A/N: Of course I don't own any of these characters. They're too cool. I'm glad that I can play with them, though. So yeah, no one sue me, 'cause if you do, all you'll get is a pile of student loan debt. Hah! Anyway. This is my spin on what happens to Arwen after Aragorn dies. Tolkien was so fuzzy, I thought that I should step in and fill in the blanks. The story begins with Aragorn talking to Arwen on his deathbed:

"I speak no comfort to you, for there is no comfort for such pain within the circles of the world. The uttermost choice is before you: to repent and go to the Havens and bear away into the West the memory of our days together that shall there be evergreen but never more than memory; or else abide the Doom of Men."

"Nay, dear lord," she said, "that choice is long over. There is now no ship that would bear me hence, and I must indeed abide the Doom of Men, whether I will or I nill: the loss and the silence. But I say to you, King of the Númenoreans, not till now have I understood the tale of your people and their fall. As wicked fools I scorned them, but I pity them at last. For if this is indeed, as the Eldar say, the Gift of the One to Men, it is bitter to receive."

"So it seems," he said. "But let us not be overthrown at the final test, who of old renounced the Shadow and the Ring. In sorrow we must go, but not in despair. Behold! We are not bound forever to the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory. Farewell!"

"Estel! Estel!" she cried, and with that, even as he took her hand and kissed it, he fell into sleep.

-- Return of the King, appendix A

She clung to his hand long after he fell into sleep, her silent tears wetting the skin already cooling in her grasp. Her tears were the only sign of her grief. She composedly looked at his face for a long time, watching the sunlight play across the stilled features. Death had smoothed away the lines of weariness and responsibility, and he looked almost young again. She sighed, thinking that the 120 years they had been married had passed in a heartbeat. Looking at his profile, she could almost fool herself into thinking that they were together again in Lothlórien, with all their lives and love before them, and he was but taking a rest from his labors. She eased into the fancy, allowing joyful memories to wash over her and ease the grief. The silver hair fanned against the pillow suddenly gleamed in the sun, catching her eye and reminding her of where she was. "Oh, Estel," she murmured, using the Elven name of his childhood, and the name that she had first met him and loved him under. It meant 'hope', and it seemed a cruel mockery to her now. What hope could she look for at this time? Her fantasy crumbled to dust, and she bowed her head.

When Eldarion, their son, came into the chamber to lead her away hours later, the guards reported to him that the room had been silent since the King had passed away. Eldarion nodded, and strode into the room and laid a hand on his mother's shoulder. She didn't move, just continued to gaze at the King as if trying to imprint his features on her memory.

"Mother," Eldarion said quietly. "You must come away now. They have to prepare his body for the funeral on the morrow."

Arwen flinched as if he'd struck her. She looked up at her son with anguished eyes, but said nothing. Tracks of tears were still visible on her cheeks, but her eyes were now painfully dry. She looked back down at her husband, and nodded slowly. She carefully laid his hand back on the palfrey and turned to her son.

Eldarion led her out of the chamber and to her room. "Will you take supper with me, Mother?" he asked.

Arwen shook her head. "Nay, my son. I find I have no appetite," she added with a hint of grim humor.

"You must eat, Mother," Eldarion insisted. "If you will not dine with me, I'll have a tray sent up to you."

Arwen looked at her son. His jaw was set determinedly, his gray eyes looked at her with a combination of sorrow and pity. He looks so like his father, she thought absently. The thought of Aragorn was a dangerous one, though, so she ruthlessly suppressed it, forcing herself to shrug and say mildly, "Whatever you wish, Eldarion."

He looked as if he would like to argue more, but after looking at her a moment, he gathered her up in his arms and nestled his black head in the crook of her shoulder, just as he had when he was a small boy. The act broke the fragile control that she had gained over her emotions. She gently rubbed his back, tracing comforting circles just as she had done countless times before when he came to her with his hurts. Grief overcame her heart again, and her tears fell on his head. He drew his arms tighter about her, and they both began sobbing in the doorway of her room, caring not if anyone saw them thus.

After their tears were spent, Eldarion gently wiped away her tears with the pad of his thumb and tenderly kissed her cheek. "Thank you, Mother," he whispered.

She watched him walk down the hallway, his young shoulders still broad and straight, unbowed even with this great sorrow. Suddenly, she felt old. Eldarion was in the prime of his life – the grief, while great, would not prostrate him. His heart would heal, and he would go on to rule his people wisely and well. She, on the other hand, felt like nothing would ever be right again. She sighed, and went into the room and shut the door. She gazed around the room. Moonlight poured in the window, illuminating Aragorn's side of the bed with cruel brightness. The imprint of his head was still on his pillow. Tears welled up again, despite the fact that she thought she had no more. She wiped them away with bruising force, angry that she behaving like a lost child, and not the regal queen that she was.

"Aragorn would not approve," she murmured to herself. "He wouldn't want me to be like this."

But despite what her head said, her heart told her that she wouldn't recover from this blow. She felt unutterably exhausted. The tears were cold on her cheeks, and she shivered. She sat in the bed, allowing the moonlight to wash over her. Usually, the cool pure light helped her to think, but this grief was too deep. She was numb and tired. So tired.

She allowed herself to fall back onto the pillows. She closed her eyes against the moonlight and fitfully slept, but the bed felt too big. She instinctively turned towards Aragorn's side of the bed and put a hand out to touch him, but her hand met no warm comforting body. Frustrated and lost, she pulled his pillow against her face and was somewhat comforted by the faint scent of his aftershave. She breathed deeply and fell into a deeper, calmer sleep.

A/N: So … what do you think? Should I continue? Do you even want me to? So please, just click that little box and tell me if I should spare you or not.