It was early morning when Elanor, called the Fair, received a knock on the door at her home in the Undertowers in the Tower hills. She had woken earlier than she was accustomed as strange dreams had disturbed her during the night. They were fading, but pillars tall and fair and mighty kings with brazen faces still flickered in her memory as she prepared a cup of tea.
After it was ready she went outside, carefully pushing open the round Hobbit-like door and stepping quietly out. The sky was a light bluish grey, and the sun glowed palely like a great white eye in the midst of scudding clouds. The gentle wind played with the strands of her golden hair. Although she did not know it, she was as beautiful in that moment as an elf-maiden from the days of old.
But as she sipped her tea and listened to the wind singing melodies among the grasses, she perceived a black dot against the horizon, and as she watched she began to see it was coming steadily closer. As visiting hobbits were rare, she felt a strange sense of foreboding waken in her, warring with her joy. Warily she watched as it walked, becoming larger, soon a figure with arms and legs.
The second before the sun's rays fell upon the earth and lit the figure, she knew. It was her father.
Sadness filled her as she watched him: So old he was, the wrinkles deeply etched into his weary face. And yet his eyes were still young with the memory of mountains sheer and tall and light in elven hair. But they were old too, gazing off into places Elanor didn't know and couldn't imagine. He was like that now, and despite his increasing proximity she felt he was farther away from her than ever before.
"Father," she said. "Why have you come?" Fast tears were running down her cheeks, though she did not have the courage to ask herself why.
He did not answer. She saw now that he held a book in his hands; it was old and weathered, the Book of the Westmarch, the Red Book, made by Bilbo and Frodo long ago. Falling silent, she gazed at it, and from the wells of time a single, terrible image appeared: that of a cavern filled with a blazing roar of fire silhouetting a creature holding a shining golden light. The golden light was bright and awful, and Elanor found she could not look at it. She was relieved when the image faded, bringing about the soft clear light of day.
"Elanor." Her father spoke, his voice trembling and feeble, and yet her name sounded beautiful on his tongue. "I named you after the golden flower that once grew in the fair grass of Lothlรณrien that I visited long ago, at the suggestion of Frodo. And now I must go where he went, and all the Elves with him." As he spoke he turned his head toward the Sea, and the wind that had once been gentle seemed to Elanor to grow chill and unfriendly. Her heart grew cold within her; her tears froze on her pale cheeks. She tried to speak, yet all that came out was a sob.
"Do not be sad," her father said quietly. "I have seen much, both good and evil, and have had more than my share of laughter and tears. There remains only one thing left to be done."
"Can't you wait?" Elanor whispered. "Must you go?" But even as she spoke, she knew the words to be futile, and running quickly forward she cast herself into his arms. They stood there for a time, father and daughter, with only the sky as witness. And as time passed, and the sun rose and grew hot upon the earth, they parted, and Elanor watched as her father turned and walked away, soon fading like a dream into the grass.
All that remained of him was the book she held clutched in her arms.