"All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost."
The forest does not recognise kings, and it does not bow to crowns. But there are those it does recognise — quietly, without ceremony. By their footfall. By their gaze. By the way they hold a sword — not as a weapon, but as a promise.
This forest sprite appeared one day at the edge of the thicket — small, in a dark cloak with a wide hood pulled down over his antlers. From beneath the hood: eyes. Large, round, serious. The kind you see in someone who has lived several lives and still hasn't stopped being surprised by the world. In his paws — a sword. Not a toy. A real one, small, cast from moonlight and long patience.
He does not say his name. There is little need — he has many names. Strider. Ranger. Dúnadan. King Elessar. But here, in the forest, among the moss and roots — just the one who walks. Always walks.
The forest creatures kept their distance at first — too quiet, too watchful, too unlike the rest. Then they grew used to him. And began to notice: where this small ranger had passed, the path was a little safer. A broken branch — straightened. A tangled trail — cleared. A dark corner of the wood — a little brighter.
He asks for no reward. He rarely speaks at all. Only sometimes, when he thinks no one is listening, he murmurs something old — in a language that no one else quite remembers anymore. It sounds like wind through tall grass and the rush of a distant river at the same time.
They say he was once seen alongside a sprite in a green cloak with a golden ring on a chain. They walked together — the small one and the even smaller one, side by side. Where to — no one knows. But from the way they both looked ahead, it was clearly somewhere far. And both of them, it seemed, were quite ready for that.
The old flame will rekindle. The blade will return. And this small ranger with the enormous eyes — will always be there when he is needed.