Still, winter night in Imladris; Arwen wanders deserted halls till her restless feet bring her to Narsil's now-empty pedestal. She bites her lip. Nine went forth bearing Middle-earth's fate, and he leads them…

Silently she beseeches her mother, grandmother, above all her twice-great-grandmother, whose love for a mortal Man surpassed death; Must I sit by helpless? What can I do?...

Moonlight strikes the black granite pedestal, setting tiny crystals within glinting like a ring of stars. Arwen catches her breath; stands motionless, letting the thought form. Then she turns and heads purposefully for her chamber. Rest now. Tomorrow, to work.