* * * * * * * * * * * *
No I would not sleep in this bed of liesSo toss me out and turn me in
And there'll be no rest for these tired eyes
I'm marking it down to learning
I am
Don't think that I can take another empty moment
Don't think that I can fake another hollow smile
It's not enough to be just sorry
Don't think that I could take another talk about it
Just like me you have needs
And they're only a whisper away
And we softly surrender
To these lives that we've tendered away
Don't wanna be the one who turns the whole thing over
Don't wanna be somewhere where I just don't belong
Where it's not enough just to be sorry
Don't you know I feel the darkness closing in
Tried to be more than me
And I gave 'til it all went away
And we've only surrendered to the worst part
Of these winters we've made
I am all that I'll ever be
When you lay your hands over me
But don't go weak on me now
I know that it's weak
But God knows I need this
I will not sleep in this bed of lies
– Bed of Lies, Matchbox 20
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The darkened room was quiet, the only sound disturbing the restful peace of the night the light breathing of the two forms that lay bundled beneath warm winter blankets on the oversized bed, the only furniture in the simply decorated room. The chill pre-dawn air invaded their comfortable warmth through a large window that was flung wide open, the white curtains billowing gently in the breeze.
Aragorn lay in silence, watching the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of Arwen's chest. Her sleeping form was barely discernable under the warm blankets covering his own as well, but his hand rested lightly on her upturned side and moved with every drawn breath. His head was cradled in the crook of his other arm – he found the feather-stuffed pillows of Rivendell far too soft for his liking, and much preferred sleeping without.
A small smile crossed his lips as his gaze travelled upwards from his moving hand towards her face – her eyes were open. The smile spread wider. In sleep, her features even more resembled Tinúviel than in waking. In sleep, the near-invisible lines crossing her forehead that were the only evidence of her true age disappeared. In sleep, she seemed at peace, as if her dreams transported her to a world where no worries or cares could reach and she was free to roam in the endless green forests that provided her with so much pleasure.
Slowly, very slowly, the Ranger brought the resting hand up. It hovered just before her countenance, trembling slightly, before he waved it vigorously in front of her opened eyes.
There was no reaction. She didn't even blink. So the veil of sleep truly lay around her. He released the breath he hadn't even known he was holding in a soft sigh and continued his study of her face. Perfect. That was the only way to describe it. Perfection was something that could be achieved – it lay there sleeping next to him. And perfection had a name – Arwen. Rightly named the Evenstar of her people, the Ranger thought disconsolately.
He still thought it sometimes a dream that she had chosen to love him; him even above other Elves that were nobler and richer and infinitely more beautiful. It was no wonder Elrond did not approve. The smile vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving a worried frown on the Man's face.
He did not wish to disappoint his foster father – the Half-Elf meant more to him even than his own skin, and he loved him dearly above all other things. Except his daughter. So Elrond did not approve of Arwen marrying him. It was to be expected – after all, he was not King, though it was his heritage, and did not wish to become King, even if it did mean Arwen's hand in marriage would be his. And so his thoughts were left in turmoil.
The perfection in his arms sighed and stirred lightly, but did not wake. Aragorn turned his thoughts from doubt and focussed again on her beautiful features. And there also encountered more troubling rationalities.
Even in this perfection he could not find peace. It bothered him that it did not bother him so much that Elrond was not pleased with their union. There was an emptiness inside. He knew it well – and she could not fill it. What was wrong with him? She would give him her life – renounce her immortality and be his truly in both life and death. Why could her selflessness not fill the void within him – surely her love should spread light even in this place? But something was missing – she could not complete him. His gaze trailed across her features, coming to rest on her lips, which were slightly parted in sleep. She looked like an angel, fallen from heaven and come to rest at his side.
He was a lucky man – but still the darkness remained within him, threatening to engulf that which he had worked so hard to create. He loved her, he knew this, but something else had come to linger in his thoughts – where she had always reigned supreme. Arwen, Elrond, love, hate, marriage, Arwen, Elrond . . . His thoughts kept spinning in dizzying circles before finally coming to rest on a safe topic. He turned on his back and lay staring to the ceiling. The Ring . . .
Darkness and despair – an evil that had brought his bloodline low and now, given half a chance, would surely feed on the weakness that flowed in his veins – Isildur's Bane would surely now become his downfall too.
Quietly, as not to awaken the Elf by his side, he got up and moved towards the balcony, grabbing his pants from the floor and slipping them on as he went out into the cold night. He leaned forward on the rails, looking up at the stars that dotted the night sky. Sleep would bring him no further rest this night.
Legolas sat silently on the branch of a large, golden-leaved birch in the midst of the giant garden that grew lush all about the fair city of Rivendell. His back propped up against the trunk, his head leaned back against its roughness while one leg was drawn up to his chest, the other swinging idly back and forth off the wide branch.
The earlier festivities of the night had but recently ceased, and the Elf, not feeling yet weary enough to seek for bed and sleep, had strayed out into the wide gardens of Lord Elrond's estate. The trees were soothing – ever calm companions when turmoil of thought or sorrow of heart should be wished to avoid. The cold, pre-dawn air chilled his skin and cleared his mind to sobriety after the merry-makings.
Legolas had not enjoyed the companionship, as he should have; unknown burdens clouded his mind and weighed down his happiness. The night spent jovially with his companions had done everything but alleviate the pervading sense of detachment, he thought disconsolately.
Indeed, the Elf sought only solitude and not company – for whatever reason, his heart could not fathom.
The trees provided the perfect bearers for his burdens – silent always, they could not tell of the weakness he now showed by seeking their company. His sudden loneliness threatened to overwhelm him, and he sank down gratefully into the comforting embrace of the large branches and golden, silent leaves. No, no one must ever know.
His eyes were open but slightly unfocussed as he sat quietly, merely thinking, and dwelling on many things. He saw only fleeting visions, dim in the mists of long memory – but they were enough to guide him in a seemingly endless circle of conceptions of his past. Previous journeys to the Last Homely House; the message his father had sent him to convey; the strange little folk he had found staying here on his arrival . . . All these things now flitted past the edges of his vision in an almost dizzying flurry of speed. More flashes of certain events – some bright and colourful and vivid while others remained a dull greyish hue and lacked solidity – were conceived, regarded and rejected by the Elf one by one as time passed, heartbeat by heartbeat, and he became so drawn into himself that a sleep-like trance settled over him. Finally, his mind came to rest again upon the hobbits.
Never before had he encountered such a curious people. They were less than half his height, smaller than dwarves, but were shaped like humans and had the pointy ears of his people. Also they had extremely large, hairy feet. They seemed a hopelessly mixed breed of Halflings, unworthy of a stay in Elrond's House, surely . . . he felt his lip pull up in a sneer. It surprised him that the other Elves had not disposed of them before now. The Fair Folk were not much for tolerating the displeasing. Then again, if his long years had taught him anything, it was not to judge by first impressions. Mayhap the little creatures had more to them than he at first thought.
He heaved a sigh and let his eyes slowly focus, looking up seeking to spy maybe the last stars before dawn tore them from the night. Still he could not shake the feeling of intense loneliness he had sought to here escape.
But no stars could be seen through the thick covering of leaves that shielded his view of the night-sky. Instead, his roaming gaze met only the highest branches of the tree, and beyond that the very rim of a railing that could be seen peeking between the foliage.
There, the Elf picked out in the quiet dark a human standing, leaning almost tiredly on the delicate rail that bordered the walkway running through the entire Rivendell; where it passed, too, the guestrooms only where Men could be found staying.
The Man stood still and did not move, and it seemed, as the Elf's sharp eyes took in the details of the rough face and bared chest, for an instant, that he saw Isildur again. So likened to the King of old was this man, that Legolas could not help but look twice and hard at his countenance. Memories of the Last Alliance once more flooded his mind.
The armour fitting tight around his body, golden and beautiful as was all the Elves'; Elrond's voice commanding harshly the Elven archers to the fore; the slick feel of his own knives as he slit his enemies in two; the terrible, screaming war cry of the dark forces; the red blood on his hands, his face, his body . . . and finally, the horrified countenance of Anárion's brother as he cut the fingers from Sauron's hand with broken Narsil, triumphant as the Ring fell free. . . Then a great silence, so deep that it seemed all were devoured within its terrifying cruelty . . . and then the final eruption – a horrifying force that pulsated outwards from the Deceiver's shattered corpse, throwing Man and Elf alike roughly to the ground; a wind that whipped the very helm from Legolas' head, rendering his hair free to be tortured by the fell blast . . .
The Elf blinked to clear his vision as it seemed the images became all too real, and shook himself out of his reverie before he again could relive too vividly those last dire moments.
Of course, they were no more than recollections. Isildur was dead – long under the earth for more than two thousand years now – he could not very well then be standing in Rivendell, could he?
The resurfaced memories brought too much pain – he desperately sought to bury all thoughts of the Last Alliance afore they could plague him again into the bleak depression he felt the beginnings of settle heavily over his heart. It had been almost two and a half thousand years ago, and yet he could not forget – never be released from the torn and bleeding bodies that littered the ground, never be let go of the last agonised and dying screams of fallen Elves, never be set free of the curse of burning hatred always of the foes that had let him live when all he had loved was ripped from him . . .
He pressed himself back against the tree, breathing heavily. The soothing embrace of the rough bark calmed his wildly beating heart and whispered silently to him benign, heartfelt comfortings.
Almost he could be at peace again, but then a searing pain stabbed hotly through his shoulder as it contacted with the uneven bark. A loud Elven curse escaped from his lips as reflex arched his back away from it sharply, the severity of the pain almost blinding in its heat.
The ripped wound he had contracted on their journey from Mirkwood to Rivendell had almost passed safely from his memory – but now. . . now it seared through him with the shattering pain of a dagger being slowly plunged and twisted in his flesh.
He gritted his teeth as his hand flew to his shoulder. It was covered with a warm red substance when he drew it away – the improperly sealed injury had broken open at the sudden forward movement. If the rough contact of the bark had brought pain to the tender back of the shoulder, this was pure agony.
He stayed so for a minute, leaning into himself and gathering his limbs to him, while the cold silence settled once more after being broken by his harsh words.
The Elf cursed again, less vehemently. Now was not the time for blood – not when memories of the Last Alliance were still fresh in his mind. Not when Isildur – or at least the very likeness of Isildur – was within hearing distance. Legolas Greenleaf of Mirkwood was not some shameless Elf to flinch at a mere small measure of blood, however painful the wound might be. It was a matter of pride.
So ignoring the dull ache throbbing near his neck, he sat back with more care against the birch's wide trunk and let his gaze search for the Man by the balcony again.
Up and yet up he looked, to the sky or just below, seeking, searching, pursuing the Man that had brought the sudden onslaught of half forgotten memories to the fore. He was gone.
Aragorn breathed deeply of the cold air, revelling as the same chill wind caressed the bare skin of his chest and played softly with the strands of black that framed his face. There was a resonance pervading over Rivendell this night; an almost peaceful calm that soothed his turmoiled thoughts and eased his eternal confusion.
The Ranger sighed softly in contentment. No one was about at this hour – it gave him an ecstatic feeling of freedom, somehow; the knowledge that only he was awake; that while the minds of others rested still in the gentle paths of mostly Elvish dreams, he was free to roam about, with no prying eyes to question or mirror his actions.
The quiet shrouded all; veiled every nightly sound as if by a thick mist through which nothing; nothing at all – not even the ever-present cascade of the waterfalls that eternally filled Rivendell with the peaceful tinkling of water – could penetrate. It hung like a velvet drape over the Last Homely House; rendering everything so silent indeed that even the Man's breathing and the beating of his heart seemed loud enough to wake every Elf within a mile.
It seemed that the silence was a double blessing – for not only did it render him a King in such small way over his own doings; it also shrouded his thoughts and weighed them down into silence, until he could no longer think; just stand quietly and take in the wonder and splendour of the Elven sanctuary.
The Ranger had stood so, in a dream-like state of calm, for a time immeasurable within his own mind, before suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, a loud Elvish curse seared the air. The sound cut through the heavy silence with the effect of the sharp whistling cry of a perfectly aimed Elven arrow before it hit centre target. Aragorn started and jumped slightly. His hand flew to the hilt of his sword in reflex before he realised he had left it the room he had but recently, it appeared, abandoned.
Chagrined, he resigned himself to searching urgently for the source of the sound with his eyes. They flickered hastily from bush to tree, the Man's every muscle tensed and ready for battle, before finally coming to rest on a large birch tree of which the highest branches ended just below the balcony he was standing on. There. It had to have come from there. The structure of the Rivendell architecture and the gentle upwards sloping of the tree's branches combined to make an efficient funnel for any noise, however soft, to be channelled to the Ranger's standing place. Although, the Man conceded, this sound had been anything but soft.
Leaning far over the railing and bracing himself with hands wrapped around the delicate arch of the Elvish workmanship, he peered down through the autumn-tinged leaves and past the multitude spreading branches until finally, though not easily espied by human eyes at least, the muted browns and greens of the garden floor stared back up at him. Nothing could be seen moving within the branches of the tree itself; not even the slightest breeze stirred the heavy golden leaves from their rest.
The Ranger stared intently, beginning to wonder if mayhap he had heard mistakenly, his gaze still fixed on one of the lower branches.
A sudden flash of gold drew his attention immediately forth to focus on a low-hanging bough. There, seeming to take shape from out of the leaves like a mist appearing in a darkened swamp, an Elf appeared.
The sudden movement and light falling on golden hair revealed the Fair One, and brought to the fore a lithe male Elven body, perching lightly on the branch. He had been sitting motionless, so that his clothing and natural Elvish abilities had caused him to blend so perfectly with the tree behind him that he could not be discerned from it. Though his eyes were sharp, the Ranger was still not graced with Elvish sight and could not make out the being's face, hidden by the blond wisps of hair that fell over his features.
Aragorn marvelled at the Elf's light gracefulness as he sank forward somewhat, clutching at his shoulder. It seemed he did not move of his own accord, but that he rather flowed, as elegant as water and yet solid as ground and tree.
The Ranger watched, unable to tear his gaze away for whatever reason, as the Elf sat crouched so, hand upon shoulder for a few rapid beats of the heart. Silence fell once more in the air, the same heavy stillness as before – only slightly less oppressing for the graceful beauty of the fair one below. Aragorn had spent his entire life around Elves – yet this one seemed apart from others; more somehow than mere Elvish beauty could possibly render him in the cold pre-dawn starlight. Indeed, beauty was too weak a word to describe the sudden feeling inside his breast for the stranger Elf in the low boughs of the birch tree –
Wait – what was he thinking? What of Arwen – the one he loved? Surely his thoughts could not so easily be distracted by someone even unknown to the Ranger from his beloved? Aragorn shook himself. The Elf was a male, for Valar's sake!
Disgust and shame swept through the Ranger, battling for dominance as his face flushed a bright shade of red and a deep frown creased his forehead.
The silence stretched on, broken only by Aragorn's repeated whispers and curses at himself; below his breath so none could hear who did not stand close beside him.
Another muffled Elvish curse coloured the air from below. The Ranger's eyes, unwilling yet irresistibly drawn, swept downwards to where the Elf still sat bent, holding his shoulder. Then slowly the lithe body unfurled again, like the opening leaves of a wakening plant when sunlight gently strokes its surfaces, and leaned back into the tree once more, seeming almost resolute in his manner.
The Ranger frowned dubiously. The Elf was obviously in pain. Whether or not Aragorn's loyalties might be swayed by the least slight beauty to pass aside from Arwen, the Ranger's sense of duty would always prevail – and if his help was needed in any way, he was certainly not going to withhold it.
Quietly as he could, the Man stepped away from the railing and down the steps to the ground below.
Legolas sighed deeply, his hand lifting unconsciously again to rub at his injured shoulder. He thought again of the cause of his wound.
The fight had been hard and his bow and arrows, however skilfully wielded, not much use against the fell creatures that had beset them on the southernmost borders of his home. Mirkwood, aside from the small part of his father's kingdom, had indeed earned its name by the beings that dwelt now in its unpopulated reaches.
Giant Spider colonies beset the most southern borders of the Wood; the foul devilspawn were unforgiving and merciless in their territories – unfortunately, his chosen path as the quickest to Elrond's home lay straight through that area. Though they had not expected to pass unnoticed, the severity of the savage attack by the Spiders came as somewhat of a surprise. Two of his companions were killed and all wounded, including himself, although they were more capable than even most Elves in combat.
His memories turned to the actual battle; an inward wince as again he could almost feel the foul claws of the great creature sinking into his left shoulder . . . the beast had aimed for his neck, but his Elven agility had saved him in time as he whipped his head around, out of reach.
The wound had not healed in the near five weeks of journey to Rivendell, and he had not sought either for healers upon his arrival. Though it was grievous, it still was not fatal and therefore of no great concern. Let it never be seen that the son of Thranduil, who had fought bravely in the Last Alliance alongside Elrond and the Great Kings of old, showed weakness at a mere Spider's claw.
Disdain written clearly on his face, he looked around him at the low branches of the tree he was perched in. The cool leaves brought no further comfort; it seemed not even the ancient speech of the trees could soothe his festering soul.
His mind so made up, he leapt lightly from the branch, landing in a paused, cat-like stance . . . but a sudden wave of nausea overtook him as his feet touched ground and he stumbled forward ungracefully, landing hard on a root of the tree that thrust out of the ground to touch the trunk. A soft gasp of pain escaped his mouth, before he shut it angrily with a frown of disgust on his face. Straightening stiffly, he laid a hand on the rough bark of the tree to steady himself before resolutely pushing away and – ignoring the dull ache and throb of his shoulder – disappearing without sound into the night.
Quickly and silently, the Man briskly treaded the stairs, careful so as not to suddenly startle the Elf by his presence. The faint slap of his bare feet against the cold stone sounded loud in the chill air, and he was reminded again of his abandoned sword – and tunic, and boots – in Arwen's chamber.
The last faint light from the crescent moon lay across his path as the night slipped slowly away towards day.
A sudden thought entered his head as to what could possibly have driven the strange, golden-haired being he had saw to the trees' escape at this hour. It appeared then, too, that he was indeed not the only one awake now, and the realisation spurred a slight disappointment in him that irked him to no end. He paused on the stairs as a sudden feeling – possessiveness – took hold of him – why on earth or from whence it came he could not say. Why should it matter in the least?
Not for the first time, he shook his head at himself, before continuing forward.
Finally, hand resting lightly on the stone rising up next to the causeway to prevent aught from falling mayhap to the hard floor below – though injury from such was unlikely enough considering that the staircase spiralled widely and never rose more than a few feet from the floor – he came to the last of the stairs and stepped out from underneath the archway.
Disconsolately he let his gaze wander freely over the vast gardens before the guestrooms of Rivendell, before searching in the wooded glade – clearly visible from the arched stairway – for the large, golden-leafed birch.
Once again the eerie silence settled on the world, and this time there were no random Elvish curses to break it. The soft rustle as his feet glided over the young grass was the only noise in the pre-dawn chill that sent shivers up his spine.
Unfortunately for him, many birch-trees decorated the expansive woods around the Last Homely House, and all of them yellowed with the swift coming of autumn. The Ranger stared up into the branches of each tree as he passed, wandering somewhat aimlessly through the woods in search of his prey. He cursed the ability that all Elves seemed to have of just disappearing; without sight or sound or even slight indication as to where they might have gone.
It was underneath the spreading branches of the largest yellow birch in Rivendell that the Ranger finally stopped, and cocked his head to the side listening for possible signs – the merest intake of breath or rustle of cloth that might betray a watcher in the trees – all his senses alert. Years of hardship and necessity had forced his every instinct into perfection; sight near as good as the Elves themselves and hearing almost so, the Ranger could challenge even Elrond's skills in hunting.
No sound escaped the mighty branches. It was as if the tree was veiled in silence, its very bark capturing the merest of noises and burying it deep within; to an eternal prison from which there was no escape.
Aragorn frowned. It seemed he had missed his prey. With a sigh, he sank to the ground into an enfolding nook formed by two of the tree's roots, and leaned back against the rough bark of the trunk, closing his eyes for a while. His hands rested lightly on one up-thrust root to his side, and he lay his head back and to the side to rest on the high ridge it formed.
The Ranger's eyes flew open, his mouth twisted in confusion as he brought his head sharply up. He lay a hand on his cheek, then drew it away to stare at it. The wet he had felt underneath his face on the tree's bark was red upon his fingers.
Wondering at the substance, he slowly brought his hand to his mouth. A tentative taste, and the Ranger quickly wiped his hand on his breeches, disgust and severe wonder colouring his face.
It was blood.
Time stood still then, the thick silence seeming to engulf him in a circle impenetrable by the outside world – the only reality was the breeze gently cooling on the slick substance that smeared over his cheek. All he could do was watch as his hand, seeming to move ever too slowly through water or oil, rubbed up and down his thigh, ridding his fingers of the very same substance. The warm smell of red iron filled his senses, and he was paralysed somehow, in some manner forbade from moving limb or drawing breath.
A twig snapped sharply somewhere behind him, and its sound was as a whip to his ears, drawing him immediately out of his reverie and into harsh reality. The feeling had lasted but a mere moment, though he had felt an eternity pass him by in that instant. As if the sudden twig had activated all his muscles, he sprang to life; wiping the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand and rising to turn and face the intruder in one swift motion.
Elrond stood beside the tree, merely looking upon the Man silently, a question written in his brown eyes. The dark hair that framed the HalfElf's face was held back by the silver crown of authority, and the rich browns and greens of his robes bespoke of regal attire.
Aragorn's voice caught in his throat. Confusion plagued his mind and stopped the syllables just short of being sounded. The Man could merely draw a deep breath, before letting his gaze slip down in respect to his foster father.
"Estel,"
There was amusement in the old Elf's voice, barely hidden by a polite veil of curiosity as he stepped forward to tilt the Man's head up so that brown eyes looked directly to blue.
Elrond's hands came to rest upon the Ranger's shoulders. The Elf's age-old touch inspired comfort in the Man, and he felt at peace, safe once more within the confines of his father's – foster father, he reminded himself – House.
The Elf's voice was soft when again he spoke.
"'Tis but early yet for wakefulness. Even the sun yet does not show her face, but still here you are – without tunic or belt or shoe. Is there aught that troubles you, my son?"
Aragorn looked away from the Elf's piercing gaze. His answer rose not above a whisper since yet no sound came for his voice.
"I know not, father. I . . . thought I heard a disturbance in the trees and came merely to see if aught could mayhap be helped or hindered,"
"Yet you came without your sword? If indeed you thought it to be threat, my son, should not you have provided for the eventuality of battle?"
The amusement was now evident in Elrond's voice as he struggled not to laugh.
"Estel – you cannot get by with such poor untruths. If then you would lie to me, at least do a good job of it."
Aragorn stared intently at his feet, a slight flush pervading his features. He drew breath.
"Though I could ask the same of you, father. How comes it that the Lord of Rivendell finds no rest within his own House?"
Elrond smiled at him. "I have been in deep discussion with Gandalf the Grey. Though not a word has passed our lips we indeed have held counsel through the night, and will well into the next days. Even now he is awaiting my arrival again at the hall. I have merely taken time to sort my thoughts, for there is much on my mind that I would dwell upon before deciding on further course of action."
The Elf let go of Aragorn's shoulders and stepped away, breathing the dawn air deeply with his hands now folded behind his back.
The Ranger decided to let the silence pervade for a time, until his foster father sought again to pass words with him.
A light step fell on the grass a ways to the side of them, and both turned as one to face the new sound. A figure, wrapped tightly within the embrace of pure white cloth that left little bared below the neck, the sheet flowing down to trail behind her bare feet as she moved on the grass.
Arwen.
Aragorn was struck by her beauty – the long, black tresses cascading gently around her shoulders to pool at her waist, setting of all the more the pale white of her skin that seemed to glow faintly in the grey light before sunrise; she looked innocent, and young – though indeed she, too, was many years the Ranger's senior. The Man was filled with awe. Indeed, Beren himself could not have seen a beauty beyond this even in Tinúviel, whose beauty was but a small star compared with the bright sun of Arwen's presence as she appeared before them; a very angel fallen from heaven.
The Evenstar stopped but few feet from where the Ranger stood, gaze travelling from him to Elrond and back, a question in the bright blue pools of light that were her eyes.
"Aragorn," her soft voice graced the air, a noise both beautiful and strong as infused with the accent of Elvish that bore heavily upon it.
"I awake without you by my side. I fear, for you are loath to leave me to my own loneliness. Will you not return, so that I may find solace in your arms once again?"
Aragorn's gaze travelled from the beauty before him to the other Elf. Elrond looked upon him with a frown, anger written clearly in the flash of his eyes, but none in his voice when he spoke.
"Return I will then, too," The words were cold, bitter in the breeze that carried them to human ears, "for no longer do my thoughts trouble me."
With that he turned and was gone, leaving Aragorn to gather up his love in his arms and carry her lightly back to their chamber.
The sun did rise that day in all its usual glory and splendour – but none could see it for the heavy clouds that veiled Rivendell in grey.