Title: How Aragorn Came to Bree
Author: Beatrix Malfoy Delacour
Authors Note: Ever wonder how Aragorn ended up in Bree?
Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings, but it's frickin' spiffy, so
don't hurt me please. :)
Rangers in the far West were seldom heard of in those days. Not only were their comings and goings kept secret, but they simply didn't find business in the Western lands of the Shire.
So it was a rare occasion and an honor to Mr. Thorgo Brandybuck when a particular Ranger appeared on his doorstep one day, a little over a year before the War of the Ring. It was a cold day outside, and dreary droplets of rain pierced the sky, falling to the ground and glistening like tiny jewel buds on the petals of garden flowers.
It was just this kind of day that Aragorn, son of Arathorn, found most productive and intriguing. For the rain kept most of Middle-earth's inhabitants inside, huddled up in blankets and robes near the fireplace and listening to the rains' pitter-patter outside the window. But Aragorn, he found it easy to slip in and out of towns and high places and avoid being seen in this weather, because there were few people traveling the roads on these depressing days.
Rangers, and Aragorn being no exception, are a very forlorn people; they do not make many friends, and usually keep to themselves. This in mind, it was not only very rare that Aragorn showed up on Thorgo's doorstep, it was most improbable. And there was an even less likely chance that Thorgo would be out on his porch that dull morning in the rain, but alas, against the odds, he was.
"Blast it all," he said quietly to himself as he opened the round, creaking door to his hobbit hole that morning. "Why can't they hold the mail off till Monday?" Thorgo hurried over to the edge of the porch, where his mailbox was situated, nailed to a post. He opened it quickly, his cap now thoroughly soaked, and grabbed the contents of it: one small package (most likely those oak tree seeds his grandmother was sending him) and a few letters. Thorgo walked back over to the door and was just putting his hand on the handle to let himself back inside when a faint noise in the distance drew his attention away from the door for a moment. He listened for a second, and then picked out the distinct sound of hooves pounding into the muddied dirt road. He turned around to see a rider mounted upon a great, white horse, his face not visible beneath the hood of his soaked cloak. And before Thorgo could hurry his hobbit-self back indoors, the rider had sidled up to him and spoken.
"Good hobbit sir, would you be so kind as to tell me where your village lays in respect to Bree?" said the rider.
"Why, yes," said Thorgo. "You're on the right track, just follow this road for, oh, say, another twenty-five or thirty miles."
"Thank you, sir," said the rider. The rider looked just about ready to leave again, when Thorgo's curiosity, though miniscule, still managed to get the better of him.
"Would you mind me asking, what business you have there?" he said. The rider turned to the hobbit and lowered his hood, bringing into plain view his face. It showed that of a young but strong man who, had the lines of an aged wizard. Think of a king upon a white throne who carries upon his face the past and future of his kingdom. Just so, the rider's face showed the creases of a similar sensible man, though he was in truth, young.
"Long ago I was told that hobbits were the least curious of all the races," said the rider, slightly amused. "And yet, you prove me wrong." The rider looked down at Thorgo with friendly, patient eyes.
"I will not keep from you my business, as you were kind enough to guide me on my way. I seek a hobbit named Frodo Baggins. He is evidently well known up in Hobbiton, for they sent me on this road. I believe I can find him in Bree."
"So you are on an errand involving Frodo," said Thorgo. "My friend, Merry Brandybuck, knows him. Lively fellow, he is. Takes after his uncle, Bilbo."
"Yes, indeed, so I'm told," said the rider.
"Well, I'll let you on your way then," said Thorgo. He tipped his cap to Aragorn, and turned around. Entering his hobbit hole, he closed the door on this leg of the War of the Ring adventure.
Aragorn rode slowly to Bree, knowing the hobbit and his companions would take longer on foot than he would on horse to reach the town. When he arrived, he took up residence in a room on the second floor of the Prancing Pony. And there he waited for the hobbit, the one who would right the wrongs of men, bringing justice to the evil Dark Lord.
Rangers in the far West were seldom heard of in those days. Not only were their comings and goings kept secret, but they simply didn't find business in the Western lands of the Shire.
So it was a rare occasion and an honor to Mr. Thorgo Brandybuck when a particular Ranger appeared on his doorstep one day, a little over a year before the War of the Ring. It was a cold day outside, and dreary droplets of rain pierced the sky, falling to the ground and glistening like tiny jewel buds on the petals of garden flowers.
It was just this kind of day that Aragorn, son of Arathorn, found most productive and intriguing. For the rain kept most of Middle-earth's inhabitants inside, huddled up in blankets and robes near the fireplace and listening to the rains' pitter-patter outside the window. But Aragorn, he found it easy to slip in and out of towns and high places and avoid being seen in this weather, because there were few people traveling the roads on these depressing days.
Rangers, and Aragorn being no exception, are a very forlorn people; they do not make many friends, and usually keep to themselves. This in mind, it was not only very rare that Aragorn showed up on Thorgo's doorstep, it was most improbable. And there was an even less likely chance that Thorgo would be out on his porch that dull morning in the rain, but alas, against the odds, he was.
"Blast it all," he said quietly to himself as he opened the round, creaking door to his hobbit hole that morning. "Why can't they hold the mail off till Monday?" Thorgo hurried over to the edge of the porch, where his mailbox was situated, nailed to a post. He opened it quickly, his cap now thoroughly soaked, and grabbed the contents of it: one small package (most likely those oak tree seeds his grandmother was sending him) and a few letters. Thorgo walked back over to the door and was just putting his hand on the handle to let himself back inside when a faint noise in the distance drew his attention away from the door for a moment. He listened for a second, and then picked out the distinct sound of hooves pounding into the muddied dirt road. He turned around to see a rider mounted upon a great, white horse, his face not visible beneath the hood of his soaked cloak. And before Thorgo could hurry his hobbit-self back indoors, the rider had sidled up to him and spoken.
"Good hobbit sir, would you be so kind as to tell me where your village lays in respect to Bree?" said the rider.
"Why, yes," said Thorgo. "You're on the right track, just follow this road for, oh, say, another twenty-five or thirty miles."
"Thank you, sir," said the rider. The rider looked just about ready to leave again, when Thorgo's curiosity, though miniscule, still managed to get the better of him.
"Would you mind me asking, what business you have there?" he said. The rider turned to the hobbit and lowered his hood, bringing into plain view his face. It showed that of a young but strong man who, had the lines of an aged wizard. Think of a king upon a white throne who carries upon his face the past and future of his kingdom. Just so, the rider's face showed the creases of a similar sensible man, though he was in truth, young.
"Long ago I was told that hobbits were the least curious of all the races," said the rider, slightly amused. "And yet, you prove me wrong." The rider looked down at Thorgo with friendly, patient eyes.
"I will not keep from you my business, as you were kind enough to guide me on my way. I seek a hobbit named Frodo Baggins. He is evidently well known up in Hobbiton, for they sent me on this road. I believe I can find him in Bree."
"So you are on an errand involving Frodo," said Thorgo. "My friend, Merry Brandybuck, knows him. Lively fellow, he is. Takes after his uncle, Bilbo."
"Yes, indeed, so I'm told," said the rider.
"Well, I'll let you on your way then," said Thorgo. He tipped his cap to Aragorn, and turned around. Entering his hobbit hole, he closed the door on this leg of the War of the Ring adventure.
Aragorn rode slowly to Bree, knowing the hobbit and his companions would take longer on foot than he would on horse to reach the town. When he arrived, he took up residence in a room on the second floor of the Prancing Pony. And there he waited for the hobbit, the one who would right the wrongs of men, bringing justice to the evil Dark Lord.