I have stood upon the white walls of Minas Tirith for night after night, from the last shreds of dying Iavas, through the bitterness of Rhîw. I have watched the skies, pleaded with the stars, as I ever looked north, toward the Golden Woods of which I have only heard tales.
Thither to the dying forest of Lórien went my Nana.
It is Rhîw-pelin, winter fading, and though the snows upon White Mountains are melting, the leaves of the White Tree are not yet budding.
Eldarion is beside me, watching. We are all watching, waiting, praying, a dread and a lightness in our hearts at the same time, confusing, conflicting.
Slowly the Evenstar rose into the sky, pale, ethereal.
"Is this Nana's last night?" asked Fírwen. She is the youngest of us, her voice trembling in the night air.
Eldarion grasped her shoulder. "I do not know, sister."
There was a gasp, and Celenu pointed at the sky. "It is." she whispered, and hid her head in her hands.
As we watched, the Evenstar faded, nigh to the point of disappearing, and the heavens were darkened.
"Nana is gone." I whispered. "She was the Evenstar upon earth."
"Now gone forever." said Eldarion softly.
There was silence that night, yet I still stand upon the ramparts and watch the skies. Though the Evenstar is dimmed forever, I think somewhere, Nana and Ada still smile down upon their children.
Iavas-autumn
Rhîw-winter
Rhîw-pelin-winter fading