The Carriage held but just Ourselves by StarSpray

Arwen

When Arwen returned from Cerin Amroth with the Ring of Barahir on a chain around her neck, her grandmother smiled, but with sadness behind her eyes, and something that might have been pity. Her grandfather embraced her as though she were suddenly something fragile that he was afraid to break.

Arwen had seen death before—the Dúnedain chieftains had long come to spend the last of their years in Rivendell, and they often slipped away in the quiet hours of the night, going to sleep and never waking. It was a peaceful thing, she had always thought, though sad for those left behind. She did not understand why her grandmother looked at her the way she did. The bitterness of the Choice of Lúthien, she thought, was in parting forever from her father, and her grandparents, and her brothers if they did not choose as she did, and in never seeing her mother again.

It was not until she was left alone, and could feel at last mortality creeping into her bones that she understood at last the fear that had driven the Númenóreans to their fall. She was not weary of the world, but she was being called away anyway.

Lúthien had laughed, and Tindómiel sighed. Arwen lay down on the green grass of Cerin Amroth and wept.