The night spread over the Old Forest like a dark veil, hiding the twisted paths and secret clearings. This vast wood lay east of the Shire, just beyond the peaceful lands of the Hobbits. Protected by the Hedge, a plant barrier erected by the Shire's inhabitants to prevent the forest from advancing, this place had always been feared by Hobbits, for it seemed to possess a will of its own, as if the trees themselves whispered and moved.
The trees, massive and gnarled, stood like ancient sentinels, their branches stretched like claws, casting distorted shadows under the veiled starlight. Their roots twisted into the ground, forming mounds and treacherous crevices, like so many hidden traps. A light breeze stirred the leaves, producing unsettling murmurs, a continuous whisper that seemed to convey forgotten secrets.
Aragorn, patrolling the eastern borders of the Shire, moved cautiously, his senses on alert. The forest lay along one of the oldest passage routes, a place of transition between the Hobbits' lands and the wilder regions of Eriador. He knew every corner of this capricious forest, a familiar terrain but never a safe one. Despite his many patrols, he knew this place was unpredictable, its paths ever-changing and its shadows deceptive.
Near a hollow of earth, sheltered by a circle of moss-covered rocks, Aragorn had lit a discreet fire, concealed under thick branches to avoid drawing attention. The fire, barely visible, cast a flickering glow, faintly illuminating his face. Seated, he pulled a piece of black bread from his pouch, broke it, and chewed slowly, his eyes scanning the shifting darkness beyond the flames. He listened intently, his keen hearing trying to distinguish the familiar sounds from the more ominous noises.
He wore a green tunic, worn from travel, blending into the shadow of the trees. A leather vest protected him, its aged appearance betraying years of travel. His brown cloak draped over his shoulders, hiding his silhouette, making him nearly invisible in the gloom. At his belt hung a long sword, its steel barely catching the starlight filtering through the foliage. By reflex, his hand brushed the hilt, a familiar gesture as his eyes watched the darkness, alert to the slightest movement.
The Old Forest was a place filled with ancient stories, and even Aragorn, with all his experience as a ranger, knew it was best to remain vigilant. The shadows seemed to stretch as the night wore on, and the whisper of the wind through the leaves grew more insistent, like a warning that the forest would not reveal its secrets without a price.
As he prepared for an uneventful night, a heavy silence suddenly settled over the woods. Aragorn furrowed his brow, listening closely. Then, a crack—subtle but distinct. His fingers instinctively rested on the hilt of his sword. He was not alone.
Bandits emerged from the shadows, men of varying ages, most of them young, their faces marked by the harshness of life in the wild. Their tattered clothing betrayed their poverty, but their movements were precise, their actions coordinated. They had taken the time to encircle him, to study his habits. Their weapons—rusty swords, staffs, and a few hidden daggers—were poorly maintained, but their attacks were swift and synchronized, revealing a cunning skill.
Aragorn stood, his blade flashing from its scabbard with a sharp gleam. He parried the first blow, his sword dancing in his hand with practiced skill. But the attacks kept coming, fierce and relentless. A second assault, quicker, forced him to dodge with a sharp movement, but the bandits, far from being amateurs, used the forest to their advantage, slipping through the shadows to strike from where he least expected.
"Almost got him!" murmured a young bandit, his eyes fixed on Aragorn as he lunged forward. "Gred, cover me!"
"I'm here," a rough voice replied from his left. Gred slipped into the shadow, dagger poised to strike, while another emerged behind Aragorn, attempting to take advantage of the opening.
Aragorn pivoted just in time, narrowly avoiding the blade aimed at his side. His breath quickened as he realized he was being overwhelmed. The attacks were relentless, his opponents appearing from all sides, their eyes gleaming with greed.
"Faren, move it!" called a voice from the rear. "We've got him!"
Faren, younger and less experienced, hesitated for a moment before lunging forward, attempting a low strike. Aragorn deflected the attack, but already another, a bearded man, brandished a staff.
"Now's the time!" growled the bearded one, striking Aragorn with a force that made him stagger.
"Let's finish this quickly," added another, his tone urgent. "His blade is worth more than our miserable lives!"
The bandits closed in, surrounding him from all sides. It was a desperate hunt, and Aragorn sensed that they were willing to risk everything for a chance to defeat him. Every blow he parried brought him closer to exhaustion, and he knew that the slightest misstep would leave him at their mercy.
Pinned against a tree trunk, he fought back, but each movement edged him closer to defeat. His breath grew short, his grip slipping on the hilt of his sword as he desperately sought an escape. He had underestimated their numbers and their cunning, and now he found himself trapped. A blow struck his shoulder, then another, causing him to falter, his reflexes slowed by the imbalance.
At that moment, a shadow slipped between the trees, quick and silent. A blade flashed briefly under the moonlight, and the man with the dagger fell, a look of surprise on his face. Before the others could react, a second bandit collapsed, an arrow embedded in his neck.