It was late afternoon, and clouds as light as sprays of foam chased across the light pink sky above the Last Homely House, first showing, then hiding the fading rays of Anor. In the shade of a small grove on an engraved wooden bench sat the Arwen Undómiel, Evenstar of her people. Her skilled fingers drew the needle in and out the fabric of the tapestry in her hands, gradually delineating the floral border . As Arien's vessel slowly descended between the peaks at the entrance of the Valley, a gentle breeze stirred the elleth’s hair, carrying the smell of the flowering orchards. It was already too dark to continue her work, but the summer night promised to remain warm. While the first star bloomed in the deep blue sky in the East, she tightened the last stitch and cut the thread, putting away her work in a basket that rested on the grass near the seat.

Soon she would have to return to her chambers to get dressed for the celebrations in honour of two elves of Círdan's people who had brought news from the Havens, but for now she could indulge in the beauty of her father's house bathed in the last light of the day. Her eyes moved across the elegant windows and towers and the many balconies that looked down on the waterfalls shining in the reddish light. As her eyes took in the wonder of the sight, her gaze stopped on one of the balconies. It seemed that she wasn't the only one enjoying the sunset. The balcony on which the figure stood was high, but Arwen's elven sight permitted her to discern the figure of a woman. She was dressed in a sober grey dress and her hair was collected in a plain braid tied with a black ribbon. A few locks streaked with grey fell on the round points of her ears, and after a moment of uncertainty, Arwen decided that she must be the Lady Gilraen. She couldn't see her face, hidden in a spot of shadow, but there weren't any other mortal women in Rivendell. When she had returned from Lórien, Elladan and Elrohir had told her much about the heir of Isildur and his mother.

Gilraen was leaning on the balustrade, watching the entrance of the Valley in the west. Since her son had first departed from the home of his childhood many years ago, she had passed hours alone there, staring at the horizon. And Arwen felt much like her, both of them missing the man they loved in such different ways. The memory of her first meeting with him was clear as the waters of the Nimrodel; how could it be otherwise? She had never met anyone else in that particular way. How could she have imagined that by seeing her wander among the birches in a spring day, he would believe her Lúthien and call her by that name? He was so young… But for a moment, while he still had the name Tinúviel on his lips, she had seen something in him. A light in his grey eyes had made her feel like Lúthien in the presence of Beren. It was something unexplainable, as the fate of Melian's daughter had been, but as the last rays of Anor caressed her face, she looked into the west like Gilraen, waiting for his return.