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.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.