Elemental Flair: Do you mean that you want a story set after the ring council takes place, during the timeframe of the LOTR itself? Or after the events of the ROTK? Or something else altogether?
Farflung: In the field of folklore, it is a truism that if a command is given to not do something, invariably the command is broken. This is especially true in the case of a character like Anomen.
Lyn: You're right—it's the word not the number. Sometime this week I'll clarify that section so that it is clear that the word is intended.
Ky: Tom Bombadil is almost like Galadriel in his ability to look into the hearts and minds of characters.
Daw the Minstrel: Unfortunately, not even Gandalf can keep Anomen busy enough to prevent him from getting into trouble, as you will see in a future chapter.
Dragonfly: When Gandalf left Anomen behind, it was because he knew the only one who could find him would be Tom. I'm going to add a sentence to clarify that, to make it clear that Gandalf was hurrying off to ask Tom to rescue Anomen.
Vocabulary
Böse—'Malevolence' (German)
Dieb—'Thief' (German)
Mörder—'Murderer' (German)
Räuber—'Robber' (German)
Todsünde—'Deadly Sin' (German)
Übel—'Evil' (German)
Anomen slept very well that night on a feather bolster, wrapped up in a down duvet. The same could not be said for Glorfindel. By this time, Aragorn son of Aravir was leading him through the Midgewater Marshes. The Ranger had chosen this route both because it allowed them to bypass a great loop of the Road and because it would set them on a path that would permit them to approach Weathertop unseen.
The Midgewater Marshes were aptly named, for its bogs and pools were home to legions of voracious midges that tormented the travelers by creeping beneath their tunics and leggings in search of a blood meal. Glorfindel was normally unflappable, but these tiny creatures buzzing about his ears and crawling into his hair and clothing were well nigh more than he could bear.
"What," he asked Aragorn miserably, "do they live on when they can't get Elf?"
"Ranger," replied his laconic guide.
It took them two days to traverse the treacherous quagmire that was the Midgewater Marsh. When they had at last left it behind, Aragorn steered them not directly toward Weathertop but to a line of hills from which they would be able to pick up a trail that would bring them to the base of Weathertop from the north rather than the west.
"The trail is well-hidden from spying eyes," Aragorn told Glorfindel. "It follows a track that makes the most of the natural features of the land, such as dells and hilltops and banks. Where such natural screens are lacking, its builders have lined the path with large boulders and hewn stones that serve to shield the traveler from view."
Thus it was that the Ranger and the Elf were able to arrive undetected at the foot of Weathertop, where they found twelve horses picketed.
"This is a good sign," said Glorfindel. "Twelve horses; mayhap only twelve men."
"Perhaps fewer," observed Aragorn, "if some of these horses are pack animals."
"But even if there are as many as twelve Southrons, those are good odds."
"Reasonable ones, yes. Let us reconnoiter."
Elf and Ranger climbed silently to the crest of Weathertop, taking care to remain behind the stones that crowned the summit. From their hiding places, they saw a campfire around which sat the Southrons. Swiftly they counted their foes.
"There are in fact only six of them—three apiece, my friend," whispered Aragorn.
"Ah, those are excellent odds—much in our favor," replied Glorfindel quietly but cheerfully. "Still, we must wait for them to make the first move."
"Agreed."
"With that the Ranger and the Elf broke cover and walked nonchalantly toward the surprised Southrons.
"Good e'en to you, friends," called Aragorn. "I had not thought to see other travelers in these desolate parts. May we not share your fire on this cold night?"
"Who might you be?" asked one of the Southrons cautiously.
"Ah, yes, it is wise to ask the name of a stranger. I am Strider; this, my companion, is Master Gold, a trader. There are so many of his ilk passing through Bree-land that Master Gold is of a mind to try his luck elsewhere, and I am guiding him to several of the more remote villages."
The Southrons exchanged glances. The one who had spoken, the leader evidently, nodded with ill grace.
"Very well, then. You may share our fire if you must. I am Böse. This is Übel; that is Mörder. Those three over there are Todsünde, Dieb, and Räuber."
With that, the Southrons drew close around the fire, looking down upon it with hunched shoulders as if they wished to exchange no further speech with their two guests.
"Well," said Glorfindel in friendly guise, "we'll just prepare our supper. Strider here brought down a deer yesterday, and much meat remains. You are welcome to as much of it as you can eat, for I would not like to see it go to waste."
"Already eaten," grunted Böse.
"Ah, pity. Mayhap you will dine upon some of it in the morning, for there will surely be some left still."
Böse grunted, but his words were indistinguishable.
Aragorn spoke then. "You have journeyed here from a very great distance, I see."
That prompted Böse to speak. Demanded the Southron, his eyes narrowing, "What makes you say that?"
"You speak with an accent such as is spoken only in southern parts far from this land."
"And you speak with a northern accent," snapped Böse. "What of it!?"
"Aye," Aragorn replied calmly. "I speak with a northern accent, but that is to be expected. I am a man of the north; this is a northern land. My accent would attract no notice hereabouts. It is not so common to encounter southerners so far north, so you must pardon my curiosity."
"I am not in the habit of granting pardon," replied the Southron truculently.
"My companion meant no offense," Glorfindel interjected. "He was merely making small talk as Men do when they meet. Surely that is a custom in the south as well as the north."
Böse grunted once more, his words again incomprehensible. Then he seemed to change tack.
"Todsünde," said Böse, "is there any bread left in my bag?"
Todsünde arose and walked behind Aragorn and Glorfindel to rummage in a pack.
"Dieb," Böse then said, "the fire burns low. Fetch more sticks."
Dieb stood up to obey, also moving behind Aragorn and Glorfindel. Räuber arose then as well. He bent down to pick up the kettle.
"I am going to fetch more water before it grows any darker."
"A good idea, Räuber," said Böse.
Räuber stepped behind Aragorn and Glorfindel. Glorfindel pressed his hand on Aragorn's back, and the Ranger nodded almost imperceptibly. Still the two companions did nothing. It was only when they heard the rasp of metal as swords were drawn from sheaths that the two leaped up, Glorfindel spinning about to face the three who had slipped behind them whilst Aragorn took on Böse and the other two.
Glorfindel was right. The odds were excellent. With one blow apiece, Glorfindel took down Todsünde and Aragorn Übel. The remaining Southrons became more cautious then, but they could make no headway against an Elf and a Ranger fighting back to back. The Southrons did not have the skill of either Glorfindel or Aragorn. Nor did they have their stamina, and as the Southrons tired they were picked off. One of Dieb's blows went wide, and Glorfindel drove under his guard, gutting him. Räuber lost his head then, figuratively speaking, but the real object was shortly detached from him because in his panic he was swinging wildly. As for Aragorn, he hacked off Mörder's sword arm when he overextended it and followed that up with a blow to his enemy's throat. Böse took a little longer to fell; he fought with the strength that comes from desperation. In the end, however, his fate was inescapable. Böse slipped on the bloody ground, falling onto his back, and the Ranger thrust his sword into his heart.
The two friends stood silently then, catching their breath.
After awhile Glorfindel spoke.
"There is not sufficient wood hereabouts to burn the bodies."
"No," agreed Aragorn, "but there are rocks enough. Let us drag the bodies outside the circle of stones and erect a cairn over them."
When they had done that, they cleaned the campsite as best they could, for Aragorn knew that it would be used by Rangers in the future and he was loathe to leave it in disarray. They threw earth upon the fire and restacked the wood that the Southrons had carelessly kicked about. The weapons and the packs of the Southrons they tossed over the west side of the hill, where they were unlikely to be seen. The blood they would have to leave for the rain to obliterate. Then they climbed back down to the base of the hill.
"What shall we do with the Southrons' horses?" said Glorfindel.
"It wouldn't do," Aragorn pointed out, "for you to return to Bree leading a string of twelve horses. Let us lead them to the Road and then loose them. It is likely that they will be happened upon by traders who will be all too glad to laden them with their goods."
That course agreed upon, Elf and Ranger headed south toward the Road, Glorfindel much relieved that, secrecy no longer necessary, they would not have to return to Bree via the Midgewater Marshes.
A few days later, as they neared Bree, Aragorn insisted on parting from Glorfindel. He dismounted from Anomen's horse and handed the reins to the elf-lord.
"Will you not come to the inn with me and share a good meal and a comfortable room at my expense?" asked Glorfindel.
"I thank you for the offer, but I must hasten toward the Northern Waste. My kinsmen have been expecting me these several days."
"I understand. Mayhap I shall be able to extend you hospitality at some future time. You know that you and yours are always welcome in Rivendell."
"Thank you, my friend."
"Stay well, mellon-nîn."
Aragorn nodded and strode off rapidly.
Glorfindel turned his horse toward Bree. He was anxious to see how Anomen had gotten on in his absence. He hoped the elfling had been obedient and hard-working.
"Ah, welcome back, Master Gold," exclaimed Master Farmer as Glorfindel entered the inn. "Will you be wanting a room tonight?"
"Aye, if you can accommodate me."
"Indeed we can. You there, Peter, son of Jack, see if number nine is fit for a guest. If it in't, be sure that you put it in order straightaway!"
Peter, still wearing the same jacket and still barefoot, scurried off to attend to number nine.
"I hope my boy Leif has been no trouble," said Glorfindel
"No trouble that I know of. But you'll have to ask Bartholomew. It was he who looked after the lad. Hey! Bartholomew Butterbur," bellowed Master Farmer, beckoning to that worthy. "How has Master Gold's boy gotten on?"
"Oh, he's a hard worker, that boy is. I've missed him these past several days whilst he's been off to the Shire. He should be back any day now, Master Gold—he's been gone that long."
"The Shire?" said Master Farmer, puzzled. "What does he there?"
"Why, Master Farmer, you yourself sent him off with letters for the Shire. He rushed into the kitchen in a great hurry, waving them about and saying how you wanted 'em delivered."
"Aye, that I did, but I only meant that he was to run after Gandalf, who was going to the Shire anyway!"
Dismayed, Butterbur turned to Glorfindel.
"I am so sorry, Master Gold! The poor lad misunderstood and thought that the master had commanded him to carry the letters to the Shire himself. I am sure that he will return soon, and unharmed. The road to the Shire is not a bit perilous, at least not nowadays."
Glorfindel nodded. "Do not be distressed over the matter, Master Butterbur. No doubt you are correct. The lad soon will show up safe and sound."
"But," the elf-lord added to himself, "he won't remain safe and sound once I get my hands on him!"