Just a little something that popped into my head ;)
He sat in the back of the tavern, hood shadowing his face. An untouched mug of ale sat on the table next to his feet. The man was completely still, almost like he was sleeping. The only movement was the occasional puff of smoke released from his pipe.
But his mind was anxious. In the shadow of his hood, dark eyes intently scanned the room. He was worried. Reports of strange things had reached his men, and therefore him. Dark things. Nameless things. Here, in the only part of Middle-Earth where evil had not yet reached its hideous fingers, the reports were even more disturbing. The biggest trouble around here was crows getting into a crop of corn.
The door to the tavern creaked open. A rain-drenched man slipped in, quickly shutting the door behind him. A bow and quiver were slung over his back. A sword and at least one knife hung at his belt. Water dripped from dark hair into his equally dark eyes. The man's boots were caked with mud and his clothes were stained with travel.
The conversation in the room stopped. Every head turned to look at the tall man. A second later, he was dismissed and the room returned to its beer. The man in the corner didn't move. His eyes followed the newcomer as he strode confidently across the room. He stopped at the counter and leaned casually against it, examining the room with a warily, but with a relaxed air.
The tavern was named the Prancing Pony. There was an inn above it. The common room was dim and smoky. Tightly packed, round, wooden tables were surrounded my rickety old chairs. Men crammed together with mugs of beer, ale, and other intoxicating drinks.
The man at the counter scanned each patron. When his gaze reached the hooded man in the corner, it paused. A smile touched the corners of the man's mouth. Leaving the counter, he headed for him. Weaving between roaring men and the occasional hobbit, the man crossed the room. He pulled up a wooden chair and sat down across from the man. He lit his pipe and smoked in silence for a minute.
"Its not good news, Aragorn." The man said, placing his pipe on the table. He shook his head. "Not good at all."
"So I have heard, Halbarad. Please, explain."
"I am certain that the Nazgul have crossed the Anduin. They will be in the Shire soon. Mithrandir is close, but it might not be enough. The Nazgul have steeds that fly like shadows."
"Have you doubled the guard?"
"Yes."
Silence fell over the pair again. Aragorn continued to smoke, while Halbarad watched his life-long friend. Times were grim, and the Rangers were all looking to Aragorn for guidance.
"We cannot let them into the Shire." Aragorn spoke.
"No. Mithrandir said as much."
Aragorn sighed. "I fear for our future, Halbarad. The shadow has never reached this far north. I am not aware that the Ring-wraiths have come this far north. I think..."
"You think what?" Halbarad said quietly. Aragorn rarely admitted to weakness, even to his closest friend.
Aragorn took a long puff of smoke. "I think that the Ring is stirring."
Halbarad leaned back, stunned. "It can not be..." Aragorn didn't answer. The more Halbarad thought about it, the more sense it made. Why else would the Nazgul come? Why else would Mithrandir ride about like a wind storm? "The Ring is in the Shire." Halbarad said under his breath.
Aragorn nodded. "In the hands of a hobbit." Smoke obscured his face for a moment. "Halbarad?"
"Yes?"
"I do not think we will survive much longer."
Halbarad could see the sorrow in Aragorn's eyes. They had been through a lot together. The death of his parents, the many many fights against Orcs. Even when he was being raised in Rivendell, Halbarad would see him from time to time. And he had never seen him look so defeated.
"We're not dead yet." Halbarad said.
Aragorn shook his head. "The Nazgul, Halbarad. We have to fight the Nazgul."
"I know. We have to. I'll be right at your side." Halbarad leaned across the table. "To the death."
"To the death?" Aragorn repeated.
"To the death." Halbarad and Aragorn clasped hands. "To the death."