Her hand was clenched, tightly gripping the small object within a sweaty grasp. Her eyes were closed. Water vapor sprayed her face as the waters from the falls thundered in her ears. She still held onto the object in her hand for dear life.
She opened her eyes, jet black hair wet and in her face. She looked down. Standing on the edge of a cliff, she shivered. Her black, red laced clothes were soaked. Her scarf was drenched. Her torn up dress skirt, ripped to be drape above the knees, was darkened by the water's foam. Behind her, Lindon's vast wilderness spanned. Ossiriand. Ossiriand was gone, and now Lindon was fading. Beleriand, which Ossiriand descended from, was forever lost beneath the sea.
Everything was fading.
The times of the elves were coming to a close. Eregion would never be rebuilt. The great kingdom of Lindon was being abandoned for some distant paradise across the sea. She scowled, she was bitter for it. She was angry, she was sad. Why? Why was it all coming to a close now? After two ages in Middle Earth, and one before that in Beleriand, why? Why all this misery? Why all this sorrow?
She had tried so hard. She had fought so many battles, tread so many miles, and built so many things. She had crafted so many fine jewels and pieces. She had laboured so much... Was it all for naught? Was hope lost?
As she stood close to the water, steadily soaking in the spray, she felt the years fall like the waterfall, lost in the roaring river. A tear fell from her eye, slipping down her cheek and lost in the water particles on her face. She looked down to her tightened fist and felt so much despair. She had crafted this object in her hand to stop fading. Yet, it was all for nothing.
She opened her hand. The golden Lesser Ring sat in her palm, useless yet still precious to her. Ellaer. Oh, Ellaer. Why had Ellaer failed her? She was losing control.
She never had control in the first place.
She needed control, but could never gain it.
Even Ring Craft was not saving her from this fate.
She never had control.
