Chapter III: Je fis de Macabre la Danse

Ossian rolled his eyes. Having left the inn on his own accord and in solitary fashion, he was irritated to be suddenly followed by an odd assortment of Middle-earth archetypes: there was, of course, Adurant the Sinda; the large red-haired man-bear - or whatever in Eru's name the giant had claimed descent from - named Halfviss; and Butterbur's lackey, the hobbit named Hob. In the distance, the bard could discern a group of torches bobbing down Bree's main thoroughfare. They are coming for me, he thought, then sighed, then rolled his eyes again.

"If you gentlefolk will excuse me, I have some pressing business to attend to - somewhere other than here – and alone. It was a pleasure making your acquaintances, one and all. But please, go back in to the Prancing Pony and have another round on me. Have the proprietor, Butterbur, put it on my account."

Now, Ossian did not have an account with old Barliman, seeing as he came up North only very rarely, and the inn business in those bad, old days was strictly cash and carry. Nevertheless, it seemed the only plausible means for the bard to extricate himself from these various folk, and still find time to make a dash for his horse and distance himself from the far more serious lynch mob that was at this moment winding its way towards the inn.

The elf, the man and the hobbit did not move.

"Begging your pardon, Master Bard," Hob piped in, "but Mr. Butterbur don't go in for accounts on no account, if you get my meaning."

The bard glared down at the cheeky Halfling and bit his lip in consternation. He decided at this point that perhaps the truth would be his only means of escape.

"Look there," Ossian said, pointing to the large group of villagers heading for them. "Those folks are out to cause me serious bodily harm. And it is not for a noble cause that I find myself in this predicament, nor do I expect your aid. Rather, I wish to leave...alone...and avoid potential injury altogether."

Halfviss grunted. What this grunt meant was lost on Ossian; that is, until the large mortal growled, "From ter sound o' it, our fae lil' bard done chose th' coward's way out." He then grunted again to emphasize his disgust.

Ossian frowned mightily. He should have stabbed the Beorning when he first had the opportunity. "Halfviss," the bard replied, "these are but poor, angry villagers, and not men of war. That I kill a half dozen of them before they finish me at last is not the makings of an epic ballad, nor do I wish to be remembered for falling at the hands of an angry farmer because I buggered his comely wife. Even though I did not know she was married at the point of entry."

The complexity of the situation suddenly dawned on the elf and the hobbit, and finally even the jovially besotted giant. "Ah...well then," Haflviss mumbled nervously, "p'raps I sees yer point."

Adurant, who had been growing more and more perturbed, asked, "Ossian, did you even bother to ask of the lady her status?"

Ossian loved the Elves, really he did. They were a wonderful race, highly ethical and steeped in grandeur. But sometimes they were as dense as doorknobs, most likely due to their utter detachment from the normal cycles of mortal life in Arda.

"Ummm...no, Adurant, that did not come up as a topic in our rather limited conversation," Ossian replied, his aggravation barely restrained. The bard saw that at this point fleeing was futile. The mob of angry Breemen, perhaps fifteen strong, were nearly upon them now. "And so I must make an end to this," Ossian sighed with a shrug. Turning to his comrades, he added, "I ask that you forebear any involvement in this calamitous situation." So saying, he placed his lute carefully out of harm's way, and strode off to meet the Breemen.

Mobs are a particularly strange type of beast, starting much like single-celled creatures that attach themselves in a colony of like-minded individuals and surrender any further personal preferences or codes of conduct. A mob has a mind of its own, yet it does not think. Ossian counted on that fact.

Drawing his sword and dagger, the bard directly confronted the mumbling, grumbling mob, which stopped in unison and fell silent. Ossian saw the furious husband in the forefront of the crowd, his face still sporting a livid black and blue pattern from the bard's well-placed boot heel. Ossian, never vulgar when it came to a duel, crossed his weapons against his chest and gave a courtly bow. He looked directly at the affronted husband and said, "I see that you have summoned half of Bree to fight your battles, my good man. 'Tis a pity I will have to kill so many of your friends and relations for an argument that should be settled between just you and I."

The villagers looked at each other grimly, then at the bright blades Ossian held menacingly in either hand, then they looked at their various cudgels, scythes, shearing knives, mattocks, rakes and hoes, then they looked back at Ossian, then they averted their eyes and stared at the ground.

But the husband, fearing his allies' courage was flagging, stepped forward, brandishing a dull knife and hissed, "Cursed bard, well known it is yer work with the blade! Duelerer and murtherer ye be from here to" - the husband stopped to collect his thoughts, as geography was certainly not his strong point - "well, from whiche'er wheres ye come from. It may be I die here, but that don't make you the better o' me." Then with a sudden flash of percipience (even though the man could never grasp such a term), the distraught husband added, "Might don't make right!"

The mob suddenly found its common voice again and added angry shouts of support and encouragement for each other.

Ossian smiled. "Ah, a philosopher as well as a hayward!" he said to the indignant husband. "No, my friend, might does not make right. And two wrongs do not make a right either - if you wish to bandy adages back and forth. I have wronged you, that is true; but I knew not that the woman I bedded the other night was your wedded wife. Therefore, be warned, I shall not go meekly to the slaughter. For I promise thee this: before I fall pray to this motley mob, several of you shall die in pain and anguish." Ossian glared angrily at the husband and growled, "And as you are the aggrieved party, you shall strike me the very first blow. I owe you that much!"

But surprisingly, the mob backed off. With a look of utter disdain, the disgusted husband spat at Ossian's feet, hurled his blade to the ground, turned, and stalked off into the night with his torchbearing relations hot on his heels.

Ossian gave a quizzical look and cocked his head in dismay. He hadn't expected such an odd turn of events. The bard shrugged and spun around to retrieve his lute. There, behind him, not more than three paces away stood Adurant with his sword unsheathed and the giant Halfviss brandishing his axe menacingly. Even Hob the hobbit held his broom in a most threatening manner.

Ossian laughed aloud and Hob blushed. So earnest was the young hobbit that the world-weary bard found his sincerity amusing and endearing all at once.

"What an odd bunch of reprobates, virgins and fools we are!" Ossian chuckled. "But I have tarried in my own affairs overlong. An urgent matter has set me on the road from Gondor to Imladris, and I am afraid I have been a poor choice as messenger for my lord."

This news was a bit too much for the staid and responsible Adurant. "Ossian," he said, with as much annoyance as an elf could muster, "you carry messages from your lord, and yet you waste precious days tarrying in taverns and…and….bedding women?

"Well, I did say I was a poor choice as messenger," the bard muttered, stung by the elf's words and suddenly quite chagrined at his own folly. "But, as I am a bard, I am of little use in the war effort." Ossian's eyes darkened and he added dejectedly, "I suppose I was deemed expendable. My foolish errantry proves as much."

Adurant was moved by the bard's earnest melancholy. "Ossian, as my mission is well nigh complete, I shall aid thee in yours. If you will, I shall accompany you to Imladris and assure you bed no more wenches along the way. After all, the Forsaken Inn still lies on the road before you."

Ossian caught the wry gleam in the elf's eye and smirked in spite of his sadness. "Yes, I suppose an insufferable elvish chaperone would prove more formidable a barrier to my wanton ways than even an irate husband!"

"Stop usin' 'em big words," Halfviss grumbled in anguish, "yer makin' me head hurt!"

"I am terribly sorry, Halfviss," Ossian replied with a wink, "is there something you wish to say?"

"Aye," the Beorning blurted.

There was a long pause. But when it became obvious that Halfviss had forgotten what it was he wished to add, Ossian shrugged and said to Adurant, "Come, friend, we should be on our way. I believe we have had enough excitement in Bree for one night."

"Take me with you, if'n you please."

Ossian and Adurant stopped in surprise as they were turning to the stables. The meek request had come from the hobbit, Hob, who absently switched his broom from hand to hand.

Ossian disliked hobbits. Too damn cheery and rustic. But neither did he wish to hurt the brave little hobbit's feelings. "Hob," the bard said sympathetically, "the road is long and fraught with danger. I don't doubt your courage, but brooms will not ward off an orc's cruel blade."

"It's just that" - Hob hesitated, swallowing his embarrassment – "a few weeks back, a band o' hobbits up from the Shire came through Bree. Queerest folk you'd ever chance to see, even for hobbits. But never was there a buzz in this ol' town as when they breezed through. Black Riders and Rangers and strange happenings and…well…it just got me to thinking, is all."

"Ah, wanderlust!" Ossian crooned. "The wide world is calling you, is that it, Hob?" The bard patted the hobbits head and smiled. "Believe me; tales told over a pint by the fire are far more thrilling than life on the open road. Stick to tending bar. Be safe and live well until your curly hobbit hair turns snow white."

Hob grimaced at Ossian's patronization and he became defiant. "What do you know of my life?" he howled. "It's always, 'Hob fetch this' and Hob fetch that' and 'Hob clean out the stables'! I own naught but what I have on my back, and nothing to show for my work but calluses on my feet and hands. 'Lazy slowcoach' – that's what I'm called! There's more to life than that. There's got to be!"

One could cut the uneasy silence that ensued with a knife.

"I'll take yer along," Halfviss finally grunted as he came out of his stupor. "I'm a' goin' back ter my long home yonder 'cross the Mistys," the Beorning yawned as he waved vaguely eastward. "Many yearn ago it were that Beorn, sire o' Grimbeorn our chieftain, had a hobbit name o' Baggins at his place. My folk'd welcome yer comin'. Stick wi' me, l'il feller, and nae fear th' road." He winked at the hobbit and grumbled fiercely, "I've et orcneas fer supper!"

Adurant winced in distaste at the mention of Halfviss' bizarre diet. "Yes – well then – table manners aside, it seems we are all headed in the general direction of Imladris. Perhaps you should accompany Ossian and I."

Ossian shook his head and palmed his face. Damnable elvish courtesy had defeated him again. "Certainly, my dear fellows, come along," he agreed half-heartedly. "Seeing as you couldn't part from me when I asked previously in any case."