Truth be told, Arwen would not mind the shelter of his arms. She never does. He represents all that is good and noble in her world; his steadfast commitment to ridding the world of evil, the thankless job of protecting people who do not even know he is there, the burden of being Isildur's heir. If she could but sooth his doubts with a touch, a single word, Arwen would do so without hesitation. If only the world worked that way.

She may be sheltered in some of the ways of the world, but her father -- and her brothers -- have taught her the basic skills of forestry, of healing, of surviving in the wild should that ever be necessary. That said, the state of the land around them is like a punch to the gut.

Nature has a song and elves can hear its intertwining melodies clearly.

Here, there is nothing. No joy, no memories, nothing to tell her who built the arena, or how long ago. It frightens her in a way that being on her own so briefly hasn't. She follows behind, careful to step where he has in an effort to obscure the tracks of two people, and casts a careful eye around the shed as she steps inside. Shelter is shelter and she will make do with what they have; should the sky open up, she is more easily to shrug off the effects of rain and will act as a shield, if necessary. But there is distraction from fretful thoughts, for Aragorn tucks her against him, arms enfolding her in tangible warmth. It's almost too much for her state of mind - brought without warning to a place where they've let growing things die, as they let people die - and how could they think this is okay? Arwen drops the pipe, wrapping slender arms around Aragorn's waist, and buries her face in the crook of his neck.

"What darkness holds sway here, to treat others so basely? Like trinkets instead of people."