The Outrider // LOTR & LEGOLAS

𝔓𝔯𝔬𝔩𝔬𝔤𝔲𝔢

𝐑𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐌𝐂𝐔 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐬:
Aragorn is a skilled ranger of the Dunédain and heir to the throne of Gondor, and also goes by the name Estel and Strider. He keeps his royal heritage a secret. Very few know. He is the adopted son of Lord Elrond, ruler of the elven kingdom Rivendell. His biological father, Arathorn, was killed when he was two.

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"𝙎𝙤 𝙗𝙖𝙙, 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙩'𝙨 𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙫𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙨𝙖𝙮 𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙢𝙚."

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He was a man referred to by many names—Strider, Thorongil, Estel, and even Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Isilduir's heir—but the man with a fear-filled heart was never one of them. Tavern tales couldn't hold a light to the fiends he had faced in his elongated life. Many a time had he been told to be frightened by the man he was searching for, and many a time had he taken the warning backhandedly.

It wasn't arrogance that kept him from showing a shard of concern. The ranger merely had seen it all; not much remained in Middle Earth that could unsettle Aragorn. In addition, he couldn't afford the expense of fear. In his line of work, you had to either get on with the task or get out.

Despite this, he wasn't ignorant enough to not pay the man's abilities respect. Extreme caution radiated from Aragorn as he strode through the woods; footsteps silent as he avoided dead foliage and his breaths muted. One hand remained perched upon the waistline of his trousers, which concealed his trustworthy dagger. The other was freely hanging by his side, awaiting its next opportunity to probe through topsoil or trail along the bark of trees in search of tracks. 

Bewilderment riddles his thoughts with each passing day. For weeks now, the skilled ranger had been restlessly scouring the forest and mountains for any signs of the man or the horse he had been claimed to ride upon, but he consistently came up empty-handed. Prior to now, Aragorn had humbly viewed himself as someone who could track anything, but his perfect record had been shattered. The ground spoke of no hoof prints, footprints, hair, blood, waste, or disturbances in the leaves that littered the floor. The surrounding wildlife went about their normal doings, never once hinting that there was someone prowling the forest besides Aragorn.

It wasn't until the twenty-fifth consecutive sunrise that the ranger had witnessed from the grounds of the forest that something unordinary occurred. A slight buzz reverberated throughout Aragorn's skull, but the rest of his senses failed him in discovering what the warning was about. The crisp, fragrant scent of the woods remained unchanged. His ears couldn't decipher anything beyond the chirping of birds or the trickling of water from a stream a few leagues away. The ground laid still. For as far as his trained eye could see, nothing was out of place in the environment.

"You do not belong."

Aragorn was, without a doubt, unsettled by the sudden deep voice. The words were spoken in a raspy, menacing growl, and were laced with enough venom to kill a human if tangible. The ranger turned on his heel to face the source of the voice. His vision was met with a towering statue of a cloaked figure mounted upon a beautiful, well-structured steed. Shadows darker than a cold night deep within a mountain were coiled around the dyad, which heightened their sinister edge.

"You do not belong!" The man repeated, his voice retaining the gravelly tone. This time, though, he wordlessly urged his mount closer to Aragorn. With the knowledge that he could be effortlessly ground into the soil by the imposingly tall horse, Aragorn made no hesitation in backtracking carefully. The features of the rider somehow became even more livid. "The poison of men shall be wiped from these lands. Death is upon you!"