«There at last when the mallorn-leaves were falling, but spring had not yet come, she laid herself to rest upon Cerin Amroth; and there is her green grave, until the world is changed, and all the days of her life are utterly forgotten by men that come after, and elanor and niphredil bloom no more east of the Sea.»
/from "Tale of Aragorn and Arwen"/
On their first night she's eager and desperate: her wait too tiring, his journey too perilous, their time together too short. And now, after trading her immortality for wedding wows, she feels, oh so sharply, their life slipping through her fingers already. She's scared, she's ecstatic, so she arches in his arms and exhales too long against his mouth; he holds her tighter – safe, safe, at last – and answers with whispered joy, and they drown in each other, entwined and inseparable, belonging.
On their second night she learns him by scars: some old and some new, some that she've seen her father healing in hushed tight silence and some that she doesn't know about, too many for one man altogether. She kisses down every mark on his tanned skin, but doesn't ask for stories yet, as he caresses her hair. This is the price he paid; they both accept.
On their thousandth night (and yes, she's counting) she lies beside him and listens to him breathe. Night is so sweet, air is fragrant, and there's no war to fight, no diplomatic problems to solve, no crisis to avoid. Her heart beats in unison with his, there's a child in her belly; she smiles in darkness, at peace.
On their last night she isn't ready
at all, and her blood grows cold with dread at his parting speech.
For a split second she allows herself to hate him, for all love and
all happiness and all sacrifices; and then lets his words awash her,
promise her hope, while thinking about those three before her: Melian
who lost, Idril who let go, Luthien who fought and bargained and
won.
He won't let her fight for him. She kisses him goodbye,
closes his eyes, doesn't weep.
On Cerin Amroth, she lies alone.