Comment:
The One Ring was destroyed and the Dark Lord was reduced to an impotent spirit. Legrace lived on, however, and says her final farewell.
Farewell
Turning round and round in the shadowy room, Legrace's eyes finally lit upon an ancient box fashioned of cedar and bound with leather. She went over to examine it. Under a thick layer of dust, the clasp still worked, and she found a jewel the size and shape of a quail's egg, yet it was the exact dark red color as her own hair. As she held it up to the murky light, a slight smile touched her features. Then, she tucked it into a pocket.
Only one other item occupied the box. Her breath caught and her eyes rounded as she lifted out a heavy bracelet fashioned of mithril and set with blue stones of a richer hue than sapphires. There was nothing remotely like it that existed in Eä, she knew. After a moment of staring at it, she viciously tore off the horse bracelet that Eldarion had given her and threw it across the room with a strangled cry. After taking several deep breaths, he did something that she had not done for several thousand years: expertly, she fastened the bracelet to her wrist. Then, she held up the other hand to compare the matching ring, which was flickering faintly with a soft luminescence.
Quickly, she scanned the room then went to yank a heavy damask cover off a tarnished, full-length mirror. Placing her palms flat against the cold surface, she closed her eyes and struggled to isolate the faint feeling. Summoning the strength she had forged over the course of many years at the beginning of Middle-earth's Third Age, she focused and was rewarded with the contact that she sought. Only then did she open her eyes and stare at her reflection. Her round black eyes had been altered to a more exotic shape and were the dark blue color of her jewels.
"Who sent the summons?" she whispered. "And what shall I do?"
She remained motionless, staring unblinkingly, barely breathing, maintaining the delicate contact with her feather-light touch, knowing that when it was broken, there would be no other chance. Time seemed to stand still as she concentrated on the disjointed feelings and images, letting the meaning trickle into her consciousness. Weariness crept into her joints and muscles but was ignored by sheer force of will. The strength of the feeling was waning, and at the same time, the bitter taste of grief was intensifying. Long did she stand there, but far too short to one of her age and memory. The connection slipped due to no lack of effort on her part, and very slowly, she was left alone.
"No-o-o," she wailed in anguish as the unfamiliar tears slipped down her face. "Not yet, please…" Weak now from the exertion, she stumbled backward and stood swaying for a moment before her legs collapsed and she was forced to sit down upon the floor. "Farewell," she said aloud. Then, "I am sorry."
Sitting and sobbing, she recalled that almost from the beginning she had known this day would come, but that did not mean she was any more prepared for it. Still, her life had been long, and in the days of her youth, she had been foretold as the merriest and most joyful creature who would ever live in the world. Even doom could not dampen that. At this moment, however, she could understand men's hunger for vengeance, for it could fill the emptiness for a time before consuming the bearer.
Alone, though, she would be now, always alone, merry and touched by inexorable sadness; yet she was not only sorry for herself, or her beloved, or for the children, or all that she had lost. She was also sorry for everyone who existed, had existed, or would exist in the world. She was sorry for everyone who prayed and pleaded faithfully to the Rulers of Arda, hoping for aid, for guidance, for intervention that would never come. She was sorry for the lost Garden of Arda abandoned by its makers and for all the fragile, helpless, forgotten creatures who were smashed about on this wretched and bereft land by forces they could not comprehend while the Valar hid in their blessedness far away.
A shadow of this day had touched her long ago, before the Counting of Time had begun, had moved her to confront the Powers upon their snug, unassailable thrones, to rail against them, and to denounce their decision to forsake Middle-earth. Not all had been against her, but her words had come to naught, and she had never returned to the Máhanaxer. Still, though, the tale was told among the denizens of Aman, and no bar was ever made to Legrace visiting her children in Valmar. Despite the knowledge that doom awaited, she had made her decision and had never regretted it, not even now. Yet, she drew her knees up, clasped her arms about her legs, and laid her head down as she wept, long racking sobs wrung from a wounded soul.