Chapter Text
Elwing is not the first to admit she wasn't a good mother, because if she says it in almost anyone's hearing they hasten to assure her that of course she wasn't a bad mother (so they're ignorant, deluding themselves, or lying) or else that all things considered she shouldn't blame herself for it (which while possibly true is almost never the point). But she knows. She's known it almost all along — of course childbirth and screaming babies would wear on anyone, but a few months in she looked at the peacefully sleeping twins and thought not "I am not alone" but "I wonder how they're going to die, and will I have to see it", and she knew she had made a mistake.
She tried very hard never to let on to the children that she regretted them. Or most of the other things she was feeling. To all appearances she was successful at concealing everything from everyone else around her, but especially in hindsight she thinks they might have just been willfully not noticing.
Eärendil had barely been there, barely knew the children, but that just meant he could look at them from Vingilótë with pride and wistful hopes of meeting man to man someday, without any of Elwing's baggage. She willingly listened to his excited recounting of stories he'd heard and glimpses he'd stolen, and she smiled to see him happy and encouraged his schemes to meet Elros on the ocean once or twice, but her heart was numb. She sent no messages to Númenor herself.
(When she wouldn't let anyone other than Eärendil discuss the twins in her hearing, her people whispered that she was angered and grieved by the sons of Fëanor stealing their love. She did not correct them. Sometimes those who were not her people whispered that she was so withdrawn because she resented the passing of the Silmaril to Eärendil. She did not correct them either.)
Eventually the Silmaril became only a star and Vingilótë's running lamp, not a horrible bright shadow over her mind. Eventually her own parents returned from Mandos, and she no longer had to stand as queen. Eventually she was able to speak honestly of the Havens of Sirion, and drain out all the ugly feelings that had been pooling long before blood was shed there.
Eventually she finds room in her heart for her sons, and long-lasting shame at how she failed them turns to a wish to make it up to them.
She's sure Elrond will come to Aman eventually — hopefully he'll sail, but even if he comes by the short way she'll see him someday, and can ask what she can give him.
But she's taken too long, for Elros. He's gone. And his grandchildren and great-grandchildren seem to be doing splendidly on their own, and she always used to make Men uncomfortable, the rare occasions she met them; so perhaps she should let well enough alone.