Trail carefully concealed, Aragorn huddled into the tumbled rock shelter. Pulling a flap of cloak over his face, he sat very still. The headman’s wrathful guards stalked close behind him. The cloak kept out the worst of the thin and bitter wind that blew off the steppes and he felt quite unaccountably safe in the cocoon of warmth. His eyelids drooped.

Moss green, slate grey, madder red, ochre, birch-bark white, elm brown, cerulean, granite pink, earth and sky, rock and field and wood. Surrounded by baskets of fibre, Arwen’s feet danced over the loom pedals, the soft shrrr of the warp thread flying though the shed punctuated by the muted thuds of the beaters. She plucked a bit of deep green fluff from a basket and deftly inserted it into the weave. A wave of weariness washed over her. Inhaling a deep breath, she focused on the cloth and felt rock behind her back.

“Sleep, beloved. Unfriendly eyes will not see you.”

The cloth for a new cloak grew beneath her hands. She sang, eyes unfocused, thoughts far away.

Aragorn woke refreshed as the sun slanted into his eyes. At the edge of his vision, the guards plodded homeward, defeated.

Arwen remained in Rivendell, and when Aragorn was abroad, from afar she watched over him in thought;
Tale of Aragorn and Arwen