#oooooohh i love this
an excerpt from my arthur pendragon as a dúnadan fic because i actually really like thinking about my silly little rangers
Arthur is restless.
When winter thaws and the mornings dawn cold but clear, the sunlight pouring through dead branches in pale shafts of gold, he begins to wander. He has no aim, no destination. He merely lets his feet tread the well-worn paths through the wild and breathes in the cruel air.
The earth, vast and untouched in its state of desolation, sprawls out before him in a mocking display of how small and powerless he is. Every tree, every stone, every weed and sickly blade of grass is a witness to his failure to protect his people. To lead them with honour and dignity. And every ruin left from back when the Northern Kingdom still stood, firm and proud, is the embodiment of his shame.
Once a strong, noble people, and now the Dúnedain are lost. Wildflowers and weeds in the forsaken dirt, unwanted and unlooked for, trudging resolutely along the margins of history. Unwilling to forget; already forgotten.
Arthur begins to wander, and something – someone – wanders with him.
