Darkness Remains

He walked almost as if in a dream. Forsooth, it seemed like such. Aragorn felt like he was wrapped in a warm cocoon of sleep. He wandered his bedroom like a blind man, bleary eyed and discombobulated. It was mid afternoon, but ah, how he wished for sleep. His short reign has been fair and peaceful, but, like any king, deprived of sleep.
It felt, to him, like something was out of place.
Forgotten, perhaps.
It was only a feeling, but one so strong it was tugging and gnawing at the corners of his mind. He meandered over to his bed aimlessly. Thoughtlessly.
He sat down on the edge, head in his hands. He ran a finger against the beard he had grown. Aragorn smiled wearily; he has not shaved it recently, and it started to lose shape.
A knock on the door, hesitant, worried.
“You may enter.” Aragorn said to the person beyond the heavy mahogany entryway.
The doors swung open, and Arwen entered, carrying a basin of water, and a towel.
“Ah, you have come to tame my reckless beard?” he smiled, the lines around his eyes crinkling upward. Arwen chuckled, sat down at his feet, and leaned against his strong legs.
“My Lord, why do you mock me so?” she asked, gazing at him with those large doe eyes, filled with mirth.
He stroked her ebony hair tenderly.
“Nay, meleth nin, I would never mock you.”
Arwen sighed pleasurably and shifted, dipping the end of the towel in the warm water
She straightened, turning to face him, and sat down next to the king.
“Here,” she said, “it shall ease your thoughts.” She dabbed the wet end of the towel upon his brow.
“My thoughts, or my headache?” he asked.
She laughed a clear, ethereal sound.
“Your headache, at the very least, my Lord.”
He smiled, laying his hand on her ivory shoulder.
And with his beloved wife, Aragorn forgot his unnamed troubles, if only for a moment.