A/N: I was in the mood to write something sad. The back-story is purposefully very vague, as it leaves the reader free to imagine what happened, and I didn't want to wreck it all by trying to add a back-story when my inspiration was only for the funeral itself.

I used white as the color of mourning because in medieval times they wore white instead of black to show grief.


The procession was a grave one; the elves' eyes downcast and their long slim hands clasped gently over their hearts. The many feet shuffled lightly over the jewel-green grass, and although the group was large they were eerily quiet. At the head of the procession was a strange assemblage: a white-clad Wizard, a Dwarf, three hobbits, and several human nobles. Of these richly-dressed nobles, two stood out. One was a pale, raven-haired woman with silver eyes and a thin veil fluttering over her fair but tear-stained face. Alongside her walked a tall, dark man with a face grimly set, and on his head rested a winged crown that proclaimed him King of Gondor the Great. The sadness around both King and Queen was palpable as they marched solemnly to the pyre ahead of them.

The pyre stood in a rich glade, surrounded by lush flowers and proud trees, and although the mortals could not hear it, the trees were also grieving. It was a beautiful place; it could not be otherwise, since it was in Ithilien which flourished under the caring hands of the elves. The pyre itself was of glossy birch-wood that glowed palely in the evening starlight, and behind it stood three elves and two lit torches. All three elves had eyes the color of summer sky and hair the same golden shade as the rising moon. The tallest one was a male, his white and silver raiment shimmering subtly even as he stood stone-still at the head of the pyre. A mithril circlet of woven leaves marked him as Elvenking. The two other elves were a male and a female, respectively, and so alike the Elvenking in looks that there could be no doubt they were his children. Both wore thin simple circlets that denoted their status and Prince and Princess, and they too were dressed in the white of mourning. The Elf-princess's face behind its veil was heartbreakingly beautiful as she gazed down at the pyre in front of her.

The figure lying on the pyre was that of a young elf, his face marble-carved in the moonlight and his eyes shut so his long lashes painted shadows on his high cheekbones. Had the eyes been open, the irises would have been shown to be the exact same shade as those of the Elvenking. The face was somewhat gaunt but still stunningly handsome, and in spite of the dark shadows under the eyes and cheekbones he looked at peace. His white hands had been crossed over his chest and a thin silver circlet had been placed on his braided gold hair, which had been smoothed and tucked behind delicately pointed ears. Unlike his father and siblings beside him, he did not glow in the night.

The procession reached the pyre, and as the King of Gondor stopped to stare sadly at the pyre's occupant the elves' eyes turned toward the sky. The stars reflected clearly in their ageless gazes, and as one the elves began to sing. The music started quietly than rapidly built up, the notes clearer than glass and more piercing to the heart than any arrow could ever be. The solemn song rose and fell, wavered and eddied like a stream as it flowed over the treetops and into the sky. The sweet sadness of it was heard even in white-walled Minas Tirith, where the city's denizens stirred out of sleep and slipped outdoors to search the heavens for the source of the sound.

As the music continued as did the procession. The Wizard and the mortals had stepped aside to join the Elvenking and his children, and the rest of the elves marched steadily past the pyre, their shining eyes sweeping over the dead elf as tears trailed down their melancholy faces. The line of elves seemed to stretch on for hours; these elves hailed not only from Ithilien but also from Imladris, Lothlórien, and Eryn Lasgalen, for the elf on the pyre had not only been a prince among them but also a brave warrior whose bow and sword had protected many and had fought for the lives of all the free peoples of Middle Earth. The weapons that had slain so many fell beasts now lay at their master's side, silent as he was.

When the last elf had paid his respects the lament died, and with deft movements the Elvenking and his remaining son lifted the torches beside them and set the pyre ablaze. The flame flared on the wood and as it began to consume the pyre the elves started a different song. This song was not a lament for death, but rather a joyful celebration of the warrior-prince's life, a tapestry woven of triumphs and hardships. The words cemented the prince's place in history as a great leader who would be lovingly and eternally remembered by all elves.

The flames on the pyre were just brushing the body when the elves, overcome by the joy of life, broke free of their grief and began to gracefully dance. Their feet weightlessly flew and long hair twirled faster as the song progressed, and almost all of the mortals watched the celebration with wide awestruck eyes.

The Queen of Gondor stared not in wonder but in longing, and finally she brushed back her veil and let it fall. Uncovered, her face shimmered with elven light, and when she joined the dance her dark hair flowed back to reveal her pointed ears. Her voice was strong and clear as she sang of the warrior-prince who had been as a younger brother to her. The fire gilded her face with gold tones as she swayed and swirled, and many of the elves paused to appreciate her beauty before they resumed the song. The flamed stretched ever higher toward the moon and threw out sparks that wheeled off into the sky as the night wore on and Tinúviel danced again.