“He won't talk or come down. I'm sorry, I didn't know who else to ask...”
Thranduil nodded. “Has he eaten?”
He climbed to the sheltered flet. A huddled figure sat against the western rail, the elf's clothing dirty and torn.
“Celeborn, I brought you some stew and bread. Come here and eat. Talk to me.”
The elf stayed immobile but whispered, “First she praised the depth of the trees' roots and our love thrived. But in the end the strongest roots were her oldest. She has gone West.” He resumed his silent, sorrowful watch, Thranduil already forgotten and dismissed.