Night was falling when Aragorn made camp. The waning Moon had set some hours earlier, and he could not hope to follow the trail without its aid. He sighed heavily. Alas, Hunthor, he thought, what has chanced? Why did you go this way?
Unslinging his pack, he retrieved some waybread and a piece of dried meat. It would not do to light a fire, nor had he much that it might help to cook. He ate, wrapped himself in a blanket, and reclined against a tree. The wind sighed in its branches and lulled him to sleep.
Aragorn woke with a start, his heart pounding and the echo of a screech in his ears. The skies had clouded over, the wind had ceased, and a fine, steady snow now fell, whispering in the trees and tingling against his face. Quickly he stowed his blanket and shouldered his pack. A strange fear was upon him; his hands were cold and his brow damp, and a shiver crept over his head and down his neck. He strained to hear whether something approached, casting his attention methodically about, but he heard only the snow's faint susurration. His fear, though, did not decrease, but rather grew. Something was hunting him, something he had not encountered before.
He breathed deeply in an attempt to calm himself, and considered what to do.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.