brainofck

From the Sharpe/Aragorn Project, because it's this kind of day.

The rich, dense autumn light fell like honey over his lover's face and hair. Aragorn didn't know when he had come to associate this man so closely with honey. It was odd, as Boromir had never elicited that thought, and if anything, this man was more ill tempered than even Denethor's son had been.

Then he thought how this rich golden light reminded him of Rivendell, also lost to him now. How the light in Rivendell had gilded those features, peaceful now, and dreaming, drawn out the fire in those eyes, closed now in sleep, limned the hair, longer then. How Aragorn had longed to touch that golden creature in Rivendell, so mortal, but glowing with an almost elven vibrance. How he had known he could not touch. How he had lost so much.