It ends when Arwen dies. When broken and unbreakable and no longer convinced of his own immortal capacity for grief, Elrond does not. She lived in the brightest of purples. She dies silver under the stars.
She could break his heart. Oh, Arwen. His comfort to the last. She is a spire amidst the storm. She could be struck with pure lightning, right through, and she’d say it's all right, I'm here, I'm here. She is why he stays, though he could love her anywhere. Imladris, Eregion, Valinor, and beyond.
She had blazed, and he had stepped back to admire it. That is his failure, as always. He makes himself too easy to love from afar. And so she dies in winter, in a forest they had first seen together in spring, three thousand years ago when it was wide and green and golden.
Some lazy semi-realistic Arwen from my lazy semi-upright convalescence position today. I always like drawing her as looking slightly mischievous and I always interpret ‘looking like Lúthien’ as Having Lots of Hair™️. Technically speaking, she looks similar to the Elrond I draw, if said Elrond bothered to get a blowdry and a tan and, well, wanted to live. Words from one of my first LotR fics, silver spoon aka the Grandpa Elrond fic.