Disclaimer: Not mine and no profit is being made by me.

A/N: Major tissue warning, this was written by a very depressed and hormonal author.

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The king is dead, long live the king.

The day I have dreaded for nearly two centuries has come. He has left us, as have so many of our companions. Éomer, Eowyn, Faramir, Merry, Pippin, and now Estel has gone as well. I am numb; I must stay so to bear the rites and ceremonies that must be performed. 

I look at Arwen, and I know that very little time shall pass ere I lose yet another of those I love to Mandos Halls. As Estel was one I would have chosen as a brother, so I would have chosen Arwen for a sister. Verily, we have lost her already. The life passed from her eyes with Estel’s last breath.

Elladan and Elrohir are lending each other support, even as they attempt to succor their sister. Likewise, her children both support each other and seek to aid her.

I look to the dearest friend that is left to me, the dwarf who stands by my side. Gimli’s once fiery hair is the color of new snow, and he uses his long-handled battle axe more as a walking stick than a weapon these days, yet he stands straight, the fire still in his eyes and his words. So fierce, he is, and yet his only thoughts today are for the rest of us. That will be the hardest parting of all, I think, when he leaves us.

Ai, I know that this is what my Adar feared when he cautioned me against becoming too involved with mortals. I swore to take the bitter with the sweet, even as Arwen did, and while the sweet was well worth the bitter I am hard pressed to remember that today.

Gimli senses my distress, I see, for here he comes with a goblet of strong wine for me along with his tankard of ale.

“Here, lad, it won’t take away the hurt but it may dull it long enough to get through the wretched rituals,” he says, his voice as strong as it ever was. I take the cup gratefully and down it in one swallow. Gimli manages his ale in two and we sit for several long minutes in silence, forgotten in the bustle around us until some counselor of Estel’s notices us again. It is wearying to answer questions and circumvent speculations. I am so weary of this world.

I am not going back to Ithilien. I have already said my farewells there. When all is settled here, I will build my ship and sail. I cannot bear to remain; the call is too strong now that there are so few ties to counter it.

I spare the dwarf a fond glance as he listens with far more patience than even I would have credited to him to the old schemer of a counselor who has cornered him. He would dearly love to see his beloved golden lady once more, and I find that I cannot bear to bid him farewell. I know not if it will be permitted, but I am willing to risk it as is Gimli. He will sail with me, complaining the entire time about my ship-building skills no doubt.

Today, and for many days we will grieve. Then we will journey together one last time, yet I find not the excitement for the upcoming journey merely a resignation. I look toward the bier again and at the silent and veiled figure standing beside it.

Peace to you, mellon-nin. Peace as well to you, Arwen. May the Valar guide us all.