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The Ranger and the Hobbit  by Cairistiona

Epilogue - Strong Arms and Spilled Blood

"Do you think we’ll ever meet up with him again?" Halbarad asked softly.

Aragorn eased himself in the saddle. The long days of jostling and jarring as they rode had been painful, but not as bad as he had feared. Still, he was relieved to have finally arrived at last at Bree after leaving the rest of his men, save Halbarad, behind at Chetwood. Denlad had insisted he did not need to go into Bree, so Aragorn left him in provisionary charge of the patrols, with a stern warning that should he return to Chetwood and find Denlad out on said patrols himself, before his shoulder fully healed, Denlad would be confined to digging ditches for the privvies, one-handed, with a spoon, until such time that Aragorn felt he had learned his lesson. Which, by Aragorn’s reckoning, would be somewhere between the end of the Fourth Age and the beginning of the Fifth. Denlad had been unbowed, grinning like a fool during Aragorn’s entire tirade, but he promised to behave and then said his good-byes to Ferdinand before finally turning off the Great East Road to head into the Chetwood, Eledh and Galadh in tow.

Now here, outside the Prancing Pony, Aragorn had given his own farewell to Ferdinand Took. They had both felt all the necessary words had been spoken those three nights past, around the fire, but Ferdinand had surprised Aragorn when, instead of shaking hands or offering a bow, he had given Aragorn a fierce hug. Halbarad had gotten a more restrained handshake, and now, as Aragorn watched the hobbit walk away from them, heading toward his home and bed, he pondered Halbarad’s question and smiled. "I would say not likely, but this entire adventure was so unlikely that I begin to think that perhaps I leave too little room in my life, or at least my expectations, for pleasant surprises. So I will say only that I won’t rule out the bends and twists in the road bringing our paths together again."

"I hope so. I like him. He has a stout heart."

"Gandalf tells me there are other such brave hobbits, Bilbo foremost among them."

"Tookishness, in other words?"

"Evidently so. I think the world could use more Tookishness, to be honest."

They pulled up in the courtyard behind the Prancing Pony and dismounted. Aragorn couldn’t hold back a grunt, and Halbarad was instantly at his side. "I’m all right. Just a little stiff."

Nonetheless, Halbarad steadied him with a hand on his elbow as he took the reins. "I’ll take care of the horses. You get yourself in there and get a room and a hot bath and then get yourself into bed. I’ll be along in a bit with some food for us both."

"Yes, mother."

Halbarad glared at him, then, after Aragorn pulled his pack off of his horse, walked the horses away toward the stable.

Aragorn looked around at the small cobbled yard and the inn that he knew so well. Barliman Butterbur was busy sweeping the stoop, and Nob, his Hobbit helper, was dumping a dishpan of dirty water into the small patch of herbs growing beside the door. Nob waved at him cheerfully but Butterbur merely cast a sour glance his way before hurrying back inside. Aragorn followed him more slowly, mulling over the many possible reasons for Barliman’s lack of enthusiastic greeting. Not enough customers, perhaps. Or too many customers. Or more likely, too many Ranger customers.

Aragorn paused before the door, set his shoulders and let himself in.

Butterbur eyed him warily from behind his counter. Butterbur always eyed Aragorn warily, as if he half expected Aragorn at any moment to run him through with his sword. That Aragorn was never anything but the soul of polite regard around the man–save those times when Butterbur stamped out the last vestige of his patience and Aragorn’s ire caused his tongue to whip too sharply–never seemed to matter. Aragorn frightened Butterbur and likely always would. Ah well. Someday perhaps Aragorn would be able to explain himself, to present himself finally as king. He rarely allowed himself to daydream over possibilities that may never happen, but he couldn’t help smiling inwardly as he imagined the dumbfounded shock sure to be on Butterbur’s face should such a day finally arrive. Keeping his amusement well hidden, he quietly said, "A room, if you please. Two beds."

"You and Master Halbarad?"

"Aye."

"You look a bit more ragged than usual, if I might say so, Strider."

"It has been a rough road of late."

Barliman’s eyes flicked to Aragorn’s face. "Walk into a door, did you? Or run afoul of some lady’s husband?" He chuckled at his own joke.

Aragorn merely shook his head. Getting angry would be useless. "Nothing like that, no." He leaned down to set his pack at his feet and winced a bit when he straightened back up.

"Looks like you hurt your side."

"It is mending."

"Good to hear it," he said, so tonelessly that Aragorn highly doubted the man’s sincerity, but he let it pass. Butterbur pushed the ledger in front of Aragorn, who grabbed the quill, dipped it in the ink and scribbled something that passed for Strider on the page. It consisted mostly of a large S followed by a squiggly line. Since it wasn’t his real name anyway, he felt no need to be neat about it.

"Would you be needing a bath?" It was more a suggestion than a question but Aragorn took no offense. He knew he smelled worse than a herd of pigs.

"That would be most welcome, yes."

He handed over some towels and a bar of lye soap. "Nob will bring you hot water. Usual room. Top of the stairs," he said gruffly. "Don’t break anything, don’t slosh the water all over, and no disturbing the peace, you understand? Usual rules. You know I don’t trust you Rangers any further than I can throw you, but I won’t keep any man with good coin from sheltering himself here, so long as he behaves."

"Master Butterbur," he protested, feigning a hurt expression. "You know I always behave."

"Yes, well, to this point you have, but I also know your ilk and figure it only a matter of time before you get too much ale in you, and then it’s off you go, fighting and tearing up the furniture and breaking all the crockery. I just replaced twenty-three good mugs... twenty-three, mind you... from the last lot of wild men that trampled through like so many oliphaunts; I won’t be doing it again on account of you or your friend or cousin or whatever relation he is."

"He is my cousin. And my friend," Aragorn told him quietly, not that he expected Butterbur to care one wit. He tamped down his growing impatience, but his voice was tighter than he wished. "Drunken brawls not being generally conducive to convalescence, I am not planning to indulge in any. I wish only for a bed for a few nights, until I’m fully healed. "

Butterbur glanced at Aragorn’s side and had the grace to blush. "I don’t mean to be churlish, Strider. You know that. It’s just that I’ve about had my fill of this place being bashed to pieces, and it’s been times when you or... now, don’t be scowling at me, I’m sorry, poor choice of words... I mean to say those like you are here that things happen. You understand, surely. But like I say, I won’t deny any man a room, so long as he has good coin."

Aragorn gave him a wry look as he dug in his pockets for his coins. "Your generosity is second only to your perspicacity, Barliman Butterbur." He pulled out a few and dropped them on the counter. Childish of him, perhaps, to goad the innkeeper, knowing that Butterbur likely had no idea what ‘perspicacity’ meant. But the prospect of salvaging a bit of private fun from the otherwise unpleasant exchange, an exchange that was far too wearyingly commonplace, was irresistible.

And he was amply rewarded when Butterbur scowled as he scooped the coins up in his chubby hand. "Yes, well, you just keep your insults to yourself, Ranger. I don’t wonder but what Bree would be better off without the lot of you."

The battered remnants of Aragorn’s good humor melted in a hot flash of anger. Bree without us would likely have been burned to the ground or destroyed by trolls or worse long years ago. It is the strong arms, sharp steel and spilled blood of my people who hold your enemies at bay, Butterbur, and nothing less. But he said nothing, merely tightening his jaw as he took the towels, hefted his pack and headed slowly up the stairs. He paused at the top to catch his breath, glancing behind him to see Butterbur still scowling after him. Two other customers had joined him and stared up at him with suspicion darkening their eyes. He thought then of Ferdinand Took, of his many small kindnesses and encouraging words and selfless bravery, and sighed quietly.

He entered his room and closed the door, putting Barliman – and the unfriendly townspeople – behind him.





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