A one-shot written as a birthday present.
For the third night in a row, Arwen woke well before the break of dawn. And just like those past three nights, she rose from her bed, knowing sleep would elude her for the rest of the night.
She dressed efficiently, choosing a plain robe unburdened by the elaborate designs that adorned most of her garments. Tonight was not a night for merriment.
Forsaking the warmth of her chambers for the bitter winter night, she padded silently out into the courtyard of Imladris, and then further, out to the exit that gazed upon the might of Caradhras in the far distance. The mountain that wished ill upon first her mother, and then the Fellowship.
Somewhere beyond those peaks slept Aragorn, under the very stars she now stood beneath.
Was he well?
Elves were not as susceptible to the cold as mortals were, but Arwen felt herself shudder involuntarily.
If the past twenty-seven hundred years had taught her one thing, it was that her Gift took on a different form than the men in her family. Whilst they might be able to see visions of a possible future, hers manifested as prophetic dreams that came as she slept, but always slipping through her fingers when she awoke, leaving behind only a vague sense of what could have been.
She did not know what yet awaited Aragorn on his journey, but there was one thing she was sure of as the blood in her veins.
Her betrothed would be in grave danger, and soon.
Not right now, perhaps not even today nor tomorrow, but should he continue on his current course Aragorn would soon be facing certain death.
Such was the curse of the Gifted Eldar, forever doomed to watch as their loved ones fell into darkness.
Her brothers had seen similar visions, she was sure, though they did not enlighten her of the contents, perhaps in a foolish hope to spare their younger sister the little they could. But Elladan and Elrohir had left Imladris on horseback the previous day, and had yet to return.
Three nights of being driven from her bed to seek solace in the cold stars.
No more.
She was Arwen Undómiel, the daughter of Elrond and the grand-daughter of the Lady Alatáriel. She would not watch on helplessly whilst the man she loved was in mortal peril.
For the first time in three nights, Arwen returned to her chambers before the sun rose.
The book was exactly where it had been the last time she had seen it, abandoned on a remote bookshelf and forgotten by almost all who had cause to visit the library. After all, it was rare that one had occasion to pick up a dusty, dry tome concerning the Realms in Exile.
Arwen cracked the book open carefully, leafing through brittle pages long since turned yellow with time. And there, right in the middle, was a full-page spread of the very image she had been looking for. Seven stars atop the White Tree, crowned by a winged helm.
She knew what she must do, then.
First, black cloth spun only under the light of Eärendil, woven in the middle with a single strand of her ebony hair. Next, a needle threaded with filaments of pure mithril. Finally, gems and gold, as befitting the standard of a King.
There were more Men in her home now, thirty grey-clad Dúnedain led by Aragorn's kinsman Halbarad. None approached her as she sat in the courtyard night after bleak night, a basket of gold and precious gems at her feet, the needle dancing expertly in her hand.
The moon first waxed, and then waned, and then it was time.
Arwen pressed her lips to the star upon the embroidered crown, right where the real article would sit over Aragorn's forehead. "May the Light of the Evenstar guide you," she whispered.
Then the finished standard was rolled up, wrapped in oiled paper and tied securely with twine. Already mounted, her brother took it from her with a sombre nod. "This will find its way to him," he promised.
A thousand leagues away, Aragorn unrolled the mysterious object.
For the first time in a thousand years, mortal eyes beheld the Livery of Elendil, and Arwen's heart was at peace.