I know this isn't quite what you suggested, DORK DOG, but the muse does what it will.
Scribe~Of~RED
Melodies drifted between the towering mallorn trees like a mist—haunting strains that lingered in the living air of the Golden Wood: breath to weary travelers.
Aragorn stared up into the gray canopy, but he saw not the present day; instead, his sights were drawn back through time, to the day he was first consumed by the joy of true love.
On that day, song became reality; starlight became living flesh once more.
But now she wasn't here, and Lothlórien itself knew.
As he breathed the diminished air, he wondered yet again if the dream would forever remain a fantasy.
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