There he is, I hear them whisper, thinking I cannot hear. That Ranger. That Strider.
An apt enough description. Many long leagues these legs have traveled, many miles remain before I reach journey’s end. Very well then, Strider will I be, in this place.
The inn is warm, the beer excellent. But I sit alone. They watch me, eyes suspicious, voices wary.
Would they honor me, if they knew my heritage, if they realized that daily I risk death for their sakes? Would it matter?
Telcontar will I surname my sons. That we may remember the purpose and the price.