Círdan dropped the pack containing provisions from his voyage on the floor beside his desk and stoked the fire that had burned low on the grate. He was weary from the journey across the Bay, but needed to capture his thoughts by setting pen to paper, as he often did - the shelves of his study were lined with row upon row of leather-bound journals whose entries spanned the millennia.

He poured himself a brandy, sat down at the desk, and picked up his quill. The Elf-lord thought for a long while, stroking the soft wisps on his chin absently, then finally pulled his journal closer and began to write.

---

Isle of Balar
Hrívë 525 First Age

I have just returned from the Havens of Sirion. The babes were born but a few days past, the news of their birth sent by messenger, and I sailed immediately. Eärendil's heirs - twin boys, dark of hair like their father, but with the clear grey eyes of their mother. They are fair to see, indeed, and will grow more beautiful still with age.

Elros and Elrond are their names...'Elf of the spray' and 'Star-dome'. Curious names, I thought. Scarcely a week old, and already the difference in disposition is apparent. Elros, the elder, is a determined child, voicing displeasure as enthusiastically as he does delight, already as mercurial in temperament as his sire. Elrond, the younger of the twins, favors his mother. He is quiet and seems to regard the world around him with attentive eyes, and I fancied I saw a deep sadness flickering in those twilight depths.

Eärendil placed his sons in my arms, beaming proudly as any new father does, and demanded I pronounce them the most precious babes ever to grace Arda.

---

"I thought I heard someone in here. Welcome home, my Lord."

A soft voice at his side and a light hand laid upon his shoulder brought a fond smile to the shipwright's lips, and he turned his head to look up into his steward's sleepy grey eyes.

"'Tis good to be home, Galdor," he replied, patting the Sinda's hand gently. "Now go back to bed; I will not stay up long, I promise."

Galdor nodded and turned, padding barefoot across the chilled tiles and out of the room, back to the warmth of his bed.

Círdan picked up the quill and tapped it thoughtfully against his teeth, then returned to his journal.

---

Precious, aye. A gift of the stars, the begetters of renewal, the fools of fate.

The moment I held them, a strange sensation came over me, as though a cloud passed across my sight. 'Twas not a vision so much as a rush of images – a myriad of stars, and a green stone... reflections of war seen through a gauzy veil of shadow, and the wings of an eagle.

I wondered if Elwing felt it, too. My arms full of the children of her womb, I met her eyes, and the look she gave me in return was one of great pride, but also of resignation.

Aye, she knew. These two were born for the Ages.

---

Círdan dusted the wet ink and gently blew the sand away, then neatly tucked the journal into a drawer. He sat for a few moments longer, then snuffed out the candle and walked to his bedroom, shedding his clothing before he slipped into bed beside his beloved.

In the flickering light of the dying fire, Galdor snuggled closer, sighing quietly in his sleep.