Posterity

Arwen sits under the White Tree and breathes in its scent. This courtyard – once barren and cold, a reminder of Gondor's decline from past vitality – has become one of the places she most loves. The sapling planted here with hope has thriven. Grown taller than Man or Elf now, it blossoms with starry white flowers that drench the courtyard in heady scent.

The flicker of a smile touches her lips as she rests one hand below her waist. Her mortal choice is truly irrevocable now. Nothing has ever felt so vastly, terrifyingly inevitable.

Aragorn crosses the worn paving stones, nearly running to where she sits. By the look in his eyes she knows that he already guesses the tidings she had intended to tell him. He kisses her brow, her lips, and smiling, he plucks a cluster of flowers from the bough above them and sets it behind her ear. "My white tree. Now we are truly renewed."

(For Sphinx, who wanted "something with Aragorn and Arwen" for her birthday. It's a drabble and a half, really - I couldn't pare it down to exactly 100 words.)