Minas Tirith didn't smell bad… just wrong.
Nothing here smelled of green, growing things or fresh, clean water. Few trees grew except for one or two in the gardens closest to the Citadel, little grass but in small patches in those same gardens. The only flowers to be seen bloomed in hanging pots, welcome splashes of color to greet the eyes and occasional wafts of scent for the nose. Otherwise, Minas Tirith smelled of stone and little else.
It sounded wrong too. A monotonous hum of people moving from one place to another, speaking to each other, of carts and horses moving over stone streets, and dogs barking and yipping filled the air with mindless cacophony, with solemn bells tolling the hours. No songs lifted the spirit city-wide nor told the time with melody and rhythm. Here, most music was a formal affair, not spontaneous.
Arwen sighed and laid her chin on her right arm as she sat looking out the window. Her left hand rested gently on the swell of her belly where her son waited to be born. Estel was here, and she was happy to be with him, but this wasn't Imladris or Lothlórien.
It wasn't home.