Written for Ithildin's b-day.
November 10, 2004.
November 10, 2004.
Three days after Dol Guldur, he glimpsed her star-touched golden hair atop their talan. Clad in white, she sat there like a lost child, stroking powerless Nenya.
“It is gone,” she whispered faintly. “Lórien will fall to ruin. It will perish under the light of this dying world, memories fading to nothing.”
The proud golden head fell. With every moment he could hear the cry of her tattered fëa, resisting the Sea’s call. In her eyes, heartache he could not heal.
Would he restrain her? Deny her serenity? No, he could not…
Glenno annûn, hiril vain nín. Hiro hîdh.
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Glenno annûn, hiril vain nín. Hiro hîdh.
Go west, my beautiful lady. May you find peace.