Warnings: ‘downtrodden’ females, and… fluffiness

Characters: Aragorn, a stranger maiden, Barliman

Story Notes:

This story is an event told from three perspectives – Barliman, Aragorn, and the maiden. The point of view of the writing in each part (holding a single perspective respectively) might be different one from another.

Here I am trying to bring the stereotype of women in most cultures to the surface. I do not know if I am successful in that regard or not. Anyway, please enjoy the read!

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It is raining. It has been so since hours ago, and rain in the middle of winter like this is not a welcome guest. The snow will part under the travellers’ feet, melting into one with the ground and creating a mire the length of the road; and when it has a chance to cool, the ice which it will become is dangerous for any race to tread upon. The raindrops are, if possible, colder – and wetter, yes – than snowdrops too, chilled even more by the accompanying wind. The two reasons alone can make the hardiest of travellers baulk and seek around desperately for warm and dry shelters.

The common room in the Prancing Pony is extraordinarily packed, and all rooms in the inn are rented for various lengths of time. Men and a few Dwarves chatter merrily around the large hearth, drinking to their fancy and singing off-key songs. Few huddle in the chilly corners.

But one, a hooded figure sitting near the stairs to the second level of the inn, is completely alone. A pair of keen grey eyes survey the surroundings lazily from under the protective shadows of the hood and the corner; however, contrary to his gaze, the figure himself looks rather restless.

“Barliman.” He stops the inn-keeper when the flustered stocky man passes bearing a tray of mugs full of ale. The tray would have fallen from Barliman’s grip had the mysterious man not reacted in time to save it.

“What do you want, Strider?” Barliman asks as politely as possible. he would gladly snap at the mysterious guest if not for Strider’s formidable – and downright scary, according to the rumors and gossips around Bree – persona. His heart thumps quickly in his chest, as if trying to escape the cold sensation which now is gripping it fast.

“Do you still have some pipe-weed left? I will trade it with a piece of information or story if you would, or a carving,” the person called Strider replies nonchalantly, his eyes impassive.

Barliman fidgets. He is torn in his decision. He wants to make this Ranger as uncomfortable as possible so that the latter would leave; but in the meantime, he thinks that he might appease a possible danger to his inn and other guests by granting the Ranger his request. Some people in Bree and its neighbouring settlements usually charge a Ranger with much higher price than usual for anything, but Barliman is an honest man, drilled to be so since his childhood by his parents. He always tries to be fair to everyone; yes, even to the Ranger visitors who usually both unnerve and fascinate his other guests.

“Hmm?” Strider tilts his head slightly to one side, questioning.

“Y-yes… I-if you had some carving for me to put on the mantle…” Barliman stammers at last in a low whisper. He hates this vulnerability, yet he cannot help it. Strider has a strange air around him which somehow commands respect and awe. It does not suit the Ranger’s ragged and dirty appearance, Barliman thinks, and that opinion only serves for more nervousness when he is in the presence of the Ranger. It is as if Strider is a spy to a great power in the guise of a ragged, uncultured wanderer.

He informs Strider in advance that the pipe-weed must wait until after he has done some other jobs around the common room. He hurries away when Strider nods his ascent.

In the middle of serving ale to his customers, Barliman spies the Ranger. He notes how Strider declines requests for stories from young men during a span of half-an-hour with either a firm – but tiny – shake of his head or a curt ‘no’. `That man is too reclusive for his own good,` he grumbles with disapproval to himself. `He seldom talks, and usually in low tones if he does anyway. What folk is his kind… appearing and disappearing abruptly, and as hard and unyielding as stone too; a suspicious fellow, indeed.`

“Queer people, Rangers, they are,” he mutters as he is cleaning his hands with a rag behind the counter – a safe distance away from Strider. Then, unable to prolong the unevitable anymore, he stalks to the pantry, firing orders to Nob his hobbit helper when they come across each other on their ways. He retrieves a package of Longbottom Leaves from inside a sturdy cascade in the corner of the pantry but hesitates for a moment before exitting. “This should do. Hmm. Perhaps I could even persuade him to tell some stories if I agreed to smoke pipe with him?”

The idea is discarded for a while, though, when the inn-keeper returns to the common room. It is right when someone opens the door from outside, clearly another unfortunate guest who is soaked and chilled right to the marrows, and dirty with mud from the scattered puddles on the East Road. Barliman Butterbur cannot provide him any form of lodging or even a temporary shelter, sadly. There is even no space left in the common room except for the narrow lanes between the tables and chairs or the corner where Strider lurks; and no good folk would like to sit by a Ranger. Thus,, after dropping the package of pipe-weed on Strider’s table, he approaches the visitor with the intention of asking him to seek for another inn or tavern to spend the foul weather in.

When he nears, he notes how similar yet different the stranger is from Strider – with some trepidation in his wearied heart. The stranger, who is presently taking the inniciative to close the door behind him uninvited, is hooded and cloaked almost like in Strider’s fashion. There are some differences, nevertheless, about his cloak. The broach of the cloak is pinned under his chin instead of to his left like in Strider case; and the broach itself is also different: a weird symbol on a circular metal pad, not the simple silver star pinned to Strider’s cloak. The visitor is taller than Strider, although not by far, but as slim and supple as a woman – which, to Barliman, is an insult to such a formidable-looking person.

Regardless, what he gets from his scrutiny only makes the inn-keeper more nervous in approaching him, both physically and about the problem of the fullness of the inn.

“Sir…” he begins hesitantly.

He could swear that the stranger is smiling – if not outright smirking – under his hood.

“There is no room left here; all full…”

He choaks when the stranger laughs softly. Weariness tinges the newcomer’s voice, but it is not uncommon among the guests in the inn. No. What makes Barliman feel like jumping out of his skin is the undeniably female character in the laughter. A woman! In travelling attire, garbed formidably, and in such weather…

Barliman the simple, cheery inn-keeper suddenly tenses and draws to his full height. He is not aware – yet – of a pair of shining grey eyes peering over his shoulder to the stranger he is facing. He is overwhelmed by a collection of conflicting emotions.

As a father of two daughters, he strongly disapproves of the way the woman bears and adorns herself. He is also concerned that a woman is allowed to travel in such a foul weather, as he would never permit his daughters to do so. A good maiden should be at home preparing a meal or sewing or doing household chores in such weather, he would say, and the reason is truthful enough in his opinion. For the same reason, he has disallowed his female helpers to work in the inn if they are not willing to lodge there ever since the weather has turned particularly bad two days ago. As a good man, he has to protect the women folk in any means, or so he thinks, and that extends also to this stranger.

But, as an experienced inn-keeper, he suspects the woman being there not for a good purpose, and this he fears. He ever detests maidens or women who sell their own bodies for dishonourable men. And besides, the situation in the inn has been complicated enough with the weather and shortage in almost everything without a trouble maker – if it is what she is – adding to the problems. He had better stop any unwanted things before one has a chance to occur…

“What business brings you here, stranger?” he asks harshly, his timidness and uncertainty gone. Now, despite his warring thoughts, he is convinced that he has firstly to uncover the stranger’s motives above all. Only then he can ponder about how to get rid of the woman… back to her home or anywhere else, preferably outside Bree if she indeed is as foul as some men he has ever had to encounter. A cruel thought, yes, but if she is of one of the kinds he despises, there is no way for her to take shelter under his roof.

“A place safe from the wind and rain,” the stranger, standing with her back blocking the door, answers in a simple tone; it gives Barliman no hint of dishonesty. During the inn-keeper’s scrutiny, she has let go of her pack. It slide by one shoulder strap over her sleeved arm and rests by her booted feet.

`No. She must not be a body-seller, but why is she here now, then? It is still too suspicious.`

`And why did she not say something about warmth from the fire, a good bed to rest in, or meal? Should she not want all those comforts? After all, all weary travellers seek such things from an inn or a tavern in the least. Does she just want to cause trouble here then go? But how if…`

Barliman, his prior conviction stripped from him rather mercilessly, begins to show the tell-tale signs of nervousness and uncertainty again. He looks around the common room from the corner of his eye, to the oblivious Men and Dwarves, all male, then to the farthest corner where Strider skulks.

His breath catches in his throat when he meets a pair of steely eyes belonging to the Ranger. Strider, unlike before, now seems more… alive, as if the stone fortress around him were about to break away, relenting to the flooding water from inside; the Ranger’s impassivity is nearly gone. Swivvling around, Barliman discovers that Strider’s intense gaze is pinned to the newcomer. If he were at the receiving end of that look, muses Barliman, he would have quailed and excused himself hurriedly. Contrary to what he would have done, though, the stranger, who finally looks around and notices Strider also, instead appears to bask in the fierce attention.

And before Barliman manages to digest all the situation, the newcomer has snatched back her pack from the floor. She slips between Barliman and the earthen wall, almost running to the corner where Strider sits. The Ranger himself leaps to his feet and away from the table he has been occupying. He is only in time to receive a fierce, heartfelt bear hug – quite unladylike – from the stranger; Barliman’s eyes, which are used to the dimness of the common room and are naturally keen, detect a wince on her cloaked shoulders when Strider returns the embrace, however. They toss their heads back, shaking off their hoods in the process, and laugh joyously as if kins long sundered.

The woman kisses the Ranger’s each cheek then cradles his head in the crook of her arm as if a mother to a child. Barliman is taken aback. He never thought that she would do such a thing, and to a fearsome Ranger no less!

And Strider does not protest at all! He must notice that all eyes are now fixed on the odd pair. So why does he seem so careless? Should he not maintain his menacing guise?

Barliman has never seen Strider when in his ‘carefree mode’ like that. Years of toil and hardships seem to be lifted from the Ranger’s face and eyes. Now he looks like a teenager, a handsome one at that. His eyes burn ever brighter – if that is possible; they are filled with fierce joy, intense love and – strangely – hope for comfort and warmth of one that he recognises. What slightly disturbs Barliman, though, is that Strider really looks like a child welcoming his parent home.

No. The maiden – for now Barliman sees that she is too young to be a full woman – is too young for such an old child. She may have similar pair of grey eyes – which are kindled with the same emotions and intensity – and similar features, but they do not guarantee anything in the matter of kinship. Barliman does not detect any signals which could point that she is a mother to Strider.

Well, except when she starts to inspect Strider’s face and limbs and body for – probably – injuries…

The Ranger tries to dodge her hands, yet she is too strong for him.

No. Not to strong. He must be stronger than her. He must just be playful with her, as suggested by the light of his eyes – into which Barliman cannot stand long gazing. After all, that is what an indulgent son would do to his mother… if he is indeed her son…

Laughter and whistling and catcalls fill the room after the definite silence – which has only lasted for some seconds. Amidst the din, a Dwarf asks why Lady Ringil is in Bree, some men from around Bree push Runner verbally to leave the settlement as soon as possible, and – to Barliman’s horror – one of the inn-keeper’s daughters chooses the time to appear and ask Doelimbs to teach her some artistic knitting or tapestry-weaving tricks.

To his utter confusion, all three names seem to point to only one person: the maiden.

Who is she that she could melt Strider’s cool, impassive attitude that way? Who is she that she gets so many names? Why was she outside, roaming the road, when all good maidens should be cooking or singing by the hearth in their homes, safe and comfortable? Is she from his kind? Is she really his mother?

“Miss, you create too much attention here,” the inn-keeper, with the last remaining courage and resolve in him, strides forward and addresses the maiden pointedly. He would not be frightened in his own home. And by the way, his daughter will have to answer to him for befriending wild strangers. His tone is clear, although he does not speak it aloud; “Leave here, stranger. You are unwanted.”

That veiled shooing statement, above all treatments Bree has ever given Strider in the long years, perks the Ranger’s ire – to Barliman’s great dismay.

Nudging the newcomer gently aside, now the Ranger towers before Barliman, his eyes flashing dangerously. The inn-keeper cowers away. However, unfortunately, a pair of slim but strong hands catch his upper arms before he could flee. They are not that of Strider but Runner.

The maiden, being several inches taller than him, stares down and meets his eyes. There is no anger in those dark pools, only slight confusion and resignation.

“I am unwell, master inn-keeper,” she mouthes. Barliman draws back as if stung or slapped, his face reddening. He cannot retreat more than a pace, though, as her hands are holding him in a vise grip. She is truly strong!

His apparent weakness does not go unnoticed by his other guests.

“Whoaa! Defeated by a lass, Barliman?” a Man crouching by the fire jeers gleefully, his voice steady despite his drunken state. Barliman clenches his fists but does not respond to the insult. He has a more pressing problem, that is why: he still cannot extricate himself neither from the maiden’s stare nor from her hands’ grip! He feels naked under her steady inspection. Those eyes seem to glow too!

Barliman utters a small, involuntary whimper when at last, accompanied by a long sigh, Runner releases both her holds on his arms and eyes. She turns her back to him and addresses Strider instead. She is speaking in a lilting language, the language of the Elves.

Barliman’s hair stands on end. Is she an Elf in disguise? Her ears, framed by her spotless raven tresses, are round; yet her eyes…

Who is she?

“Where are you going?” the inn-keeper finds his voice again when Strider also turns around, ready to ascend the stairs.

“To my room,” the Ranger says slowly, bemused and irritated; but he Is not angry anymore, which Barliman is thankful for.

“Why does she follow you?” Barliman presses on boldly despite his better judgement.

Strider frowns disapprovingly. “Do you count me as a dishonourable man, Barliman? I thought you had known me well enough.” And with that he stalks off. his form seems to grow and fill the narrow stairway up to the second level of the inn; he looks like an angered noble, if not king, in Barliman’s opinion.

Runner, after glaring reprovingly to Strider’s back, spares Barliman a rueful, apologetic glance. Then she follows after the Ranger, but at a more sedate pace, up the stairs. Her gait is a little heavy, but Barliman is sure that, in any other circumstances, she could be as nimble as a doe indeed.

Barliman the inn-keeper is not about to be defeated that easily, the portly man thinks – a little ficiously. He finds that his courage is fueled by an unknown persistence. Taking an instant decision, he trails after the pair, his jaw set. If he looked at a mirror at this time, he would find that he himself is looking formidable.

He positions his right eye around the key hole after the maiden has closed the door behind her. Thankfully, she did not leave the key in the hole after she had locked the door, so the key hole is now available for him to peep through. He watches as the pair argue quietly in the Elven tongue. Strider is sitting on the edge of the bed and Runner is standing on the empty space between the single bed and the wall.

Then, as though by prior consent, Strider looks away and Runner strips her clothes. Barliman blushes red, thinking that he is being dishonourable himself by catching a maiden in a naked form. But, he reasons to himself, he does not mean harm upon her. And so he only lowers his gaze.

What he sees draws a sharp breath from him.

What should be skin around her waist is an area bandaged neatly. It is odd that the bandage is only damp while her other clothes are soaked wet. But all the same, Barliman cares more to how she shivers in the freezing air with nothing to fend the chill with. And she winces when she puts a hand gingerly on her left side too. The wound concealed by the bandage must have been dire, if not still fresh, to elicit such reaction from her. Has she walked a long way to the inn? How far? In such weather…

The realisation of the situation seeps inevitably to Barliman’s mind.

She has been injured.

And she has pressed on to reach the inn.

Barliman shooed her away.

She did not protest.

Tears well in the inn-keeper’s eyes. He feels like a brute. He reasons that she should have told him, that she should not hold a pride reserved only for hardy, foolish men over the wound…

The turmoils in his mind is only soothed when, after dawning on dry clothes, Runner sits cross-legged – with barely-concealed pain – in the only chair in the room. She closes her eyes and exhales a long breath.

Strider, leaning to the headboard of the bed, is singing in a low voice in the Elven tongue. Somehow Barliman knows that the song is about healing and peace and warmth and comfort, and he unconsciously leans into the soft notes with gratitude. His burdens and troubles since the rain has begun are eased from his shoulders, and for the first time in the span of two days he smiles genuinely.

It appears to work wonders on Runner also. She seems to forget her pain and cold and smiles blissfully. Her posture relaxes and she leans almost casually against the back of the chair. She seems to be in deep sleep, betrayed only by the way she sits – cross-legged with each hand on her knees; such is not a relaxed pose for someone to slumber on, the inn-keeper assumes.

Barliman does not know how long the song lasts; it has died down when he is once more aware of his surroundings. All he knows – and witnesses – is that Runner is opening her eyes, and they are lit by the same eerie light but brighter this time. She rises to her feet, stretching and flexing carefully.

A gleeful grin lights Strider’s face as she approaches the bed. As if waiting to be tucked in, he scrambles into the covers and seeks a comfortable position in the bed.

“You are fifty, Estel!” Runner chuckles lightly, teasingly, using the Westron for the first time after her encounter with Barliman. The inn-keeper cannot hear Strider’s reply – if there is any –, but he does witness when Runner tucks the Ranger in. She lays herself down across his form afterwards, leaning on her uninjured right side and encompassing his head in the same cocooning embrace like it was in the common room.

`Surely Strider is too old for that? He is fifty years old – if Estel is his other name. He could have been expecting a grandchild!`

Barliman is incredulous. He frowns and mutters to himself.

Thus, he fails to hear a soft call coming from the room he has been spying on, not until the second time Runner calls him. “Barliman. I know you are there.” She has been settled back into the chair, but now she rises again from it – with a tired, somewhat-exasperated sigh. She grabs the key from the nightstand beside her, then strides to the door. She unlocks it and gestures the flustered inn-keeper to go inside.

“I apologise, Miss—“

The maiden waves her hand once again, this time indicating that she would not hear him.

Sighing, Barliman steals a glance to the bed, to the sleeping visage of Strider which is not marred by worries and thoughts. The Ranger’s weathered countenance is back, but now Barliman can see well the child hidden beneath it, the child that may as well never be shunned from the Ranger’s character as long as he lives.

`Yes, and as long as there are people like Runner who can crack his outer layer and bring the inner youth out.`

`Speaking of Runner…`

He eyes her warily. She has reclaimed her seat and is now gesturing to the stool on the corner near the door. “Please have a seat, good Barliman. We have to talk.”

Good? She calls him good? After he has neglected her and even did not acknowledge properly her statement that she was ‘unwell’… (The way she said it, it was as if she only caught a slight cold and a need for small comforts, not a possibly-hideus gash on her side!)

“Master Barliman.”

The inn-keeper’s head jerks to the maiden’s direction, surprised and lost. When the maiden gestures to the stool again, though, he is ready and quickly takes it, bringing it closer to where the maiden sits. He assumes that they are going to be talking for a long time.

He fidgets when the awaited talk is replaced by silence. He is very glad when Runner finally speaks.

“What you did was not entirely your fault,” she says before he can think of anything to ease the uncomfortable silence with. “I hate to say this, but indeed caution is needed among people like me and Strider. Not for a bad reason; only that dangers are not that far from us.”

She chooses her words with great care, it is obvious. Now she looks like a diplomat. Barliman wonders what other changes could come upon her.

“What is your business? And you don’t seem like Strider or his folk.” Barliman points at the broach now fondled in Runner’s fingers, having been taken out from her cloak hanging over the back of her chair. She shrugs and lifts the broach. Then she tilts it in such an angle that it catches the light from the lantern hung from the low ceiling and sparkles brilliantly.

For the second time, Barliman sucks in his breath. Now that the broach is lit properly, the weird – but beautiful and intricate – symbol shines with many colours within its various designs.

On the very centre is a relief of a golden flower blossom which kind the inn-keeper has never seen, wrought seemingly out of pure gold. The flower itself sits on the middle of a rayed silver star encircled by a wreath of leaves, flowers and berries made of small colourful gems. The broach is round and made of pale blue metal. In a way it looks beautiful, befitting a lord’s House, yet in another it could be perceived as outlandish or even garish.

“I am not a Ranger, yes.” The maiden, lowering her broach again, pauses for a moment. “I have been working with them for a long time, though. We have many enemies – yes, and they are yours too – so we have to be always vigilant and disclose as little information as possible if not needed.”

“Including injuries?” Barliman finds himself saying. He flinches when Runner’s back straightens and her eyes become hard.

“Especially injuries. If the enemies get word of any weakness, they are surely on to employing it to their dirty ends.”

Barliman shivers. Runner does not mask the statement nor soften the stark truth that seems to emanate from the words. She is too much like Strider.

Yes, too much like him, despite everything, and now Barliman remembers some of his earlier questions about the maiden – dares he call her a young lass?

“You acted like a mother to him.” He jerks his head to the bed, his hands squeezing each other behind his back nervously. “Are you his mother? But he looks older than you…”

“Really?”

The word brings Barliman’s eyes back to Runner, and for the third time he inhales sharply. The closed eyes are now opened fully, pouring out countless hardships, sorrow, pains and hurt from what seems like ages as if a spring flood.

“I am older than he, old enough to have helped raise him,” she says, and that is all she wishes to impart on the matter. Barliman bows his head, suppressing an urge to squirm. The estimated count of years in her age makes his skin crawl.

“Why were you called by so many names? What are you called aside from that?” he asks again when the silence stretches too long. Runner smiles and shakes her head gently, her eyes once again closed and impassive. She rises from the chair and motions Barliman to do the same.

“That,” she says firmly but without hostility, “is for you to find out yourself. Ask those who call me by those names and you will know the answer; better than if I were to guess and give you some.”

Barliman struggles to muster an indifference look with no avail. Well, he grunts to himself, he is indeed not born nor trained to be other than an inn-keeper, is he? Those masks are only for high people or perhaps the Rangers too, whoever they are.

Before Runner closes the door in front of him, though, he gathers enough wits to declare some parting words: “You ar lucky, Miss. No one could breech Strider’s defenses like a battering ram on a gate like that. And one of your names is beautiful – what’s Ringil, I wonder…”

Smiling, Runner shrugs off his compliment and makes to close the door. The last word the inn-keeper gets from her is what he assumes the translation of her name. “Crowned Star.”

Barliman shakes his head. “No wonder,” he mutters as he is making his way down the stairs, grimacing at each protest of his crieking joints. “Crowned Star, eh? Fitting, I say. She behaves like a queen. I wonder who gave her that name. Ah yes… those Dwarves… I have to ask them – perhaps some ale is enough to make them talk? Or some… Eh, is that my pipe-weed?” Guiltily, he spots the package of pipe-weed discarded in Strider’s spot – a name given by the people for the place Strider is used to sit in the common room of the inn. “Deliver later. Now for the ale. Where is Nob? That hobbit…”

Chapter Notes:

I am so, so, so sorry for the terribly-long wait! I got distracted by many things during updating… I hope I have not lost your interest…

Here we are going to see what Aragorn is thinking about during the sequence of events shown in the first part. Hopefully it will satisfy at least some of your curiosity. And thank you for those of you who have reviewed (in FanFiction.Net, Stories of Arda and Lord of the Rings FanFiction), those who have put this story into their alert and favourite lists (in FanFiction.Net), Lady Ninianna (I hope I am not typing your pen name incorrectly, and I apologise if I do.) who has encouraged me to write more about this story, and Anwyn who has given me helpful criticisms and good comments during the revision of the first part (into the form now available on the site)!

The part of this piece which is in italics and in between lines of asterycs is Aragorn’s memory. I do not use his proper name here just for the sake of convenience (in my part *blush*) and a bit of mystery (when in the first quarter into the chapter). Hopefully you are not confused or disappointed with that.

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A man, his leather cloak tattared and nearly soaked, struggles along the precarious way of the East Road. He has just recovered from falling face-down onto the carpet of snow covering the hard-frozen ground; his well-worn boots had stepped on a slippery patch of ice.

He is utterly alone. Everything around him is empty of any living being. The continuous ice-cold rain and its needle-sharp large water droplets have made sure that all sensible sencient beings stay under shelter.

He would like to take shelter also, but where? Not many people would willingly give shelter to a Ranger such as he. In such a foul weather, it is most likely that all available places to huddle in for a while are full of hapless travellers as well, so there is less chance of him being received in any of them.

Still, he hopes; living up to his name, he muses wrily. Breeland is not far, and he is going to reach the settlement in any means. He just prays that the capricious gate keeper would be so kind as to let him pass through the town’s entrance.

Well, if not, he could always climb up the wall and down its other side, although the option is not favourable in the list in this kind of weather.

His muscles and joints are tired of the merciless chill and the constant movement. His heart and head feel heavy, and his skin is uncomfortably wet. He is totally miserable. He does not trust himself to be available for arguments. Thus, he ghopes young Harry, the gate keeper, is going to permit him entrance immediately. If not…

He shakes his head and quickens his pace. Dark and dismal thoughts enter his mind easily this last decade. His betrothal with Arwen last year adds to his burdens, somehow, instead of lightening his heart; it also contributes to his grim state.

He half runs when the gate of Bree is in sight, a dark blurry line amidst the white snowy landscape. His eyes are fixed solely on the gate. Therefore, he fails to notice a rather large patch of ice on his way.

A multitude of colourful curses in Elvish fly out of his mouth when he falls over the natural trap; that is, after he has gained back the air that has been knocked out of his lungs when his chest collided with the hard, slippery cold surface covering the earth. He needs a while to scramble back to his feet. During his struggle, there is only one thought in his mind: he prays that nobody from Bree has seen him fall.

When he finally reaches the gate, he is fairly grumpy and still cursing his misfortune. The foul mood dissolves, however, as he notices that there is no one guarding the gate. Where is Harry? His relief of encountering no obstacle in entering Bree wars with his concern of the safety of the good, simple people. He only passes through the unguarded gates without much guilt convincing himself that he has not encountered any possible threat, save for the hostile weather, on his way there.

His first and foremost destination is the best inn there, the well-known Prancing Pony. Hopefully, Barliman Butterbur yet has a spare room for him, or at least a table in the common room of the inn to sit on and a mug of discounted beer…

He strides quickly along the frozen, snow-covered, deserted streets and the – ironically – lively houses. This time, he is mindful of where his foot falls on so that no other patch of ice will trick him anymore. He has been tired of ‘kissing’ the earth so ‘passionately’. Even now, there must have been some bruises forming on his chin, chest, elbows and knees, and people are going to stare at him more oddly than they usually do.

His heart sinks upon his arrival to the stable of the inn. He has no steed, and so he has no real need of visiting the stable. But he can elicit information from the number of horses, ponies or donkeys owned by the travellers lodging in the inn which are sheltered there, as he is doing now, to judge how many visitors are currently in the Prancing Pony.

He does not like what he sees at all.

`Where should I go?` he despairs silently. He has seldom whined ever since the beginning of his hard, lonesome journeys thirty years ago, but now he does. If only Rivendell were near…

Bracing himself for the worst, he approaches the front door of the inn and knocks. A moment later, a hobbit appears and, with some trepidation, bids him in. The hobbit seems to be new under Barliman’s service and fairly young. He perks the Ranger’s curiosity.

The common room of the inn, directly behind the door, falls silent on the sight of the Ranger. Barliman, who has been serving beer and ale to the patrons, turns around on the sudden change of atmosphere.

“Is there any spare room for me, Barliman? At least for a night or two,” the Ranger asks by way of greeting.

The inn keeper seems reluctant to say anything if not for the grim look on the Ranger’s face. But even when confronted by the forbidding countenance, he still manages to state, “I will take a look at my guest book,” in a clip but nonetheless dignified tone of voice. That is one of the traits the Ranger admires from this stocky, forgetful man.

The Ranger looks around when Barliman has taken leave of him. He spots an unoccupied table upon second, closer inspection. Digging into his store of memories, he recognises the table as his usual place in the common room of the inn. So people avoid the table even when he is not there to occupy it… He does not know should he be impressed of his formidable reputation, or sorrowful because the folk he guards together with his fellow Dúnedain are afraid of him, putting him in such a bad light with blind eyes.

He settles in one of the chairs on the table and puts his oilskin pack by his boots. He itches to be relieved from his sodden cloak, yet he needs its shade to conceal him from the curious and suspicious stares of the other patrons – who are mostly as miserable as he, and thus can be easily triggered into what he would like to call “brawling mood”.

Eyes alert of every detail in the common room, the Ranger slowly lifts a leg and fumbles with the lace of his boot. Once the lace was undone, he tips the boot upside down; it repels an impressive amount of water from inside. He repeats the action with his other boot, then puts both back on. He hopes Barliman or any of his assistants will not notice the puddle of water under the table. He would be in trouble if so.

He schools his visage into impassivity when Barliman approaches his table. The inn keeper seems preoccupied with thoughts, but his hands are free of burdens he usually carries – such as trays and chopped logs of wood for the fireplace. That means only one thing: the portly man is going to talk to the Ranger; whether to shun him from the inn, to inform him that there is a room available for a short lodging, or to ask for news from far-off lands, the latter cannot guess.

Barliman haltes before the table, yet he does not say anything for some time. He wrings his hands nervously and casts his gaze about as though searching for an escape route. The Ranger waits, full of anticipation.

Then the inn keeper speaks in a slow, cautious tone – which also holds a note of apology – surprisingly. “The rooms are full, Strider. The only one left is the best one, and it is rather… expensive.” In the end, the man seems ready to either flee or faint.

The Ranger releases a quiet sigh, hiding his helplessness as best as he could. He considers Barliman from under his hood, then at last nods. “I shall take it if I am able to pay it. How much is it per night?”

Not a minute later, his pack on his shoulders, the Ranger trudges up the stairs by his table to the second floor of the inn. There most rooms are located, and his room is in the end of the corridor, almost set apart from the rest. He has spent nearly all of the money in his purse. In this way, he will not be able to buy some pipe weed to accompany him waiting for a better weather. It is an unpleasant prospect for the coming days he will probably spend there, yet he has seen no other way.

Thus, he looks around his lodging with a slight contempt. As he has guessed, the interior of the room is not as luxurious as one might have thought. But then again, the price is not far higher than the one for the ordinary rooms.

A bed, larger then the ones in the other rooms, is set against the right wall, and on its foot is a simple – rickety – pole of pegs for hanging coats, hats and cloaks. A nightstand, an empty metal basin atop it, stands to the side of the bed, next to a frame on which one can hang a towel or a length of cloth. Next to the frame is a table, accompanied with a chair and a single drawer underneath one side. Lining the left wall is a stand of shelves holding old books and carvings left by the previous visitors. And, opposite the desk, to the left of the door, huddle three stools.

He hangs his cloak on the pole, then he moves to the table and puts his pack there. He is not accustomed to a room with fourniture more than a bed, a table, and a stool to lodge in when he needs to stay in Bree. Thus, he is rather indecisive as to what he should do now. He only stands, puzzled, on the empty space on the middle of the room after he has removed his pack.

Not having anything else to do, he retrieves a set of spare clothes from his pack and changes into them. Afterwards, he brings the pack to the bed and, having climbed onto the cold, damp mattress, he begins to empty it.

His searching hand firstly finds three daggers, his medical kit and two tinder boxes. Delfing deeper, he encounters two bundles – one of herbs and another of more clothes. There is a package of nearly-untouched rations beneath them, the Ranger having no appetite to eat in the last two days of bad weather. And on the bottom of the pack, wrapped in another bundle, are his little treasures. Of all things he escavates from the pack, the last bundle is the only one that sits on his lap.

He unties the cloth carefully and gazed down to the pile of items held there. On top of the small mound is a circular broach with a single golden flower etched on the middle of it, wreathed by small gems in the shape of berries and leaves on a light blue background. The broach rests on top of a small pouch containing quills and two ink bottles, and there is a leather-bound small book also in company of the writing tools. There is another book, just slightly bigger than the former, piled with the other one, yet there is a symbol engraved into the leather cover of it and its pages are all full of writing. A fistful of oval-shaped sapphire pokes out beside them, the shiniest among all the items in the bundle and the most valued of all – both in price and his heart; when light from the oil lamp from the nightstand falls on it, the precious stone reflects it back in rippling biased rays as though sunlight seen through waves in deep water.

Smiling wistfully, the Ranger picks up the sapphire and clutches it in his left hand. Someone dear to his heart has given him the gem, passing it to him from her possession, in order for him to remember that faith, like the vast ocean, cannot be defeated by failures. But he keeps it not only for that reason; the Stone of Hope, as she names it, is his way of reminding himself that in this cold, unforgiving world there is at least someone who always cares for him and loves him as he is, even though his biological mother has left beyond the circles of the world.

Dragging a long, heavy sigh, he tucks the sapphire back to among the other items and reties the bundle. Looking at those reminders of and from his family and friends only pains him now, when he does not know how long he will still be parted from them.

He returns the contents of his pack meticulously to their former places. Throwing them in haphazardly would only cause grief for him when he resumes his somewhat-aimless journey, anyway.

Cloaked and hooded, he returns to the common room soon afterwards. Hopefully, being with other people will be able to erase some of his homesickness, he prays. Perhaps he might also be able to persuade Barliman to part with some of the latter’s stock of pipe weed for a story or two…

Albeit, the reality, as the sceptical part of his mind has predicted, is not as bright as his hopes have been. He is confined to his spot – as people have named it, whispering it behind his back – with nothing to do, except to watch the other patrons interact with each other. If only he had something to do or someone to talk to…

“Barliman,” he greets the inn keeper when said person passes by his table. His hands shoot out instinctively to support the tray the stocky man is carrying, and it is just as well, for if not it would have fallen to the floor and soil the damp, dirty stone with ale.

“What do you want, Strider?” Barliman’s visage tightens a little. The Ranger barely catches himself from raising an eyebrow at the restrained tone he detects there.

“Do you still have some pipe-weed left? I will trade it with a piece of information or story if you would, or a carving,” he asks in the most casual tone he can manage at the moment. He sorely hopes Barliman will say yes to his inquiry and bargain. As for his barter items, he already has a good number of them, save for carvings and such, so he is not worried about the matter.

Well, except if Barliman chooses a carving to barter with the pipe-weed. He might have to carve something for the inn keeper if Barliman chooses so, for he is reluctant to part with those he has been carrying so far in his bundle of treasures on the bottom of his pack.

It appears that in this he also has no luck. Barliman agrees to part with some of his pipe-weed for a carving – after a fidgety consideration, which the Ranger has broken when said Ranger has gone somewhat impatient. To make matters worse, the inn keeper warns him that the pipe-weed must wait until all the other patrons in the common room have been served. `Am I not a rightful visitor here also?` the Ranger fumes silently, hurt and sad. He becomes quite moody and silent afterwards. He refuses to talk even when some of the younger and bolder patrons ask for stories from him; those are his chance of finally mingling with the other visitors, yet now that former desire of his has been quenched from his mind and heart.

`At last,` he grumbles dismally when Barliman vanishes into the backroom and reappears with a small package in his hand. He bites back from cursing as, suddenly, the door to the inn jerks open,  and a lone traveller in garb similar to his walks in.

Barliman seems no less grumpy about the new arrival. But, while the inn keeper expresses his displeasure verbally (although in a nervous tone), the Ranger on the corner prefers to keep his opinion to himself – as usual.

He thanks his tactfulness some seconds later. The traveller, whom he has thought to be a man, laughs; it is a woman. Barliman looks to have stuck to the same presumption, for he sees the in keeper flinching. But what matters to the Ranger is not the gender of the traveller. The laughter reminds him of someone… someone whom he has been thinking about lately, along with his other loved ones.

All the same, he does not dare to hope. There have been so many of his hopes dashed currently, and he fears he will not be able to cope with more disappointment.

He flinches, his body rigid, in his chair when Barliman addresses her in a harsh tone. His left hand unconsciously grips the pommel of what remains of Narsíl, which is belted to his side, and his right one is clenched in readiness to fight. If his suspicion proves true…

Has he just been hoping again? Why? Why does he still hope? It might not be her. Her paths have never crossed with his before this ever since he ended his sojourn in Gondor as Captain Thorongil.

Before this?

So it is really she?

But—

“A place safe from the wind and rain,” the woman says. And this time, there is no denying of whose voice it is.

The Ranger’s mind reels.

************************************************************************

“Estel? Where are you, little one?”

A boy hiding behind the rain barrel suppressed a fit of giggling. He heard loud footsteps receding away, and, assuming that they were of the person who had called him, he eased his way out of the hideout.

He shrieked in both surprise and joy when a pair of lean but strong arms clamped down on his waist. They lifted him from the ground and into the embrace of a youthful-looking woman with glossy raven hair and charcoal-grey eyes.

“What were you doing there, Estel?” the woman asked.

“Hiding from you, Nana Dila,” the boy pouted. “I heard you going away… How could you still be here?”

Laughter sounded from the direction to which the footsteps had receded. There stood another woman, identical to the first but for her warm-brown eyes, and she was chortling with abandon, tossing her head from side to side in amused incredulity.

“There, little spy. You were hearing Nana Ana’s elephanty boots,” Dila grinned. Estel laughed.

“And the ‘elephanty boots’ idea is your dear Nana Dila’s, Estel, so beware of her wiles,” Ana snickered. Her eyes twinkled cheekily.

Dila snorted but did not defend herself. She bounced Estel in her arms several times, then let him slide down her front to the ground. “Come on now, little one. Erestor is waiting for you. He said you might be interested with the continuation of his tale. He was telling you about his experiences in Doriath, wasn’t he?” She winked. Estel wooped, and, in just a moment, he already vanished from that side of the Last Homely House, leaving a pair of twins to their helpless laughter.

************************************************************************

`Nana? Nana… Nana!`

His eyes widen. A sundry of emotions whirl in his soul, neither clearly perceived. His heart thumps rapidly, painfully, against his chestbone. At last, he thinks, he will not be alone anymore in waiting for the dreary environment to become milder, and his companion is someone among some whom he has missed terribly. His years as a Ranger have always been a lonesome one, yet, in a place full of people like this, his sociable self makes itself known and does not want to be denied.

`Nana. Please, Nana. Look at me.`

He stares intently at the cloaked figure, who has closed the door behind her back while conversing with Barliman. Myriad emotions and feelings pour out from his eyes, as for once he does not hide behind a mask of impassivity. His joy when the subject of his gaze notices him is abundant. And when she reciprocates his longing, he feels like wanting to dash to where she stands and claim her in a tight embrace.

Well, he does not have to do so, all the same. While he is just beginning to think of it, she has already streaked towards him through the relatively-empty space by the wall. Expecting what is going to happen, the Ranger leaps out of his seat and skirts the table to meet her.

They crash against one another, but neither of them are even shaken by the contact. They draw their heads back and laugh joyously, conveying the happiness beyond words they are feeling. It has been more than twenty years, twenty long years, since the last time they met at all with each other, and the darkening days has made them worry over each other very much. The race of Men is never meant to experience such a long, dreary parting.

It seems as though they were alone in a world of their own. Manners are forsaken in a bout of fleeting euphoria. The woman kisses his cheeks, then cradles his head in her hands affectionately like what she was fond to do when he was small, murmuring loving words to his ears, and his ears only. The Rangers feels like going back through time, returning to his happy, carefree childhood days.

Then comes the part he half-heartedly despises: her inspection. She used to look him over thoroughly when he returned from a camping or hunting trip with his twin foster brothers, checking for injuries and clacking her tongue over the obvious signs of mud-wrestling and pond-wading all over his body and clothes. But it does not mean that he does not welcome the gesture of motherly concern. He basks in her attention, just like he did more than three decades ago; after he has gotten over his rebellious streak, that is.

Besides, he cannot escape from her grip, anyway. Her hands are still as strong as he remembers them to be! Her muscles, slim though they are, seem not to slack alongside her age – which she never discloses to him.

But, as they well know, any bliss in Arda Marred does not last long. They part from each other’s embrace when Barliman stalks forward, addressing Dila: “Miss, you create too much attention here.” His words belies what is suggested in his seeming intention: that Dila is an unwelcome visitor there and therefore must go.

That boils the Ranger’s blood like no other offences committed to him and his fellows by the people of Bree-land – which are numerous, actually. Unable – and not wanting – to rein in his emotions, he gently pushes his surrogate mother to the side, letting his impressive height tower over the Bree-lander and his true power leak out. His eyes glint with a clear, dangerous warning of harm should the inn-keeper try to dismiss one whom he regards highly among his parent figures, childhood protectors and mentors as inconsequencial. For once, he enjoys it when Barliman cowers before him, plainly ready to flee his overwhelming presence.

That ends with a kind of anticlimax which nearly shatters the Ranger’s whole composure with comical surprise. He, ironically, has forgotten about Dila in the moment, and now he sees how her strong hands grip Barliman in place, a gesture he has not expected of her. In a way, now he pities the inn-keeper instead. He avoided her penetrating gaze as much as – or perhaps more than – her handgrip in his impetuous youth, and now she is ‘bestowing’ Barliman with both at once.

But why are there confusion and resignation too in her eyes? Surely she has not yet lost her prior firmness when dealing with Barliman by the front door? And why is she confessing to the inn-keeper that she is unwell? Why does she give out such vital information so freely to someone who is suspicious and unfriendly against her? Why the low tone? Does she think she can elude her unofficial foster son’s keen hearing? She should know better.

She seems to sense his turbulent thoughts and emotions, for then she releases Barliman both from her gaze and hands, and addresses the Ranger instead in Sindarin: “Yes, there is much to talk about, little one, but we shan’t talk about anything here, even in this language. Have you rented a room here when you came?”

The Ranger tries not to appear sulky in front of so many keen-eyed – albeit drunken – people around the common room, who were all watching them as though an unfolding drama. He grunts in ascent and, as a second thought, grumbles only for her equally-keen ears to hear: “I am no longer a little one, Nana. When will you stop calling me thus?” As he has expected, he only receives a low, fond chuckle from her.

When he is about to lead her to his room, though, Barliman stops him. “Where are you going?”

“To my room.” Of course. Where else? What is wrong with Barliman today? The inn-keeper has never been so nosy before, and not particularly to the Rangers.

“Why does she follow you?” Barliman presses on boldly.

The Ranger frowns in obvious disapproval. His checked ire rises to the fore again. “Do you count me as a dishonourable man, Barliman? I thought you had known me well enough to think otherwise.” He is forced to continue his way up the stairs afterwards, because Dila has surreptitiously nudge him lightly with her fist underneath her cloak. One thing that seems not to have changed in her is her peaceful-when-unprovoked nature and policy, he thinks ruefully.

And she, like himself, tends to disregard her wounds and illness or lie about them. Somehow, he vows to himself, he is going to get her confession about the possible wounds or other illnesses to her body, the manner in which she got them, and if she has truly treated them well, when they have reached his room. She is a competent healer, but—

“Estel… Estel…”

Hearing the sing-song feminine voice underlain with laughter, the Ranger startles out of his thoughts and finds that they are already in his room, and someone – either he or his foster mother – has closed the door. But where is the key? Has the door been locked?

Ah, there. The key dangles before him like an enticing piece of something he has to reach up to get, and it hangs pinched by the thumb and index finger of his playfully-grinning foster mother’s right hand. “I have locked the door, so you ought not to fret about that,” still in Sindarin, she helpfully supplies the detail he has been seeking. He blushes, ashamed of being caught ruminating over things like ever before, just some time into their reunion. Some things indeed never change.

And she still treats him like the child he has been until thirty years ago, too. Despite his earlier resolve to get to the roots of her signs of bodily harm, he cannot resist when she seats him on the edge of the bed like a naughty boy about to be lectured by his elder. He persuades her to join him sitting there, but she refuses, and there is nothing he can do about it. Ah, he is still as helpless against her as ever.

Perhaps he can achieve something by pestering her and whining a little? That did the trick when he wanted to accompany her out of Rivendell before his fifteen year of age…

So, in the same language (which to him is more his native tongue than Westron), he blurts, “Why did you say you were unwell, Nana? Why did you flinch when I hugged you? Have you gotten injured at your side or ribs or sternum? How did you get it? Whence did you come? What is your next destination? Did someone attack you? Brigands? Orcs? Wargs? Nana, can I see your wound, please? I have some herbs still in my pack. Have you treated it yourself? Still, I want to see, Nana. May I?”

His Nana Dila seems to try to restrain her laughter as best she can. Oddly, she clutches only at the left side of her waist instead of both sides as people are wont to do when in the same situation. Seeing that, the Ranger lurches to his feet, a worried gleam in his bright-grey eyes. “Nana?”

“I have treated my injury well, fretting whiner,” she smiles softly and embraces him while bringing him back down to sit on the bed. “Do not worry so, son. And by the way, I shan’t tell you how I got it or where I got it, so you had better go to sleep while I keep vigil. After all, no one can be too careful these days.”

“But Nana—“

“Hush, little Estel.” Her arms still encircling him, she kisses his brow tenderly. “As for my route of journey… we can talk about that – and yours too – when we are both rested enough, okay?”

“But Nana…” His voice sounds meek in his own ears. The Ranger sighs and, with his eyes closed, leans forward to put his head on the crook of her shoulder. “Do you promise so?” he asks in a half-sulking, half-defeated tone. The movement of her head against his tells him what he wanted to know. Reluctantly, he retreats from her embrace and looks away, expecting her to be taking care of her personal needs such as changing her sodden clothes and treating her injury.

Apparently she does, for a while later she announces in the quiet tone they have been using in their conversation that she is done. When he looks back at her, he finds that she had donned a new, dry and clean set of clothes, and is currently sitting cross-legged in the chair with an faint expression of pain plastered on her face. He frowns reprovingly but refrains from chiding her. Instead, he raises his voice in songs they both know, songs the Elven musicians sing to encourage Elrond’s patients to recover swiftly, or to heal trees infected by the Darkness in Thranduil’s ever-dwindling territory in Northern Mirkwood. If he cannot treat her injury directly, he thinks, then this is the best he can do for her. He knows she is meditating to replenish her energy when she is in that kind of pose, since she never truly sleeps, so he attempts to provide her a good environment for her mind to rest awhile from the burdens of the darkening world.

He is paid off. The pained expression vanishes from her features, and she relaxes visibly. If he did not know better, he would say that she is asleep while in a sitting position, slumbering in the way everyone else in the race of Men do. His question of why she is never able to sleep properly has never been answered, and he does not want to pose it to her now, given her condition and the fact that they have long been separated from each other. (An argument or discomfort between them would not do at all in this unlooked-for reunion, especially when neither knows when they will meet again.)

And there is a bonus to it. His nana approaches him after her meditation with a smile on her now-peaceful countenance. Without thinking about a gulp of water to slake his thirst after singing nonstop for who knows how long, the overgrown boy scrambles into the covers and looks up at her invitingly, unabashedly. She just chuckles and proceeds to comply to his unspoken wish: tucking him in for a nap – or perhaps more. A gleeful grin lights his contented visage.

“You are fifty, Estel!”

“So?” He replies her in a sleepy mumble in the same language: Westron. They are alone anyway, to his knowledge, so there is no one to witness this. Besides, he is tired of acting as a chieftain and a protector all the time; he wants a respite, just a short reprieve, from his duty and responsibilities, to be a mere son loved and looked-after by his mother.

Vaguely, he hears Dila talking and someone else, a man, replying, but he just continues his light sleep, trusting his mother to guard him. He slips into a deeper part of his dreamland when the conversation ceases, and more when Dila claims a portion of the bed for herself. Instinctively, he snuggles to her, resting his head above her heart so that he can hear her heartbeats which is a music to repell all nightmares and restlessness in his youth. Any other man would be appalled by such action and simple comforts, but the physically, mentally and emotionally weary Ranger does not care about it. After all, most of his race have never experienced a life such as his, and the proverb “One never loses if one never possesses” never fails to prove itself true in many situations.

She hums a lullaby gently and snakes her arms around his torso in a motherly-affectionate way. A small smile graces the Ranger’s lips and he falls into full oblivion. Now he is not Aragorn son of Arathorn, chieftain of the Dúnedain of the fallen Arnor and the heir of Isildur, but Estel Elrondion, and, for once, he is proud of it. There are many dark, difficult paths to tread ahead, but if he has the constant support of the people closest to him, he has faith that he will prevail against those obstacles in the end.

Hope has returned.

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End Notes:

Lame? Bad? Horrible? Totally OOC? I have a reason for the last, but the first and the second are unexplainable, unfortunately.

Why did Aragorn act like a toddler towards and in the end? Because, to me and in my version of him, he never quite leaves his carefree, happy childhood and often resorts to it unconsciously when he is rejected or when he is facing a seemingly-impossible difficulty. People have layers of ‘shields’ in their minds, I found some time ago by experience, and those shields can crak and break when pressure is put on them… until what left is the innermost core, their last sanctuary, whatever it is.

Why did he crave for companionship and emotional warmth? Because he is just a human despite all his pedigree and power and responsibilities. He experiences 20 years (more or less) of near bliss under Elrond’s protection. Then he stays with his own, true people for ten years (since I think, however mad Elrond is with him, that the Half-Elf is not quite willing to relinquish this last son of his) in which he takes his first taste of bitter life and daunting future. And last – but not the least – comes another 20 years of living a nomadic, wild life almost a far cry even from his years as a Ranger among his people. So I guess he longs to go back to his first 20 years of existence…

Living for twenty years away from contact with his closest souls, roaming the wild, dangerous lands and not knowing if he will return alive (or at all) to them can also make someone leap madly on the chance of having a family within his reach, on second thought…

So flame me if you wish. But constructive criticisms are much more welcome, or at least comments on how things have been going here. Review, please? (And please forgive my sour tone in this additional blabbering. Frankly, I am not quite satisfied with how things are turning out myself.) The last part will come out… umm… ermh… well… when I am ready. :shifty eyes: Sorry! I promise I will work on it as soon as possible…