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When Aragorn dies, Arwen retires to Lorien. Their child is grown and she will visit, but Minas Tirith no longer holds the same alure that it once did. The woods are much as she remembers them - soaring in their height, all Golden and beautiful. But she is keenly aware of the absence of the Ring of power that for so long kept the woods unchanging. Even more strongly does she feel the absence of her kin. What was once a courtyard that always held one elf or another now sits empty.
She has her pick of chambers, from the most grand to the humble. But she chooses her old bed to sleep in out of a since of familiarity. This room she knows, and while some of the memories it brings back are sad, most are peaceful.
It is three days into her stay that she realizes she is not alone. Although her hair has begun to grey at the temples, and the wrinkles around her eyes stand as testimony to her mortality, her hearing and sight is as sharp as the day she was born.
That morning, Arwen is walking the paths, visiting memories as they come to her, smiling at the fond ones, acknowledging the sad. Ahead of her, a shadow catches her eye, and it takes a moment to realise that it is in fact a person. The figure, seeming to realise they have been spotted, darts around a tree, their long dark hair trailing after them. Surprised, the ageing queen gives chase. But no matter how fast she moves, the person stays one step ahead of her.
Weeks pass, and Arwen does not encounter her shadow figure again. Untill one day she rounds the corner leading to the edge of the stream and there they are. Dark against the golden woods, the elf holds themselves with an air of regality. When they turn around, their face is not one Arwen recognises from her life. But the star on his chest, black against the sliver of his robes, is one that any elf would know.
“Like Luthien returned.” The elf before her hums as he looks at Arwen, before smiling.
“But you have your mothers eyes.”
Her eyebrows scrunch, trying to fit a name to the elf.
“Won’t you join me my Lady?”
Throughout her long life many of her kin had warned her of the horrible acts done by those who wore the star of Fëanor on their breast. Those same elves would surly warn her against sitting at the edge of a river with one. But well does she remember the stories told to her by her father: Of warriors bound to their word, loving and feirce, who taught two boys to fight and sing, taught them the arts of healing and of state craft. Who loved them, and were loved in return, dispite the horrors they had done.
So she sits and waits. She has lived this long, what difference will a hand full of minutes make?
It is an hour before the elf beside her talks.
“Do you know who I am?”
“No.”
“But you have your suspicions?”
Arwen inclines her head.
“The star of Fëanor is not lightly worn by any of the first born.” The elf laughs, it is a musical thing that makes the water ripple and the leaves on the ground dance.
“Yet you still sit with me.”
“My grandfather wore the star,”
“Your grandfather is Sinderian.”
“Not on the side of my father.”
The silver clad elf falls silent again, lost in thought, and while Arwen does not learn the name of her companion, she thinks she could make an educated guess.
After that day, they meet in different places around Lorien. One day he joins her for a meal, and from then on it becomes a ritual.
Some months later the two have finished supper, and Arwen begins to hum a song. The notes slip past her lips without any form of words, just the melody that her father would sing to her. Beside her, her companion picks up the tune:
“No i elena, i thár na- tond.
Bo i orod plual ered ennas na- híth.
Bo i gaer na- a gir,
a ha tul- mui emel na nin.
Hen fin na- dúr, hen mind na- galad.
He na- dínen in i dú.
Im darth- an manui ennin,
na govannon- mui emel no gilgalad.”
The world around them is still, as if it is holding it’s breath to better hear the song. His voice is beautiful, and now Arwen knows that the stories about it do not do it justice.
“Father always said you could make the world pause with only your voice,”
The Elf beside her pauses, considering his next words.
“Your father loved that song,” He looks over at her. “They both did.”
Arwen scoots closer to the elf.
“Would you sing another one Grandfather?”
Maglor smiles down at her, brown eyes shining with what look to be tears.
“Of course little star,”
Years pass and the splendor of Lorien fades, Arwens hair changes from ebony to white. It is during a cold winter that she passes into the hands of Mandos.
That night a lament is sung to the dying forest by a dark haired elf. The last of his kind who weeps for his family, and the world stops to listen.
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Under the stars, the grass is tall.
On the mountain there is fog.
On the sea is a ship,
and it bring my heart to me.
Her hair is dark, her mind is light.
She is silent in the night.
I will wait for many years,
to meet my heart under starlight.