“Thank you for the supper,” Aragorn set down his fork and knife, and sent a grateful smile to the older man cross the table, “Father.”
“No, thank you Aragorn, for not forgetting about our meet tonight.” Elrond joked. Aragorn coughed in embarrassment, knowing that Elrond is referring to their last supper together, when Aragorn was so caught up in his work and realized he had forgotten about their meet, half an hour pass the time. Elrond showed much understanding to his rudeness, but that just made Aragorn feel all more guilty.
“How much fast food did you ate lately?” Elrond started on his usual concern about the younger man’s diet.
“What? No, no, no I have not been eating any fast food!” Aragorn denied with big movements of his head and hands, and it’s just plainly obvious that he is lying.
Elrond sighed, “Aragorn, you look like you have not seen the sun for weeks. You really need to do a better job at taking care of yourself. Maybe you should find a working partner, or a housemate?”
Aragorn frowned at the thought, but he still nodded to accept the care from his father.
Elrond called in servants to remove the plates, then looked back at Aragorn, “Are you staying tonight, or do you prefer to return to your own house?”
“Uh......” Aragorn hesitated, peering out into the courtyard first, then scanned around the windows.
Amused by his actions, Elrond asked, “What are you looking for?”
Aragorn hesitated some more, then lowering his voice, he asked while his eyes darted around the room, as if he’s expecting to be ambushed anytime, “Is Thranduil......here tonight?”
“No.” Elrond laughed, as he finally understood what his son was worried about, “Thranduil is not coming over tonight, you can stay with ease.”
Aragorn breathed out a sigh of relief.
It’s not that he dislikes Thranduil or anything, it’s quite the opposite, Aragorn get the feeling that Thranduil hates his guts. Every time Thranduil looked at him, Aragorn have no words to describe all the heart felt despise and loathe Thranduil transmits to him. Even worse, Aragorn has no idea what he had ever done to Thranduil to cause all this hate from that man.
Elrond still have some business to attend to after supper, so Aragorn left him to his work and decided to head to bed early tonight. He just finished his new book before supper, and is in no hurry to start the next one. Before he engage himself with writing again, he need a good, relaxing break.
Catching up on his sleep is also a good idea.
Stifling a yawn, Aragorn suddenly got the feeling that he was not alone. Aragorn cleared the corner with soft steps, and, as expected, there he is again!
Down the long corridor was a slender figure of human, yet he walk with silence and his long, golden hair glowed in the dim lights. He seemed unreal, nothing more but a delusion.
This is the third time Aragorn had seen that figure in Elrond’s house, though he never had the chance to see his face, nor hear his voice. At first Aragorn had thought that figure was Thranduil, but he was quick to realize his mistake, for Thranduil was much taller in height with broader shoulders, even from afar his figure would not seem slim.
The glowing figure turned into another hallway, and Aragorn let out a breath that he just realized he had been holding.
Elrond never spoke of this mysterious figure in his house, and Aragorn never found it fit to ask. Besides, with each encounter, Aragorn doubts more of the reality in these encounters. These encounters are too similar to dreams, especially today, when fatigue is nagging at his conscious.
Feeling like he could faint, Aragorn headed for his room without anymore stops.
All he wants to do is to sink himself into the bed, and travel into his world in dreams.
******
It has been a month since the supper at Elrond’s, also a month since Aragorn is finished with his latest novel. He will have to start another one soon, but his muse refuses to cooperate.
Aragorn’s inspiration came from his dreams. Ever since he was a child he had these splendid dreams of fantasy worlds, where he would be a warrior on battlefields, or a ranger in the woods. Sometimes he had company, little dwarfs, or beautiful elves. He rode on an eagle’s back, killed ugly beasts. Aragorn pieced together the dreams, and filled in details with his imagination. He loved to write these stories, he felt a sense of belonging in those tales, none else had been able to offer. The closest has been Elrond, his foster father, who came to him when he was seven, but only adopted him when he was fifteen.
Walking in the chilly morning air, with the winter wind cuts at this face, Aragorn thought maybe it’s time he should try to find some warmth in his life.
Elrond is right, he should interact more with people. Though not a housemate, no, that would be a step too big, but a working partner, yes. Aragorn could use an artist, an artist should be able to help him grasp those vague images in his recent dreams, and he also really need some decent covers for his books. He is so done with that jerk who kept drawing weird and unrelated stuff, and declaring them as illustrations for his books.
Taping the last of his flyers onto a street light, Aragorn suddenly got the feeling that he is being watched. Whipping his head around, Aragorn looked at a nearby rooftop, but then he laughed inwardly at how overreacted he is. After all, who can be stalking him from a roof?
Aragorn started for home, and briefly wondered will these flyers find him an artist. This is a digital age, a post on the internet will be much efficient than flyers on the streets, but Aragorn is never fond of electronics. He insists to write and edit his story on paper, even if he have to spend time typing them into a computer again.
Aragorn quickened his steps as another gust blew in his face and snuck into his collar. Pulling the coat tighter, Aragorn felt a familiar sensation like gaze burning into his back.
This strange feeling started nearly three years ago, when Aragorn was twenty-seven, soon after his books got popular and his pseudonym was getting known. He had wondered if this could be some wild, persistent fan of his. Yet this explanation would not be logical, because Aragorn took special care to make sure his true identity stays hidden. He does not favor a life of a celebrity, Aragorn needs peace in his life.
Besides, this gaze-like feeling is much too devoted than any fans can manage. Plus most of the time when Aragorn tried to find the source of the gaze, he found himself staring at roof tops, even in the deepest winter snow. No one can stay up on those slippery roofs with wind going at what felt like fifty miles per hour, and not to mention moving without a trace.
Fifteen minutes from home, the northern winds brought snow. Flakes large like feathers danced across the sky, then gently finding a nest in Aragorn’s messy dark hair. Sighing, Aragorn give in to the cold, and pulled up his hood to shield his poor ears from freezing.
He like wind on his skin, icy wind though, is another matter.
When Aragorn reached home, he’s coat was cover by snow. He took care to shake them off before he entered the house, and hang his coat neatly away in the closet.
“I should post an ad on the internet now.”
Aragorn muttered to himself, running through what he should do in his brain, as he took the shoes off.
His distaste for electronics is one reason for why he loath doing that, but more importantly, Aragorn fancy the idea of being in the same city with his artist, if possible, the same neighbourhood. He likes to communicate with people face to face much better than across a pair of screens. Except, if he cannot find an artist with his flyers, he will have to use other means.
Aragorn barely made it to the stairs when the doorbell rang.
Who might it be? Aragorn wondered. He is not one to socialize with his neighbours, and his friends rarely visit without warning.
But, he lives in a secured community with door guards at the entrance, Aragorn is not too worried about strangers knocking at his door.
Therefore he doubled back and grabbing a light jacket to deal with the cold, Aragorn opened the door.
A young blond man stood at Aragorn’s doorsteps, his eyes blue as a clear sky, and his skin fair like milk. Snow rested on him, adorning his long silky hair and his dark green cloak. He didn’t seemed to be dressing in warm clothes, yet he did not appear to be bothered by the cold either.
The young man spoke with a soft voice, he sound like a clear stream in the forest, washing Aragorn from his weary.
Aragorn was so caught up in gaping at the young man, he completely missed out on the content of the voice.
“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” Realizing his mistake, Aragorn asked the stranger with a hint of embarrassment and guilt.
The young man smiled, he didn’t seem to mind at all.
That expression struck home.
Aragorn believe he had just seen the most beautiful man in this world.
Yeah, even more so than Thranduil.
The young man handed him a piece of paper. Aragorn took it, without really realizing what it was.
“You’re looking for an artist?”
The blond asked with his most innocent smile.
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