Memory
Tonight her son sleeps in peace, lulled by the sweet music that drifts upon the very air in Elrond's house, he who is named Estel but whom she calls in her heart Aragorn. Yet her own eyes remain untouched by sleep, and she sits on her bed in her chamber looking north towards the home of her people.
And now there are fingers, gentle fingers moving through the length of her hair. Fingers parting her hair, weaving strands together in a slender braid, only to undo their work, only to start anew.
Gilraen's voice, when she speaks, is too low for mortal ears to hear. Tell me of his last hours. They are cold, hollow words, spoken not for the first time.
Elladan's hands gather up the fall of her greying hair. They do not tremble. Elrohir will tell her, in calm, terrible words spoken not for the first time.