Long had his mind been troubled with dreams that haunted his waking moments, but in the last weeks Aragorn had experienced more sleepless nights than ever. It seemed the minute he shut his eyes he was accosted with nightmares, terrible images flashing through his mind. He dreamed that all was lost, that the White City fell and Men were enslaved, that the lands of free people collapsed into shadow.
On the worst nights he dreamed of Arwen, saw the Evenstar slip from his neck once again, smashed to pieces on stone floor. He woke this night in a sweat, his mind filled with thoughts of what could have become of his city, his people, the woman he loved. He did not know what fate awaited Middle-Earth back home and the Lady Galadriel remained as carefully cryptic as ever. She counselled courage and faith, but trapped in this city as he was, unable to lend his sword to the battle, he could not help but feel powerless in a way he had not felt since he was a boy.
It soon became clear that he could sleep no longer, and so Aragorn pulled on the plain linen shirt, trousers and boots he had arrived in, planning a walk to clear his head. The clothes were comfortable, familiar and well-worn, a comfort in themselves even without the armour that he had worn over the top. He slipped out of the apartment, the walls feeling even more suffocating than usual, and quickly found himself walking along the shore, the hard sand beneath his feet.
He had walked only a short way when he spotted her, a familiar figure standing on the beach, her hair blowing in the wind. For a moment he watched her, taking some comfort in the sight before he approached, signalling a hand in greeting. "My lady," he greeted her, for though they were far removed from the customs of the Mark, he could not yet shake the habit. "I did not expect to find you out here at so late an hour."
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On the worst nights he dreamed of Arwen, saw the Evenstar slip from his neck once again, smashed to pieces on stone floor. He woke this night in a sweat, his mind filled with thoughts of what could have become of his city, his people, the woman he loved. He did not know what fate awaited Middle-Earth back home and the Lady Galadriel remained as carefully cryptic as ever. She counselled courage and faith, but trapped in this city as he was, unable to lend his sword to the battle, he could not help but feel powerless in a way he had not felt since he was a boy.
It soon became clear that he could sleep no longer, and so Aragorn pulled on the plain linen shirt, trousers and boots he had arrived in, planning a walk to clear his head. The clothes were comfortable, familiar and well-worn, a comfort in themselves even without the armour that he had worn over the top. He slipped out of the apartment, the walls feeling even more suffocating than usual, and quickly found himself walking along the shore, the hard sand beneath his feet.
He had walked only a short way when he spotted her, a familiar figure standing on the beach, her hair blowing in the wind. For a moment he watched her, taking some comfort in the sight before he approached, signalling a hand in greeting. "My lady," he greeted her, for though they were far removed from the customs of the Mark, he could not yet shake the habit. "I did not expect to find you out here at so late an hour."