XI

THE WORLD TURNED, and Time rolled on.

The world turned, and Father asked me, again, to come back to Imladris. To "come home."

The world turned, and I agreed to visit.


I actually visited multiple times, once every forty years or so, staying for about a decade before retreating again to the stillness and solitude of Lothlórien. I rarely lingered. I loved Rivendell—its woods will always speak of shelter and safety to me—but it was not my home; and more importantly, however much Father tried and wished, I no longer exactly fit. The trauma of Mother's passage had not just affected our family alone. I think her sorrow and our subsequent difficulties existed as a defining event in Imladris's timeline around which everything swung: there were distinct before and after ways of life, and I was not a part of the after. Whenever at Imladris, I visited with childhood friends and we made merry for a time, but there was a limit to our shared understandings. And when we made our farewells, there was always an element of relief along with the sadness.

And I made new friends to replace the old, albeit slowly, and though they numbered fewer and not as close, there was still genuine affection to be had in Lothlórien; and if the affection was tempered with a languidness of curiosity and even concern as to my deepest fears and desires, well, that was how I liked it. I had never been that honest with someone even before 2509, and now I was more inclined to like the others for their disinterest rather than resent it.

Locked in time as it was, Lothlórien had an odd quality about it, as though it existed in a single moment only, but an eternal moment. I did not much have to look to the future because the future would never be much different than yesterday. I could exist in the present with comfort, and so I did. I was aware of time's passage mostly in relation to the doings in the outside world that I learned of from my father and brothers' letters.

Father and I corresponded regularly, though rather haltingly at first, and slowly but surely we built a relationship much more lasting than those of before and after Mother's passing. It was not like the strange equality that had been forced upon us directly after Mother left, when we were trying so desperately to pick up the pieces of our lives and then carry on as though we were still whole. This was something different: more complex and more fulfilling. He would often ask me advice (on a wide range of affairs) and it was not a training exercise like when I was young nor him using me as a sounding board for his own ideas like after, but rather it was the manner of one asking a younger friend he respected and cherished for her counsel and a fresh perspective.

At first I did not know what to make of it. Somehow it had been easier to accept our earlier friendship because Mother had left and everything then was strange and wrong, so I barely was affected by the strangeness of being treated as a peer by my father, no less. Now the trauma of conversing amiably with my own parent, and the difficulty in categorizing our relationship, hit me full force, and Grandmother's soft laughter at my shock was less than helpful. But gradually, as I adjusted, I found that this was far better. He did not treat me as an equal like before, yet this was as it should be, for I was not his equal in either wisdom or experience. No, we were not equals, but we were friends; and if we wanted to rely on each other for advice once in a while, who was I to say no?

So I was friend to my father, and ally (and sometimes accomplice) to my brothers; I was apparently something of a blessing to the Dúnedain due to the many blankets and cloaks and whatever else could be sewn that I produced slowly but surely and then sent to those distant kinsmen. In Lothlórien I technically held the ranking of a princess, being the granddaughter of the Lady and her Lord, but to my friends and acquaintances I was but a talented seamstress and weaver as well as a good companion.

And as the years passed, I settled and found true contentment in my life. I was not a heroine; I was not some Lúthien stepping out of the songs of old to bring peace to the land; my closest connection to those fighting the forces of darkness was at the most making a few of the heroes' cloaks and no more. I was Arwen. I knew who Undómiel was, and I was certain she was not and never would be Tinúviel.


In 2951 I made another visit to Imladris. It had been rather longer than usual since I had last seen Father; the mountains were growing ever less safe, and the evils of the world were reawakening… At least thus I know retrospectively.

But it could be sensed even when living as isolated as I did. There were little things, small signs that threatened the easy balance of my life: the growing tension of watchmen and border guards who had tended their posts implacably for centuries if not millennia; Grandmother's Councils lasting longer and longer; she herself coming from her Mirror with strain in her eyes and her hands. Added to my knowledge of outside happenings garnered from my family's missives, it was enough to make me wonder and worry.

The last two decades in particular had been most curious for another reason. There was a note of caution and a lack of detail in Father's letters particularly that caught my eye, and my brothers had been straight-out secretive. For in 2933, we had received news of a most terrible kind: Arathorn Chieftain of the Dúnedain was slain with no heir, and it was feared that Elendil's line would finally fade for good.

But there had been an heir, I knew. How he died, or whither he had disappeared, it was not known; and of course it was a fact completely unrelated that my brothers sometimes wrote most circumspectly of an orphaned human child called Estel who had been entrusted to the care of the Last Homely House. It was also completely unrelated that around the same time Father became rather more careful with his visitors… Indicators such as these were well-hidden, easily attributed to other factors, and only noticed with long and close familiarity like what I had; it took me some time, but I eventually placed it together. It took me even longer to figure out whether I wished to let my family know what I knew, and by then Father unwittingly made such deliberation unnecessary by officially inviting me to stay.

Thus in 2951 I rather looked forward to meeting this Man-child on whose unwitting shoulders rested the hopes of so many.


As always happened after long years at Grandmothers', the vibrancy of Imladris's seasons was nearly overwhelming. It was early spring: the trees were budding, the grass showed a pale green with small patches of unmelted snow here and there, and everywhere the first flowers of spring blossomed. True, the other lands north of Lothlórien showed signs of the season as well, but nowhere could compete with the pure vibrancy and verdant growths of Rivendell. (So it seemed to me then, when I was younger—not much younger than I am now, if one measures in years; but I was young in terms of living though not existing.)

The boy was not there when I arrived. I did not know this directly upon arrival, of course; it took some weeks, in our unhurried Elven way, for Father to confirm my original suspicions. Estel, so the boy was called, was on an expedition to the Wilds with my brothers, and none were expected back for some time.

But soon enough I met the mother of young Hope herself.

Ah, Gilraen: my mother-in-law, now. I doubt she ever truly saw me as her daughter. I made it rather difficult for her, it is true. Perhaps if they had been born some centuries earlier, when I had not recovered from the loss of my own mother and still could have needed another—no. I will not indulge in such ramblings. That leads to dangerous thoughts too close to regrets, and I would not want Estel, if he sees me now, if he is watching or listening as some Men believe, to misunderstand. I have my regrets, of course, but no more than other mortals, really far fewer than most. And where my husband is concerned, I have none.

Where was I? Yes. My future (at the time) mother-in-law.


I had the (mis)fortune of becoming acquainted with Gilraen long before she became my prospective mother-in-law. As it happened, we were first formally made known to each other within a few weeks of my arrival in Imladris. (We had been introduced, once before, in easy company, but she had slipped away almost before my companion had finished talking.) It was at a dinner banquet, which, given the circumstances, made for unfortunate first impressions.

Father was entertaining a rare combination of visitors, a group from the Havens and a contingent from Thranduil's Court. Thus it was a true banquet as befit any king's hall, and as the daughter of the host, I was dressed like the princess that I was. I was always attractive, but this—it set back even some of my admirers by making me seem something powerful, beautiful in a way I had not been before, in which beauty could be wielded, not just admired. I was unused to admirers after my long seclusion in Lothlórien, and the combined effect made me slightly giddy.

And it was in this state that Gilraen saw me when we first properly met.

It was near the end of the feast. Father introduced us—"Gilraen," warmly, "I do not know if you have yet met my daughter, Arwen, but lately returned from her grandmother's…"

I ignored Father's twisting of the truth and curtsied, deeply, not just to her but in honor of the blood of her ancestors that ran so thick in her veins. I could see echoes of past acquaintances in her face, in her hair, in the very way she held herself that I fancied was like that of a past friend. "A pleasure to meet you, Madam. I have not met a Dúnadan in quite some time, but all the women with whom I have been acquainted were some of the best people I have ever known, and great friends to me." Unspoken but heavily implied was my fervent hope that we, too, could be friends, or at the very least friendly acquaintances.

She flushed with surprised pleasure and curtsied back. "Just Gilraen, my lady. I do not think I am quite worthy of such a title as Madam. I am but a lone woman and mortal."

"I, too, am but a woman," I returned brightly, "and as such, we women ought to stick together. 'Madam' is merely a token of that respect."

She offered a tremulous smile that radiated equal shares of amusement and trepidation. "I must take this opportunity to thank you, Lady Arwen. I owe you much, although you probably do not realize it."

It took me a moment to realize what she might be referencing. "The blanket and clothes packages, do you mean?" She nodded. "You are welcome. It is the least I can do. And after all, we are kin, however remote."

Gilraen smiled a bit more tightly than before. "I grew up under one of your quilts, my lady. It might not have seemed much to you, but it made a world of difference to my family." My stomach lurched at the conflicted wave of grateful resentment that poured off her. Clearly it had cost her greatly to admit such a thing.

"Then it did what I hoped," I admitted candidly. "I only wish I could do more."

"Your works do much good already, far more than anything I have done," she returned fiercely, her tone slightly scolding, as though I ought to take more pride in my gifts. "I know not what sort of power you put into the cloth, but somehow something of your weave holds more warmth and lasts longer than anything of mortal make, even that of the most skilled of our weavers."

Her tone and words were full of praise and gratitude. I wished that this conversation had happened at the start of the banquet rather than towards the end; the strength of her unvoiced resentment towards me was beginning to affect the balance of my stomach.

"I have some small Power, and I have done my best on multiple occasions to instill a small portion of it into each my works to increase their utility." Even after all this time, the memory of those tunics still immediately flashed into my mind, but it was not particularly troublesome. I had long since learnt to accept it and move on per Borineth's advice.

Her descendant's eyes flashed but remained inscrutable. "It is indeed most generous of such a high lady as yourself to give up a small part of your energies on such remote kin as ourselves."

It was momentarily disconcerting to have my innocent words thrown back in my face thus, but it would have taken far harsher phrases to make me start. After all, I had not yet forgotten some of Father's more memorable Councils. And the distant thought of Maedeth gave me more than enough warmth to smile at Gilraen just as fondly as before. "I consider it an honor and a duty to serve your people, Madam Gilraen, in whatever capacity I can, due to our kinship and more personally to everything I gained from your ancestresses. Their kindnesses are a debt I can never repay."

I focused on my wineglass to settle my stomach and forestall any more maudlin remembrances. There was no need to glance at Gilraen's face; her feelings continued to radiate forth strongly.

Finally she said in a far more constrained tone, "Indeed we must all do our duty, however painful or thankless. Nevertheless I thank you, Lady Arwen, and drink to you in the name of our ancestor Tar-Minyatur and shared past."

And as she raised her wine in a small toast, the only thought that went through my mind was, Elros? What has he to do with anything?