#there's a saying among survivor twins- “once a twin always a twin” and I firmly believe that too!

[jesncin]

making john a twin is so big brained

Thank you, but John being a twin wasn't originally my idea! Johnstantine is a twin in canon (in the original Hellblazer series, during Jamie Delano's run), I'm just playing into what I consider are missed opportunities narratively (informed by personal life experience)! Constantine's what the twin community calls a twinless twin or surviving twin.

[sweetteaanddragons]

So I should be writing time travel AUs right now, but I wasn’t in the mood today. Let’s look at a travel AU of another sort:

The sea is vast, and Earendil’s boat is small upon it. Elwing flies on and on and never sees him. The Silmaril gives her strength to fly on until she collapses, alone, on the beaches of Aman.

Ulmo returns her to her human state. The moment he does, Elwing breaks with sobs for all the lost: her children, her husband, and her brothers, so long ago. So many people have vanished, never to return.

Then she picks herself up and marches toward what she hopes is civilization.

Earendil sails desperately. He knows what fate eventually awaits his family if he fails.

But he cannot sail forever. The warning in his heart and the state of their supplies agree; they must return.

Before they even reach the shore, it is apparent that they have come too late.

The city is burned. Dead. From the looks of things, it has been for months now.

They all search for their families, but the search is in vain. Even the dead have been cleared away.

Only one group of elves remains that would do that, so, with heavy hearts, they return to the boat and head for the Isle of Balar.

Earendil listens to Gil-Galad’s account of what befell the Havens. “And my wife?” he asks, his hands holding with a white knuckle grip to the back of the chair he refused to sit down in. “My sons?”

“Survivors report seeing a woman with a blazing gem fall from your tower,” Gil-Galad says quietly.

She could not have been pushed; the sons of Feanor would have claimed the gem first if that had been the case. Earendil chooses to believe she fell. If she jumped . . . 

His wife is more Elf than Man. It is likely she will fall under the fate of the Elves, and it is said Mandos will not release those slain by their own hand. He has to believe she fell. It so easily could have happened. If the Feanorians had approached her with drawn swords, she would have retreated, and it would have been easy to forget her surroundings and retreat too far.

Yes. That must be what had happened.

“My sons?” he croaks.

“They were not among the fallen, and we looked long. We believe they are still alive,” Gil-Galad assures him.

“But you do not have them.”

Gil-Galad hesitates. “No.”

Then the sons of Feanor hold them. 

They must. They must still hold them. They cannot have taken them only to abandon them in the woods like his wife’s brothers. They cannot have grown weary of fearful, crying children and abandoned them. They cannot have decided there was not enough food to go around in the cold winter months.

Please, he begs the Valar, please, whatever pity remains in their hearts, let it have been enough for this. Let it hold just a little longer.

“Where were the Feanorians last seen?” he asks.

“You cannot mean to go after them,” Gil-Galad says. “Well do I understand the urge, but you have responsibilities here.”

“You do not understand,” Earendil says flatly. “They are not your sons. You are handling the people well enough. I have no confidence that the sons of Feanor are showing the same concern for my sons. Where are they?”

Gil-Galad has little more than rumor. Earendil nods his head and goes to prepare to depart.

His companions each have at least one member of their family that yet lives, so Earendil insists that they remain behind. He goes alone.

The search is long and hard. He has only rumor to follow, and little enough of that. The search drags on four years before he at last catches the trail.

He has no men with him to attack the camp, even if he dared with his sons still inside it. Instead, he continues to trail after them, trusting the forest to hide him.

Fortune favors him. He has been following for only a few days when an opportunity comes.

He has stopped beside a pool that has not yet fallen to Morgoth’s foul poison when the laughter of children suddenly rings through the woods.

Earendil’s head whips toward the sound.

A moment later, two young boys burst from the trees. The pool must have been their goal, but they freeze when they see him.

“Elrond,” he says hoarsely. “Elros.”

It has been so long since he has seen them that he is ashamed to admit to himself that he doesn’t know which is which.

The boys back away from him, fear evident in their eyes.

“It’s alright,” he says, rising slowly. “It’s alright, you’re safe now.” He steps forward.

That’s when an elf in Feanorian red bursts from the trees. Earendil draws his sword without another thought. “Behind me!” he shouts, but the boys don’t listen.

There is a stranger with the twins, and he has drawn a sword. That’s really all Maglor needs to know to draw his own. “Back to the camp, now!” he shouts. This section of woods is safe enough, and far better for them to run through it alone towards safety than to linger here in whatever strange trap the Enemy has left.

The twins vanish, and he feels a moment of relief. At ten, they are starting to insist that they are old enough not just to be trained but to participate in fights, and Maglor has no intention of allowing it.

That’s all he has time to think before the stranger is upon him.

The stranger is an elf, he realizes quickly as they duel, and he does not bear the marks of thralldom on him. 

Not, of course, that an elf would have to be a thrall to hate a son of Feanor.

Still, Maglor tries to reason with him when the battle leaves him enough breath. “Peace! Why should we do the Enemy’s work for him?”

“You stole my sons,” the elf growls, and -

Oh.

Maglor stumbles at this unexpected piece of information, and Earendil takes full advantage of the opportunity to knock him to the ground and swing his sword down towards Maglor’s throat.

“No!” twin voices cry, and Maglor watches in horror as the twins, having lingered after all, launch themselves out of the trees with their daggers in hand.

Earendil flinches, sword automatically moving away from Maglor towards the noise, but he is not half-prepared for this as Maglor is. He will not react in time.

If Maglor lets those blows land, it will be the worst thing he has ever done.

He launches himself between them, and the twins cannot halt themselves in time. One blade lodges in his upper arm. The other grazes his side. They at least managed to turn their blades away.

He ignores the pain. “Peace,” he tells them. “Peace. You have no enemies here.”

“He was about to kill you,” Elros argues, glaring warily at Earendil, blade still in his hand. “Elrond?”

Elrond is already at work, examining the wounds with horrified eyes, putting pressure on the graze and having enough sense not to yet remove the blade in his shoulder. “He’ll be alright,” he says firmly, and considering his own glare at Earendil, that’s as much a threat as it is a promise.

Maglor twists around as best he can. Earendil is staring at them all like he doesn’t understand what just happened, as well he might. Maglor is still reeling from the sudden turn himself.

But it is definitely Earendil. Maglor recognizes a bit of Idril in his face, and he has a strong resemblance to his sons. Even aside from this, he has the distinctive look of a Peredhel.

This is good, Maglor tells himself firmly, and tries to ignore the sudden urge to weep.

He turns his back to Earendil in the hopes that the other man won’t stab him in the back while the children look on and tries to smile for the twins. They should be happy, and he will not ruin this for them. “I told you your father would come for you,” he says, striving for lightness. 

Both of the twins’ eyes go wide.

Elros recovers first. “Yes, and then Maedhros told you that we were too old for comforting lies. He was right. What’s really going on?”

From the corner of his eye, Maglor can see Earendil flinch.

Fortunately, Elrond seems to believe him. “You visited once when we were very small,” he says tentatively. “You brought something.”

“Little toy boats,” Earendil whispers. “I carved them myself.”

Elros’s mouth drops open before he closes it with a snap. His eyes are too bright. “Why did you attack us then?” he demands.

Maglor intercedes quickly. “I am certain his quarrel was with me, not with you.” He pushes himself to his feet, wincing at the pain. Earendil’s eyes flicker between him and the children, plainly unable to look away from either the threat or his family.

“Did mother come too?” Elrond asks in a small voice.

Earendil’s breath catches, and the grief in his eyes turns to fire as he glares at Maglor. “You didn’t tell them?” he demands.

“He didn’t have to tell us,” Elros says. “We were there.” His accusatory voice leaves a clear implication about others who were not. “We saw her turn into a bird - “

“What?” Earendil looks incredulously from his sons to Maglor like he’s expecting some hint that this is a lie Maglor has cooked up to placate them, but Elrond is nodding along.

“A white one,” he adds helpfully. “We thought she would fly back through the window for us, but she flew out to sea instead.” He frowns. “We thought she was going to find you. Is that not what happened?”

“No,” Earendil manages, clearly still not sure what to believe.

Maglor doesn’t blame him.

“So mother’s not coming back,” Elros says. He tries to sound uncaring, but his voice catches. “Are you staying this time?”

“Yes,” Earendil says. “I swear to you - “

“No oaths!” the twins shout in the unison of long practice. 

To his credit, Earendil barely pauses. “I give you my word, I will not leave you willingly again.”

The twins look at each other. After a moment of private communication, they nod.

Maglor tries to tell himself his heart is not sinking. This is for the best. This was always the plan, to give up the children should it ever be safe to do so. That they are almost the sole light left in his life does not matter. That he loves them as if they were his own does not matter. They are not his.

“Everything else can wait until we’re back at camp then,” Elrond decides. 

Earendil looks relieved. Maglor quietly starts to back away.

“We should hurry so that you can get your shoulder looked at,” Elrond adds, looking guiltily at Maglor.

Earendil and Maglor both freeze.

“He’s coming with us?” Earendil asks warily.

“Of course he is,” Elros says in some confusion. “It’s his camp too, and there’s no sense in the four of us heading there separately.”

Maglor and Earendil look at each other. The moment hangs somewhat awkwardly.

“I believe your father meant to take you back to his camp,” Maglor finally manages to say.

Elrond frowns at his father. “I know you may have things to gather, but surely it can wait until Maglor is tended to?”

And with yet another sinking feeling, Maglor surveys the confusion present on both of their faces and realizes that the twins truly do not understand.

It’s Earendil’s job to explain, he decides, swaying a little. Rations have been short, and his have been shorter as he has given up as much as he dares to make sure the twins will have enough, and the blood loss has destroyed this delicate balance.

Elrond notices and is at his side in an instant. 

“It’s this way,” Elros tells his father before darting ahead to lead the way into the trees.

As he passes, Maglor catches a familiar glint in Elros’s eyes, and with sudden suspicion he looks down into Elrond’s too innocent face.

He is beginning to suspect the twins understand after all, but at the moment, neither he nor Earendil is in much position to argue their far more reasonable points.