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As promised, Arwen Undómiel set out from Minas Tirith with the last breath of winter fleeing before her. Eruthiawen and Almárëa went with her, as did Faramir and Elboron as well as Legolas. Éowyn, though regretful to miss the journey to Annúminas, was obliged to stay behind and govern Ithilien in Faramir's absence. Likewise Gimli sent his regrets and a few vague excuses, but as Aragorn had predicted the old dwarf could no longer manage such long travel on horseback with his leg. So it was that the party of six - as well as ten knights of Gondor for the road - set out across the lands of Anórien, then the Eastfold.

They stopped and stayed for a time at Edoras, where they were welcomed heartily by Éomer and his household. Eruthiawen, Almárëa, and Elboron were all delighted to see Elfwine, who had over the past two-and-some years grown into both his beard and role as Third Marshal. He was also courting again, a fact which provoked teasing without mercy from Almárëa. Arwen paid respects for herself and Aragorn at King Théoden's tomb, as well as enjoyed many fine evenings in the Golden Hall of Meduseld listening to the Rohirric poets recite their sagas. By the time they set out on the road once more, spring was already rapidly turning the rolling hills of the Westfold into a mosaic of early-blooming wildflowers.  Blue-eyed grass, groundplum, and dandelion peeked through the thaw to reveal their colourful faces to a robin's-egg-blue sky, and the earthy scent of life re-awakened blew over the hills.

The road bent along the edge of the Ered Nimrais until it reached the Gap of Rohan. Away to the north, the misty blue-green haze of Fangorn Forest could just be seen, as could a far lone spire of black stone. Legolas, shading his eyes against the midday sun, described a young forest sprung up around the crumbled walls of what had once been Isengard.

"Is that the place they call 'The Watchwood'?" Almárëa asked him.

Legolas nodded, still gazing at the now-empty tower from which Saruman had once commanded legions.

"It is, although properly it is named 'The Treegarth of Orthanc' by the Ents, who are its caretakers. There is a lake there now as well. It is a far different place from what it was when the fallen White Wizard was first defeated."

"Do you think we might stop and see the Ents, Your Grace?" Elboron asked Arwen.

Arwen sat for a moment looking at Orthanc from afar. Then she shook her head.

"I do not think so, Elboron. We count the Ents among our friends, but I think they wish to be left to themselves now. Let them keep their Watchwood in peace, we will not intrude upon it."

Thus they passed through the Gap of Rohan into the west of Middle-Earth. They kept to the old North-South Road across the vast grasslands of the Enedwaith. Once a void, emptied land, the Enedwaith was now being re-peopled by the folk of the Reunited Kingdoms. The humble beginnings of settlements which had sprung up since the end of the War of the Ring greeted them along the North-South road, and most nights they found inns only too happy to offer the Queen of Gondor and her party shelter from the elements. The Enedwaith was still a wild land though, and some nights they bedded down beneath the stars. Faramir told them stories around the fire on those nights, and Eruthiawen sang for them in the elvish tongue. Sometimes Almárëa or even Arwen joined her, and their voices mingled in sweet concert which put even the nightingales and meadowlarks to shame.

On the eve of the fifth day since passing through The Gap of Rohan, Arwen and her followers came to the town and ford of Tharbad. It was at Tharbad that the waters of the Mitheithel and Glanduin met and joined to become the mighty Gwathló, or Greyflood River, which flowed over a hundred miles to the shores of the western sea. Once devastated by war and The Great Plague of 1636, Tharbad had like so many other towns seen a return to life in the dawning days of the Fourth Age. Although it was no Minas Tirith, the town of Tharbad was a place of long history in Middle-Earth. Signs of the presence of early Númenor showed in the high, graceful arches of the buildings and the strength of the ford's pillars: still supporting the bridge across the Gwathló as it had done for near a thousand years.

Arwen stopped them at the top of the wooded hillside overlooking Tharbad from the Enedwaith. The vast greyness of the Gwathló moved with such swiftness along the valley floor that one could have imagined putting a boat in the river and arriving at the seashore by nightfall. Geese passed overhead, the honking of the flock heralding their return from wintering in warmer lands.

"Ah, the Greyflood!" Arwen cried. "These waters find their source in part from the Bruinen, the river which has long been the protector and joy of Imladris, my birthplace. They flow swift and deep here, but when we come to the Hidden Valley you will find the Bruinen as clear and musical as a mountain spring."

"What lies downstream?" asked Almárëa.

"The sea, but first the port of Lond Daer," said Faramir. "I believe it was once called Vinyalondë though, Lady Arwen?"

"It was, a Quenya name for a harbour built by the Númenoreans when the Noldor still held claim over the lands north of here. 'Eregion' they called their realm in the Second Age, but now Imladris is all that remains of those days. Come. We will stay the night in Tharbad before setting out again."

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Rested and refreshed, they did not cross the mighty ford, but instead followed the banks of the Mitheithel north-east toward the Misty Mountains. Their path led them past the western edge of the Nîn-in-Eilph, a marshy wetland also known as 'Swanfleet'. Sure enough, dozens upon dozens of the stately water birds greeted their passing with silent flight. Geese there were also many of in the Nîn-in-Eilph, as well as heron and loon. The eerie song of the loons followed even after they left the wetlands behind. Eruthiawen described it as a dream-like place, where the bulrushes and pussy-willows seemed to sigh and reach out longingly, as though eager for something unseen.

The steep banks and at times thick brush made for often slow going, but in four days' time they reached a fork in the river. One fork split off due north, and hills shrouded in bluish-grey haze could be seen in the distance. The other fork continued north-east, climbing upward into rockier, forested country. No doubt eventually it would find its source upstream in the high reaches of the Misty Mountains. Arwen dismounted and dipped her hands in the Bruinen then, cupping her palms together and drinking from the cool, clear water. The others followed suit, and found it to be among the purest and most refreshing water they had ever tasted.

It was near six weeks to the day after Aragorn and Eldarion had bid them farewell from Minas Tirith that Arwen at last led them to the mouth of the Hidden Valley of Rivendell. The road into the valley was not easily spotted by man nor beast, but the Evenstar knew her way home. The sun was just beginning to set when she found the road, and riding single file they descended down into Imladris.

It had been almost nine years since last Eruthiawen and Almárëa had been to the Hidden Valley; longer for Legolas and never for Faramir and Elboron. They gazed long at the glow of the setting sun on the valley walls, the glisten of near-melted snow tucked away between tree roots, and the soaring walkways and rooftops of the Last Homely House. Many of the structures appeared weathered though in a way that Eruthiawen and Almárëa did not remember. There were subtle signs of emptiness to be found in most places; evidence of the absence of the elves. The mulch of many years' fallen leaves gathered in the crooks of rooftops. Ivy grew unchecked - though still barren from winter - over statues along the path. Some pieces of road had even fallen into disuse and disrepair, quietly being overtaken by the earth. No members of Lord Elrond Halfelven's household remained in Imladris...save two.

Elrond's two eldest children - twin brothers Elladan and Elrohir - met them in the courtyard before the hall. Once they had spent their days roaming the wild northlands with the Dúnedain, hunting orcs and wargs and all manner of fell creatures alongside Aragorn in his early life as a chieftain of rangers. Now, with Elrond having departed for Valinor and the Dúnedain brought to peace and security in Annúminas, the brothers had returned to their home and birthright. Rivendell had become a silent place since the War of the Ring though, and thus had Elladan and Elrohir grown still and quiet as well. Nonetheless they greeted their sister and her family with great joy.

"Gi nathlam hí, gwathel-nin," (We welcome you here, my sister) said Elrohir, reaching up for Arwen's hand as she dismounted from her horse. "It seems only yesterday we celebrated the joy of your wedding, and yet altogether too long ago."

Arwen slid from the saddle to embrace her brothers one after another. "Time which once seemed infinite now hastens by, I fear. It is beyond wonderful to see you both again though. I had feared you might not still be here."

"And miss the chance to marvel at the beautiful young maidens you and Estel have produced?" Scoffed Elladan while helping Eruthiawen and Almárëa dismount. "By the Valar, the two of you have grown into women seemingly overnight! When last I saw you, Almárëa, you were little more than a five-year-old child underfoot."

"We mortals come of age perhaps a little more quickly than you are used to, uncle," said Almárëa cheekily.

Elladan's smile faded ever so slightly, but he embraced Almárëa nonetheless. "By rights then we ought to be sending you to stay in the old nursery while you are here. After all, by our measure you're still barely out of your swaddling clothes!"

Eruthiawen gestured to Faramir, Elboron, and Legolas where they had been waiting politely. "Honnaneth (Uncle), you remember Prince Faramir of Ithilien and his son Elboron? They have journeyed with us from Minas Tirith, as well as Legolas too."

Elladan and Elrohir smiled and nodded, a hand to their hearts in greeting. Never did the two of them look more alike than when their gestures mirrored one another. Even the braids in their long black hair swung in echo of each other.

"We remember Eryn Lasgalen's errant princeling, of course," said Elrohir, provoking an amused huff and answering bow from Legolas. "Lord Faramir, I recall having met you for an unfortunately brief time after Aragorn's coronation."

"Elrohir and I look forward to becoming reacquainted with you during your stay though, as well as meeting that fine young man beside you who so strongly resembles the Lady Éowyn," added Elladan.

Faramir chuckled and stepped forward to offer his hand to the twins. "The pleasure is mine, my lords. I certainly remember Aragorn introducing us as well, and am glad to be able to repay the visit. Thank you for opening your noble home to us on our journey."

A somewhat bittersweet smile lifted Elladan's face. "Our home this is, but I fear it has become more humble than noble in our keeping." He lifted his arms to gesture at the weathered rooftops of Imladris. "My brother and I are the last remaining of our people in this valley. Though we do what we can to maintain a few halls and living quarters, there are many parts of Imladris which are now abandoned. We ask that you forgive the state of The Last Homely House...if you had come when our father, the lord Elrond Halfelven held dominion here, you would have likely wept at the beauty of this place."

"I feel I could still weep all the same!" exclaimed Elboron, whose eyes were just as wide and awe-struck as they had been when first they entered the valley. "There is a feeling of timelessness here that defies wear, and I believe will still be beautiful even when every last wall and threshold has crumbled away."

Elladan and Elrohir both laughed aloud, their grey eyes shining with pleasure. "You wear your mother's face, Faramirion, but you speak with your father's voice! Does that surprise you? Arwen has written to us often to tell of yourself, Eldarion, and even young Elfwine of Rohan," said Elrohir.

Elboron shook his head. "If anything, I am honoured to have merited mention in such messages, my lords. As I am honoured to be a guest here in the famous Hidden Valley."

Clapping his hands together, Elladan beckoned them toward the stairs. "Famous or no, the Hidden Valley can still manage some hospitality yet! Come! We have prepared rooms for you, and there is space for your guards to stable the horses and make themselves comfortable. Tonight we will dine on what fare two bachelor elves living alone can boast, but there is still wine enough left in the cellars to make it a merry meal!"

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Eruthiawen and Almárëa were given a room at the end of the hall with two beds and a view of the Bruinen where it fell thundering over the valley's edge. The two sisters unpacked their modest travel bags quickly enough, and delighted in finding that the closest was filled with gowns and other ornaments left behind by long-departed owners.

"It seems as if they were only just here, and could return at any moment." Almárëa looked over her shoulder at Eruthiawen while holding up a dress of shimmering marigold. "Have you noticed? It's as if the elves still have a presence here, or perhaps they left a part of themselves behind in the spirit of this place."

"I noticed," said Eruthiawen. "I think even that will fade given enough time though."

"Still, it is a nice thought. Otherwise I imagine Uncle Elladan and Uncle Elrohir must get terribly lonely living here by themselves. Why don't they come and join us in Minas Tirith?"

Eruthiawen fingered the hem of a shawl woven from silvery thread which glimmered like starlight in the rosy glow of the setting sun. The cloth passed soft and cool beneath her fingertips, reminding Eruthiawen of the waters of the Bruinen. What Almárëa said was true; a certain measure of the weathering which had begun its work throughout the rest of Imladris seemed to be held at bay in the wings of the house which Elladan and Elrohir still occupied.

"I suspect Naneth has already offered as much to them. They are elves though, and somehow the thought of our uncles living in the houses of Men doesn't seem right." Eruthiawen sighed and let the shawl drop back into the closet. "Like asking a bird to live in a cave, or a fish to live on a mountaintop."

"Naneth lives in Minas Tirith though," pointed out Almárëa.

"Yes, but our mother is no longer counted among the Eldar. She chose the Fate of Men for Adar's sake, as was her right. Now she and all of us who follow her will be bound to that choice."

Eruthiawen left the delights of the closet and went to pour water from the pitcher into the wash basin. Long days on the road had left her feeling somewhat grimy, and a wash in the river would be in order tonight. For now though, a scrub of hands and face would do before dinner. When Eruthiawen looked up from drying her face, Almárëa was sitting on her bed. She held a polished silver hand-mirror engraved with birds' wings, and a thoughtful expression overtook Almárëa as she brushed aside a lock of hair to study her rounded ears.

"I wonder what it would have been like, to be born an elf-maid," said Almárëa almost wistfully.

A silver handled hairbrush sitting on the vanity caught Eruthiawen's eye; likely a partner to the hand-mirror which Almárëa held. Picking up the hairbrush, Eruthiawen went to the bed and climbed on to sit behind her sister. Almárëa's long, smooth brown hair was still plaited back for travel, and Eruthiawen undid the braids with nimble fingers before setting the brush to work.

"In another time, I imagine it might have been a marvelous thing. The time of the elves in Middle-Earth is over though. Those few elves whom we know all seem somehow sad, or at very least nostalgic for an age now past. Even Legolas can sometimes get that faraway look in his eye, have you seen it?"

Almárëa nodded slowly. She angled the mirror to reflect both herself and Eruthiawen. "Yes, I've seen it. Sometimes though I still wonder...if only because then I might have stood half a chance of being beautiful like you, Eruthia. Or perhaps at least striking, like Túrien. I fear I am growing up to be the plainest sister of us three."

That took Eruthiawen aback, and she paused in her brushing. Seeing the two of them reflected in the hand-mirror, it was hard to deny that Eruthiawen had inherited the dimpled chin, softly bowed lips, and fathomless grey eyes of the Peredhil line. Her long, auburn hair shone with a bronze hue that accented the slightest dusting of tiny freckles across her nose and shoulders, and her voice rang with the same melodic lilt that others found so enchanting when their mother spoke. Túrien meanwhile had always been quicksilver and storm clouds; her smile sharp and quick and her eyes churning like the depths of the sea before a squall.

Almárëa was neither quicksilver nor classical. Still more girl than woman, the growth of her arms and legs somewhat outpaced the rest of her, and she stood slim as a willow-switch and lanky as a colt. Her features were more their father's than their mother's, and her brow was both high and smooth. Almárëa's hair was long and lovely, although a very commonplace shade of walnut brown. There was wit in her ever-expressive brows though, and a keen mind behind her twilight-blue eyes. Eruthiawen suspected that Almárëa would become a very fine woman indeed in her own time, but how to reassure her younger sister of that?

"Almárëa..." Eruthiawen set down the brush and laid her hands atop her sister's head. "What is beauty but a cover for a book? Yes, you might be first intrigued by a book for its cover, but what makes a story memorable are the words that tell it." Eruthiawen placed a kiss at the crown of Almárëa's hair. "Elf or mortal, fair or plain, we all have a story worth telling. Besides, you are not yet grown into yourself fully. Be patient, and I suspect one day you will not care so very much if the face you see in the mirror is beautiful, so long as it is yours."

"Easily enough said by someone with a face like yours," grumbled Almárëa. She did relax under Eruthiawen's hands though when she returned to brushing. After a moment of listening to the voice of the waterfall outside, Almárëa added "You have the attentions of both Prince Hakon and Elboron because of your beauty. Will anyone ever care to want to know my story if the cover is plain?"

Eruthiawen sighed and stood from the bed. Turning her back to Almárëa, she went to rummage for a hair clasp in the jewel box on the vanity. It seemed to take her an unusually long time to find one suitable.

At length Eruthiawen spoke. "Elboron has known me for the entirety of his and my life. If he wished to know my feelings on the matter of his rumoured affections, he need only ask. He has said nothing though, and so I do the same. As for Prince Hakon, his letters have been both courteous and charming. Letters can only go so far though, and I have discussed as much with Naneth. If it should come to light that it is my face that Hakon admires above myself, then believe me when I say Almárëa that I will not find such attentions flattering...and neither should you. Now..." Eruthiawen finally selected a clasp of twining gold wire set with emeralds. "...you may imagine yourself plain, gwathel-nin, and thus I make it my sacred duty to prove you wrong. Get up! We are going to raid this closet thoroughly, and we are going to find a gown that will make you feel as beautiful as Lúthien herself at dinner tonight!"

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That evening, they dined on seasoned pheasant, cheese, roasted chestnuts and bread baked by Elladan and Elrohir themselves. Elrohir produced bottles of fine vintage wine from the long-neglected cellars of Imladris, and by the time a crescent moon rose in the sky dinner was a very merry affair indeed. They even invited the guards which had accompanied their party from Minas Tirith to join them afterwards in the Hall of Fire, and laughter rang through the halls of Rivendell as it had not in many long years. Elladan told them stories of the Second Age, and Arwen joined Elrohir in singing a duet in the old tongue of the Noldor; a language all but dead in Middle-Earth. The fires crackled cheerily on the hearths, and the shadows they cast seemed to grow and multiple until it seemed that a hundred figures gathered in the Hall of Fire. All night long until the sun rose, the Last Homely House was filled one last time with light and life and the music of elvish singing.

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