Hands for Hearts

"Where'll you go next?" The child's eyes were wide with anticipation as she looked up into the solemn Ranger's face.
"Caradhras," he said, bending down to scoop her skywards. The little girl perched eagerly at his level. "There." He pointed towards the distant Misty Mountains. Even on this clear day, the tops were shrouded in a mist of falling snow. "It's a cold place, but an important passage," he explained. His voice was low, almost rumbling.
"Is it far?" Imadhel inquired.
"Very much so."
"Do you have friends?"
"Not this time."
"Am I your friend?"
He laughed at that.
"Do you see the snow up top?" he asked, brushing aside her question. "It's always winter there, full of ice and snow. There are spikes thick as trees and drifts taller than you or I."
"You're tall," Imadhel remarked. "Won'en you freeze?"
The Ranger sighed.
"Get down now." He set the child gently on the road. "Go home, Imadhel," he dismissed her kindly. "Your mother is looking for you."
The little girl watched as the Ranger limped slowly down the path.

Weeks later, few of the townspeople appeared to fare well the Ranger. He gathered his pack and stumped along the muddy street, not one to be perturbed by an all so common experience. He curtly saluted those he still owed thanks. He was, for the most part, ignored.
"Wait!" shrieked the girl, bursting through an open door.
The Ranger stopped, the wind teasing crumpled leaves around his boots.
"What is it, little one?"
"Here," she said proudly, thrusting a lump of wool into his hands. "I made it." The man tugged apart the clumsy ball. "By myself," she specified.
Two malformed gloves lay within his palm. Uneven holes left space for his thumbs, and short loops of braided yarn divided space for each finger. An honest smile crept across his face, brightening his features for the first time in days.
"They are perfect," he decreed, slipping into each. Thus gloved, he rested one hand upon her head.
"Nâ i onnad, mellonamin."

And so Aragorn journeyed onward.

Notes: The translation would be "This is the beginning, my friend." I pieced it together as best I could. As for Imadhel, she's about six in my mind. While darning socks could be an expected chore for her, knitting something entirely new could be a fiasco. And yes, I am fully aware that Aragorn would be going by the name Thorongil at this time. Aragorn, however, remains his identity: his name is not ever spoken here. As for what he's doing in the village, this is where reading comprehension comes in: he was injured and waiting until he was fit enough to head for Caradhras. Oh, and should anyone feel the need to harp that I'm "claiming to be Tolkien" by not putting a disclaimer up top... I do not own Lord of the Rings.