Dusk

Dusk is a pleasant time for most, as they retire homewards to sit comfortably in their favourite armchair, warming their feet by the fire. Outside the wind may howl like a pack of Wargs, but safe inside your home, maybe with a mug of ale (or several, depending on your desire or need for the drink) and a pipe full of Old Toby, there is nothing to endanger you, save for a large dinner or drinking one too many down at the Prancing Pony.

He desired none of these comforts as he sat alone at the top of the hill, with pipe in one hand and the other on the hilt of his sword. Though he did not desire pipe-weed at the present moment, he had lit his pipe in order to dull the sense of foreboding he was feeling. At every tiny sound echoing about the deserted wilderness around him, his grip tightened on his sword until his keen ears could discern the nature of the cries lower down in the valley. Nearby the golden embers of a dying fire glowed dully as they faded away into the dark, much like the daylight had begun to fade into dusk.

As dusk blurs into night and the noises increase in volume and appear to come closer, the lone man shifts his weight in the damp grass, too uneasy to sleep; yet too tired to continue on his journey. One glance towards the dying fire is enough for him to throw back the blanket around his shoulders; he has no need for warmth and comfort – he is a Ranger.
The chief of the Dúnedain had spent weeks chasing after the creature Gollum, and had only recently made a discovery of recent tracks, leading towards the Dead Marshes. With any luck, he might overtake the creature in the following morning. It was a pity he had no horse, otherwise he would have captured the creature many days ago. Although his journey took him too close to Mordor for his own comfort, he must capture the creature before the enemy. Perhaps Gandalf would be able to make some sense of the gibberish the ‘animal’ spoke, but in any case, it would not do for Sauron to discover the information he needed to bring about the ending of Middle Earth.

Upon his finger, glinting in the remaining light of the day, was a silver ring in the form of two serpents curled about an emerald gem. Each snake was devouring the others tail, creating a never ending circle of snake. The ring had been restored to him once he had come of age, but some things were yet to be returned. The elven king, who had raised him from a young child, had told him that he must come of the right to possess the Sceptre of Annúminas. This angered him at first, but now he realised that the man he called his father had been right. He must prove himself in battle and show that he was worthy of becoming a king before such treasures became his.

As he lay back in the damp grass, his thoughts flew to all that he had encountered in his life, longer compared to most, but insignificant compared to that of the elves he had grown up with. He thought of his adopted brothers Elladan and Elrohir, tall and strong, with long flowing hair. He thought of that day he had been visiting the golden wood of Lothlorien and stumbled across a beautiful meadow and the elven girl who had been in there. He thought of her beauty and how she had pledged to live a mortal life in order to be with him always. His lips opened slightly, parting as he silently spoke the name that followed him wherever he went, bringing with it the memory of the woman he loved. Arwen.