His Queen

Chapter 11 - Kitra

The moon cast a soft glow through the library windows as Kitra found herself drawn once again to its shelves after dinner. A book in hand, she wandered through the aisles, the sound of her footsteps echoing off the tall walls. As she neared the staircase, she noticed a familiar figure on the second story and couldn't resist making her way up.

To her delight, Aragorn was sitting on a bench with a newly combed head of hair and fresh clothes. She smiled as she approached him and he returned it with a warm one of his own.

"Mind if I join you?" Kitra asked, gesturing to the spot next to him.

Aragorn shook his head with a small smile on his lips. "Not at all," he said, his voice deep and soothing. He held out his arms to her, and she eagerly nestled herself between his strong thighs, resting against his broad chest. She opened her book, the pages crisp and smooth under her fingers, as she felt the warmth of his body radiating against her back. The sound of his steady breathing and the gentle rise and fall of his chest created a calming rhythm that surrounded her like a protective shield. She couldn't imagine a more peaceful and comforting place to lose herself in the words on the page.

Together they sat, nestled in the cozy cushioned chairs of the grand library as the night wore on. The gentle flicker of candlelight danced across their faces as they lost themselves in their respective books. Kitra found herself lost in the pages, the words weaving a mesmerizing spell around her. Without warning, the sound of footsteps broke through the peaceful silence and she saw Aragorn glance over his book at the approaching figure. Part of her hoped they would be left alone to continue their quiet reading, but another part was curious about this new arrival and what they might bring to their tranquil setting.

The man's footsteps echoed off the stone walls as he made his way towards a magnificent painting. It depicted a legendary scene - Isildur, the brave hero, cutting the Ring from Sauron's finger while his sword shattered in the process. The colors were vibrant and lifelike, drawing the man in with its grandeur. He stood in awe for a moment, taking in every detail before turning at the sound of a faint noise. His eyes scanned the room until they fell upon Aragorn and Kitra, curled up together with their books. A smile tugged at his lips as he watched them, lost in their own world. But then his gaze returned to the painting, and he couldn't help but feel a sense of nostalgia wash over him as he remembered the ancient tales and legends that surrounded it

The man pointed to the stack of ancient, leather-bound books on the table. "You are not elves," he observed, his gaze moving back and forth between the two travelers.

Aragorn raised an eyebrow in response. "Men and Women of the South are welcome here," he stated calmly, gesturing towards the reading material.

Curiosity sparked in the man's eyes as he asked, "Who are you?"

"We are friends of Gandalf the Grey," Aragorn responded, his voice carrying a tone of authority and respect. As the words left his lips, a sense of mystery and adventure filled the air, drawing the attention of those around them.

The man's sharp, piercing gaze lingers on them for a moment too long before he turns his attention to the statue standing next to him. His sturdy boots click against the ancient stone steps as he ascends, revealing the pedestal that holds the legendary Shards of Narsil. The woman watches him with mild interest, setting her book aside and propping it on her stomach for a better view.

"The shards of Narsil...the very blade that cut the Ring from Sauron's hand," the man marvels, reaching out to run his thumb over the sharp edge of the broken sword. But to his surprise, he slices open his own skin and gasps in shock. Crimson blood drips down his hand as he quickly pulls it back, a mix of awe and fear in his wide eyes. "It's still sharp," he exclaims, glancing at them before averting his gaze. He nervously continues, "But now it's nothing more than a broken heirloom." With great care, he places it back on the pedestal but misses, causing it to teeter off the edge and clatter to the floor below with a resounding thud. As he walks away, he hesitates for a moment and casts a fleeting glance over his shoulder at the fallen heirloom, but ultimately continues on without looking back. The shattered pieces glint in the dim light, a symbol of lost greatness and forgotten power