The Chieftain of the Dúnedain

AN:  This is actually a double drabble.

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As Halbarad tamped the leaf down in his pipe, he watched Aragorn.  He was sitting away from the fire, his eyes on the stars.  Elf-raised he wore his cloak fastened loosely and pushed back over his shoulders, not seeming to notice the chill air.  As fair as a tree in the first flush of spring there was yet a gravity in his face that told of the man he would become.  He moved with as much grace and strength as any Elven lord Halbarad had ridden with, and in his eyes burnt the light of the Elves, but sitting here in this camp of men he was at ease.  Some of the men were wary of him, but that would soon pass and the boy would lead them, as had his father and his father before that.  Cupping his hand around the wavering light of the spill he had taken from the fire, Halbarad hid also his smile.  Unfitting it might be to call the Chieftain of the Dúnedain a boy, but when you had cradled him as a fragile baby and swung him laughing through the air when he took his first staggering steps you undoubtedly had the right.