A story collection featuring Aragorn, Legolas, Thranduil, and Boromir so far. There will be lots of hurt/comfort, sweet romance, humor and a pinch of angst!
Pairings:
1. Aragorn x You
2. Legolas x You
3. Thranduil x You
4. Boromir x You
The reader c...
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Summary:
You have always wondered about the hooded stranger who frequents the inn where you work. Coming across a wounded man in the forest one day, your curiosity is finally satisfied.
Set in Aragorn's youth, long before the Lord of the Rings.
For Darth Fëanor
♡
Hooded Stranger
Strider had returned. As always, you were intrigued by the sight of that extraordinarily tall figure, occupying his favorite corner, a trail of pipe smoke slowly escaping from under his hood. He did not have to place an order, all staff at the Prancing Pony knew to serve him a platter of assorted hams and cheeses, with a piece of hard bread on the side, and keeping his keg filled with your darkest ale.
You could not remember when he first came here. Maybe five or six years ago? Since then, he would show up every two months or so. Always alone, always hooded, always silent except for the occasional 'thank you', or 'another one, please'. He paid well, so you were not complaining – just curious.
It was the hood that buggered you most about the fellow. You were dying to know what he hid underneath it. A horrible scar? Disfiguring pockmarks? Just plain ugliness? You did not even know if he was old or young.
Sometimes you had toyed with the idea to 'accidentally' brush against his hood in passing, uncovering him, but had quickly decided against it. You needed this job. Butterbur was a good-natured boss, but even he would not take well to your slighting a good customer.
As you carried Strider's platter over to him, skilfully balancing a tray of ale kegs in your other hand, you came to the conclusion you would probably never know more about him, and you had better stop racking your brain. You owed it to your peace of mind.
"There you go, sir." You placed the food before him, and inhaled some of his smoke. Longbottom leaf. The finest brand.
"Thank you." He had a deep, refined voice, with a lilting accent you could not entirely place. Another of the many mysteries surrounding Strider. Which, you were certain, was not his real name.
When you walked away, you had a sneaking feeling he was looking at your retreating back. It was not the first time you had suspected he did, and if so, he was certainly not the only customer to scope you out – when one worked at an inn, getting eyeballed by the clientele was almost part of the job description. Even Nob, the hobbit, got his fair share.
Did Strider like your looks? Or why else was he observing you so closely? If he was; under that hood you could not be sure. Perhaps he thought you had a nice bum? You had been told you did.
Then you chided yourself for pondering over him again. Had you not just said to yourself you needed to stop that?
Folding your arms sternly, you deliberately turned your back to Strider's corner. Starting today, you would never give him another thought. No need to trouble yourself over a mystery man whose face you would never see, and whose real name you would never know.
