. . .
To Flicker in Sunlight
. . .

The white stone of the city would never be a sight akin to a home in her mind. Perhaps the people who were kept safe within them would, but the stone—she could not imagine it in such a way.

To mortals, rocks had always been a sign of strength, or perhaps unchanging contentment. Somehow, out of the many fleeting mortals lives that had been known and gone, every person had remained ignorant to the revelation that rocks crumble in time. Rocks do not endure, neither were they ever alive. Inert had they been and so shall they remain, moving only by the wind or rain. Perchance to the sea or to a canyon—either way no choice was given them.

Her eyes traveled over the parts of the city that extended past the garden and palace walls. She studied the way that darkness could exist even in the brightest day. The sky was clear, not a cloud to be seen. Sunlight lay upon the stones, but with the sun were shadows. The shadows destroyed the illusion that the sun and stone created—an illusion of peace and strength, for an ever growing gloom rested in every dark corner and arch. The shadows were unbeknownst to many, but she had learned to find them, tear at them, and one day find means of destroying them.

When the king was on business, true joy would allude her unless she closed her eyes, the unfeeling of the city being sealed behind a veil of fleeting memory. The winds' whispers danced around her, secrets confided in the ears that held the shape of an elf but not the eternity of one. In those times, Arwen could only breathe deeply, for this was the fate she had chosen—one of loss, distance, and an unmatched joy that she could not let herself forgot.

This place—it was her elected residence. Though lovely at times, in other passing moments she found it to be a cage, imprisoning her behind its looming walls and iron gates. She had foreseen the joy she would find in marriage, but the formality that men would induce had eluded her most fanciful daydream. It was surprising to say the least, for she had meticulously thought on it for decades before coming to a decision.

Their meeting had occurred amid the trees, him also inanely wandering through the foliage, no purpose aside from leisure. Years came and went and then in those same woods, yet under twilight and beside shadows, she had sworn upon her very heart that she would be his if he would be hers. The pledge had rested inconsequential for so long she had almost doubted the significance of it, but never had she lost faith in the dedication that lit in Aragorn's eyes. The burning hope that he had been named for was ever present, despite what circumstance they might have found themselves in—such as the scrutinizing gaze of her father.

She chuckled at the thought, pulling herself from the rippling reverie.

The past would not change the present, even if she had wanted it to—decidedly, she did not, but still the thought lingered. The woods of her longing faded back to Minas Tirith, a bleak contrast—as night and day or as death and life

Perhaps, even, as elf and mortal. Of which she was neither, only a strange imbalance of beauty and transience. She was the wings of a butterfly, beating at life's command but one day slowing and then stopping, all upon a whim. Though her fate was of her own pronouncement, the idea of death could not be a natural one. To live a millennium and then be thrust into a cycle of aging was strange, foreign. So long ago—or so it felt—she had told her father of her choice. He had warned her then, just as he had countless times before. A mortal life would bring more sadness than she had ever felt, even at the parting of her mother. Loss would be fresher than the air on the shores of Pelargir.

Still she had pressed forward.

Looking once more over the expanse that was Minas Tirith—the expanse that had become hers when it had been inherited by the Heir of Isildur—she turned away, moving back into the chambers she shared with her husband. Ah, husband. If she had forsaken Middle Earth, never would this love have been felt, instead being lost to the ages. The love would have been put into legend and song as a tale of woe, following a fickle maiden and steadfast warrior. With every heartbeat she thanked Eru that it had not been.

All had seemed right the moment she had pressed the Evenstar pendant into Aragorn's hand. Her heart had been his since their meeting, but somehow the necklace had symbolized such to a much greater extent. Often she had pondered why needling doubt had lingered, but had yet to decipher the riddle of it. Many a night she had wandered through the halls of Imladris, her mind thinking, wondering, searching for the reason she might have found this love that was so betwixt of curse and blessing, drawing her from the quiet life of the Undomiel and into a tumultuous world between worlds.

The winds told her today she would find an answer to the riddle. Whether she would understand the answer, was a different matter. The less time she spent with those that were once her people, the more she realized that their language truly was an enigma in its own right. Confusion fringed upon every whisper, no matter its simplicity.

Arwen exited her chambers, taking to wandering as she often used to.

The people of Minas Tirith had not accepted her readily. She could hear their whispers, see their stares. It did not matter. They were not ridding themselves of her that easily. With every appearance she made, supporting Aragorn in his every endeavor, their approval grew—or so the King's ministers would assure her.

For the present, the people would leave it be.

Slowly, she made her way down the hall, hand brushing the walls she passed and thus tapestries and portraits. The decorations were so lifeless in the royal wing, the wing that her hand's touch could not effect. Once her dedication to the crown had been established, perchance more changes could be made concerning the decor.

Almost mindlessly, she ambled to the guest halls. As elf, man, and dwarf alike could all be expected to dwell in Minas Tirith simultaneously, the wing was to be decorated for each race of Middle Earth. Strangely, to her this was the most homely place in the palace, breathing an air of freshness that felt akin to Imladris. The many visitors that the valley dwelling had hosted had made such unfamiliarity a constant in her whirlwind of capricious life.

Her father and brothers had, of course, always handled the visitors, many of them carrying a shaded quality. In the beginning she had been too young to act as a hostess, but even once she had grown, before she had journeyed to stay in Lothlorien, they told her there was no need to steal her from her poems and songs, and that her mind might stay in the imagined lands and times since past. Their words were both teasing and chivalrous, a testimony of how strong the bonds of family could be.

Abruptly, she stopped walking, her skirt swishing around her legs. Those bonds they had built, they were so strong—still were so strong and yet—

Yet she had come so close to damaging them. Elladan and Elrohir had never given her cause to suspect any animosity in relation to her decision, yet worry had supplied ample reason to do so. She had loved them and always would, it was simply that...

She shook her head. Her choice was made. Regret would never—could never—border the reasoning behind that choice, only a forever curious wondering of 'what if?'

Elladan and Elrohir had forestalled their choice for the present, or so they claimed. Some decision had been made prior to her father's departure, of that Arwen was certain. Her brothers' reluctance to tell her only confirmed a premonition that had lain upon her mind: they would cross the Sea, taking the journey to the Grey Havens.

And such was their right to do. It was not her place to deny nor demand. She had accepted—even expected—as much. When they had learned of her choice, she had felt the rising tension fall away to acceptance and ease. Their eyes had spoken what they could not bear to.

Their parents could not be left childless.

In the same way, they could not exist without the other and so together they would one day pass to the Grey Havens, though they remained for the present. Adar and Naneth were waiting, as were many others dear to them all.

Ah, but so beloved was her husband, her hope, her love. Her kin would understand. All of them.

Would they not?

Unable to continue, her knees weakening with each passing moment of hesitancy, she dropped herself onto the nearest bench. Many years she had spent countless hours thinking on her immortality and the loss of it that would be brought with the gain of marriage. Through those hours, she had always smothered the wondering that her family might not be as content in her choice as she, but now her thoughts wandered freely.

Should the need ever arise that she should explain her choice, her answer was prepared: love, a great love that would not abate even in a thousand millennia. Her heart's desire would not be quelled, never to be at peace should she leave.

But now her love quavered, not feeling anything less for Aragorn, but being torn asunder in its search for her adar—her gwanûn—her naneth... Would they doubt her love?—doubt her dedication because she could not find cause to forsake the one that had stolen the very breath from her lungs, becoming the right to her wrong and hope to her despair—

Her shoulders shook increasingly more the deeper she plunged into the pool that had beckoned so warmly moments before. To tread down this path of memory was not a desired journey, but one that she at times must take. If she forgot it, what would she have but a void of time that passed without purpose? The stone walls around her did not whisper comfortingly as the wind had done, but instead roared one condemning notion after the next, some truth and some inexplicable suspicion or blunted lie.

Arwen remained oblivious to the passing of time. Perhaps a minute or perhaps infinity slipped around her but she felt it not.

Could love truly be considered the cause that had compelled her to stay? Was there more to her reasoning? Middle Earth had been fading into a dark nothingness when her mind had been made. She had seen the land spiraling towards doom, no love being left in it.

So why had elation to stay been found in the fading place? Why not in the promise of peace and rest that the Grey Havens offered?—ai, promise. How many promises she had avowed to hold to... While Aragorn had sworn not to hold her word against her at the time that they had plighted their troth, another promise had she made by entrusting him with the Evenstar pendant. In the action she had needlessly said that her heart would be his, remaining in Middle Earth even should she be ripped from it, in death or life. In some way, her promise had held her to the present world but Arwen knew that above even that there had been another anchor.

Hope.

Hope that so many ignored. Hope that had been lost to Shadow. But, above them both, a hope that rested in love. All this time she had contented herself to the idea that love was the incitement of her journey to this point but now she could ascertain her own fault in thinking. Hope was an inspiration, something that would awaken a sense of resolve. It was a decree in itself, but voice must be given to it by those few that were willing.

So many times in the day had she been lost to the past that she found herself struggling to define where the present existed. Bringing her to lucidity, a hand brushed her shoulder. She jolted, sluggishly realizing who smiled at her—who had come to sit beside her—who whispered comfort and greeting in her own tongue.

"Arwen, meleth, are you well? Does something pain you?"

Tears had gathered in her eyes, creating an unsteadiness to the image before her. Blinking, she said, "Not so much now, as you are here, Estel, for I was looking for my hope."

"And I for my heart," Aragorn said, the sides of his fingers brushing against her cheek and catching upon straying tears. "What ailment has befallen you?"

She shook her head. "No ailment, only wondering of what could have been and perhaps a fear of it."

Aragorn did not answer, and Arwen thanked whichever higher power had caused such, for her thought had not yet finished, only stuttering to its incomplete pause.

She breathed slowly. "Meleth, there was a time that I might not have chosen you." For fear that Aragorn's guilt would be arisen—as he never would have wished her to desert an awaiting eternity—she continued, "Please know that now I would always choose our love over whatever else might be offered me, but still there are times, at dusk and dawn, that I think on it. Few tales such as ours have been lived and fewer have found their end to be desirable. What story will we leave behind us? What have I done to it by choosing a life with you, and you choosing one with me?"

Concern swirled in Aragorn's eyes, as clouds in a storming sky yet more peaceable. He took her hand in his, holding it to his chest. A mirthless but soothing smile upturned his lips. "Do you feel that?"

Without any doubt did she feel it—the steady rhythm of his pounding heart. She nodded soundlessly.

"Then know that that heart would no longer be feeling nor beating. I would have fallen long ago, either to darkness or a despairing mishap, and neither of us would have come to see this place that we are in now. Valar only knows how the Shadow would have triumphed. When I fell in battle, when the cliffs attempted to claim me, who assured me of life but you?"

An undeniable sincerity boldly echoed in his every word. She could not find grounds to disagree, but could only look down at her hands that rested upon her skirts. "You speak with such conviction, I am nearly inclined to concede..."

Aragorn's fingers wove into her hair and she was gently forced to look back into his grey lit eyes. "You had best, or will forever be puzzled by a lie, my queen."

"Is that my king's order?"

"Nay. Only his dearest wish."

She felt the blush tint her cheeks even before it fully appeared. Was this her promised answer then? Could this be the reason behind her finding?—for love could be held in hope but harmoniously could hope be held in love. One could not exist without the other. She hummed quietly and said, "Then, in time, I may acquiesce."

"And that is all I can ask." Aragorn pressed his lips to her forehead. "Your father gave us his blessing. He would not have done so if he did not truly believe in our joining."

Arwen nodded, a reluctant but joyous smile peeking its way through the despondency that had masked her features. "You are right, and seem to have taken after him—if not in blood then heart and wisdom. Hannon-le, meleth."

"'Tis my duty and pleasure, nin vanima elleth."

And there she stayed for yet another term of immeasurable moments, now spent in bliss. Aragorn by her, she found a freeing persuasion in her decision to stay. A deep sigh emanated from her as she fingered the necklace that had for so long hung around Aragorn's neck. He would carry her heart. Until death do them part, she resolved to give him purpose to. There was much to anticipate in the coming century, much yet to be known or considered. Good or bad, she would be glad to have stayed in a world that rarely presented a mundane day.

Though her hope may wane and grow dim, there would always be love to awaken it, even should the sun's shadow cast darkness their way.

finis

. . .

Translations:
meleth/meleth-nin : love/my love
hannon-le : thank you
vanima : beautiful
elleth : lady (lady elf)

This story was written as a contest piece several years ago. Highly introspective and the only time I've ever written about Arwen, heh.

Good? Bad? I would love to hear your thoughts!

. . .

NEXT: the Inevitability: Disaster when Glorfindel is tasked with escorting the Peredhil and Thranduillion through the forest.