#strider imagines

You are remembering that now as you walk through the gardens of Rivendell. Stormy nights made the stone and wood structures look cold with gloom, but with the way the sun shines upon them now, you would think yourself in a wholly different place. This is your home, it has been for the last ten years. You were not an elf born, but you came to their city and they welcomed you anyway. Swords can only do so much good. Sometimes poets and scholars are more necessary than guards.

So you found a place tucked away in glen thickets and stone walkways, so you learned to pursue your craft of words and thoughts until a foreign place felt like home and accepted you as one of its own. No life is easy, not while monsters like orcs and trolls still roam the uncharted territories in between cities, but Rivendell is a peaceful life, and it does good by you.

If you cannot find strife in the danger of fighting for your life, however, you will make it yourself. Resting is a difficult thing, even though it shouldn’t be that way. If you rest too long, you start to think, and if you think, you start to realize that you are technically an outsider here, not born within the stone spirals of Rivendell but of some other place, and that means you must prove that you deserve to stay here for longer. Those who stay must have meaning. What, then, could possibly be yours?

You’re a writer, then. Fine. Could your writing compare to those around you? Even the least of the elves still have centuries on you, so much time to hone their craft. By comparison, your scribblings must look juvenile at best. You’re trying, sure, but effort can only get you so far.

You’ll have to catch up on time, then. That’s doable. It should be, at least. You pour hours into the study of manuscripts and texts in the library, force your quill to paper so many times you think you might as well never lift it up. You may not have time as your virtue, but you can force it to work for you anyway.

The problem is getting your brain to cooperate half as well as your hands. Your pattern of frantic writing starts to wear away from you as you attempt to keep up the pattern from dawn until dusk day after day after day. It is exhausting work, but it shouldn’t be– isn’t this writing, what you decided you wanted to do forever? If you were truly gifted at it, this wouldn’t take so much effort, and it certainly wouldn’t drain you the way that it does. Maybe that is another failing, one more thing that separates you from the elves.

You hadn’t realized others were aware of your inner strife until you got a visitor one month after winter ended. He comes with bloodied hands washed clean, armor placed in an unlocked box for quick access, sword still within reach. Peace does not come easily to him either, son of the North, but it does not come easily to anyone. Aragorn might disguise his torment better than you, though. Or so he pretends.

You were not aware that he was stopping by. Perhaps you should have known, if you had spent more time outside of your study instead of unsuccessfully trying to burn through the latest chapter in your work. Regardless of what you could have learned, the result is the same:  your old friend stands in the doorway, shaking his head with mock solemnity even as he fails to hide a grin.

“Y/N, friend, have you ever been able to let yourself enjoy your time here, or must you always suffer yourself to your pages?”

You stand up with a smile and walk over to greet him. “Aragorn, how lovely to see you. What brings you this way?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Tracking business. There are rumors I don’t like about goings-on near Mount Doom, but that’s neither here nor there. Also, I heard that you weren’t doing as well as I would care to imagine.”

You stifle a groan. “You’ve been in contact with Arwen, haven’t you? Tell her she has nothing to worry about.”

“I would if I believed I wasn’t telling her lies,” Aragorn muses, “you seem too tired, my friend. Your brow is lined, your eyes are weary. What is the meaning of this?”

He does not say it angrily, or in any demand for information, just a concern for his friend. It is this and this alone that finally convinces you to open up.

“I need to do it,” you tell him at last, “I need results. I need pages of writing to make up for the fact that I lack the experience of the elves. I may be tired, but I feel like I have to prove that I deserve to be here.”

Aragorn shakes his head, looking surprised. “That cannot be. Who has told you that a person cannot merely live and have that be enough? Not every task must be proven right or proven useful, Y/N. You do not have to outwrite the elves, that truly is impossible. You are here to follow your own path, not theirs.”

You sigh. “It is difficult to not compare my writing with theirs when we live in the same place.”

“I remember that,” Aragorn says thoughtfully, “growing up and learning the way of the sword from elves with many decades already more than me was challenging, but it teaches you things that you would not know from mankind. Do not let them affect you, Y/N, intentionally or not. Only do what you wish to do. That is why you are here, not to do what they can but what you can. That way, they can learn from you as well.”

You run a tired hand across your face. “So you really came all this way to tell me to relax?”

His face splits in a familiar grin. “I figured you would need some advice. Besides, it truly is good to see you. It has been too long since we last spoke.”

You agree with that. “That means you could visit more often, you know, instead of tracking random animals through the wilderness.”

He frowns with pretend indignation. “My tasks are more important than that.”

“I wouldn’t know,” you tease, “you never visit long enough to tell me. And when you are here, you spend all your time following a certain Elf-maiden around. It makes for difficult conversation.”

He laughs. “You’re impossible.”

“Of course I am,” you say gleefully, “that’s why we’re friends. Thank you, though, for your words. I do appreciate them.”

“They are true,” he reminds you, “it is okay to rest. It always will be.”

It is a good message, this. Hard to remember and even harder to practice, but still good. You will try to apply its power in the days to come.

“No, tha’ lass disappeared just before Boromir did. Before the ambush,” Gimli’s gravelly voice replied, his own concern putting weight upon his tone. His expression turned stern as he mulled over what predicament could have prevented your return. “You don’t think she-”

“I caught sight of her chasing after the hobbits after they were captured!”

Aragorn turned to the river at the sudden sound of Legolas’ voice. The fair-haired archer made large strides up the bank, his voice slightly strained from the exertion. When he stood level to Aragorn, he dipped his head in the direction that the hobbits had been taken. Aragorn followed his gesture and faced the southern path through the forest.

“So she’s ahead of us,” Aragorn added, but the queer feeling in his gut swelled. As he watched the flickering light of the sun scatter itself about the forest floor, an image formulated in his mind. A terrible, haunting image of you, dead upon the muddied terrain, your blood mixed with the earth. He cleared his throat and followed the path that the Uruk-kai had formed into the ground.

“What’s our plan, then? Search for tha’ lass?” Gimli huffed as he jogged up to Aragorn, who was studying the ground as he walked. Upon Aragorn’s silence, he looked to Legolas.

“What do you think? He’ll not so easily leave her behind. She’s a member of our Fellowship and his friend.” Legolas said, an incredulous look on his features.

“Well, I’d like tah’ know where I’m goin’, if ye’ don’t mind!” Gimli scowled, looking ahead at the trodden earth that had been washed into mud under the heavily armored boots of the Uruks.

“We find (Y/n) and then we track the party of Uruk-kai. We’ll not abandon Merry and Pippin, either.” Aragorn answered, carefully watching the ground beneath him as he went on ahead. It wasn’t long before he knelt to the ground and picked something up that had been buried under the mud. When Legolas caught up to him, a gasp escaped his thin lips.

“Her dagger.”

“So she’s without ah’ weapon,” Gimli added, eyeing the beautiful silver as Aragorn wiped the mud from its hilt and blade. When both Aragorn and Legolas turned and gave him a frown, he stepped back. “What? Did I say somethin’ wrong?”

“She has a longsword, Gimli. She’s not defenseless. She’s just lost this,” Aragorn said, sliding the dagger into his belt, next to his own. However, despite the fact that you, as far as they knew, still had your sword, it worried Aragorn that you had dropped your dagger. You seldom ever misplaced or left your things behind, especially your weapons. “Come on, we’ll lose daylight quickly enough.”

“How could you forget about her sword? She nearly decapitated you with it when you threatened to throw the halflings into the river.”

Gimli only grumbled in return of Legolas’ inquiry.

From then on, Aragorn only mumbled his findings to himself, whether the movement of footsteps or the outcome of your fight. He could tell the difference between your shoeprint from the Uruks, as well as their own. He knew Boromir and Legolas had come this far to fight off the hoards of monsters, but your shoe shape was akin to his, although smaller.

For hours they tracked as they ran, following the scents, the prints, and the path made through the forest and onto the open plains. They did not rest but to check their path and what lie ahead, without a morsel of food. After what seemed like long hours as the sun shone and began to descend in the sky, Aragorn finally stopped in his tracks and dipped his fingers in one of many darkened puddles that littered a pattern into the stretch of the plain. When he lifted it to his nose, his features pursed.

“Orc blood.” He said, wiping it on his pants as he studied the ground nearby.

“How can ye’ tell without lickin’ it?” Gimli asked.

“It smells of rot,” Aragorn replied, following the paces of the Uruk that had been injured. He assumed it had been injured by none other blade than your own.

“Look, up ahead! There are bodies!” Legolas exclaimed, running ahead of them towards a cluster of large rocks buried in the hilly terrain a half kilometer away. When they finally reached them, Aragorn could tell you had cut down many Uruks. Not just by the bodies that lay strewn around the path, but from how you had cut them down. By the work of the blade, he could tell the fatal blows were the work of your longsword. His guess was clarified when he found your same prints all around them, showing where you had stood and fought, and what moves you had made.

In one pair of prints, he saw how your toes had dug into the earth further, which indicated that you had lunged on one of them from behind. A few yards away, a big brute laid dead on his stomach with a gaping gash drug down his back. In another, he saw how the right sides of your shoes had dug in, showing that you had ducked and dodged, possibly making a low cut. A few feet away lay another Uruk, a slice through his lower abdomen.

“They’ve not been dead long, she should be nea–”

A bloodcurdling scream broke across the plain, cutting Aragorn’s words short, and encouraging the fowl to scatter from the trees of the nearby Fangorn Forest. Without a second thought, Aragorn sprung to his feet and ran as fast as his long legs would allow, sprinting toward the source of the sound. However, no matter how fast he ran with his companions close behind, the sound of your screams kept eluding him. Each time your cries entered the air, they seemed to move further south. You weren’t dormant upon the ground as you would expect someone injured to be.

They had you in their grasp.

“Aragorn, they’ve captured her!” Legolas observed. He could not only hear your screams and what their elusive distance indicated, but also the scuffling of another fight and the coarse laughter of the Uruk-kai.

“Quickly!” Aragorn yelled, trying to pace his breathing as he pushed himself to run as fast as his feet would carry him. Another cry was heard, this time louder and more pained, with the hitching of sobs, and then it abruptly stopped. “(Y/n)!”

As they ran, Legolas could hear the resume of heavy boot falls.

“They’ve started south again!” He yelled over the sound of their own feet hitting the earth.

When they reach the edge of the jagged rock faces that dipped off onto a slope, Aragorn could see traces of a bright red liquid upon the rocks and spilled onto the ground. He looked up and could make out the black shadow of the Uruk-kai making their way across the plain, very near the border of Fangorn Forest. Legolas, with his keen elven eyes, could see that they only carried the two halflings with them.

“They don’t have her,” He said, squinting his eyes. “But they’re taking the hobbits to Isengard!”

“She’s down there, laddie,” Gimli’s voice was solemn as he pointed downwards. When Aragorn followed his line of vision, the breath in his lungs was stripped from him. He turned his feet sideways and began to shuffle down the slope, over the rocks and loosened earth. “Aragorn! You don’t know what you’ll find!”

“Do you think she’s dead?” Legolas whispered, taking in the sight of your body that was lying still upon the earth. He had rarely ever looked upon the sight of death, apart from his enemies, so the image of not only Boromir’s dying body, but also yours, was enough to break the golden-haired elf’s heart. He recalled the smile you often bore around Aragorn, the laughter that the ranger invoked from you, and the way Aragorn tenderly spoke to you.

“They would have no reason to keep her alive, but tah’ let ‘er suffer,” Gimli concluded, looking for a way to follow Aragorn down the slope. He planted his foot over the loose rocks, only for them to slide underway and lurch him forward. With his quick reflexes, Legolas clutched the dwarf’s arm, steadying him. Had the situation not been so serious, Gimli would’ve wrenched himself free of the elf with a snide comment, but he only nodded at him in thanks and followed where Legolas stepped.

When they reached Aragorn’s side, they could see the blood that stained grass crimson red, the torn and battered state of your clothes, and the longsword that lie shattered on the ground only feet away from your body. As Aragorn turned you from your side and onto your back, your mouth was open and your face was covered in all manner of dirt, grime, and blood. They were unsure if it was all your own or the result of the wounds you had inflicted upon the Uruk-kai. 

When Aragorn reached forward and pulled the hair from your face, your eyes fluttered open. As relieved as he was, Aragorn could only sit up straight and suck in his breath, eager to keep you conscious. No words would formulate upon his tongue, not even the taste of your name.  

“Aragorn?” You whispered, although it was barely audible amidst the strain of pain and the gurgling of blood in your throat. “I’m sorry-… I-I’m so sorry, I couldn’t-…”

“No, no, no, (Y/n),” Aragorn said, pulling your weak body against his chest. The tears flowed from his eyes in a hot rampage of fear and regret, flushing his cheeks and taking the grime from his face with them. “You must rest. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“But the hob-…hobbits. I could-couldn’t save them. They’re go-gone.” You shivered in his arms as the blood in your body ran cold and your vision stirred into nothingness.

“Shh, stay quiet. We’re going to help you.” He said in the most soothing voice he could muster as he motioned for Legolas to unroll their bedding. He would need all the help he could get if he was going to save you.

“Aragorn, it hurts, it-…it hurts so much,” You whimpered against his chest, wincing every time you took in a breath. “Help me, please, don’t let me di…”

“(Y/n), hold on,” Aragorn pleaded, his voice cracking. The way you repeated your words over and over, as if you weren’t sure if you had said them or not scared him. The way the blood trickled through your clothes terrified him, and the extent of the wounds he had yet to examine made his gut sink further with dread. What would he uncover? “I can heal you. I can heal you, (Y/n)! Do you hear me?”

“Arag-…” His name faded from your speech as your eyes rolled to the back of your head. Your body went completely limp in his arms.

“(Y/n)!” Aragorn yelled, but to no avail. You were unconscious, and if he didn’t act fast, you would remain that way for all of eternity. “Gimli, gather some firewood. I’ll need a fire to boil the water over. Legolas, I need the herbs from my pack, and find some yarrow. I saw some nestled near those boulders we passed up on the hill.”

When Aragorn stood, he picked you up as gently as he could, trying not to mar your wounds any further. He laid you down as softly as he could on the bedding Legolas had prepared, careful to unravel your hair from under your head. Then he unraveled the woolen shirt that had wound itself up and around the gash in your stomach. When he revealed the wound, he heard Gimli gasp. When Legolas returned with the yarrow, he knelt by the fire and watched silently, unpacking the herbs and ointments Aragorn had buried in his satchel.

Forcing himself to stray a small distance from your side, he set up a pot of water over the fire Gimli had begun to stoke. He enlisted Legolas’ help with applying pressure on the wound to your abdomen while he sterilized the cloth that he had torn from his own shirt. While he waited for the water to come to a boil, he began examining the rest of the horrible wounds and torture the orcs had inflicted upon you. As night set in around him, Aragorn never tore himself from your side.

“I’m not going to let you die, (Y/n), I swear to you,” He said, placing one of the sterilized cloths on your abdomen as he clean the blood from the wound. “I swear on my own life.”

At first, you had assumed that you would be there to defend the hobbits. However, when you arrived to see that Boromir, Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli were already there to stand by Gandalf and the Shirelings with sword and shield, you were less certain about your role. You have no political reason for being there, unlike Boromir, you have no deep connection to the hobbits, unlike Aragorn, and Legolas and Gimli already provide military backup if necessary. Why, then, would Gandalf wish you to travel with them?

You know that you aren’t the only one to ask this question. Every now and then, you can sense the gazes of the Fellowship flick to your back and then away again, silently questioning your purpose. Gandalf seems to be the only one unconcerned with your presence here, but then again, no one entirely knows the mind of the Gray Wizard. You’re not entirely sure that he knows his own mind, either.

At last, Aragorn calls for the party to stop for the night. The mines are dangerous to travel with weary minds; by stopping to rest, you’ll be able to do better work tomorrow. That is to say, you’ll do better work tomorrow if a new day dawns by the time the Fellowship rises. Time is difficult to judge down here beneath the earth.

You offer to take first watch, and assume a position near the edge of the cliff ledge to wait out the duration of your time. One by one, your traveling companions nod off, leaving you the sole task of keeping everyone else alive. The haze of Gandalf’s pipe disappears at last, leaving with it a faint, musky scent that clashes with the earthy hues of rock around you. This is what it feels like to be alone, as best you can be alone when traveling with such a group. When all of them sleep, you at last can feel that you are not being questioned at every moment.

Then again, you are not entirely sure that you are alone after all. The strangest sensation of being watched comes over you like a sudden storm, and you begin to slowly look around, peering into the darkest corners. You had overheard Gandalf tell Frodo that the creature called Gollum was lurking somewhere in the depths of Moria beneath you, cursed to forever dog the heels of the Ring in the hopes of getting it back, but you don’t believe this watcher to be him.

When you flick your eyes back towards your traveling companions, you identify the source of your unease at last. Aragorn, formerly Strider of the North, lies with his back halfway propped up in the corner of a rocky outcropping. To all viewers, which is chiefly you, he would appear to be in the depths of sleep, with nothing to bother him save the ground beneath his spine.

He paints a peaceful picture, this Ranger. His dark hair falls unevenly around his shoulders, and the flicker of light from the small fire he permitted the Fellowship to ignite casts a halo amidst the shadowed locks. There is a heaviness that hangs about his face, as if he has too many troubles to even name aloud, one that disappears when he allows himself to stop carrying the burdens of the party and finally sleep. Although his fingers still linger about the pommel of his sword, so that he can draw it if necessary, he is more relaxed than you usually see him.

You, however, can see the irregular draw of his breath, the way that his eyelids flicker shut as he holds them closed. The heir to Gondor is not yet asleep, although he would have you think it. You pretend to turn back to Moria at large, and through your peripheral vision, you see his eyes open again. He’s watching you- but why? Have you not done enough to earn his trust? You have slain beast after beast for the party, and thrown your life in the midst of danger to save the hobbits many times before. Aragorn has reason enough to doubt anybody, but you had thought that several weeks of traveling together would be enough to convince him to accept you as an ally, if not outright compatriot.

However, you do not wish to cause a conflict tonight, so you pretend that you have no reason to suspect Aragorn of watching you. Your watch passes without incident, and soon enough you wake Legolas for his turn to watch. When you quietly step to an available part of the ledge, Aragorn allows himself to fall asleep in earnest. Whatever his quarrel is with you, it does not continue to the son of Mirkwood.

If you were good, you would forget the whole matter. Everyone has their reasons for keeping awake, and Aragorn’s could be an issue of which you have no mind. His business is not yours, yet this issue still hangs about your mind even after you wake up in the dark morning of the mines. After a while of travel, you wait until the Fellowship is sufficiently spread apart throughout the path through Moria to approach Aragorn.

He gives no indication that he sees you until you speak in a quiet voice. “I know you watched me while I guarded our camp last night. May I ask the reason?” 

Aragorn turns his head slightly to face you. A faint note of surprise lingers in his eyes, despite attempts to smooth his expression into stone. “You noticed?” 

You raise an eyebrow. “You do not deny it, then? I know many in our Fellowship do not understand my presence among this camp, but I had hoped this doubt did not translate into distrust.”

Aragorn sighs slightly, casting his gaze down in part to avoid stumbling over the uneven ground and also to evade your look of judgement. “It was not for the reason you believe. I trust you, Y/N, but I do not trust these mines. I would have you safe.” 

You refuse to take this simple reason for fact. “You value Legolas’ safety, yet you do not watch him.”

Something almost like humor quirks Aragorn’s lips. “I must sleep at some point. I cannot take all the watches at once.” 

You give him a frustrated look, and he smiles in earnest. “All right, I apologize. I did not mean to indicate my distrust, only that I could not stop hearing the scratch of that Gollum-creature against the rocks below us and could not shake the premonition that you would be hurt. Is that acceptable to you?”

You regard him amusedly. “I believe it is. Thank you, then, for your guardianship.” 

He chuckles. “Any time.” 

You turn your gaze back towards the looming cliffs of Moria, and shiver slightly. Even if many nights have passed without incident, you still cannot wait to escape these mines. Something about them leaves a bad taste clinging to your senses, drowning out any other thought but that there is a presence here that does not bode well for your Fellowship.

This ends up being true enough. The Fellowship eventually happens upon the grave of the Moria dwarves. Gimli mourns at the carved words of stone, and you can see pain written into the features of Gandalf. You had heard that he knew some of the fallen dwarves personally, and even if Gandalf was not of their blood like Gimli, a loss is still a loss. Any blade can leave you bloody.

However, they do not have much time to lament. Pippin, despite his best efforts to remain in order, accidentally knocks a skeleton down a well. The sound seems to crash and echo for hours, even if it only lasts for a few seconds. This time, though short, is still enough to alert countless orcs to the presence of the Fellowship. Before long, Frodo’s sword begins to glow blue, and you know that you have been found.

The only chance you have is to fight, and to flee if possible. There are waves of orcs coming your way, and all you have is the blood thundering in your veins and the sword in your hands. You have fought many a beast in your life, but you are about to risk it all again. Is there not a rush in this, though? Is there not a fierce smile on your face even as you fight for your life?

The adrenaline of a chance to die is not enough to stop the orcs’ cave troll from thundering into the room. It roars loud enough to shake the walls, and the battle instantly shifts from keeping the orcs at bay to surviving at all costs. Although the troll can be dragged back by the heavy iron chain wrapped round its throat, it is still by all accounts a troll, and there is only so much you can do before you have to throw yourself across the room to avoid its crushing blows.

Legolas rushes the beast, firing arrow after arrow into its skull. The troll is sufficiently distracted, so you turn your attention instead towards the orcs still pouring into the room. With every swing of your sword, you kill more and more, but it feels that for every body that comes to rest at your feet, another orc pushes its way forward.

You look up from a newly decapitated orc when you hear the sound of a scream. It’s Frodo, cornered by the cave troll. He calls to Aragorn, whose eyes widen in panic. You watch, horrified, as Aragorn charges the troll only to be knocked back into a wall. You wait, but he cannot get up in time. The troll draws closer, and you know that you cannot just watch him die. Not now, not after everything.

You do not know how you find the speed to cross the room in time, but you find yourself standing in between Aragorn and the troll, sword extended. You charge the beast, opening wide gashes into its chest, but it is not enough. You know this, yet you do not back down. What would happen, then, if you did? Aragorn would fall. You cannot have that.

You slash your blade towards the troll again and again. Just as you raise your sword for another blow, though, the cave troll grabs a nearby blade and slams it towards you. You thought you managed to duck in time, but it still hits your side anyway with enough momentum to slam you into the wall. The pain does not hit you immediately, but then again, you cannot feel or see anything at all. The fight, Moria itself, it all disappears into a fog of black.

You believe that you were only unconscious for a matter of minutes, but it was enough time for the battle to shift. When you awaken again, the tang of copper refuses to leave you, but you are alive. You gasp, and begin to force yourself up, but you’re stopped by a hand pressed to your arm. You blink a few times to clear your eyes, and when your vision settles again, you realize that Aragorn is crouched in front of you. His face is wrought with apprehension, although it settles when he realizes that you are alright.

“Steady, then. I thought you were-” He can’t quite finish the sentence. 

You gather your strength, then begin to stand up. “So did I, I must admit.” 

Aragorn helps you up, one arm supporting your shoulders. When he speaks again, his voice is a barely contained whisper. 

“I thought you dead. I tried to wake you, but you would not open your eyes. If you had died like that, I would never have forgiven myself.”

It comes to you at last. You had attacked the cave troll to save Aragorn from a certain death, but if you had been the one to die instead of him, he would have carried that loss with him for years. 

You place a hand on his arm. “Yet I live. Do not trouble yourself with what might have been.” 

He shakes his head. “I have no option but to think about it.”

You begin to walk with the rest towards an exit. The orcs are coming in earnest now, and you must leave with the rest. “For a moment, I thought that would be it. I never understood why Gandalf had brought me here to join the Fellowship, but when I charged the troll, I thought I finally got it.” 

Aragorn’s jaw tightens as he realizes what you mean. “You thought you were here to die in my stead? That cannot be.” 

You look over at him. “Why not? It makes enough sense to me.” 

Aragorn’s hand snags on yours. “It does not make sense to me, though. I would not want to live in a world without you there beside me.” 

You don a quiet half smile. “Careful, Strider, I’m beginning to think that you might need me after all.”

His hand tightens on yours. “I do.” 

There is a frank honesty in his gaze that startles you. The shriek of orcs from behind you makes the two of you stiffen, but Aragorn refuses to leave your side. 

“Believe me in this, Y/N. You are worth more to me than you know.” 

With that, he takes off towards the front of the group, pushing Frodo and the hobbits towards the center of the line where they will be more secure. You can’t help a soft smile as you watch him. Perhaps there is more to the two of you than you had first thought.

The door closes behind you and the dark-cloaked man leaps into action. A sword is in his hands before you even heard him unsheathe it. He points the tip at your throat, but you rush forward and slam the pommel of your weapon into his forearm, distracting him without making a noise that would alert the other residents of this inn, such as the clanging of steel against steel.

The man growls a question at you, half belligerent and half bewildered. “Who are you? Are you in league with those who wish these hobbits harm?”

You can feel your face twist with confusion. “I’m here to save them from you.”

The man draws back, although he keeps his sword extended. “Why would you save them from me? I wish only to help them.”

You arch a brow. “I saw you take them from the Prancing Pony. I don’t know what you said to make them go with you, but they all looked afraid. You could have been issuing threats for all I know.”

The man shakes his head slowly. “I knew of a plot on their lives and meant to wrest them from its darkened grasp, no more.”

He sounds genuine, which only makes your suspicion grow. Men can do nothing better than lie; many believe that was the first art they learned in the cradle and all others are mere trivialities.

“Pippin left a tankard half full of mead at his place in the inn. He would never give up a good drink willingly.”

Pippin, somewhere to your left, manages to break his shocked silence long enough to laugh quietly. “That is true.”

The man shoots him an exasperated look, then turns back to you. “I meant to save them, and I did. Why were you sent here, and how did you know of the hobbits’ passage through these parts?”

You hesitate for a moment, breathing slowly in the shallow quiet, but decide to trust him with the truth after all. “I ran into Bilbo Baggins a few days ago. He was out traveling through the forest paths, but seemed very different from his usual character. It was as if he had lost some crucial part of himself but was forcing himself to survive without it. He said that he feared his nephew would be undertaking a task of the gravest consequence and I was to help them if I saw them.”

A furrow deepens between the man’s brows, deep as the line of a plow through freshly planted earth. “You know Bilbo?”

Frodo takes this opportunity to step forward, albeit hesitantly. “Yes, it’s true. Bilbo has had her over for tea a matter of times before. I believe he met an ancestor of hers in Laketown many decades ago.”

The man looks between you and Frodo, then sighs, relenting. “You mean no harm, then.”

You regard him suspiciously. “Only if you mean no harm.”

He spreads his hands as if to make that point obvious, then puts away his sword. “I can prove it to you, if you like. Come over here to the window.”

He strides briskly across the room to hover by a lead-paned window, one that’s only just started to fog up from frost. It provides a good vantage point for the rest of the town, which is likely why the man chose this room to stay for the night.

The man points out the inn you saw the hobbits frequenting earlier, the Prancing Pony. “That room in the corner closest to us, second floor, would have been theirs.”

As you watch, dark shapes move slowly in the room, as if living shadows walk where the hobbits should have been. There’s one brief flash of movement, something that looks like the glint of moonlight of steel, and then an enraged howling pierces the night.

It is a terrible sound, and chills your very blood. Something out there in the night is absolutely furious, and its anger seems more ancient than even the oldest human towns.

You turn back to the man. “What is that?”

The man’s lips are pressed thin. “Those are the Ringwraiths. Do you see now why I had to hide the hobbits away?”

You nod slowly. “I believe I do.” You pause, then continue. “I’m Y/N, by the way. Y/N L/N.”

Something almost like a smile flickers over the man’s face. “They call me Strider. I would recommend that you take the chair in the corner of the room, it would do to have at least a little rest before the morning.”

You do as he suggests, placing your traveling bag near the crudely carved wooden feet of the armchair. It’s a little overstuffed, or perhaps overworn, as patches of stuffing are visible through the threadbare upholstery. All the same, it looks as though it shouldn’t be too hard as to be uncomfortable.

“Why, what happens come morning?”

Strider glances back at you from where he’s retaken his watchful position by the window. “Well, we set out, of course. You are welcome to stay here, but I assumed that your dedication to keeping your word to Bilbo would indicate that you wished to go with us.”

A delighted grin rises to your face before you can hide it. “I would like nothing more.”

An adventure awaits you, then. How wonderful! It shall be dangerous, you’ve seen that from the Ringwraiths alone, but that doesn’t make it any less thrilling in your mind. All the best journeys have some threat of peril, don’t they?

You shake your head slowly, a soft smile remaining on your face even after you close your eyes for the night. It shall be a fantastic adventure, of that you can be certain.

You definitely seem to enjoy it more than the hobbits. As the first morning of travel wears on and it becomes apparent that they’ll have to give up their favorite trappings of second breakfasts and rest hours, complaints begin to pop up like weeds underfoot.

You, however, have no problems with walking. You stay by Strider’s side the whole time, eagerly asking questions about where it is that you’re going and what he plans to do. You do your best to not get on his nerves, but he appears to like the company, and asks you some things of his own, like how you got to know Bilbo and why the bond between you and the elder hobbit would have been strong enough for you to attempt to kill the kidnapper of Frodo and his friends.

When night falls, the hobbits all look exhausted from a hard day’s travel, and Strider urges them to get some rest while he scouts around the campsite. You prepare yourself to stay with the hobbits, yet he gestures for you to follow him, saying something about how it’s important for you to learn the basics of tracking in case something happens. You doubt that he’d let anything happen, but still. Important life lessons.

Strider knows what he’s talking about, too. He seems to find signs in the barest curl of a leaf, and what seems to be an ordinary patch of the forest is riddled with indicators to a passage of deer. Here, many stalks of tall wild grass are broken, there, long scraping against tree bark could show a young buck trying to deal with newly acquired antlers. It’s as if the wilderness is a symphony, and he can pick out each chord and scale with ease. Right now, it’s a confusing bewilderment of notes to you, but you’re starting to see the patterns.

About half an hour into the scouting venture, Strider stops stock-still. “Do you smell that?”

You shake your head, not quite sure what he means. Strider cocks his head to the side as if trying to he’s something.

“I swear there’s smoke here, like from a campfire.”

His face pinches with horror as he says the last bit, and both of you turn in unison to stare at the place where you’d left the hobbits. One tendril of smoke is just starting to waft up, and a bright spark of flame is visible despite the distance and foliage. It’s quickly put out, but the damage is down.

Strider’s mouth twists down in one sharp motion. “The Ringwraiths will have seen them, I know it. Listen to me now. There is an elf-maiden somewhere in the forest near here. She’ll know you because I know you, and she’ll find you just as well. Get to her, and tell her that the wraiths are after us. We cannot run from them forever, especially not now.”

You nod your assent and tear off into the forest. Strider goes the other way, surging towards the place you’d last seen the hobbits. A moment later, he’s gone, and you are all alone with nothing but your pounding heartbeat to guide you.

You realize that you have no idea how to find this elf, nor how you’ll know it’s her, but that doesn’t matter much. Your feet pound on unpacked earth, but even the sharpest thorns couldn’t stop you now.

There’s a burst of movement as you round a rather large oak, and you skid to a stop. You’re in a small clearing of sorts, but you’re not alone. A hooded figure stands across from you, gnarled and crooked fingers curved around a sword.

Even from here, you’re faced with this overwhelming feeling telling you to run. It rises in your throat like bile, choking out all thoughts except running, and running now. You want to go, but your feet stand firm. You’re here to find somebody, and you will not let Strider down.

Your one advantage now is that the Ringwraith does not seem entirely interested in you, more like it’s trying to figure out if you could be harboring hobbits. You suspect that it was sent back here to cut off potential avenues of escape, not to kill errant travelers.

Your hand closes around something in a pouch at your belt, and you recognize it as your flint and steel. There’s a fallen branch at your feet, and you reach for it slowly, as if you’re being watched by a bear. Quickly, you scrape the flint and steel just hard enough to form one spark. Then again, one spark is all you need.

The wood is dry, parched from a lack of rain, and it catches fire easily. The Ringwraith rears back from the sudden flame, then begins to move towards you, slowly, as if pushing through water up to its throat.

You, however, are fast, and unburdened by the force of your fear. You thrust the torch towards it, then slash your sword at the same time while it’s distracted. You won’t be able to hold it forever, but all you really care about right now is surviving long enough to get away.

You see a flicker of movement through the trees, and hope begins to return to you in bright-eyed force. You launch the torch towards the Ringwraith as hard as you can. The being rears back, stunned just long enough for a curved sword to appear out of nowhere and slash at its throat. The wraith disappears, although you’re not sure that it’s dead, just gone for now.

In its place is an elven woman astride a tall horse. She looks at you, a scowl marring her fierce brow, and you know her instantly. “You’re Strider’s friend.”

She smiles, and the sudden change in her expression is as swift as a night breeze pushing storm clouds away from the moon. “I believe that is a fair description.”

You point back towards the way you’d come. “He needs help. We’ve been caught by more of the wraiths and he’s trying to protect the hobbits.”

Her expression shutters in moments. “Ride with me.”

You accept her hand up onto her horse, and she starts off in a hurry. You move so fast that you swear you might arrive back at the campsite before you even issued the warning, like she traveled back in time from her sheer speed. The wind roughens your cheeks, but it is an altogether inhuman rush and therefore one of the best experiences you’ve ever had in your life.

By the time you reach Strider, he’s already dispatched the remainder of the Ringwraiths, although he still seems worried. Moments later, you figure out why- Frodo is huddled on the ground, stabbed by one of the wraiths’ cursed blades.

Strider addresses the elf as Arwen, and you can tell instantly that they’ve known each other for quite a long time. She smiles when she speaks to him, even despite the grave danger, as if the sight of him alone could cure her of any harm.

“Give me the hobbit, I can bring him home far faster than your party.” She calls to him.

Strider inclines his head to brush against hers, and you get the distinct feeling that you are witnessing something that was not meant for your eyes. You turn to head toward the hobbits, although just before you walk away you hear Arwen speak once more.

“I quite like your latest traveling companion, you know. They tried to take on a Ringwraith alone and likely would have won.”

You don’t catch the rest, as you’re speaking to a very distraught Sam, but soon enough Strider comes over to help Frodo up onto Arwen’s horse. The rest of you will walk to Rivendell, the fabled city of the elves.

As per usual, Strider turns to speak to you as you travel. “You really attempted to fight a Ringwraith?”

He is doing his best to seem chiding, sort of like a strict teacher who’s more inclined to wrap your knuckles than give out praise, although the whole image is belied by the proud smile that refuses to leave his lips.

You grin. “I did. I would consider it rather frightened by me. I was, of course, hugely intimidating.”

Strider nods slowly. “I wouldn’t blame it. You’ll enjoy Rivendell, I think. I did when I was your age.”

It’s such a kind thing to stay that it makes your whole outlook brighten. Somehow, you did enough right that this man, who seems leagues better at just about everything, would look at you and be reminded of himself. Perhaps you have a long way to go, but perhaps one day you could match even him for skill.

“I think I’ll enjoy it quite a bit.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Then why aren’t you willing to tell me anything? You know something, otherwise you wouldn’t be so tense.”

The bartender gives the room one last desperate sigh, but seeing as the universe has been averse to helping him as of late, he’s forced to look back at you with a general gritting of teeth and grimacing of quavery jowls.

“Fine. I don’t know that much, anyways. No one does. The Rangers usually keep to themselves, but there is one that has been known to stop by various towns and cities on his travels throughout the North. Rumor has it he’s been seen up here recently.”

The bartender pauses again, pursing his lips. The pub is still and silent around him, and scarcely a sound can be heard over the occasional thumping of drained glass cups against wooden, splintery tables and the roar of the wind against the door. The few oil lamps hung throughout the room do little to protect the room from darkness, but whether or not the rows of tankards behind the bartender don’t shine for that or for dinginess, you can’t tell.

Just when you’re certain that you’re going to have to do a little more prodding, the bartender starts speaking again. This time, his voice is quieter but more fierce, as if he’s committed himself to sharing all he knows but doesn’t want everyone to overhear.

“There’s a Ranger around here that goes by the name of Strider. They say he has a fierce heart for defending the lost, and he’s kind in a way that few are. I don’t know where to find him, but I’d wager that he can find you if you give him a good enough reason.”

You nod slowly. “Thank you. And how will I be able to discern this Strider from the others? Does he carry a signature weapon, or-”

The bartender cuts you off, letting out a gravelly sort of laugh that seems better suited for grizzled blacksmiths, not the balding taverner before you. “Oh, you’ll know him when you see him. Make no mistake of that.”

Hours later, stumbling through the wilderness outside the pub, you still aren’t entirely sure what that means. Is this Strider more mountain than a man, a fierce assortment of steel and muscle that looks as if he could crush a troll in between two fingers? Or is he fair of heart, with eyes so clear that he seems to see the very future unfurling before him? You have no idea what he could be like, but you know that you must find him.

In fact, finding him is all you have left. You were traveling with your family a few weeks back when you were ambushed by a group of orcs. In the fight that ensued, you managed to get away, but your parents died in the battle. You can still picture your father pushing you into the shadows of the forest, whispering urgently to get out and get help before it was too late.

Too late already came for him, though. You had scarcely taken a few steps towards the nearest town when the orcs killed him, and even though you fulfilled your father’s last request by staying safe, you cannot help but feel guilty that you didn’t do anything. Is it a coward’s choice to live, or would the cowardly thing have been forcing yourself into battle so that your worries would have been cut short by one of the orcs’ bloody scimitars?

Either way, the hour for battle has long passed you now. There is only the road ahead, and your father’s words to find help in the Rangers. You don’t entirely know why he wanted you to find the Rangers, or if there was any one particular Ranger, but you feel that you have to follow through in some way. Perhaps then you’ll finally have peace.

You don’t stumble upon much of anything until two days from then. You’ve almost given up hope on just about everything. You have nothing to go off of except a name and a vague location, except the North is so large that thousands of Striders could go about their business without you having any idea who they are or how to find them. If you want to meet this Strider, he’ll have to find you. That’s the only way of it.

It is dusk now, the sun a thin film of gold quickly tucked away behind the mountains. Cold winds blow through the trees, whispering stories of lost travelers and desolated villages. Where will you end up, when this is over? Where could you possibly go?

You hear a noise, then, tucked away amongst the branches. It isn’t the sound of wind-tossed leaves, or the quiet crunch of deer stepping over fallen twigs. It is louder, rougher, the sound of someone or something that does not have to worry about silence. Someone or something that is so used to overpowering anything in their path that silence is no longer the faintest concern to them. The last time you heard a sound like that, a pack of orcs were on your trail, and you suddenly became the last of your bloodline.

You feel your heart leap in your throat, and quickly clamber to a place of slightly higher elevation so you can see out on the land around you. You don’t see any orcs, not on the gentle hills unrolling before you, not weaving amongst the firs or hickories. The sound continues, though, louder than ever before. It carries with it clanking metal, the acrid scent of copper even though no blood has yet to be spilled. Well, your blood, at least. These woods could be teaming with bodies waiting to be discovered, and you would have no idea until your foot connected with a ribcage.

Panic is rising in your chest as you look around unsuccessfully to find the orcs. They’re not in front of you, not to your sides. That leaves only- well, that leaves only behind you. You turn around in a rush to see a semicircle of orcs charging over the ground towards you, and you just have enough time to leap from the rocky overhang you’d been standing on before they reach you.

It isn’t a long fall, this, but you swear that time hangs still for just one moment, letting you rest in midair before you connect with the ground. It is terrifying to know that you are out here alone, outnumbered in a way that your father had been outnumbered right before these same sort of beasts killed him. He didn’t scream, your father, but you wish you could now. Regardless, it would do you no good. There is no one to hear you, and even if they did, they would just batten down their windows and lock their doors, praying that you shut up before the sound trapped itself in their minds.

Your feet hit the ground with a jolt, and you take off running as fast as you can. You’re not a bad fighter; in fact, your father trained you for much of your life, but there are still far more orcs than you and it would take a legendary swordsman to be able to fend off all of these monsters without dying. You are not the stuff of legends, though, just you. An orphan left behind, one name with years of history that no one else will remember.

The orcs have been somewhat separated from their large group by the run through the woods, leaving them clustered in small numbers of two and three. If there was ever a time to strike, it would be now, before they regroup and you’re outnumbered again.

You stop running in an instant, letting the first couple of orcs stumble until they’re almost past you, and then strike. One falls with your sword through the back of its throat, and you yank the blade out almost as quickly. The other has time to react to the death of its fellow, and yells a battle cry that is quickly silenced by you plunging your sword into its heart.

The other orcs have heard him, though, and know that you don’t intend on running forever. They start to center around you again, and you eye them nervously. The orcs aren’t attacking yet, though, they’re waiting. In fact, they look more hesitant than before, as if they can hear something coming.

You can hear it too, now that you think about it. At first, you thought that the shaking earth was just the wild beating your heart, afraid to meet the fate of your father without first meeting his demands, but that sound is real. It sounds like the thunder of hoofbeats against earth, like a rider coming to save you. You had thought that none in this stretch of the wilderness would be willing to risk their lives to rescue someone they didn’t know, but it looks like you were wrong. There is somebody with a good heart, somebody braver than most assume.

Your mind musters up a name even before you see him.

Strider.

A moment later, a horse and rider burst through the trees, sending the orcs into a scatter. The man is tall, darkly clad, although the torch in his hand sends ripples of light through the forest. A sword is clasped tightly in his other hand, and he strikes at the orcs without cause for concern. His face is knit in determination, but he doesn’t seem afraid, as if this is something he does often.

All of a sudden, you’re struck by a memory. Seeing this man above you, charging towards the orcs without a care for his own safety, it reminds you of your father, the last moment you shared with him. In fact, this Strider seems so much like him in movement and in expression that you swear your father was back for just one moment, as if he crawled back from the land of the dead just to protect you one last time. It is a glorious sight, and when it goes it almost hurts as much as watching your father die all those weeks ago.

The rest of the orcs have pulled themselves together by now, and rally towards Strider for a second attack. However, he cuts them down with ease, and within minutes the remaining orcs are running for the hills, gobs of dark blood spattering the thorns and plants around them with every step.

Strider watches them go to make sure they won’t try to attack again, then climbs down from his horse in one swift movement and walks towards you. “Are you hurt?”

You manage to shake your head. “No. Are you the one they call Strider?”

Something almost like a smile touches the man’s lips. “I suppose it would depend on who ‘they’ are, and you, for that matter.”

His tone reminds you of your father again, his way of gently chastising you while still lacing his words with humor. You smile at the memory. “I am not one to fear.”

Strider gestures at the orcs laying at your feet. “I believe I would beg to differ. I have been tracking these orcs for a few days now, but I did not expect to receive help in taking them down. I appreciate it.”

You incline your head. “The gratitude goes to you. You saved my life.”

Strider lifts a shoulder. “It is my duty as a Ranger. To use a sword for glory alone would be a grave misdeed.”

A question rises to your mind, and you find that you cannot hold it back any longer. “Could I travel with you? I have no place to call my own, no home, no family. I wouldn’t be a burden, I swear. Even if it’s only for a short while. I promised-”

The words stopper up your throat and you cannot finish the sentence. You promised your father that you would follow the Rangers, and Strider appears to be the best of them. You wish to honor him, do you not?

Even though you can’t manage to complete the thought, Strider still seems to understand what you’re trying to say. “I would be honored to have a companion in these forests. I have to take a journey to Bree in a few days. You could go with me then, and when we reach the town, you could see what path you wish to take. Either way, it would not harm either of us.”

You smile. “Thank you. I mean it.”

Strider chuckles, turning back around to check that his horse is uninjured. “As do I.”

Bree seems ages away; the journey towards accepting your father’s loss, even more so. All the same, you look forward to the road ahead with growing excitement. If there was a chance to find a new purpose in your life, this is it. You can only wonder what purpose you will find.

You’d heard rumors of a pack of orcs traveling somewhere in the vicinity, after a harried traveler had collapsed in a nearby pub last night, bawling stories about how his party had been attacked and had to flee for their lives. There are no doubt many boastful groups looking around for the same monsters, but the title of killing them can only go to one, and you intend it to be you. You only became a Ranger recently- it’s time you earned your stripes and cemented a place for yourself amongst their ranks.

You drop down into the ravine silently, using a patch of moss to disguise the sound of your heels landing on the packed earth. You unsheathe your sword, paying no heed to the bitter glint of moonlight along its edge before you begin your work. You’re able to stab two orcs in the eye and slash one’s throat before one of the beasts finally lets out a dying gurgle of blood and the rest discover that you’re there.

They yell gutturally at you in anger and charge, although you’re ready for them. Their lunges are strong but clumsy, and you’re able to dance around them as if you were part elf instead of fully human. You parry a fierce blow, forcing the nearest orc’s weapon down into the earth before quickly riposting to cut through its chest. Normally, you keep your sword as sharp as possible; tonight, it slices through orc flesh as if it were the thinnest of silks. You smile. It is not the gentlest of looks.

You move steadily through the pack. Trapping them in the narrow ravine had been a smart move, and they’re limited to attacking you in groups of two or three, which you can dispatch quickly before more manage to climb over their fallen brethren to reach you. In fact, you’re just readying yourself for a final swing towards the last pair before the orc in front of you lets out a startled sound, strangled by the blood knotting in its throat and the sword suddenly jutting out of its chest.

The blade is quickly removed, and seconds later, the final orc’s head is spinning off into the ground near its feet. The body falls as if kicked, and you’re face to face with your apparent savior. However, you don’t feel grateful for the rescue, only annoyed. “I had them down. Why would you interfere?” The man before you is tall and dark-haired, his eyes piercing even when lined by a splash of orc blood. His lips are slashed by a smirk. Evidently, he’s proud of himself for ruining your string of kills.

“I wanted to make sure that you would not be hurt. You are one of the newest Rangers, after all. I have yet to see you on this side of the forest before.” You raise an eyebrow. “Are you this welcoming to all new Rangers, or only me?” The corner of his lips twitch again. “You could simply thank me, you know. Let’s just leave it at that.”

You scoff, reaching forward to wipe the blood from your sword on a nearby patch of grass. “Oh, of course. I shall sing your praises to the archangels themselves, mysterious stranger. Now, if you don’t mind, I will be on my way. Or are you going to take over my later travels as well?” There’s a glint of something in the man’s eyes. It could be irritation, could be satisfaction. Perhaps a bit of both.

“Only if I was certain that you would be this upset over it. Who are you, then?” You consider him for a second longer, then nod. Whoever this man is, he’s a fellow Ranger, and committed to ridding this world of orcs, even if the kills are meant to be yours. “Y/N. Y/N L/N.” He inclines his head. “They call me Strider.” You sheath your sword, tapping the hilt once before making for the hills once more. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Strider. With all respect, I hope our paths should never cross again, or I’d fear for my other quests lest you add yourself to them as well.” You can practically hear his grin as you walk away. “The same with you, Y/N.”

You assume that your leaving will be the end of this. The forests and grasslands scattering the North are vast; canvassing them by yourself could take years. The chances of running into this Strider fellow are slim to none. 

That being said, when you find yourself crossing through a particularly dark patch of the wilderness and hear the sound of conflict carried to you by the winds, you can’t help but shake your head. You can hear the clang of steel and the snarl of what appears to be half-trolls, but every now and then, you hear a grunt of exertion coming from the swordsman taking on these monsters. It’s a familiar sound, and a familiar voice, despite the fact that you’ve only heard it once before. You grin to yourself. This is going to be fun.

You come across the scene soon enough. You have to admire Strider’s courage- he’s taking on a trio of these half-trolls without an apparent care for his own safety. Then again, you can spot the fleeing silhouettes of a family of travelers. Strider has likely taken on these monsters to save the journeyers, but he’s now left with the difficult task of saving his own skin. He’s so concerned with making it out alive that he hasn’t spotted you yet.

You wait until his back is turned to you, sword holding back the blow of one of the half-trolls’ stone clubs, until you strike. You can see Strider’s eyes widen slightly as your knife buries itself in the chest of the monster in front of him, which sways back and forth before crumpling to the fallen ground. It was an excellent throw, you can admit that yourself. You drop to the ground, rolling under a looming fist before coming up on your feet behind the beast, your sword already in your hand and slashing at its back. The half-troll groans in agony, twisting around to swat at you, but by the time it’s facing you again you have relieved the monster of its arm. It cries out again before turning to run, although it doesn’t make it far before Strider’s sword lodges firmly between its ribs.

When you turn to face the battle scene, you note that the other troll has been dispatched. The clearing is empty save for you, Strider, and a few half-troll carcasses. Strider moves towards you, eyes roving over your arms to check for cuts and scrapes that aren’t there. “May I ask why you chose to intervene?” You can’t help a satisfied smile. “I wanted to make sure that you would not be hurt. You are one of the most maddening Rangers, after all. I couldn’t just leave you to die.”

You walk forward to retrieve your knife from the chest of the fallen half-troll, so you don’t see the slight incredulity washing over Strider’s face. You can hear it in his voice, though, along with the undercurrent of humor that always seems to be present within him. “I appreciate you looking out for me. That’s the sign of a good Ranger, you know. However, seeing as I wouldn’t want you to get hurt, I might advise you to not take on enemies that might be too much for you.”

You stare at him now, before roughly yanking your dagger from the dead monster’s trunk. It comes directly from its heart, and shines darkly from the blood coating it down to the hilt. You hold it up, heedless of the scarlet starting to drip down over your knuckles. “If I thought I couldn’t handle those things, I wouldn’t have gotten involved. I’d argue that I’m worth a little more than you might think, Strider.”

You step forward slowly, until you’re only a few feet away. “We are both Rangers now. It would be best for you to stop seeing me solely as a commoner who stole a weapon from a nearby blacksmith.” You say, yet Strider’s hands close quietly over your knife. You’re not sure why you let him take it, but you watch as he walks a few feet away to wipe the blood from the metal. He does not say another word until he has come back to you, pressing the weapon gently into your awaiting palms. “I would not dare, Y/N.” Something almost like a smile plays over your lips. “I should hope not.”

You see Strider again, and then again. You don’t plan it, honestly, this meeting up with him, it just happens. You’re trying to rid the forest of some thieves, he appears on the path behind you to stop you from being cut off at all sides. He’s cornered by some rogue orcs, you find yourself charging the lot to ensure that the one Ranger you know won’t find a lonely death in the forest. You’re not sure whether you would consider him a rival, a friend, or any mixture of those terms, only that it does make you smile every time you see him.

Then, in the midst of a nighttime journey, you get the sensation that something is wrong. The feeling washes over your skin, raising the hairs on your arms and chilling your bones. You dismount from your horse, walking forward to look over the edge of a nearby bluff for any signs that another conflict has come upon you. You see it then- a rocky outcropping not far from you, a single curl of smoke piercing the sky. It is quiet, and suddenly a shriek shatters through the night.

You clap a hand over your mouth to stop a gasp of shock. You’ve never heard that deathly wail before, yet you can recognize it instantly: a ringwraith. It could be nothing else. Even by hearing the sound, you can conjure up the mental picture: darkly clothed figures, rattling breaths, the stench of death even before they strike. Somehow, you know that the wraiths are approaching that mountaintop, and somehow you know that there is a Ranger there who will attempt take them on alone.

You’ve jumped onto your horse before you can muster up a second thought, lashing the reins and charging forward in a thunderous gallop. You’re not bothering with silence this time, only speed. Your steed canters forward as fast as it can, racing between low-hanging boughs and up the side of the rocky mountaintop. You can only hope that you’ll arrive fast enough. The thought alone is not enough to stop your nerves from threatening to tear you asunder.

You approach the rocky clearing soon enough, and your heart catches in your throat to see the scene. Across the space from you, you can see four of what appears to be hobbits, one of them lying painfully on the ground as if injured. Then, closer to you, one man armed with a torch and a sword, taking on five Nȃzgul as if they were no more than garden-variety thieves. You could almost laugh at his selflessness, were it not for the fact that he’s about to get himself killed.

You have a torch of your own, and hold it in the air. Your horse raises itself on its hind legs, neighing loudly in the still air. The attention of the ringwraiths is diverted to you, as is Strider’s, although you cannot tell whether or not the look in his eyes is driven by relief or regret. You charge forward, torch held at the ready. Your horse bears down upon the cloaked beings, moving forward swiftly despite their shrieks and calls. You swat at first one then the other, beating them back with the fire. 

You can feel your horse panicking beneath you, so you jump down after a second, trusting it to remain close. You and Strider fight side by side, forming a barrier of flaming torches and steel that does not allow any of the Nȃzgul to approach. At last, Strider lunges forward, forcing the last of them back. All of a sudden, you are alone once more, the air seeming to heat up again now that the soul-sucking chill of the ringwraiths has been removed.

You do not have a chance to speak with him immediately. The dark-haired hobbit, Frodo, is gravely injured from a wraith’s blade, and is rushed away with an elf who smiles at you briefly before taking off once more. Then, you have to watch over the remaining hobbits, and make sure they don’t manage to call attention to themselves once more. Only once it is far later into the night, when Strider has allowed the three hobbits to rest, do you follow his unspoken request and go with him a ways away from the meager camp to talk.

Strider waits until you’re sufficiently out of earshot of the camp before he begins. He is pacing away, away, and then he whirls back to you. There’s a fierce sort of light in his gaze that has never been there before; it becomes him, in a way. “What were you doing here? You could have been killed!” You raise an eyebrow. “You could have been killed as well. That’s why I was here, actually, making sure that you weren’t murdered when you tried to take on a swarm of Nȃzgul.”

His eyes flash in the darkness. “Do not put the blame of this on me. I will not have your death on my conscience.” You let out a surprised, bitter laugh. “You won’t, I’m still alive. How are you upset about this? This is what we do, we save each other. You want to avoid thinking that I could have died because of you? How do you think I would feel if you died when I did nothing about it? I would rather have been killed than know that you were going up against ringwraiths while I sat back and watched.”

Strider’s expression is merciless. “I would rather have your grief if it meant you were alive. There are only so many rangers in the forest. We cannot afford to lose one because you wanted to get involved in something like this.” You shake your head, disbelieving. “That’s what this is all about? You would chide me for saving your life, all because you are worried about the numbers of rangers?” 

There’s a pause, and then he speaks again. “No. It is not for that.” All of a sudden, his fierce stance is gone, replaced by a man, just a man. Out of some indescribable emotion, you reach forward and take his hand. He stares at your interlocked fingers, and so do you. “Then what is it, Strider? What would make you speak this way?” He looks at you for a second longer, then his gaze flicks away again. “Aragorn. That is my true name. I would have you use it.”

Your fire is gone now, as is his. All that remains is a few embers, catching light in the dark night of this section of the forest. “Then, Aragorn, what would make you afraid to lose me?” Your tone is light. You cannot think about the consequences of what this all means. “This is a lonely life, Y/N. All the same, I have still had you. Do you know how large the wilderness is, how great the expanse of territory that we rangers pursue? Yet, every week or two, I still see you. Somehow, our paths keep crossing. If I lost you tonight, and I had to go back into the forest without knowing that you were there somewhere with me, I would feel more lost than the first time I stepped from my doorstep.”

His voice is quiet. Yours is too. “Then you understand why I had to fight too, don’t you? It is the same for me. Your loss is mine.” Aragorn looks up at you. “The same?” You nod. His eyes have warmed again, the fire warm this time, not meant to burn but to encourage you to stay a little longer. He glances towards the camp, no doubting wondering what trouble the hobbits have managed to get themselves into. “We go to Rivendell, after Frodo. Will you go with us?” You smile at him. “Anywhere, Aragorn. My path is yours.” He kisses you before he goes, and you watch him walk back to the camp, silhouetted by the soft starlight. You will follow soon enough. For now, you sit and think to yourself, wondering how you managed to get this lucky.