She says she has chosen.

How can this be?

She tells me with perfect dignity, quietly, biding no argument.

But her eyes belie her seeming composure. They plead with me to accept, to understand her decision. And brim with hot tears as I turn away.

She is your sister, a silent voice snaps. You cannot disown her so.

Elladan would have reacted better – perhaps did react better, if she has told him already. After all, he has always been the one more attuned to our human heritage – it is inherent even in his name.

But we are Elves. This is the path our father chose, and the path we have been brought up to. And she would cast it away, and ask me to embrace her choice.

And of all Men for her to set her heart on – the lad, small nameless heir of the Dúnedain, who was raised in our own house, who called myself and Elladan ‘brother’, who rejoiced in any chance he had to follow us on a scouting or raiding party.

He always wanted to be an Elf.

And now she wants to be a human.

I had not known that fate has a sense of irony.

I suppose I should no longer call him a ‘lad’. He is grown, as Men reckon such things, and for decades now he has forayed on his own in the wild, not tagging along at my brother’s and my heels. But still, compared to myself – or my sister – he is yet a sapling, a bud that will scarcely flower before it is withered by time.

Such is the destiny that Arwen would bind herself to?

I do not understand it. I cannot accept it.

Please, sister, cries a part of my heart, the part that knows that arguing aloud is useless. We are the Three, remember? The immortal trio, the ageless adventurers. What of the oath of vengeance that we swore against the Orcs? How will you fulfill that if you are to suffer the Doom of Men?

I know not what she hopes I will say. “Of course, Arwen, do what you feel is right. I shall never see you again, but I hope you are happy. Until the end, at any rate. I…well, I shall remember you in Valinor. Fare thee well, sister.”

I will not hurt her with words such as these, but I cannot think of an easier way to phrase them. So I am silent, and I stare at the wall, where hangs a small tapestry. It is inexpertly made: it is the first that Arwen created when she learned to weave, centuries ago, and she was so proud when I hung it in my room. With a terrible, bitter pang, I realise, seeing it anew, that it depicts the meeting of Lúthien and Beren. Did Arwen know, even as a child, that this would be her doom, or does fate just seek another way to torment me?

A hand is laid tentatively on my arm. I look down, my heart twisting as I notice the lovely silver ring adorning the index finger, but I do not turn, and the words that I would say seem to be lost somewhere between my mind and my mouth. Sweet Elbereth, there has never been such a barrier between us before. Help me say something…but nothing comes to mind, and the hand is removed. I hear a long, shuddering sigh, and then the soft sound of my door being pulled shut. Too late, I find my voice – “Arwen!” – hoping that she will hear, and return, and forgive me my silence; or, better yet, that she will laugh and tell me that all was a jest. But the only reply is a crackle and hiss as the logs on the hearth settle, falling with a shower of sparks into glowing embers. Outside my window, a lark chirps a few dubious notes to the gathering dusk.

Nay, little one, you are mistaken: it is the twilight, not the dawn. Darkness is not lifting, it is falling…

I fling myself on my bed. “Curse you, Estel,” I whisper fiercely, and the cruel words that I cannot truly make sincere set free the tears that have been stinging behind my eyelids.

Estel, Estel, I would trust you with my life. The Valar know that you have saved it countless times. But this – this is too great a gift that you would have from me! Ask any other treasure, and I swear I would not begrudge it…

A tear creeps into the corner of my mouth, and I turn my head to spit it out. I have heard that the tears of Men are salty, wellnigh sweet, but Elven tears are bitter – perhaps because they bear the sadness of ages, rather than a mere three or fourscore years, as it is with the Younger Children.

My thoughts turn to my twin, as they do unerringly when I feel pain or sorrow. Elladan, I would you were here…I need your wisdom, brother. Does he weep these same tears? Or is he yet unaware of the wedge that has sundered Elrond’s children? The wedge – I smile humourlessly – that once himself named Elrond ‘father.’

Dear my sister…we are at an impasse…

We cannot both be happy…

I remember the two-year-old who arrived in Imladris one stormy night, clutched in the arms of his mother Gilraen. My brother and I had been with his father, Arathorn, when he was slain only days before on an Orc raid. Now his toddler of a son had come to live in my own home, and was accepted as my own brother. I remember, too, how my sister was sent soon after to live with our grandmother in Lórien. Father, did I ever question your reasons? What a fool I was…

I loved the little Man-child, of course: he was so bright, so eager to learn, so desperate to prove his worth among my people. And he was the only youngling in Rivendell, so naturally he was cosseted and spoiled thoroughly. But the attention never swelled his head – which is why his request regarding Arwen is doubly stunning. It might be called arrogant, if Estel had an arrogant fibre in his body. And yet – Estel, you say you love us. How could you presume to part us so? I love my sister – possibly more than I love you. She is my flesh and my blood, after all.

Still, you are my little brother, once my wriggling tadpole of a Manling. It is impossible not to love you. But – I knew from the beginning that you are mortal, and I knew that the day would come when I would have to bid you farewell when you passed beyond the circles of this world. I knew that, and I accepted it. But you ask to take my beloved sister with you? This I cannot accept.

Arwen…Opposing forces battle within my head. On the one hand, I would fly from my rooms, find my sister, capitulate and beg forgiveness for my asininity. On the other, I would struggle with her, demand that she change her mind, laden her with guilt and remorse until her resolve cracks.

I can do neither, so I remain on my bed, and weep, and curse impotently.

Dear brother; dear, dear sister; why do you endeavour to tear me in two?

The birds are bold here in Rivendell. The lark who had been singing before now alights on my windowsill, cocking his head at me curiously. He seems familiar, and recalls to me a happier, simpler time, when Estel was still very young, perhaps eleven or twelve.

“See, Elrohir?” Standing on a great precipice of rock on the lip of the valley of Imladris, he spread his arms westward and proclaimed his childish boasts. “I am on the highest point, so I am king of all this land.”

“Everything I can see. Everything you can see.” He was ever jealous of my keener eyesight. Then his tone changed, grew more serious. “No. Everything that a bird can see.” He turned to me, his expression sober. “Have you ever seen an eagle, brother?”

And the moment had passed.

Why did I not heed the warning?

A light knock on my door startles the bird away.

“Elrohir.”

“Elrohir, please…”

“Come in, Arwen,” I call. “And forgive me. I was thinking only of myself. You are my sister, and I wish you happiness, no matter where you may find it.”

There is silence. Then I hear her muffled sob, and footsteps moving away. And I realise that I did not speak aloud.

And my tears start afresh, drops of a Morgul cordial, and now I do not reject their bitterness.

The cool of evening is settling over the valley of Rivendell when a slender hand grips the windowsill. My rooms are on the third floor of my father’s house, but this visitor is hardly unexpected; weary with sorrow and weeping, I do not even look up. The owner of the hand silently draws himself up, and there is Elladan, perched on the sill, gazing down at me.

“She has told you,” he says. There is no need to answer, and indeed no need for him to have sought confirmation in the first place. A look at my grief-stained face, and he sighs. “I feared that you would not take to it well.”

“Well?” My ragged whisper seems to explode in the quiet of the room. “Elladan, she will die!”

He slips swiftly from the window, coming to sit on the bed beside me. I bury my eyes in the bedclothes – I know he is hurting as much as I, and I cannot stand to see him in pain. “Dear my brother.” His voice is at once hoarse and tender. “If she loves him…”

“Him.” Even to my own ears, it sounds dangerously near a hiss. “Estel has betrayed us.”

“No!” Elladan protests. His fingers, gentle but inexorable, grip my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. “You must not think so,” he says emphatically. “Estel is our brother. That is ever true, regardless of the ways of his heart.”

“The ways of his heart…?” I wrench myself away, standing, staring at him aghast. “Even when that heart seeks to part us from our sister?”

“It is not his fault,” my brother says, softly, sadly. “Father knew the peril inherent in their meeting. It is why he sent Arwen to Lórien. You know that. But he could not keep her from here forever…nor from Estel. And now she has chosen her fate, and Father accepts it, so long as the Man proves himself worthy of such a bride.”

My whole being rebels against the calm words. I lean against the wall, resting my flushed forehead on the cool stone. “She thinks she is Lúthien,” I say harshly, trying to conceal my anguish with scornful sarcasm. But a light hand descends on my shoulder, the most gentle, understanding caress, and pulls away the sardonic veil, leaving me with only my unadulterated grief. With a choking sob, I turn to my twin and embrace him fiercely. “Tell me you will never do this thing!” I demand. “Never!”

“I will not,” he promises softly. His arms are around my waist; I wonder if I could even stand on my own, should he withdraw his support. “You know I could never bear to be parted from you.”

I feel my tears begin to overflow again. “Brother mine,” whispers Elladan, his tone rough with emotion. “You are more precious to me than the earth and wind and stars. I would sooner live an age without seeing the sun than a day without hearing your voice.”

A long sigh of a breath steals from my lips, inexplicably soothing, carrying away with it a welter of pain and a quiet pledge: “And so would I.” I raise a hand to wipe my eyes, but Elladan grasps my wrist. He settles a kiss, no more than a feather, a grazing breeze, on my cheek: an affectionate, symbolic gesture, sharing my grief by tasting my tears. And, mysteriously, the token does seem to allay my sorrow. I draw a deep breath and release it slowly. “I must find Arwen,” I say, “and apologise to her.”

“Good,” Elladan replies with a smile. “I would not have a rift between any of my siblings.” He hesitates. “What of Estel?…”

I pull away. “I love my sister, Elladan,” I answer, low. “I do not know.”

It is the sound of weeping that draws me to Arwen’s gardens. A foreign scent drifts to me as I enter soundlessly – the fragrance of elanor, the golden flowers of Lothlórien that my sister so dearly loves and had transplanted to her private bit of Rivendell. It is the only place west of the Misty Mountains that one can smell this aroma…

She is kneeling on the ground, and the moon above silvers the entire scene – the white flagstones; the pale, tearstained face; even the gilded petals that she holds cupped in her hands. “Estel,” I hear her whisper to the blossoms, and a stinging ache springs back to life in my heart, and I struggle to keep my feet from walking away. Then – oh, kind Elbereth! – she calls my name, crying a plea to the stars. I step out of the shadows.

“I am here, Arwen.”

She startles, rises swiftly, hastily dashing away her tears. “Elrohir?” In her demeanour are a thousand warring emotions – amazement, joy, anxiety, wariness. She stretches her arms out to me, full of longing, then sees the flower still clutched in her hand.

Gently I take it from her before she can let it fall. She clasps her now-empty hands almost guiltily before her and stares down at them. “They remind you of him,” I say, asking unnecessary confirmation.

“Yes.” She looks up, but her gaze is lengthened beyond me, back through time. “When we met in Lórien,” she remembers, her voice muted and lilting with the memory, “he was clad in silver and white, and a star bound his brow, and his arms were laden with elanor…”

An acrid pain sings through my veins, and I hurriedly shift the subject. “I came to apologise to you, sister, and to ask your forgiveness for my folly. It hurts me to hurt you, and I never intended to.”

Her soft, relieved sigh is benison and absolution. “I know, brother.” But she will not be drawn aside so easily. “And yet you address the symptom while avoiding the sickness, master healer.”

Ignoring the subtle flattery, I look away. Curse her perceptiveness! She steps nearer, hesitates. “Will you accept my choice, Elrohir?”

I turn back, a denial boiling in my throat, but one look at her strangles me. I had not known that it was possible to blend love, despair, and hope into a singular, devastating expression. For a moment, despite her raven hair and grey eyes, I see only our mother Celebrían. I know, beyond any doubt, that this is what Father saw when Mother asked to sail into the West after her torture at the hands of the Orcs. And if this is so, then I see why he yielded. But before I can react, she turns away, and the spell is broken. Her face turns up toward the spangled velvet heavens, and a half-whispered cry escapes her lips. “Ilúvatar, why?”

“Why?” I repeat, questioning.

She glances at me, grieved and bitter. “If Elda and Adan are so different, then why may we love?”

I have no answer. She sighs heavily, sorrowful, and says vehemently, “I can please no one, it seems! Estel was beloved by you before this – now I am torn between my love and your hostility!”

“Perhaps this anguish is token of Eru’s frown upon unions between the two Kindreds,” I cannot keep myself from suggesting. Her eyes flash angrily.

“Are you able to discern the designs of the One, then, brother?”

I open my mouth, then shut it, as my audacity becomes apparent. “No,” I admit finally. Then, in desperation, I blurt, “Arwen, there may be another–”

“No, Elrohir!” She flings out her arms in entreaty. “I love him. There will be no other! Why will you not see this?”

“It is not that I will not, sister, but that I cannot!” I catch her hands in my own. “I love you, Arwen!”

Her expression suddenly softens. “I know, dear brother, I know. Believe me, I love you no less because I love Estel as well.” She presses my hands tenderly. “But what would you have me do? I have prayed to Eru that he be somehow made one of the Eldar, but…” She looks down, then back. “He would forsake his own people, if he could. How can I do any less for him?” Then, with an unexpected smile, she says, “Perhaps you will understand someday, Elrohir. Perhaps you will find love, a love like this – so true, so pure. In all honesty, I could not choose other than I have.”

The gentle assertion is nonetheless stirring. In the face of her guileless devotion, my hostility toward Estel falters, weakens. “Truly, Arwen?”

“Truly, brother.” She lifts my hands, calloused by knife and bowstring, and folds them between hers, and gazes into my eyes for a long while.

With a sigh of surrender, I attempt to mask my sorrow with a mild jest: “Ilúvatar forbids that I stand between you and your Beren, lady Lúthien.”

She laughs lightly, a sound that gladdens my heart despite its pain, and embraces me. “If only she had a father and brothers so loving and compassionate.”

As we stand together, relishing our restored concord, I am aware of the music of her voice, the fragrance of her hair – things I have never noticed before, and only notice now because of their new-revealed transience. “I will miss you,” I whisper.

Her arms tighten around me. “I am still here, Elrohir.”

“For now.”

She pulls away to gaze at me. “Count the days we have together,” she says softly, “not the days until we are parted.”

“I will try.” For her sake, I force a smile. “Who can assuage my moods as you can, sister? What will I do when…”

“I think Elladan knows you somewhat, even better than I,” she answers, gently teasing. Her eyes remain sober, though, and she adds earnestly, “Fear not that I will ever leave you, my brother. I will dance with you in your dreams, and perhaps beyond the end of this world, we will meet again in another.”

The idea shines all round with hope nearly too intense to bear. “Do you think so, honestly, Arwen?”

She lays a light kiss on my brow. “I believe, Elrohir.”