"You've done all that you could," Aragorn mentions as he glances over at Finel, his gaze lingering where the rest of his left arm should be. "I couldn't ask any more than that."

While he's quite curious about how Finel lost his limb, Aragorn wouldn't dare ask. Such a topic is undoubtedly a source of agony for the elf. His heart truly goes out for the mild-mannered healer, especially now with the threat of war looming over their heads. If he can, Aragorn will ensure that Finel, and others like him, won't be forced to fight.

"They expect us to fight," Aragorn states looking oddly morose. "The Emperor lacks the taste for pageantry. Therefore, they won't placid us with needless prose. Instead, the Emperor asks for our loyalty in hopes that we comprehend the threat before us." A fair enough assessment at best, but still Aragorn wonders why the Emperor won't converse with them. It's difficult to raise morale this way.

However, Aragorn's thoughts stray to happier tidings once Finel tries his hand at Sindarin. "Gi suilon." He corrects with a merry laugh that dispells his grim expression.

"It's a simple informal greeting in Sindarin, the language of the Elves."