In midsummer, perhaps, or winter, or close to the very end of it, Aragorn will pass and so will have two hundred years since Arwen had first gazed upon him there in Rivendell, and so will Legolas and Gimli, borne upon the very last elven ship towards the West, and Arwen will remain here, among the aged and dying mallorns of Lothlorien where only the aged trees listen to aged trees and the winds from the east deafen the whisper of what time will soon forget, and she will ask herself, perhaps, What of Eldarion, What of my father, What of my brothers, What of Aragorn whom I loved most dearly, What of him and his memory and the meany years more till I meet him again, If I ever will, and she will bow her head upon the ground, where the reddened leaves bow to the colds of winter, and she will not weep; she had loved him and she had been his queen and though she thought herself a fool to think that that is enough, deep in her heart, she knows that it is.