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Aragorn blew past the guards, past the men waiting by the castle, past the servants and the spectators and the damp world outside the castle. He sprinted up the steps, taking them three at a time and barely even paying attention to where his feet fell. He counted it as sheer luck that he never tripped on his cloak all the way up to his chambers. He threw the doors open, then slammed them shut, relishing the way the heavy wood fell back into place together, cutting him off from the rest of the world. He threw the curtains shut on his windows, then ripped his clothes off, his armor and his weapons. He stripped himself of everything tying him to that day, to the outside right now, and he exhaled slowly when he was finally free.
“Damn,” Aragorn spit into the dark, empty quiet of his chambers. He snatched his sword from its scabbard amongst his clothes, and he flung it across the room. It lodged itself in his headboard. Aragorn stormed across the room and collapsed in his bed. He covered his face, then peeked through his fingers at the glint of metal above his head. He growled and wrenched the sword from the wood.