Disclaimer: Mysteriously, I do not own Lord of the Rings. The character of Thronghene is the only one of mine.

It had been so many years now since the War of the Ring. What was it that would soon be approaching, the fiftieth anniversary, the year 49 of the Fourth Age? So long for humans, so long that even now there were children two generations distant from the time of the War of the Ring. Soldiers who had fought that war were now veterans rather than just survivors. The humans were already growing used to their new peace.

The Evenstar stood at the crest of the city of Minas Tirith, the plains spread out beneath her green and lush again. They had not been so perfect at the time of her coronation. A slight breeze stirred her hair from her shoulders and she turned to face it, the cool wind off the mountains more like that which had caressed her elven homelands. For a brief moment the profile of her beautiful face was visible to the guards behind her. They knew, though they could not at that moment see, that her eyes with the stars within them would still have that ancient sadness as well as their more recent brightness.

Once an elven princess, now a human Queen. Arwen Undómiel had given up her always in order to gain her everything.

“Suilaid!”

Arwen looked round fully, turning away from the plains, and smiled. “Thronghene!” she called in reply, her voice bright on the air, but kept her arms folded in front of her. The wind brushed over her hair again, lifting it slightly from her back. “You have returned!”

Thronghene was the eldest of the three daughters whom Arwen had borne Aragorn and so far the fairest of face. The slight tempestuous hint of human nature in her was a fine counterpoint to the elven calm of her older brother Eldarion, though in looks and wit they owed equal merit to the elves. Aged just seventeen, she was already intelligent and strong, and though not exceptional in an elven sense had far outstripped the performance of her human peers. Her current love was riding, and she had been out for a good deal of the morning before this unhastened return.

Arwen embraced her eldest daughter with that same smile, though it was nothing to the one on the Princess’s face. Clearly she had been out-riding the guard again on her new horse, bred out of the purest Rohan stock which now remained. The high colour in her sculpted cheeks was enough to vouch for this same explanation.

“Are your guard escort also returned?”

“Oh yes, I met with them at the gates.” Thronghene showed no sign of chagrin at the question which showed how well her mother was aware of her disregard for formalities. It was one which was common enough by now. “I did not outpace them by so far today as I usually do.”

“You have you father’s spirit, that is for certain.” The smile softening to that of a mother’s regard, Arwen touched Thronghene’s cheek with one hand. Her fingers were cold. “Come, now, let us be seated.”

Thronghene’s countenance became more serious as they were seated on one of the marble benches that encircled the White Tree. She faced her mother, wayward hair forgotten though she had been trying to smooth it down, and sighed softly.

“Whenever Eldarion, my sisters or I show some audacity or character, you always tell us that we have our father’s spirit. For that matter, everybody does. And yet… I have heard the stories of the War of the Ring, and he is not the only one with spirit. Just because you are a woman does not mean that your choices should go unpraised.”

Arwen looked at her in silence for a moment. “Have the knights been using the opposite of such words again, my daughter?”

“No! I mean,” Thronghene hastily corrected her outburst, “no, nothing has been said. It is simply that no matter how many times I hear the stories of the War of the Ring, it is always the men who seem the most praised.”

“Do not forget the Lady Eowyn Shield-Arm.”

“Whose greatest credit is said to be that she fought like a man before the might of the Witch-King himself.”

“You ought to have met her; in fact you ought to meet her still. You will not remember her, though you did once. Even now, the strength of her spirit outshines that of any other warrior that I have met, be they man or woman.” With a shake of her head, Arwen turned her gaze towards the mountains on the far horizon. “But the War of the Ring was concerned as such that most of the talk would be of men: the Fellowship of the Ring, remember, was all male.

“If you want the greatest stories, you must go further back. What of Lúthien, her love so great that even now it rings down through the ages? Melian the Maia, wife of Thingol Grey-Cloak? Idril the White, the elven Princess whose husband Tuor is the only Man to have crossed to the Undying Lands? Aredhel wife of Eöl and mother of Maeglin the Dark One?” Arwen sighed. “And it is not just among the elves that the valour of women is remembered. Tar-Ancalimë was the first Queen of Nùmënor. Rían, mother of Huor; Morwen mother of Túrin Turambar and Nienor Níniel… do not forget their stories either, Thronghene.”

Thronghene had not assented, and was even now frowning. “Long-gone stories of long-gone people, that is all that they are to the people of Gondor if not to me. Stories like so many others which are set before our times began. What can they give me now?”

For a moment Arwen did not reply, her gaze still fixed upon the mountains in the distance. Without even looking, though, she raised her hand sharply just as Thronghene had been about to speak again.

“Perhaps there is a story which I can tell you that can change that,” she said softly. “It reached its end only fifty years ago, a time which people enough of this city will still remember, but for its beginning I will have to return to before the creation of the Moon and Sun to the time when the elves were the only Children of Eru upon this Earth. Do you intend to ride again this afternoon?”

“Not particularly.”

“Good. For in that case I do have a story for you. The story of Artanis Nerwendë, daughter of Finfarfin – better known as Lady Galadriel of Laurelindórean – and a great proof that too many of the greatest stories of the early ages have now fallen forgotten as the Age of Man begins.”