Title: Through the Eyes of the Dunedain

Summary: A character study story set in Bree years before the War of the Ring. The innkeeper's daughter and a Ranger--it was never meant to be a match made for the Valar, but neither were they.

Pairings: Ellen/Gorlim

Rating: PG 13

Category: Drama/Romance

Author's Notes: Thanks for the reviews to:

Steelsheen- I have to admit the concept of a plot is foreign to me. ;-) Thanks for pointing out I was already two chapters in, and I forgot to bring up the central plot. *blushes*

Hobbitgirl11- I think that Ellen is probably exactly as she seems, if more then can be expected. As for the timeline, I'd say about 40 years before the war. There are appearances of/references to canon characters throughout the story (including her younger brother, Barliman Butterbur; Gandalf; Elladan and Elrohir; Elrond and Aragorn.) but they aren't meant to take centre stage.

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings, and I hope the great Professor isn't turning over in his grave. There have been greater blasphemies in fanfiction.

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As a rule, I wake early. When there are things to be done, there is no point in wasting perfectly good time. A philosophy which has done me well so far into my life, and will continue to do so. Which lends itself to my first coherent thought upon waking, why does the sunlight stream into my room? My window faces in a westerly direction.

Of course, I realize too late that I have overslept. Perhaps I did drink excessively last night. Thinking of last night reminds me of Alassë. I spy my belongings where Ellen promised they would be, and breathe a sigh of relief. My judgment was not so poor that I endangered anyone.

The common room is empty save a sole patron, sipping soup in a corner. Just as I reach the door Gearge emerges from a back room.

"I trust you slept well?"

"Your beds are truly the most comfortable of any inn I have ever frequented. May I ask where to find that girl Ellen?"

"She's off and about for now. She won't be back 'til nigh of supper time, when she's needed."

He looks suspicious of my inquiry, so I justify myself.

"Very well. Give her this for me," I say, flipping him a silver coin. "She did me well last eve, and she ought to be rewarded."

I leave, and head towards the sounds of horses around back. With the Prancing Pony dead until dusk, it is a good time to hear what the other villages have to say. I spy Alassë in a stall, newly fed and in a pleasant mood.

"Hey boy," I say, running a hand over his coat. Ellen must have brushed him down well when she brought him back last night, and I make a mental note to increase her tip.

The tack room is the other end of the small building, and I hear breathing as I approach. To my surprise, I find young Ellen there, a book open on her lap and her brow furrowed in concentration. Something about the scene strikes me as odd, but even my fine tuned Ranger sense is at a loss to explain what it is exactly.

I cough to announce my presence, and she looks up in startlement. Moving the bound volume off her lap, she stands, and then laughs. She must read some surprise on my face, for she points to the book.

"An account of the Goblin Wars," she announces in explanation.

Then the oddity strikes me.

"You read."

"Only a bit. I learned so I could help with the accounting books for my father, when mama died."

"You do not need knowledge of the Goblin Wars to balance books," I rationalize.

"I find it interesting, if it is any of your business. Besides, it helps calm some of the dwarves that pass through."

"I had not realized that the histories were so easily available in the common tongue."

"There's a hobbit from the Shire, he comes through now and again. He translates some of the manuscripts held at the Last Homely House, and he lets me read them. He enjoys receiving feedback."

"Oh yes, I've heard of him. Baggins is his name?"

"The one and only."

"I had not realized he had translated so much."

"You do now. Now what did you come looking for? Surely it was not to bandy words with the hired help."

"I thought I would travel to Archet today, to see how things go there."

A look of horror passes on her face. Groaning, she shakes her head.

"Archet… Nelson Appledore. I do not suppose you would like a companion?"

"I would welcome one," I say, wondering what has inspired her question.

"Thank you, sir. I was to deliver a letter to Nelson Appledore this morning, but I became so engrossed with my book I forgot," she laughs.

With surprising speed she is prepared to leave, and walks her old gray mare outdoors. She swings herself into the saddle, and matches her pace with mine.

As we move I am given my first chance to study her in good lighting. Her skin is the colour of the sickly waning moon, and the first hint of worry lines have already begun to appear. Yet the sharp angles of girlhood have only just become womanly curves, and she carries them as if they are still foreign. There is a spark of potential beauty in her, but it is so far unfulfilled. Her hair is unruly, but it seems to hold the sunlight. Her nose is too large, but her lips are ripe beneath it. Her eyes are so deep a brown that you look past the tiredness hidden in them. An interesting woman.

She catches my gaze, and misinterprets it.

"You pity me, do you not? You wonder why a woman who dreams of the world far away would chose to stay here, and it cannot be reconciled in your mind. This is the life I will know for all of time. Do not pity me Ranger. Adventurers oft times think that we who stay home miss out on a great many things. 'Tis true, in its way. But adventurers miss out on many things themselves. One can never experience all there is or will be, and I rather enjoy my life."

"I did not say a word about your life, or how you chose to live it," I refute.

"You did not need to, for it was in your eyes," she says, and urges her horse into a quick trot.

I find this oddly amusing, and travel for many minutes contemplating. She felt a need to defend herself when I had not said a word? But it was not the truth she denied, for her very words had spoken it. The for's and against's of adventure had been weighed, and adventure found lacking.

We travel in silence for some time, but Ellen eventually drops her speed to once again match mine. I cannot say what the look upon her face may mean, but it is one of worry.

"Why are you here? You Rangers are not often far from trouble, and when you are rumours reach my ears that it would not have been far off. To me that lends to the thought that you either look out for us folk, or you're rotten through and through. While you travel alone most often, I have seen enough of your kind, and I know your skills. I do not doubt that you would be able to destroy the village in one night. But you have not, so I figure you must be looking out for us. A noble goal indeed, but that makes me wonder why you are here."

The tone of her voice disturbs me, for there is no question. She trusts her logic explicitly, and she is right. I am torn, for how are you meant to explain that reports beyond imagination in scope have reached your ears? That a band of orcs, the largest seen past the Misty Mountains in many years, is headed towards them. Especially when there are so few Rangers left anywhere, and so many are off attending other duties. Our chieftain, Aragorn, has ridden off to his childhood home in Imladris in hopes of bringing back elves to help. But there is little hope in that, and there is genuine worry for Bree. How can you tell someone that there home will soon be destroyed?

Thankfully, I am saved for the moment, for we crest a final hill and Archet lies before us. She forgets her questions for a time, and canters downwards towards the village.

……………

I know, I know. Not much in the form of a plot, but I tend to be horribly slow at this stuff. Reviews, feedback and ego-petting are ALL appreciated.