Title: A Matter of Trust
Summery: Aragorn is a young ranger visiting a northern town and tiring of everyone's suspicion when he meets someone who needs his help.
Rating: Lowered to T - violence, language, and vague hints of adult themes
Disclaimer: As much as I wish I could take credit for inventing Aragorn and Middle Earth, I can't. All things recognizable belong to the amazing J.R.R Tolkien.
Notes: This story IS complete. It's been finished for about a year now, and I've only just decided to go ahead and upload it. I apologize profusely to those who have been waiting for me to finish my other stories posted on here. Frankly, I'd sworn off writing more fanfiction as I want to write my own novel and I have a terrible track-record on here. Nonetheless, I did this as a bit of therapeutic writing about a year ago when some crud was happening, and I actually managed to finish it. I spent about a year trying to figure out how to make it not be fanfiction, but eventually realized that the story would be unrecognizable if I cut out all things Lord of the Rings from it. So I decided to go ahead and post it. As such, I can guarantee that you'll receive weekly updates until the whole thing is posted (barring emergencies, power-outages, etc.). Furthermore, as I wrote this at a time in my life when I was very angry and dealing with crud, you might notice that it's significantly darker than my other stories. Sorry about that. x.x
This story has not been Beta'd, so any and all mistakes you see are mine. Hopefully there's not too many of them.
"But I must admit,' he added with a queer laugh, 'that I hoped you would take to me for my own sake. A hunted man sometimes wearies of distrust and longs for friendship. But there, I believe my looks are against me.'" - "Strider" from The Fellowship of the Ring (pg. 183)
"I'm telling you, the rains are going to be scarce this year! You're making a fool move changing your crop out for that foreign stuff."
"Just you wait, I'll make twice as much as you per pound."
"Bah! The cider's finally gone to your head."
As the two farmers debated over their ale, a third man slowly sat back in his chair, some yards from the others. His long ears were finding no good use here, that much was obvious. It was time to give up on this town.
After another moment's consideration, the black-haired man plunked down a few small coins onto the table. The loss of weight in his hand was felt keenly, but he didn't let any remorse show on his face. He stood up and began walking to the front door, noticing as he did that many pairs of eyes followed him, and when he let the door swing shut behind him, the den from the pub took on different, less forced tone.
Such it was in all these villages he came upon. Most of the people didn't want to cause any trouble, in fact, they wanted to stay well away from it, which was why they eyed him suspiciously and only spoke loudly when their talk was idle. They could tell from his rough appearance and odd accent that he wasn't a farmer, or tradesman, or merchant. They knew his kind at one glance and dubbed him 'vagabond,' dubbed him 'Ranger'.
Shaking his head wistfully, he stretched his long legs, striding across the street and ducking into a tailor's shop. His cloak hid it well, but his tunic was threadbare at best and worn through in patches. Surveying the couple bolts of fabric and the spindles of earthen-colored string, he waited for the shop owner to appear. About ten minutes later a gangly man with a permanent squint came down from his apartments and leaned his delicate hands against the counter. "I don't suppose you can pay?" he sighed, raising a thin eyebrow.
"In kind," the ranger said, and slung his pack off his shoulder. While the tailor waited, lips pursed, the ranger dug out a brown bundle and spread it across the counter. "It's good leather."
"You stole it?"
The ranger had to pause for a long moment to keep from saying something he'd regret, but when he was ready he opened his eyes, lifted his face and grinned. "No, I slew the buck a few weeks ago, and tanned it myself. We rangers must have some legitimate means."
The tailor frowned. "Indeed... I'll give you two for it."
"You and I both know it's worth at least six."
"Ha! You are a thief! Six for the hide of some ragged, old deer? Hardly."
"Peace!" the ranger said at last, holding up a hand that was scarred and calloused, turned brown from the wind and rain. "I won't ask you to empty your purse. I only want a good, woolen tunic. The one I presently own begs to be put out of it's misery." So saying, he drew open his cloak to show the frayed tunic, and more importantly, to show the slashes that had been made in it by a blade. The spring rains would be coming soon in full, and he was not above wielding a bit of fear to ensure that he at least had a decent tunic to ward them off.
The tailor swallowed hard. "I'll see what I have," he said at last. In an instant, he had the buckskin rolled and stuffed under one arm, and then he was off to the back, humming some local tune.
The ranger tried to wait patiently, after all, he had little need of haste, but he couldn't get past the feeling that the tailor was dawdling just for his sake. It probably wasn't fair. These villagers, while woefully uneducated about the world around them and horribly suspicious of outsiders, weren't mean people as a rule. Of course, there were always exceptions.
The tailor came back after what must have been nearly a quarter of an hour and threw a dusty-brown tunic on the counter. "Will that be all?" he asked, his thin eyebrows soaring once again, daring the ranger to say he had some other business.
In that moment, the ranger found himself sorely wishing he had spare coin or something else to barter. He would have dearly loved to have removed the smug expression from the man's face, but he didn't, and while he was young, he was no hothead to throw away what little he had left just to satisfy his pride. "It will," he said, forcing his voice to stay light and friendly. "Thank you good sir."
He couldn't stop a wince as his fingers touched the fabric. It was undoubtedly some of the coarsest wool he'd felt, but the old adage was true; beggars couldn't be choosers, and he was fooling himself if he thought he was anything above a beggar in this case. Showing the man his current tunic had probably confirmed the man's suspicions that he was a cutthroat and the buckskin was ill gotten. The tailor was probably just trying to cut his losses should an indignant former owner manage to appear. Folding it up, he stowed it away. He would change later, when the prying eyes of the townspeople wouldn't be there to gossip about how a young man of only a score or so should have so many scars.
It was when he walked back out that he heard the commotion. Shouts, a scream, and loud, watery weeping were all drifting around the bend and up the road. The ranger's gray eyes narrowed. Something was obviously amiss. Almost before he knew what he was doing, he was running down the road at all speed.
The street seemed much longer than he remembered, and the odd little brown and white houses seemed altogether too persistent in blocking his view. Still, he made good time, and eventually the buildings gave way. The street opened up into the little common green, bordered with the village's more affluent houses and businesses. In one corner there was a large gathering of people, and though it was distant, the ranger's eyes could just discern the shape of a man against his doorway, muscles throbbing, face bright red. There was something approaching murder in his expression and the ranger hastened all the more to reach him in time.
As he came to the crowd, he pushed people aside, but then they became aware of who it was charging through their ranks and they made a path for him. It was a rare time when people detesting the sight of a ranger proved to be of use.
"Harlot!" the man in the doorway roared, temples throbbing.
Breaking through the crowd, the ranger looked to the base of the steps and found the object of the man's anger. There, cowering on the ground, was a woman. Her clothes were soiled with mud from the ground on which she sat and blue eyes beseeched the man for some little mercy, but they were surely finding none. More than anything else though, the ranger's eyes were drawn to her copper hair. He had seen it's like only once before, and it still struck him as odd seeing as neither Dunadain nor Elf bore similar locks. He also noticed the dark freckles that wrapped across her face, and as his eyes roved across her brown-spotted cheeks, he couldn't help but see the tears rolling down them, the purple stain creeping up to engulf one eye. Before the day was done, her eye would surely be swollen closed.
The little woman took a shuddering breath and her blue eyes clawing at the man in search of mercy. "Please! Thorn! I don't know what you're talking about! I swear I did nothing! I swear!" she pleaded.
It took Thorn a blink to make sense of her words, but when he did the hue of his face deepened from red to purple. "I saw you!" he growled. Big boots slapping on the stairs, he barreled toward her. His hand came up and flew down, only to be stopped by the steel grip of the young ranger.
"Good master!" the ranger said, teeth gritted. Thorn's arm was heavy and strong. He could not maintain this for long. "Please, do not do this! I do not know what sins the lady has committed, but none may warrant striking her!" Now he glanced to the side, spotting the wide-eyed expressions of the townspeople who stood around. Not a one of them came to his aid. "Please, calm yourself, and we shall discuss the wrongs and make amends. You do not want to be known as the man who would beat a helpless woman."
There was a long pause then, in which nobody spoke and the only sounds were the harsh breaths of the three people in the middle of the circle.
Then Thorn barked out a laugh. "So, you're her latest lover, huh? Might have known she'd chose someone at your level."
The ranger felt a twinge of anger at the insult, but let the moment pass. He said nothing.
"Fine. Both of you get out of my sight. Now. I won't be responsible for what I do if I see either of you again." Then he walked off with a band of men in tow, toward the pub unless the ranger missed his guess.
Leaning down, he offered his hand to the woman. "Are you alright?" he asked. Her dainty hand slid into his and together they pulled her slight form to it's feet. Even standing, her head did not quite reach his shoulders. It was a wonder the man hadn't simply shattered her to pieces with the blow that had given her the black eye. "Where can I take you so you'll be safe?" he asked quietly, wary of all the faces that now scowled at them.
"Nowhere," she wept, running a filthy sleeve across her face to catch the tears. "I've nowhere left. Thorn! How could he do this to me?" she seemed to say more to herself than to him, but then she looked up and shot him through with those blue eyes. "I swear I didn't do it! He thinks he sees things... awful things. I don't know why. I've never been anything but faithful to him. He just has a jealous heart, I suppose. Oh, please, please believe me!"
"Shhhh, shhhh, now Lady," he whispered to her. Gently, he brushed a thumb across her cheek, drying the few new-sprung tears. "You have nothing to fear from me. Rather, I would give you a poultice for that eye, if you would let me."
"I - I think he meant to kill me. I've never seen him so angry before... he never struck me before like that..." She continued, staring off at nothing for a good while before focusing back on him. "Oh please say you believe me! Let one person in this town believe that I am a good woman! I have never so much as looked at another man and I am repaid thusly!"
The ranger ceased all other thought then and simply looked at the woman, seeing the desperation in her eyes and the bruise swiftly growing, recalling the events that had led to this moment. He of all people could understand how completely these villagers lived within a world of their own making, insisting that a wandering stranger be a vagabond or a murderer... insisting that an innocent woman be an adulteress. "I believe you," he said at last. "But I dare say Thorn has made up his mind on the matter. He's renounced his oath to you, all these people bear witness. You're free to go where you will now. Where will you go?" As he said this, he unclasped his cloak from his shoulders and, untangling it from his pack, set it upon her. She was clearly distraught and he feared that she could go into shock without the added warmth.
"I - I don't know," she said at last. "Everyone is swayed by Thorn. He's a powerful man. I won't find welcome wherever I go."
"You could leave this town," the ranger suggested.
"It's too dangerous! In the wilds... I'd be eaten alive!"
"Not if I came with you. I have no need to be anywhere presently, and I can ensure you safe travel to wherever you wish. I am well-versed in woodcraft. There is a town that I know of, not far to the south of here, but far enough that rumors wouldn't make the journey, I think. I could guide you there and perhaps you could start afresh. What say you?"
Now her eyes had lost a little of their fay glitter, and she considered him thoughtfully, her blue eyes searching his gray. Knowing what she would need to find, the ranger looked back steadily, not blinking, communicating in every way he could that he had nothing to hide, leastways, nothing that would affect her. At long last, her gaze drifted down and then her eyes shut altogether. "I go with you, I think. I know you're a ranger, but I don't think you'd hurt me, or leave me in some dire straight. I'll go with you to this town you speak of."
The ranger concealed his disappointment carefully. It would have been nice, just this once, to have a stranger truly trust him, he had just saved her from Thorn, after all, but it seemed that he'd have to make due with her confidence that he wouldn't slit her throat along the way. "You'd best get your things then. We should set out before Thorn returns from the pub."
"There's nothing truly mine in the house," she sighed. "But... come this way. I know one thing that Thorn would never lay a claim on." Squeezing his hand tightly, the woman began to walk down the street with the ranger in tow.
The crowd broke apart before them, allowing them to pass, but they were hesitant in doing so and their whispered words rung in the pair's ears. "Rake," snarled one. "Doxie," whispered another. "Bye-Blow." "Fen." "Mab." "Mongrel." "Scrub." Their words fell on deaf ears, or nearly so, as the woman and the ranger walked straight ahead and out the other side of the threatening mob. It was disheartening, but the ranger could cope. He'd been called such and worse before, by virtue of his wandering lifestyle. The woman, however, could not have been used to this and he wished dearly that he could have spared her from it. Nonetheless, she comported herself with a quiet dignity, and ere long, they'd made it beyond the condemning voices, to the outskirts of town.