Waybread
Aragorn had survived off of many different types of waybread over his years in the wild.
When he had first departed from Rivendell as a young man, he had nibbled on Lembas crafted by the elves themselves, and it had sustained him like no other, each small bite melting in his mouth.
When he had traveled in the lands around the deserted city of Dale, he had nearly broken his teeth over cram bread, feeling the dry yet sustaining wafers sitting like stones in his stomach all day.
When he had left that area, traveling through the area inhabited by the Beornings, he had found himself with clumps of sticky crumbs stuck in his light facial hair from their honey-cakes.
He had lived off of many different types of waybread over the years, too many to count, but now he sustained himself with something different.
Legolas had glanced at him strangely when he refused his portion of Lembas that morning, Aragorn, the man who never refused a bite to eat.
"Are you feeling alright, mellon nin?" the elf had asked him worriedly, brows furrowed, eyes searching him, looking for an answer.
Aragorn had just smiled dreamily in reply, fingering the pendant that hung about his throat before mumbling, "I am fully sustained, mellon nin, worry not for my sake."
A faint smile of understanding had passed over Legolas' face as he put an arm around his old friend's shoulder.
"I see you have found a new sort of waybread."