He remembers her mother. She was a pretty little thing, slim and willowy with blonde hair. He remembers how she used to tell stories about her deceased husband while resting a hand on her stomach and how her husband sounded so much like Elros.

He remembers her moving away, when she was seven months pregnant, because she needed work and the only job she could get was far away. He remembers the emails she used to send him, filled with pictures of little Ellin once she was born.

He remembers the day he got the call, asking if he could drive down and pick up little Ellin because her mother had been shot. He remembers his stomach knotting in worry as he drove the many, many hours to stay with the little girl.

He remembers Ellin's eyes, such a rich grey-blue like Elrond's were, and how much sorrow they had in them, even at the tender age of four. He remembers holding Ellin and stroking her dark hair the night they found out that her mother had lost the battle against her wounds.

He remembers the struggle to adopt Ellin, and the joy of becoming her "father". He remembers the happy days when she was growing up. Laughter and, even though she knew he wasn't her father, Ellin calling him "daddy".

He remembers the frail teenager on the hospital bed, fighting a loosing battle against cancer. He remembers how pale her skin looked and how her black hair was a stark contrast to the white sheets of the hospital bed.

He remembers how, with her last breath, she told him that he should sail. That he should seek forgiveness. He remembers her telling him how much she loved him and that she didn't want him to grieve.

And now, as he sits on the beach, staring at his scarred hands, he remembers five younger brothers, that he will never see again. He remembers twin boys that he helped raise. One choosing mortality and the other sailing many Ages ago. And he remembers Ellin, the descendant of them both with dark hair and grey-blue eyes.

And he weeps.

That was depressing.