Arwen
Her fingers worked fervently, the leader passing to and fro over the threads on the loom. She thought of hope, of happiness and joy and let her emotions flow into her work. The black thread danced over the loom.
She thought of Aragorn's accounts of Gondor. She remembered how he described Minas Tirith, a white city built completely of marble against the mountainside, turned golden by the sun's rays. She nearly memorised what he said about Dol Amroth, a grey city with blue roofs and a cloudy sky. The Sea was turbulent and dark on stormy days, and calm and fluid when the sun shone. Her fingers worked on their own, weaving until she alternated between black and silver. An image sprang forth from the loom; the King's standard.
She thought of her beloved, dressed in the garments of a Ranger, with weary feet from wandering. Strange, for a King to wander over the plains when there was a throne that waited for him.
Her fingers were quick and yet the work was flawless. She murmured numbers under her breath as the rows of threads increased. The standard was almost complete.
The thread on her leader ran out.
Arwen sat back, tired. It was done. A single white tree lay across the background of black, and crowned with white stars. She cut off the thread and pulled it free from the loom. She wove in the free ends. She rolled it carefully. All that she needed was to set it on a post and bind it with clasps.
"Fare winds to thee, beloved," she murmured softly, a prayer for her betrothed.
