Everyone Leaves by Elrond's Library  

There hadn’t been much left of Gil-galad to pick up when Elrond had found the place he had fallen.

The likeness was good, he thought. The artist who Celebrían had chosen had spent a lot of time at court in Linden, and she had transformed memory into paint with skill that should not have surprised him, but still did.

Seeing his grave face, head bowed under the weight of responsibility and war and the crown, the crown, the thrice-cursed and hated piece of gaudy gold and silver wire … Elrond’s heart ached to see that face again. Knew that he could not touch, could not laugh and share jokes and a glass of wine at the end of a long council session. Not anymore.

Gil-galad was gone.

Elrond’s most constant companion, his friend, his confidante. The one person Elrond had trusted to console him in the terrible years after Elros had sent Elrond away for the last time. The one person Elrond had trusted to listen as he pined and ached for his now-wife. The one person Elrond had trusted to hold him as Numenor – that last vestige of Elrond’s mixed heritage and Elros’ legacy – fell under Eru’s wrathful boot. The only one who had never left, until …

Just, gone.

Celebrían, ever attuned to Elrond’s vacillating moods, stood by his side, radiating comfort through their new marriage bond as they regarded the new painting, hidden away in a tiny alcove. The table bore a banner, silver stars on a blue field, but was otherwise empty.

“He would laugh, if he saw us like this,” Celebrían murmured.

“What, staring at a painting when we could be …” Elrond’s voice broke, choking on the edge of tears.

“When we could be living,” she finished. “When we could be singing. And laughing. Alive.”

Elrond sighed. Knelt and carefully picked at the ties of the bundle that lay at his feet. What was left of Aeglos he placed carefully, almost reverently on the little table: the great spearhead, leafshaped and still wickedly sharp; a section of the haft, splintered on both ends; a frayed and stained blue and red ribbon, which Elrond had given him at the beginning of their assault on Mordor.

Assembled together – the portrait, the banner, and Aeglos – the alcove became a memorial. A place of memory. Of grief, yes, but of joy, of memory.

Celebrían wrapped her arm around his waist, and he settled his head on her shoulder, breathing her familiar scent, her living warmth.

“He’ll always be with us, Elrond.”

He took a deep breath, held it, exhaled slowly. Something settled into place, the ache of loss joining all the others in his heart.

Elrond kissed her cheek softly. “Always.”

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