Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 19: The Storyteller

“…He is one of the wandering folk – Rangers we call them. He seldom talks: not but what he can tell a rare tale when he has the mind.”

‘At the Sign of the Prancing Pong’                                             The Fellowship of the Ring 

~oo0oo~

   Barliman Butterbur was not a happy man. The occasional heavy shower at this time of year was to be expected. April was after all renowned for them. But torrential downpours that lasted all day and continued well into the night were quite another matter altogether.

   It was bad for business for one thing. Who in their right mind would venture out on a night like this? And it was getting worse; the blustery wind had picked up so much it threatened to shake the windows of the Prancing Pony out of their very frames. And now the strengthening gusts were driving drenching rain in relentless waves across the open courtyard. The results of continuous rain since dawn were becoming only too apparent. The barrels collecting run-off from the roofs were overflowing and the yard was quickly becoming a lake. It was already impossible to reach the stables from the inn without having to paddle.

   ‘I shall need a boat if this goes on much longer,’ thought Barliman, miserably, as he stood at the back door of the inn watching raindrops the size of peas pelting down beyond the open doorway. As he watched for a moment he noticed they were actually rather pretty as they glittering in the glow of the lantern hanging on the outside wall.

   “Rather like many tiny stars,” thought Barliman, as he pulled the collar up on his shirt, though scant protection it offered him from the driving rain.

  “Well, I suppose there is an upside to every downside,” he said aloud to himself as he turned to go back indoors. “We might not get any new custom tonight, but the guests already here aren’t going anywhere either.” And looking at the rapidly expanding lake, he suddenly had another agreeable thought. “And none of them has horses to care for either”. There would be no wading through ankle deep water to tend beasts for Barliman tonight.

   He quickly closed the door, just in time to avoid another swell of water being blasted towards him by the powerful wind. He bolted the door and made his way back to the kitchen, calling out to his hobbit helper as he went.

   “Nob? Were are you? We’ll be needing more logs for the fire in the common room.”

   Somewhere from the depths of the inn, a voice could be heard acknowledging the request.

   Barliman then turned his attention to getting supper ready for his customers; too few in number though they may be. There were a couple of Dwarves taking a break from their return journey to the Blue Mountains from wherever it was that Dwarves went to when they took to wandering the way they did. They had planned to be on their way again that morning, but had delayed their departure for a day because of the inclement weather. There was old Bill Brockbank who should have gone home to his wife at lunchtime, but had fallen asleep in a corner and had only been discovered by Nob an hour ago. He still showed no sign of waking so there was no possibility of his going home tonight. And then there was that Ranger, Strider. Even he had delayed setting out on account of the heavy rain so, if that wasn’t an indicator of just how terrible the weather was, then nothing would be. Come snow storms and hail, he had never known anything waylay that particular Ranger before.

   So there were four guests to look after tonight; ‘not a complete washout,’ thought Barilman, smiling to himself at his little joke. It could have been worse and it did mean he wouldn’t be rushed off his feet all evening either. It might be rather pleasant even to sit by the fire and take it easy for a change. First though, there was supper to prepare. There was nothing like a bit of roast beef and dumplings on a wet and windy day like today. Fare like that had even been known to put a smile on old Strider’s face before now. The meal was soon coming along nicely. He had the taters and parsnips roasting in the range along side a joint of topside that had been slowly cooking for a couple of hours already.

   ‘Won’t be long now,’ he thought, as he bustled along to the common room to check on his customers. It was none too warm in there, so he carefully built up the fire with the logs Nob had brought and soon his guests began drawing themselves closer to its comforting flames.

  “Ah that’s better,” said one of the Dwarves, positioning himself so as to be practically sitting in the grate. “You can’t beat a roaring fire on a night like this.”

   “No indeed,” said his companion, moving closer to the hearth as he spoke. He was an older dwarf who had introduced himself by the name of Dori. His long coppery beard was turning white and he had bushy eyebrows of an identical shade. So bushy were they, that Barliman was extremely doubtful that the Dwarf could actually see anything at all from underneath them.

   As the Dwarves made themselves comfortable, Dori turned to address the tall gentleman who still sat apart from the other guests. “Are you quite warm enough there, if you don’t mind my asking?” he said. “Draw up your chair a little closer. You won’t get any of the benefit back there.”

   “Thank you, I should be glad to join you,” replied the tall man, politely. He was only wearing a thin shirt because, as the Dwarf had already discovered, his cloak and tunic were still hanging in Barliman’s kitchen where they had been drying since the previous evening.

   “Yes, do come a bit nearer, Strider,” said Barliman, indicating with a flourish of his arm where he considered the best place for the Ranger’s chair to be placed. “I’m afraid your clothes are still not yet dry and you don’t want to be catching a chill back there in that draught.” He hadn’t been particularly pleased at having the man’s clothes spread all over his kitchen, but he had decided it was preferable to having them adorning the common room. He really couldn’t be doing with complaints from the other customers in this weather. Strider dutifully drew up his chair to the spot where Barliman suggested and immediately sat down again, stretching out his long legs in front of him and returning the pipe he had been smoking to his lips.

   Dori continued to rub his hands enthusiastically before the flames. ““I shall be only too glad when we have returned to our halls. No one knows how to keep a fire burning quite like us Dwarves. It is something to behold Mr er Mr Strider, if I heard your name right; the blazing fires deep in the cities of the Dwarves of old were a sight to see. You will never have seen anything like it, I can tell you.”

   Strider removed his pipe from his mouth. ““On the contrary, Master Dwarf, I have been privileged to witness the hospitality of the Dwarves at first hand.”

   “Have you indeed?” said Dori in surprise. He considered this to be a most unlikely claim. Dwarves were not exactly renowned for extending invitations to outsiders. “Do tell me more; just where exactly was it that you enjoyed the comforts of our Dwarven halls?”

    Strider was again drawing on his pipe; there was a thoughtful look in his eye. He took a moment to answer.

   “Moria,” he said at last. “It was in Moria.”

   “Moria,” echoed Dori’s younger companion. “But no word has come from Moria in many a year. When was this?”

    Dori glared at the young dwarf, who suddenly realised he had spoken out of turn.

   “Oh, it was a few years ago now,” said Strider. “Fifteen at least, if I remember rightly; it was late in the year, as I recall; at the turn of autumn into winter.”

   “But that was when…” A nudge in the ribs from Dori once again silenced the young dwarf, who, as it turned out, was actually Dori’s nephew, Bori.

   “I would be most interested to hear your tale, Mr Strider,” said Dori. He was still convinced there would be little truth in it whatsoever, but if there was any news to be had of Moria, he would not pass up an opportunity to hear of it.

   Immediately upon hearing a story called for, Barliman pricked up his ears and drew up a chair beside his guests. He would not miss out on a tale, especially if old Strider was telling it. Vagabond he might be, and a rogue too for all he knew, but he could tell a damned good yarn when he put his mind to it. And he was quite confident Mrs Barliman could be trusted to ensure the supper did not burn in his absence.

   But the Ranger didn’t appear very eager to supply his tale, so Dori began prodding him with questions.

   “So were you travelling on your own, Mr Strider, when you visited Moria?”

   The tall man shifted uncomfortably in his too small chair.

   “No, I had a friend with me,” he said.

   “Would I know him?” butted in Barliman. He may not much like or trust the Rangers, but he always made it his business to find out all he could about them, including their names. He felt you never could tell when such information might come in handy, especially if there was trouble of any sort and blame needed to be apportioned.

   “I believe you might know him,” said Strider. “His name is Halbarad.”

    “Halbarad? Now, can I recall a Halbarad?” Barliman, rubbed his chin and stared at the ceiling as he tried to remember any Ranger by that name, but he could not. In truth they all looked much the same to him. They all wore these dark cloaks which they kept pulled over their heads, far more often than was really necessary, to his way of thinking.

   “I can’t place him,” he said at last.

   “Well, it is a small concern,” said Dori, becoming impatient now to hear the tale. “Tell me, through which door was it that you entered Moria?”

   “The East door,” said Strider. “We crossed the Redhorn Pass and came down by the Dimril Stair.”

   “Are you trying to tell me you passed over Barazinbar during the winter months?” Dori looked sceptical.

   “We did, but, as I said, it was early in the season so the snow had not yet blocked the Pass,” replied Strider who did not appear to be at all put out by the fact that the Dwarf clearly did not believe a word he said.

   “But how did you gain admittance?” asked Dori, thinking Balin would never allow such a disreputable looking character as this to enter his halls.

   The tall man hesitated. Dori was quite convinced he was composing his reply.

   “It was a night such as this if I recall rightly,” Strider said. “My companion was injured and we were both weary and in need. The Dwarves kindly invited us to rest in their halls until the weather improved and we had both recovered sufficiently to be on our way again.”

   “I’m sorry to hear your friend was hurt, Strider,” said Barliman. For all his suspicion of the Rangers, he did not like to see any man harmed. “What happened?”

   “We encountered a little trouble on the Pass, nothing of great consequence,” said Strider. “We ran into a couple of Stone-giants.”[1]

   “Stone-giants! Oh, my, who ever heard of such a thing?” Barliman was amazed and not a little scared. He sincerely hoped fearsome sounding beasts like that wouldn’t take it into their heads to come ambling down the East Road towards Bree any time soon.

   “Fear not, Barliman,” said Strider who grinned as if guessing the bartender’s thoughts. “They won’t be troubling you down these parts. They were limping off to their hideouts deep in the Misty Mountains, when last I saw them.”

   “You fought with them?” Barliman’s eyes were wide with wonder. Not for the first time, he considered the very long sword that seemed to be permanently strapped to the man’s side and he reminded himself once again of the importance of not falling foul of any of these dangerous men.

  “We argued the right to cross the Pass, yes,” said Strider. “They conceded in the end.”

   “This is all very well,” said Dori, whose patience was fast running out, “but what about Moria? Tell us more of what happened there.”

   “What happened? We were treated to the fabled hospitality of the Dwarves, my dear Dori,” said Strider, whose keen eyes were smiling at the continued look of disbelief on the old dwarf’s face. “They did indeed have roaring fires that burned all day long in huge grates which were large enough to roast an entire ox. We were well fed on food fit for the grandest feasts and afterwards we washed it down with the finest ales. A wondrous place is Khazad-dum. I have never seen anything like it before. The great chambers are truly magnificent to behold.”

   “I have never been beyond the Dimril Gate,” said Dori, his regret all too evident in his voice. “If you have truly seen the great Dwarven realm of Khazad-dum, then you are very privileged, my friend. But tell me, who was it that granted you permission to stay?” If this didn’t catch him out, nothing would.

   “Why Balin, of course,” said Strider. “He had not long returned to Moria and was already successfully re-establishing his realm. The Dwarves had reopened one of the old mine shafts and I understand it was proving productive.”

   “Balin is still there then?” asked Dori, who appeared to have suddenly abandoned all his previous suspicions. “Well that is good news, indeed.” He turned to his nephew. “This is glad tidings to take back home with us, Bori.”

   Bori nodded his agreement.

   “I would not be so sure the tidings are good,” said Strider, “as I said, this was a long time ago. Much could have happened in the intervening years.” He paused and his face suddenly looked troubled. “I have passed that way many times since, but I have not seen the Dwarves again.  It concerns me that you have clearly received no word from them either.” Strider stared at the flames, and a faraway look came into his eyes as he appeared lost in his own thoughts.

   “What is it?” asked Dori. “You know more than you are saying, I think. What else do you know? What happened while you were there?”

   Barilman was spellbound. He only hoped his wife was seeing to the roast. There was no way he was leaving his seat now.

   Strider was silent for a long time before continuing.

   “I don’t really know for sure what happened,” he said at last. “Balin was showing us the mining operations. The Dwarves had worked hard and long reopening the mines, but they had needed to tunnel deep into the mountain to reach the lowest veins where there were still rich deposits of mithril. I shall never forget the sight of these glistening walls. I could quite understand why the Dwarves had returned there. I would not even begin to guess at the value of the ores still to be found lining those tunnels.”

   Dori’s eyes were glowing by the light of the fire as he wistfully tried to picture all that mithril in his mind. Strider was drawing on his pipe again.

  “Go on. Go on, what happened next?” said Barliman.

   Strider removed his pipe and continued his story. “Quite suddenly there was a terrible roaring sound and it was as if the entire mountain trembled. The very ground beneath our feet felt as if it was going to give way. The roaring very quickly became deafening and then the tunnel behind us collapsed completely. Apparently, some of those mines had become quite unstable, having not been used in so many years. We were all thrown to the ground by the shock waves. I recall trying to protect my head from the rocks that fell from the roof of the tunnel. By then, all was dark as the torches had gone out.”

   “Weren’t you terribly scared?” asked Barliman, his eyes wide with wonder.

   “Yes, Barliman, I was very scared,” said Strider, a slight smile on his lips. “I have never known such complete blackness as I did in that tunnel. It was darker than any dark night. The Dwarves were frantically calling out the names of their companions as they tried to ensure everyone was accounted for.”

   “What about your friend, Halabad, how did he fare?”

   “Halbarad? He was unharmed, much to my relief. I was not so fortunate, but I could still walk. None of the dwarves were badly hurt. They make light of such disasters, but I have never forgotten the feeling of being unable to breathe in the total darkness. The dust was terrible and I felt as if I was being buried alive. It took a long time for the torches to be rekindled but thankfully the Dwarves were able to light them again eventually. Once all the injuries had been tended, we were able to move on but we could not return by the way we came. As a result, we ended up much deeper in the mountain than we had planned. It seemed to take forever for us to find our way out. The paths were narrow and treacherous as I recall. One false step would have sent us all tumbling into the depths of Arda. We had no food or water with us and we ended up in parts of the mountain that the Dwarves had not yet returned to so there was no help available along the way. It was a long and painful journey back to the upper levels. And all the while I had this strange feeling that I could sense something evil. It was a feeling I could not explain.”

   All eyes were fixed on the man, his audience devouring every word, but, quite unexpectedly, he abruptly ended his tale. “Eventually, we found our way out. That is all I can really say on the matter. It is not a place I would willingly return to.”

   “But you can’t stop there, Strider,” cried Barliman. “Why do you say you would not go back? I’ve heard tell there are monsters under the mountains. Is that what you could sense? Did you see any dragons?”

   “No, I saw no monsters,” said Strider, who appeared to be choosing his words carefully, “but I’m sure I felt a presence that I did not care for in the least. Both my companion and I were very relieved to see the light of day again.”

   “Bah,” said Dori, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You are a Man; how can you be expected to appreciate the things we Dwarves do? A Dwarf has no fear of the deep places of the world.”

   “I hope you are right, Master Dwarf,” said Strider. “I confess I have no love of such sunless paths. Perhaps that is all that it was; nothing more than a fear of the dark.”

   “But you must tell us more,” cried Barliman. He needed more than this if the tale was going to be worth retelling to his customers.

   “I’m sorry, Barliman,” said Strider. “I really can not tell you any more than I have.”

   “But what happened to you? Barliman persisted. “You said you were injured and Halabad was hurt too, wasn’t he?”

   “Ah, that is a long story,” said Strider with a grin, “and not one I’m inclined to tell, especially, as my stomach informs me it is time to eat. I wonder how that roast beef is coming along, Barliman.”

  Finally, disappointed that he could coax no more from the Ranger, a reluctant Barliman got to his feet and went to the kitchen to check on the progress of supper. Fortunately both his wife and Nob were hard at work and judging by the welcome aroma greeting his nostrils, the meal would soon be ready.

~oo0oo~

   The next day the rain had fortunately stopped, though there was still a blustery wind tugging at the branches of the trees and rattling the windows of the inn. The sun had broken through the clouds, though it was having little impact on the sodden world outside. But Barliman’s guests were all relieved to be on there way. At first light, Mrs Brockbank had come knocking on the door of the inn, demanding to have her husband returned to her and the Dwarves had set off not long after.

   There was only Strider the Ranger left now. He waited patiently in the common room while Barliman fetched his cloak and tunic from the kitchen.

   “There you are,” said Barliman, as he gladly returned the sorry garments to their owner.

   “Thank you, Barliman,” said Strider. “Your hospitality is much appreciated, as always.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple of coins which he placed on the table.

   “You’re welcome,” said Barliman, picking up the pieces immediately and pocketing them. The Ranger’s coin was after all as good as anybody. “And where might you be heading on such a damp and windy morning, if you don’t mind my asking?”

   “East, I have business far in the East.”

   “Oh.” Barliman had no conception of what sort of business that could possibly be and the East sounded a very long way away. “So you’ll be heading over the Misty Mountains again then?”

   “I shall indeed,” said Strider, as he straightened his cloak and strapped his sword back around his waist.

   “Well, you keep an eye out for those Stone Giants,” said Barliman, “and make sure they don’t follow you when you head back this way.”

   Strider laughed. “Don’t worry, Barliman, I shall make sure no harm comes to you or the good citizens of Bree, on that you have my promise. Now, if you will excuse me, I must be on my way. Farewell.”

   And then the Ranger was gone, striding purposefully through the door on those long legs of his.

  As he went, Barliman couldn’t help wondering at the strange lives these Rangers led. Who in their right mind would go wandering off into the wilds like that, looking for trouble? Still, so long as their adventures made a good yarn to entertain his customers, and they didn’t bring their troubles to his door, he was happy enough to accommodate them now and then. Who knows, they might even come in handy if those stone-giants ever took to wandering down out of the mountains.

~oo0oo~

“I too once passed the Dimril Gate,” said Aragorn quietly; “but though I also came out again, the memory is very evil. I do not wish to enter Moria a second time.”

‘A Journey in the Dark’                                                              The Fellowship of the Ring

[1] ‘Over Hill and Under Hill’                                                  The Hobbit

  A/N Strider is being deliberately evasive with his story as his Moria adventure is a long WIP called ‘In the Dark Places’ and I don’t what him giving all the plot away just yet!