After the Ring War, Celeborn observes Arwen and Ioreth in the Houses of Healing.
Some would say I spend too much time in these gardens. I have heard the whispers: “Does the city not please the silver-haired one?” Yet I am an Elf, and a Sinda. I find my comfort in growing things, the simple pleasures of the cool earth, the forest's air, and not the stone fortresses of my lady's people.
Two voices drift from the herb-patch not far away. One form I recognize, but the other I cannot place. “My lady, beg your pardon, but as I said before, 'tis not proper for you to be here...”
The old voice cracks but it does not falter; she insists on detailing every reason Undomiel should leave such simple matters to the ladies of the Houses. Yet she does not seem so offended that she would rid herself of a ready audience for her complaints.
Arwen ignores her chatter; over the hedge, I see my granddaughter kneeling. Burrow, deposit, cover. I knew Aragorn would see that the city never lacked for athelas again, but he would not ask his wife to plant it herself!
The soul of the Sindar still dwells in her, whatever choice she has made. She will make a fine queen.