The crusting of silver embroidery was rough under his fingers - Aragorn felt overdressed in the finery - but he obediently stood still while Galadriel adjusted the folds of the robe and placed a gem-hung filet on his forehead. His body was rested enough, but he was heartsick, longing for things he knew he could not have: a kingdom to rule, his love by his side, sons.

“I am grateful for your care, Lady.”

Galadriel’s eyes caught his with an ineffable expression. “These woods hold many virtues. Walk on the hill of Cerin Amroth. There is beauty there to ease your heart.”