The forests of Rivendell lay hushed beneath silver light, leaves whispering softly as evening deepened. Arwen Undómiel had only just returned from Lothlórien, the long years beneath her grandmother’s golden trees still clinging to her like perfume. Rivendell felt unchanged—timeless—but she herself felt subtly altered, as if some unseen thread had been drawn tighter by fate.

As she walked among the beeches near the falls, a mortal voice rose in song, clear and earnest, weaving the ancient tale of Beren and Lúthien into the air. The name of Tinúviel stirred memories older than the valleys themselves. Arwen paused, listening, her steps unheard upon the grass.

She saw him then: a young Man, tall for his years, dark-haired and grey-eyed, standing unaware among the trees, singing as though the world were listening. When his song faltered and his eyes found her, wonder overtook his face, and he spoke the name of legend and called out Tinúviel to her. He seemed to believe that she herself was Lúthien. Wrong he was, but she felt flattered nonetheless.

"No, my name is Arwen Undómiel. Daughter of Elrond and Celebrían, not Tinúviel." She answered with a smile. "Though you are neither half-elven or elf. Who are you then?"