Title: Through the Eyes of the Dunedain

Summary: A character study story set in Bree years before the War of the Ring. The innkeeper's daughter and a Ranger--it was never meant to be a match made for the Valar, but neither were they.

Pairings: Ellen/Gorlim

Rating: PG 13

Category: Drama/Romance

Author's Notes: The Breelands have been my favourite part of Middle Earth for years, especially with their unique relationship with the Rangers. My imagination was captured by this fine balance, and this story sprung from it. for those who are wondering, the story takes place ABOUT 40 years before the War of the Ring, but that's a rough timeline. That makes the innkeeper's name quite reasonable, and it's not a crime against canon. ^-^ Barliman has his dues paid in the form of his younger self appearing once or twice.

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings, and I hope the great Professor isn't turning over in his grave. There have been greater blasphemies in fanfiction.

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I had dismounted at the gate, opting to travel by foot in my quest to find The Prancing Pony. A small inn, owned by a man most referred to as simply Butterbur. His establishment had a reputation; a warm bed, no questions, and, for those who indulged, the finest ale in the Breelands.

The dark wet of raindrops showed on the dirt road beneath my feet when lightning illuminated the sky, but I scarcely noticed. It was not so much a Ranger's habit of paying no heed to the elements as a desire to see my duty done.

The sons of Rangers always imagine the excitement of orc hunts, or the apprehension of thieves. So few realize the patience and time it takes to make these adrenaline pumping raids, and the number of untraceable lies that must be followed. It was not long ago that I myself realized the excitement we imagined was a rarity, the one dream that kept us doing these thankless tasks. Saving lives is well and good, but after years of shoddy treatment, we begin to lose that glow of pride.

If it were not for the Dunedain, a single band or orcs or wargs would destroy the people of the Breelands. Their system of defense was evadible, and the only weapon I have heard used by villagers is the rusted excuse for a sword the gatekeeper keeps at his post.

Another bolt reveals a worn sign beating in time with the wind. A white pony, or what is left of one, is the wood's only ornament.

I enter, and a portly gentleman arrives.

"Hullo," he says. "Be you seeking accommodations?"

"Indeed, my fine gentleman. But first a drink perhaps, to warm chilled bones?"

I am tempted to sigh with frustration, flash my sword and receive some real service, but I resist. The only warning that I felt deserved any merit was from Halbarad, a man who had been old since time immemorial. "They're fine folks, those Breelanders. But they spook easily. Take it slow, they don't like strange men in cloaks. A threat they can no longer remember."

"Of course. I am the innkeeper, Gearge Butterbur."

I note that he does not ask for mine in return, and I wonder at the world he must live in.

He shows me to a common room, and waves a girl over before leaving to attend another customer. She is a tavern maid, no more then twenty. Perhaps it was the smoke circling the room, or the lack of females to compare her to, but she is lovely. Not stunning, but there is some charm behind the tired eyes and weary smile. As she makes her way across the room she expertly avoids hands that were perhaps too familiar.

She is only a few tables away when a leering man grabs her wrist. She jerks for a moment, but it is clear she has no power, and she gives up. I step forward, and grab her waist as a corner table burst into rowdy song.

"Sorry sir, but this lady owes me a dance," I say pleasantly. He glares briefly, but there is nothing he can do and he knows that well.

"Thank you," she says, as a twirl her around a makeshift dance floor.

There is a pause as the song finishes and she catches her breath, then she continues.

"You have not been here before, sir."

There was no question to her voice, as if she knew every customer that had ever been or would be.

"I am afraid I have not had the pleasure."

"Welcome to Bree," she said, a self-ironical grin flitting across her face.

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