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Arwen Undómiel of Imladris had always loved weaving, and Queen Arwen of Gondor was no different. The glide of the shuttle in and out of the cords of the warp created a certain trance-like sort of peace, one which Arwen tended to seek out especially when her mind was restless.

Letting her deft fingers pick their way across the loom, Arwen basked in the sound of birdsong and laughter outside the solar window. The mid-morning sun shone rich and warm through the ripening leaves of ivy which grew twined across the corner of the window. A tinge of brownish-gold lined the edges of the leaves, heralding the days in the very near future when all the leaves in the White City and beyond would turn and fall. Today though the sun still held its warmth, and outside on the lawn of the Citadel the children were amusing themselves.

Children...not so anymore, truly, thought Arwen to herself. Indeed, Eldarion was of age now, with Elboron and Eruthiawen hard on his heels. The others would follow into adulthood soon enough, and before long the days of childhood in the royal household would be over. The shuttle passed back and forth before Arwen's eyes without her consciously marking its progress. It was good that the young people were all outdoors enjoying the sunlight together; by sundown tonight young Sufyan and his father would be gone, on their way back to their City of Many Waters so far away in Harad.

A playful shriek arose, startling the sparrows perched on the windowsill. Almárëa, undoubtedly. Laughter followed in the merry voices of Elfwine and Eldarion, with Eruthiawen admonishing her sister for carrying on so. A smile quirked the corner of Arwen's lips. All of her children were so different from one another, and yet so alike herself and Aragorn. It was because of the latter that Arwen knew, one-by-one, she would have to let them go.

Túrien would be the first. Bright, fearless Túrien, oh so young and yet oh so ready. Arwen sighed as she went back to re-pick a missed stitch in the weft. By the reckoning of her grandfather's people, Túrien was but a small child. By the reckonings of Men, Túrien was not yet a woman full-grown. By Arwen's reckoning though, she knew from two-and-a-half thousands springs come and gone when a chick was ready to spread its wings and fly the nest. She had always seen the wildness in her middle daughter's stormy gaze from the first time Túrien ever opened her eyes. That wildness burned all the brighter ever since Túrien had returned from Harmindon with the chieftain's young son at her side. It was more than that though. Whatever things Túrien had seen and done in Harmindon, those few weeks had changed her; Arwen saw it in the way she no longer sought the approval of her Gondorian peers, no longer deferred to men the way mortal women were so often expected to do. Even though it pained Arwen to see that Túrien's heart no longer lay in the White City, she was also proud to see the fire which would no longer be subdued in her daughter's spirit. It was only a matter of when now, not if.

Spooling up the last of the red thread gave Arwen a chance to sit back and admire her finished creation. She had but to weave the stray ends in, hiding them amongst the patterns of the weft, and this gift would be ready for giving. Arwen had begun this particular project the day Aragorn had left with Eldarion and Túrien for Harmindon. Call it foresight, call it wishful thinking, but somehow Arwen had always known that this scene which she had woven onto her loom would come to pass. She picked out a needle from her kit and set about tending to the loose ends.

After Túrien, Arwen imagined, would be Eruthiawen. Her eldest daughter was simply too much of a treasure not to be coveted by others. Arwen hoped though that Eruthiawen would set aside her unwavering sense of duty and follow her own heart when the time came to set the course of her future. It was difficult sometimes to know what Eruthiawen truly wanted, even for Arwen. Eruthiawen's grandfather had been much like that too. With a wistful pang, Arwen remembered how Elrond had always been so much to so many people. Ever ready to serve, always providing shelter, guidance, comfort to any who came upon the Last Homely House of Imladris. It seemed that her father had put others' happiness before himself, even Arwen and her beloved Estel. Especially the two of them, if Arwen was being perfectly honest with herself. Sometimes such memories made Arwen fearful for her own daughter's future; Eruthiawen showed the same readiness to be whatever those around her needed most. It was what had made Elrond so fondly admired by all who knew him...but what had also broken his heart time and time again throughout the ages.

Arwen's spirit lifted somewhat when her thoughts turned to Almárëa. Her youngest child would be hers to keep for some years yet. As she hid the trailing ends of golden thread into the sun-soaked vista of the tapestry, Arwen listened to Almárëa calling to the others outside and smiled. With so many devoted protectors around her, the only difficulty Almárëa was likely to face was ever being allowed to grow into full womanhood. Between Gimli's humouring, Túrien's guarding and Aragorn's doting, Almárëa was unlikely to ever be permitted to suffer the bitterness of hardship for more than a fleeting moment. Hers was a childhood utterly unlike anything women like Éowyn or even Lothíriel had experienced. Their generation grew up well-acquainted with the fires of war and the hollow ache of grief, and sometimes that ache could still be seen flickering behind Éowyn's smile. No, Almárëa would be soft and merry even when she grew to be a grandmother. For that Arwen thanked the Valar every day that theirs' was a time of peace; war would have made short work of such softness otherwise.

As for Eldarion, it was difficult to say. The world of Men counted sons as their father's heirs, not their mother's. Arwen remembered well though how devoted her own brothers, Elladan and Elrohir, had always been to their mother, Celebrían...some might argue even moreso than to Elrond. Eldarion was their son, hers and Aragorn's both, and that made him the heir to a difficult legacy. The story of the Evenstar and King Elessar was already something of a fairytale for the children of Gondor; the tale of how a mortal man and a daughter of elf-kind had defied the shadow of evil and even fate itself for love. Eldarion knew the truth; that his mother and father were just two people who had chosen each other and honoured that choice. Still, Arwen suspected that being the son of a storybook still coloured his expectations of love, or at very least his impressions. She prayed that, as he continued to grow into a man, Eldarion would come to understand that he was not expected to equal a legacy which was already rapidly outgrowing it's true form and becoming myth. That went for both his expectations of love and his future kingship. There would be no dark lord upon a dark throne for Eldarion to triumph in glory over, no heroic final stand upon the edge of destruction. He would be the second king of the line of Telcontar, not the first. Arwen's hope for her son was that a legacy of peace and plenty would be enough to satisfy him, and that he would find honour in the everyday beauty of life.

With the tapestry now finished, Arwen stood and took it down from the loom. The golden detailing of a sunlit sky and red tassels hanging from Mûmakil harnesses stood out beautifully next to the silver threading through the waters of the Andúin. Onto the canvas of the warp, Arwen had created a scene of promise and prosperity. Three Mûmakil and their riders waded along the banks of the river on their way to the crossing at Pelargir. Minas Tirith was visible stitched in white against the silver-grey steppes of the mountains in the background. Eagles flew overhead, and tender buds interwoven in the border of the tapestry spoke of springtime. Soon it would be winter in Gondor, but next year would bring the dawn of a new era between east and west in the south of Middle-Earth. Aragorn and Na'Man had taken the Haradrim's treaty of peace before the Great Council this morning to be signed.

Arwen carefully rolled the tapestry in thin paper, tied it with a string and sealed it inside a lacquered wooden case made just for the journey back to Harmindon. This would be her gift to Sawda, the Haradrim ramyah whom Arwen had never met, but whom both Aragorn and Túrien spoke so highly of, Arwen could not help but admire her. Truth be told, that admiration was ever-so-slightly touched with a shade of envy. When Túrien spoke of the ramyahs of Harad, especially Sawda, her entire demeanour took on a sort of reverent excitement that Arwen had never seen from her middle daughter before, even after practicing swordplay with Éowyn. Arwen knew that Túrien loved her, just as she loved Túrien, but it was also clear that Túrien did not want to be the sort of Queen that Arwen was. And so Arwen would give this tapestry to Túrien when they met in the White Tower of Ecthelion in an hour's time...and Túrien would in turn give it to Sawda when she, Na'Man and Sufyan arrived in Harmindon. A precious gift, from one mother to another.

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"I like it not, Na'Man, that no sooner than you have successfully won Harondor back from Gondor's keeping and you are already seeking to ask more from me than any man has ever dared. Explain to me why it is that you would refuse Lord Elphir's offer to serve as Ambassador to Gondor in Harmindon, and instead ask for my not yet nineteen-year-old daughter to do the same?"

The mood in the hall had been warm and celebratory a few moments ago, with Aragorn, Na'Man, Arwen, and Elphir all gathered before the thrones of the King and steward, the now-ratified peace treaty between Gondor, Rohan, and Harad stretched out between them. Éomer and Faramir had only just departed with Éowyn, the sooner to inform Lothíriel and the children of the good news. The happiness which had previously brightened Aragorn's eyes was now departed as well, and he stood on the bottom step of his throne with arms folded and jaw tense. He was the portrait of kingly ire, his silver-black cloak tossed back over one shoulder and the winged crown of Gondor glinting on his brow. Elphir too looked taken aback, and understandably so. No doubt he must have expected his offer to uproot to Harad and leave Dol Amroth in the care of his young brother Amrothos to be an enormously generous and well-received one.

Na'Man was steadfast. With a bow to Lord Elphir, he shook his head. "My refusal of you as Ambassador is not meant as a slight, Lord of Dol Amroth. Were this a time of war, it would be my honour to ride into battle as your ally, and you will always be welcome to dine at our table in Harmindon. To you, King of the White City, I offer this explanation. To send a man...a chieftain as it were, to represent Gondor in the east by living amongst us will taste too strongly to our people of the practices of war. The presence of men from other tribes implies a time of impending bloodshed, but the presence of women brings peace and trust. That is in part why Bukr and Tufayl came to Harmindon accompanied by Zamira and Gulim throughout your visit; even though Pazghar and Abrakhân are often friendly to Harmindon, it still would have been rude at the best and greatly disturbing at the worst for them to have arrived at our home unaccompanied. Chieftains without ramyahs are seen as a threatening gesture, and the same will be felt of Lord Elphir as an ambassador. For this, my first reason, I must insist that Gondor's ambassador to Harad be a woman. Who better than Princess Túrien, who has met our people, seen our city, and even rode upon the back of a Mûmak before the eyes of all?"

Aragorn huffed, only minimally placated by Na'Man's explanation. "I accept your reasoning, Chieftain, and understand the sensibilities of your people when it comes to the need for a woman to represent Gondor. What I do not accept is that you would have me all but hand my child over to you, to leave us for the desert sands and your City of Many Waters. Túrien is still a child by our reckoning, and will be so for another seven years until her twenty-fifth birthday. Surely there must be another who could serve just as well? Perhaps Lord Elphir's wife?"

Again Na'Man shook his head. "A child by your reckoning, but not much longer by ours. Life is often harsh in Harad, and our people come of age at eighteen. If anything, her young age will only be a boon to Túrien. She showed us during her time in Harmindon that she is both able and eager to learn new ways and embrace our people as her own. An older woman of Gondor will have grown long in the ways of the west, and be less open perhaps to life in the desert. As well, Sawda took a great liking to your daughter, and would guide and teach her in the ways of diplomacy as no doubt Queen Evenstar has done."

Seeking Arwen's support, Aragorn reached out a hand to her. "What say you to all this, Arwen? You know well the story of my own early days as a ranger in the wildnerness, and even then Lord Elrond did not grant me the knowledge of my true name and purpose until my twentieth year. Are we to send Túrien away with near-strangers? No, surely this cannot be."

Arwen hated to fail in Aragorn's hopes of support, especially when she had spoken much the same words to herself in the silent hours of the night. She knew her daughter though, and even as she took Aragorn's hand Arwen smiled ruefully.

"You were a young man in different times, my love. My father could not risk allowing you to leave Imladris before you were a man grown, lest your enemies find and slay you before you could properly defend yourself. The long years of your house and mine have only served to make the measure of adulthood even higher for our children. What shall our children do though if not find their own places in this life?" Seeing the look of protest upon Aragorn's face, Arwen squeezed his hand. "I think that the most important person in this conversation is not even present. Where is Túrien? She must tell us what her wish is in all of this."

"I am here, Mother...Father."

From beside one of the white marble statues of kings past, Túrien stepped out. She was already dressed for travel in the red suede riding coat that Arwen had given her, Hadhafang belted at her waist. Sufyan was with her. As the two of them approached the throne, Arwen watched Aragorn and saw the dawning realization in his eyes. Túrien must have seen it too, and she took Sufyan's hand in hers before the eyes of everyone present.

"Túrien..." said Aragorn softly. "My fierce storm in all her glory...is this what you truly want? To leave Minas Tirith and us as well, to live amongst the Haradrim?"

"I do, Ada. I..." Túrien swallowed, her chin bobbling ever so slightly. She looked almost shy, standing before them all hand-in-hand with Sufyan. "I found myself in Harmindon, for the first time it felt like. I can only ever pretend to be a princess like Eruthiawen, or a queen like you, Naneth. Amongst the folk of Harad, I feel whole."

"Oh Túrien, surely you must know you need never be anyone but yourself, here, in Harad, or anywhere?" asked Arwen.

"I know...but who I am suits Harad better than Gondor. I also..." Túrien paused, suddenly seeming breathless. Sufyan placed his other hand atop hers, and Arwen fell in love with the way that the young Haradrim was looking at their daughter. Túrien regathered herself, lifting her chin and speaking in a clear, confident voice. "I also know now that I could not bear to be parted from Sufyan. There is no man in all of Gondor, Rohan, indeed in all of Middle-Earth, that I would rather give my heart to. And I know that I have his in return."

Aragorn stood silent, thunderstruck. Elphir, sensing that this moment was not his to share, had quietly retreated to stand to one side. Only Na'Man seemed to be able to find his voice.

"Sufyan, you love this daughter of kings?"

Sufyan answered his father, but when he spoke it was to Arwen and Aragorn. "I do, Akë. If the King and Queen of the White City allow it, and if Túrien wills it, then when we are of age I will marry this wild princess of Gondor. I will make her the ramyah to my chieftain, and teach her to ride the Mûmakil so that she may fly whenever and wherever it pleases her."

Aragorn and Arwen exchanged a look. They both knew they were thinking the same thing. Their own love had been so hard-won, and come at such a steep price. That was not what they wanted for their children. Love could be wild and free and simple, and if that was what their daughter had found then they would see her follow it.

"Then go, Túrien, go with all my love and all the blessings that this king of Men can give," said Aragorn, his voice cracking. "If freedom and the desert sands are all you would have of me, then I give them to you with a heavy heart."

"Ada..." Túrien flew into Aragorn's arms, burying her face in her father's chest as he embraced her. When she looked up into his face, there were tears upon both of their cheeks. "Hannon le" (thank you) was all that she said, but her words carried the depth of an ocean of feeling.

Aragorn raised his hands to cup his daughter's face. "You are so like me when I was your age." He looked then to Na'Man. "You will watch over her as if she were your own flesh and blood, you and Sawda both? I can only bear this parting if I know Túrien will be as safe and well-loved in your house as she has been in mine."

Na'Man bowed low. "You have my word, King Elessar and Queen Evenstar, your daughter shall be as my daughter from this day until my last. I swear it upon the Golden Serpent of the dawning sky."

"Túrien..." Arwen held out her arms, and Túrien went from Aragorn's embrace to hers. "Iel-nin (my daughter), know that you always have a home here in the White City, as well as our love. I have dreamt of the days before you though, and I see a life of sunlight. All that you wish for will be yours, because you above all have the will to make it so."

"You knew what I intended?" Túrien whispered into Arwen's shoulder.

"Remember what I once told you; a mother knows all. One day I imagine that you will know as much too." With a knowing, glassy-eyed smile, Arwen tenderly pressed a kiss to her daughter's brow.

Túrien bowed her head to Arwen's kiss one last time...and then she stepped back. Sufyan was waiting for her, as was Harad.

Aragorn tried to smile as he spoke to the three now bound for the east. "It seems there is but one matter left unattended to. Ambassador?"

Túrien's lips twitched in a barely-there laugh at the sound of her new title. "Yes, my king?"

"I expect your presence at the meetings of the Great Council every Yuletide and Summer Solstice, without fail. I trust that your work in Harmindon will aid in bringing about a new age of friendship between Gondor and Harad, and that you will devote yourself to your new post as befitting a representative of the royal house of Minas Tirith. Are you sure you are ready?"

"I am ready...Ada."

OoOoO

That evening, they stood upon the parapets of Minas Tirith and watched as the party to Harad grew smaller and smaller on the darkening horizon. Túrien would travel as an official representative of Gondor, and as such rode with her own honour guard of six and a standard bearer, all hand-picked by Aragorn to serve his daughter in her new life. The farewells between Túrien and her brother and sisters had not been easy, especially for Almárëa. Her sniffles were still clearly audible even as she leaned against Eruthiawen's shoulder. Eldarion hadn't believed Túrien was actually leaving with the Haradrim the first time he was told. Even now, he continued to stare after the departing company until the banner of Gondor and flags of Harad were little more than dark pinpoints across the fields of Pelennor.

Coming to stand beside Arwen, Aragorn wrapped a comforting arm around his wife's shoulders and murmured something so low that even she had to ask him to repeat it.

"I said that I understand now. I can never properly beg your father's forgiveness, because only now do I know what it feels like to lose a daughter to another man's love."

We have not lost Túrien, not truly, Arwen thought to say. Aragorn's grief in this moment ran deeper than that though. Instead Arwen simply leaned into his chest and laid her head upon his shoulder.

The sun set in the west, and its final rays caught the helm of a knight of Gondor riding with Túrien and the Haradrim. They saw them as a single point of light, far away on the eastern horizon. Then night fell, and the Haradrim followed the stars as they led Túrien home.

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