Postcards from Imladris

The ring sparkled in his hand as he turned it. It had been a gorgeous piece when it had been created, by a friend that Elladan himself had commissioned. He remembered hand picking the gems himself, for the way the colors matched all of Elrohir's favorite things - green summers, the golden leaves of both Lorien and Imladris, the snows of the mountains, and the blue of their mother's and sisters - even their own - eyes. When Elrohir had unwrapped the thing, he had sworn never to take it off. At the time, Elladan had decided it would probably lost here or there. On projects with the Dunedain, or in a war. But the ring had managed to survive even the last war, and time itself.

He'd had a hard time believing that Elrohir could give such a thing away. He had seen the giving, from one hand to the other, sharp eyes picking up a glitter, and a gleam... Elrohir had more than one ring, he had told himself, and he would never give this one away. Yet it sat there, in his hand, because it had been found on a wraith, who'd found it on a body, the body of a woman that he realised they should have taken better care of.

( You have grown so serious... )