I had a feelings I'd be researching obsessively for this story, but I still didn't anticipate quite so much of it! Seriously, there is just endless information on Middle Earth and it's delicious! :D
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Chapter 1
Celine reaches the Shire a few days later. Night has fallen, and she rides along the Brandywine River looking for the hobbits. Her search is interrupted by an otherworldly screech that makes the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.
In an instant, Celine dismounts, gives her horse a gentle smack on the rump, and crouches in the nearest bushes. She's done this many a time to avoid danger. Sure enough, seconds later the silhouette of a hooded rider on a black steed comes into view, just up the hill. It rides away from her, thankfully.
She stands when it's passed out of sight and listens hard. Where the Nine are, the Ring must be close.
The crunching of leaves confirms her suspicion. It must be the hobbits, and running from the sound of it. Celine shakes her head and sprints toward the sound on nearly-silent feet that avoid the crunchy leaves. Hobbits are known for their stealth, but these were no doubt in a panic, with no time to watch their steps.
Another scream sounds, this time much closer. Celine fights the urge to cover her ears and huddle down in fear. She promised Gandalf she would keep the Ring from their grasp.
"No!"
Celine springs into action toward the desperate yell. It's the hobbits, she knows it. Sure enough, within a few steps she sees a dark-haired Halfling cornered by a wraith and its horse. Without another thought, she launches herself at the beast's rump.
She collides with horseflesh that smells of ash and decay and rot. Hurried footsteps scamper away and into the forest. A hoof connects with her gut and sends her sprawling. She bites back a yelp of pain and rolls away, down the hill and toward the sound of running feet.
The black rider is moments behind her as she springs to her feet and chases after the halflings, breath coming in pained gasps. Her middle burns at the exertion, but she grinds her teeth and runs for her life.
The hobbits approach a ferry that will take them across the river and away from the rider, but the dark-haired one who barely escaped the wraith is too far behind to make it, she can tell. She also knows he's running as fast as he can.
She sprints up next to him and yells, "Jump at the end of the pier!"
He's clearly startled, but she shoves his back to keep him running. The end of the pier approaches, her hands go to his sides, and at the last possible moment she tosses him to the rapidly-retreating square of logs that passes for the ferry. He lands with a graceless "oof" and she dives into the water just as the wraith skids to a stop and screams in rage.
She swims toward the middle of the river and watches warily as the rider turns and joins three more of its kind in running along the shore and vanishing from sight – for now.
"Grab the rope!"
The dark-haired hobbit throws the rope that tethered the ferry to the dock her way. After a moment of indecision, she takes it, swims to the raft, and hauls herself up without his help, though his child-sized hand is outstretched.
"I would not recommend traveling by night again," is the first thing she says to the four. Wait, four hobbits? Mithrandir spoke only of two.
"And who are you?"
Celine turns to the rotund, blonde-haired halfling who addresses her with a wary tone and even warier face.
"A friend of Gandalf's. He sent me to get you safely to Bree, and anywhere else necessary."
"He never spoke of you," returns the dark-haired one.
"We crossed paths as he was riding for Isengard, near Tharbad." It occurs to her that perhaps now is not the time to be so taciturn, but it's so natural for her that she can't quite get rid of the habit. "Are you Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee?"
"Maybe," cuts in the blonde who's come up next to the dark-haired one. "You are?"
"In the wild, I am simply the Wanderer. Among friends, I am Celine."
"I'm Frodo," says the dark-haired halfling. "This is Sam."
"Pleasure," she returns shortly. "And the other two? Gandalf spoke only of two."
"Merry and Pippin, miss," says the honey-haired hobbit guiding the ferry.
"We ran into them along the way," Frodo adds.
"We have mushrooms!" Pippin cuts in, grinning like the fate of the world isn't resting on the hobbit next to him.
Celine doesn't quite know how to respond to the cheerfulness, so she just inclines her head and turns her attention to Samwise.
"I take it you've been instructed to look after Frodo here?"
Sam nods once, still looking a mite suspicious of the strange woman who appeared out of nowhere.
"You are old friends?"
"I'm his gardener. I've known him his whole life."
Celine is silently pleased. Mithrandir chose Frodo's companion well, even if he only knows the ways of the hoe and spade.
"Very good. Then we have a common purpose. When we have the time, I will teach you how to handle a sword."
Sam's eyes widen, but he agrees with a hint of awe in his voice. Celine understands, even if she is a bit impatient with their naiveté. Hobbits were more suited to garden and cheese knives than swords and daggers. Nevertheless, they would learn, and learn quickly. They had to, if they hoped to survive. She could not protect them all the time, and she tells them so.
"Teach all of us then," Merry suggests, looking quite a bit more eager than his companions.
"I intend to," she answers as she wrings out her cloak.
"Gandalf will be there, won't he? At the Prancing Pony?" Frodo sounds so small and unsure that she almost feels sorry for him. But she knows what he carries, she can feel it trying to whisper to her, and she can't go soft.
"He intends to be," is all she says. The rest of the ferry ride, Pippin quizzes her on her adventures, as he calls them, and she answers in as few words as possible. Sam watches her carefully, Merry tries not to look like he's listening to her tales but he is, and Frodo stares out at the river.
When they finally dock at Brandywine Bridge, as Merry calls it, it's nowhere near soon enough for Celine. Her legs itch from staying on so small a thing for so long, though it was only a few hours. She helps Merry tether the raft in place at the dock to keep her fingers busy, lest she draw her throwing knives and start choosing trees as target practice. While that would suit her just fine, it would frighten the hobbits, and she can't afford for them to question her more than they already do.
Luckily, the task is enough to calm her need for movement for the time being. And the gates of Bree are just a few minutes through the trees. As soon as the raft is tethered properly, she hurries them through the woods and across the road to the gates.
The gatekeeper greets the group with a surly "What do you want?"
"We have business at the Inn," Celine answers before the hobbits get the chance.
"You again? It's not often you pass through here twice in the same month."
"Times are changing," she returns. She thinks something much less civil, but she reminds herself that these are dangerous times and he's right to be cautious about who he lets into the town.
"Our business is our own," Frodo chimes in behind her.
Perhaps it's the hobbit's innocent face that wins the gatekeeper over, for after one look at the halfling's wide blue eyes, he opens the gate and lets them through with an apology and says there's been talk of strange folk riding in the night and one can't be too careful.
"Wise words, Mr. Goatleaf," Celine murmurs to him as she passes. "Be careful. I have seen these riders, and they mean no goodwill."
The old man claps her on the shoulder and grins a gap-toothed grin.
"Don't worry yourself over me, lassie, I've dealt with many a strange folk before."
Celine smiles like it's nothing, but she feels the dread welling up in her gut. These riders are much, much worse.
"All the same, take care. I think these are worse than the rest."
His laugh does nothing to reassure her.
'Mithrandir, please be waiting at the Inn,' she prays. They only have so much time before the riders figure out their whereabouts.
"Stay close," she murmurs to them as they pull up their hoods against the rain and enter the streets of Bree. The men on the streets are by no stretch the worst she's encountered, but to the hobbits she knows they'll seem worse than crass and uncivilized. And the four of them running around in a panic would only draw more attention.
The four of them are all too happy to do as she asked, it seems. She even allows herself to feel some relief as she winds them through the crowded, stinking, and miserably soggy streets. Bree is close enough to the river that it turns into a veritable swamp under the slightest downpour.
Celine tries not to wrinkle her nose at the smell that comes off a man drowning himself in a pint of ale as he bumps past them. Any other time, she would have stuck to the shadows and avoided the main road altogether.
A tug on her cloak distracts her before she can get annoyed.
"Is that the inn we're looking for?" Pippin asks, pointing to the sign with faded letters and a rearing pony.
"It is." She leads them inside and wipes the mud from her boots.
"Good evening young masters, what can I do for you?"
A smile cracks through Celine's hard exterior. The innkeeper, Butterbur, is one of the kindest souls she's had the good fortune to meet, even if he can be scatterbrained at times.
"If you're looking for accommodations, I have some nice cozy, hobbit-sized rooms. Always a pleasure to cater to little folk Mr.- uh…?"
At Celine's nod, Frodo accepts the rooms and gives his name as Underhill. Mithrandir was wise to tell him to leave behind the name of Baggins; even Celine has heard of Bilbo and the Quest of Erebor.
The innkeeper starts babbling about the quality of the ale and how the little folk must be sure and try some while they're here. Celine quiets him with assurances that they intend to stay and do just that. He's a curious man, that much she knows.
"Go and find a table," she tells the hobbits hovering around her like ducklings. "I'll join you shortly."
Sam crinkles his brow in suspicion, but to their credit, they all do as she asks.
"What's the story with that bunch, Wanderer?"
"They look like lost puppies, don't they?" she whispers back. For such a kind soul, Butterbur can be remarkably weak for a snatch of good gossip. "There was a bit of a misunderstanding with Gandalf and some of the Shire-folk during his last visit. But the determined Mr. Underhill there loves visiting with him, and so here we are."
"I was hoping for more of a tale." He looks entirely too crestfallen for her to feel sorry for him.
"I'm sorry, but this one's rather dull. I'll be sure and bring someone more interesting next time." She doesn't miss how his eyes light up, though he twiddles his thumbs in front of his face like that might disguise his boredom.
"You've heard about the strange folk riding about?"
Celine fights a grunt of annoyance. He is insatiable.
"Indeed. Pray they do not find their way here."
"You've run in with them, then?"
"They rode by me on the road not three days ago. They aren't the sort you want running through Bree, or any town."
"Oh?" He presses her without really meaning to. All she can figure is he's had a slow few weeks and is dying for something to spice up his mundane life.
"Stick to the drunkards and rangers that come through here."
To his credit, the Butterbur seems to heed her warning, though the light of curiosity still glitters in his eyes.
"Always a pleasure, miss," he says with a little dip of his head. He's wise to show respect for the rangers such as herself. He gives all of them the same nod.
"Have any old friends of mine stopped by?" she asks as she's turning away. There are a few rangers she'd trust to get the hobbits to safety in the wilds if she needed a helping hand. There were Nine riders, after all.
"Just Strider," he hurriedly whispers. He has a healthier fear for this particular ranger than the others, and with good reason. Strider's reputation is one few would trifle with; he was said to be one of the best trackers Middle Earth had seen, and deadly if made an enemy.
She nods shortly, almost curtly, and enters the bustling table section of the tavern, where the stale smell of vomit and ale washes over her. She tries not to wrinkle her nose; years she's been visiting these sorts of places, and she never gets used to the smell. Even the wet stink of the marshes smells better to her.
The hobbits blend in well, surprisingly, but she still finds them in no time. She rights a chair lying on its side on the floor and sits with them for just a second.
"I have an old friend I need to speak with. Don't make a scene," she instructs.
"Best tell that to Pippin, miss," Sam mutters, looking quite annoyed and more than a little peeved.
"Hey, I've resisted mischief the entire time we've been here!" squeaks the hobbit in question, in a voice entirely too high to belong to one of the male gender.
"So far," comes Sam's grouchy reply. Celine almost smiles; Sam's attitude reminds her of her own habit of cynicism.
Naturally, Merry chooses this precise moment to return with a mug of ale that has Pippin's eyes widening to saucers.
"What is that?" Celine almost rolls her eyes at the reverence clearly on display on Pippin's face. His eyes are lit up like the famous beacons of Gondor.
"This, my friend, is a pint," answers an equally bug-eyed hobbit, humming in satisfaction as he tips the mug that outsizes his face and begins the delicate process of gulping the drink.
Celine really does roll her eyes then, though the action is hopefully hidden behind the shadows her hood casts on her face. She leaves the mischievous but manageable bunch for the dark figure sitting against the wall, curls of pipe smoke winding around his face.
"You always pick the darkest corners, my friend," she says as she sits down opposite him.
"The halflings are under your care?" Strider has never been one to beat around the bush.
"Mithrandir asked me to see them here safely. I presume you are to lead them to him?"
Strider's dark eyes, illuminated by the dim glow of the pipeweed, glance over at her question.
"No."
"Then why watch them so intensely? If you continue, I promise at least Samwise will notice."
"Hobbits do not come here often. They are friends of Gandalf then."
Celine learned when she first met Strider that the man had a talent for finding out information he wanted before anyone was ever the wiser.
"Did the wizard speak with you about them?"
"He had no time, but I know he rides to Isengard."
"What else?" Celine knows that when Strider takes an interest in people, there is always a very good reason.
"The Nine are searching for something of their master's. Mordor is awakened."
"They took a special interest in the dark-haired one, Frodo," she murmurs. She knows no one can hear them, but with subjects so evil it feels like even the walls have ears. Celine makes a point of ignoring the shiver that runs down her spine at the memory of the Black Riders. She also ignores the impulse to tell Strider what Frodo carries. She knows it must be kept a secret, and she isn't sure if Gandalf would wish her to divulge the information or not.
Strider silently returns to his pipe, no doubt considering everything she's said. Celine knows a thoughtful silence when she hears one.
She decides to do the same. She's had little time to collect her thoughts since Mithrandir sent her this way, and there are many things she needs to sort out. For instance, the ring.
She is by no means immune to its call. She'd felt it reaching for her in her mind. It wasn't the slimy kind of evil she'd been expecting; no, the ring's pull felt almost magnetic, inevitable, and more tempting than she'd like to admit.
'The master of the Ring destroyed my home and my family,' she silently reminds herself, casually scanning the loud and dirty room before her as if the Ring can hear her thoughts. 'And it would do the same again, given the chance.'
Strider meets her eyes, and for a moment she wonders if he knows what currently hides in Frodo's front pocket. But he turns back to his pipe before she can even subconsciously squirm and she's alone with her thoughts once again. Or so she thinks.
It all happens so quickly, too quickly.
Her gaze shifts to Frodo, to the glint of gold in between his fingertips. A hissing, seductive whisper winds into her ears and a hypnosis of sorts settles in her brain like a poisonous fog. And then she vaguely hears Pippin say something about "Baggins," and Frodo springs to his feet, and Pippin knocks into him, and then the hobbit is wide-eyed and falling on his back, and the evil golden band is flying through the air.
A heartbeat passes, and the ring falls toward Frodo and everyone's eyes follow it. She can see the need in their eyes without even snapping out of her fogged state herself. Strider lowers his pipe from his lips and stands in one fluid motion, and she stands with him to go to Frodo and get him out of this mess he's created with the too-talkative Pippin.
And before she or Strider can step forward, the panic-stricken hobbit vanishes before their eyes.
"Impossible," breathes the Wanderer, who has seen many things but never this sort of magic. 'How useful something like that could be,' she thinks dimly.
Strider covers the distance to where Frodo disappeared in less time than it takes for her to blink, and his absence snaps her from her haze. He can take care of Frodo, she trusts him, and the rest of the hobbits will need some direction.
She crosses the room, grabs Pippin, and groups the three honey-haired hobbits together.
"Where'd he go?" whispers a wide-eyed Merry, staring at the spot on the floor where his friend ought to be.
"Powerful magic is behind this," is the only thing she offers, and in a murmur so quiet he leans forward on his hairy toes to hear.
"I'm sorry, I-" Pippin never finishes.
"You had to go and blab about him bein' a Baggins!" Sam explodes, glaring fiercely at the source of all this trouble.
"No one told me not to!"
"No one shoulda had to!"
"Enough!" Celine silences the both of them with a glare that freezes them in their non-existent shoes. "You can bicker later, when we've left here and there is no one to overhear."
"Mr. Frodo!" Sam jerks toward a table not two seconds later.
Celine sees Strider hauling Frodo off upstairs. A smart move; now it looked like a ranger rounding up a query or demanding payment, a normal enough occurrence in this tavern, or any tavern.
"Quiet!" She stops Samwise in his tracks with a glare she normally reserves only for foes in battle. But she knows it's the only way to get his attention; he's far too protective of his master to listen to anything else.
"Strider won't do him any harm. Now wait with me."
"But-"
She quiets Merry's protest with another of her stares.
"He did us a favor; now it looks like ranger business, and no one will dare question it."
"Are rangers dangerous then?" Pippin sounds remarkably like a child just with that one, silly question.
"No one crosses us," she says simply, as if it's the most obvious fact in the world.
"Are we gonna sit here all night?" grumbles a very unhappy, very worried Sam.
"We'll go and see your precious Frodo, but only when I say. Just a few more minutes, Mr. Gamgee."
The hobbits thankfully settle down obediently for the few minutes she's laid down, though Sam in particular sulks. They receive only a few odd looks, but Celine isn't worried. Most, if not all, of the tavern-goers are too inebriated to remember much of anything, and what they might remember will be dismissed as drunken misunderstanding the next morning.
"Drink your ale," she orders them. "To keep up appearances."
"It's been long enough," Sam instantly argues, swiping his mug to the side and starting to stand.
"Not yet it hasn't," she counters, steel in her gaze.
"Gandalf specifically told me not to leave Mr. Frodo, and I don't intend on breakin' that promise," he practically growls at her.
Something in her softens, though she carefully hides it away. She knows what it's like to make a promise.
"Just a bit longer, Samwise, and we will go and get Frodo. But for now, wait." She even changes her tone so he knows she understands, at least a little.
To his credit, he huffs but plops back down, though he fidgets like a child in a classroom on a sunny day.
She waits another two minutes to prove her point, and then she has mercy on the anxious little creatures and tosses some coins on the table to pay for the drinks.
"Come on then. But stick close to me." With nothing else to say, Celine rises and makes for the stairs with all the self-assurance expected of a dangerous ranger. No one even spares their little party a second glance.
However, the minute they reach the hallway upstairs, Sam bolts off at a thundering sprint that takes her by surprise, and by the time she realizes her mistake, he's already gone and busted down the door at the end with his sword out in front of him. Thankful she had the reflexes to grab the other two by their collars the minute he took off, she rushes to the door with a sigh of annoyance. Were her directions truly so difficult to adhere to?
Sam spits out some threat as she arrives, staring down Strider like he's the leader of the armies of Mordor. Celine almost laughs at how his miniature sword shakes in his hand.
Strider glances back at her, sword drawn and ready, looking just mildly put out that Sam slipped past her, but he quickly sheathes it with a kinder look on his rugged face.
"You have a stout heart, little hobbit. But that will not save you."
"Sam, put down the sword. As you can see, Frodo is quite unhurt," Celine hisses at him, finally releasing her deathgrip on Merry and Pippin.
Sam relents, to her shock, and puts away the admittedly unthreatening blade to listen to the ranger who's turned back to the frightened-looking Frodo in the corner.
"You can no longer wait for the wizard, Frodo. They're coming."
Celine stares in confusion for barely half a moment before the pieces click. The Nine must be know where the Ring is whenever it's put on.
"But it's far too dangerous to leave now, at night. This is when they hunt the most," Celine interjects.
"Gandalf did tell us to travel only by day," Sam offers.
"He was wise to do so. But we cannot stay here and wait," Strider starts to say, before Celine has an idea.
"Wait. I think I have a solution."
They all wait patiently while she organizes the plan in her head.
"You accepted the accommodations. Strider, do you have a room for the night?"
"I do," he answers. "In the inn across the street." Understanding dawns on his face as he catches on.
"I'll stuff the beds, take the hobbits there and I will join you when I'm finished." And just like that, she leaves the menfolk and finds the closet where the inn keeps all its extra bedding supplies.
She takes the pillows she needs, heads to the hobbit rooms, and completes the task with a frown on her face. She prefers traveling alone, but it looks as though Strider will be joining their little party. He's one of the best and a friend of hers, but she still likes working alone. Attachment never breeds any good, she knows this.
Celine throws the pillows on the next bed and tucks them in more forcefully than she really has to. Briefly, she considers running down to the stables to grab horsehair that, arranged correctly, would add to the ruse, but such a run would attract attention, and she has no idea how much time they have before the Nine arrive.
As if to confirm her fear, a not-so-distant crash breaks her focus. A curse flies from her lips as she bolts to the window and peeks out cautiously.
The gate lies flat on the ground, and there's no sign of the gatekeeper. She ignores the tightness in her chest that presses on her when she understands what must have happened. There the riders are now, flowing in through the gate and galloping over it like it's nothing. She'd warned the old man to be careful, hadn't she?
There's no time for grief, and she barely knew him anyway, she tells herself. She finishes making the beds and rushes to Strider's room, sticking to the shadows and thanking her time in the wild for allowing her to slip out the back door and across the street unnoticed. He always stays in the room in the middle of the hallway.
At her knock, the door creaks open and the first thing she sees is the glint of steel. Only when Strider is sure it's her and only her does he open the door just enough to let her in.
"They're here," she whispers breathlessly, icy fear pulsing through her veins.
"We heard," Frodo monotones, staring out the window.
Soft snores break the tense silence, and Celine has to smile at the sight of the blonde hobbits asleep already.
Strider takes his seat in the armchair by the window and starts smoking his pipe again. The familiar smell of the smoke comforts the Wanderer more than she'll admit. It's good to have something normal in the midst of the upheaval of the past few days, hours even.
"Will it work?" Frodo asks her as she comes and sits beside him.
She's not sure, but she pretends she is for his sake.
"They won't touch you," she says, quietly so she won't wake the others.
Strider puts a finger to his lips as the sound of galloping hooves echoes from downstairs. They all immediately fall silent, and do the only thing they can do: wait.
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