Desperately, pleadingly, she clutched his hands in hers, and for the first time was shocked by how worn it was. He had aged considerably, with deep lines carved into the proud, sharp features of his face, and the hair that crowned him had faded from its raven black shade to a pale silver. For until now, as he lay on the marble bed where he would fall into his final slumber, she had not seen the age that marred his flesh; her clear gaze had pierced it, and she had always seen the beauty that emanated from his inner core; to her, he had remained the same young Ranger she had met in the golden forest all those years ago…
"Please," she begged, caressing his life-weary face with her hand. "Please, do not leave me." She felt the tears sting in her eyes, and it seemed a distant feeling, as something she remembered from a long ago dream. "I am not ready for this. We are not ready…"
Aragorn extended his hand to the face of his queen; she was as radiant and beautiful as ever she had been, and no sign of age had touched her. But in her grey eyes there lingered a sorrow, and sorrow that was deeper and greater than all the sorrows of the long, bygone ages she had witnessed. It was the bitterness, which finally had come to countervail the sweetness; the bitterness of mortality.
With the crook of his finger he traced the outline of her face, soft and smooth. "My beloved," he whispered softly, "we knew this day would come. I was granted the gift in my blood to live longer than other mortal men, and so blessed was I to have that time with you." He paused for a moment, watching her. "And so too was I granted the power to decide when my spirit should soar-"
"But why now?" Arwen cried. "You have life in you yet; wait a little longer, I beseech you."
Aragorn smiled grimly; it pained him to see her burdened with such grief. "What would you rather?" he asked earnestly. "That I should wait till my time is deemed by forces beyond my control to be over, when I am frail and infirm; when I haven't the strength to keep a crown perched on my head, and must be carried from my throne to my deathbed? Or that I should leave you now, when still I possess the strength in my limbs, and to leave you with words that I can speak with coherence? So that I can tell you that I love you, as always I have."
She knew he spoke wisely, that it was the right thing for all…and yet still she could not bear the thought of losing him.
But Aragorn, perceiving and understanding so easily her pain, held her hand between his tenderly. "There are ships still to leave. If you wish, go, and I will bear you no ill, but rejoice in the knowledge that you remain happy and loved."
His sincere words shot through her like a lighting bolt; she overcame her denial and pushed aside her reluctance, and accepted the inevitable. "Nay," he said; her voice was soft but burned with passion. "Nay, I would not leave now, not for all eternity, for what is the worth in an eternal life that is spent alone? I made my choice long ago and have never regretted a word. My time would end only when all that I had gained was lost, and I wish that to hold true, even now in this dark hour. Mine was, and remains, the choice of Lúthien, both the sweet and the bitter."
"Then fare thee well, my love. And perhaps, beyond the Sundering Sea, we shall again see each other, and walk forever beneath a sunrise." And wish those words, he laid back his head and closed his eyes. Arwen clasped his hand as though trying to hold onto his life force itself. She leaned over him and pressed her lips to his; he returned the gesture, and she lingered there, savouring these final precious moments.
And when she drew away from him, she knew he was gone.
Outside, the city seemed cold and grey, a reflection of her own soul. It seemed as though each stone of the great structure, and the sky, and the air itself, mourned the passing of Elessar, the king who had restored the country to its full glory, and brought peace to all the land. The people lined the streets, they held candles, whose very flames seemed dimmed by the grey air, in a final homage to the man they adored.
Through the pallid, muted streets Queen Arwen moved like a wraith, seen but unseeing, observed but unobservant. Her mind wandered and was still, and heeded no earthly thing. She went to her son, Eldarion, the young prince who would soon be king. She looked on him with pride and love, and an aching heart; so greatly did he resemble his father in stature and build, but his eyes were grey and abstruse, his face soft and radiant with the exquisite beauty of her own people. He knew when she came the news she bore, and together they sat a while and wept. Soon her daughters came too, each with ebony hair and young, glowing faces, and eyes that shone now with anguish. Finally, she bid them goodbye, and prepared to leave Minas Tirith alone, knowing she would not return.
As cold and grey as a winter's night that comes without a star, she passed through the ancient streets of the city, knowing Eldarion would be a wise and great king, and finding some comfort in this. Silently she rode, almost unceasingly, across the wide miles that lay between her and her destination. She encountered no one on the road, and to any who may have witnessed her, they would be able only to report a passing silver wind and a dim shape cloaked in a dark raiment.
It was not long before she reached her goal. Dismounting and bidding her steed to ride home, to Gondor, she surveyed ahead of her the woods of Lothlórien. Once this forest had been the crowning glory of her kindred, teeming with life, offering shelter, security and warmth, but those days belonged to a different age, and no more would the elven tongue be spoken beneath the towering bows of the mallorn.
She walked through the woods, he hands stroking the bark of the familiar trees she passed, a rainfall of silver leaves drifting from far above; the final autumn had descended upon this realm. The grass was soft and moist beneath her bare feet, the tree bark hard and rough; sunlight filtered through the slowly dissipating canopy of the trees and danced its patterns on the ground. But the beauty of it now was wasted, for she alone was there to witness its passing, and after her no more would come. Once through the trees there would ring a symphony of wondrous sound, singing and music beyond compare. And yet now, there was not a note of humble birdsong, and even the soft lament of the Nimrodel seemed stilled.
From the corner of her eye, a light flicker caught Arwen's attention and, surprised, she turned towards it. A butterfly, nothing more, perched on a blossom of white niphredil. Somehow, this simple creature held her attention and she watched it, captivated by its simplicity. It was a small, frail thing, whose life on this earth would be fleeting, of no great concern to any creature of higher significance, so tiny and simple and plain. But as she observed it, as it fluttered from bud to bud, she descried an intricate pattern on the wings; at first they had seemed a simple plain white, a blank canvas. Now she could see the delicate design that adorned them, and the way they shimmered silver and gold when the sunlight caught them. When given time, when given thought, it was beautiful, and though it might be gone tomorrow, it was as delicate and important as any other being might claim to be, though they should live forever.
She watched it as it danced among the flowers for a while, until finally it fluttered away and was lost in the trees. Only then did Arwen move on, and her heart was lifted, if only in some small capacity. She knew that although that butterfly might have faded by tomorrow's sunset, its contribution to the world was of as much value as that of the great heroes of history.
She did not consciously choose her path; her feet moved as with a mind of their own, following her heart's desire even though she may not recognise it herself. Soon, the trees became more sparsely spread, and smaller in size, until eventually they gave way entirely, and she found herself in a glade. The grass here was green as flickering emeralds, and the branches of the trees that encircled it seemed to bow towards the centre. Arwen did not need their prompting; this place she knew as well as she knew her own hand. For here was Cerin Amroth, the little mound in the clearing where the elanor flowers grew more than anywhere else. It evoked in her such memories, such joy that threatened to burst her heart.
It was here, on that mound, so very long ago, that she and Estel, her Hope, had stood, their hands fastened by a purple ribbon, and plighted their troth. It was here that she knew she would love him for every day of her life, where she had pledged herself to him, though Eru himself might stand against them. So young he had been then, and both their hearts had been light and free, and not plagued by the hurts and the sorrows that had filled the world in the years after.
Here, upon the grassy knoll, she lay her frail form, and gazed towards the sky, glassy and yet bright and clear. The ground beneath her was cold and the damp seeped through the soft cloth of her cloak and crept into her skin. But she did not care, and soon her body became numb, and all sensation was lost. The sky in the east now was darkling, and already tiny pinpricks of light had become visible in the deep azure. In the west, however, the clouds were ablaze with red and pink, as though the sky itself was on fire.
"I wish I could have seen him," she murmured in a daze, "one last time..."
Arwen felt a tiredness creeping over her, and she closed her eyes against it. The final rays of the sun beamed across her, bathing her in its fierce golden light, illuminating her. A light zephyr disturbed the still elanor and the loose petals of the little, brilliant flowers were caught upon it and scattered over her. The dying beams of the sun immersed her in a luminous golden light, and adorned her like a crown.
But Arwen now was far away. She was soaring, one with the wind, across the grey sea, and the sunlight and the starlight guided her far. The grey rain curtain was rolled back and for a moment all seemed transformed into a glistening dream of silver glass. In the distance, she espied a shape forming, rapidly coming nearer. It was land; great swathes of never ending colour of all imagination, and fresh fertile lands in all direction. A harbour there was carved into the luminous stone of a cliff-face. Singing filled her ears and voices called her name, guiding her in, welcoming her. There was music and laughter; a crowd had gathered in the bay of the harbour, patiently awaiting her arrival. Amongst them were the beaming faces of all those she had loved.
And so passed from this world Arwen Undómiel, and it was told thereafter that never again did the evenstar shine as bright in the night sky. And with her, so too passed Lothlórien and all the remnants of the ancient world of elves, until all passed into legend and myth and finally was forgotten.
But forever there is her green grave, forever sacred and forever blessed, and there it shall remain while all the ages of the world endure.