A/N: A once-anonymous reviewer named Emily is now publishing her first story! Written while listening to "The Grey Havens" from RotK soundtrack. I suggest you listen to that while you read if you can. If you recognize it, I don't own it.
I dedicate this fic to all those who allow anonymous reviews. You made my nine months as an anonymous reviewer totally worth it.
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She always held books like they were the most fragile of living things, even the thick hardbound books that had seen years of reading at the hands of less gentle owners and looked none the worse for it.
"Just imagine," she used to say to me, almost reverently. "There are whole other worlds in these books, hiding between the words and dodging through the lines, felt in each rustling page's turn. There's nothing that can beat a good solid book for feeling the universe, save actually being there, living the story- which, in some cases, is very hard to do."
She never said it was impossible to do, just very hard, and I always imagined her opening one of her beloved books some day and just disappearing into the story, and I would picture her creeping through some exotic jungle, on the track of a mystical animal, or exploring the deepest zones of the sea, or outer space- or riding a horse to battle, her face alight with bloodlust and battle's rage. I never liked to see her that way, so I would move on to a more comfortable image- her hair shining golden-red in some sunset's light as she climbed the ropes of a great gray ship, dodging the flapping sails, and her face peaceful and still, a small smile etched upon it.
That smile was the last thing I ever truly saw of her. One day, she told me her time had come, and not to expect to see her for a long time yet. I didn't know what she meant, but she placed her favorite book in my hands, a much-loved copy of The Return of the King that had an air of age about it, and smiled at me peacefully. For some reason I started to cry. Perhaps my subconscious knew what she meant. She held me to her for a long minute, kissed my hair, and turned her calm regard to the clear night stars outside her window. I, weeping still, fled, clutching the book to my chest with both hands and wanting to hold onto it-and through it, her- forever.
I never saw her again; I wasn't present at her funeral. I felt I could honor her better by staying home and reading her favorite book to myself, turning the thin pages with the reverence she always had, and quietly reflecting on what her life had been, and what it had meant to me.
That night, I had the strangest of dreams: I saw her as I had oftentimes before, climbing the gray ship's mast into the sunset, quiet peace in her face, watching the calm, smooth sea swing by below her. She turned her eyes up to me, where I watched from above, and said softly, "The gray rain curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass…and then you see it… whites shores, and beyond… a far green country under a swift sunrise…"
"So it is not a sunset, but a sunrise," I said to her, noticing for the first time the slight point to her familiar ears, and the way she clung gracefully, one-handed, to the ropes she climbed, and how tall and lovely she was. A green isle shimmered in the faint distance, and I thought I could see a white tower on a mountain, pale stone gleaming in the light of the rising sun.
She smiled at me. "Of course," she said. "What else would herald the beginning?"