Chapter Text
The arrow ripped through her stomach. Barbs got tangled into her once-pale skin as Susan faced the approaching hoard. The beasts that were not men charged towards her, screaming those disgusting words that she couldn’t understand.
Susan reached for the quiver at her back. Her hand grasped empty air. She was out. This was it. This was how it ended.
Behind her was a cliff that dropped into a shallow river. Before her were a dozen monsters that wanted to eat her for dinner. Susan knew which death she preferred. She shouldered her bow. Her bare feet pounded against the rocks, sending jolts up her bruised legs as she ran. And she ran. And she ran.
Then she jumped.
As she jumped, Susan sent a silent prayer to whatever was out there listening—God, Aslan, she was beyond caring at this point. She prayed that when her neck snapped on the water below, Lucy would be there to hug her. She prayed that Edmund would be there to roll his eyes and Peter would be there to scold her.
Silly Susan, he would say. Didn’t you know there are more important things than growing up?
She’d let him say it. She’d let him say it because she would be so happy to see him again that she wouldn’t care to argue.
As Susan plummeted to the ground below, she prayed in a way that she hadn’t since a lifetime that she had all but forgotten. And she knew, this time, that she was going to die.
.
.
.
She was wrong.
.
.
.
Aragorn watched the woman hit the river with a sickening crunch. There was no way that a human could survive such a great fall, but he wasn’t willing to leave her body in the river to be eaten by wild animals. She deserved a proper burial in the customs of her people. She’d have to settle for Aragorn’s instead.
The orcs didn’t follow, instead turning back to the stronghold that they were protecting––the same stronghold he’d been watching for the last three days. The woman was either unlucky or suicidal, searching for shelter amongst orcs. Aragorn would guess that she hadn’t known what she would find there, but he’d learned better than to make such assumptions. Either way, it had cost the oddly-dressed woman her life.
Swimming into the river, Aragorn gathered her body and dragged the woman to the shore. He didn’t look at her until he was well within the forest, hidden from the orcs. Even in death she was beautiful, tall with raven hair that he was sure had once been immaculately kept. She wore a strange dress made of soft fabric with perfectly symmetrical stitching and beautiful pearl buttons. It was not in any style that Aragorn was familiar with, but it was obvious that she was a wealthy lady––if not from her clothing then from the ornate quiver and bow on her back. Her arm had broken in the impact that killed her, twisted at an odd angle that set sympathy in Aragorn’s chest.
As he watched, the woman took a deep breath. Her eyes fluttered open. Blue like the water he’d just fished her dead body from. He had been so certain that she was dead. How did she survive such a fall?
“I’m not dead, am I?” she asked.
Aragorn shook his head. “No.”
“And I was so certain that it was going to happen.”
She made death sound like an inconvenience. It made the hairs on Aragorn’s arms stand on edge. “Did you want to die?”
“I’m not adverse to the idea,” she said. “Although running from slobbering creatures is not the way that I would like it to happen.”
She struggled to sit up. Aragorn helped her, being extra careful with her broken arm. Pulling his medicine kit out of his pack, he started to bandage it. The woman bit down a scream as he set the bone. “Do you know what those ‘slobbering creatures’ are?”
“Do you?”
“Those are orcs, Lady…”
She snorted. “I’m not a lady. Although, if my sister was to be believed, I was a queen.” She seemed to find the idea humorous. Aragorn didn’t laugh. “It’s Susan. What’s your name?”
For a second, he almost told her. He wasn’t exactly sure why. She was a stranger claiming to be a lost queen. Maybe he felt a sort of kinship with her, this lost ruler who so clearly didn’t belong in the harsh forest. “Strider.”
“What’s your real name?”
Aragorn didn’t answer.
She surveyed him as he finished bandaging her arm by creating a makeshift sling. “You can keep your secrets, but there are other questions that I need answers to.”
“If it is in my capabilities to answer them, then I will,” he promised.
Susan seemed to know that this was an oath that he would keep. “Where am I?”
“You are currently in the mountains of Ered Luin.”
“And where is that?”
“In Middle Earth.”
A sigh left Susan’s lips. She leaned her head against the tree behind her in resignation. “I thought as much.”
The acceptance sparked Aragorn’s curiosity. “And where are you from, my lady?”
“Someplace faraway from here. I don’t think I’ll be able to return.”
She spoke with such certainty that Aragorn believed her. Whatever life she’d had was lost. Now she was a stranger in an unfamiliar land. Pity filled Aragorn's chest. He was all too familiar with the feeling of missing home—even if that was a place that he’d never truly known. He’d been to Gondor. He’d beheld the white city with his own eyes and lived amongst her people. It called to him to protect it. Such a song was not easy to ignore, no matter how much he longed to forsake the cursed crown that was his birthright.
He glanced toward the bow at her side. “Do you know how to use that weapon?”
“Much to my surprise, yes. I seem to have a talent for it.”
“Good. You’ll need it.”
Offering Susan his hand, he pulled her to her feet. They were bare. That would be his first business: outfitting her with proper footwear.
“And why is that?”
Aragorn didn’t provide her with a straightforward answer. Instead, he asked, “What do you know of rangers?”