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Elros did not believe that he had been raised by monsters.
He and Elrond were of the same mind in this, though his brother’s reasoning was different to his. Elrond pondered on the will of Eru Ilúvatar and the nature of the Firstborn, never argued, but made it known with grace and dignity that he believed the designs of The One could not be of evil nature, and that although evil may be done upon them, none could be born into it but the spawn of Morgoth alone.
It was a very elven way of thinking, and certainly suited his brother well. Elrond had always been milder, wiser, more faithful than him… always looking to greater things, things larger than the here and now which the mortals so concerned themselves with and which they could not see beyond.
Elros had chosen a different path.
He did not often wonder about the nature of things, did not engross himself in philosophies or faith, never sought to unravel the threads of Arda Marred and perceive the course of its histories and fate. He was a son of Men as much as his brother was a son of Elves, and he saw the world through the eyes of a man just the same as his brother saw it through the eyes of an elf.
He had known Elves in the fresh days of his childhood at Sirion, and the Men of Balar who docked at the havens, and had seen the blood of the Firstborn in his mother and the blood of the Secondborn in his father. In the Havens of Sirion had mingled souls from all walks of life, and not even the evil of the kinslaying had erased the memories of that mingling from the mind of Elros.
Elros did not believe that he had been raised by monsters, no matter what the rest of the world thought of them, the last surviving two of the infamous seven sons of Fëanor; for infamous they were, and monstrous indeed, and known for their evil deeds and the cruelty of their followers, no less an enemy to the peoples of Beleriand than Morgoth himself. Under the chains of their oath they had spelled their own doom, and the doom of all those sworn to them, and history did not remember them kindly.
But that was not all they had been, for neither Elros nor his brother would have loved them then.
In his memory Elros held Maedhros a mentor and a guardian, curt and harsh in his teachings but always diligent and wise, one who knew how far to push in order to strengthen, not to break, who burned in the darkness unyielding though it consumed him. He had taught them the ways of battle and leadership, had taught them the sword the same way he had taught them to hold a speech, had shielded them from the merciless world without hiding it or deceiving them… he had been a lonely mountain facing the wrath of all the storms headed their way.
In the same light did Elros hold Maglor, a guiding hand, a fierce embrace. He had been wholly unlike his brother, gracious and gentle in his teachings but always firm and thorough, one who taught them to swim through the tumultuous waters of life though he himself was drowning. He had shown them beauty and song, through the harp or his voice alone, had shared with them his people’s histories and knowledge… had allayed their fears and soothed their worries and given them strength, had been a steadfast river guiding them through all the obstacles in their way.
They had been monstrous, yes, and consumed by an unbreakable oath—but that all their good deeds would turn to evil had been their Doom, and it was death and ruin who pursued them, not the other way around, and in spite of all the darkness they faced they had been kind to Elros, and to Elrond his brother, and had loved them well even knowing they could never keep them.
It is not in a monster’s nature to love, Elrond would argue, and to that Elros would add, and neither would a monster ever entertain the thought of loving, willingly or no.
They had raised him and loved him and Elros had seen it.
But he had seen also that they were, without a doubt, monstrous—firstly by way of the Kinslaying at Sirion, which had painted the first image Elros had gained of them in the blood of innocents, but moreso than that by the way they clung to each other even as they destroyed each other. Elrond still pondered, as he often did, on the whys and the hows of the workings of their minds and hearts, but Elros did not think it necessary to look so deeply. Elros had seen them simply for what they were.
Maedhros was a raging wildfire chained beneath a mountain, ruthless and relentless the same way he was steadfast and resolute.
Maglor was the sky hung above a storming sea, imperturbable and steady the same way he was tempestuous and unrelenting.
They had been blood, family, the pillars of their House and the guiding stars of their people, and beyond that, Elros had seen, each other’s singular anchors in the devastating path of an inescapable destiny. Both of them had always teetered on the edge of madness, Maedhros struggling to breathe through the smoke and Maglor struggling not to fall into the dark—for Maedhros, Maglor had been the waters that doused his fire, and for Maglor, Maedhros had been his only foothold in a place of nothing but untouchable light.
And in their refusal to let go even when they hated each other, even when they clashed, even when Elros saw them look at each other like strangers beholding strangers, they had brought themselves—and each other—to ruin. Maedhros, desperate for the relief of just one more breath, had blackened the sky and cast Maglor into the very darkness he had sought to escape… and Maglor, reaching desperately for solid ground, had worn down the mountain and released Maedhros into the very fire he had sought to escape.
Elros was not certain if Elrond had ever truly noticed what was right in front of them, always so preoccupied with the grander picture. Maedhros and Maglor had shown them the most selfless kindness not by loving them, for love given to children is the easiest thing in the world, but by making sure he and Elrond turned out nothing like the ones who had raised them.
Elros grieved at their distance sometimes, when he gazed across the waters of Númenor and remembered he could not spot the shores of Lindon from so far out to sea, but then he would recall how Maedhros and Maglor, chained together, had marched to their doom and thought it freedom, and he would be grateful that he and Elrond had made their choices as they did. That they could walk their own paths, write their own stories, be their own anchors.
For that, at least, he would thank them. If for nothing else, he would be grateful for that, and no matter how tainted his memories of them became he would never name them monsters.
He knew that Maedhros had burned, in the end. Eönwë had told him and Elrond both, in a solemn yet unfeeling tone, before Elros had made his choice and left for Elenna with his people. But he knew from his brother’s letters that Maglor still lived, and wandered the shores singing his laments and would not show himself no matter how far Elrond searched for him.
Elros thought of him too, sometimes, but did not grieve for him as he did at his brother’s distance; for Maglor had lost it all when Maedhros burned, but the chains of their oath had burned with him, and now at last Elros knew that he had the ground back beneath his feet, and his sky was clear once more, and he could see the stars again.
And perhaps it is a mannish thought, Elros would ponder, but that at least is not something to grieve at.