Chapter One

Arwen ran a hand over Asfolath’s arched neck, quiet thoughts running through her mind like a rippling stream. She wondered at unknown mysteries, her eyes closed as she listened to the rain pattering down on the stable roof. Her peace was suddenly broken by a scream, and the sound of galloping hooves. She whirled around and saw a young girl collapse by a tree, her side pierced by a thick dark arrow, fletched with black. Arwen just glimpsed a tattered black cloak disappearing into the woods, and then focused her attention on the invalid.

“Elrohir!” she cried. “Come quickly!” Elrohir came running over, concern on his brow. “Oh Elrohir, look!” Brother and sister raced to the foot of the tree.

“She’s hurt bad,” Elrohir panted.

“I know that,” Arwen snapped, “Help me get her out of here and somewhere warm.”

The girl awoke. She was alone in the room, lying on a small canopied bed. She gingerly felt her side, wincing as a spasm of pain shot through her body. At first glance, she appeared to be very young, but premature wisdom glinted in her eyes. Pointed ears denoted the fact that she was Elven, and if you looked closely you could see she was in her early hundreds. The door opened. Afraid of what might happen, she feigned sleep. Through her eyelashes she could see a beautiful face peering at her.

“Oh Lingwilòce, she is awake!” The unknown person stepped closer. “You are in Rivendell,” she said. “I am Arwen. You are with friends. Don’t worry. What is your name? We have christened you Dinulda.” She smiled.

“Silent secrets,” the girl translated automatically.

“Yes, yes. But what is it?”

“My name is Earuile,” she divulged. “Do you know anybody named Elrond?”

“Oh, vanima euranna, yes! He is my father!”

“Well then – give this to him – please.” Earuile withdrew a small scroll from her mottled brown-and-green robe and handed it to Arwen. Arwen took the scroll and broke the seal.

Suilad (it began)

Ni gar siniath-o daer nienor. Glamhoth or anglenno. Teli breg.

Thranduil
Aran-o Mirkwood

Arwen gasped in horror and shock. “No!” she cried, in a tired voice. She hurried into her fathers’ chamber. “Ada, this letter came from King Thranduil! It says- ‘Greetings. I have tidings of great sorrow. An Orc-Horde has risen. Come quick. Thranduil, King of Mirkwood.’ Oh, father, what can we do?”

Elrond rose, his jaw set. “We will send our army to Mirkwood.”

Chapter Two

Earuile was the first to spot the black outline of trees against the horizon. “There it is! There is Mirkwood!” Her wild cries alerted Arwen.

“Oh, thank Eru…” she whispered. “I thought we would never make it.” Finally the caravan of soldiers made it to the gates of Mirkwood.

“Who goes there?!” someone cried.

“The armies of Rivendell!” Elrohir called back. The huge solid stone gates slowly swung open. Twenty thousand mounted men filed in, one hundred abreast. As the last of the supply wagons creaked in, Arwen swung off her horse. Her armor and chain-mail glinted in the cold November sunlight. The red silk padding shone like molten mithril. Suddenly Arwen saw someone – a tall elf, more handsome than any she had ever seen, with a quiver on his back and a glittering smile. She was awestruck.

“My lady? My lady? Madame!” An impatient soldier tapped her shoulder.

“Hmm? Yes?” Arwen turned as if in a daze.

“We must get these men some proper food.”

Arwen smiled dreamily. “Yes. I suppose so.” A horse neighed, jolting her back to reality. “Oh, right. Come on Elrohir, let’s get these men so food.”

Legolas was stunned. This beautiful woman, clad in mail and astride a pure white horse. Who was she? I must ask father, he thought.

The battle had begun. Arwen wielded her scimitar with deadly ease. Twisting and snipping, slashing and gouging, Hadhafang was a blur of gleaming silver. The words etched on the side seemed to glow as the sword whipped and snapped through the air. Despite the speed of the blade, Legolas could read the engraving: May the owner of this sword be blessed with long life and successful battles. His own two knives twirled and spun as he handled them skillfully, decapitating Orcs with a single blow.

Suddenly he saw a huge Uruk-Hai charging up behind Arwen, a huge axe raised above his head. At lightning speed Legolas put an arrow to his bowstring and fired. The Uruk dropped like a stone, crumpling up like a dried leaf. Arwen turned, almost in slow motion. She saw Legolas staring, hands still in place on his bow.

“Thank you,” Arwen mouthed, and then suddenly whipped out a dagger and hurled it. It slashed the air just by Legolas’ face and buried itself in the throat of a Goblin. Legolas nodded and they both continued fighting. Arwen felt warm black blood gushing over her hand as she thrust her sword into the gaping mouth of a Warg. The blood-stained blade was once again a windmill of death.

Arwen slowly opened her eyes. Her head was throbbing. She could feel dried blood curving down her wrist. It was dark out, and she could see quiet shapes moving among the bodies littering the field. They bent over each person, checking to see if they were dead or alive. Her eyes fluttered shut.

“This one’s alive!” came the occasional call, and two stretcher-bearers would hurry over. But the calls were not very often. Suddenly a hand felt for her pulse.

“She’s alive!” The soft voice was familiar – the Prince, Legolas! Arwen’s heart pounded like a trip-hammer.

“My Lord,” she began, but he shook his head. She felt him staring at her. She opened her eyes again, staring into his. Instant love.

Chapter Three

Arwen was fully recovered, and she proved it. She spent her days with archery lessons, and galloping next to Legolas on his grey horse, Arod. The wind whistled through her unbound hair as they rode together. One day, they slowed outside a tree, side by side.

“Arwen…” Legolas began. “I love you. I won’t ask you to marry me-”

Arwen interrupted. “Oh, please do!” she cried, throwing her arms around Legolas’ neck. “I love you too. I love you. I love you. Is that enough for you? I love-” Legolas halted her by kissing her passionately. Arwen gladly returned the kiss, her eyes closed. She worked her tongue between their lips, running it over the roof of his mouth and teeth. She withdrew it and let him do the same to her. Legolas finally stopped for air, breathing lightly.

“Arwen, please marry me.”

Arwen nodded. “I will. I love you.” She nestled her chin on his shoulder.

“I love you too,” he whispered.

Two Years Later

Arwen buried her face in the bouquet of roses. She smiled fondly at her husband. “You never run out of love, do you?”

Legolas laughed. “Who would want to, with you?”

Arwen bounced little Yende on her knee. “Yes, and Yende here is proof of our never-ending love.”

Legolas reached for his little daughter. “Doeth oo ‘ant to thee Daddy? Ith oo Daddy’th itty bitty girl?” Arwen laughed at Legolas’ outrageous lisp.

“Not itty bitty, she gets heavier every day!” she chuckled. He threw Yende up in the air, catching her safely. Arwen watched as Legolas played with Yende, arranging her green silk skirt around her knees. Her family was not quite complete, though. There was another on the way, though Legolas did not know it yet. She decided to breach the subject. “Legolas, I know you love me. I know you love Rinon. But would you love someone else?”

Legolas sighed. “Arwen, I don’t want someone else.” Arwen felt tears threatening to spill out.

“You-you don’t want another child?” she stammered.

Legolas looked surprised. “Of course I want another child!” he exclaimed.

“But you said-” Legolas started laughing. “What is so funny?!” Arwen demanded, hurt and amazed. Legolas only laughed harder.

“I meant-another-wife!” he managed to gasp.

Arwen’s eyes widened. “Oh! Oh!” She saw the humor in the mistake and began laughing too. “Oh Legolas, I love you more than I did before.” She gulped back the last of her tears and laid her head on Legolas’ shoulder. “I’m so glad that was a mistake.” She smiled. “I wouldn’t know what to do with our new baby.”

Legolas jerked. “What?”

Arwen smiled benevolently at him. “Oh yes, in about 2 months I will look like an overripe pear,” she said playfully.

“I didn’t know!” Legolas said. “I’m so glad.”

Arwen leaned over the crib, her tousled hair crowning her pink cheeks and sparkling blue eyes. “Niniond. My son Niniond,” she breathed.

“My son, too,” a voice behind her said. She turned, gazing into Legolas’ eyes.

“Oh Legolas, life is good. Life is perfect.” The little family stood around the crib – Legolas, Arwen, 4-year-old Yende, and the little newborn Niniond. The warm June sun was shining. Yes, life was good.