That morning, Elrond rose earlier than usual from his sleepless rest and made his way out of the citadel to one of the deserted shores just north of Forlond, just north of where the fishermen were setting forth for a day's catch. There, his tall, thin form battered gently by the salty kisses of the wind, he stared out with hollow eyes at the Sea of Belegaer.

In the grey light, it was difficult to pinpoint Meneltarma, but after a short while he finally found it. Then, as if uncertain why he had sought out the sight of the mountain that lay at the centre of Numenor at all, his body seemed to slump and his face fell. He looked away, retreated to a nearby sand bank, and sank down to sit - cross legged - upon the yellow sands.

It had been two days since his return from Numenor and two weeks since the funeral, yet... he still... could not seem to accept that Elros was gone.

Passed on.

Passed away.

Dead.

Dead in the manner of a Secondborn. That was what made this death so... peculiar to him... not least of which had been Elros' attitude to the thought of his impending death.

"I am looking forward to it," his brother had said. Six days later, and he had been unable to speak at all. Or move in his bed without assistance from his healers. Twelve days subsequent to those words, he had been dead. Old, wrinkled, frail, his body utterly alien, yet disturbingly recognisable to Elrond's eyes. Once upon a time, he had never quite believed that Elros would age. Some part of him had still believed that in spite of Elros' vow to align his fate with that of the Secondborn, his brother would still retain some key characteristics of the Firstborn. Such as youth, such as... immortality.

Wishful thinking, he had reminded himself. But the chastisement had not stopped the thought.

His training as a healer had allowed him time to slowly digest, over the years, the curiosity - for that was what Elves regarded the fate of Men - of the life span stages of the Secondborn. Youth, middle-age, old age, death... injury, infection, bodies worn out though nothing more or less than use... Time and again he had rushed to Elros' side these past couple of decades on hearing of yet another ailment or injury suffered by his increasingly feeble brother. He had known that death was close and he had waited in fear, worry, confusion and - most irrationally of all - disbelief at the fate unfolding before his eyes.

Why was it so difficult for him to accept, deep down, that Elros had been dying? That Elros was now dead?

He stared at the grey-blue waves lapping at the pale sand of the shore through his hair, tresses of which were flapping across his face, blown there by the wind.

For Elves, remembering those who had died was... not so important because you knew that somewhere, their spirit still lived unchanged, and that perhaps - one day - they would be resurrected and would walk and talk and laugh and sing and dance with you as ever they had done...

For Elves, a burial mound sufficed... indeed, was more than many of their fallen were given upon their deaths.

Humans were relatively more... extravagant, in general, except when at great need to dispose of corpses following a battle. Burial mounds, carven stones, tombs, anniversaries... The finality of the event, the acknowledgement that the one who had died could never come back had brought about whole ceremonies - whole industries even - surrounding death. And rightly so. Rightly so.

Unfortunately for Elrond, there was nothing for him to remember Elros' death by on these shores. The tomb lay in Armenelos, the incense, the wailing women, the mournful feasts, the sorrowful chants, the white sheets and black clothes, the burning candles... he had nothing with which to remember the passing of a renown half-elf: a great King, a magnificent warrior, a loving husband, and a beloved brother.

He had only a few paintings, many gifts: jewelry, furniture, cloth, texts, armor...

"Memories, of course," he reminded himself then. "And his legacy. Numenor is great because of his leadership."

Yet even so... to know that he would never see his brother again. To realise that he had wasted opportunities that he could have once spent at his brother's side...

He regretted those choices.

"There were no second chances with you, Elros," he murmured then, his words swiftly lost in the chill breeze. "I realise that now. If only I had known this when we were both young."

He wrapped his arms around his middle and shivered slightly as he felt the chill enter his bones. Then, when the chill became too uncomfortable for him to bear, he rose and wrapped his cloak more tightly about his frame. It was time for him to return to the palace anyway; the light was growing and soon it would be dawn and Gil-galad had asked him to join him for breakfast. Elrond suspected the King had been keeping a close eye on him since his return from Numenor; he had no doubt Gil-galad knew more about the processes of grief and loss for both the Secondborn and the Firstborn than he did. Certainly, the older elf had seen more of death than he. But if Gil-galad knew some secret to learning to come to terms with the death of a loved one, he had not shared it with him. All that the elf had said, after embracing him the previous night when Elrond had suddenly, inexplicably, found himself weeping uncontrollably, were three words.

"It takes time."

He exhaled heavily and, forcing a wry smile to his chilled lips, he turned and began the walk back to the citadel and Gil-galad's breakfast table.

Of time, he had plenty.