Disclaimer: Tolkien's the genius, not me.
She woke with a pounding heart and aching head from dark red dreams of frightened horses, flying arrows, and horrible shapes in the brush. All was quiet, the moonlight soft silver squares on the floor. Outside an owl hooted. Leaves rustled in the breeze like a soft, sleepy sigh.
Beside her, Arathorn stirred, and rolled over. "Gilraen?" His voice was rough from sleep, but his fingers gentle as they brushed her shoulder. "What is wrong, love?"
"Must you leave tomorrow?"
He sat up. "You know I do." Strong arms engulfed her, and Gilraen sighed.
Surely everything would be fine...