I.
It was in his realm, its evil penetrating the shelter of the mallorn trees. In her reach. She had fallen before, once, twice, perhaps more than that, depending on what 'fallen' meant. Was there hope that she would not fall this time, when she stood on a ledge narrower and higher than any she had before? Would he wake up to find his wife the Dark Queen of Ennor? If he did, was there aught he could do to stop it?
Celeborn shut his eyes, clenched his fists, knowing that yet again he could do nothing but trust her.
II.
They called her Evenstar, for her beauty. Or perhaps because she heralded the twilight of their people?
She chose as Luthien did. But unlike Luthien she did not face Sauron, only writhed in anguish while her lover did. Unlike Galadriel she did not seek lordship or defy the mighty and doom herself, and unlike Elwing she did not soar through the sky for her beloved's sake. No bright life and destruction for Arwen, only a dull flicker and then the dark. When she died it would be a slow withering, a long fading of pale light into nothingness.
III.
The darkness spoke to him always. It tainted his dreams, taunting him, saying I will return. Sometimes he believed the insidious whispers. For what could he do to prevent it, bereft of Golodh power, of anything save the valor of his people?
He closed his eyes, feeling the breeze float through his window and wash over him. He heard the tree-song flowing in waves from the forest he loved. He had protected it for so long, despite all odds.
We will fight you, Sauron. You will never have us. And Thranduil opened his eyes to meet the dark.
VI.
They were fading. His people were as a falling star, blazing into silver brilliance for ages that were ultimately as fleeting as a mortal life. And then trailing off, leaving naught but darkness in its wake.
He had lingered, the last frail flicker of light, clinging on tenaciously for love, the roar of the Sea growing stronger in his ear each day. He would linger no more. The fading was complete.
"Let us be off, my dear Elf."
Legolas turned to his companion. Gimli. His most beloved friend.
Some things, at least, would never fade.
V.
It called to her, whispering seductively of all that once was and all that could be restored if she were strong or weak enough. It spoke of mighty realms and fierce, soul-crushing beauty, of old comrades and quarrels and jewels that could shatter a mind. It spoke of the ancient glory whose last banner she, and only she, kept flying. It spoke to her of its pale echo that graced her finger, and hinted at how much more it could do. She fought to ignore it, the battle wrenching her heart.
Galadriel wept in anguish, for she had won.
