Yay! My first official upload. It's about damn time. I wrote this for a ToE challenge- I know it's short, but please take a moment to send off a review- I would really appreciate it. Enjoy:
Disclaimer: All locations and Aragorn belong to papa Tolkien, I'm not hurting them, nor am I making any money off them. They will be returned fully intact, if not a little tipsy.
The Caged Warg
Rain lashed the windows as Mentar the barkeep scrubbed the wooden bartop in his tavern. Not that it was necessary- he had already washed it seven times since the last patron had stumbled out. And that had been some time ago, he thought bitterly. Not many people in the poorest circle of Minas Tirith had the need to spend their little money on drink; and those that had the need had not the means. It had not always been so quiet in the low-beamed rooms of The Caged Warg, but what cause had forced the customers from his establishment, Mentar could not find. He had thought that business would be better in the fearless and bountiful years following the War of the Ring, but it was not so. All the tired man knew was that this day was to be his last behind the well-worn bar.
"Blasted rain," he muttered, glaring at the buckets he had strewn about the room to collect leaking droplets. I am feeling bad enough, he thought to himself, I didn't need this storm coming up as well. He thought of his daughter, barely thirteen, at home caring for her three younger brothers and younger sister. Haloeth, diligently cooking, healing, schooling, mothering. Fair Haloeth, foregoing the joy of carefree adolescence to help tend to her family.
"What will we do now, daughter?" Mentar shook his head. His eyes, creased from laughter and hardship, darkened at the thought. The Caged Warg was their livelihood; his family depended on the drunken vices of man to put food on their meager table. And Mentar knew he had used the tavern to keep the painful death of his wife from eating at the corners of his sanity. What now, he asked again, silently brooding. What will our lives become without this place?
His struggles to find an answer were interrupted by the chilled blast of air and rain that blew in from the open door. Two figures, illuminated from behind by a flash of lightning, ducked into the dark tavern and stood dripping in the entry. Mentar started, momentarily spooked by the wild entrance of the men, then bewildered by their presence. He had thought surely no person would venture out in this sudden storm.
"Good afternoon, sirs," he offered when he had recovered. Mentar reached for a towel and circled the bar towards the two men.
"And a wet one as well, innkeeper," came the reply. The taller man smiled slightly as he said this, and gestured to the grey beyond the window. "We were caught unawares by the rain, mind you if we weather it in your company?" The man was dark, familiar- though wetness dripped from his hair and ran in rivulets down the creases of his cloak. His cloak. His cloak was of a rich sable fabric, the livery of the royal house of Gondor, the clothing underneath plain yet finely fashioned. Mentar's surprised eyes reluctantly left the tall stranger to inspect his comrade, a stocky, bearded man who bore the same dark trappings. And just visible, beneath the folds, a black surcoat, bearing the White Tree. Mentar let out a gasp as realization alit upon his mind: a Soldier of the Tower! And the other is of some importance as well, he mused. Never before had men of this stature passed through his door. The barman stood agape for a moment before recovering himself and handing the soldier his small towel.
"Please, dry off and come rest by the fire," Mentar fussed. "What may I get for you sirs?"
The dark pair dodged buckets on the wet floor as they made their way to a small table near the quiet fire. The simple chairs creaked invitingly as they sat.
"Something warm," said the soldier good-naturedly, eyeing the waves of rain that assaulted the windows. "A Corsair cider, perhaps?" He nodded decidedly as Mentar made for the bar. "Yes, that will do nicely. And you sire?"
The tired barkeep missed a step and stumbled, catching his hand on the bar, his breath in his throat. Sire? The final word echoed in his head, his mind reluctant to release it for fear it might vanish like the fog that gathered on the windowpanes. He turned, his eyes apprehensively seeking out the tall man who was now seated, his feet stretched out towards the fire, basking in its warmth. Mentar's knees weakened in disbelief as he heard the man answer. "That sounds perfect, Dharon. Make it two."
Moving faster than ever his memory could recall, the barman left the counter and appeared before the man who sat with easy confidence. It seems embarrassment has awakened my tired legs, he thought, as he somewhat painfully dropped to his knees. "Sire, I didn't know… please forgive me," he stammered, his hands anxiously fluttering about his face. Mentar bowed his head low before the man he now knew why he had recognized.
Mentar braced for a rebuke, but instead the king let out a quiet laugh. "Arise, good sir," he exclaimed as the mirth grew in his throat. "'Tis not necessary for you to grovel so- I would rather enjoy shedding these trappings for an afternoon!" He made a comical sweeping motion towards his royal garb as he said this. "Come, and fetch us our cider before we catch a chill!"
His joking command sent Mentar hastening back towards the bar, a disbelieving smile upon his smoky face. Not only have I met the King, but he is as humble and gracious as one could ask! And he is to remain here for the afternoon- what fortune is this?
Mentar's shaking hands carefully drew the hot cider, and he carried the steamy mugs over to the fire where the two men sat languidly. He set down the drinks, stoked the embers in the hearth, and made to leave when Aragorn placed a steady hand on his arm.
"Come, sit with us," the king gestured towards an empty chair. Sensing Mentar's hesitation, he added lightheartedly, "unless you have other customers to tend to?"
The barman flushed, embarrassed both at his empty tavern and the king's undemanding kindness. Looking up from his feet, Mentar saw both men expectantly following his upturned face. Still struggling to comprehend who was sitting at his table, he took a deep breath and sat down; his disbelief forming a question.
"How is it that you came by my inn?" He asked carefully, not wanting to affront his guests.
Dharon smiled. "We were touring the outer walls of the city, noting repairs that needed to be made. His Highness needs not accompany me on such a task, but his eagerness to escape the Citadel forced me to accept his companionship." His last words carried a mock reluctance, and he shot a knowing glance towards the King.
Mentar sat in silence, marveling at the easy friendship that existed between the two men. His mind recalled stories he had heard told about the deeds of his King- the dangers he had faced, the far places he had traveled, and the strange beings he had met. Words escaped his lips before he could censure them. "You have beheld such greatness as I could never imagine..." He trailed off, looking up suddenly as he realized he had spoken aloud. His small eyes softened as he beheld the warmth revealed in Aragorn's face.
Mentar watched as the King took a long sip of cider, leaned back in his chair, and knotted his hands behind his head. "Come," he beckoned softly, "let me tell you of the beauty of the Elven city of Caras Galadon..."
The stormy afternoon passed easily with stories and flowing cider. Aragorn only halted his words when the drink ran dry or overflowing rain-buckets required emptying, and each time Mentar returned, the King resumed his tales with zeal. Both the soldier and the barman sat transfixed, their eyes lightly closed as they learned of Middle Earth, from the emerald reaches of the North to the majesty of the Argonath.
As evening approached, the men were surprised to discover that the storm had passed, leaving puddles of clear water upon the White City. Mentar and Dharon abashedly glanced at each other, knowing they had lost time amid the glowing chronicles of their King. The gloss of memories, it seemed, had clouded the awareness of the storyteller as well.
Aragorn blinked and streched. "Ah, Dharon... I suppose it is time to return to our duties." He looked out at the sinking sun. "I suspect we have been sorely missed," he added with a mischievous grin.
The King and soldier of Gondor rose from their seats, yawning, and thanked the barkeeper for his drink and eager ear. Rosy with appreciation, Mentar rushed to the bar and busied himself while the two men slowly made for the door. He reached the entry just as they were donning their cloaks.
"Would you please, Sire, before you leave," he ventured awkwardly, holding out a yellowed piece of parchment on which he had written.
Aragorn gave a lopsided smile. "Of course," he conceded questioningly. He took the parchment and proffered quill, read the paper, laughed, and then scrawled his well-practiced, most kingly signature. He handed the paper back to Mentar with a clap on the back. "Long life to you, good sir!"
"And to you, Sire," Mentar returned with a small bow, and nodded to a smiling Dharon.
The pair left the pub with a wave to the barkeep, who could not help but grin at his great luck. He immediately rushed to the doorframe and tacked up his new prize- fortune's gift that would keep his tavern alive.
The paper hung at his door for years to come, through many patrons.
"The Caged Warg: The Official Tavern of Elessar, High King of Gondor"