She walks beneath the trees, once tall and golden through all seasons, now fading, as though in winter, though the touch of summer reaches out to warm their bows. Her steps, bare feet brushing the fallen leaves, echo with silent sadness, leaving no prints or breaking. She is as a shadow, fading back and forth, her white dress shifting hardly a leaf as it lies in slow decay upon the floor of the forest of Lórien. Her fair hair drifts back in a whisper from the Southern Wind.
The Sea calls Galadriel.
Carefully, she stops, her head turned, listening to a voice unheard by others, her deep eyes closed, the wells shut behind the darkness of despair. She hears the call, feels it in her heart. But even as it whispers to her, she cannot go, though she knows she must. The power of the Rings is over now, and has been for a year and almost two seasons—for now time is passing in the Golden Wood, passing with an unrelenting hand that pushes aside all who stand before it and breaks those who refuse to move. She sighs, a bare murmur of breath upon her lips.
The Sea calls Galadriel.
And she must go. She knows this, has known it since long before the Rings were created, and the future of Middle Earth was set in peril. She knows that when the leaves of Lórien fall, so must she leave, departing from this world into the Undying Lands, the lands from which so long ago they left, now to return. It will be one of the last ships—a few more will come, but only a few. The last of the Elves are leaving. Their time has come. Her time.
The Sea calls Galadriel.
"Namárië," she murmurs, the word faint upon her lips. "Namárië." And yet, the forest stirs at her words, and seems to wrap around her, enclosing her in its arms; a final farewell. Slowly, she opens her eyes, and smiles. Slowly, she sings the last few words of the song that she sang so long ago to the departing Fellowship, her hand raised in good bye. "Namárië! Nai hiruvalyë Valimar. Nai elyë hiruva. Namárië!" And, for the last time, she reaches sights the sky through golden leaves, now a rain of them, tumbling to the ground, past her, to comfort her feet as she wanders back through the golden wood of Lothlórien.
The Sea calls Galadriel.
Galadriel answers.
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A/N: The song I am for lack of a title calling currently Namárië belongs to J. R. R. Tolkien, as does everything else.