After the passing of the War of the Ring and the destruction of the One Ring, Middle Earth came to know a restless quietude and peace. Though the world had escaped one evil, they now faced another - a prophecy of old that spoke of the recreation of the One Ring.
From whence such power would arise was unknown. But it came to pass in the fourth age when dark whispers of Night Riders came from the East and the unsettling presence of Shadows were felt in the areas surrounding fallen Mordor and the land known as Belariand.
Evil had awoken, and the song that told of the story thousands of years past was once again sung, grieving a certain Elvish Queen more than any other being on Middle Earth.
Queen Aretarië carried a burden of such great weight and emotional pain that many who witnessed her suffering often wondered if a life of mortality would be a better choice. But such words were never spoken, indeed, they were never suggested, for it displeased the fair queen to be reminded of the curse of which she would never be free.
Knowing the evil and fate that she inadvertently cosigned her daughters to brought glistening tears to her eyes and a prayer upon her lips.
"Vala, onthalion." The words drifted off into the glimmer of moonlight and echoed in her mind: Vala, give them strength.
It was then that the voice of one wiser than she came to her in the form of a night's passing breeze. A voice she immediately recognized by the lyrical softness of it - the speech of Galadriel, the Lady of Light. The words drifted by her ear, and were joined by her own voice in it's recitation for it was a verse made familiar to her on the day of the betrayal of a Man with the Forbidden Name, and was scripted on the day of her birth by an Elven prophet.
In the land where the peaceful glade
lie,
A princess was born to the Elvenkind.
Glimmer and shade surrounded her frame,
Special was she who went unnamed.
Til Lady Galadriel gazed upon her face,
And called her Aretarië for her silver trace.
Gifted in ways yet unknown,
Only in time would Her Protection show.
Destined to lead the Avari in their rule,
To the Elvenkind she appeared a fool.
Falling enchanted into a mortal's embrace,
To-day no elf dares utter his name.
Accursed is he who advised her so,
To the Blessed Realm she would never go.
Weeping only desolate tears,
Her daughters alone would challenge their fears.
The sorrow inside corded by might,
She would bid them farewell in their flight.
To the Telerin they would flee,
She cast her Protection and plead the Power that be,
That her children would survive the curse of their past,
And live unlike Mortals in the Undying Lands.
A single tear fell over the curve of her cheek and it drifted to the earth beneath her feet. Where it lay, sprung up a rare flower such as does not exist today but was commonly called Elven Tears of Grief. However, unlike most tears that spring up an odd hue of blue, this particular tear came to be white with blue edges. For that small wonder, Aretarië grasped the sliver of hope that had sparked within her, and moved away from the mist and towards the place of her dwelling.