They may never return. I know that, as I watch the nine walkers begin their quest. The knowledge tears at me, and yet, a tiny treacherous voice inside me whispers, "What does it matter to you? The man will die, and you cannot prevent it. What does a century or two mean next to eternity?" I shake it off, and continue watching as they set out.
Father said "Nine walkers, to be set against the nine riders." No mention is made of the other foes, of Saruman, or of the orcs, or even Sauron. It seems a desperate task against impossible odds, yet I still have hope, as do all of us. Imladris still rings with life, despite the peril. There is still hunting, and singing. I remember a time long ago when it was always that way and I believed that was the way that it would always be. Then the years passed in a flurry of nights and days and I knew that I was wrong. Now our merriness is tinged with sorrow, for even if this war is won we are leaving Middle-earth. Before long we will be naught but memory.
It never seemed quite right to me. We had our time once, and were great. But then as the other races became more powerful, we diminished. And then the call of the sea awoke in our veins and we were only too happy to answer, because our era had passed. Are we discarding this land simply because it has nothing left to offer us?
How could man ever have taken our place? They each have under a century to learn grace and wisdom and acquire knowledge and skill. We have forever. Is that fair? Yet sometimes I wonder if they have the better life. They burst into being and, as much of a struggle as their existences may be they burn within so fiercely and brightly that I half want to watch in fascination, half want to hide my eyes. Eventually their light wavers, weakens and dies, but it is forever etched into the minds of their children, who are a legacy in themselves. By comparison our own lives are so unchanging that they have begun to feel monotonous to me. I fear that while the ways of men will alter, our ways will remain the same for so long that they will become stagnant and joyless. Are we to become mere watchers to this never ending dance as men shift and change, passing their flame from generation to generation? And yet, I forget. We will not be there. This is why we must leave.
Even now I say we, though I know that I will not be departing with them. I love Estel, mortal though he is. I love him utterly, body and soul. Our bond feels unique, and sometimes it seems impossible. How was it that we came to know each other so intimately? Our feelings grew over time, but for that to happen there must have been a beginning, a single moment when I looked at the man standing before me and saw him as someone I could love. Try as I might, I cannot recall it. Perhaps that was the way it was all along.
Maybe it is not so astonishing. And we can be together. Countless generations ago through Aragorn's line, but only three by mine, there was a union between an elf and a man, which gives me the right to choose my fate, though now I almost wish that the decision were taken out of my hands.
Ah, why pretend that I still have a choice, it has long been decided. I don't see how it could be any different without breaking us both. But it becomes harder to stay in my father's house while carrying my guilt. It is now common knowledge that when I leave the last homely house it will not be into the patient embrace of my kin. It will be into the arms of Aragorn, son of Arathorn. And though he is a king among men he is still unworthy in the eyes of my people. Father does not accuse me of loving a man more than I love him, more than I love mother. He does not rebuke me for my decision. He is merely sad and distant, and that increases the pain tenfold.
Time passes, and I retire to my room to watch the stars come out. Arwen Undómiel…I feel that that name is no longer fitting, for the stars are eternal, unchanging. And I am not. I have no illusions about the future. If Aragorn lives it will only mean that we can share a brief life together, a perfect moment in time. And then he will die, and I will be lost. And whether he dies now or later I know that whatever life I could pull together would be meaningless and filled with sorrow. My father will leave; perhaps with my brothers, and in Valinor, reunited with my mother, they will mourn me as if I were already dead. The thought angers me for a moment, but only for a moment. Perhaps they would be right to grieve.
I remain still, lost in thought as the moon completes its circuit of the sky and day dawns. Eventually I shake off my musings and prepare for a day without my love, a day of anxiety and waiting. And it is to be the first of many.
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I really had a hard time deciding whether to post this, because it was written sort of off the bat type thing. I mean that I didn't have a plan or purpose. But I'm gonna have to throw something out there sooner or later, so here it is. You probably already know that I'm a criticism glutton, so please do humor me and tell me what you like/don't like/want to poke me in the eye for.
Oh, a final note. I know that stars have a "lifespan", but I guessed that Arwen didn't. Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong.