Dreams Wrought

I

             Among the beeches where she used to dance with the other maidens of Imladris, Arwen now danced alone.  She rejoiced to be in the home where she’d been born so many yeni since.  Finding her father smiling freely once more and her brothers no longer grim with their rage toward the orcs who’d taken and tortured their mother had heartened her beyond reason, easing her own lingering grief.  So, she danced, not realizing that a stranger to her watched her, his own heart filled with the wonder of her presence here—and with her beauty.  Ere she noticed his presence he had already lost his heart to her, thinking he’d seen Lúthien Tinúviel herself in these latter times, here in his own chosen refuge within Elrond’s realm.

            Another descendent of Isildur found himself yearning for the daughter of Elrond and Celebrian, although he did not as yet know her parentage or why she had suddenly appeared here among the beeches that had filled his heart with ineffable hints of glory unseen—unseen until now, at least.

            Having seen him, she paused, recognizing the worship in the young Man’s eyes, not recognizing as yet the slight stir in her own heart.