She was an ordinary elf, living in Lothlorien. She spent her days weaving fine cloth in her talan, and wandering throughout Caras Galadhron. She rarely entered the fetes and celebrations that took place in the lovely city, instead preferring to spend her time in the gardens. Her mother had sailed at the end of the second age, but she had remained behind. She had heard tales of the beauty and majesty of the sea, but could not imagine herself sailing. As lovely as the pearl havens of Aqualonde might be, she loved the woods of Lorien, the flowing of the Silverlode. She heard tales of the golden streets and fair towers of Valmar beyond-the-sea, of the stars floating in the Calacirya. Yet she did not wish to leave her beloved grey-pillared open halls, not even to hear the singing of the Vanyar on the high slopes of mount everwhite.
And so she lingered, as the world changed. Many of her kindred expressed little interest in the quest of the ring. Many already wished to leave these lands before Sauron fell. They did not care for Middle-Earth.
Yet she did. As she wove the cloth destined to travel across the known world, she put all her love of her home into it. If this quest should fail, her home would be left open for Sauron's entering. She could imagine no worse sight then the yrch felling the silver-hafted trees.
She, as all of them, felt the evil attach their homeland. She spent her days ferrying bunches of arrows from the city to the battlefield, tirelessly traversing the woods. She liked to think she might have helped, might have protected her home, even if she couldn't fight with the warriors.
And she lingered still longer, as the people of her homeland left. She tarried, and watched Queen Arwen lay down on Cerin Amroth, and die her long-prophesied death. She remembered the Lady Evenstar from her days in Lorien, how she always had a smile to spare for the quiet weaver, how she admired her work. She laid flowers in the hands of the queen, though not elanor and niphredil. For when the light of the elves had passed beyond this world, the flowers in the grass had faded.
And still she lingered, having made up her mind. She was not the same being as her naneth, who had left Valinor for love of the words of Feanor, and had regretted it ever since. Middle-Earth had changed her, and she could not leave. She would not forsake her life, her little platform high in the trees, for streets of gold and pearls and opals strewn on beaches. Paradise Valinor may be, but she did not seek paradise. She had never sought glory, only joy in the beauty around her. And she found she could not leave. Though she knew her place was truly meant to be in the West of the World, she would remain, and fade among her beloved woods, even as the age of men came to be.