Those Who Wander
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, or Lord of the Rings. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.
Summary: The term 'life after death' takes on a whole new meaning for Eleanor Potter when she finds herself reborn as the eldest daughter of Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, into a world where she is defined by her heritage, social status, and gender. It is perhaps fortunate that the 'Girl Who Lived' has always been quite talented at defying expectations. 10th Walker AU, OOC. Aragorn/Eleanor (fem!HP).
Rating: M for language, violence, character death, and adult themes.
Author: tlyxor1.
Those Who Wander
Chapter One:
With a relieved exhale, and a cautious glance over her shoulder, Eleanor reaches the gates of Bree as the sun begins it's descent over the western horizon. It's a small, unassuming village that she's frequented sporadically over the years, and to the gate-keeper, Harry, she is no stranger. He greets her warily all the same, however, and Eleanor can't say she appreciates his caution.
"What brings you to Bree, Lady Raven?"
'Lady Raven' is a pseudonym she's acquired among the Race of Men, inspired by the long, sable hair she always keeps bound in a braid. She probably appreciates the accompanying legend more than she ought to, but she's certainly not about to share her name and family history to all and sundry. After all, not only does she enjoy her anonymity more than she would the notoriety, there are also others whose safety depends on her discretion. She's certainly not about to sacrifice their (relative) wellbeing for anything so trivial..
"I'm meeting an old friend," she answers, "Is everything well?"
"As well as can be expected," Harry answers, "Bree's seen some odd visitors of late. Very strange folk."
Eleanor frowns, perturbed. She's spent the last year or so in Gondor, contributing to the protection of her homeland, and it is discomforting to discover how far the shadow of Mordor has stretched in the meantime. Bree is a peaceful place, with no standing army to speak of, and the only defence between them and Sauron's servants are the Dúnedain Rangers. They're an exceptional if insular lot, baptised by fire and all the more extraordinary for it, but their numbers are few, and despite their best efforts, they can't be everywhere at once.
"There's trouble down South. Have you had a lot of travellers from that way?"
"Too many," Harry confirms, "Trying to change how we do things 'round here. The locals won't have it, of course. Why fix what isn't broken, if you catch my meaning."
"Of course," Eleanor acknowledges. She tips him a silver for the entrance, and also for the conversation, and treads her way through the streets with a weary sigh. She's been on the move for weeks on end, and although she'll never admit it, it'll be nice to put her feet up. Even better, it'll be utterly glorious to sleep in an actual bed, and it is, perhaps, the only incentive that's kept her going the passed few days.
As Eleanor approaches the village centre, and in particular, an establishment called the Prancing Pony, the denizens of Bree give her a wide berth. Most are on their way home for the evening, or on their way to an inn for a pint of ale or nine, but all of them eye her with a familiar, all too unpleasant caution.
Evidently, The fabled welcome and hospitality of Bree has waned with the increasing threat from Mordor, with the tails of monsters on the road and the bleak, terrifying reality that is the growing number of missing and murdered locals. Eleanor can't hold it against them, admittedly, but it's a reception she's received constantly throughout her travels, and the perpetual mistrust is tiresome.
The only reception worse, in fact, are the suggestive leers, roaming hands, and the countless offers of coin for sex. She's got no idea what it is about her appearance that gives them the impression she's a prostitute, or remotely interested in their company besides, but it's neither funny nor flattering, and Eleanor usually makes it a point to ensure they know it. Violently, when necessary.
As such, as she approaches the open doors of the Prancing Pony, she scowls ferociously at the owner of one such leer, and stalks passed him into the noisy, crowded inn. Though the windows are open, it's still hot, with the combination of too many bodies and too much firelight, and it smells of smoke, stale ale, and the pervading stink of body odour. The patrons are in good spirits, however, and it's enough to (briefly) lift her unpleasant mood.
"Butterbur," she greets the frazzled, rotund innkeeper, "I'd like a man-sized single room for the night. Have you any available?"
"Indeed," Butterbur confirms, "You're in luck, Madam. It's the last I have available. Was that all you'd be wanting?"
"And some supper for the evening," Eleanor answers. They proceed with their transaction, and Eleanor follows him up to the room she's rented. Butterbur babbles all the while, and Eleanor tries hard to tune him out. She mostly fails, but in a lull between his chatter, she capitalises on his conversational mood. "Has Gandalf the Grey been by recently, by any chance?"
"Nay," Butterbur declines, "Seems he's a popular sort tonight, though. I've had a hobbit from the Shire ask for him not an hour ago, would you believe it? I can't remember the last time the Shire folk have been by this way. A pleasant change though, I'd say; better than some others as of late."
Eleanor hums her acknowledgement, curious, but also concerned. She'd seen the old wizard only eight or so weeks earlier, on his way to Isengard. She'd been passing through the Gap of Rohan, on her way to Edoras from Osgiliath, and they'd shared a campfire for the night. It had been a pleasant respite from her usual isolation, but during their typical exchange of information, he'd asked her to meet him in Bree, post haste. He'd not expected to be held up with Saruman, but in the event of his absence, he'd also shared with her the names of a few others he intended to meet at the Prancing Pony. As they'd both observed, it had grown increasingly dangerous for travellers throughout Middle Earth, and as such, it was the wizard's hope that with or without him, she would accompany his very kind, very naive, very defenceless acquaintances on the road to Rivendell.
Quite frankly, Eleanor was and is not particularly enthused by the prospect of travelling with a company of strangers, vouched for by Gandalf or no. He'd intimated that there were happenings in the Last Homely House he wanted her involved in, however, and if anything about her had remained the same over the years, it was the fact that she'd always been governed by her curiosity.
"What's his name?" Eleanor queries. Butterbur looks puzzled, and she clamps down on her irritation. She's short-tempered on the best of days, and this particular day is far from such. The innkeeper has done nothing to warrant her ire, however, and quite frankly, she's better than that. "The hobbit?"
"UNderhill. Frodo Underhill, I believe."
Their conversation is interrupted by the arrival of Eleanor's supper, held on a tray in the hands of a hobbit by the name of Bob. He's a quiet, jovial fellow who hums as he sets down her meal, and Eleanor, despite her simmering irritation and bone deep travel fatigue, somehow finds it in herself to offer him a gracious smile. It's forced, and probably looks it, but it's the thought that counts, right?
"Thank you," she says, "It looks delicious."
Mercifully, Butterbur and Bob don't linger, and Eleanor closes the door behind them with a grateful sigh. In the quietude her host leaves behind, Eleanor haphazardly deposits her travelling pack, cloak, and boots near the archway that bisects the parlour and bedroom, and carefully spreads out her assortment of weapons along a nearby, empty sideboard. Included in the array is a sword designed by Eleanor herself, a thin, lightweight, relatively short sword, with a double-edged blade and a pointed tip. It's designed for slicing and stabbing alike, and it's become her best friend over the years. Also in her arsenal is a handful of throwing knives, a hunting bow (and the obligatory quiver of arrows), a dagger she hides in her boot, and a wand - the wand - she's grown to hate. It's slender and polished, 13 inches long, and messily carved from elderberry wood.
On the surface, it is entirely innocuous, but no matter how hard Eleanor tries, she can't escape it, or the curse it represents. She's burned it to ashes, she's thrown it into a river, she's left it in a forest. Without fail, however, it returns to her within moments, whole and undamaged, and Eleanor has resigned herself to it's continued, unwelcome presence. She's not sure there's anything else she can do.
In any case, because that way lies madness, it's not something she cares to dwell on. As such, she averts her gaze from the wand in question, and drops heavily into a chair at the table. She descends upon her supper with no small degree of enthusiasm, famished after her last few, gruelling days on the road.
The days in question were spent perpetually on the move, working hard to out pace the Ringwraiths inexplicably on her tail. As such, the most she's managed to eat are her 'just in case' rations of jerky, dried fruits, and more assorted nuts than she cares to really contemplate. In comparison, the spread of roast beef, buttery mashed potatoes, mixed vegetables, and a side of sliced fruits is heaven sent.
Eleanor savours every bite.
Author's Note: Tolkien was a little acute accent 'áéíóú' happy, wasn't he? I had to Google names and other Tolkienisms just to make sure I had them all correct. Not sure if I did, but eh… Hope you enjoyed. Thoughts? -t.
PS. Consider this chapter a bit of a teaser. Working on this as the muse strikes, but I don't intend to post the actual story until I've finished one that's already posted, or until I reach the Two Towers arc - whichever comes first.