Welcome! Another veteran's discount is deserved for anyone who remembers when I first posted this in 2014. This is also a cry for help for someone to get me off this site. I've been here for far too long. (But I still love it and y'all.)

Anyway, I'm reposting this in the hopes that while I continue rewriting and uploading The March of Time, I can possibly finish out this fic too. The outline's always been there, it just needs to be written.

So, I hope you enjoy this little (or maybe not so much) story, and, as always, reviews and feedback are more than welcome and appreciated!


Chapter One

How a Story Begins

The village of Archet had twenty-five rules, and Safavael Tinnuhiril prided herself on being the only person to break all of them.

Archet was a moderately-sized community; not as large as the neighboring Bree, yet not as small as their rival Combe to the west, in the northern Chetwood. It had been settled some hundred-or-so years ago by a nameless group of Men and had continued to exist in relative peace and quiet save for the few lone travelers who had strayed too far from the Great East Road.

The main street of Archet consisted of a bright and cheery bakery, an apothecary that always gave off the scent of dead fish, a seamstress shop with a hawk-eyed owner who had her equally bird-like nose in everyone's business, and a butcher's hut where often the sound of pigs and chickens being slaughtered was heard first thing in the morning, though everyone had become accustomed to it by then. It also had a forge, where the young blacksmith who had taken over the business from his father ten years ago often attracted a small crowd of tittering, hopeful women while he worked.

Beside the forge was the surgeon's house (seldom used by the locals, as they did not hold with such nonsense as "danger" or "mischief"), and next to that (but even more seldom used) was the jailhouse. In fact, the last prisoner that had been jailed there was the jailer himself after he had gotten too drunk and locked himself in one of the cells by accident several years ago. Since then, excessive drinking had been banned in Archet, and the prohibition had become rule twenty-two.

Topping off the main street was the crowning achievement of the village, which was its small yet reasonably-priced inn and tavern, The Wooden Lady. Those in need of a drink or a room and not having the money to cop for The Prancing Pony in Bree often traveled there, and the villagers regarded it as something of a legend within their borders. It was owned by the pinnacle of a respectable family in Archet, the Pennybrooks, and had been passed down from generation to generation ever since the village's founding.

The main street was in turn hedged by wooden dwellings for the residents to live, not one house out of place amongst the others. The rule-abiding citizens that lived in Archet were wary of the travelers who came and often shooed them on their way as quickly as possible, for strangers were not them—and strangers, in their eyes, did not follow the rules.

And as such, these were their rules (or, at least to them, the important ones): There was to be no drinking or lollygagging after ten o'clock (and, Eru forbid, drunkenness); women were not allowed in the forge while the blacksmith's son was working (after the incident of Pollyenna Gregor and the hammer, which had ended with a broken toe and many tears); absolutely no harassing or brawling of any kind; and (adopted from the hobbit-folk in the Shire across the river), there was to be no talk of adventures from lands abroad in the vicinity of the villagers, none whatsoever. That was the first rule.

Adventures, parents warned their children, were not to be trifled with; they always ended badly, in more ways than one. And what was even the point of them? they wondered. Quests and journeys—even walking holidays—were unnecessary and foolish, so long as there was still comfort and cheer and family in the world. Thus, they were disapproved of in Archet, as a great many other things that do not need nearly as much detail.

These rules came to the forefront of every resident's mind when that strange woman arrived seven years ago, on a summer day much like the one in which this story begins.

The morning had been balmy and warm, with puffy clouds dotting the sky and a nice breeze coming from the Brandywine River to take the edge off the sun's heat, and the village had been in a tranquil sense of languidness. The growing season was going well for the farmers, and there was a rare moment where no stranger or traveler was in sight, leaving the village in relative peace.

However, all of that soon changed when the gatekeeper looked up from his card game with the postman at hearing a horse clopping its way to the gate. Grumbling about his stiff joints, he opened the eye slot and peered out. A large chestnut horse stood at the gate, bearing a hooded and cloaked rider upon its back.

The gatekeeper had cleared his throat. "Afternoon, sir. What can we of Archet do for ya?"

"Well, to begin, you can call me miss instead of sir, and not ma'am, either. I can't stand that word."

The gatekeeper just about keeled over in shock when the rider cast back their hood, revealing a stoic young woman with hair black as night and eyes of iron.

"What I'm looking for is an inn I heard was here. The Wooden Lady?"

"Yes, yes, then you've come to the right place!" The gatekeeper hastened to open the gate and allowed the woman to pass. "Just follow this road to the top of the hill; it's at the very top, can't be missed."

The woman had ridden away with naught a word—and from there, mayhem ensued.

Her name, as the villagers soon learned, was Safavael Tinnuhiril, which they found quite odd at first, for certainly one of those names was Elvish, and she was no elf, to be sure. In fact, the villagers thought her uncouth and a troublemaker, a rule-breaking stranger with a thirst for adventure, which, as they saw it, went against everything they stood for.

Now, not all need be recounted here, for the basis of every story is the same: a rule broken, order disrupted (the most memorable instances being the blacksmith's son dropping a hammer on his own foot when she had walked in on him working and demanded to sharpen her daggers, and then the bar fight two nights later in the inn when more travelers came passing through and had apparently made a wrong advance upon her)—and all of it stemmed from the arrival of Safavael Tinnuhiril.

No one knew where she came from, no one knew of her family, and no one certainly knew where she had obtained such weapons "unsuitable for a lady", or why she was there. The children had taken to whispering amongst themselves that she was an adventurer, a rumor that spread like wildfire despite the residents' aversion to it, and one that was bolstered by the woman herself.

She attracted quite the crowd at the inn, grudging locals and rapt passers-through alike, weaving tales of thrilling horse chases through the lands of Rohan, hunts with wolves at midnight, skirmishes with orcs, and other things of the sort. She became quite a figurehead for the inn, but two weeks into her visit was when the biggest rumor of them all began to spread: that Safavael Tinnuhiril—the Great Adventurer, as the children called her—would be staying in the village and working for the Pennybrooks in The Wooden Pony, in exchange for residency and money.

There had been an uproar: that strange woman, who no one knew anything about and stood against everything they believed, live in Archet? With decent, normal folk such as themselves? Even the thought of it was ludicrous, and in protest, the inn's tavern was devoid of any locals for a month.

But during that month, Safavael Tinnuhiril slowly retreated from town life, until the point where people started to doubt her ever having been there. Customers started to trickle back into the tavern, and what they saw surprised them.

Safavael Tinnuhiril, the Great Adventurer, had turned into a few-worded, hardworking barmaid; her furs and leathers had been replaced by skirts and aprons, and her wild, untamable hair had been abandoned in favor of a simple braid. No longer did she spin tales of great adventures, but once every month, the villagers would gather around to hear her play the viola she had borrowed from the Pennybrooks' youngest son, and occasionally sing. Although she never talked of adventures anymore, they could still hear the longing in her music and her voice. There was something about it that spoke of rivers and mountains, of seas and night skies and stars and the earth; it was something natural, and something good.

Soon, she became a constant part of life in Archet, melting from Safavael Tinnuhiril, the Great Adventurer, to just Saf, the barmaid of The Wooden Lady. She assimilated into the village fabric much like a drop of blood in water, and for seven years, Archet continued on just as it always had.

Until one day, when all of that changed—again—and Safavael Tinnuhiril was the center of it all once more.


"Saf, for the thousandth time, don't come in here when I'm working!" Willem Holway complained, halting mid-swing with his hammer and glaring at the woman who had just entered. "I have a sign on that door for a reason!"

Saf walked deeper into the shop, unheeding of his half-hearted protest, and perched the basket she had been carrying on one of the blacksmith's less cluttered worktables.

"If I didn't come in here when you were working, you would've starved to death at this point," she said. "After all, someone must remind you to eat, or else you would forget and become nothing but skin and bones—which would be very unfortunate, for both you and your many suitors."

She pressed a hand over her heart in mock sympathy, and the blacksmith shook his head in exasperation as he set down his hammer and moved over to her.

"I guess you're right, as usual," he said, sniffing the air appreciatively at the scent of food and giving her a quick, friendly peck on the cheek. "Besides, I was done with my project anyway."

"What is it you were working on?" she asked, walking over to the anvil and gazing down at the broadsword upon it. It was plain and simple; an ordinary iron blade with a tarnished bronze hilt, but when she ran a finger gently across one of the edges, she could tell it was wickedly sharp—Willem's work.

"That bloke from Dunland nicked off one of the edges," he replied through a mouthful of sandwich, and Saf's keen eyes discerned the faintest outline on the left edge where her fingers had just been.

"And how did he do that?" She picked up the sword gently, her fingers conforming easily to the leather grip. The muscles in her arms twitched as if ready to move with the dance of swordplay before she set it down and turned away, ignoring the tingling nerves she had awakened.

Willem rolled his eyes—deep blue in the semi-darkness of the forge, as he preferred to work—and Saf sensed an amusing story coming on before there was a knock on the door she had just entered. They both stopped and stared at it in confusion.

Everyone in the village knew Willem was not to be disturbed during working hours (though Saf often made herself an exception to that rule), so the knocker had to be a traveler passing through, in need of a blacksmith's services.

Willem swallowed the last of his sandwich and brushed the crumbs from his sweaty tunic, crossing the forge to open the door. Sunlight poured into the dark space, and Saf had to avert her eyes against the sudden source of light.

"How can I help you?" asked Willem brightly, and she had to smile at the man's cheeriness. Though he was nearing his thirtieth year, he still had the kindness and generosity that was stolen from many by that age, and his enthusiasm was almost always contagious, which had been one of the reasons she'd been drawn to his companionship in the first place.

"Some of my companions' weapons needed sharpening and polishing, and we're also looking for a weapon of smaller size. Do you have any daggers or knives available for purchase?"

The man who spoke had a deep, haunting voice; not necessarily bad, but a vibrating baritone Saf could almost feel in her chest. The musical side of her—the part she had inherited from her mother—was instantly envious of the low, rich sound, and she found herself standing on her toes to see who such a voice belonged to.

Willem had moved aside from the door, beckoning the customer to follow him, and Saf's interest piqued further when three dwarves made their way into the forge.

The first to enter had a regal air to him in the way he held himself, heightened further by his raven-black hair streaked with silver, a close-shaven beard, and hard blue eyes cut like sapphires. The other two dwarves were just as impressive, if not more so; one was a rippling mass of muscle unto himself, bald with tattoos on his head and many scars, completing the image of a warrior with the two huge battleaxes strapped to his back. The last was smaller than the other two and quite portly, jovial and shrewd in equal measure, with sharp blue eyes and masses of white hair.

Her eyes flicked back and forth between all of them quickly, assessing them as Willem pulled out his cases of finished knives from beside her. She watched the dark-haired one look around the forge appraisingly, giving a small nod of his head as if he approved. His eyes landed on her briefly before flicking away in disinterest, and she merely observed as he and Willem began consulting in low voices, waiting for their business to conclude so she could have her friend to herself again.

"This is pointless," she heard the bald dwarf mutter to the white-haired one. They were the closest to her, and though she tried not to eavesdrop, she failed miserably. "The hobbit isn't going to want a weapon, much less even want how to learn to defend himself with one."

"Don't be too hard on him, brother," the other dwarf chastised. "Master Baggins is a member of our Company now, and we must treat him as such."

"Well, I'm not going to be soft either," he grumbled. "Stopping in a town that's not even on the road we intended to take for the sake of quality handkerchiefs?" He snorted in disgust. "I wouldn't be surprised if next he wanted to visit the elves and ask for a bloody tree to plant in his garden when we get back."

Saf tuned the rest of their discussion out, retreating into her thoughts briefly to ponder on what had been said.

They had mentioned a company, and, apparently, one of their traveling companions was a hobbit. A hobbit from the Shire? That was unexpected. Hobbits were reclusive, agrarian folk who seldom left their borders. What would one be doing traveling with dwarves? And—even more intriguing—where were they even going?

She was snapped out of her wonderings when the dwarves began to make for the door and Willem closed the knife case beside her, their dealings finished. She followed the dwarves' movements as the dark-haired one paused and turned back to Willem.

"We will have to consult our companion first to see what he wants before making a purchase," he said. "We will return tomorrow to work something out with him, and to retrieve our own weapons."

"Of course," Willem said. "Just bring them in now, and I'll have them ready on the morrow."

The dwarf nodded and began to pull the door closed behind him, but not before Saf heard him say, "Gather your weapons that need work done and leave them inside. Gandalf, have you made arrangements for our lodging tonight?"

Saf froze as the door banged shut, plunging her into the dim, glowing light of the forge once more.

Gandalf. He had said Gandalf. It had been a good seven years since she had last seen or spoken to the wizard, and she had no idea what his sudden presence meant. It had to be a coincidence, surely, but what was he doing traveling with dwarves and a hobbit, and especially through her neck of the woods?

In an instant, she decided that she didn't want to see him. He knew too much, far too much about her and her past, and she didn't want to dredge all of those memories back up. She had come to Archet to start a new life, a quiet, respectable, uneventful life, and whatever the wizard had brought with him, she wanted no part in it.

As footsteps began to pound up the stairs that led to the front door of the forge, Saf turned and grasped Willem's arm tightly.

"Saf?" he asked, concerned. "Is something wrong?"

She gave a noncommittal jerk of her head as the footsteps got closer, sounding like a tiny army out on the steps from the multiple pairs of feet she could discern.

"Back door," she said hurriedly. "Unlock it, please. I-I have to get back to the tavern and get ready for tonight."

"Very well," he said, taking the keys he kept on his belt and going to the back door as she grabbed up her basket and practically ran after him, the footsteps now outside of the front door.

"You're playing tonight, aye?" he asked as he unlocked the door, starting when she grabbed the handle and nearly wrenched it out of his grasp.

"Yes, I am," she said. "But I'll see you then, all right?"

Before Willem could respond, the front door opened, and a troop of dwarves came strolling in. There was a flash of gray from behind them that made Saf's stomach drop to her toes.

By the time the party had entered the shop completely, she was already out the door and sprinting away up the hill.


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Until next time!