The sun was setting. Its golden gleam spread all across the expanse of the sea, even up to the fringes of sand, staining them a dull, deep scarlet. All was silent, empty, except for one small figure crouched in a cleft of the rocky cliffs that towered over the sandy shore. It was a small child, perhaps eight years old, and she was lost, but not frightened. She often clambered down the rocks, to the sea, but on this day, she remained hidden. She had seen someone on the shore, and she chose rather to watch and wait, than to tumble down and meet them.

Just as she was beginning to feel cramped, and her small legs were tiring of crouching down on the pitted rock, a tall figure emerged from a grove of trees to the left of the cliff. A soft glow of light seemed to be all about the unknown person, but the light was not from the reflected rays of the sun: the child thought the light and the figure were as one and she was glad to be hidden. As the figure came closer, the child saw it was a man, pulling a light sailing craft, made only to fit a single person.

The man was tall, taller than her father, the child thought. And he had long, dark hair which fell smoothly some way below his shoulders. Even as she watched, he turned around and looked around him. His gaze rested on the cliff, within whose folds she was hidden, and she crouched down to avoid it. She had been told not to speak to strangers. She hoped he hadn't seen her, but somehow felt, as he turned away, that he had. But she would not leave to find her way home. Not yet.

The man left his boat near the shore, and returned to the grove. The child grew a little bolder, and stood up to look at it as best she could from her vantage point. It looked nothing like the sailing boats of the fishermen who lived in the village nearby. It was made of a strange silver-grey wood, and was narrower than a fishing boat, but had a taller mast. The sail was furled, and tied to it with lengths of rope.

As the shadow of the man swung once more into the corner of her eye, she crouched down, only to give herself away with a small gasp. He was dressed differently now – he wore a dark silver-grey cloak, clasped around his throat with a silver brooch. His clothes were utterly unlike any she had seen the people of her world wearing, all made of a dark green material and close fitted. The man did not seem to have noticed the noise at all. He had carried a small package out from the grove, and he now stowed this in the boat.

Finally, he stood up and slowly looked out towards the cliffs, and the land beyond.

His face was fairer than any she had yet seen: his skin was pale, unlike that of the sun-browned people of her village, and unmarked by age. His eyes were grey, and if she could have found the words to describe it, she would have said they looked old; full of an ancient memory and a terrible sadness. She realised with a shock that his ears were not rounded like hers, rather, they rose up to a perfect point against his long, dark hair. She forgot about hiding and stood up. Something beyond her comprehension beckoned, and told her she had nothing to fear from the man. He stood there before her, tall, strong and immensely beautiful and for a moment she looked at him and felt some of his sadness – or perhaps it was her own, but she could not tell.

At last, he smiled. It was a smile of pity mingled with ineffable sorrow, emerging from the depths of a mind entirely unlike anything she had ever known, or would ever know. It was a smile of compassion, mingled with envy, for this small child before him could walk unhindered in a land he was on the brink of leaving forever. She could do nothing but look, transfixed by his gaze. The wind suddenly gusted forward, the trees in the grove swayed, and even as she felt its cold touch, she saw his cloak billow out about him. She could not see his lips move, or hear his murmured blessing in a language she would not understand.

He turned his gaze away, and she felt the chill of the wind more keenly. He pushed the boat to the edge of the shore, until the current took it, and then jumped lightly into it. As the wind grew stronger, she watched him unfurl the sail. It blew out, and she saw that it bore a magnificent image of a tree, a tree whose like she had never seen and never would see in the world she knew: its trunk was of a perfect, glimmering silver and its leaves were golden, catching the last rays of the dying sun even as it disappeared over the horizon.

He turned his gaze one last time towards the cliff, and suddenly, impelled by some inner force, she raised her small hand in a gesture of farewell. She saw him raise an arm, gracefully, and felt his piercing gaze touch her one last time, before he turned away and the boat slowly faded out of her sight. As she lowered her arm, she felt inside her a hollow feeling, of having seen something, someone whom she would never see again as long as she lived.

She began to cry. She did not understand what had just happened, but the inexplicable sorrow of the man's departure, the growing cold, and the darkness of the sky as night suddenly descended were too much for her and she began quickly clambering back up, wanting only to run home to her mother.

She could not know that she had seen the last Elf left on the shores of what was once called Middle-Earth; the last living remnant of the beauty and wisdom of ages long past, forced by the changing of the world to leave, with nothing but the hope of finding his long home – if the true path could still be found across the Sundering Seas to Valinor.

emDisclaimer: This is my awkward tribute to that literary genius, J.R.R Tolkien, and his magnificent imagination. /em