On the Nature of Time by Elrond's Library  

Aragorn and Arwen

Using the third set of 10 one word prompts: Deathbed, Corrosion, jolt, dialogue, slight, mesh, reignite, cenotaph, revolution, annex

each paragraph is 50 words exactly.

Aragorn lies, now, when he says he does not fear the coming road. Silver hair shimmers in the dying light of the Sun over Minas Tirith, and he lies, he lies, he lies. Arwen sees this, she must. Their wedding bed will become his deathbed, and hers, too, in time.

The light spills over the white stone of the white city. It would be foolish to wish for rot and corrosion after all this time, all this effort at restoration. The city of the Stewards has become the seat of the House of Telcontar. Only time can judge his efforts.

Aragorn, King, he of many names and many families, retires with a happy, if forced, smile. Arwen is at his side, as she has been in the many years they have shared. His heart jolts in his chest, seeing his fear reflected in her own eyes. But it is time.

He knows. He feels the pull of Death and so he moves, seeming to be floating outside of his body already, through the motions of retiring for bed. It is as if he expects to rise to the slight peeking of light above the ruins of Mordor to the east.

He says nothing, and neither does she. No dialogue is necessary between them. They’ve said everything before. And so he passes out of himself with a sigh against Arwen’s lips, a final kiss, a blessing that says without saying, I’ll see you soon, best beloved and I love you always. 

She stays only for her children; her heart is already gone. Her hair is bound in silver mesh that shines with the streaks of white in her hair, but even that is hidden behind a veil of sheer black. “Nienna, hear me!” her heart cries out with every hidden tear. 

“This bitter cup is mine to drink,” she thinks as her horse flies, following the Anduin until she is beneath boughs of silver and gold. The flight has reignited her body, body pumping its last gasps with the strong breaths of the mare beneath her. “Ada warned me. Naneth—”

Lothlorien is a cenotaph to the timelessness her grandmother cultivated – abandoned, and yet, still almost exactly as she remembers from her youth. The bitter years after Celebrían sailed, full of anger and helpless guilt. Arwen wishes now for Galadriel’s quiet, enduring support most of all. They have departed, every one.

Elanor and niphredil carpet the ground of Cerin Amroth, the mallyrn hide the sky and stars. Arwen lies, and lies, and lies, waiting as the days and the nights complete their revolutions around her. But she is afraid, and alone, and there is no comfort as she breaths her last.

Aragorn is waiting for her, in the annex of Mandos, before the final gate. His spirit is bright, entwining with hers in swirls of devotion. “Together?” he seems to ask. “This final step, until the Second Singing and beyond?” So passed Arwen and Aragorn, as Lúthien and Beren before them.