“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 🙂‍↕️

/ she (ungoliant) was so scary she terrified morgoth (the lucifer equivalent in this universe).

She was SO FUCKED UP. SHE made HIM cry out in fear and pain, the result of which summoned between THREE AND SEVEN Balrogs from Hell to go whip her ass and scare her off.

He must've gotten bit as a child

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.

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡 𝟏𝟑𝐭𝐡, 𝐓𝐀 𝟑𝟎𝟏𝟗. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐞.

En route to Cirith Ungol, Miri diverged from her path to ally herself with the defense of Minas Tirith. Armed with sabre and cutlass, she led the defense of the city's inner gates, being followed into the fray by two dozen men who referred to her only as 'the witch'.

“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.