The grass was long and dry, scented with the smells of summer. Arwen twined her fingers around a stem and leant back against the bark of the tree. Aragorn, sitting beside her, gave her a lazy contented smile. With a small sigh, she leant her head against his shoulder briefly, then stood up.

“We should go back,” she said regretfully.

She watched the movement of the muscles beneath his skin as he got to his feet. Wordlessly, he clasped her fingers within his, and they began to walk through the knee-high grass.

Before the bridge stood two statues, carved in the likeness of elven warriors. As they reached these, Aragorn suddenly darted behind one, pulling her after him.

“What are you doing?” she protested, breathless with laughter.

In answer, he brushed his lips against hers; the lightest touch, as gentle as a prayer. But she returned his kiss hungrily, her fingers tangled in his hair, holding his head down. She could feel his hands at the small of her back, pressing her hard against his body as his kisses became more demanding.

Finally they broke off. Aragorn, his breathing ragged, began to nuzzle softly at her neck. She could feel his breath, warm and pleasant against her skin. She pressed her hands to his chest, feeling the curves and swells of the muscles beneath his shirt.

Arwen giggled as his kisses found her ear. “Stop that.” Her words seemed to bring some reality back, and she glanced towards the tall arched windows of Imladris, directly overlooking the bridge. She turned towards Aragorn, her face serious. “What if my father sees us?”

Aragorn trailed his lips down the curve of her neck. “What if he does? You worry too much.”

“Someone has to; you never do.”

His lips found hers again, cutting off further words, and all apprehension and fear melted away in the sweetness of that final kiss.

They strolled across the bridge hand-in-hand. Suddenly, Arwen felt Aragorn drop her fingers quickly. In surprise she glanced up, and saw immediately why.

The familiar figure of her father filled the door before her. Elrond did not look at Aragorn; his gaze was fixed upon his daughter. There was no anger or reproach in his eyes, only a deep sadness and indescribable loss. Silently, he beckoned to his daughter, and Arwen followed him inside.

It was late evening when Aragorn heard a tentative tap on his bedroom door. Arwen stood on the threshold, her face shadowed by the darkness outside. As she moved into the candlelight, he saw that her cheeks were stained with tears.

“I can’t see you any more.” Her voice was unsteady, but firm.

Aragorn stared at her in disbelief. “You don’t mean that.”

She bit her lip, but nodded. “This isn’t going to work. I am elf-kind, you are mortal. I walked this earth before you were born. If we continue, we will just make it more painful in the end.”

“Did Elrond tell you to do this?” he demanded harshly, his voice choking with emotion.

The ebony coils of her hair whispered against her shoulders as she shook her head, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

“But I love you!” he said brokenly.

Fresh tears gleamed in the corners of her eyes. “And you know I return that love. But you know the fate you condemn me to if we marry. I could not accept that,” she lied. She raised her head, and they eyes that regarded him were filled with pain. “If you really love me, you will let me go.