The rich, dense autumn light fell like honey over his lover's face and hair...

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.

He felt the familiar pang of guilt, thinking of the two men as if they were the same. He betrayed them both that way. And the realization that they would both forgive him with that strange soldier's compassion they shared - the realization only compressed his chest and drew tears from the corners of his eyes.

Richard was a light sleeper, and Aragorn's restless shifting had wakened him from his napping. He looked up with heavy lidded eyes, the reached up to brush away a crystalline droplet with a callused thumb.

"What's this, then?" he murmured, in that strange, foreign tongue. Aragorn just smiled weakly. Richard reached out strong arms and drew Aragorn into a warm embrace, hushing and shushing him, as the hot sun fell on them in the cool afternoon breeze and Aragorn mourned things lost and clung to things found.