So oft he stood alone, on paths untrod by his kinsfolk. Into the far distance his eyes would glint like somehow he had captured the stars, though yet, he watched, still and silent, a homage to the Dunedain as they walked abroad without him. O! how he longed to crouch amongst the ferns and the shrubs, to run with the wind through endless fields, and to seek the horizon with no other care. And yet he stood, bound to but stand in honor of days long past him.
At a younger age, he would have found possibly matted hair, he laughed to himself, or even younger would he have found Elf braids that his brothers had woven in as they pinned him down. He took a long moment to But now, where once pure deep brunette once sat began to wear into a head of gray. Was time punishing him for so long escaping its grasp. It had caught him as he had stood here so many years before.
This perch, above the city upon the mountainside, he had discovered in his stead here as Thorongil, Captain to Ecthelion. So long ago that was, yet he remembered clearly watching the West with watchful eyes, longing to return over the mountains and back to Rivendell, yet simply basking in sunlight and clear days was all he would have. And such days seem almost a thought lost to reveries of long ago.
His kingdom had flourished, though with no knowledge that the first king to reunite the realms of men was aging. With every day that passed, he planned changes for the city, faced incessant questioning from his councilors, and spent but a sliver with his family. It pained him to realize it, but indeed, duty was driving him away from the things that he longed for, moments apart from the world with his children and more, his wife. Did she understand? Did they understand? Within, he turned the thoughts over and over, yet he could find no answer within, he would need to ask. But for now, he yet longed to catch the sun, standing alone.
Alone, he knew he would face mortality, he morbidly thought. The stab keenly caught him and pierced his yearning heart. Such a cruel word it was, mortality. He had always been mortal, even as a child, he was cruelly reminded as such living in the valley of Imladris, where none dwelt. Mortality was referred to as a 'gift', yet he found no form of giving, lest it was a twisted gift. Any yet, he endured it. It shattered his heart to know that his beloved, as well, was facing this fact. So long ago had she made her decision, did she regret it? Did she wish to the whispers of night that she had sailed away from Middle-Earth? Such questions ranked his mind for many long breaths. He would possibly never know. At that, he banished the thought.
As the sun, he realized began to sink into the horizon, he stood, mesmerized and silent. And after the sunset comes the twilight… but the twilight has long passed many a time, and each has brought a new dawn, a rebirth of light.
Over his shoulder, he heard soft footsteps of another approaching. Before they even had a chance to speak, the tall King Elessar turned, facing the intrusion into his thoughts. A youthful, tall figure walked beside him. The new Steward, Cirion II, Faramir and Eowyn's son, gently trod the mountainside behind the King. "Forgive me, Lord Aragorn, but I was sent to get you."
"By whom, Cirion?" his words, of late, had lessened as he preferred to watch the world, than speak to it. Yet he did not mean any cold-heartedness for the man before him.
As the Steward looked about him, he was immediately in awe of the beauty and wonder of the sunset. It took him a few moments to respond to the question, but Aragorn had patience. "The banquet is soon to begin," he finally spoke.
So much did Aragorn wish to stay until the sun had disappeared beyond the horizon, resting pleasantly in its pillow of evening and the moon on its rise. But most of all, he longed to see the stars above, for nothing, spare Arwen, was such a comfort over his long journeys. But no, he could return tomorrow night, and new thoughts would come from the still silence, and a new diversion would come from the city below, though, instead of protesting, he simply placed his time worn hand upon the stone beside him, and looked over his shoulder one last time. Namarie, haeron Anor, haeron talathi, o hearon aradi, idh eithel.* "Then let us go."