The leaves were starting to fall.
The wind was chillly; it had not been so before. The winters had not been so cold here before.
As she sat in the vale by the stream, she did not feel very cold. Not cold enough to long for fire.
As if she ever longed for something, these days.
Another leaf fell, just an inch from her hand. It was pale and haggard, the bones protruding from within. Hardly any wonder, she hadn´t eaten for days, sustained only on water. She had run out of lembas long ago, and nuts were hard to find, even if she cared to. She did not, not any more.
Something moved at the edge of her field of sight – a branch in the wind, a bird, a shadow of what had been. She did not move. At first, she would call, and run, and search, unwilling to believe that there was no-one, that they had left, one and all.
Even Celeborn.
She had searched the land wide and through, smelled for smoke, looked for lights at night.
The land was empty.
When she fully realized this, the defiance almost awoke her old self. Forsaken? Oh, never mind. She could make her living in the wild, even in winter. Besides, she knew where the Galadhrim had stored their winter supplies and there were still some left. She would pull through. In the spring she would cross the mountains and make for Imladris. The rumour had it her brothers still dwelt there – the sight of their faces might make the pain in her chest go away, for some time.
Only much later she realized she would never leave this place.
And that she would not see the spring again.
She made a shelter just below the top of Cerin Amroth and collected such supplies of food and wood as she could find, but doing so without any inner conviction, only out of habit.
Then she sat by the fire until she ran out of wood, and could not make herself collect more.
On some days she would roam aimlessly, avoiding places she used to like, yet always her steps brought her back, to a certain tree at the top of Cerin Amroth, though the place brought neither consolation, nor grief. Most of the time, though, she only sat, sat under the very tree.
She only sat, her mind empty. She had quickly ceased to dream the elven way, as the return from dreaming made everything only bleaker and more desperate.
Sometimes it seemed days passed before she moved, and it might well be so.
She had lost count of days.
But then she felt a change in the air – the spring was coming. Now and then, the golden mallorn leaves fell to the ground, softly rustling, whirling in the gush of wind. She watched, for days.
Later, propelled by nothing more again than habit, she stood up to return to the tree again.
She swayed and fell on her knees, her heart suddenly and painfully throbbing. Its sound erased the rush of wind and leaves, even her own gasps, as she stubbornly raised again, and fell on the pale grass.
The tree. She must make for the tree.
She crawled, panicked by the darkness that was closing in around. The wind blew against her, and sent the golden leaves in its wake.
Finally, she reached the tree, and with the last strain she leaned her back against it, like she had done many times, and many years ago.
The leaves were falling so thick now that they were obscuring her vision, and in the oncoming darkness a figure seemed to be approaching her, tall and strong, clad in white, like on the very night they met here, in another age.
She reached her arms to him, or so she thought, and the last thing she felt was a gentle touch on her forehead, like a kiss, or a fallen leaf.