Rating: G …apart from grim melancholia!
Disclaimer: All is Tolkien’s.
My granddame sang of leaves of gold, but she’d Spring, new growth, unfurling green. Mother’s Summer bounty was cut short, pain too terrible for her to hold fea to body - and she left. Adar waited until after the Fall; when he’d fulfilled those ancient promises made in secret.
We met as the golden Dreamflower faded, but still, it had power to enspell us in destiny. With his death, destiny is broken. I behold my long, slow, Winter. Our children don’t need a mother who’ll outlive them, a perpetual dowager-queen – my leaves are become black, and my fall is death itself.