The wind howls like a wounded beast through the canopy above, tearing at the branches with wild fingers. Rain lashes the forest in hard, slanted strokes, soaking through the thick wool of your cloak until the chill gnaws straight into your bones. Thunder rolls, deep and long, like the growl of some ancient thing waking in the dark. You’ve always loved storms from behind glass, safe and dry, with firelight and warmth and walls that don’t creak with every gust. But out here, in the shadow of trees that bend and shudder like they might give way, your heart stutters against your ribs. You know it’s foolish. You’ve faced worse things. And yet something about this—the isolation, the rawness of it—rattles you.

Aragorn notices, of course. He always does. His gaze flicks toward you just as a streak of lightning cracks the sky, painting his face in stark silver for a breath. He doesn’t speak at first. He simply shifts beside you, one arm reaching to draw you against his chest, tucking you into the space between his body and his cloak with the kind of quiet certainty that makes refusal unthinkable. The leather of his jerkin is cold but dry, and his warmth seeps into your skin in slow, steady pulses.

His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading into your damp hair, anchoring you there like you’re something precious he refuses to let the wind claim. You press your face into the curve of his throat, breathing in the scent of earth, pine, rain, and something uniquely him—steel, smoke, the quiet scent of age-old resolve.

Then his voice comes, low and sure, spoken against your ear like a secret: "Le melin. Losto mae, meleth-nîn. Ú-chebin estel anim, ‘cause you are here.”

The words are soft, a murmur in Elvish, rising and falling like a lullaby meant only for you. You don’t understand all of them, but you feel them—the shape of them, the warmth behind them, the promise nestled in their rhythm. He repeats them slowly, his breath warm against your cheek as the rain drums harder, louder, turning the world into sound and blur. Each word steadies you. Each syllable pulls you back from the place your fear was trying to take you.

You realize he’s not trying to distract you from the storm. He’s anchoring you through it. Drawing your focus into him, into the steadiness of his body, the calm of his presence, the way he holds you like you’re not just someone he loves, but someone whose safety he’s sworn to with bone-deep conviction.

He hums then—barely audible—a melody older than the trees around you, something elven and mournful, but not sad. It reminds you of starlight through clouds, of silver leaves drifting on still water. It reminds you of peace, of firelight. Of home.