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Ancestress  by Dreamflower

     

Mourning: Gandalf

It always caught him by surprise by how different it was each time. Grief never hit the same way twice, for each person mourned was different, each loss unique. He had learned much of grief from the Lady Nienna, who had taught him compassion; it was after all, she who had first told him, "Do not fear to weep! Not all tears are an evil." Parting was painful, whether or not one was assured of eventual reunion, and joy postponed was...postponed.

Before he had been an Istar, before he had become, in every way save his life span, a very mortal old Man, he had known grief. He had mourned the downfall of Melkor, the marring of Arda, and all the pains the world had known because of that marring. He had been sad, but he knew now, he had never felt bereft, not in the way he had felt the first time he'd lost a mortal friend. The seeming he had sometimes worn before did not register joy or grief with the same sharpness and clarity: that sinking feeling in the gut, that twisting of the heart, that catching of the breath, that knowing that someone was gone, that needed a true body, real blood and bone, not illusion.

Hardest of all had been losing his hobbits. In his very first encounter with them he had one die in his arms. They were such a special people, kind and dignified and cheerful, and mindful of the true treasures of life. But a few had been very close friends, and among them Bilbo and Frodo had been his closest and best. Now Bilbo was gone; and yes, there would be a reunion, joyful beyond any imagining. But for him, that joy was...postponed and in the meanwhile he must endure the missing.





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