Before Estel, she had scarcely given Gondor any thought. What were they to her, the southern Dúnedain who dwindled with every year that passed? What was a kingdom without a king? She had known and loved her foster-brothers, the many heirs of Isildur passing through her home, displaced by the arrogance and obstinancy of their southern kindred; but otherwise she did not think of them. And now, after all that had happened, she was to be one of them.
She hardly knew what to expect. She had prepared herself for the constant grating of the Common Speech, for enormous groups of people all around, for everyday the death of someone's pet or grandfather or baby, but these were only guesses, because she could not know. The Lord Boromir she had hardly known, but he was her only idea of what these people would be like, proud and heedless, with only a bare hint of the blood of Númenor in them. She knew of the White City, for Estel had spoken of it, and she was determined that she would learn to love it as he did; although how she, who had spent her life in Caras Galadhon and Imladris, could put down roots in a cold white city, she did not know for certain. But Estel would be there, and they would be together, and that was more than she had ever dared expect.
There, on the uppermost tower, she could see the banner she had wrought, silver on sable; and below it a white flag snapped in the breeze. It was enormous, Minas Tirith, the city carved out of the mountainside, each layer as invulnerable as the one before; but with high slender towers soaring above the highest wall. The sun slanted down, reflecting off the white walls and into her eyes, and she shielded them, looking steadily at the place that was to be her home.
It was beautiful. Her people, her former people, they had lived in Gondolin and Nargothrond, and once even in a Minas Tirith, but she had not thought it would be beautiful, that a city built as a fortress could be, nor that she would be drawn to it. Minas Tirith, the Tower of Guard, was gone as if it had never been; Minas Anor, Tower of the Sun, stood proudly before her, which would be her home. Arwen drew a deep breath;—she felt, she knew, she was crossing a threshold, into another life, nothing would ever be the same.
And from the city, a small company of men rode towards them. She looked at their banner — a white swan-ship on a blue field — and rather confusedly thought of Alqualondë. No; these were edain, Dúnedain of Gondor, tall proud men come to escort them into the city. The company of edhil halted — the edain rode up — and the leader dismounted, removing his helmet. She started, for there was something subtly different about him; somehow he was unlike the other mortals she had known, more like her brothers, tall and fair with brilliant grey eyes.
Here was one with elven blood in his veins.
"Greetings, my lords and ladies," the adanedhel said, in easy, lightly-accented Sindarin. "I am Imrahil, son of Adrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth."
Amroth. Nimrodel. The people of Nimrodel. She looked at the other knights, but although there was a nobility in them unlike other men, it was not of the Eldar but of Númenor. It must have been Nimrodel's people, they must have intermarried into this single line, passing down the inheritance of both kindreds through the long generations; but she had never heard of what happened, no-one knew.
The prince explained that he and his knights had been sent to escort the Lady Arwen and her company through the city. As they passed through the gates, she easily heard the people calling one to another, it is the Lady of the Elves, come see the Elves, the Elves have come to Minas Tirith, this is something you will tell your grandchildren of — Híril i Edhil, she heard over and over again, scarcely a word of the Common Speech until they approached the centre, the Tower of Ecthelion rearing high above the courtyard. Somehow she had forgotten that these southerners were Dúnedain as well, not only the proud lords with the blood of Anárion in their veins, but the butchers, shopkeepers, harpers, all these people gathered on the streets and cheering in loud and voluble Sindarin, countless pairs of clear grey eyes fixed on her face.
At that moment, however, she could not care greatly about them; it was only one pair she saw, as her hand was laid in his.