Summary : The Age is over. The Darkness has gone. The last ship of the Wises has left the Grey Havens. But who henceforth will roam the banks of Nimrodel ? The Woods of Gold will be golden no more, and Lorien the Fair has fallen to Winter …

Disclaimer : I own nothing.

Author's note : Haldir speaking. I have to say I like the ending much better than the beginning.

Flower of Dreams

By Le Chat Noir

Nothing remains … nothing. Her light has flickered in front of a light stronger. Flickered and died. Died and haunting our eyes, haunting our dreams, haunting our songs. Stillness … stillness and silence. No more wooden flute resounding in the air, pale melodies playing with the wind, clear notes rising to the stars. No more skilful fingers lingering on the cords of carved lute or soft harmonies  between the interlaced branches of the golden trees.

Stillness and silence.

Silence.

Seldom, mere singing, lone and silver voices of the broken hearts, echoes of past melodies, lays of yore, complaints of today and tomorrow. Seldom, but sometimes, not to forget that in our grief, life subsists, and that in our lives grief dwells.

The white niphredil cannot wither then.

Remember the days when light was always and everything and everywhere ? When beauty was all that the eye could meet, and laughter all that the ear could hear. And now the Sun has come and her glory gone.

We are few who remain faithful to the memory of a lost pride, a lost dream, a lost candle in the Darkness. Now extinguished, blown out, cut, down to the wick. As I roam her forgotten forests, walk her dying land, singing the complaints of another Age, Winter little by little veils her splendour pure. The Elessar has gone, and so has Nenya. The power of the Last House of the Eldalië has left these woods.

The woods of Lorien.

Lorien … who two Ages by held her star against the Shadow, stood its barrier up against the Unvanquished Night, has at last fallen to the dawn of the Age of Sunlight. For today, in Laurelindorenan, if I tread on carpets of gold and lean on columns of silver, I have but little shelter left to call roof above my head and no Sun other then that of the Men …

Till the day when Time will go by, Time and its great wind of forgetfulness, and'll sweep off their branches the foliage of our millenary mallornes till then untouched.

And that day, standing in the centre of the whirl of golden leaves, I'll weep, weep in mourning of the Lothlorien I loved.

But there is no mallornes west of Bellagaer.