AUTHOR’S NOTE: This oneshot is something I just decided to write one day. Arwen starts having visions no one can explain as her destiny draws upon her and a great event in the North sets it in motion….. Enjoy!
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It was the Third Age of Middle-earth, many years before the War of the Ring would overtake the lands like a shadowed cloud. They were not days of peace but of darkness. The lands of Men were besieged and pillaged by cruel servants of the Dark Lord and even the bastion of fair Ithilien was taken by Mordor. It was in these days a stirring of light was found in Imladris.

Arwen Undómiel lay in the slumber of Elves, her eyes opened but her mind elsewhere. Her silken tresses of shadow were splayed in a glorious array on her pillow and down around her shoulders. Soft beams of moonlight pooled about her, shining in the deep blue fabric of her flowing gown and on her smooth, milky skin.

Strange visions besought her.

She walked among trees ancient and thriving, their white blossoms bright in the twilight. Petals drifted down on the warm breeze like flakes of snow into the lush green grass. Her pale hand often reached out to catch them, and she smiled to see some had settled in her hair that tumbled loosely down her back and over her shoulders in a haze of gleaming ebony. Her spotless white skirts trailed behind in shimmering folds.

But waiting for whom?

Arwen returned from the dream in an instant. She blinked a few times then lifted her upper body onto her elbows. Vivid and clear were the dreams of Elves; however, there was a quality of this one that haunted her thoughts.

She arose from the pallet draped in sheer grey, blue, and violet and stepped out between the arches of the far wall. The night was partially veiled with clouds except for bits of sky where the stars shone through and the moon smiled down in its fullness.

The disturbance of the vision was not wholly unpleasant: it just made her curiosity burn with a great fire.

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Arwen was quietly perusing the artefacts and paintings of Rivendell in the elegant halls of Lord Elrond’s dwelling when he joined her in his silent way. She was stopped by an ancient painting depicting in muted tones the fall of Sauron at the end of the Second Age with Gil-galad and Elendil standing tall against him.

“How are you, my daughter?” His solemn but tender grey eyes fell on her well-shaped profile.

“I am very well, father.” She turned to smile faintly up at him. She was tall for even an Elf maiden, though still only reached his chin. “Yet a dream I had last night troubles me.”

“The Shadow oppresses even the realm of your dreams?”

“No, not the Shadow.” Her eyes gleamed. “Something of a lighter mood. There was no darkness or despair as seems wont in these days.”

Elrond listened as she recounted the vision. Once she grew quiet again, he absently rubbed his pointed chin.

“I cannot see what it means. Perhaps you will meet someone soon whom fate has set in your path,” he said in his soothing tenor. His hand settled comfortingly on her shoulder. “Do not let it trouble you too much, my daughter.”

“Thank you.” She rested her head on his strong shoulder, the same shoulder she had wept upon, leant upon, or fallen asleep upon as a child.

As they began to walk together, Elrond’s mind turned and worked. Arwen was his only daughter, and he had only grown more watchful of her after Celebrían passed over the Sea years ago. The thing that was at least somewhat comforting was that Arwen did not look like her mother so much to constantly remind him. Actually, it was difficult to say who she looked like. Perhaps the whisperings of her amazing resemblance to Lúthien Tinúviel were truer than he thought. Another topic he tried to avoid. Thinking of her being like Lúthien of old sent his thoughts down the path of his daughter eventually falling in love. At the moment, it seemed unlikely since she did not spend much of her time in company of other Elves but was rather solitary.

I pray that day never comes, he thought sadly.

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The Evenstar bid farewell to her father a few days later. Lothlórien, the Golden Wood of their kindred, offered a safer haven and also was inhabited by Celebrían’s father and mother. Lady Galadriel had come to love Arwen dearly in the way of the Elves, and Arwen stayed with her often. But this time it would be much longer.

She passed into the guarded forests with a small escort and reached Caras Galadhon when the sun began to fall out of the heavens. Galadriel and Celeborn greeted her warmly.

“My dear Evenstar, I am glad to have you near again,” said the Lady of the Wood with only the faintest curve of her lips yet with gladness glittering in her eyes. Her pale hand rested on the younger maiden’s arm. “You bring a light with you to our beloved woods.”

“Thank you, Galadriel.” She smiled and turned to Celeborn. “How fare you also, my lord?”

“Very well,” he said with a courteous nod. Golden hair stirred against his firm jaw line. “I am also pleased to see you. Will you be with us long?”

“Yes, I shall.” She looked around at the beauty of Lórien. The fading sunlight cast its last vibrant rays in sprays of gold and crimson into the trees, setting alight the leaves of gold as if the boughs were laden in shimmering bits of the precious metal. “I love it dearly here.”

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Arwen and Galadriel stood at the base of an exquisitely shaped fountain in a lower, small glen of the forest where they were well away from others.

Galadriel’s bare feet slid over the dense grass as she crossed the gap between them. “Fair Undómiel, how I have wondered of your fate.”

Arwen’s head rose and her eyes regarded her intently. “What of my fate do you wonder? Can you not see so many things in the mysterious depths of your Mirror?”

“It shows many things, yes, but anything concerning you that I might see is veiled and misted. I often do not even know what I am seeing or watching.” She let her arms hang loose at her sides and tilted her head a little to the side. “Have you had any strange visions of late?”

“How did you know? I have only told my father.”

Galadriel shook her head and turned to walk a few steps away. “So you have?”

“Yes. I do not understand what it was. It seemed I was amongst a grove of trees covered in white blossoms and waiting for someone. Who would I wait for?” The memory of the feeling still resounded strongly within her.

“Many Elves of this Age have forsaken a love of lovers and of marriage. They instead grow weary of Middle-earth or despair and sail away. Perhaps in Aman they find it. I thought you would be one of these, yet lately I felt it may not be so.”

Arwen stood from her seat on the ledge of the melodious fountain and sought for the gaze of her grandmother. “What are you saying?”

“This dream could be the foresight of your kin warning you of someone to come. A man who you will hold dear. An Elf lord perhaps?” A hint of a smile graced her pale lips and silvery light of lanterns hanging nearby glistened on her golden head as she shook it again. “None can tell for certain. You shall have to wait and see.”

“Then that is what I shall do. I have never given much thought to having a beloved of my heart while so many terrible things are happening around us in our refuges. How long will we be able to keep the darkness at bay?”

“We cannot know this either.”

Arwen’s slender and graceful form stood tall and erect beneath the silver boughs above them. “I will not give up hope. None of us should ever give up hope for Middle-earth. I wish our kindred would not flee or despair so quickly of these lands.”

“So do I, my dear. So do I.”

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Only a few years later in the Wilds of the North near the Misty Mountains where none dwelt and few travelled, a tall figure swathed in the shadows of his grey cloak stepped inside a humble shelter of wood and thatch and threw back his hood. Piercing eyes of solemn grey lifted and scanned the abandoned room. Muffled cries of pain sent a shudder down his spine as they came through the closed door to the side.

He clenched the hilt of his sword and tried to settle into one of the simple wooden chairs. It did no use. He leapt to his feet again and watched the door.

Evening was fast approaching. The tip of the sun was all that was visible on the mountainous horizon, and the brightest stars appeared in the deep blue of the heavens. A strong wind bent the trees of the forests surrounding them and whistled against the house’s doors and windows. The violent thrashing of the branches and creaking wood almost covered the sounds of labour in the other room.

The man’s face was not one to easily blend in a crowd. His sloped nose, square jaw, and firm lips aided in his natural air of authority and gave him a comely appearance. He was of the Dúnedain, Rangers of the North, and servant of the light to banish the Shadow. No one stood against Arathorn son of Arador.

It felt an eternity before the door opened, and he tensed. The grey-haired woman beckoned him in, a grim smile wrinkling her eyes and cheeks.

Arathorn approached the bed ignoring the stains of blood and tangled linens. He only had eyes for his wife whose head lay against a pillow and her arms wrapped around a small bundle. A sheen of sweat glistened on her smooth skin and her dark hair had been braided to her waist. Her shining gaze caught his as soon as he stepped in.

He sat beside her and gently brushed a shadowy strand from her brow. His eyes strayed to her arms. He slowly pushed aside the white cloth to look in wonder upon the face of his son. The boy was no longer crying even.

Gilraen’s lovely face turned to the window. “It is already twilight.” She stroked the soft head of her son, dark tufts already covering it. “Our son shall always be a lover of the evening.”

“Indeed he shall.” Arathorn lightly kissed her brow, then the child’s. “Aragorn… lover of the stars and of the evening.”

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Arwen awoke with a start. The dream had come again after all those years. However, this time there was more.

She felt the sense of anticipation fall over her again, and she looked up into the sky. The velvety violet, grey, and deep blue shades of the twilit heavens were suddenly illuminated by the flash of a brilliant star newly born. Her eyes studied it as she brushed some of the silken white petals from her white gown. Her head came down again, and she stared ahead quite certain the vague shape of a man stood a great distance before her.

That is where it ended.

Now she was even more bewildered by its meaning and went to see Galadriel at once. She was glad to see the Lady walking beneath the vast array of excellently crafted talans and lamp-lit, winding stairways wrapping around the broad boles of the mellorn trees.

Galadriel paused in her step to greet Arwen. “Another vision?”

“Of sorts. It was the same one but with more revealed. Has something happened?”

“The first of the month of Sulimë is of no importance that I know. Tell me of it.”

Arwen described the continuation of the dream to her beloved grandmother and sighed when she came to its end. “I am not sure if more will come or not.”

“So it was a man?”

“Yes, it was. He was quite tall but that is all I can tell.” Her grey eyes clouded with thought, and she raised her head to look up at the patches of dark sky glimpsed among the treetops. “He was the star birthed in the heavens.”

“How do you know this?”

“I just know,” said Arwen. “And that is all I know.”

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Twenty years passed from that night.

The fair valley of Imladris eagerly awaited the arrival of Arwen Undómiel, the Evenstar of her people. Lord Elrond had been brought tidings that she was returning to see her home once again.

After spending time with her father, Arwen decided to take a pleasant stroll through the grove of birches where their white flowers littered petals to the ground. Since much time had passed since her peculiar visions, she did not immediately think to note how similar the scene was. As she walked amidst the tranquil beauty of the Elven lands, she did not know that fate walked at her heels or whispered to her in the warm breeze of the twilight.

It was only when she heard the rich and deep timbre of a man’s voice relaying the fate of Lúthien Tinúviel to the thriving trees that her breath caught in her throat. Not only did the wondrous voice captivate her mind and heart, but the remembrance of her dream came upon her and she wondered. Her silver gaze stared ahead as the well-shaped figure of a very tall man appeared in the distance and the voice called:

“Tinúviel! Tinúviel!”

The man was calling to her. Her Beren Erchamion had appeared. And she knew then that his call would ever be heard and answered by her heart.

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NOTE: I would really appreciate feedback of any sort from whoever reads this! Thank you :).