"You and Elros wear the same necklace," Thranduil says a month later when they next meet. "What does it mean?"
It's an odd question, but not one that he's never heard before. "Star of David. We're Jewish." Elrond pauses. "Well, I am. Ros might not be." Thranduil tilts his head to the side like he doesn't really understand, but Elrond doesn't elaborate; instead he says, "My father gave them to us. It's one of the only memories of him I still have."
They haven't known each other long, but Elrond considers Thranduil at least as close as a friend he's known for years, and hopefully it'll become more. Not that he has much experience with either of those things.
"What was he like?" Thranduil moves closer, just a bit. The ocean is calmer than it usually is, so they're nearer the edge than Elrond would normally be comfortable with.
He has to think about that before he answers, pulling back information he doesn't think about often.
"The was blond and tall, and he had strong hands. He worked at the port and was gone for work a lot, but when he was around he was kind and intelligent. He was the one who gave Elros and me our love of reading. He was Jewish like us, but our mother wasn't. When Dad was gone she'd take Elros and me to synagogue anyway." He looks down at the ocean when he says, "When I was seven he vanished. No note, I looked, no phone call, I waited for one — just went to the marina and never came back."
Elrond likes to believe that Eärandil died, that he didn't just leave them. But he knows that probably wasn't what happened.
Thranduil moves closer still, pressing against Elrond's skin. He's not as warm as Elrond would've thought. "I don't remember much about my father either," he says. "He looked like me. He didn't smile much, but when he did it — it was like the sun. He was a crafter, worked with wood. I think his name might have been Oro-something but I'm not sure."
How long has it been, that Thranduil cannot remember his own father's name? "I'm sorry." He leans his head on Thranduil's shoulder and closes his eyes.
"It's not as sad as you seem to think," Thranduil says. "It's actually pretty normal. If you ever…" He doesn't say the words, but they're thinking the same thing. "If you ever, you won't remember much either. Just the things that really mattered."
Elrond was planning on joining his brother and his best (only) friend, once he'd finished college. But this is new information, and it changes things.
It changes things a lot.
There's a faint sound of yelling from the beach side of the ridge. "That was probably Maglor," Elrond says, though it probably wasn't. "I should go."
He stands and he leaves, and he doesn't see Thranduil looking on.
When Elrond was seven Eärandil vanished, and Elwing went mad with grief; at least, that was the official explanation. She'd hardly been stable before. The twins would've learned to take care of themselves if it hadn't been for Maglor and Maedhros (Knights in shining armor, the twins called them at first, before they transitioned to Dad for Maedhros and Daddy for Maglor).
Elrond and Elros were alike, and they were not alike. Both were intelligent, extremely so, but Elros loved math and physics while Elrond loved biology and language. Elros saw patterns everywhere while Elrond could solve near-impossible puzzles in minutes; Maedhros used to tell them apart by mentioning Fibonacci and listening to Elros and only Elros gush.
And then, when the twins were twelve, Elros fell into the Pacific Ocean and drowned.
Elrond missed two weeks of school, wore black every day for more than a year. He did his bar mitzvah brilliantly but alone, and his caretakers worried about him.
The twins had been each other's only confidents, only real friends, and after Elros died his brother made no move to get closer to anyone else. Eventually his classmates stopped reaching out. His grades never dropped, he never distanced himself from Maglor or Maedhros, but this much isolation couldn't possibly be healthy.
And then, a few months after his sixteenth birthday, Elrond came home from the beach with them noticeably happier. Maglor didn't understand why, but he certainly didn't question it.
Today he's — not grieving again, per se, but peensive. And Maglor can't get him to say why.