The Sweet Arms Of Sleep by Ashley Kong

 

 

The kindness the hobbit had shown the ranger was one he would never forget. She had offered him a place to sleep, though he did not ask. She knew he had no where to go, and for this, he was grateful. 

 

The home in which she called her own was small, to him at least, but also very cozy. He could see why she enjoyed it a lot. Strider had expected to sleep on a couch of sorts, so when she led  him to his own room, he didn’t know what to say. Thank you, of coarse, but he felt as if it wasn’t enough. None the less, he accepted the room and eventually went to sleep there, the door closed. 

 

That night, when the sweet arms of sleep wrapped themselves around his fatigued form, he dreamt. Of darkness and mist, towering trees and a chilling breeze. Alone he stood, eyes wandering the area, a feeling of being watched consuming him. No weapon was by his side, causing him to feel vulnerable. His cloaked form began to creep through the forest, his eyes having a strangely difficult time adjusting to the night. And that’s when he saw it. A distant form of a body, head down and hair covering the face. Aragorn couldn’t make out who it was, so he crept closer. Silently, the only sound coming from the crunching of the leaves around him. As he neared, the form became clearer, but the face did not. He was curious, and foolish, for the curiosity distracted him from the feeling of eyes on him— until it was too late. A sharp object, undoubtedly a sword, was thrust into his stomach from behind. A silent yelp escaped his lips, and then everything went black. 

 

A small cry escaped his throat as he jolted awake, his body shooting up. He grabbed for his sword, which he placed beside the small bed, quickly unsheathing it. The force of basically jumping from the bed and unsheathing his sword caused the ranger to fall and land on the ground with a loud thud. He gasped, dropping the sword to the side with a clang. For a moment he sat there, catching his breath, realizing he was still in the house of his hobbit companion. He hung his head, small beads of sweat trickling down his neck, his hair falling in his face. 

 

The knock startled him, to say the least. Aragorn stood from where he sat, brushing the imaginary dust from his clothes. “… all is well… ” he replied, his voice obviously strained. He bent down, quickly grabbing his sword, and moving to sheath it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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