A birthday request for pre-War Aragorn.

Joining the Company

When the days darkened towards midwinter, and the weather grew foul, The Pony’s common-room was the only place to be. Somewhat bemused, Aragorn found it could even be good, as a mug of Barley’s best appeared, unasked for, at his elbow.

He studied the ring of expectant faces, softened by ale and firelight. “Come on Strider! Give us another!” For once the shouts were friendly, suspicion forgotten in the strange magic of his tales.

Slowly, deliberately he sampled his beer, biding his time. Then, when he judged the moment right, he cast his spell again and a breathless silence reigned.