The Last One To Weep
Towards Rivendell she rode swiftly. She and her horse taking their time through the fields and plains that will forever bear witness to plights of men, elves, dwarves and hobbits. She wondered how many years still would they stand. How many more wars would litter them with the bodies of sons and fathers, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives?
Certainly longer than her, for she now rode towards Rivendell. And there she will meet death, in the very place where once, long ago, she had forsaken immortality to be the queen by Aragorn's side.
But now she wondered, had she gone to Valinor, to the Grey Havens, what would be different?
She would not have been Aragorn's queen, would not have borne his children. She would not have seen them grow into the strong men and gentle ladies that they are. How their subject's eye light up when their children were seen, sired by a man and carried by an elf.
She would not have met the Lady Eowyn, known of her beauty, her fire. She would not have known of her passion, her love for Aragorn. She would not have known of her despair when saw them marry.
She would not have known how it felt to love two with the same intensity. She would not have known of her capacity to love another woman. Nor would she have known that she could live with knowing that each time she kissed her, each time Aragorn kissed Eowyn, they were betraying a loyal friend.
She would not have known the despair of letting her go, of watching him let her go. She would not have known a love of such kind between three.
Had she gone with her people and the Ringbearers she would not be riding out towards Rivendell. She would not have seen the death of the King, her beloved husband, Aragorn, Son of Arathorn.
And she would not have been there to bury her, Lady Eowyn, their lover. She would not have wept at the sight of her being taken to the earth.
Had she gone, she would not be the last one to weep.