Chapter XXX: Sober and Disorderly

Bree. An ancient town, never known for housing the finest, the smartest, or the most refined men ever to set foot on Middle Earth. It was known, however, for having the best tavern west of the Misty Mountains. The Prancing Pony. A favorite haunt of many unsung heroes of old that wished simply to disappear, the town had fallen into disrepair. The fact that the entire surviving non-Remnant population of the northwest was now holed up in Bree, doing their best to repel the weekly vampire attacks, did nothing for the town, other than make it even more crowded.

The gates, once naught but a wall of thin wood used more for decoration, had been replaced with a sturdy granite wall that encircled the whole town. The ramparts stood five meters high; enough to deter any orcs or vampires on foot, with archers trained specifically to shoot bats out of the sky encircled all around atop the fortress.

Not enough, however, to stop the two black figures that hurdled the fortification with ease as the moon was obscured by a cloud late at night.

Mordae and Celebdraug landed lightly atop the parapet, rolled, and dropped to their feet on the ground behind the gate. The elves moved so swiftly and silently that the string of guards were completely unaware of their coming. Drawing the hoods on their black robes over their heads to obscure their faces, the two hurriedly made their way through the dingy streets into the center of the town.

They received a few side-glances from passers-by, but long time residents of Bree had long ago learned that one did not question if one did not enjoy having daggers plunged in one's side.

As the two turned into an alley behind the Prancing Pony, four cloaked figures slid into step behind them. The new arrivals matched the elves' pace with some difficulty, due to the Noldor's naturally long strides, but they did so, muttering quietly to one another.

As the group neared the center of the alley, three more cloaked men materialized and approached from the front, slowly tightening a noose around the two. The man in the center of the new group was enormous, slightly taller than Celebdraug, and far stockier than Mordae.

At five paces, the elves stopped their advance, as did their stalkers.

"It is in thy best interest to continue going about thy business," Mordae murmured calmly, his voice soft and even.

"And wha' if our business be involvin' ye?" the large man growled.

"That would not be wise of thee," Celebdraug answered harshly.

"Eh, a fiery one," the large man chuckled, stepping forward and pulling Celebdraug's hood back, revealing her face in the dim light. "Purdy, too."

Celebdraug's hand shot out and clasped around the giant's wrist as he withdrew his hand. The man smiled and began to pull his arm back, but made no progress; the elf held him in an iron grip that even his large muscles could not break.

Still, the man laughed heartily. "The little girly thinks she's a tough one, eh? I migh' jus' hafta smack 'er 'round a bit before we play. Wha's 'er big bad boyfriend gonna do 'bout that?"

"Laugh."

Celebdraug whirled her free arm in a circle and thrust it up under the giant's elbow, breaking his arm, then drove into her attacker's chest with a triple strike combination that was almost instantaneous, hurling him backward several meters onto his haunches. Before the rest of his men could respond, she launched herself into the air, landing beside him. She drove her fist into his face, leveling him, then turned, hands raised in a fighting stance.

There was the sound of metal clearing leather behind Mordae as one of the men drew a dagger and thrust it at the elf's back. Mordae spun, parried the attack, and kicked his assailant's knee, dropping him to the ground. With a small hop, the elf spun in a full circle, connecting with his heel on the man's head at the end of his rotation, sending him sprawling.

One of the men from the front turned and raced toward Celebdraug, who dispatched him with a swift sidekick to the face as he charged. The other, seeing his comrade's fate, bolted for the side of the alley and began scrambling up the wall. Celebdraug leaped into the air and grabbed the man's legs, hauling him to the ground, where she struck him with a flat fist, sending him into the same blackness as his friends.

The other three men all pounced on Mordae at the same time - one on each side, and one on his back - wrapping their arms around his neck and body, trying to drag him down. With two vicious elbow strikes, the elf dropped the men to his sides. Mordae dropped and rolled on his shoulder, momentarily crushing the man clinging to his back, causing him to loosen his hold. A quick jerk of his right shoulder, and the Noldor sent the final gangster careening into the wall, which he hit with a crunch, then slid to the ground, unconscious as the rest.

Celebdraug strode to the side of the big man and kicked him forcefully in the side.

Mordae laughed and stepped spryly to his cousin's side. He took hold of her arm and began leading her from the alley.

Celebdraug looked up at the other warrior and smiled. "I love this town."

Glorfindel and Niphredil sat on one of the elven couches across from Aragorn and Arwen in the former king's Lorien home. The four had been good friends for nearly two centuries; Glorfindel had known Aragorn and Arwen since they were children, and he and Niphredil had grown up together in the Second Age.

"Did you hear what happened to Mordae and Celebdraug?" Niphredil asked, taking a sip of the elven tea on the small table before the group.

Aragorn nodded slightly. "I heard that they had run into complications in Moria from Gandalf a few hours ago, but nothing more."

"Complications?" Glorfindel snorted. "Complications is an orc army, which, by the way, they did find, and kill. What they ran into was far more than complications. A balrog."

Aragorn swallowed, and Arwen turned pale.

"A balrog?" the elf queen asked incredulously. "Are you sure?"

"Well," Glorfindel said with a shrug, "I suppose it could have been a huge, flaming, orc."

Aragorn let out a deep breath. "Any word on them?"

Niphredil nodded emphatically. "They killed it."

Aragorn's mouth dropped open. "Killed it?"

"Killed it."

Arwen shrugged. "They are good warriors. And Gandalf killed one. I suppose it would not be difficult for them."

Niphredil shook her head in a bemused fashion. "Gandalf died fighting a balrog. And so have many other elf heroes in the past."

Arwen tossed her long brown hair back behind her ears in exasperation. "Forgive me. I am not one for fighting, and I do not know how difficult even killing an orc could be."

"Nor would I," Niphredil said with a shrug.

Aragorn shrugged as well. "Nor I."

Arwen punched him lightly on the shoulder.

"What, I don't! It isn't difficult at all!"

"Look at me," Glorfindel mocked, "I'm King Master-Fighter-of-Eä1."

"Not quite," Aragorn said, deadpan. "But definite close."

The others laughed heartily.

"It was a close call, though." Niphredil commented.

The others cast confused glances at her.

"What?" Glorfindel finally asked.

"Mordae and Celebdraug."

"Um, dear. We've moved on from that."

"Well," Niphredil pouted, "I haven't."

Glorfindel held up his hands in surrender.

"Thank you," Niphredil said with a smile. "Do you realize what a near miss we all had?"

"What do you mean?" Arwen asked.

"If Mordae and Celebdraug were to be killed," Niphredil explained. "All we would have to defend us would be Glorfindel and King Master-Fighter."

"We'd be unbelievably screwed," Glorfindel concluded.

"To put it classily," Arwen said with a mocking smile.

"He's right, though," Aragorn pointed out.

"But," Glorfindel countered, "No matter how excellent or poor fighters we are, Mordae and Celebdraug are gone at the moment. And time runs thin for us. We need to strike somebody, somewhere, soon."

"Thank you, Captain Vague," Niphredil said teasingly.

"He's right again, though," Aragorn noted. "Wow. Two in one day, I'm impressed, Glorfindel."

"Thank you, sir," the elf warrior said sarcastically.

"You're welcome. I have thought of that, and I was preparing to send a small attack force through Isen Meares to attack Belgorian outposts. Just to annoy them enough to come here."

"Here?" Niphredil cried.

"You can't bring them here!" Arwen agreed.

"Yes, we can," Aragorn argued. "And we should. Lorien is far stronger defended than any fortress we build outside of elven territory."

"We no longer have Galadriel's Belt2," Arwen remarked.

"True. But I think we can still manage. You may have to learn to fight, though," the king said with a joking smile.

"Then we're definitely screwed," the normally very proper and refined Niphredil sighed.

The others roared in laughter.

"Come, let's change the subject," Arwen ordered. "All this war talk worries me."

Mordae and Celebdraug entered the Prancing Pony with their hoods still drawn up over their heads. They received a few glances again, but nobody rose to greet - or attack - them.

They strode to the bar and stood, waiting for the bartender to come to them. Barliman Butterbur, the bartender for the last seventy years, waddled over to them, looking older, but still just as sprightly.

"What kin I do for ye?" he asked pleasantly, not the least bit unnerved by the shady figure of the new arrivals. "And ye'll need ta leave yer swords with me. Jus' so ye don't git any ideas 'bout skewering any of my customers."

The two elves glanced at one another, faces completely hidden to the man, then with a quick motion, unclasped their swords and presented them, hilt first, to Butterbur, who jumped slightly, then regained his composure.

"Thank ye. Now, what kin I git for ye?"

"Dost thou still brew elven ale?" Mordae inquired.

Elven ale, as men called it, contained no alcohol, though it tended to make humans a bit tipsy.

"Elven ale? I haven't been asked 'bout that for 'alf a cent'ry! But I think I kin whip some up for ye."

"Thank thee."

"Thee, eh? Interesting accent. Where ye be from?"

The elves glanced at one another again. Celebdraug shrugged, then spoke. "We hail from Valinor, grew up in Gondolin and Lorien. But our accents are Numenorian, that is where we learned Common Tongue."

Butterbur's eyes grew large. "Celey? Mordae?" he squeaked.

Mordae spun, his glance sweeping over all the patrons nearby, and Celebdraug leaned in closely to the bartender.

"Yes," the elf maid whispered, "But if we are discovered, it could mean death for all of us. We will take our table in the back, and if any inquire about us, just tell them that we are Rangers."

"Isn't that one gettin' a bit old?"

Celebdraug sighed. "Just do it, please."

"Alrigh', alrigh'. I'll have yer ale for ye in a few minutes. I'll bring it back."

"Thank thee." Celebdraug turned and gave Mordae's elbow a slight tug. Her cousin broke his icy gaze from the nearby customers and followed her into the back.

One of the men glanced up at Butterbur and raised his eyebrows.

"Rangers."

1 All that was created, the Universe

2 The shield of magic energy placed around Lorien by Galadriel to prevent any intruders from entering