Real

He is weary, and his clothes are as dirty as they have ever been, torn from battles in Moria and beyond. He’s still our Strider. But while he stands deep in conversation with Lady Galadriel, he seems somehow other than that. A glimpse of the king he’ll be one day flashes across his brow, determination chases the doubt from his eyes, and she in turn seems less fearsome, and more kind.

Legolas says she is Lady Arwen’s grandmother...

...and I’m glad for Strider, if he calls these woods home. But I should be afraid to hug her. And I don’t suppose she has a sharp tongue, or makes apple crumble, or ever falls asleep reading by the fireplace.

I want to be somewhere real again.