There is a certain word that exists, chiefly used among the elves, who have time to remember, that is best rendered in our tongue as “Eucatastrophe.”  Elven scholars often describe it as the antithesis to tragedy, but only as the prologue to further discussion, for there’s more to it than that.  Eucatastrophe is the living proof that some higher power is in control of the world, that chance will defeat chaos, as against all odds the very best thing that could possibly happen happens.  Just as a tragedy can be averted in many ways and is yet inevitable, if one single event in a Eucatastrophe is altered disaster will strike.  And yet nothing is ever, ever altered.

            Gondor had, a little over three months earlier, experienced a Eucatastrophe.  In fact, all of Middle-Earth had; but Gondor, and Minas Tirith especially, had felt its effects the most.  Four months ago, all her people had had to look forward to were dreadful battle and certain defeat.  Now her age-old Enemy was defeated, her King had returned, and, most recently, she had gained an Elf for her Queen.  She was Her Royal Highness Arwen Undómiel, daughter of Elrond Halfelven, Evenstar of her people, Queen of the Re-united Kingdoms, and currently, she was also very bored.

            Khand, the last of Mordor’s allies, was to arrive today to negotiate (hopefully) for peace.  It was an Affair of State, and so the Queen was expected to attend.  Yet a millennium’s experience had not taught her how to deal with the slightly prickly situation of what to wear to a mannish Affair of State.  Ah, to be among the Elves, who did not take so much stock in a woman’s clothing!  And, more importantly at the moment, to be among people who knew what colors complemented her!

            That was a little petty, but she could not help thinking it.  There had been so little time to prepare for her arrival, and somehow half of Gondor had gotten in its mind that all elven women took after Idril rather than Lúthien.  One elderly seamstress had presented her with a stunning antique gold dress—whether it was intended as a ball gown or for regular usage eluded her, though she suspected the latter—that would turn her fair skin sallow if she even thought of wearing it.  She felt the thick silk on her hand as she leafed through dresses in the ornately carved armoire (also a gift, from some well-intentioned carpenter). Why, this would look better on my husband than it would on me! she thought.

            Instantly she had to sit down and suppress her laughter as she tried to rid that image from her head.  After a few moments’ trial and failure, she and finally decided to put it down the thought as a strange fluke that must have arisen from being in a new environment, being married, or both.

            After making sure that no servants had heard the sound of contained laughter (she had dismissed them; she was not quite used to other people dressing her), she rose and confronted the gold dress again.  No, this one simply would not do, and probably would never do.  She examined the one next to it, a simple blue.  Too plain.  While it was certainly beautiful, it was much more suited to the drawing room than to Court.  Red would draw far too much attention to herself (especially since the people from the East were generally known for their colorful clothing), black far too little.  Finally she settled on a simple grey silk with only a few flowers embroidered on it.  It would have to do.  The bells of the city chimed; the delegation from Khand would arrive within the hour.  Arwen changed, looked over her sitting room one last time, and left.

            It was hardly her fault that that hideous golden dress lingered in her brain over the ensuing hours.