❝ You needn’t push yourself, Frodo. ❞ Her reassurance may not be much, she knows, but besides a strong arm, it’s all she can offer. Laera sits besides the hobbit, never once taking her eyes off of him. She does what she can: Her help taking the form of protector, guide... a friend, if need be, but her role isn’t so singular. It’s all encompassing.

❝ ‘Ave this. ❞ It isn’t a suggestion, as she holds the weathered and cracked wineskin in front of him. ❝ If you want to rest, I can look for shelter in the meantime? Or, I can stay ‘ere... Either way, I think ‘aving a small rest is needed, aye? ❞

       The stems of the freshly plucked flowers twist in her fingers, sap glistening as she lays them flat to the pages of her leatherbound journal. To call it a book would be more appropriate, but as of yet it was not finished. Nor did she think it ever would.

       Since she had left her home, collecting flora that was unknown to her had been her passion. How many she had encountered once crossing over the mountains, the pages stuffed full with many dried flowers and leaves alike. Originally at was for mementos only. Memories of her first visits to ruins, to cities and places she did not want to forget. Moments captured and tucked away between pages.

     But over time, she wondered if it was a waste; after all, it was extra weight in her pack that was lugged everywhere. She often took longer to reach places if it meant going a scenic route, or stopping to collect plants and write about them. It served little use but for her own pleasure, and guilt gnawed at her for it.

      His words, however, softened her expression as she looked back down at the pages. She had shared it with him (and very rarely did she do such a thing); for it seemed those in the Shire held love for all things that grew. Who else would appreciate such an endeavor, and lift her spirits?

         The water rushed forth in front of her, fattened by the heavy rains of the previous days. It crashed over a small waterfall somewhere beyond her eyesight, the gurgling drowning out most other sounds in this forest. She had not heard the footsteps that crept towards her, her head hung, chin to her chest as she clutched her side.

        It was a surprise then when he spoke, eyes snapping open as she came face to face with one of the halflings that lived within this realm. He had startled her, grey eyes wild for a moment before recognition set in, and she visibly relaxed. No harm would come from him. So much for being a ranger, aware of her surroundings, she chided herself.

        A small huff of laughter was met with his words, though they ended in a grimace, face twisted as a sharp pain lanced through her side. She must have looked a fright, lying there slumped against a tree not far from the bank, the grass from the shore disturbed from where she had dragged herself. Soaked she was, looking half drowned with her hair hanging in front of her face and a cut to her brow that had only just begun to staunch.

        “Nothing more than bruising, I think” she grit out, though she tried to keep her tone light, a pained smile tugging on the corner of her lips. At least, she hoped it was no more than bruising- her ribs ached terribly, but she would not admit that. Alas, that she didn’t find fish when she fell in the water.

        She turned her head to glance upon him, wondering just why he had not bolted, or simply stayed away. Perhaps she was not as deep into the forest as she thought. Some stroke of luck, though that remained to be seen.

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐖 𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐑 and if it were possible, felt as if they were to drag on longer and longer than before. their time spent in the house of tom bombadil and lady goldberry had only lifted their spirits, they heeded no noises that night except for the silent whispers on the breeze that seemed to flutter the curtain closest to him. it wasn’t long until they were much on their way, their ponies readied and braying at their return. soon they had mounted them, he rubbed a hand down the neck of the dun gelding he rode. he gently began to hum as they rode, (   much to his surprise   ) and the others, a tune of old tom’s came out. the memories of the black riders were cast out of their minds, and once forgotten.