Arwen Undómiel, Queen of Gondor and Arnor, lay unsleeping in the bed she shared with her husband. His breathing was deep and slow, and she knew him to be soundly asleep. The night was dark, the waxing moon long since set, and the starlight seemed fainter here in the south than she recalled from her childhood in Rivendell.
The darkness weighed heavily on her soul. How could she have known? Her father’s warnings had only prepared her for the eventual death of her beloved Aragorn, now called Elessar in the annals of the Kings of Men. Nothing had prepared her for the loss of his passion. He professed his love for her still, but his embraces were brief, his kisses chaste. The years took their toll on his mortal body, but not on hers. Even bearing children had not changed her, and once healed from each birth she was again as she had ever been.
I could take a lover, she considered, if all she required was physical contact. He would understand, she knew. He could not be unaware of her unhappiness, though they never spoke of it. There had been others he had loved, long in the past, and their memories sustained him still. Even though he did not share her immortality, his life was longer than most, and the comrades of his youth had long since passed away. Only Legolas and Gimli remained of the Fellowship; Faramir and Éomer were both long dead, succeeded in their offices by sons who had no memory of what their fathers had shared.
Her hands strayed over her own body, the silken shift amplifying her touch. Drawing a ragged breath, she succumbed to her body’s needs, though in her mind it was the touch of her beloved that pleasured her. She remembered how he touched her, long ago, how his mouth was hot and moist on her breasts, how his fingers delved into her secret places to make her squirm and pant with longing. Her breasts, the inside of her thighs, the fleshy mound that guarded her sex, all ached for attention. She pulled up the hem of her shift and parted her legs as though Aragorn had touched her, and she shuddered at the memory of their last joining.
It had been morning, the last time he had taken her. She awoke to the unexpected touch of familiar hands, and her body sang as he worshipped her with his manhood. Their last child had come of that joining, and not since then had he touched her with passion or desire.
Long fingers found her secret spot and gently stroked it awake. She dipped her fingers into her cleft, using her own juices to smooth the friction as she rubbed and stroked where once her husband had fondled and caressed. Closing her eyes, she pictured his manhood, full and hard from her hands and mouth, the darker crown wet with his own fluid. Memories flooded her mind, and she felt him fill her, each thrusting stroke reaching deeper and deeper. Her womb fluttered, her climax radiating to her extremities in a spasming, clenching contraction.
Releasing the breath she held in a long sigh, she let the orgasm pass over and through her, but as she relaxed, she heard again the soft snores from the other side of the bed. Tears escaped her eyes, slid across her flawless skin, and soaked her pillow.