned as Elwing was, with the deep gray eyes that Elwing told him her father had borne. They had the softer, less angular features of Sindarin Elves, and truth be told, the only resemblance Eärendil could see in himself in his sons was that their hair was straight as his was, not falling in tight curls the way Elwing's hair fell past her shoulders. When Eärendil looked them over closely, he saw that Elrond and Elros were not wholly identical in appearance, but he had to look very closely to see differences in their small faces, and they were easy to miss.
These two boys stared long and hard at him, silent, eyes wide, unsmiling. Eärendil's own friendly smile wavered, under the stares of these two boys who saw him as a stranger, rather than Papa. Elwing said nothing, only looked at him over the boys' heads, her gaze unreadable, pale and brittle again in the light as she fingered the incandescent jewel about her throat.
Then, Elros toddled forward, eyes bright and curious as he reached out with a small, plump hand, and caught fast a lock of his father's golden hair, babbling cheerfully in Eärendil's ear. Elrond hesitated, cleaving to his mother's side, but Elwing pushed him gently forward, and Elrond, though not so bold as his brother, stretched his hands forward to tug on the silver trim of his father's collar inquisitively.
Eärendil beamed down on the two boys crawling into his lap, staring up at him with such sweet and open faces. His boys. His sons, two little stars, as their mother had named them.
The smell of salt and surf wafted in through the open windows, and Eärendil's heart ached as all his cares and worries returned to him again.
Never had he imagined that he and Elwing would become parents so young. They had both come to adulthood with abnormal speed, even for those with varying degrees of human blood in their veins, but Eärendil still knew that full Elves of their age were counted children, and had the minds and bodies of children as well. They were not even forty, and now they had children.
Never had he imagined that he would become a father in such a blighted world. Eärendil had hoped to find the Blessed Realm long before that happened, had hoped to enlist the aid of the Valar and the High Elves of Valinor to rid Middle-Earth of Morgoth and his ilk long before he would bring children into this world.
Never had Eärendil imagined that he would become a parent without his own parents there to help guide him. He had hoped that he would find Idril and Tuor before that happened. Tuor, so stalwart and Idril so clever and confident would have been able to help him, but without them he felt lost every day, and even more so now, realizing that he knew not a single thing about being a parent.
The sweet smell of the ocean filled his lungs. Two small stars sat in Eärendil's lap, and the sea called to him with its siren song.
He stayed for a month. Every day Eärendil tried to convince himself that this time he would stay for good, and every day the call of the sea grew louder and louder in his ears, actively trying to pull him away. Did you not wish to find the Blessed Realm, Ardamir Eärendil? the sea cried out to him in his dreams. Why do you tarry here? By the time his stay in Sirion drew to a close, it was a relief to be walking the docks again, to feel the planks of Vingilot beneath his feet, to feel the sway of the ocean beneath him.
As he stood before Vingilot, Eärendil smiled at Elwing, and she turned away from him, bowing her head, fingering the Silmaril at her throat, hidden beneath a gauzy scarf. She was pale and brittle in the morning light. Eärendil crouched down to kiss the brows of his two small sons, who looked confused. Elros grabbed a lock of Eärendil's hair again, frowning up at him. Eärendil gently unwound his son's fingers from his hair, and departed the Havens yet again.
Perhaps Eärendil loved his sons. But he did not love them as much as he needed to answer the calling of his heart.