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121 Fourth Age

Cerin Amroth, Late Winter
121 Fourth Age


Down and through, under and across, up and over. Fine, neat stitches marching an orderly row.

Like suturing the cheek of the Dúnedain maiden who tried to quell her toddler brother's exuberant assault on imagined Orcs — after he had pilfered a knife from his father's boot.

The long seams closed at last, I bid Elladan come to kiss our Evenstar one final time, before I forever veil her pallid face in the ashen wool... spun, woven, and now sewn anew with hands of love.

For what better shroud to wrap the granddaughter of Galadriel than her grey cloak of Lórien?


Push straight down, lever upwards, toss aside. The shadow of Amroth's mallorn, muted by lowering clouds, creeps past while I toil.

When done, Elrohir passes our beloved sister's frail shell down into my aching arms. I lay her out tenderly, and — with a last, regretful caress — grasp his outstretched hand to climb out.

We replace the soil rapidly and array cut turves on top, hoping the impending rain will revive the wilted clumps of pale moon-bells — her favorites! — and bright sun-stars adorning her green grave.

For three full days do we stand vigil, shoulders touching, under the weeping Lórien sky.


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