Invisible to you

Nothing left to say but goodbye

The painting above is not mine I just think it's brilliant (done by Władysław Czachórski)

⚠️ violence, head injury, passing out (not detailed), assault, mention of saliva (gross ik it's just a sentence tho)⚠️

!Please comment if I need to add more, do not read if these subjects might upset you!
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~Previously~

The gardener pursed her lips and her shoulders heaved In an effortless shrug as she glanced silently down to the floor. Aragorn nodded in quiet understanding and headed down the hallway with hurried footsteps that echoed off the walls like a water droplet falling in a cave.

His direction of choice was his and his wife's bedchamber. The king did not know why but he had a terrible feeling about the situation.

~

3rd person PoV:

Why must the world be painted with colours so vibrant? Why must they be observed as superior as if the earth, water and daylight were not the elements nurturing its life, had its lack of exposure eroded its value? Why must your heart of blue, so pure and energetic contradict mine of soil? Why must you infiltrate my heart and steal away my stability with your flourishing roots? Like the Earth, my worth internally is lost. My significance is measured on what I express on the outside and yet, I can see your value and innocence illuminate from inside you like a blue flame. I have grown to envy the blue in your heart as I envy your warmth.

Aragorn's pace quickened as he reached the staircase, taking three steps at a time, the sound of his footsteps echoing off the marble walls. The fingers on his hands strained from the force of heaving his fatigued body higher up the steps, knuckles turning white against the bannister. Its chill exterior adorned his skin with hairs that stood on end.

Reaching the top floor, the king rounded the corner and approached an alabaster door, garnished with a thin gloss of moonlight that pooled in from the opposite window. Gripping the door handle, Aragorn steeled his apprehensive expression with a mask of fake indifference, sensing the harsh chill of the metal resting in his palm travel up his spine and to his head. For a moment, the king permitted himself to relax, letting the sensation of the bitter air calm his nerves and he let out a soft breath. With a delicate push, the door swung open.

A small flame in the corner of the dim room embellished the surrounding objects with its gentle gleam, emphasizing the creases and curvatures of a neatly tidied blanket and a wooden bed frame. On the desk, where the candle rested, lay sheets of yellowed parchment tinged with blotches of spilt ink. Aragorn did not think much of it, supposing that Arwen had written a letter to someone and accidentally provoked a spillage. Droplets of candle wax stained the polished oak table surface, trickling down the candle's cylindrical perimeter like warm snow.

Stepping into the room, the king let the aroma of fresh bread invade his nostrils and he felt his stomach ache as he noticed a half-eaten loaf of bread on the small bedside table. Calming down slightly, Aragorn seized hesitant steps over to the candle in the corner of the room, silver eyes wandering his dimly lit surroundings like a cat under the shelter of darkness.

The man reached out towards the candle holder, snaking his fingers through its decorative structure and feeling the warm metal transmit shivers up his spine. Levelling the candle with his mouth, Aragorn drew a breath, ready to blow the candle out when he felt something light fall at his feet. Halting, the king stilled his posture and looked down. Yet it was far too dark to see anything. Aragorn struggled to focus his eyes on the particular object yet paused when he saw something else, on the table in front of him.