1. The Names of Flowers
She came softly. On her brow she wore nothing. In her hands only mallorn leaves. By the cool hills of Lorien she was unannounced but not unremembered, and when she lay down her dark cloak, it spread on the wide earth like folded wings.
When she brushed her hands over the green grass, colors fled before her until she could recall no more their former richness, and when she lingered by the Nimrodel no more did its swift waters sing.
She knew then that her mind had grown heavy at last with weariness, her marrows weighty and slow. The chill of all her winters seemed to have entered her body and yet was but a passing shadow, for her heart was colder still. In the end this grief, she thought, in the end I could not guess how to bear this grief.
O bitter are the sorrows of your people.
Beyond Hithaeglier the twilight was dying. At its slumbering crown was the bright faraway star. Here I abide, she thought, in a powerless realm, while the stars wheeled above and the earth beneath me fade. She looked up then, caught some strange light of dusk or star in her eyes, puzzled and weary, some centuries or millennia of sorrow bound to her brow. She opened her mouth as if to call out, but did not. She found no words, it seemed, nothing in the tongue of elves or mortals, to speak of this replete grief.
So she drew her cloak about herself and sank into the grassy arms of the hill, under the lee of the talan which now stood grey and abandoned. When she closed her eyes she thought that she saw a golden hillside, awned with lilting boughs, on its slopes the starred elanors scattered among sorrel flowers, though no more did they seem of gold. On her brow she wore nothing but the jewels of her memory and about her hands flowers bloomed everywhere, though it was but winter and the stars were few.
Yet also here did Aragorn stand unmoving, in another Age of the earth, between the passing of the Twilight and the passing of the Shadow, silent in his thoughts, a elanor in his hand. And she now heard, in this dream of dreams, his final farewell.
No one found her afterwards, not even her son the new high king, treading between splinting barks and ruined telain, for the soft morning had wrapped her body in its dewed cloth and delivered her from the circles of the earth. And so men who come later, seeking Lórien, find but the green grass of Cerin Amroth, clad in evermind, alfiriel; and her name passed into the tomes of history, as some reverence in mortals, a fleeting longing.
And thus passed with her the last of the realms of Elvendom on earth, for the House in Imladris had grown wild now, its pale pillars grown to trees and flowers and wild vines, and the elves of Eryn Lasgalen, Greenwood anew, had grown weary of the mortal world and passed, with the last ships of Mithlond, into the West. If a few had lingered, none knew. And if she had at last found what she sought in that golden sleep, the hills and skies showed not, and wore their silence into winters and springs, under sweeping winds until even the names of flowers had changed anew.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.