The Ring-bearer was beyond their reach, born away towards safety, towards Rivendell. The Nine, too, were gone, swept away by the raging Bruinen. Yet the terror they had unleashed was slow to subside. Aragorn wiped sweat off his brow with an unsteady hand. They were all shaken to the core and weary.

A warm hand upon his shoulder startled him out of his reverie.

"Dúnadan?" Glorfindel's keen eyes held concern.

"I am well." Aragorn found his voice at last. "We had best be on our way. Neither of us has a mind to spend another night out in the Wild."

A/N: A drabble written in response to Radbooks's 2005 birthday request: a drabble about Aragorn and Glorfindel.

fliewatuet
Posted: 2006-11-09