Pairings: Elrond/Gil-galad implied
Summary: Elrond mourns his king's death.
Rating: PG
Warnings: Character death.
Notes: Thanks to Meri for making me write this. Feedback is welcome at the above email address. Archiving is appreciated, but please tell me where you're putting the fic before you actually put it there. For more information about upcoming fics, see my LiveJournal.
He lay alone in the bed they'd shared on many a night, numb and despondent, his eyes unfocused. His king was dead. That was all that mattered. There would be no more nights of lovemaking, no more days of meticulous planning or sweet stolen moments of laughter. He was gone, burnt to ashes before the eyes of his people.
He was alone.
The weight of his sorrow was oppressive, like a blanket of lead: heavy but welcoming. He cared for nothing else but his loss, his sorrow, his lack of pain. Was this the grief he'd been warned of so fervently as an apprentice, this bleak and hopeless emotion that even now lapped away at his vital essence? It was a comfort, he decided. Never again would he have to endure the cumbersome obligations of the mundane world. He wouldn't have to do anything. Nothing at all.
The weight was heavier now, dark, warm, enveloping. It was easy to sink further into the consoling depths. He never wanted to leave, and while the part of him that was a master healer knew that was something to be alarmed about, he couldn't make himself care. It wasn't important. It didn't matter. Soon he would return to his king.
The world seemed to fall away one sense at a time: intuition, smell, taste, touch. The blurry images from his unfocused visions seemed to darken as the sight of mortals is said to fade as twilight gives way into darkness. He might've closed his eyes, had he only possessed the energy. It seemed not to matter; the interior of the tent was becoming pleasantly, blessedly dark anyway.
The sounds of the surrounding camp began to fade also, first becoming indistinct, then muted, then slowly descending into silence. The speaking voices dwindled first, followed by the sounds of horses and wagons and clanking metal, until only the ethereal tones of distant elfsong could be heard. A lament for fallen comrades.
The singing fell away also, at last, and the blanket of sorrow lightened but did not cease to be comforting as death blew across him like a gentle breeze, lifting and carrying his fea as if it was nothing more than a bit of cottonwood fluff, setting him down once more behind the walls of Mandos, the Halls of Waiting, in the caverns of Ve, the abode of Namo.
The End
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