Disclaimer: I do not own Tolkien, or any of his works. All recognizable characters and locals are used with greatest respect, and returned without great harm done.
A Night at the Prancing Pony
She doesn't look at me any more.
Not that she ever looked at me before, not really. She used to laugh at me, but I think that behind that laugh she really did like me. At least, she liked me a little, and that was enough. Now, however…
I carefully looked over the rim of my mug and across the tavern of the Prancing Pony, and watched her as she chatted with the other maids. She was beautiful – long brown hair, strong sun-bronzed arms, and a smile that could lighten my day during the most dreary winter months. She used to smile at me, smile at my poor little poems and notes, at my horrible spelling but honest tries… now she just thinks of him. She has not stopped telling her story since she bustled into the tavern that afternoon, covered in dust from the pastures, still carrying the milk buckets. She swore she narrowly escaped capture by two of those rangers… but something about the way she sort of smiled when she re-told her story made me think that she would not have minded too much if those rangers had stolen her away. Especially the one she called "Mouse". She went on at length about how apologetic and worried he had sounded until I almost thought the rangers did not really mean to cause any trouble in the first place. After all, kidnappers rarely apologize to their victims… or so I'd imagine.
I wished I had been there that day. I wished that instead of making boots and such like I always do from sun-up to sun-down, that I had found a reason to accompany Mary on her trip to the cow pastures that morning instead of just watching her pass by the shop. I wanted to go with her… the boot I was re-soling could wait, it had been sitting in the shop for a good month now. She was so beautiful that morning – looking fresh as a daisy and as cheerful as a lark. Ahh, Mary…
A heavy body settling in next to me at the bar interrupted my thoughts. I shifted over with a bit of irritation – couldn't this oaf see I was trying to watch the most beautiful girl in Breeland? My irritation disappeared when I realized it is Tom Rushwater, the cooper. Tom's ruddy, heavy-set jowls contrasted eerily with his twinkling eyes in the reddish light cast by the lanterns.
"Ho there Billy, moping over Mary again, are you?" he chortled, low and deep. I smiled wanly in return. My infatuation, as he calls it, with Mary has been a long-standing joke between us. He always laughed at my attempts at poetry, but his laugh was not as lovely as Mary's was.
"Ho there Tom, still dreaming of ever finding a lass that can stand your ugly mug?" I returned innocently. Tom expected my reply since we always begin our conversations this way. Tom smiled and slapped my back as Butterbur slides a massive tankard over the bar – the usual for Tom.
"Do you know what your problem is Billy?" Tom asked conspiratorially after he took a hefty swig of his ale. I smiled.
"No, but I have no doubt that you're going to tell me." I answered wryly, and then swallowed some of my own ale. It had gone flat since I came in, and I grimaced. Flat, warm ale was never one of my favorite drinks. I signaled Butterbur to bring me another round, since conversations with Tom tended to be long and thirsty work.
"You don't ever talk to the girl, that's your problem. Pretty lasses like her, they want to be petted, they want attention – you sitting over here with your ale and your long stares won't win her." Tom noted sagely. I elbowed him in the ribs in response. I did talk to her… sometimes. I even tried to write poetry for her. She always paid so much attention to the rangers when one of the lads managed to convince one to recite a bit over a pint of ale, so I thought that might be the key to winning her heart. Perhaps the poems have to be about stars or something like that – she never looked impressed by what I made. I looked over at Mary again, who looked like she was giving another rendition of her story. The way her hair fell over her shoulder in one straight dark plait was beautiful, as were her sparkling brown eyes. They seemed particularly lively tonight, and I wondered what she was thinking about to make her eyes shine like that. She probably wasn't thinking about a poor cobbler's apprentice.
I ran a hand through my perpetually mussed hair while Tom laughed. Perhaps he was right. I should go over there and talk to her… ask her… I frowned.
"Tom, what would I talk to her about? She doesn't like boots… I mean, she wears them, I've seen her in boots, they're nice, no-nonsense boots, good for her family's business, but…" Tom cut me off with a wave of his meaty hand.
"You think too much Billy, that's your problem. You shouldn't think Billy. You need to act. Those rangers, now they acted and your Mary hasn't stopped talking about them for a week." He noted with that same all-knowing tone. I glowered at him, sulking. Must he bring those dratted rangers up? What were rangers good for, anyway? They don't seem to serve any purpose in society. They come, they drink ale and sit mysteriously in the dark corners of taverns, they stalk mysteriously through the muddy streets without a word to anyone, and then they disappear again. They're almost as bad as those folk that are moving up along the Greenway, claiming they have just as much right to the land as we do. We didn't want any change – we're happy as we were, thank you very much. At least, I was happy with the way things were. If Mary wasn't so busy staring after those rangers, she might see me.
"What do you know, Tom? You can't even get a lass to look at you twice." I growled peevishly, hanging over my mug like a starving rabid dog over his food dish. The effect seemed to be lost on Tom, who just grinned cheerfully back at me.
The night continued in this fashion. I watched Mary, Tom alternated between giving me advise on life and teasing me about my lack of prospects, I growled at Tom, and Butterbur kept serving ale. The crowd around the bar grew rowdier and louder with each passing round. Mary and her friends left early on, probably heading home to rest up for morning chores. Somewhere between the sixth and tenth rounds of ale, the inebriated conversation began to revolve around the town's latest favorite topic: Rangers.
"They're a nuisance, they are, sneaking here and there, never listenin' to anyone. We should lock 'em out and be done with them!" a slightly slurred voice called out from the crowd around the bar. At that point, I wouldn't have recognized my own mother's voice, so I don't know who it was.
"We can't. I try. Every night I watch the gates, and those meddlesome rangers slip over the fences. Or they sneak in while I talking to other travelers. Once, a group of them hid in a wagon comin' into town. I can't keep them out!" One of the gate wardens wails, his sobbing voice sounding very strange when matched with his bulky figure.
"I like them. I think they're just lonely folk, lookin' for a place to rest." A drink-emboldened voice piped up. Silence reigned for a long moment. Then, almost as if it were pre-arranged, the drinkers at the bar erupted in loud laughter, some slapping the back of the young man who had spoken up.
"Good joke lad! Lonely folk… ha!" the warden howled before draining his mug. I think I saw the young man slink off not too much later that evening. He never did say anything else that night. The comments from the remaining crowd grew wilder and more opinionated, and soon "ranger encounter" stories were being swapped. Almost every single one involved a poor innocent townsperson just barely escaping the clutches of the evil and mysterious rangers. Also, almost every story involved the teller as he one who drove off the rangers in question. I did not contribute much to the conversation at that point – I had passed my limit of five ales some time before, and I was beginning to remember why I didn't like drinking. Funny, how I never remembered those kinds of things when I was sober. Also, I didn't really have a story to contribute. I don't like rangers, but I've never had to talk with one either. They never came to the little shop I worked in, obviously thinking themselves too good for the likes of us Breelanders. Therefore, while I attempted to keep the room from tilting too far over, I listened to tales of rangers and their mysterious ways. No doubt if Mary had heard half of what I heard that night, she would never go near rangers ever again. I also swore to myself that if I ever met up with one of those rangers, I would warn them off Mary right quick.
Eventually, Butterbur called for last drinks, and we all clamored at the bar for one last round. By that time I couldn't stomach another ale even if I wanted to, so I stumbled out the door, waving a bleary farewell to my drinking companions. I don't know if they replied – I was too busy making sure my feet hit the ground correctly. I was halfway home, and making good time, I thought, when I suddenly bumped up against something in the middle of the road. I fell back into the mud – it did not. I forced my tired eyes to focus, and stared for a moment at a pair of knee-high, muddy, well-crafted leather boots. Mentally I was already calculating the price of a pair of boots like that. We never got orders for boots like the ones in front of me at the little cobbler's shop. Then I noticed that the boots were attached to a pair of legs. They were long legs, longer than the usual Breelander's. My gaze traveled upward, past the sword half-hidden in the folds of a massive cloak, past the lone silver brooch pinning the cloak together, and it finally stopped at a pair of curious grey eyes. No, the person with the grey eyes wasn't curious… what was curious was the way those eyes seemed to look right through me.
"Have a care there. Are you lost, sir?" the apparition in front of me asked. For some reason that I could not remember, I thought that the voice should have been less kind. I sat up a bit straighter in the mud, and with all of the dignity I could muster, replied.
"I am not lost. I am… here." Perhaps it wasn't the greatest rebuttal, but it served.
"Would you care for some help in going from here to home?" the stranger asked, seemingly unwilling to leave me in the mud. Again, for some reason that I had drowned with drink, I thought this was terribly odd. However, there was no was to refuse the stranger, so I accepted. After a few wrong turnings and a good amount of stumbling, I spied the lighted stoop of my little house. I thanked the stranger profusely, for what else can one say to someone who seems determined to walk you home? I then asked his name, so that I could buy him a drink the next time we both were at the Prancing Pony. This seemed to give the stranger pause, and I wondered what sort of person does not know his own name. Finally, he answered.
"You may call me Mouse." I stared at him in shock. This was Mary's Mouse? Before I could make good on my earlier vow, he turned and stalked away, disappearing into the night as if he were a ghost or wraith. I called after him once I found my voice, but there was no reply. Shaking a bit, I managed to undo the lock on my door and slip inside, firmly latching the door again once I was indoors. Did he know what I had been thinking about him? Was he stalking me? Then, a happy thought occurred to me.
I had something to talk about with Mary now.