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 thesky 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 faroff 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 aslowsoftening of her features
—
not quite a smile , but something other than hardfaced stoicism .
❛ their spirits are strongenough 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 . ❜
