It is not only she who thinks of an embrace. He would hold her, if he thought he could, if they were in less immediate danger; truthfully, Aragorn wants to wrap her up in himself; to conceal her from the multitude of unseen, unfriendly eyes; to shield her from the evils here with his very self. If he could do something like that -- if he could weave a mantle of darkness like that of Lúthien, something that could cast sleep on their jailers here -- but that magic is not his.

So he takes her hand instead, and leads her through this poisoned land. It is a control shed he leads her into: it's intact enough to conceal them and run-down enough to discourage others from seeking shelter in it. A hole in the ceiling means they're fucked if it rains but makes a fire possible. It looks like he had a fire going last night, actually, judging from the scorch marks and ash that's settled into the cracks on the concrete floor. It's a miserable place, but it shields them from the wind.

"This way, lady."

Aragorn checks, before he leads her in, that no one else has decided to take up residence here, but once he's sure the way is clear and they're both inside safely and the old rickety door is shut behind them, Arwen's getting pulled into his arms and held around her back, tightly. Perhaps in another time and place he could have kept a respectful, reverential distance -- contented himself with a touch of her hand, a kiss to her brow, but here? Now? No -- it is one thing to be here himself, and another altogether to know that she will suffer this as he has. He cannot keep away; he fears for her too much. For a moment, the smell of her hair drives away the oppressing sickness and filth that surrounds them; for a moment, he thinks he can almost forget where they are.