The late morning sun is soft through the mist, gold brushing across the field like a benediction. The horses stand tethered nearby, their hides steaming gently from the warmth, tails flicking at the last stubborn gnats of the season. It should be a peaceful moment—quiet, calm. But there’s tension humming in the air, subtle as a taut bowstring, and it’s coming from you.

You’re standing beside one of the taller mares—a beautiful, dark-eyed beast with an impossibly high saddle—and you are determined. That much is clear. Your jaw is set, your brow furrowed, your hands braced stubbornly against the leather of the saddle as you attempt, yet again, to mount. But your balance is off. Your body is not what it was a few months ago—your center shifted forward by the rounded swell of your belly, the precious life growing inside you. Every breath comes with more effort now, every movement asks more than it once did.

You grunt softly as you try to swing your leg up again, only to falter mid-way and catch yourself against the saddle horn, breathing harder now. The horse shifts beneath you, patient but uncertain.

Behind you, a voice speaks—quiet, calm, and unmistakably Aragorn.

“…Must it be that horse?”

You don’t turn. Not right away. You close your eyes and grit your teeth, because you already know the look he’s wearing: one brow raised, arms crossed, some frustrating combination of concern and amusement playing at the corners of his mouth.

“I’m perfectly capable,” you mutter, breathless.

“I never said you weren’t,” he replies, stepping closer. “But she’s taller than you’ve been in three moons. And you’re winded.”

“I’m not winded,” you lie—badly.

You feel his presence before you see him: the quiet rustle of his cloak, the subtle creak of leather, the warmth he brings with him. Then his hands are gently, firmly easing you back down to the ground, fingers careful as they wrap around your waist and guide you away from the horse like one might a warrior who hasn’t yet realized she’s bleeding.