𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑆𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑟.

𝑨𝑪𝑻 - 𝑰
𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑺𝑳𝑨𝑽𝑬.

“Perhaps we stay here, for the time being.”

His voice is low, calculative —- a single pat to Brego’s chest. “The Sundrinker moves fast, maybe too fast for us.”

Brego comes to a slow, there is frustration and anger built within the heart of Strider. Something so disappointing of being so close yet so far —- reminded of his hunt for Gollum.

He points ahead to a clearing of trees, one that seemingly make a circle that could defend them on all fronts.

“Lead, if you will. But remember, I am a hunter, and I will not be turned from my prey.”

With that, Strider drew his cloak about him, the leaf-clasp at his throat glinting faintly in what light pierced the Mirkwood’s gloom. His voice dropped to a whisper, harsh yet resolute.

“Gollum is near. Closer with each breath. Keep your brood at their feast with Orc-flesh, lest they lose patience and turn upon my quarry. He is mine to take. Mine to guard.”

“I have borne it these many years. Roots and shadow alike will break beneath my step, but they shall not halt it.”

Turning, he fixed her with that keen Ranger’s look, the kind that saw beyond veils and glamour alike, and spoke lower, as if binding the words to the mist itself.

“The Silvan folk are tireless hunters, silent as owls in the dark. If their paths can be trod, then so too shall I take them. From above, his spoor will show the clearer.”

His hand brushed the gnarled bark of a root half-sunken into the loam, and his mouth curved in a grim half-smile.

He lifted his gaze to the canopy at her bidding, the faint gleam of Elven craft glimmering high among the branches. His heart stirred, though his voice remained steady.

Strider was long-accustomed to walking beside voices both fair and fell, and weighing each by the weight of truth he could wrest from them.

The Ranger’s lips pressed into a thin line, and his eyes. Her tutting, her words that twined mockery with promise, clung to him like mist. Yet he did not flinch, nor turn aside.

**

Unbelievably sorry that happened, started my first ever corpo job last year and have still been learning every day

**
Getting close to The Council of Elrond in my reading, feel like I’ll be a little more active once there 🙂‍↕️

His heart quickened, though his voice remained low, measured.

“Aye. That is the trail. West, and weary-footed. He runs, yet not far. The night will not shelter him.”

He saw as they saw —- the ruin of orc-kind strewn across their wake, the wretched spoor of the creature he hunted, winding and erratic across the forest floor.

“Misstep or no, sorceress, I have no need of your hopes. I require only the truth of the path.”

His gaze, keen beneath the hood, followed hers as the brood fanned wide, a tide of silvered limbs and gleaming eyes.

He had walked with shadows long enough to know their touch. If her kin could drive the hunt, then so be it, he would master unease as he had mastered the bow, the sword, the silence of the wood.

He did not mistake it for a gift, nor mistake her for one who gave freely.

Yet when the mists drew tight and the world folded close, the Ranger’s breath steadied.

Strider’s jaw set, though his hand lingered a heartbeat longer in hers. The word she had spoken —- Mellon, rippled in his chest like an old song. A friend’s word, but twisted now, dressed in a tongue that was not wholly hers.

“Given at birth. I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Although, I have not gone by that name for a long time. .”

He rides closer, their horses matching in a small trot. “I have been called Strider for years now.”

He followed, a gentle heel kick to Brego turned the horse with the other —- catching up in stride.

“Aragorn.” He says —- not correcting the other. But letting them know. “My true name.”

If they would look to where he was pointing —- they would see a tunnel made within the trees. As if Sundrinker had crawled upon its belly to make a path, and possibly even rested.

The crushed trees were like remnants of war, bringing an Elvish whisper from his rugged lips that could only be heard as:

“Help those that need it. .”

He slowed, eyeing the others above, and making a waved motioned. Strider pointed with two fingers forth.

“Lead me through your shadows. Together we will flush the wretch from his holes.”

His hand closed upon hers, firm as iron, not yielding but sealing the moment. His voice, though quiet, carried the weight of command earned in long years of solitude and peril.

“The creature must be found. If your kin can run the dark places swifter than my feet, then let them. But mark me, sorceress —- this is no bond of blood nor of oath. When the hunt is done, so too is this accord.”