A/N: The elvish is purposefully butchered. Please forgive Paladin's…unusual lack of knowledge, he just isn't familiar with Middle Earth history... Takes places in an alternative history or extended Fourth Age (1500 vs only a few hundred) with its societal, cultural, and technological consequences. However, it tries to remain mostly canon compliant beyond that.
Chapter 1: The Rich Hermit and the Hooded Man
000
Villages, towns, and even cities all had one thing in common: sheep.
Ithil Eden was no exception to this dreadful rule, or perhaps it was just chance that he had found work at the very inn where all the shepherds chose to drink. When Paladin Longfoot had left home last autumn, he thought that moving to the great city of Ithil Eden would bring with it a life of excitement, of adventure. Like in the old stories: where the hero, Samwise the Great, brought down the Dark Lord upon his Dark Throne; or where Peregrin Took rallied the forces of Gondor; or when Merry slayed the Witch King and his dragon, Smaug. Cobby's tales had made Ithil Eden sound like Rivendell, the Golden Hall, or the Lonely Mountain—places where grand adventures were bound to take place. Cobby had called its walls 'pristine'. He claimed that the streets were paved with silver stones and that the Fountain of the Moon sparkled with a mystical, faery light. But when Paladin had arrived eight months ago, Ithil Eden wasn't what he had expected. Its pearl-white walls were darkened by filth and soot. The cobblestone streets were silver only when it rained. The city's legendary Fountain was little more than a water-stained pool built by the hands of men, not the Elves who had once dwelled in the forests of Ithilien.
Ithil Eden's splendor was about as real as his luck. If he had any, he would certainly not be here, working in this tiny, tidy tavern that could barely be called an inn. The Red Peony only had one spare room, the others belonged to Master Cerion and his kin, none of whom were actually here at the moment. The Mistress was out, buying some goods; their two boys were at school at this time of day, while Master Cerion was speaking with the blacksmith about new hinges for the door and new shoes for the old draft horse. He'd given Paladin a frown, a nod, and a sigh before leaving. The man saw this little place as his precious gem, despite its drafty boards, the worn tables, and the awful, tedious talk about sheep, cattle, and goats.
Paladin did not understand, but comprehending the ways of shepherds or men had never been his forte. Only two of the Big Folk were in the Red Peony at the moment, sitting across from each other at a small table in the back of the inn. The worst table, in fact. While the others were worn, this table was scratched and nicked and scratched inside its nicks. It wobbled each time either man moved. Yet, like the others, it had a vase with a single red peony cut from the flower bushes in front of the tavern. Those flowers were a little piece of beauty that made this old, rundown inn feel a little more like home.
Oh goodness, he thought, that's my sister speaking.
Paladin only recognized one of the two men; Goodman Dorr dressed in a once-fine lavender coat and white, silk shirt. At his neck he wore one of those new, fluffy cravats that were popular with men with too much money but no actual class. Dorr stared at his empty, wooden mug, his shoulders slouched and his rotund face haggard and pale.
That's not a sight for sore eyes. Dorr deserves whatever misfortune's fallen upon his gray head, Paladin thought as he studied the odd pair. Dorr's companion caught his eyes, and gestured at Paladin with his pipe, pointing at the keg of ale behind the bar. Paladin poured two square mugs of ale, picking up on their conversation as he weaved through the tables on his way to the two men.
"Another's gone, these wolves are the worst I've seen in five years." Dorr shook his head, then squeezed the handle of his mug. He stared at his mug, his eyes as empty as its contents, no doubt. "No, ten."
"And how many have you lost, Master Dorr?" The thin, gray haired man asked, though, Paladin wondered why Dorr would allow such a man to dwell in his company. The cloak on the old man's shoulders had seen better days, and his shaggy, gray beard could use a trim. He looked more like a beggar than a poor herder or farmer down on his luck. The type of men that Dorr often tried to take advantage of, he'd promise to pay off their debts if they let him buy their lands for much less than what they were worth, then he made them work the very lands their forefathers had labored on for generations with a promise to feed and clothe them with worse food than fed to his dogs and clothes a beggar would not want.
"Seven or so in the last two weeks. Double or more since they started vanishing. Only found three corpses."
"Seven?" asked Paladin. Dorr frowned. The other man put more furrows into his knotted brow as Paladin spoke. "Have your shepherds gone blind?"
For that, he expected a rebuke and a glare at the very least. However, Dorr settled for a weary sigh. It was as if his eyes were glued to his empty mug of ale. Oh right, I ought to replace that.
Paladin took it gently and placed another pint in the man's hands. He took a long drought before he finally spoke, "I don't know, but I'm not the only one to lose so many."
The old beggar hmm-ed in response and adjusted his pipe. The aroma of weed tapped Paladin's nose. Shire pipeweed? Must be a rich beggar, then.
"A plague of blindness, perhaps?" Paladin quipped. "Did all of Ithil Eden's shepherds fall asleep while the wolves feasted?"
"Boy, don't make such jests," Dorr warned, raising a finger and wiggling it in a not-very-threatening way, "Those sheep and goats are our livelihood."
"A shepherd could say that, Master Dorr," Paladin said, part of him whispering that it might be a good time to shut his big mouth before he put his whole leg in it. Instead of taking his own advice, however, he continued on like an idiot wishing to be flogged. "You've got enough wealth to feed my home town a feast-a-day for three months. A year if you were fugal. Bet my week's wages on that."
The old man snorted. A ring of smoke tickled Paladin's nose. He coughed into his sleeve. "I would not be so quick to place that wager, young master."
"Paladin, sir," he supplied.
"Ah, I see," said the old man, reaching up to tip a hat that wasn't there. What a queer fellow. "You're a little tall for a hobbit."
Paladin hadn't even mentioned his last name, most people just thought he was a rather short man. He ran a hand through his hair then shuffled his feet. "Only a half hobbit sir, my father is a Longfoot, he married a maiden from the Republic of Rohan."
"Indeed."
Indeed? Is it that obvious!? Appear to be working so they won't notice you blushing like a little tike caught stealing his father's wine! Blood rushed to his cheeks, he pulled out the rag tucked into his belt and dabbed at the other mug self-consciously.
"Another, sir?" he asked the aging man once he felt the blush ebb.
"For me? I think I have had quite enough of Master Cerion's ale," he answered, eyes wondering across the table to Dorr's empty mug. Dorr's eyes were blood shot, but Paladin replaced his mug with the one he had brought for the old man, which Dorr began to down quickly, no longer speaking to either.
"He will not be much help in this state," said the old man as he withdrew a few coins from a wallet hidden inside his frayed cloak. They were golden crowns, an engraving of King Elessar on each one. The things had to be ancient.
How did he get those? Not a beggar then, maybe some kind of thief? Well, it wasn't his job to search out the respectability of the Master's patrons… He picked up a coin and bit it; pure gold, not wood or some other kind of metal.
"This," the old man took out another gold coin, dear gods, "will pay for our tab and his return home."
"That…will…? I mean, of course it…ah…would." Very intelligent, Pal, pat yourself on the back. He pointed to the coins laid out on the table. "What are those for then, my…my lord?"
"A few questions…, and a request." The man's keen eyes twinkled, causing a chill to run up Paladin's spine. Something was very odd here. Common sense, his father would say, advised that a man should be cautious around those willing to pay too much for information. Most were up to no good, or worked for the government…and therefore, were also up to no good. "Do not fear, I did not steal these."
Right, and I'm the heir to the throne of Gondor. He decided that might not be the best thing to say, though he could not stop himself from lifting an eyebrow at the old man's choice of words.
"All the same, you don't see many people with them, not in Ithil Eden or…or…even in Minas Tirith," said Paladin, folding his arms, "What? Are you a wizened, rich hermit that lives in the mountains and makes gold sprout out of the ground at his will?"
"Of a sort." The man laughed. It wasn't meant to be a jest! "You may call me the 'Rich Hermit' if you wish, my dear hobbit."
Half-hobbit, Paladin corrected subconsciously. He folded his arms. I'm not that short.
The Rich Hermit blew a ring of smoke into the air over Dorr's head. The man barely noticed as he continued to mutter into his drink, eyes glazed over and mind addled.
"Well Master Hermit," Paladin began, "what do you need? I haven't much time, Master Cerion doesn't want me to conspire with the customers, I mean, since this is…for the Lord of the Fountain or someone important, right?"
"If we were conspiring, Master Paladin, I would not be asking questions about sheep. If I cannot take up your time now, you may consider this payment for the use of your time later," the old man said, smiling broadly. "You will meet me at the Silver Brooch tonight."
That was a small inn, but at least it was a real one, and far nicer than the Red Peony. It wasn't one Paladin would expect a lord to stay at, except, of course, if that nobleman were traveling the land incognito. But why? And why ask about sheep and goats and shepherds? Why pay a small fortune for his help? Perhaps he's mad, or am I?
Gold could make anyone do foolish things.
"I trust you know where that is," he said.
"Of…of course. I pass by it on my way home each night," he said, though the inn was actually a little out of the way. Alright, a lot of out of the way, but it did serve hearty meals. "But what help could I give you? I'm just a servant at a rundown inn, really, I'm not some Samwise the Great jumping out of the Red Book, though, I do make a mighty fine cup of tea, if I do say so myself."
"I am sure you do," said the old fellow, and then he left, leaving Paladin to ponder the man's strange words and the five sparkling coins on the table. The gold that whispered his name, it seemed to whisper things he ought to do instead. With these, he could run. He could decide to never help that peculiar old man. He could choose something that probably was much safer, warmer, and certainly filled with more food. He stuffed the coins into his pocket, looked at the now unconscious Dorr, and smiled, perhaps after today he no longer have to listen to shepherds speak of their poor sheep.
000
As the moon approach its zenith and rainclouds began to cover His face, Paladin finally left the Red Peony. As soon as he closed the door to the inn, a large raindrop splattered against his shoulder, another fell on his hand.
Paladin swore under his breath. He didn't have his overcoat. He didn't have his cloak. He didn't even have his hat! They were all at home, tucked away in his little room above Miss Rosey's bakery. Much warmer than he was now, that was certain. The best he could do was quicken his pace and hope he could get to the Silver Brooch before…
It starts pouring.
By the gods, he had no luck.
At least this hooded-lantern will light the way, he thought as he partially took off his worn coat to form a makeshift hood. Yet the thing only covered half of his golden curls, which made the chilly autumn rain that much chillier. Only half of his head was dry. Paladin sighed. He kept to the shadows cast caste by the shops, houses, and other buildings as he half-jogged through the lonely, dark streets of Ithil Eden in the moonless night.
Leastwise cold, rainy nights like this one were relatively safe. While a few thieves, beggars, guards, and other less honorable folk passed him by on his solitary journey through the mush and mire, they did not give him a single glanced. Darkness bred solitude like the four walls of his own room. He was just another unlucky soul stuck out in this downpour. He was just another questionable person going about their business. Another person so wet that their underpants were dank. A rainy night like this was sure to make the most heartless soul harbor an ounce of pity for his fellow man…or, so he hoped.
Paladin turned the final corner and spotted the sign for the Silver Brooch hanging crookedly upon its wooden pole. As Paladin approached the inn; he could see the firelight seeping out under its front door and through the cracks in its windows. He smiled. Perhaps he could get a bite to eat and a glass of warm cider before he spoke to the Rich Hermit. Dry off by the fire, get the rancor of rain, mud, and sludge out of his clothes as he ate a plate of meat and potatoes and used a pint of warm apple cidar to wash it down. His stomach grumbled at the thought of food. He had barely eaten all day, and those potatoes were sure to be as good as mother's on a night like thi—
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. Paladin jumped. His heart ramming in his ears.
"Well, well, what have we here?" Luckless. Bloody luckless. Just ten more feet and he would've been safe and warm in the inn! He reached for his belt knife, but stopped when he felt a cold blade at his throat. A very sharp, very rusted, old knife, in fact. One that could kill in more than one way, though, he doubted the man behind him would know that. "A little-hob in the street. What a pleasant—"
"I don't have money," he lied. He could suddenly feel the gold coins through his pocket as clearly as the knife at his throat or the rain splattering against his bare forearms. Gods, he knew he should've ran instead of heading to the old man's inn to keep some ridiculous 'promise'. Maybe it was just an elaborate plan to get him caught like this! Maybe the old man was one of those crazed fools he read about in the paper…! The kind of man whom hunted young, innocent folk like him then cooked them in a black pot. A member of one those Dark Cults. What have I gotten myself into? "Really. Both of us—"
"Are cold?" Yes. "Wet?" Yes. "Tired?" Indeed. "But look at you, in this part of town, you have to have something worthwhile to steal…"
What a snake. Paladin wished he could fight back. That he could struggle against the man's iron grip. Instead, he whimpered weakly. The man's other hand searched his coat for a wallet. The thief then checked his pockets. His greasy, warm hand slid into the one on the right, feeling inside of it. The thief found the coins. Damn. "A rich hob, eh?"
They could be fake! He wanted to say, but he couldn't unclamp his mouth.
The thief bit down on the coin. "Seems like gold to me."
Paladin swallowed hard. Still unable to speak, he knew if he didn't lie, the man might slit his throat, but if he thought Paladin was lying, the thief might slice it anyways. He could be the type that didn't care either way. Paladin's heartbeat quickened. His hands grew sweat.
Oh gods…
"Not one for small talk, are you?" said the thief, he tightened his grip, a bit of warm blood driveled down Paladin's cold skin. "Where'd a poor fellow like you find so much gold?"
"I…umm—"
For some reason, the man dropped the knife. It clattered against the paving stones, barely messing Paladin's foot. He rammed his elbow feebly into the man's stomach then ran, not looking back. Not catching a glimpse of whoever had helped him as he slammed open the door to the Inn and stepped inside. He caught his breath, feeling safe and, more importantly, warm.
He smiled in relief, shutting the door behind him as he glanced around the room. Several tables were scattered throughout the room on top of the polished, wooden floor. Paladin sat down at one and called a serving lady to over, but when she arrived; he remembered that he'd lost his gold coins to that stupid thief. Paladin sighed, took out a few small pennies from his other pocket and handed them to the serving lady.
"Just a cider," he said with a heavy groan. The overweight woman gave him a nod, but before she could leave to get his drink, one of her other guests coughed loudly.
"Make that a cider and a good meal," said the Rich Hermit, causing the maid to turn and smile. A real, genuine smile. Paladin looked at the old man, but he could see nothing that should make a woman smile like that, not that he would know. His sister would though. "And bring it to my room; he is my guest, though a particularly late one."
"You only said sometime 'tonight', you didn't specify a time, you didn't say I couldn't come after midnight!"
The Rich Hermit gave him a warm, wry smile. "Yes, that is true, but it is almost morning," said he, "Come, there is much to be discussed before day, and you could use a warm fire and a good meal in the meantime."
Paladin nodded mutely and followed the Rich Hermit up the stairs to one of the rooms on the right-hand side. Soon, he was sat down at table in front of a roaring fire, eating his fill of potatoes, fish, and warm bread. He listened to the old man prattle as old men often do when they are in the company of the young. He finally introduced himself as Mithrandir, a strange name, though, Paladin had heard stranger among the children of Gondor. Soon, however, Paladin had finished his meal, and finally asked: "You said you were buying my time, but for what?"
Mithrandir raised an eyebrow. The man sat on a chair half facing the table and half facing the fireplace with his pipe in his mouth. He still wore his worn, grey garb; that was, a one-tone grey long-coat, shirt, and trousers tucked into a pair of dark grey boots. At least he had hung up his cloak on a peg by the fire, though it was the same shade of less-than-cheery grey.
"Mithrandir?"
"A man attacked you?"
"Yes," Paladin replied, shivering, "that thief took my coins. The gold. It's all gone."
"Ah, I will have to give you more then." Paladin blinked. "What? As you said, gold springs out of the ground at my command. Did you think that was all I had?"
"No, but I thought you were a criminal." He probably shouldn't have said that, Paladin backpedaled, "I mean…I…uh…just shut up, Paladin…"
"Do not worry, young hobbit," said the Rich Hermit, "It was not any friend of mine whom tried to steal my own coin from you."
"Yes, you're right, that isn't logical." Paladin scratched his head, blushing slightly.
Mithrandir puffed out a smoke ring before responding. "How did you escape? It seems your throat was nicked…"
"Oh that!" He coughed, rubbing his throat. It was a little sore, he would have to clean it to prevent infection just as his father had taught him, that knife had been rusty after all. It was too bad he had left the healings salves and herbs his father had given him back in his apartment. They were too far away to fetch them tonight, however. "I'm…not sure. He suddenly dropped the knife, I elbowed him, and ran. I guess I lucked out, perhaps a shaking fit overcame him and he lost his grip. It can happen."
Except he wasn't that lucky.
"I think not, my young friend," said the old man, "Nor did you knock him out. I doubt your actions…" he stopped speaking and frowned. The old man turned his head and looked at the door expectantly.
Someone knocked. "Come in."
The door opened quietly and a tall man wearing a dark cloak strolled in. It was remarkably only a little damp, the stranger must've spent some time downstairs before coming up here, but instead of removing his hood, he looked around the room, stopping when he spotted Paladin seated at the table.
"Mithrandir?" he asked, his voice was light but cold, like a chill breeze passing through a long forgotten forest.
"I see you've made it back in one piece, my friend," said the old man to the newcomer.
"These are yours, I believe." The newcomer placed five gold coins on the table by Paladin's empty mug. The half-hobbit stuffed them back into his pocket.
It was only when the hooded-man coughed that he remembered his manners.
"Ah…ummm, thank you. But, wait," he turned to Mithrandir; Paladin raised his eyebrows, "does that mean…"
"No," answered the old man, reassuring the young half-hobbit with a smile, "but I believe he is the man that saved your life, am I correct?"
"When I arrived, I apprehended the thief on my way to the inn," he confirmed, sitting in a chair across from Paladin. He refused to take off his hood, however. What an odd gent. "I did not know he was an acquaintance of yours…"
"We have only just met," said Mithrandir. For a time, neither spoke, but Paladin felt unspoken words pass between them as the Hermit meant the Hooded Man's unseen eyes. Finally, Mithrandir knitted his brow, causing the newcomer to sigh in response. "This young fellow goes by the name of Paladin Longfoot, a half-hobbit, as they say in these parts."
"A hobbit…? What did you tell him," said the Hooded Man, his voice taking on a dark undertone, "that you were in need of a burglar?"
"Of a kind," Mithrandir answered, making Paladin feel suddenly quite bewildered by this turn of events.
So they are thieves. Wonderful.
"Do not worry, Paladin, he is not as bitter or blunt as he appears," he said to the young hobbit, then, his gaze meant the shadowed eyes of the Hooded Man, "I am sure his expertise will be helpful, my friend."
What kind of mess have I gotten myself into? Paladin shook his head, then picked up a frosted cake from his plate.
"If he is to eat us out of house and home," replied the other, this time, glancing at the cake which was half-way into Paladin's mouth. Even with his hood up, Paladin felt the newcomer's ice cold glare upon the hand holding the pastry. He dropped the cake in an abrupt flash of guilt; it landed on the floor, regretfully ruined. "We do not need his help, if anything, he would only get in the way. What if…"
"Neither I, nor you, know the cause of this…nor have we gotten anywhere in the last three weeks..."
"You mean the sheep disappearing?" Paladin asked, "I still think the shepherds and 'hands have gone blind."
"Or unwilling to speak to a stranger wearing a dark cloak with his face obscured by a hood." This made the Hooded Man sigh once again. He certainly had a talent for showing off his displeasure. "They are too afraid to trust an outsider…"
"Wait, wait," Paladin waved his hand dramatically, knocking over his empty mug in the process. It rattled at first then fell off the table, and rolled across the floor, hitting one of the Hooded Man's black boots. The Hooded Man glared; Paladin shivered. "Ummm…, I thought you two were some kind of thieves or criminals or cultists or…?"
"And what, dear hobbit," said Mithrandir, "led you to think that?"
"The secrecy. The scary man in a hood. The crowns popping out of nowhere despite that Mithrandir looks poorer than a mountain goat…" Paladin blushed. "And the weird names. Who names their child something like 'the Grey Pilgrim'? That sounds like a thief's name to me…or…well, something devious or untrustworthy, or maybe a crown-man…"
He stopped, and frowned, wishing he had bit his tongue instead of letting his mouth run like that. They exchanged a glance, the Hooded Man laughed. "How is it that he knows more Sindarin than history in this age?"
Blood rushed to Paladin's neck as his embarrassment deepened. He was sure his face looked brighter than a red peony in the summertime. It was a good thing the room was dark enough that the other two could not fathom the extent of his embarrassment.
"Well," he began, squirming nervously, not sure how to put it. As was his normal tack, he let his tongue run wild. "The dead elven languages seemed more interesting than a bunch of half-baked legends stored in an ancient book edited so many times that no one can tell what's true and what isn't, well, at least, that's what my sister always said."
"Hmmm," Mithrandir replied.
"Wouldn't you say that legends hold some truth, hobbit?" asked the Hooded Man.
"Half-hobbit, but...I never cared for such silly tales. Now, dead languages, those are a bit more interesting," Paladin said, though, he had the strangest feeling that he might be digging himself into a hole for some reason. A deep hole without a bottom. Oh, donkey asses. "I only studied a little bit of the elven languages, though, honestly it…it was my sister's idea."
"Perhaps she is half-wise and half-foolish then," the hooded man replied, Paladin balled his hands. If he were a stronger person, a better one, he wouldn't have let the Hooded Man stomp all over his sister's honor. He held his tongue, however. "Do you believe they were made by elves or men?"
"I haven't a clue," Paladin said, "lots of people say these days that if you can't see it or experiment on it or…"
"Test your theory?" Paladin nodded in response. "If, by chance, they do see evidence of your claim, they may not believe what their eyes tell them if it goes against the conclusions they had previously assumed. Such is the way of men in these days…"
"Are you sure you wish to reveal thisto him?" Mithrandir asked, taking his pipe from his mouth. He watched his companion with his unnervingly keen eyes. A thousand unspoken words seemed to pass between them in an instant. Mithrandir relit his pipe. "It is your choice, of course."
"I doubt he will reveal our secrets. With any luck, he won't know they are secrets," he said, "He did not recognize your name, I take it?"
"He did not." Mithrandir's eyes sparkled. "Not even after he had rendered it into Westron."
What? Was the Rich Hermit named for some renowned hero? He hadn't a clue.
The hooded man lifted a slender hand up to his hood. For a moment, Paladin thought he saw something of shimmer on one of his fingers, but...he wasn't sure. Taking off his hood, the hooded man revealed a head of wavy, golden hair, and an impossibly fair face with high cheek bones and lineless, grey eyes. However, unlike Mithrandir, the hooded man had cut his hair in a modern style. It barely touched the bottom of his neck, whereas the old man's hair fell down his back like a bushel of grey wheat.
"Oh…you're…ummm…" Paladin's voice squeaked like a little girl's. So very mature Paladin!
"Pretty…ummm…that isn't the right word…" Paladin cleared his throat. "I mean, lord-like. I guess they wouldn't want to talk to a lord. They're farmers. Shepherds. They'd think you're a stupid lordling attempting to get to "know" the people by going among them in disguise. Let me tell you, that hardly ever works, you know, no offense."
The Hooded Man rolled his eyes, pushing a strain of golden hair behind…a leaf-shaped ear. Paladin gasped. Dear gods…
"Is…is that real?" As Paladin spoke, he leaned forward and reached out to touch the Hooded Man's ear. The golden haired man glared at Paladin's hand. It fell limply to his side. "Sorry..."
Mithrandir snorted. More smoke filled the room. The Hooded Man covered his mouth with one slender hand, glaring at the pipe like it was some kind of malevolent beast that had risen from the Deep.
"You're a…faery?" Paladin asked.
"An elf," said elf pointedly corrected him, "Not a sprite, not a spirit, nor faded or gone. I cannot say what has become of my kind, they live no longer in Ithilien as far as I have seen. You may call me Legolas Greenleaf."
"What kind of name—"
"It is merely a translation," he said this as if that should explain it. This did not sate Paladin's curiosity or stop his mouth, however.
"But, then…you're called 'Greenleaf Greenleaf', why would your mother let—"
"You might want to hold your tongue, young hobbit," said Mithrandir, raising an eyebrow.
"Or you, by some whim of fate, related to the Tooks?" Legolas asked.
"No." Paladin tilted his head. "Why?"
"He is calling you a 'fool of a Took'," came Mithrandir's reply, "an apt description at the moment, wouldn't you say?"
"Like Gandalf called Peregrin?" That wasn't a picture Paladin liked. He'd much rather be a Gamgee, all things considered.
They laughed. "Yes," Mithrandir responded once the laughter subsided, "now, Paladin, while we are fond of such memories, the hour glows late, why do you think I asked you to come?"
"I guess it makes sense then…with…being…you know…why you need help talking to the…shepherds and hands and stuff…" Paladin frowned, "but why me? I know some of them, they might listen to my inquiries…"
"That, Master Paladin," said Mithrandir, "is more than he has accomplished, though the most we would want is a sheep's corpse."
"So, I am a burglar?"
"Of a sort."
"A dead sheep burglar."
Gods. He sighed, and looked out the window. In the distance, he saw the ancient fortress of Minas Ithil. According to legend, it had been the nearest outpost to Mordor and after that, the Enemy's stronghold. Now, centuries later, it was the palace of the Lord of the Fountain. And, for a moment, Paladin thought he saw a strange green light in the highest chamber. An impossible green flame, he turned back to his companions, but they were speaking in low voices. Again, he peered over his shoulder, but the fortress had fallen dark.
Just tired. Must have been seeing things. He yawned. "Is there any place to sleep?"
"Are you not from here?" asked the elf. "Surely you would find your own bed more welcoming…"
"The second door, take Legolas' mat, our elven friend does not need sleep like you or I," Mithrandir grinned at the elf, whom only responded with a half-hearted sigh, "remember, Paladin, tomorrow will be an early start for the both of you…"
Paladin nodded, stood, and walked to the door, glancing back at the elf and the odd, old man for a moment. He knew he should know them from somewhere, but his mind was too tired, too muddled and slow to recall any history at the moment. He doubted it could be all that important. But, there was one thing he was sure of as he looked at the elf: he doesn't like me…and I can't blame him.
Paladin closed the door behind him. He flopped down upon the fluffy bed unceremonially, and stared at the ceiling. What was he doing here with these strange people? He threw the covers over his head. Why did you come? For a few gold pieces? You're an idiot, Paladin! He rolled over onto his side. Don't you have work tomorrow?
Paladin sighed, closing his eyes, but sleep did not yet come. Instead, he tossed and turned until the first grey light of early morn fell through his window, and a quiet, lonely voice sang a song of seagulls and the dawn.
000
Thanks for reading! Please review. Whimsy needs food.