This is 350 words--not a drabble, but it fit fliewatuet's request for Aragorn and a Fourth Age setting, so I couldn't resist.
"We are none of us the same," he replies, and catches one of her hands between his two, raising it to gaze at the ring upon her finger. It glints silver in the moonlight, as it has for Ages of the world ere it came to her—a ring fit for promises indeed and he's profoundly glad, then, that he chose this ring over that other. She smiles as he turns her hand in his then to kiss her palm ere he says, as ever he does on Midsummer's Day Eve, "But though the seas rise and the earth changes, still, I love you."
And 'tis her turn to laugh gaily when she runs her fingers through his hair, teasing at the silver threads at the temples that fulfilled the promise of yesteryears to become quite magnificent streaks. All things change, and lately, he's come to think that he can feel all the years since their marriage—that they have happened in fact, that they have at last acquired their proper gravity. He can feel them now, feel that perhaps it has been long since they stood before each other in the Court of the Fountain, and longer still since they stood upon Cerin Amroth and made their pledges.
I will cleave to you, Dúnadan, and turn from the Twilight.
"For the Twilight I promised you the sun," he murmurs, remembering.
"And I promised to be your eventide at the end of each and all our days," she replies, and looks him full in the face.
Thereafter, 'tis quiet in their chamber—no need for words as hand to hand, heart to heart, they together celebrate the Night redeemed.
I will cleave to you, Dúnadan, and turn from the Twilight.—"The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen", Appendix A, 387