They walk on half-forgotten paths and shaded lanes.  They walk the Greenway and the cobbled roads of drowsing towns.  They walk the boundaries and the fences; they pace the edges of the wild lands and the wastelands where dark things creep and skulk.  In dark of night and grey of dawn and in  all the glory light of flaming sunset Rangers walk the land and in their unwearying tread claim it once more for the simple people they ward.

He walked through the autumn afternoon, beneath the slowly fading sun, his tread tireless and steady.  Strider, they called him, half in derision and half in a kind of affection, and now, as the farmer looked up from chopping weeds with his hoe or the goodwife caught sight of him from behind her line of blowing whites, Strider was what they saw.  A tall man he was, and lean, dressed in a long green cloak that blended with the shades of the trees and hills around him, in the way Elven weave will.  In the warmth of the afternoon the cloak was pushed back to show boots of soft leather and worn earth-coloured clothing that for all their wear spoke of finer make than anything to be had in the local towns or farmers’ markets.  The hood was back too - revealing a stern face, finely drawn. 

They know where the wild cherries grow and where green clumps of holly give shelter and shade.  They know where the ancient yew holds still the spirit of the land and where carved rocks hold memories of the past.  They know which farmhouses can be counted upon for food and which will give only hostile glances and suspicion.  Through winter’s cold and the hazy heat of summer the Rangers of the North find shelter and comfort from the land, their land.

Aragorn drew his cloak closer around him and added another dry twig to the almost smokeless fire he had built beneath the sheltering holly bushes.  From a pocket, he took out salted slices of rabbit, killed and cured back in summer’s last blown days, and laid them to warm by the fire.  It was bitterly cold and, in the green above him, holly berries glowed like red jewels.  By morning, he knew frost would rime his blankets.  It was the dark end of the year when fields lay fallow and folks stayed snug in their houses, when ice crisped leaves and slowly crept in fingers across ponds, when few walked the roads except for Rangers and those they sought. 

They sit by fires in wayside inns and in their hidden camps.  They watch the embers fall and see cities terrible in their beauty crumble into darkness.  In the flicker of golden flame and in the burning red of the coals, the Dúnedain see both the glory of the past where their kingdom lived and died and a future where gold and flame will mark Middle-earth.

It was dusk when he reached the inn, a true friendly dusk in this town.  Through the many-paned window, he saw a fire on a broad hearth and around it clustered farmers, shopkeepers and smiths.  They nursed pints of good barley beer or sucked pipes long polished to a mahogany hue.  The soft rumble of voices reached him through the window.  Wearily, Aragorn pushed through the door, shrugged off the dust-begrimed and travel-worn pack he carried and made for a bench across from the fire.  He stretched out his booted legs as close to the crumbling red bricks of the hearth as he could and let the warmth slowly begin to seep into his bones.  One of the greybeards seated by the mantel tumbled two more logs onto the fire and blue and gold flames flared up.  Watching the flames grow higher and the shifting, glowing coals, Aragorn dreamed of other flames and a king who turned from them for the sake of power.

They listen to whispers and half-shamed stories, to the unquiet night and the voices that reach from the past.  They hear and understand, some say, the language of the beasts of field, forest and sky.  They hear the soft call of owls and the merry sound of crickets… and the foul voice of unnamed beasts.  They listen for tidings in the Wind of the North.  Soft whisper of breezes and faint murmur of streams are a Ranger’s lullaby as he sleeps in shady coppice or moon-silvered field.

The voice stumbled on, worn and a-feared beyond reason or rest.  The Ranger listened, head bowed.  Finally, he took the hands that ceaselessly picked and worried at the blankets and held them still.  He spoke soothing words until the man lay asleep.  Strider rose, face stern.  He nodded at the woman who stood at the foot of the bed.

“I have done what I can – and you did rightly to fetch me.  I know his terror as few can.  I will leave you some leaves of athelas, a healing plant, and you must brew it into a posset with valerian, purslane and lavender.  Have him drink it often – and get him out into the sunshine.  Let him soak the sun into his bones.  He must not become a creature of the shadows.”

Moving to the doorway, Strider stood for a long moment looking out at the woods that encircled the farm.

“There is malice and evil walking abroad in these ancient hills.”

They face the Shadows and the dread foes that lurk in its dark protection.  They dare sunless woods and houseless hills; they venture where fear and despair wait.  They walk the darkened ways and hold back the tainted wastelands.  Boldly, bravely do they risk all to keep others safe with bright blade, stout heart and ancient wisdom.  So do the Faithful of Númenor keep faith.

Aragorn stepped forward into the clearing, blade in one hand and small candle flame in the other.  Around him pressed grey shadows, insubstantial in the twilight but deepening and thickening beneath the trees.  A dragging, broken breathing filled the clearing.  Aragorn held the flame higher and the shadows flickered and shifted.

“Go now,” he said.  “Return to where you belong… these woods and dales belong not to you.  Your day is done – go now.”

The shadows clustered thicker at the darkened edges of the clearing and above them tree branches creaked uneasily.  As Aragorn waited, grey eyes steady and farseeing, shapes began to form… tall men in ragged velvets and silks with jewels bedecking skeletal heads and arms and with rusted swords by their sides.  The wood grew darker and cold curled around the watcher.  Still Aragorn waited, hand cupped around the bright flame, sheltering it from the sudden breezes.  The smell of decay filled the clearing.  One of the shadow men stepped forward, one with crown and jewelled sword and gaping empty eye sockets.  He held out a hand with shreds of flesh still sticking to bone.  Aragorn met his eyeless gaze.

“Go now,” he said gently.  “Lead your people to rest… your day is done.”

The flame flickered and flared and its light danced along the blade of the broken sword Aragorn held forward.  The lords and warriors swayed in the breeze, rags fluttering.  The king lowered his hand and turned away from Aragorn.  A soft sigh soughed through the spectral army and they faded back into wisps and tatters of mist as the flame burnt brighter.  When the last had vanished, Aragorn blew out the flame and stood head bowed.  Softly he sang,

“From out of the faraway West they came,

A white gull to follow, a tall ship to sail,

A land to rule over, a long life to live,

But they fell to the Dark for power and greed.

Go now, my brothers, go now in peace.

Go now, my brothers, go now to death.

Go now to death.