Hello, readers! This is my very first fanfiction EVER, so please be gentle! Since I've never done this before, I don't know how long I'll stick with it, but I have had this story, or rather the big scenes from it, in my head for years. And I'm finally starting to write them down. There's a lot more coming, but I was too excited about posting for the first time to write a longer first chapter. Hopefully more will come very soon. Thanks! I own nothing LOTR, obviously. Also, this is clearly very very AU. Or AR. Or whatever.

The Prancing Pony was packed, filled with the travelers, merchants, and wanderers for whom Bree was an essential stopping point. For some it was their last, and they were celebrating with gusto, prepared to sleep for days in the inn above the tavern after their long journey followed by a long night of wine and Barliman's Best ale. It was still fairly early in the evening, so the Pony had yet to transition from crowded to outright rowdy.

Rowan prepared herself for a long night of delivering pints and steaming spiced beef and taters, as well the occasional bit of unwelcome attention from her customers later in the night. She was the only female staffing The Prancing Pony, and after long weeks of traveling many of the men found her a fascinating sight. Having worked at the tavern for ten years, since she was sixteen, she was rarely bothered by their looks anymore — as long as they remained looks.

She only hoped Morton would not make her perform.

The kindhearted Barliman Butterbur, owner of The Prancing Pony, had journeyed south to live with family two years ago, and Rowan missed him every day. He would never have forced her into singing were he still in Bree. But then, she always thought, money changes people, and he had had no idea how much more money she could bring in. He had never known what she truly was.

Morton, on the other hand...stop. Rowan shook her head, attempting to forget her worries, as she wiped a table clean and trotted back to the bar to collect the next bunch of pints.

After delivering a second round to the very large party of merchants who were celebrating beginning their journey on the East Road the next morning (you won't be getting an early start, thought Rowan), she realized a man had been smoking in the corner for nearly half an hour without her attention. A Ranger...of course I didn't see him. He looks quite at home in that dark corner, almost as though he doesn't want to be seen. Rangers tended to be relatively easy customers, rarely drinking too much or behaving too roughly, but it was difficult not to feel on your guard around them. Rowan wondered if she had neglected to see him half-intentionally, her mind putting off going near someone she knew would make her feel uncertain and too...known. Rangers tended to look at everyone as if they could see people's entire lives written on their faces. She knew they couldn't, of course, but she didn't like even the feeling that someone could know more about her than she let them.

Wiping spilt ale onto her apron, she trotted over to the man in the corner. This one looked like he had been in the wilderness for a fair time; his face was dirty and his dark hair hung limply down to his shoulders, but these signs of a Ranger's life couldn't keep Rowan from noticing that he was handsome. Impressively so, actually. However, he still had that stoic look that they all had, and she met his with a smile.

"Welcome, sir," she exclaimed, a strand of red hair falling over her left eye. "What can I bring to you this evening?" Her only answer was the Ranger's face changing from cooly observant to surprised, at least as surprised as a Ranger's face could muster. His dark eyes looked at her blue ones with a strange intensity as his lips slightly parted in astonishment — Rowan thought he was gazing at her as if he had once known her, but never expected to see her again. Rangers always made her feel eerie, but this was new.

After standing with her hands pointlessly hanging at her sides for an uncomfortable amount of time, she repeated her question, if more uneasily. "Sir? Isn't there anything I can bring to you?" The man seemed to remember where they were, although his odd stare remained. "Ah, yes, of course. Wine, please."

"Yes, sir." Rowan hurried away from the table, unsure about how she felt about the encounter. His manner was disconcerting, to be sure, but his look — it was not the way the other customers looked at her. She had the distinct feeling that if he could truly see into her, if he somehow knew her, she would not be afraid.