Dawn came to the West in a fiery hue of orange as the sun's warm rays kissed the snow-capped Misty Mountains in the distance. As the light began to touch the glades and valleys of Eriador, they came alive with the sound of birds and woodland creatures, and the morning mist began to fade from the still air like a thin veil being lifted from the canvas of the world.

But while the rest of the world was just waking up, the Dunedain were already on the hunt. The last remnants of a line slowly fading into memory, their very survival often depended on the success of hunts like these. Two of them silently stalked through the thick underbrush of the valley, crouched low to the ground as they followed the fresh trail of their quarry. Both men wore dark grey cloaks, and black scarves obscured their pale faces. They blended in well to the subdued greens and greys of the valley, moving like ghosts from shadow to shadow.

The taller of the two signaled to the other, his keen silver eyes a shade lighter than the sea-grey eyes of his companion, who was somewhat shorter and slighter-of-build. They both crept forward slowly, making no noise to betray their passing. The smaller ranger nocked a sharp, grey-feathered arrow onto the string of his bow as he saw their prey standing tall in the small glade that lie before them. Their target, a large male deer, was still unaware of their presence. It chewed on a mouthful of grass lazily, its white-tipped tail flicking back and forth.

Leaning close to his companion, the taller ranger barely breathed out his next command. "Take the shot when you're ready."

Giving a nearly imperceptible nod, the smaller ranger narrowed his eyes as he drew back the string of his longbow, the intricately carved hickory barely creaking as it bent back.

The deer suddenly stood stock still, raising its head and looking to and fro. Whether its suspicion was aroused by the sound or some unfamiliar scent, it didn't matter. It was a second too late.

The arrow flew from the string with a sharp whir as it sped ahead. The ranger's aim had been true. The buck leaped into the air, recoiling in surprise as the arrow lodged itself into the soft flesh behind its shoulder. It only took a second longer before the life left him, and he collapsed to the ground.

"Good aim!" The taller ranger exclaimed, clapping his companion on the back in congratulations as they hurried over to examine the deer. By the time they reached it, a pool of blood had already gathered around the wound, its bright crimson color a testament to the skill of the shot. For such a large deer, it had led them on quite a chase; They had tracked it for nearly two full days before they had finally found it in this very clearing.

"Look at the size of it," The smaller breathed, his tone one of astonishment. "It'll feed the entire camp for a week!" He reached for his scarf and lowered it, revealing a young, rugged face that would be considered handsome were it not for the dark circles under his eyes, one of which was obscured by long auburn hair that matched the short, unshaven beard that framed his smile.

"That might be a slight exaggeration," the other laughed as he mirrored his companion's action. His hair, much darker and slightly more greasy, came to his shoulders and was flecked with grey in spots.

"At least admit that it's one of the larger deer you've seen, Aragorn," the younger ranger replied with a smirk as he poked at it with his longbow.

Aragorn nodded, looking the deer over appraisingly. "It's indeed larger than Eldahir's, if that's what concerns you." The last words were said with a knowing glance at his companion.

"I knew it," the younger replied smugly. Eldahir was his best friend, his senior by only a year. Every Dunedan completed certain trials before they were given the title of "ranger", and one of these was to track and hunt a deer without help from anyone. The younger rangers often compared their kills, telling stories about them for years to come.

"Remember, Gerithor," Aragorn began, his tone admonishing. "One of the greatest traits a man can have is humility. Pride was the downfall of our ancestors, and as I've said many times before we should learn from their mistakes."

Gerithor nodded, his expression becoming more serious. "You're right, forgive me."

Aragorn rested a comforting hand on his shoulder. "There's nothing to forgive, gwanur. Time is the greatest of teachers. Speaking of teaching," he smiled faintly. "Gwanur is your word of the day. It means kinsman."

Gerithor rolled the word around in his head for a moment, processing its meaning. Gwanur. His cousin had been teaching him Elvish slowly over the past several years, though his grasp of it was still far from perfect. He struggled with rolling his letters properly.

"Well then, we should hurry gwanur," he said, his pronunciation much rougher than that of his cousin. They would have to move quickly; the mere scent of blood would likely attract predators, and by then the rangers hoped to be far away with their prize.

Aragorn gave a curt nod and hurried into the underbrush, while Gerithor attempted to lift the deer onto his shoulders. After several unsuccessful efforts, he let out a sigh of frustration, lowering the deer back to the ground.

"It's too heavy, I-" He stopped midsentence as Aragorn returned with a long oak branch.

"Sometimes the simplest solution isn't the best one," Aragorn said wryly, producing a bundle of thick corded rope from his pack and tying the deer's legs to the branch. Gerithor watched, somewhat annoyed with himself for not thinking of the idea himself.

They both lifted the ends of the rope when Aragorn was finished, lifting the deer into the air together. It was still heavy, but this was easier than the alternative of carrying it over their shoulders.

"The camp is about two days west on foot," Aragorn said, calculating the journey in his mind. Gerithor nodded in agreement as he surveyed his surroundings. They had picked up the deer's tracks along the banks of the Hoarwell, which ran from the east to west, originating from a small stream in the Misty Mountains. They had chased it north until they were nearly to the Ettenmoors, which were infested with Wargs and other foul beasts. From where he stood Gerithor could see the misty, gloomy landscape of those dark hills in the distance. He was glad the deer had not led them there, for it was a dismal, cheerless place that few people travelled through.

After taking stock of their surroundings, the two Rangers began to walk down a steady slope towards their camp. The Dunedain had two camps, one on the shores of Lake Evendim that they called Annuminas, and another smaller camp near the ruins of the ancient city of Fornost. They called this camp Esteldin, and this was where they were headed now.

The two Rangers were still able to move almost soundlessly, despite the heavy weight they carried. They journeyed all day across the wooded lands of the North, and the trip went without incident.

Gerithor couldn't help but notice the stunning beauty of the forests through which they traveled. Birds sang their songs happily in the trees above, and the soft hum of bees and other insects filled the meadows and vales. Colorful flowers bloomed and brightened the rugged wilderness with a variety of hues. On occasion, they would interrupt a deer or elk grazing, and it would bound away into the seemingly endless maze of trees.

Gerithor loved the wild lands of the north, and did not take for granted their rugged beauty even after living there for the entire nineteen years he had been alive. He marveled anew every time he ventured out from the encampment, and enjoyed exploring new lands and seeing what wonders awaited him. He often dreamed of traveling over the Misty Mountains, into the green vales of the Anduin and even further into the Woodland Realm of the Elvenking, Mirkwood.

Even now as they journeyed the young Ranger was taking in everything there was to see or hear. This kept him occupied, whereas Aragorn, who had lived in the wilderness for much longer than his younger cousin, tuned out the sights and sounds and instead focused on the task at hand, vigilant to every sound and every stirring in the shadows of the forests.

By the time they had almost reached the Weather Hills the sun was setting behind them, casting its last orange rays of light over the tree-covered landscape. The sound of a small stream could be heard babbling over the rocks nearby, and the two Rangers decided to set up camp for the night here.

"After two days of not sleeping, I could definitely use some rest," Gerithor said, stretching his arms and letting out a small yawn.

"I will keep watch then," Aragorn said. Gerithor glanced at him and noticed that his cousin looked unusually tired.

"Never mind. I'm unsure I'll be able to sleep after the thrill of our hunt. I can sleep when we reach Esteldin." Gerithor said as he smiled, trying to hide the weariness that he was also beginning to feel.

"Very well," Aragorn said. He gave Gerithor a look that told him that he could see through his excuse, but that he was too tired to argue. After setting up a small campfire and eating some waybread, Aragorn immediately fell asleep. Gerithor sat upon a nearby boulder, stoking the fire. It is going to be a long night, Gerithor thought to himself as he shifted uncomfortably on the rock. He propped his head on one of his hands and stared into the fire. The flames mesmerized him, dancing to and fro, making shapes that Gerithor imagined as elves, walking through the twilit forest. His eyelids began to shut and he fought to keep them open. But he became hypnotized by the movement of the flames, and against his will he soon drifted to sleep...