The Request
By Talking Hawk
It was another ordinary morning. I woke up early, before the sun rose. It didn't take long for my eyes to adjust to the darkness of the inn room, and I then slowly put on my outdoor clothes, careful not to make any audible noise. A ranger's greatest asset was his silence.
I cloaked my face with my hood, and glided down the hall, then down the staircase of the Prancing Pony. I stalked through the main room, and walked past the front desk, when I sensed another being rousing. I turned about, and spotted a groggy Butterbur awakening from sleeping on the counter. As he sat up and swayed drunkenly, I took note of a paper stuck to his sweaty forehead. I glare at him. He had always been an idiot.
"S-someone left ssomethin' for ya!" he declared, his speech slightly slurred from the brew he had assumingly had the night before. I narrow my eyes, and snatch the paper from his forehead. I scan it carefully, presuming that it was another job assignment for me – Strider, to everyone here, the ranger.
To my surprise, the note was written in rhyme:
'Look out for me carefully, Aragorn – Elessar, too
Today at noon
For what purpose I have need of you
You will discover soon!'
I lifted my eyes from the note, and glowered at the inn keeper. "What sort of madness is this?" I demanded. Snatching the drunk man's shirt, and pulling his face frighteningly close to my own, I asked, "Who gave you this letter? WHO?" I was desperate for an answer. Who, I wondered, could possibly have known my rightful name – and even my Elvish one?
"I-I don't know!" he stammered, his breath wreaking of liquor. I wrinkle my nose, both in frustration and disgust. "He just left it 'ere on the counter." He motioned his arms to the countertop and said, "I never saw 'im!"
I released his shirt. I could get no more information from him; he had served his purpose, even if not very well. Besides, I had my letter.
"I will be doing business in town this morning…" I spoke, putting the hood that had fallen off my head during our conversation back on. It would have been dawn by now, but the sky was covered with clouds. There would be a storm in Bree tonight.
"Vewy well," Butterbur yawned, setting his head down on his folded arms once more. I narrowed my eyes, but stalked off. The fool.
Dinner would produce the man who wrote the letter. I would see to it.
* * *
By the time I returned, the Prancing Pony was bustling with life. Pipe smoke covered the ceiling, and metal cups clasped merrily together as newcomers and regulars toasted their dinners, as well as each other. It was only noon, but the men of Bree believed in working short and celebrating long. This philosophy served their simple purposes.
My hood covering my face, I walked to the back of the room, approaching my traditional seat. I came to a halt as I realized a man already sitting at my table, puffing a pipe contently across from my chair. I narrowed my eyes, not warming up to the idea of company for dinner.
I walked up to the seated man, only his back visible to me. He was tall, abnormally so, wearing a grey hat and robe, with an equally grey beard and lengthy hair. I said, authority in my tone, "I believe you have the wrong seat."
He chuckled, then coughed a bit from the smoke. His voice was deep – familiar, somehow. Slowly, he looked up at me. I blinked in surprise at the sight of his crooked nose, soulful blue eyes, and his shaking beard that laughed along with his throat… I recognized him.
"Mithrandir!" I exclaimed, shock having finished running its course through my body. Eyes twinkling with familiarity and joy at its prospect, I slid into the seat opposite the Myaer. "What a surprise to see you here. It has been many a year since we've last met."
He nodded his head, but lowered his eyes. I stared as he gravely set down his wooden pipe on the tabletop, a wisp of grey still rising from it. He pursed his lips thoughtfully, then coughed into his fist fitfully. Something was amiss.
"My apologies," I said in an unfeigned tone in the Elvish language, "but this is perhaps a poor time. I had an appointment to meet with…" The laughter in his otherwise solemn eyes supplied me with my answer. I smirked. "I take it, it was you who wrote the letter."
"You have guessed correctly," he chuckled. "It was I who arranged this meeting."
What a fool I had been. I have long since known of Mithrandir's fondness of elves and their culture – as long as I have known him, one might say. It was not uncommon for him to be caught performing Elvish practices, rhyming being one of them. He sensed my dismay in my blindness, but brushed it aside authoritatively.
"Do not concern yourself with the matter," he said. "I have much to tell you, Elessar. Open your ears and listen well." He paused, and I nodded wordlessly. He sighed, and continued, "For many a year, I have befriended a man of the Shire – a hobbit. His name be Bilbo Baggins, and I have perhaps been acquainted with him nearly as long as you hath lived."
I raised my eyebrow curiously. I pondered why he was telling me this. We – Mithrandir and I – had met long ago whilst I was on one of my ranger assignments. We were good friends, and reunited when occasion permitted us, but we mutually accepted the fact that we traveled much, and had friends and stories of many other lands. We had never inquired or told of our lives amongst these other peoples. And we never told – until now, as Mithrandir and Myaer sat across this table from me. For what purpose has he broken this unspoken pact?
He continued after sipping some brew from his cup, "Bilbo has a nephew, who, before going to live among the elves, declared him the heir to all of his possessions. His name is Frodo. I'll have you know that he is quite a fine lad…." He was daddling – tip-toeing about what he was really trying to tell me. This annoyed me to no end. I narrowed my eyes dangerously, despite the fact that he was my companion. Useless conversation would get us nowhere.
He took notice of the way I was glowering at him, and sighed, resting back into his chair tiredly. Speaking in Elvish, so that any ease-droppers there might be would be left bewildered, he said, "Bilbo gave Frodo the One Ring of Sauron."
My eyes widened. I typically didn't display my astoundment in this fashion, but what the wizard had just told me was no typical thing. An assortment of emotions fought for stewardship over my mind – anger that he had not told me of this terrible thing sooner, shock for the One Ring having been recovered and restored to someone's hand, but most of all, fear. Fear that I, like my ancestor Isilidur before me, would prove powerless in its evil presence. He had failed to fight its advances. How could I expect myself to not fall into the same trap?
I slammed a fist down onto the table, terror constricting my throat. Infuriated, I demanded, "Why have you told me this? Why?! You are fully aware of man's weakness of the thing!"
He narrowed his eyes, gazing upon me sternly. "I have told you of this because there is no one else I can trust, Aragorn." I was taken aback by his usage of my proper name. It had been years since someone had referred to me as that…
As I sat there in shock, he leaned forward, whispering his next words in a hushed tone. "My path leads me to Saruman, the head of my order. I cannot stay behind for Frodo, so that is why I am telling you this."
I raised an eyebrow in bewilderment, crossing my arms. "I do not understand – what is this about the hobbit Frodo? You said he had the One Ring."
He nodded. "So he does. I have given him the word to travel here, to Bree, to meet me, but I wish that you be here to greet him if my steed Shadowfax should not bring me back in time." I stared at him blankly. He wanted me to *what*? The old man continued before I could voice my disagreement. "He will be traveling with another, Samwise, to serve his protection and companion. He is more than worthy for the job, but I know that no hobbit could stand up to Sauron's awful power." He looked into my eyes, staring intensely at me. "That is why…they need you. That is my request – to protect them."
My mouth opened, ready to protest, but he cut me off by raising a wrinkled hand. I pursed my lips as he said, "And if I should not be here when they arrive, then it will be your duty to take them to the safety of Rivendell."
A new wave of arguments swept over me, and this time, I voiced it. Glaring at him, I declared, "You do not know what curses and regrets I have left there. It is no right thing that you should ask me to return!"
To my surprise, he smiled, leaning back in his wooden chair once more. His hands folded on the table before him, he said, "O, but I do." The wizard smirked. "I have done my homework, Elessar. I know very well what you hath left there." Horror filled my soul. He knew? He knew my dark past?
My mother. My love. My reason for leaving there in the first place. I sensed he knew everything; he had pieced together the puzzle.
I felt horribly ashamed, as if the world had discovered the deepest, darkest part of my soul. Mithrandir knew that I had left my mother in the hands of the elves. He knew that I had abandoned my love, Evenstar. He knew that I had left at my lord's telling me that I could not have my Evenstar – not as the man I was.
He knew that I was the cursed offspring of a man who could not bend the power of the Ring to his will, and had risked the destruction of all Middle Earth in keeping it from falling into the fires of Mount Doom.
I felt sick.
He sighed, leaning forward again. "I would not have asked this of you if I thought you could not carry out my request." He smiled slightly, compassionately setting his hand onto my own. I blinked at this gesture, then looked into his eyes, which stared back deeply into my own. "It is time to go back, Aragorn," he said slowly. "It is time to stop running. It is time to go back."
My eyes, after a moment, closed heavily. The memories all flowed back into my mind – the good and the bad. My heart filled with joy at the memory of happiness and love, then shuddered in horror at the terrible memories.
The wizard was correct – I could not run any longer. I could no longer stop running when I no longer had any other place to run.
My feet would carry my to Rivendell.
* * *
Up the steps I walked, my hand gripping the scruff of the neck of a hobbit man. His brunette curls fell over my thick hand, and he looked up at me with dread. He thought I had the intent to kill him.
Most likely satisfying his suspicion rather than stopping it, I threw him forward, forcing his groveling form to scramble up the steps rather than me carrying him. I forced him into my inn room, closing the door behind me.
Recovering from his fall, he looked at me with fear in his eyes. Stalking past him, I put out the fires on the candles that lit the room. After looking out the window to see if any danger already awaited us below, I spoke, "I can be unseen, if I wish. But to disappear entirely -" I spun about, tearing the hood from the back of my head. "That is a rare gift."
"Who are you?" he whispered. I was slightly annoyed that the halfling – Frodo, as Mithrandir had called him before leaving earlier this day – had allowed himself to put on the ring in front of all those fools downstairs. As far as I was concerned, he was no more intelligent than those drunkards.
Despite this, I decided to have a bit of "fun" with him. I pretended to sneer, and asked, "Are you frightened?" "Y-yes," came the shaky response. I couldn't help but be amused by his child-like fore-boding.
Speaking truthfully, I replied, "Much darker things hunt you." I walked before the fire crackling on the wooden logs I had brought up earlier. Turning back to the young hobbit, I said, "THEY are coming."
The comment had the effect I had been aiming for – his eyes widened in apprehension, fear filling his whole being. This mission, this disposing of the Ring, was no longer glossed-over. I made sure that the Baggins knew how truthfully real and dangerous it was before continuing. There was no sense in hiding from him the truth.
I would have never openly admitted it, but I was somewhat touched by the hobbit's frightened countenance. He had an innocence that I had lost long ago, long before coming to this dismal place.
So, this was my fate – to fulfill the request of a Myaer. But it was no longer a request upon looking at the hobbit. A certain paternal fondness filled my heart for the creature, who sat there frightened, no more powerful and no more ominous than a child. It was no longer a request for me to protect him.
It was my duty.
"I am Strider…" I spoke finally. "By the hand of Gandalf the Wanderer, your life has been placed into my own. It will remain there as long as my sword remains in my grasp."
He didn't believe me.
By Talking Hawk
It was another ordinary morning. I woke up early, before the sun rose. It didn't take long for my eyes to adjust to the darkness of the inn room, and I then slowly put on my outdoor clothes, careful not to make any audible noise. A ranger's greatest asset was his silence.
I cloaked my face with my hood, and glided down the hall, then down the staircase of the Prancing Pony. I stalked through the main room, and walked past the front desk, when I sensed another being rousing. I turned about, and spotted a groggy Butterbur awakening from sleeping on the counter. As he sat up and swayed drunkenly, I took note of a paper stuck to his sweaty forehead. I glare at him. He had always been an idiot.
"S-someone left ssomethin' for ya!" he declared, his speech slightly slurred from the brew he had assumingly had the night before. I narrow my eyes, and snatch the paper from his forehead. I scan it carefully, presuming that it was another job assignment for me – Strider, to everyone here, the ranger.
To my surprise, the note was written in rhyme:
'Look out for me carefully, Aragorn – Elessar, too
Today at noon
For what purpose I have need of you
You will discover soon!'
I lifted my eyes from the note, and glowered at the inn keeper. "What sort of madness is this?" I demanded. Snatching the drunk man's shirt, and pulling his face frighteningly close to my own, I asked, "Who gave you this letter? WHO?" I was desperate for an answer. Who, I wondered, could possibly have known my rightful name – and even my Elvish one?
"I-I don't know!" he stammered, his breath wreaking of liquor. I wrinkle my nose, both in frustration and disgust. "He just left it 'ere on the counter." He motioned his arms to the countertop and said, "I never saw 'im!"
I released his shirt. I could get no more information from him; he had served his purpose, even if not very well. Besides, I had my letter.
"I will be doing business in town this morning…" I spoke, putting the hood that had fallen off my head during our conversation back on. It would have been dawn by now, but the sky was covered with clouds. There would be a storm in Bree tonight.
"Vewy well," Butterbur yawned, setting his head down on his folded arms once more. I narrowed my eyes, but stalked off. The fool.
Dinner would produce the man who wrote the letter. I would see to it.
* * *
By the time I returned, the Prancing Pony was bustling with life. Pipe smoke covered the ceiling, and metal cups clasped merrily together as newcomers and regulars toasted their dinners, as well as each other. It was only noon, but the men of Bree believed in working short and celebrating long. This philosophy served their simple purposes.
My hood covering my face, I walked to the back of the room, approaching my traditional seat. I came to a halt as I realized a man already sitting at my table, puffing a pipe contently across from my chair. I narrowed my eyes, not warming up to the idea of company for dinner.
I walked up to the seated man, only his back visible to me. He was tall, abnormally so, wearing a grey hat and robe, with an equally grey beard and lengthy hair. I said, authority in my tone, "I believe you have the wrong seat."
He chuckled, then coughed a bit from the smoke. His voice was deep – familiar, somehow. Slowly, he looked up at me. I blinked in surprise at the sight of his crooked nose, soulful blue eyes, and his shaking beard that laughed along with his throat… I recognized him.
"Mithrandir!" I exclaimed, shock having finished running its course through my body. Eyes twinkling with familiarity and joy at its prospect, I slid into the seat opposite the Myaer. "What a surprise to see you here. It has been many a year since we've last met."
He nodded his head, but lowered his eyes. I stared as he gravely set down his wooden pipe on the tabletop, a wisp of grey still rising from it. He pursed his lips thoughtfully, then coughed into his fist fitfully. Something was amiss.
"My apologies," I said in an unfeigned tone in the Elvish language, "but this is perhaps a poor time. I had an appointment to meet with…" The laughter in his otherwise solemn eyes supplied me with my answer. I smirked. "I take it, it was you who wrote the letter."
"You have guessed correctly," he chuckled. "It was I who arranged this meeting."
What a fool I had been. I have long since known of Mithrandir's fondness of elves and their culture – as long as I have known him, one might say. It was not uncommon for him to be caught performing Elvish practices, rhyming being one of them. He sensed my dismay in my blindness, but brushed it aside authoritatively.
"Do not concern yourself with the matter," he said. "I have much to tell you, Elessar. Open your ears and listen well." He paused, and I nodded wordlessly. He sighed, and continued, "For many a year, I have befriended a man of the Shire – a hobbit. His name be Bilbo Baggins, and I have perhaps been acquainted with him nearly as long as you hath lived."
I raised my eyebrow curiously. I pondered why he was telling me this. We – Mithrandir and I – had met long ago whilst I was on one of my ranger assignments. We were good friends, and reunited when occasion permitted us, but we mutually accepted the fact that we traveled much, and had friends and stories of many other lands. We had never inquired or told of our lives amongst these other peoples. And we never told – until now, as Mithrandir and Myaer sat across this table from me. For what purpose has he broken this unspoken pact?
He continued after sipping some brew from his cup, "Bilbo has a nephew, who, before going to live among the elves, declared him the heir to all of his possessions. His name is Frodo. I'll have you know that he is quite a fine lad…." He was daddling – tip-toeing about what he was really trying to tell me. This annoyed me to no end. I narrowed my eyes dangerously, despite the fact that he was my companion. Useless conversation would get us nowhere.
He took notice of the way I was glowering at him, and sighed, resting back into his chair tiredly. Speaking in Elvish, so that any ease-droppers there might be would be left bewildered, he said, "Bilbo gave Frodo the One Ring of Sauron."
My eyes widened. I typically didn't display my astoundment in this fashion, but what the wizard had just told me was no typical thing. An assortment of emotions fought for stewardship over my mind – anger that he had not told me of this terrible thing sooner, shock for the One Ring having been recovered and restored to someone's hand, but most of all, fear. Fear that I, like my ancestor Isilidur before me, would prove powerless in its evil presence. He had failed to fight its advances. How could I expect myself to not fall into the same trap?
I slammed a fist down onto the table, terror constricting my throat. Infuriated, I demanded, "Why have you told me this? Why?! You are fully aware of man's weakness of the thing!"
He narrowed his eyes, gazing upon me sternly. "I have told you of this because there is no one else I can trust, Aragorn." I was taken aback by his usage of my proper name. It had been years since someone had referred to me as that…
As I sat there in shock, he leaned forward, whispering his next words in a hushed tone. "My path leads me to Saruman, the head of my order. I cannot stay behind for Frodo, so that is why I am telling you this."
I raised an eyebrow in bewilderment, crossing my arms. "I do not understand – what is this about the hobbit Frodo? You said he had the One Ring."
He nodded. "So he does. I have given him the word to travel here, to Bree, to meet me, but I wish that you be here to greet him if my steed Shadowfax should not bring me back in time." I stared at him blankly. He wanted me to *what*? The old man continued before I could voice my disagreement. "He will be traveling with another, Samwise, to serve his protection and companion. He is more than worthy for the job, but I know that no hobbit could stand up to Sauron's awful power." He looked into my eyes, staring intensely at me. "That is why…they need you. That is my request – to protect them."
My mouth opened, ready to protest, but he cut me off by raising a wrinkled hand. I pursed my lips as he said, "And if I should not be here when they arrive, then it will be your duty to take them to the safety of Rivendell."
A new wave of arguments swept over me, and this time, I voiced it. Glaring at him, I declared, "You do not know what curses and regrets I have left there. It is no right thing that you should ask me to return!"
To my surprise, he smiled, leaning back in his wooden chair once more. His hands folded on the table before him, he said, "O, but I do." The wizard smirked. "I have done my homework, Elessar. I know very well what you hath left there." Horror filled my soul. He knew? He knew my dark past?
My mother. My love. My reason for leaving there in the first place. I sensed he knew everything; he had pieced together the puzzle.
I felt horribly ashamed, as if the world had discovered the deepest, darkest part of my soul. Mithrandir knew that I had left my mother in the hands of the elves. He knew that I had abandoned my love, Evenstar. He knew that I had left at my lord's telling me that I could not have my Evenstar – not as the man I was.
He knew that I was the cursed offspring of a man who could not bend the power of the Ring to his will, and had risked the destruction of all Middle Earth in keeping it from falling into the fires of Mount Doom.
I felt sick.
He sighed, leaning forward again. "I would not have asked this of you if I thought you could not carry out my request." He smiled slightly, compassionately setting his hand onto my own. I blinked at this gesture, then looked into his eyes, which stared back deeply into my own. "It is time to go back, Aragorn," he said slowly. "It is time to stop running. It is time to go back."
My eyes, after a moment, closed heavily. The memories all flowed back into my mind – the good and the bad. My heart filled with joy at the memory of happiness and love, then shuddered in horror at the terrible memories.
The wizard was correct – I could not run any longer. I could no longer stop running when I no longer had any other place to run.
My feet would carry my to Rivendell.
* * *
Up the steps I walked, my hand gripping the scruff of the neck of a hobbit man. His brunette curls fell over my thick hand, and he looked up at me with dread. He thought I had the intent to kill him.
Most likely satisfying his suspicion rather than stopping it, I threw him forward, forcing his groveling form to scramble up the steps rather than me carrying him. I forced him into my inn room, closing the door behind me.
Recovering from his fall, he looked at me with fear in his eyes. Stalking past him, I put out the fires on the candles that lit the room. After looking out the window to see if any danger already awaited us below, I spoke, "I can be unseen, if I wish. But to disappear entirely -" I spun about, tearing the hood from the back of my head. "That is a rare gift."
"Who are you?" he whispered. I was slightly annoyed that the halfling – Frodo, as Mithrandir had called him before leaving earlier this day – had allowed himself to put on the ring in front of all those fools downstairs. As far as I was concerned, he was no more intelligent than those drunkards.
Despite this, I decided to have a bit of "fun" with him. I pretended to sneer, and asked, "Are you frightened?" "Y-yes," came the shaky response. I couldn't help but be amused by his child-like fore-boding.
Speaking truthfully, I replied, "Much darker things hunt you." I walked before the fire crackling on the wooden logs I had brought up earlier. Turning back to the young hobbit, I said, "THEY are coming."
The comment had the effect I had been aiming for – his eyes widened in apprehension, fear filling his whole being. This mission, this disposing of the Ring, was no longer glossed-over. I made sure that the Baggins knew how truthfully real and dangerous it was before continuing. There was no sense in hiding from him the truth.
I would have never openly admitted it, but I was somewhat touched by the hobbit's frightened countenance. He had an innocence that I had lost long ago, long before coming to this dismal place.
So, this was my fate – to fulfill the request of a Myaer. But it was no longer a request upon looking at the hobbit. A certain paternal fondness filled my heart for the creature, who sat there frightened, no more powerful and no more ominous than a child. It was no longer a request for me to protect him.
It was my duty.
"I am Strider…" I spoke finally. "By the hand of Gandalf the Wanderer, your life has been placed into my own. It will remain there as long as my sword remains in my grasp."
He didn't believe me.