During the War of Wrath, Finarfin, King of the Noldor from Aman, had only seen his nephews in battle twice.
Twice he had caught glimpses of the sons of Eärendil fighting with them, and twice he had thought to himself that while they should certainly be far too young to be soldiers, they were far too good to not be. Everyone that could fight was fighting. Elrond and Elros—for he had learned what their names were at least—were obviously very well trained, and very good with a blade in their hands.
It isn't until both leave to fight with the Edain, Elros leading them, that Finarfin manages finally meet them.
When the twins come to the command tent Eönwë has set up for the leaders in the war, now that there is only one more battle to face, Finarfin doesn't think much about the young elleth walking in beside them, her pale-golden hair braided over an armored shoulder and carrying a sword which even he can tell from a glance is of Fëanorian craft. To be fair, neither does anyone else really, except to think she is somehow a follower of the remaining Fëanorionnath, and so they do not want to acknowledge her presence between the twins which the last sons of Fëanor had stolen.
But when she meets his eyes to finally greet him—perfectly in Quenya which would not have been out of place in Aman, her accent familiar—Finarfin freezes, and that is when everyone else finally spares her more than a halting glance.
She has the same eyes as Elrond and Elros do. The same eyes that their mother Elwing bore when Finarfin had met her before leaving Aman. The same eyes which many had told Finarfin Lúthien herself had, shining grey-blue like stars.
"I did not know that Eärendil and Elwing had a third child," he finds himself saying once he can manage words at all. It isn't what he should have said, he knows, but the words are out before he can think better of them.
His words cause everyone to freeze as well. But they hardly seem to affect the young Peredhel before him, standing between her two twin brothers.
Only Eönwë and Círdan do not seemed the slightest bit surprised.
Her lips curl up slightly, but the rest of her face is blank. "Many forgot Elwing bore a daughter," she says, her words politely neutral. "I could hardly expect the Noldor King from Aman to be aware when others here were not. My name is Elanor, Good King."
Finarfin barely manages to hold back a wince. He should have known. He had at least met her mother, was fighting a war with her father. But Elwing had never mentioned her, only her two sons. And neither did Eärendil. He wonders why.
But that is a conversation for later, and not something he expects her to know.
From there, introductions are made and business returns to usual, with only minimal input from the three youngest members about the Edain forces. It takes a while, but neither one of the twins nor their sister appears to inexperienced with war councils at all. It makes Finarfin wonder. They are so, so terribly young, even if by grace of their mortal heritage they have clearly come into adulthood.
When finally, everyone other than himself, Gil-Galad, and Eönwë have left, after asking the siblings to remain behind, Finarfin makes his first truly stupid comment.
"I would not have thought that either of my nephews would have accepted an nis fighting in a war," he says, not quite remembering this is not Aman. He carefully doesn't think of his own daughter ruthlessly hacking away at enemies, sword and shield in hand.
It isn't Elanor who stiffens at the comment, but the twins. She merely smiles, but her eyes are chips of ice and frozen steel when she lightly remarks, "They certainly do not care for it, but I was hardly going to let my brothers go off to war without me." Elrond and Elros remain silent, but their lips twitch upward in amusement.
Gil-Galad sputters and Finarfin just wants to sigh. He knows all too well that sort of attitude. He could almost hear his own daughter speaking with this young kinswoman's voice, through her lips. Defiant, proud, and utterly unrepentant while still somehow managing to seem perfectly polite.
Instead of arguing a point he knows he will not win, Finarfin smiles wryly and says, "I suspect there is very little my nephews deny you."
The twins relax, their smiles come easy and amused, and their sister laughs, the mirth softening her face and brightening her eyes quite spectacularly. Then her face transforms into a practiced pout, "They did once deny me a pet."
"It was a bear cub!" one of the twins exclaims, still smiling.
"Yes, but it was small enough," she argues. "I could have taken care of it."
"Until it grew too large and decided to eat us all for dinner," the other twin drawls.
The laughter—incredulous from Gil-Galad, amused from the others—rings around the tent. Even Eönwë's lips are curled up in amusement.
"There was a purpose to requesting you remain behind," Eönwë finally says to the three as the laughter dies down. His face has once again gone impassive, and Finarfin wonders just what it is that the Herald needs to speak with three young Peredhel, though there is a horrible dread rising within him all the same. "Both your mother and father were given a choice," Eönwë continues on, not reacting to how the three siblings have stiffened in their seats, shoulders tense and faces going immediately blank, "to which kindred their fate should be accounted. Your mother Elwing chose for the Eldar, and your father chose so as well out of love for her. It will be put to you three, after this war is won," and they are close, so close Finarfin thinks, that the peredhel will hardly have time to think about their choice, "to which kindred you shall align your own fates to."
Finarfin stopped breathing for a moment. The Valar were honestly going to make three children choose whether or not to be sundered from their parents! Without their input? Then Finarfin remembered what it had taken to send aid to Beleriand, how slow the Valar were to move in anything—except demanding his brother hand over his beloved jewels—and gritted his teeth in silence.
Hopefully at least one of the children chose for the elves, but there was a part of him which wouldn't blame either of the three for choosing to count themselves among Men. Elves had attacked their home, killed their kin, and taken them from their family. And their parents…well Finarfin could see how the young ones might have felt—may still feel—as if their father and mother abandoned them. Eärendil was a little better off, in that he was trying to find a way to sue for aid, but Elwing…Finarfin was a father, he'd had a hard time remaining impassive as she'd told him and his wife how she'd jumped from the cliff with the Silmaril.
No, he did not think his nephews deserved to keep them, not after all the bloodshed, but he certainly didn't think a jewel was worth abandoning his children to possible death. At least when Finarfin had turned back to Valinor, letting his children follow the Noldor out of Aman, they had all been long grown.
This…this choice was a travesty.