You recline, languid, upon your throne, your golden tresses cascading in a waterfall, stray strands rippled by the unseen breeze. Your Seeing eyes glance about with tangible non-chalance and vainglorious disdain.
So this is how it is.
You hold your hand aloft before you and smile. The indifferent cold of the metal, the mere shell of something more potent, more sinister, feels good upon your silken skin. The One is absolute, and bright Nenya, by its side is muted. You smile and recall your own words to the Halfling.
In the place of a Dark Lord you would have a Queen! Not dark but beautiful and terrible as the Morn! Treacherous as the Seas! Stronger than the foundations of the Earth! All shall love me and despair!
Your smile widens and your Seeing eyes glimmer in the fashion of the One. You have surpassed the test. You will not diminish. You will transcend. Dull Nenya flares a feeble starburst, an attempt to assert its place, which it did - ever beneath the One.
Galadriel no longer.
The salty air uplifts your being as you inhale it deeply. You will miss the brine, as with everything else: the swirling sky, the ghost gales, the sea. What greets your sweeping gaze is a sight which has come to be familiar enough to be comforting. Such is one lesson of solitude: acceptance.
You embrace the calm you have grown accustomed to - the Eye in the center of the churning storm. You realize now that this peace is transient, if not stolen, and that growth will only come when you seek and become it.
Your last stroll all around awakens slumbering memories and new realizations - your thoughts bring you dread, they bring you hope, they bear tidings of newer things. You bask in the gray twilight, the mauve gloaming, the purple midnight, the blue dawn, the salmon morning, the yellow noon, the orange afternoon, the winter fire, the autumn lull, the s - there are more, and they are recalled fonder in the bliss of memory.
You sit upon your throne once more, that otherwise unadorned slab of polished rock. You inhale deeply with your eyes closed. A smile accompanies the raising of your right arm aloft. You spread your fingers ever so subtly and your surround blurs as your isle rises skyward with all haste.
You look around with a profound sense of peace, taking in the shifting darkness of space, and the subtle brilliance emanating from the many stars. Star, ice, and diamond dust trail behind you, reminding you of the Master Jedi's words.
Artists are comets. They are almost always alone, but they see and create beauty in their solitude. They are almost always alone, but when many of them abound, it is always a wonderful sight.
You shall roam the cosmos at last.
Michael Jackson - Man in the Mirror