Disclaimer: I do not own The Lord of the Rings, it belongs to JRR Tolkien.
Anaóre
The air was silent. Leaves hung quietly upon the branches of trees with a stillness that trembled. The very earth was waiting.
Ranith lay on hard, unforgiving ground. Tree roots dug into his back, and cold was beginning to creep in, for his small fire had long since been reduced to ashes and embers. Maybe it was one of these that woke him, or the unnatural feeling of silence that hung in the unmoving air.
He sat up slowly, head tilted towards the sky, watching the stars dance with the emptiness they sheltered in.
The night was dark, and his eyes, meant for daylight, had trouble distinguishing what was treetop, and what was empty space.
Ranith started towards his campfire, with the intention of lighting it again, when soft light filtered through the motionless leaves. He glanced at the silver glow, then back at the makeshift camp. Curiosity won out over caution, and he crept as quietly as he could through bark covered pillars.
The light did not banish the shadows from his path; rather, it illuminated all that it touched so that the forest seemed to be glowing. Ranith came to an old oak, huge in proportion, with ancient roots that seemed to hold the earth together, and dark branches that looked as if they were grasping the sky.
Peering out from behind the tree's twisted trunk, Ranith could see a path of sorts winding through the undergrowth. Then, with gentle footsteps, a line of people came into his view. They wore grey cloaks on their shoulders and many had lanterns. They seemed to be singing, voicing their souls into the still night air.
Ranith strained to hear their words, which seemed to float on air, slowly drift down toward him.
Fuin rimpa, a met eldalie círa, círa sí fallasse, a renio mir, i númen.
The language he did not recognize, but Ranith understood their meaning: The people were sad, yet underneath their sadness, there was a glimmer of joy within their bright eyes.
The people, no, Ranith corrected himself, Elves, continued on their path, fading from sight as mist fades before the sun.
I aeor esto, utúlien palan ettele, a met eldalie lelya, mir andúne…
The sun was rising. Grey shafts of light began to shine through green leaves, and wind rustled through lightening branches. A new day was beginning.
The smell of sea salt drifted on the cold air.
Fin
Since I lack the ability to speak Elvish, the words in that language can be roughly translated as follows: Darkness hovers, and we shall leave, leave these shores, and sail into the west. The sea calls, from distant lands, and we shall go, into setting sun.
The title means sunset.