elesheir .

He clutches his cloak pulling tight the tattered edges, and the pitiless sting of mountain gales snuffs those embers in his lungs. Out of the corner of his eye, Aragorn suspects she feels much the same: o, the smoldering might of fair Haven, their sanctuary wrought to cinders torching gold the dead of night… His glove, fire-singed, hides his bloodied hand poorly. Yet, all weariness fades beside her, she with heart and starlight-eyes. No– “Ma serannas.“ Humbly, the ranger dares to brave her gaze. About them, the hardy folk tend to sleep and kindling. “Before you had come, they had held all things forlorn. Wounds may be healed, though to mend the spirit? That is no meager gift you bear.”

SHE   WONDERS   IF   it’s   truly   a   gift   that   she   bears .   it   oft   feels   too   heavy ,   as   if   she   carries   all   of   the   sky   with   her ,   stretched   out   across   her   atlas   shoulders .   there’s   an   always   present   ache   in   her   left   palm   (   dulled   now.   a   gentle   hum   through   her   nerves ,   spreading   up   to   the   joint   of   her   wrist   ) ,   &   it   reminds   her   that   perhaps   it’s   not   so   far   off   from   the   truth .   &   this   gift   was   an   accident ,   she   knows   it   in   her   heart —   an   interloper ,   a   thief .   but   this   is   her   burden ,   not   his .   witness   a   slow   softening   of   her   features —   not   quite   a   smile ,   but   something   other   than   hard   faced   stoicism .

❛   their   spirits   are   strong   enough   without   me   there   to   carry   them ,   lethallin .   &   there   would   be   a   fair   few   less   had   those   wounds   not   been   healed .   although   truthfully,   even   now   it   is   solas   who   guides   us .   ❜