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She had had the dream many, many times—always the sound of waves beating the shore, calling her to a home she would never see again.
In the dream she was on a boat, sailing West. The ship slipped onto the Straight Road, and the bent world fell away from her like a waterfall. Sailing grew easier, then, as the current took over and bore her westward.
But overhead, the sky lowered, and ahead she saw, barring the way, a dark curtain of rain brightened only by flashes of lightning. The ship sailed into the curtain—
—and always, every time, she awoke.
But not this time.
This time, as she slipped into an easy slumber and found herself once more on the path of dreams, wearied from loss and grief and joy, she found herself on the ship again. Again the curtain of rain barred her path, and once more she resigned herself to her exile.
But she did not wake, and the curtain lightened, until it was no more than a mist. The ship sailed into the mist—
—and she could feel it on her face, the way it tasted of home, and it mingled with the tears she did not know she was setting.
The curtain parted, and she saw beyond…
…and heard, in the tongue of her longfathers, “Come home, child.”
And Galadriel woke.
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