1. The Lay of Leithian : Culmination
“You look beautiful,” Aragorn said sincerely as he offered her his arm. She smiled and bowed to him gracefully before slipping her hand in his.
The King and Queen of Gondor entered the hall and the crowds began cheering lustily. The celebration marked a decade of peace since the War of the Ring. Aragorn led his queen to her throne before kissing her hand and assuming his seat beside her.
Arwen tried to remain in lively spirits and smile at all the right occasions. But it was extremely hard. The life at this court failed to interest her. Here was a city of stone and gossip. She craved instead the woods and the gurgling of streams. Her eyes caught the gleam of her marriage ring. Duty, she reminded herself as she smiled graciously at yet another delegate from a realm of men.
It frightened her. Everywhere were men. Their fast-paced, ambitious lives seemed a stark contrast to the serenity and patience of dwarves and elves. Her eyes swept the hall for reassurance. She could see Legolas and Elladan dancing a quartet with maids of her court. Elrohir was dancing with Éowyn, his fair features flushed with exertion and happiness as he spun her around. Arwen tried not to notice the long fingers that held Éowyn’s hands. Those fingers had once gripped her in passion.
She drew herself out of her bleakness and smiled at her doting husband. She loved him deeply. It would have to be enough.
“Are you well?” he asked concernedly as he regarded her slightly pensive features.
“As well as I shall ever be when you are by my side.” She turned to face him with a ready smile.
The unexpected compliment lent a charming twinkle to his eyes as he muttered words of pleased gratitude. She shook her head. It should not have been this way at all. But she would do the best by him. She craned her neck to press a warm kiss to his cheek. A truer smile broke on her features as she registered the sharp inhalation of his breath. His hands wrapped around her waist and pulled her to him.
“Shall we dance?”
“It would be my greatest joy,” she replied laughing.
As they joined the rest on the dance floor, she let her thoughts drift away. Only a few of them remained on the dance floor now. Éowyn was dancing with Faramir, her regal features detached and proud. Perhaps she too was deep in her private ponderings. Elladan and Legolas had reformed their quartet with Elrohir and a young Eldarion. Arwen’s smile turned wistful as she watched a patient Elrohir teaching Eldarion to dance.
“He would make a fine father,” Aragorn broke into her thoughts.
Suppressing a flinch, she met his eyes searching for that dark emotion. She sighed relieved. There was no doubt yet. Eru-willing, it would be so always.
“Will he?” she asked off-handedly.
Aragorn nodded before twirling her in tune with the fast paced music. She laughed and gripped his shoulders for support as they waltzed. As they spun carefree on the dance floor, she chanced to meet Elrohir’s eyes. A flash of hastily suppressed turmoil greeted her before he turned to guide Eldarion again.
“Do you like the music?” Aragorn asked her.
“Indeed,” she lied.
She did not like the music. She preferred the slow, haunting melodies of the Noldorin minstrels or the wild lays of the Sindar. She was not moved by these fast-paced, ribald songs of the North.
“Then I shall transfer the minstrel to your personal court, my Queen.”
She smiled and kissed him again. Kissing him was the easiest way to not blurt the truth aloud. She wanted to spare him all that she could; she had come to love him as her son’s father and as her most treasured friend. A caring husband, a doting father, an inventive lover, a righteous King, he was everything that Elros must have been. But nothing he was could fill the hollow left by someone else.
Spring brought with fairs and freedom. Arwen no longer had to endure long hours in the palace listening to the inane gossip of her lady courtiers. Aragorn had decided to spend the season in Ithilien. She rejoiced at the tidings for Ithilien would bring her the companionship of elves. Aragorn would be busy with Faramir and his nobles in the typical pastimes of hunting and long walks in the forest. He never missed a chance to return to his Ranger roots. It was one of those things she respected in him; his humility.
Eldarion had never been to Ithilien. Arwen looked forward to teaching him the ways of a forest.
“Undómiel.” Legolas took the reins of her palfrey and helped her dismount. “Ithilien welcomes you.”
She smiled and beckoned to her son. Eldarion was peering curiously at the spring foliage above them.
“Why can’t we have them in Gondor?” he asked plaintively as one of the warriors passed him an apple plucked afresh from the tree.
Aragorn laughed at his son’s elvish whim before ruffling his hair and moving away to speak with Faramir who had accompanied them. Arwen turned to Eldarion. But he had already followed the warriors into the woods, his eagerness evident in his raised voice.
She shook her head at his enthusiasm and began to follow him. She trusted the warriors. But she did not want her son to indulge in rough-play the very first day of their visit.
“I will fetch him,” Legolas offered as he joined her. “You may wish to rest after your journey.”
“No, I have missed the woods. I would rather spend the nights here under the trees than under a solid roof.”
He laughed, his melodious mirth making her think of happier times when the generation before them had not left yet.
“There you are!” he exclaimed as Éowyn walked towards them with a disheveled Eldarion in tow. “What did he attempt?”
Arwen found it curious that Legolas’s manners had slipped in his addressing of Éowyn. He had not called her by title or name. Perhaps there existed a greater degree of familiarity between them than she had known.
“He tried to climb a tree when my horse scared him,” Éowyn laughed as she nudged a sheepish Eldarion. “Unfortunately, he fell and frightened my mount.”
“Ah!” Legolas smiled at her, the green eyes flecked with good-humour. “Let us teach him to climb then.”
“We should teach him to ride first,” Éowyn retorted.
Arwen felt as if she was intruding on something intangible.
“Undómiel,” Legolas turned to face her, “I promise to keep Eldarion away from harm.”
“Thank you, Laiqua,” she said, “and I will take the opportunity to see more of these woods.”
“The feast is in another four hours,” Éowyn called after her as she left them.
Arwen came across a worried Gimli as she walked deeper into the woods.
“Did you see Legolas, my lady?” he asked, a flicker of unease spreading on his features.
“I did.” She smiled and nodded her head at the direction thence she had come. “He is teaching my son the art of climbing trees.”
“Ah!” Gimli laughed his gruff, honest laugh. “Bless the laddie, he has a way with younglings. I will join him then.”
“That he has indeed!” She bowed to him and watched as he left.
The woods were silent now. It was a hot afternoon and the inhabitants of the forest must have retreated from the sun. Arwen did not mind the silence for it offered her the solace she had been seeking ever since her arrival in Gondor.
To her north, she could hear the tell-tale gurgle of a fast rushing stream. She smiled as she struck that path. An afternoon spent by the water would do her spirits a wonderful revival, she was sure.
The stream proved to be a resilient brook that made its way through mossy rocks. She could see the alluvial soil at the base; the depth was barely two feet. Disappointment rose in her as she dipped her feet in the shallow water. She missed the roar of the Nimrodel and the steady flow of Bruinen.
“Lúthien!” a hoarse voice spoke in the tongue of the Sindar.
Arwen turned irritably to chide her husband, for she knew well that only he would tease her thus. Her eyes widened in surprise when she saw an elf clad in cast-offs. The wild-eyed expression with which he regarded her set her ill at ease
“Lúthien!” he spoke again, his voice reverent and the expression in his feral eyes almost fear.
She wondered if he was mentally disturbed for there was such power in his gaze as he regarded her.
“I am Arwen Undómiel,” she said kindly. “Do you live hereabouts?”
She flinched as he stepped forward and knelt before her, his head bowing in penance as he clasped his hands in devotion. She did not what to make of him. She looked about. But they were alone in the glade. She clutched the pendant of Fëanor to ground herself as those powerful, mad eyes looked up in mute pleading.
“I am not who you seek,” she tried to explain gently. “I will take you to your family if you would tell me where you live.”
“Nowhere!” His hands came to pull at his hair making her shudder at the violence. “But you, fair Lúthien, you live in my heart!”
“I am not she,” she said firmly. The stranger seemed to be suffering from some strange mental malaise which made him think that she was Lúthien.
“I knew you would return to me,” he whispered, devotion shining in his eyes.
Arwen had to admit that she was frightened by the intensity of his turmoil. She pitied the poor raving soul. Perhaps she could help him. Her husband was a famed healer, after all.
“If you would stay here,” she tried to not sound scared, “I will fetch your family.”
“Don’t leave me again!” He rose to his feet in a jerky movement and grabbed her wrist. She gasped in pain at the unexpected assault of the deceptively thin mad elf.
“Unhand me,” she said angrily, her eyes narrowing in Finwëan disdain as she met his gaze.
“I cannot let you leave again,” he murmured plaintively as he bent to press his lips to the soft skin of her wrist.
She gasped as the heat of his lips made desperate contact with the sensitive skin of her inner wrist. She made to pull her hand away, but he snarled and pulled her to him. She was pressed flush against his thin, hard frame. The scent of pipe smoke and fresh pine assailed her senses. She exclaimed in horror as his fingers came to envelope her waist. The heat of his body made its desire known against her stomach.
The rigidness of his loins made her scream in fear. Elrohir had been skittish and cautious. Aragorn was gentle and sensual. Nothing in her previous experiences with intimacy had ensconced violence. The mad elf once again moved his hips against her. She thought of Galadriel, she thought of Aredhel Ar-Feiniel. She knew that she did not possess their courage.
Her screams began anew as the stranger began to croon in his hoarse, broken voice as if trying to soothe her.
There was the sound of rushing feet followed by the cold press of a sword against her assaulter’s neck. She panted in relief as she was pulled away by warm hands. She collapsed wearily against her rescuer and closed her eyes.
“I should slay you for what you tried to perpetrate.”
Arwen flinched at the cold venom in Legolas’s voice. She had always thought that he did not possess half his father’s ruthlessness. To hear him speaking of kinslaying in those precise, cold tones made her shiver. She opened her eyes exhaling deeply to release the anxiety and fear that had pounded her from within over the last few moments.
Legolas still held the sword to the elf’s neck. A stream of blood had erupted as payment to the blade. She looked up into those wild, mad eyes and saw only agony and fear.
“Don’t leave me again, Lúthien.” A whisper that tore her heart with the intensity of its pleading.
“Who are you?” she asked in spite of Legolas’s forbidding glare.
“I am your servant, my princess.” Tears began to fall from those eyes that shone with madness. “I have always been your servant. You danced to my songs in the woods of Doriath. You sung along with me in your father’s halls. Don’t leave me, Lúthien!”
“He’s raving insane,” Legolas cut in sharply as he pushed the stranger away with the blunt edge of his sword. “Come, Undómiel, let us return to the palace.”
She did not reply. Legolas’s hands came about her shoulders gently guiding her away. Hazy memories of tales learnt at her father’s knees were surfacing in her mind.
“But Daeron the minstrel also loved Lúthien, and he espied her meetings with Beren, and betrayed them to Thingol…Never was he seen amongst our kind after the passing of Lúthien for so deep was his grief; he had sung along with her, he had composed songs for her dances.”
She gasped as realization struck her. She turned to face the broken, raving mad elf they had left behind.
“Daeron of Doriath,” she breathed as his eyes came to meet her gaze in pleading.
“Lúthien,” he whispered in gratitude.
“He raves.” Legolas pulled her away from the glade firmly.
“Don’t tell Estel,” she entreated him.
Legolas looked as if he were about to argue. She hastily beat him to it saying, “If you feel that you should tell him then I might feel compelled to take a deeper interest in the affection that exists between you and Éowyn.”
“Leave her out of this,” he said crisply. He had stopped walking and was now watching her warily.
“Don’t tell Estel; that is all I ask.”
“Promise me you will not seek out the madcap.”
“Your bargaining position is weak.”
“As you wish. Leave Éowyn out of this. Stay away from the tramp, I beg you. Something is wrong with him.”
That was her only visit to Ithilien. By contrivance or not, Legolas ensured that she never stepped into those woods again. She did not openly ask him about it. She knew that it would betray more than she intended to if she dared speak.
Eldarion grew into a young man and began wooing maids. She watched his activities with the fond pride that only a mother can have. Aragorn remained steadfast in his rule. There were days when his nobility could make her forget the past. Then, in his arms, she was content and warm. Her love for him was built on the deep respect that she held for his stalwart heart.
He laughed as he brought a slice of apple to her lips. They were celebrating yet another anniversary. She dipped her head obediently as she parted her mouth to receive the offering. His eyes twinkled as they regarded her. He had aged gracefully. She remained the same. But it did not dampen the mutual love and esteem
A warrior came rushing to the shady alcove in which they were seated. His dark features were drawn grimly.
“Yes?” Aragorn straightened.
The scroll that the warrior handed over was fastened close by a single black ribbon. Arwen frowned in worry. Aragorn opened the scroll and perused the contents rapidly before turning to face her.
“Éowyn is dead.”
She nodded mutely, trying to equate death with the vibrant woman whom she had been in awe of. Éowyn of Rohan had always seemed to be above mortal concerns.
“I will ride ahead with Eldarion,” she offered. “Faramir might use my services to arrange the ceremony.”
“Thank you,” he nodded sincerely. “I must wait for the official delegation from Rohan.”
She was received by a distraught Faramir. The deep hollows around his sunken eyes were testimony to the grief that ravaged him.
“I will greet the arrivals,” she said kindly. “You can spend the time with your children.”
“Thank you.” He cleared his throat and looked morosely at the circlet of gold on his ring finger. “I would ask a favour of you, my queen.”
“It would be a favour granted to me, my lord.”
“Would you-” he met her eyes uneasily. “Would you sit with her? I find that I don’t possess the courage to watch the features I loved so.”
“It would be my honour to perform this for you.” She bowed to him. He muttered a sincere expression of gratitude before hurrying to join his mourning children.
The bier was placed in a large fenced-in meadow by the woods of Ithilien. Éowyn had been a child of the plains. Arwen knew that the proud woman would have balked at the idea of being interred in a cold tomb. For her, only the wild freedom of the honest earth would suffice.
People of all classes strove to break the fences and pay their respects to a woman they had understood. Gondor loved its queen, but she was as a lovely flower to be admired from afar. Her culture was not the culture of men. Éowyn, on the other hand, had been a princess of the masses. She had inspired courage and valour in every true heart.
Arwen noticed a hunched figure clad in the deceptive cloak of Lothlórien standing away from the crowd. She could recognize Galadriel’s handiwork when she saw one.
“Laiqua?” She placed her hand on his tensed shoulder.
He turned to face her. She shuddered as she saw the expression on his visage. Pain had killed his handsomeness. He seemed aged before his time. The loss that darkened his green eyes struck her to the core. Faramir had been deeply bereaved by his wife’s parting. But the grief that claimed Legolas was infinitely more harrowing…he had loved Éowyn.
“Undómiel.” He offered her a wan quirk of his lips.
She shook her head and pulled him to her. He resisted for a moment before giving in. His harsh, tearless sobs reverberated against her neck as he clenched his fingers convulsively in the folds of her gown.
“She will be at peace.”
She tried to find words which would be more effective than this paltry sentence. None came to her lips. Would it be like this when she lost Aragorn? Would it be worse when she lost Eldarion? No, she resolved furiously, she would not stay for her son’s end.
She found that she had no heart to stay and watch the funeral. The serenity that glowed on Éowyn’s aged, yet beautiful features frightened Arwen. Till then, the mortality of men was something she had not deeply thought upon. Now, in a changing age, she knew she would be caught in the whirlpool of time. She would not sail for she was bound to Middle-Earth by her father’s blood. Would she watch descendants of her son rule and fall? Would she be alone after all the elves had sailed and all the men had perished?
Her musings drove her into the woods. Of their own accord her feet brought her to the stream. There, prone on the roots of a large tree, lay Daeron of Doriath.
“Daeron,” she whispered as she knelt by his side and placed a tentative hand on his shoulder.
He shuddered at the sound of her voice and looked up. She observed that his condition seemed to have deteriorated since they had last met.
“Lúthien,” he murmured the name like a prayer, his eyes gleaming in madness.
She did not reply as she bent to cup his face with her fingers. He shuddered and grasped her hands within his.
“Let it not be a dream, I beg you!” He clenched his eyes shut and inhaled her scent sharply.
She did not speak. Her lips sought out his mouth and delivered a warm kiss. Her heart thudded in fear and guilt as he responded. A hot tongue sought entry to her mouth and fought its way in. she gasped as it suckled on her inner cheek. His fingers began tracing the angles of her face, seeking, learning and seeking more. She lost herself to the crescendo of touch and heat.
“Cease.” A harsh whisper escaped her as she wrenched herself away from his embrace.
He let his hands drop and stared at her, the madness retreating leaving behind hollow emptiness.
“I will come to you, Daeron.” She took his hands in her own and sealed her promise with a chaste kiss to his fingers.
“It is but a dream.” The broken whisper almost tore her will.
She removed the circlet that her father had wrought for her. It was shaped in the manner of the leaves of the mallorn. She placed it in his hands.
“I am no dream.”
“Undómiel,” he whispered as he traced her face reverentially.
A sob escaped her at the sound of her name from his lips. He knew her. Madness did not force him to see and imagine Lúthien in her. A tiny flicker of hope bloomed in her.
“Will I be ever more than a likeness of Lúthien to you?”
“Already, you are more.”
“I will return,” she swore quietly.
She hurried away from the glade, trying to put her hair to rights.
“Take care lest you trip on the roots.”
She flinched as she spun around to face Aragorn. His face was shaded by the canopy of the leaves above them. Except for the hard set of his jaw, nothing betrayed that he had been witness to what had transpired.
“Estel-” She began quietly, trying to prevent the falter in her voice.
“I thought you might get lost in the woods.” He smiled tightly. “Come, let us return.”
She silently took his proffered arm and let him lead them out of the forest.
The years passed slowly. She remained the beautiful Queen of Gondor. Minstrels from far lands came to the court to sing praises to her Eldar beauty. Aragorn would gift them generously for their homage to his wife.
Eldarion had assumed charge in most of Gondor and Annuminas. Arwen knew that Aragorn’s time had come. He merely waited for the return of Legolas from Imladris.
Imladris…the word opened deep festering wounds in her heart. That had been where she had learnt to love. She had never seen the city after Elrond’s departure. She knew well that she could not stand to see the slow decay of what had been a bastion of hope and courage of the Noldor.
Aragorn came to stand beside her on the balcony. His grizzled hair and wrinkled features stabbed her conscience. She loved him. But a part of her was merely awaiting his death.
“I used to admire your portrait in Imladris, you know.” He began speaking as he fingered a curl of her raven black hair. “I was in awe of all that you symbolized. Your beauty, your grace, your legacy, your lineage and your immortality. I still remember the shock I felt when I heard from Halbarad that you had agreed to wed me.”
A lone tear graced her cheek as she met his gaze humbled. He reached out with a finger to gently dab it away before speaking again.
“The ambition of my life, the only reason I had to live…that was the renewal of Gondor. Without you as a prize to claim, I would never have won the battle. You were, and you remain, my good luck charm.”
She had known it. From the very early days of the courtship, she had known that she would inspire his courage. She had been the reason why he spurned Isildur’s choice. She had been his salvation. Her beauty had saved the realm of men.
“You gave me all that I wished for and more. My kingdom, the renewal of my legacy, Eldarion and a union of our bloodlines. It is little wonder that you are the only one I have loved. I may not have told you as much as I should have over the years. But I love you still as deeply as I have done from the very first day when we kissed before the waterfalls of Imladris.”
“I…” she began despising the tremor in her voice.
“Hush…” He leant forward to capture her lips gently.
She sighed and drew his arms about her. Their lovemaking was slow and careful for his declining health would permit no more. Tears fell down her cheeks as he murmured endearments that he had never spoken aloud before. As he climaxed within her, his features contorted into pain and he clasped her shoulders tightly.
“Undómiel,” he whispered as he pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead.
He settled beside her and pulled her unresisting form into his arms. She nuzzled her nose against the grizzly chest hair that she had never become much accustomed to. But this night, it felt reassuring and calming as everything about him had always been. The warmth of his embrace lulled her into an exhausted reverie. She dreamt of dancing to an ancient Sindar lay in the golden woods of Lothlórien.
The sunrays shone down on the bed making her stir slowly. Shafts of sunlight played hide and seek with the white curtains that screened their large windows. She stretched and lifted her chin to stare at her husband.
His eyes were closed in slumber. A smile lurked on his lips lending his otherwise aged features a youthful air. She made a movement to rise only to find herself hampered and held down by the embrace that had lasted throughout the night. She smiled. She had rarely slept so peacefully in a long time. She made to move his arms from her torso only to find them limp and cold.
Fear gripped her as she slowly brought her fingers to his lips. They were cold and rigid. She screamed and in one wild movement, wrenched herself away from the corpse of her husband. Hastily, she threw a gown on and ran out of their chambers.
“Undómiel!” Legolas and Elladan were rushing towards her. “Has he passed?”
She did not reply as she fell against Legolas’s chest and began sobbing. His hands soothed her as once hers had comforted him in his hour of loss.
“What shall you do?” Elrohir asked her quietly as he joined her in the alcove.
She had spent many a cherished time in the same alcove with her husband. She bit her inner cheek as she realized how deeply she had loved him.
“I wish to leave the city.”
Her brittle voice must have probably struck a chord in him, for he reached to clasp her fingers gently.
“He made provisions for you in his will.”
The fire of her house rose in her and she wrenched her hand away saying disdainfully, “I am not dependant on charity to survive, Lord Elrohir.”
He shook his head and said softly, “The last wish of your husband cannot be termed charity, Arwen.”
The sound of her name from his lips made her smile bitterly. How much had she lost? Long had it been since he had dared call her by her name.
“He left a letter in my keeping. I was charged with handing it to you at the right time.”
“My dearest Undómiel,
If you are reading this letter, then we must have been parted by the doom of my race. Know that I loved you in life, and I shall love you more after life if it is willed so. You have chosen this existence away from your race for repairing your father’s sin. Have we not wrought a new beginning for Middle Earth? Consider your father absolved by your sacrifice. Find your happiness. Perhaps you may never sail. Once you told me that you loved the land of Lothlórien the most. I would not ask you to stay and witness the passing of our son. Go to Lothlórien and find your peace there. Under the leaves of the fading mallorn shall your minstrel await you.
“Laiqua shall take you to Lothlórien, if you wish so.” Elrohir rose from his seat and brushed his tunic.
She looked up at him for the first time without regret marring her expression. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair saying quietly, “I wish you well, Arwen.”
“Will you sail?” she asked him tentatively.
“After Eldarion’s rule is established, I shall.” He smiled thinly. “I once swore an oath to you; that I would see your sacrifice did not go in vain.”
“Will you ever forgive me?” she asked quietly, her resignation darkening her gaze.
“I would not have wished upon my greatest foe what you have endured over these years, Arwen.”
She nodded mutely, staring at the flowing hand that graced the parchment; the last legacy that her husband had left her.
She walked slowly along the curving banks of the Nimrodel. A young Legolas had found her unconscious here a lifetime ago. She smiled wistfully as she remembered how she had quaked in fear when she was presented before Galadriel. Galadriel and Legolas had sailed. She remained the only Noldo who had not. It had always been her choice. In these lands, her forefathers had bled and died. In these lands had come her greatest days of joy. She could not bear the thought of leaving Middle Earth.
A low, haunting tune played on a lyre stirred her out of her pensive memories. Before her, seated on a rock overhanging the river was Daeron, his eyes warm and pure as they greeted her.
She laughed nervously before running to his side. He rose and caught her by the waist. The light that shone in his eyes revived the fire that had long burnt into cinders within her. The guilt that wracked her each time when Aragorn had embraced her vanished now. Her laughter was carefree as he brought his lips down to blow a feathery kiss to the crook of her neck.
“Undómiel,” he whispered, his musical tones soothing her doubts. She was no stand-in for whom he had grieved in madness.
There was no duty to repair the wrongs of her father. There was no onus to maintain pretense. All that mattered was this strange feeling of belonging that warmed her as he held her close.
They danced and sung in Lothlórien. The magnificent mellyrn were slowly fading. Arwen knew that the mystical city of Celeborn and Galadriel would soon become but a tale in the lore of men. She would fade with it.
A calloused finger traced the length of her nose. She smiled and turned to face him. She would not fade alone.
“I don’t deserve this,” she confessed quietly.
“Undómiel…” He leant on an elbow to look down at her reclining figure. “Very few people get exactly what they deserve.”
Her conscience told her that it was not right. Her instincts told her that it was the only path ahead. She smiled at him and clasped his hand for reassurance.
Love had no place for conscience.
References(Canon):The Silmarillion, The Lord of the Rings and the ever handy HoME.
References in The Song of Sunset:
The Song of Sunset The 3rd age: Chapter 44, 45
Arwen’s choice to marry Aragorn: Chapter 59
Elrohir-Lindir: ‘A Requited Secret’
Legolas-Elladan: ‘Forbearance’, ‘Inception’
Legolas-Éowyn: ‘Lowering The Shield’, ‘Forbearance’
Arwen’s ancestry in The Song of Sunset
Melian, Thingol->Lúthien, Beren->Nimloth, Dior->Elured->Elériel(mother)
Míriel, Finwë->Nerdanel, Fëanor->Curufin->Celebrimbor(father)
Arwen does not have the legacy of Elwing and Eärendil. She cannot choose mortality.
Daeron - Minstrel and chief loremaster of Doriath during Thingol’s rule. The Silmarillion states that he loved Lúthien.
>“But Daeron the minstrel also loved Lúthien, and he espied her meetings with Beren, and betrayed them to Thingol.”
(Quoted from The Silmarillion)
The verse quoted above- The Sonnets of William Shakespeare.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.