A/N: A short little drabble. It doesn't relate to any specific character of LotR, which unfortunately, I do not own. I wrote it for one of my friends, and though we are being separated, I hope this never happens between us. R/R. Enjoy!

The heavily hooded figure stood alone, alone in the darkness. There had been many others before, paying their last respects to their dear friend. Most of these fortunate souls had been able to bid her farewell when she could still answer. But not she, not this lone figure standing frozen, grief icing her heart.
She had come too late. Too late. Too late to bid her dear friend a last farewell. Too late to witness another smile on the familiar face. Too late to see her dark eyes twinkling and hear her sweet laughter as they shared a joke. Too late to speak to her friend one last time. The pyre lay before her, but she dare not look upon it. She could not bear to look upon her friend in this state, knowing that another smile should never curve around that mouth, her able hands never to wield a sword again, another look of disgust never to grace her face. The figure bent her once-proud head, now shattered by grief, remembering the times when her friend would wear that look, that look of disgust, just to infuriate her.
She hugged her arms around herself, to keep the wind from piercing through her. It did not matter, for she was already pierced, pierced with sorrow. Slowly, she forced her feet to inch forward, one by one, until she looked upon the pallid face.
She felt her stomach drop, as shock thrust like an enemy sword through her. The once rich hair had faded grey, from ebony to snow. The colorful sheen was gone, replaced with the ashen countenance that faced her. Though her eyes were closed, she knew that if they were still open, the light within them would be dimmed. The wear lines around her eyes and face were deeper, making her look tired and worn. When had her friend become this? Few years have passed since they had last seen each other.
Few years to you, o Firstborn of Illuvatar; time means nothing to you, merely a fleeting shadow. The time of Men runs quick and light, soon gone, beyond all recall. Years have worn and dimmed. No matter the feat accomplished, the height of valor, in the end, death shall snare every one. A sob escaped out of the Elf, something she had sworn not to do. If she let one tear slip out of place, the flood would come rushing through.
"Hello Vorinwë," she spoke through her choking tears, "I'm here."
She stopped, closing her eyes, swallowing back the lump in her throat, half expecting, praying to hear a response from her dear friend she had not seen in many years of Men.
"I'm sorry for never coming earlier," her words forgetting all her Elven eloquence gathered from the years, "I'm sorry." All thoughts and memories passed from her mind and she forgot all she wished to say. All she could muster was, "I'm so sorry Vorinwë. I'm sorry."
"How have you been through these years? Was a man able to pry open the stubborn lock of your heart? Do you still love swords? A bow and arrows definitely works better than a sword, I can tell you that. Did you ever allow yourself tears? Or did that façade continue to reign your features?" she asked, knowing that she would never hear her friend answer these questions. "Are you still claiming to be a better lore master than me? Still attempting and failing to speak the tongue of Elvenkind? Sindarin was not made for you, mellon nin."
She choked on her words. Wishing, praying, hoping to no avail that her friend could hear her, though her soul had flown to Mandos, leaving only this cold shell to face her.
"Answer me, Vorinwë. Tell me you can hear me," she pleaded, knowing it was in vain. Her friend was gone, gone beyond all recall. Gone where mortal Man dwells when the slow decay of time finally claims his spirit. Gone where the Quendi could not follow.
"I'm sorry, mellon nin. I'm sorry. I come too late."