Midsummer's day, Arwen made vows: faithful love was easily sworn—long ago given, she'd but the reward to reap.
And the others? Wisdom, justice, mercy, steadfastness. She's wise, they say—three thousand years so. She knows mercy, they say—a woman must. And she's steadfast—he knows it best.
Justice, though... That is harder, and she's perhaps unpracticed. Elves have long been so, lonely as they are—leaving, as they have been.
But she's sworn: love is joy, the rooted rock. She'll not now be moved from this place and people—in them more than herself, justice shall be theirs.
Author's Chapter Notes:
These are organized by the order in which I wrote them. Arwen's drabble was for day 9 of the calendar.