Sometimes in the darkness I call him Aragorn.  When all are asleep, I stroke his hair and whisper it so softly it does not even stir his dreams.  Watching him in the thin light of his bedside candle I mourn for all that has been lost.  We have taken his father’s name from him, let memories fade beyond childish recall, and taken from him his home and kin.  Yet still do I see my husband in every soft line of his face and in the proud courage of his heart.  I brush his cheek and whisper,

"Aragorn son of Arathorn."