𝐑𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐌𝐂𝐔 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐬:
Aragorn is a skilled ranger of the Dunédain and heir to the throne of Gondor, and also goes by the name Estel and Strider. He keeps his royal heritage a secret. Very few know. He is the adopted son of Lord Elrond, ruler of the elven kingdom Rivendell. His biological father, Arathorn, was killed when he was two.

•∆•∆•∆•∆•∆•

"𝙎𝙤 𝙗𝙖𝙙, 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙩'𝙨 𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙫𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙨𝙖𝙮 𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙢𝙚."

•∆•∆•∆•∆•∆•

He was a man referred to by many names—Strider, Thorongil, Estel, and even Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Isilduir's heir—but the man with a fear-filled heart was never one of them. Tavern tales couldn't hold a light to the fiends he had faced in his elongated life. Many a time had he been told to be frightened by the man he was searching for, and many a time had he taken the warning backhandedly.

It wasn't arrogance that kept him from showing a shard of concern. The ranger merely had seen it all; not much remained in Middle Earth that could unsettle Aragorn. In addition, he couldn't afford the expense of fear. In his line of work, you had to either get on with the task or get out.

Despite this, he wasn't ignorant enough to not pay the man's abilities respect. Extreme caution radiated from Aragorn as he strode through the woods; footsteps silent as he avoided dead foliage and his breaths muted. One hand remained perched upon the waistline of his trousers, which concealed his trustworthy dagger. The other was freely hanging by his side, awaiting its next opportunity to probe through topsoil or trail along the bark of trees in search of tracks. 

Bewilderment riddles his thoughts with each passing day. For weeks now, the skilled ranger had been restlessly scouring the forest and mountains for any signs of the man or the horse he had been claimed to ride upon, but he consistently came up empty-handed. Prior to now, Aragorn had humbly viewed himself as someone who could track anything, but his perfect record had been shattered. The ground spoke of no hoof prints, footprints, hair, blood, waste, or disturbances in the leaves that littered the floor. The surrounding wildlife went about their normal doings, never once hinting that there was someone prowling the forest besides Aragorn.

It wasn't until the twenty-fifth consecutive sunrise that the ranger had witnessed from the grounds of the forest that something unordinary occurred. A slight buzz reverberated throughout Aragorn's skull, but the rest of his senses failed him in discovering what the warning was about. The crisp, fragrant scent of the woods remained unchanged. His ears couldn't decipher anything beyond the chirping of birds or the trickling of water from a stream a few leagues away. The ground laid still. For as far as his trained eye could see, nothing was out of place in the environment.

"You do not belong."

Aragorn was, without a doubt, unsettled by the sudden deep voice. The words were spoken in a raspy, menacing growl, and were laced with enough venom to kill a human if tangible. The ranger turned on his heel to face the source of the voice. His vision was met with a towering statue of a cloaked figure mounted upon a beautiful, well-structured steed. Shadows darker than a cold night deep within a mountain were coiled around the dyad, which heightened their sinister edge.

"You do not belong!" The man repeated, his voice retaining the gravelly tone. This time, though, he wordlessly urged his mount closer to Aragorn. With the knowledge that he could be effortlessly ground into the soil by the imposingly tall horse, Aragorn made no hesitation in backtracking carefully. The features of the rider somehow became even more livid. "The poison of men shall be wiped from these lands. Death is upon you!"

"I have only come to talk," Aragorn said in a quiet voice, all the while tightening the grasp he had on the hilt of his sword. 

"You shall speak from the grave."

After hearing these words, it was certain to the ranger that he could not bring reason into the views of the man. A sharp ring echoed through the forest air upon the unsheathing of Aragorn's blade, which he valiantly readied before him. Even though he didn't have intentions of killing his opponent, Aragorn was more than willing to defend his own life.

The inhumanely rapid movements of the cloaked man were lost in a single blink from Aragorn. A long, black bow with intricate carvings was unveiled from seemingly middair, which the man used to fire an arrow right into the palm of the ranger.

Aragorn screamed in anguish and felt his hold on his sword fail. The weapon clattered to the ground in a single movement. This led to Aragorn making a move to retrieve it with his non-dominant arm, but that too received a swift arrow lodged in his flesh. This time, his cries were contained, but the intense deal of pain inflicted upon the ranger was evident in his face. Upon realizing that he was physically incapable of defending himself, Aragorn turned to his sole option remaining: flight.

He had managed no more than three steps of backtracking before a root seemingly materialized from air. The heel of his boot became ensnared on the vegetation, causing Aragorn to awkwardly slam his frame into the compact forest soil. His groans of discomfort were silenced as the horse's front legs left the ground inches from his face. The creature paused—limbs hanging in midair—as its rider's cloak billowed in the wind and released shadows from its depths. The hooves swiftly made their descent, aimed directly at Aragorn's head, but the ranger managed to roll to the side and avoid death by the skin on his teeth.

Through grunts of agony, Aragorn pushed his body off the ground and continued with his sprint. Quick glances at the terrain that laid behind him revealed that somehow the shadow-like ghosts were gaining on him. The horse and its mount, however, had mysteriously disappeared from his sight. Aragorn spared no time in questioning the vanishing figure and continued running.

Even if the ranger was frantic, he wasn't foolish enough to run blindly. His eyes were trained onto the features of the forest around him. A leaning tree, a uniquely-sculpted stone, and a certain pattern of moss were only a few examples of what Aragorn had memorized as trail markers. He thought back to his previous weeks of traveling and sought out a path that would quickly bring him to his horse. Perhaps, once he reached the meadow on the southeastern border of the forest, he could outrun the spirits on horseback.

In his concentration, a shadow slipped past Aragorn's sight and snapped at his leg. The ranger hadn't even had a chance to interpret what was happening before the black tendrils began to burn through the fabric of his trousers and scorch his flesh. Aragorn didn't try to curb his yells this time. There was no point—his heavy footsteps undoubtedly gave away his position already. By the time the shadow finally faded into the air, a deep section of his thigh was badly singed. For as far as he could see, hideous black veins branched away from the wound and up his leg.

One had to give it to him: the ranger had truly attempted to continue running. Despite the pain radiating from the burn and arrows, he knew his only chance at survival was to keep sprinting. Though, a mere five strides later, his injured leg was convulsing uncontrollably. Tremors racked his muscles, which were undoubtedly being damaged by the poison coursing in his veins. Then, without warning, it went limp and caused Aragorn to fall to the ground.

He winced, knowing that his trajectory would cause him to land directly on his face. Instead, moments before the impact the ground caved out underneath him and gave way to a dark tunnel. The hard, rocky soil eventually collided awkwardly with his shoulder, causing a hiss to escape his lips. From there, his battered body proceeded to tumble throughout the pitch-black tunnel, constantly being forced down unpredictable turns and drops.

Voices inside his head were consistently growing louder. By now, his own thoughts couldn't even be heard over the incandescent shrieks bouncing back and forth in his skull. He wished that his torture could stop—that the voices would seize from deafening his senses, that the poison traveling through his veins would end its burning, that the blood would stop gushing from his arrow wounds—but of course, that was too much to ask for.

Sunlight finally flooded his vision as the tunnel abruptly spit him out onto a hillside. Hope filled his eyes and he quickly looked up to study his surroundings, but it was met with disappointment when he realized he was still in the confines of the forest.

His gaze suddenly caught on something.

The man and his mount were standing before him, a bow deftly drawn and aimed right at the ranger's heart. Poison darker than a starless night dripped from the arrowhead, spattering the ground by Aragorn's feet. The unfortunate vegetation that came in contact with the venomous substance immediately shriveled up and faded to dust. Even though he couldn't physically see the man's eyes, Aragorn could tell they had locked stares.

Well, if he was looking on the optimistic side, he could at least be thankful that the voices in his head had halted.

"The game's over, mortal," the cloaked figure snarled, simultaneously pulling the string on his bow back slightly further. Aragorn knew better than to try and move. Judging by the man's previous shots, it would be impossible to evade him.

There was a certain look in Aragorn's eye, one that he previously believed was impossible to exist, as he looked up at the man who was undoubtedly about to claim his life. The all-too-familiar shadows were pouring out of his cloak again, trickling down the sides of his horse like oozing honey. They almost looked delighted; overjoyed to prey on their victim again.

Just as the man was about to release his grip on the arrow, a snap resonated throughout the forest air. Both turned their heads to see what had made the sound, only to find a shimmering chestnut horse standing amongst foliage near to them—Aragorn's horse.

Thanking his lucky stars and the Valor, Aragorn used this opportunity to leap up from the ground and escape the distracted man. In a way he cared not to investigate, his leg had regained some of its strength, so he raced as fast as he had ever moved in his life before towards his steed. The horse, as intelligent as it was, had caught on to Aragorn's urgency and spun around, allowing for the ranger to easily grasp strands of its mane and pull his way up onto the horse without stopping. In the blink of an eye, they were racing towards the border of the forest, which was only strides away.

If someone asked, Aragorn would never be able to explain why he hadn't gotten shot down. There was nothing obstructing the man's aim. He could've easily taken the ranger down without batting an eye.

Sometimes, there are just things in life that have to remain inexplicable.

Relief washed across Aragorn's entire frame as his horse stepped into the clearing. The ranger was filled with so much adrenaline and anxiety that his mind couldn't even comprehend what had occurred. In his numb state, he barely noticed the arrows in his hand and arm disintegrate into black dust, harmlessly fluttering to the ground. His trousers remained in their torn, burned state, but the black venom in his veins retreated to the burn, which altogether faded from existence.

All that endured was a chanting voice in his head, which was easily recognized as the man's gravelly tone.

"These chains are breaking. Can Middle Earth face my freedom?"

•∆•∆•∆•∆•∆•

Even though the heir of Isildur had deemed it impossible, there was still a man remaining that could drive fear deep into his own heart. It was the man who guarded something far into the reaches of the Blue Mountains forests, which he wasn't hesitant to practice unorthodox methods in doing so. It was the man that had tales whispered about him, all of which Aragorn had experienced as entirely accurate. It was the man they called...

the Outrider.