Rivendell is deep in the throes of winter now and it makes me melancholy, though normally it is always a season I love.

Because things are usually quiet.

The cold and frequent snow allowed the family to turn to indoor pursuits. And I was able to devote myself to reading. I saved any new written materials I acquired over the year for the dark of winter.

Now granted, some tomes were nothing more than healing texts or some such scholarly work. But the historical journals and the sagas were always my favorites.

How I enjoyed reading them aloud to the family by the light of the fire in our suite of rooms.

I was stirring the fire there this afternoon and the wind howling down the chimney was so mournful, echoing the sadness in my heart. My family has dissipated like snow in spring.

I realize I have not gotten anything worth reading in some time, as the rising of the Dark has consumed most of my attention (and made getting books difficult). So I will settle with an old favorite when I am done here- ---The Lay of Beren and Luthien.

Standing at the window that looks north into the winter remains of my private garden, my breath frosts up the glass as I stare down into the soft lumpy shapes in their cowl of white.

I can hear even now, the squeals of the children down there. How they loved snow fights and building snow elves! And then they would come in all rosy with icy cheeks and demand tight hugs and hot tea with lots of honey.

And even Estel, when he was young, loved playing there, especially if he could persuade Elladan or Elrohir or both to play with him.

The winter cold always brought us closer together and now, all I can feel is bereft and consumed by sorrowl.

Oh this is enough melancholy and introspection!

I need to see how things are going in the kitchens and the stables.

We have another group of 20 leaving for the Grey Havens in a week. And I must make sure everything is coming along for their departure.

And then there is the Farewell Feast to arrange: all the travelers get to pick a favorite dish to have as a small remembrance of their last meal here.

And even though departure signals the end of their lives within the confines of my refuge, almost all hearts are glad for we long for healing of the West.

Almost all.

With every Feast, I remember Celebrian's leave-taking.

She was too ill to join the others in the main dining hall. And because I had to, as Lord of Imladris, make a brief appearance in the hall to toast her fellow travelers, I hated the fact I could not spend the whole evening with her and my family.

The other elves understood why I did not tarry long in the hall.

My beautiful love, she could not even sit up comfortably for long. She lay in the solarium on a couch, propped up by the softest pillows and covered with a quilt Arwen had made her, decorated with purple velvet iris, which she adored.

Celebrian had not much appetite and though I tried to tempt her with an array of her favorite foods, she only tasted them all, no pleasure in her eyes, though she smiled as each of us offered her a tidbit.

And the children all quiet, afraid if one word escaped, there would be such a wailing of grief. And we had all sworn to be as cheerful as we could manage---and if we could not manage cheerfulness, then to remain silent.

What a strained meal that was. How miserable all our hearts were.

But we tried, for Celebrian's sake.

Our last night together until I left for the West, which we both knew would not be for some time, was awash in desperation and longing.

Hopeless longing that we might change things and desperation because we knew this would be our last night touching and loving here in Imladris.

We just held each other tightly and our tears mingled all the night.

Oh my sweet Celebrian.

It has been many hundreds of years, but still I see so clearly your smile, the light of love in your eyes, hear your laughter, feel the beautiful silk of your hair and skin.

And so much in this House reminds me of you to this day. I could not bear to hide away too many of the things that were dear to you.

Though, once back from the Grey Havens, consumed by grief, there was one night when I raged through our rooms, flinging the bedclothes, knocking over your loom and smashing at a moment of high grief, your favorite vase.

I can write this here, after all these years. And how grateful I was that no one heard my angry cries. Or saw me kneel and pick up the shards and crush them in my hands until they bled.

No one even asked about the rough bandage the next day.

Soon, I know I shall see you soon, and that more than anything will get me through my last days here among the willows and the water and the gardens of Imladris.

Imladris, no longer a balm to my soul, but a constant reminder of what I have accomplished and what I leave behind.

Glorfindel has entered with his reports no doubt, and I must listen.