She lay on a bed in her Elven-home of Rivendell, dimly aware of her surroundings. Crimson and black gown was spread about her slender form, a cascade of black hair pillowing her head. Brilliant blue eyes, eyes that held the wisdom and grace of her people, slid open and shut at random intervals. And Arwen Undómiel dreamed.
Visions flashed through her mind's eye, pictures she had seen before in her waking hours. Her son's face was firmly etched upon her mind, the otherworldly gaze that said he was half-Elven. It chilled her, in a way, to see such a look on a young boy's face. The chill entered her body and took hold, and the Elf-maiden felt her immortality slipping with it.
Elrond sat at his daughter's side, one of her cold hands held in his. It grieved him to see his beloved daughter like this, and not for the first time did he wish she had sailed from the Havens with the rest of their kin. In his heart however, he knew that was impossible. No matter what dark visions the Lord of Rivendell had seen, no matter what omens and portents troubled his mind, somewhere, he knew there was a glimmer of hope.
Arwen had seen it. Why was he so blind?
Elven eyes opened, and the Elf-maiden stared at her father with sorrow in her eyes. "Ada . . ."
"Hush." Slowly, Elrond rose. He knew what he had to do, and he could trust no one else to do it. Andúril must be delivered, else all was lost. Lightly, he smoothed back a curl of his daughter's hair, which was so like his own. "Rest now, Arwen. There is something that I must do."
Turning, he went to prepare for his journey. For Arwen, whom he loved.