October Morn

Each morning upon rising Aragorn goes to the window, throws open the shutters, and breathes deeply, reveling in the scents and sights. Autumn mist veils the river while beech and birch and aspen trees glimmer golden on the hillsides. The smell of woodsmoke and damp earth mingles with the fragrance of the late, last roses. His long-awaited, long fought-for kingdom lies drowsily at peace.

A rustling of silk, and then Arwen is there, wrapping her arms around him, her warmth and scent intoxicating. “Come back to bed,” she murmurs. “Your kingdom can do without you for another hour.”

A birthday drabble for Isha Libran