The Fellowship has only just left Rivendell behind: winter air sharp in the lungs, the road ahead long and shadowed. They press on, boots sinking into frost-touched earth, the weight of the Quest already heavy on every heart.

It’s Aragorn who calls a halt first. His voice, usually so sure and quiet, carries an undercurrent the others can’t quite place.

“We must take a slight detour,” he says, turning his gaze southward into the woods that fringe the path. “There is one more I would see join our company. An old friend… and one whose skill may yet save us before this journey’s end.”

You hear them before you see them: the soft fall of boots on moss, the low murmur of hobbit voices, and his voice — Aragorn’s — calm, edged with something softer than command.

You step from the shadowed treeline into the pale winter light, cloak brushing the frost-laced undergrowth. The years haven’t dulled the steel at your side, nor the sharp glint in your eye. Your gaze finds him at once.

“Strider,” you greet, a small, private smile curving your lips. The name tastes like the road and old memories.

His answering smile is brief but bright, breaking through the ranger’s reserve. “It has been too long, mellon nín,” he murmurs, voice lower now, touched with warmth meant only for you.

The hobbits look at you with wide-eyed curiosity — four small shapes bundled in cloaks, faces red from the cold. Boromir’s gaze is more measured, assessing, as if weighing your worth in a single glance.

Aragorn makes the introductions. “This is [Your Name],” he says, and there is an unconscious gentleness in the way he speaks it — as though your name itself is something precious. “A companion from long before these dark days. Few know these lands as well… or fight with such resolve.”

Boromir inclines his head politely. “Another sword will serve us well,” he says, though it’s clear he wonders about more than your skill.

You glance at the hobbits — Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin — offering a small smile meant to ease their nerves. “I’ve no wish to frighten you,” you say, humor threaded through the weariness of a life spent on the road. “Though you’ll find the wilds themselves do their best.”

Later, as the company makes camp, you and Aragorn drift a little apart, to the edge of the fire’s light where the forest breathes its cold breath around you. The flickering glow catches the lines the years have traced on his face — and the softness he saves only for moments like this.

“You did not have to come,” he says quietly, though the hope in his eyes betrays the words. “This road… it may lead to ruin.”

You search his face, old memories stirring: of riding at his side under summer stars, of laughter echoing through ruins long swallowed by ivy. “And leave you to walk it alone?” you answer, voice softer now. “Never.”

For a moment, the world feels smaller, quieter — just the two of you, bound by shared years and something unspoken that neither of you has dared name. His hand brushes yours — a ghost of a touch — before duty draws him back to the fire.

When dawn comes, you ride out beside him: your cloak catching the wind, your heart steady despite the darkness gathering beyond the horizon. In his glance — quick, almost shy — there is relief. And gratitude. And something tender, hidden beneath the ranger’s mask.

The Fellowship moves forward again, now nine instead of eight. And though no vow has been spoken aloud, one truth binds you: wherever Aragorn goes, your blade and your heart will follow.