gruenblatt​:

He teases. His grin slips delicate about his youthful face, and it gleams brighter than stars and suns at dawn.

Silvery, this elf. Legolas, young among his kin and to these ancient trees, bowed and twisted with the turn of long centuries, bears wit in his soul like a gust through bells; it rings through the canopies, his smile as loud as laughter. Aragorn hums. He feels invigorated.

Bold.

“Along am I in my years, Legolas, that I now cherish that joy of youth when it would present itself before me. And there, in the shadows of your Mirkwood, would you stand." His brows raise subtly, tinged by a cutting edge of fondness and glib contention. It is a look not oft seen; the Ranger is not easily defeated. "You jest, and not unlike a child with that daring you keep."

The trees chance a rare laugh, leaves overhead shivering and shuddering.

Aragorn turns. The darkness of this realm creeps back into the keenness of his vision, and their footsteps disturb the mosses at their feet. An owl hoots a sad song.

"I look forward to the gates of your home for the roads beyond her are unkind. It has been long since I had trodden these grounds, but it looks to drink the sun in paler a shade. The night's grown too long here -- though it has not reached you. Your eyes are bright, still."

warhirrim​:

It proved an ache. Long had Rohan warred with tremendous evils, but in those summers so long ago, golden and fragrant upon these rolling plains, the Ranger could recall sharp eyes of wonder -- of daring and courage and hope that breathed still.

Stood there, beholding this prince turned king, age and wisdom aplenty along the noble arch of his brows, he saw, still, an abundance of these qualities, but despair had wormed like rot, plunging like roots of old. And so mighty had the tree’d grown, sprawling and tangled with its far-reaching arms... The Lord Ranger thought he’d gleaned no sunlight.

How terrible. He knew, too, the bowing weight of despair, but never had he bowed to it.

“Of that, I had never any doubt. Long is the memory of those children of Rohan, and ever honorable are its horse lords. It is by fate’s hand that they will flourish rightly -- as those lands they keep, blessed with promise. Nearby are the flowers in bloom. I have trodden along stirring. I have hope that they will rise here.”

Théoden’s hand was war-calloused. Aragorn watched, and Háma bowed. “The sun rises here still, and with it, a brighter dawn. We need only look.” Had he forgotten the warmth?

fourmarksmage​:

“And with no less pleasure you are thought to show them scorning all for their 'simple' wants -- so they would say. And oft do they say so. Tormeneter, is the word." But, then, was this peculiar wanderer criticizing this cruel sorcerecess? Had he thought her a soul that relished in pain? Well, his gaze spoke little of that. Rather, he declared only the reigning sentiment in this loud city, filled to the brim with padded lords whose wallets drowned in coin, and truly, he minded it all very little. They could not be blamed. The woodsman exhaled thoughtfully those wisps of pipe-smoke. “They have peace, and for all their years had they had it. They've grown content to it. And in that content, have dreamt as wildly and as far as their restful sleep allows them. That is not so bad, I would think. Indeed, I wager those with harder days dream even mightier." As he dreamt of peace on earth, as she dreamt of a child to keep-- Oh. No. He didn't know that, but... "Your clients would call them foolish."

maestrodarte​:

It surprises him, but it is fond, and Aragorn’s hum rumbles in the pit of his belly. What a dear man. Leonardo’s wonderfully warm where these summer days now shine oddly and dark, whose nights trill cooler in their hooting of its wary winds, and it strikes him then, again, wrapped comfortably in the cradle of those searching arms: that he is sweet, much so, and like days as they should be. Pleasant, that is. And of times he yearns to keep. Memory, kind but aching... Ah, a ranger and his thoughts. Patting his friend’s back reassuringly, Aragorn murmurs a comforting ‘at ease, Leonardo.’ His heart sings. “Is that what you would see in me? I come upon you in the tangles of an unkind wood--” here, the forest seems to shiver, dark and terrible “--and you see the promise of strange meadows, smell flowers and waters you have dreamt in your dreams. You see me, and think your wants.” That arching perk of his wise brow -- oh, he’s rather smart and teasing both! To think, he’s humor still despite the weariness along his shoulders! Aragorn’s eyes shine curiously. “It would dishearten me to rob you of them. Come, but not far. As it is, I had crossed a glade of tremendous beauty. Keep close, Leonardo. Speak to me of what unsettles you.”

lotr where everything is the exact same but aragorn, tall and humble and worldly and patient, reunites with old friends he holds dearly and kisses their foreheads and melts them to goo....... always spouting sincere words. ‘i have long dreamt of our meeting again’. something, something. an enchanter! off ensnaring all a heart.

virassxn​:

Laughter bubbled in his belly, rolling, earthy, and deep, and Aragorn, fatigue melting from his old bones, ushered them forward to the quake of it. Shining at the sight of him, he said...! Oh, hush, this charmed Inquisitor-- “Then you would call yourself that same beauty that grows in the fair gardens, do you? Crystal grace, I think you keep. Last I recall, they bloom most fairly at the bright of dawn.” A flower: to turn praise and deem their Cyrran a sweet flower...! What a clever man -- and weary, of course, but he minded not the cake of mud on his boots. “Always far are my travels, as you know. What you have to spare, I dare not refuse. I would be fool to deny the Elven company, but the evils have darkened. I had worried for you.”

"You spare no effort for those who would come under your care,” the Ranger declared, lonely and swaddled in the corner’s dark. The candlelight dared not reach him. Her healing halls laid dourly behind these healing souls both, though quiet were its chambers; the moans of the wounded had lessened. And to her talents, Aragorn understood, haggard himself as he smoked his pipe. Fair maiden. Her hands worked hard. Had she chanced any sleep? “One is left to wonder who there would look to you with that same heart.”

“I would look upon you and feel that weight of words that are not yet spoken,” Aragorn murmured, voice rolling and deep in the plunging night. The Uruk-hai had fallen. Unsteady peace now hung in the surrounding woods, tension curdling as that mud in these stinking marshes, but it was just as well, he wagered: it seemed better this than to again flee the enemy. No, fight again the enemy. Tending to the fresh wound by his shoulder, the Ranger faced this woman with her veils and secrets. Guarding her, escorting her... “And I hope they are not so scheming. Indeed, I trust most ardently that you are no lady of deceit.”

chaosveined​:

She offers in words nothing but truth. Aragorn, head bowed, concedes. Her wordless song rings out coltishly, playfully, and as though roused by her melodies alone, a gust whistles through the tavern’s rooftop. Clattering. Rattling. It’s as though she’s gone enchantress!

"Much time, and they would be poor a gift if that were so, though I wager I cannot soon return them even if in my heart I longed for that.” Is that so, grim wanderer?

Perched there by the lantern-light, Aragorn's woes look to soften. “That work they take me toward appears endless, but so, too, would come those wonders they have taken me. I think it not unlike your playing. Work hard though you had, beauty now rests in your very hands. They take me, now, far away. Is that what you wish for yourself?” 

He cannot blame her. The folk are shifty-eyed, and the roads water-logged with that hint of rot. Everywhere, despair lingered.

your muse is sad. it’s the height of spring, and the flowers are in full bloom, honeys sweet in the air. they can’t find any joy in it. but then this ranger, dark and travel-worn and ever plagued with the sense of duty, responsibility, speaks through the dark hollows of their thoughts. they turn and see him. he’s tugging gently at a branch heavy with pink flowers, budding, still, and he muses on how all others can look upon them and see beauty, feel joy in all of the promise it holds. sad is it that it doesn’t know that yet, head craned low and unseeing -- but soon, and it will grow and bloom all the more beautiful with more gift and purpose than it knows. they watch, still, until he finally looks back with those soft, all-seeing eyes, and they realize they had been staring. he doesn’t mind. they take the gravity of his words whether they believe it or not, transparent as it was that it’d been about them, and he bows before taking his leave.

your muse feels just a little bit brighter, and aragorn feels all the lighter for it.

"Beyond this river, those folk that would greet you will not be quick to trust. Too near is that memory of one of your own, lord witcher, and last I recall it, it is most unkind.” So much death, carnage, great, fell evils...! Yes, he should take care, more care as his brothers were ever wont to take. The druid sat by the water. He had with him a long, carven pipe and wisdom, but kindness in his gaze and worry in his voice, too. What had happened? “I would not pass.”