A LIGHT FROM SHADOWS.

Aragorn barely had to raise his voice for Legolas to pick up his words as they echoed in the silence of the woods. ( An ostensible silence, as for those who were willing to stop and listen, a multitude of sounds would reveal itself, betraying the life that still resided within the forest. ) The elf smiled to himself, sensing a hint of genuine frustration behind the disguise of a jest. He took a few more steps on the thinning out branch he was walking on, his weight barely registered by the mighty oak, his eyes already searching for the easiest way down. A few well-placed jumps and he softly landed on the ground beside the ranger, the smile still gracing his features.

     “You are lamenting like an old man,” Legolas teased, playfully. “Are you tired, mellon-nin?” They had some distance left to travel but with the forest’s trees closing over their heads like the protective roof of a citadel, the hardest part lay behind them.      “We will be at our journey’s end soon enough. I can sense a warm meal and a bed waiting for you.”

He teases. His grin slips delicate about his youthful face, and it gleams brighter than stars and suns at dawn.

Silvery, this elf. Legolas, young among his kin and to these ancient trees, bowed and twisted with the turn of long centuries, bears wit in his soul like a gust through bells; it rings through the canopies, his smile as loud as laughter. Aragorn hums. He feels invigorated.

Bold.

“Along am I in my years, Legolas, that I now cherish that joy of youth when it would present itself before me. And there, in the shadows of your Mirkwood, would you stand." His brows raise subtly, tinged by a cutting edge of fondness and glib contention. It is a look not oft seen; the Ranger is not easily defeated. "You jest, and not unlike a child with that daring you keep."

The trees chance a rare laugh, leaves overhead shivering and shuddering.

Aragorn turns. The darkness of this realm creeps back into the keenness of his vision, and their footsteps disturb the mosses at their feet. An owl hoots a sad song.

Dust settled silent. Théoden, just as wordless.

Here, bowing, stood the son of Arathorn, Isildur’s heir, crownless. From under the high arched ceilings and the glow of spilled evening light, he saw now the grays that weaved through the hair on his head. Faded was the cloth of his cloak, and his skin, worn and darkened. But he had hardly aged. Still an image of the past. Still a memory. Yet in his eyes, dimmer now, starlit gray, the tale of wars and deaths lingered, and all the endless, numbered nights spent in the oblivion of shadows.

Time has touched me, the words drifted. Further away now. Gone.

It has touched him, too.

“And what hope,” Théoden began, “do we have against Time.”

Maybe he could read the king by a glance, know his history by the curl of his fingers, know the battles and the funerals and the glories by the bat of an eye, the creases around his mouth. Théoden reached out. He pressed a hand to the Ranger’s shoulder. “Rest, Aragorn, sword of Rohan,” he said, easing. “We shall ride in the coming days.”

Like the days he did with his father. With Thengel. To war. But not now, tonight. He called for Háma, then, and the doorward came to his lord’s side. “I would see your sword returned,” the king said. “You will have a home here.” 

It proved an ache. Long had Rohan warred with tremendous evils, but in those summers so long ago, golden and fragrant upon these rolling plains, the Ranger could recall sharp eyes of wonder -- of daring and courage and hope that breathed still.

Stood there, beholding this prince turned king, age and wisdom aplenty along the noble arch of his brows, he saw, still, an abundance of these qualities, but despair had wormed like rot, plunging like roots of old. And so mighty had the tree’d grown, sprawling and tangled with its far-reaching arms... The Lord Ranger thought he’d gleaned no sunlight.

How terrible. He knew, too, the bowing weight of despair, but never had he bowed to it.

“Of that, I had never any doubt. Long is the memory of those children of Rohan, and ever honorable are its horse lords. It is by fate’s hand that they will flourish rightly -- as those lands they keep, blessed with promise. Nearby are the flowers in bloom. I have trodden along stirring. I have hope that they will rise here.”

Yennefer liked to keep an eye out for guards coming to spoil her fun. She didn’t have to do much to have the customers moving through her doorway, but she preferred to have the jump on anyone attempting to discipline her. But the man at her storefront certainly wasn’t one of the city guards, so her posture relaxed (as much as the sorceress could be said to do so). A soft chuckle escaped as she shook her head, though her lips didn’t lift. “I’m compensated for taking on those burdens. Makes them just the slightest bit more bearable. The most unbearable part is when people refuse to accept that I told them I can’t grant the wish. People may think I’m cruel, but at least I turn them down when they ask for the impossible. A djinn would do much worse.”

            there he is. when the artist’s eyes settle on aragorn, emerging now from the shadows. he may not see himself as such, but for leonardo he is a bright spot in the wood, a bit of captured sunlight, perhaps. leonardo is quick, moving to position himself in a way to wind his arms around his friend, unbidden. strider’s words harbor concern. but leonardo is nothing short of pleased to see him regardless. this place may be evil, but the company is so far the opposite, that the artist believed they could eradicate all evil to be found here. leonardo’s embrace is tight, warm, and when he pulls away he wears a bright smile to match his friend’s. affectionate hands linger, gentle on the ranger’s shoulders, for a moment more before he pulls away. “meeting you here sets the danger at the back of my mind, my friend. but if you insist, we can press on, together? if you wish for my company, of course. i am seeking new foliage and have yet been unsuccessful. your presence certainly sets right the unease in my soul.”

﴾ ➼ ﴿ Cyrran grinned with a joy that surprised even himself, eyes alight at the arrival of that loyal Ranger. He did not even bother to contain the laugh of mirth that laced his words, ❝As does mine, my dear friend! If I appear to hold sunlight in my being, it is merely at the sight of you. Have you traveled long? Far? Are you in need of food or drink? And do not even think of deterring me, for I will play the generous host, even if you may tease me for it.❞

"You spare no effort for those who would come under your care,” the Ranger declared, lonely and swaddled in the corner’s dark. The candlelight dared not reach him. Her healing halls laid dourly behind these healing souls both, though quiet were its chambers; the moans of the wounded had lessened. And to her talents, Aragorn understood, haggard himself as he smoked his pipe. Fair maiden. Her hands worked hard. Had she chanced any sleep? “One is left to wonder who there would look to you with that same heart.”

“I would look upon you and feel that weight of words that are not yet spoken,” Aragorn murmured, voice rolling and deep in the plunging night. The Uruk-hai had fallen. Unsteady peace now hung in the surrounding woods, tension curdling as that mud in these stinking marshes, but it was just as well, he wagered: it seemed better this than to again flee the enemy. No, fight again the enemy. Tending to the fresh wound by his shoulder, the Ranger faced this woman with her veils and secrets. Guarding her, escorting her... “And I hope they are not so scheming. Indeed, I trust most ardently that you are no lady of deceit.”

A poet’s tongue from a wanderer with muddy boots and a torn cloak. Grey eyes look up, bemused and perhaps pleased by the praise. It’s not often that she plays, anymore but here she is. 

A story, every piece of music she ever plays; it never exists twice, and she never writes them down, if they’re her own. This one is- playful and yet peaceful, the wind before a storm. 

“I don’t know that it can be considered a gift if you work for it, if you work for it, if you work for it,” she muses, hands not stilling. “Are your wandering bones a gift, or something that you developed over time?”

She offers in words nothing but truth. Aragorn, head bowed, concedes. Her wordless song rings out coltishly, playfully, and as though roused by her melodies alone, a gust whistles through the tavern’s rooftop. Clattering. Rattling. It’s as though she’s gone enchantress!

"Much time, and they would be poor a gift if that were so, though I wager I cannot soon return them even if in my heart I longed for that.” Is that so, grim wanderer?

Perched there by the lantern-light, Aragorn's woes look to soften. “That work they take me toward appears endless, but so, too, would come those wonders they have taken me. I think it not unlike your playing. Work hard though you had, beauty now rests in your very hands. They take me, now, far away. Is that what you wish for yourself?” 

"Beyond this river, those folk that would greet you will not be quick to trust. Too near is that memory of one of your own, lord witcher, and last I recall it, it is most unkind.” So much death, carnage, great, fell evils...! Yes, he should take care, more care as his brothers were ever wont to take. The druid sat by the water. He had with him a long, carven pipe and wisdom, but kindness in his gaze and worry in his voice, too. What had happened? “I would not pass.”