The night was bright as only a full moon can make it, and the window-frames and door-posts of the small Hibernian town were edged in silver light. The young man evading the royal patrols resented the moonlight as he resented clear skies, brutish guards, and scheming nobles. He seized a moment when the most recent patrol had turned a corner to slip from his place in the shadow of a porch around the corner into the next alley.

The alley, however, had an unexpected sight. He had already seen—and dismissed—the Bull's Horns, a rickety building smelling of stale beer and body odor that he thought served as the town's only tavern. But here, solid-bricked and cheerful, seemed to be another: the Rock and a Hard Place.

Cautiously but curiously, he slid through the shadows toward the door. He had, after all, come to this town in search of a place to spend the rest of the night, before the ramshackle inn—not to mention the guards hunting for him—had changed his mind. But though its presence was unexpected, this place seemed welcoming enough. He laid his hand on his knife-hilt, quickly glanced around, and slipped through the door, accompanied by the merry tinkle of chimes.

As his blinked his eyes to adjust to the pervasive golden firelight, he became aware that it was not, perhaps, merely the tavern's presence that was unusual. Granted, the barkeep seemed normal enough—a stocky, red-faced fellow who was currently gossiping importantly with a young man whose messy black hair almost covered a distinctive scar on his forehead. But the young man wore what looked like scholars' robes—a strange enough sight for back-woods Hibernia, and the oddities didn't stop there. The stranger felt his eyes widen in surprise at both the inn's décor and its patrons; yet, strangely, he didn't feel threatened, not even by the horse-sized wolfhound that looked at him from where it lay in front of the fireplace with unsettlingly knowing golden eyes. He inclined his head respectfully, not even considering the strangeness of doing so to a dog, and the massive head settled back onto forepaws with a gentle woof. The stranger slipped into a chair in the shadows cast around the edge of the fireplace and sighed.

Within a few minutes, the bartender wrapped up his conversation with a knowing nod and, glancing around with a sharp eye, noted and approached the newcomer.

"Welcome, friend," he said, cheerfully. "Anything I can get for you? We've drinks, o' course—and vittles, and a place to lay your head, if you need." He eyed the customer's drooping posture sagely.

The young man looked up. "Maybe a bed later. For now, do you have coffee?" He quirked an eyebrow interrogatively.

The barkeep's lips pursed, considering. "Ah, yes, coffee!" he said at last, eyes lighting up in remembrance. "They did show me that! Will take a bit to—what was it? Oh, yes, brew—so you need anything else while you wait?"

"Nothing now. But if you have honey, I'd like some in my coffee when it's ready."

"Honey, yes, absolutely! I'll have it out right quick. Oh!" he checked his turn back toward the bar to add, "name's Butterbur. Barliman Butterbur. Shout if you need anything, anything at all!"

As Butterbur hurried off to prepare the coffee, the young man settled back into his seat, strangely relaxed. Idly, he listened around, and the conversation at the only other occupied table in the room caught his attention.

"It's not the nightmares—well, it is, but…" The speaker, the boy in scholars' robes, trailed off and sighed. He shook his messy hair out of his eyes and absent-mindedly rubbed his scar.

"There's something different about walking toward death with eyes wide-open." The reply was made softly by a blond man in some kind of uniform with the edges of a round shield showing behind his shoulders. He stared off into the distance, eyes a hundred miles away.

"If only it were my death, and mine alone, that I looked forward to," said the table's third occupant, one of those hard-eyed, sharp-faced men whose rank as a leader was even more apparent from his demeanor than the quality of his rich-black, military-cut clothes. "I would die a thousand times myself rather than subject Paul and Jessica to the Harkonnens' cruelty, but…" He shook his head.

"Duty," murmured the blond soldier, "the death of us all, and all we love."

"Not just duty!" rejoined the boy. "I mean, yes, it was my…duty…to walk into that forest before Voldemort killed everyone, and it was yours, Captain, to crash that plane, but wasn't love just as important? Or more?"

The captain considered. "I won't argue with that. But that's ourselves. For our friends…?"

The other sighed. "I admit…I don't know how I would have coped if Ron or Hermione had died that last year. Not well, probably," he grimaced, "certainly not as well as you did. But wasn't it still about love? I mean, Bucky was on that train for you, wasn't he? Sorry," he added, a bit lamely, as the soldier winced.

The black-clad leader, drawn back into the conversation, leaned forward to lay a hand bracingly on the captain's shoulder. "It is difficult, my friend, I know—but let your brother-in-arms have the honor of an honorable death, untainted by misplaced guilt."

"And your family, too," the other answered, softly. "Surely they follow you willingly, and love you for the honor that drives you? I know Bucky woudn't have had me any other way, however he might have denied it." A smile played around his mouth.

"And so duty and love are intertwined, and though I can see nothing but the destruction of House Atreides, I lead us to Arrakis anyway."

"I knew I had to die in order for Voldemort to die," the boy whispered, "but…I also knew my death wouldn't be the end. He could still have killed everyone else. He almost did. Merlin…" He winced and turned away from his companions.

"Hey," the captain whispered, gently. "For you, Harry? All that is left is the dreams. It's over."

"Live your life," said the leader, almost as a benediction. "You answered the call—you did not betray their faith. Let it be, now. Live—as I pray my son will."

Harry nodded, blinking, and the three settled into companionable silence. The young stranger, from where he listened at his table, found his own vision blurry from sudden tears. What love or duty did he have, now?

It was fortunate, perhaps, that at that moment Barliman Butterbur bustled up to his table with coffee in hand and another patron in tow.

"Here you are, sir, and here's someone to meet you, as well! This here's Finrod Felagund—Finrod, meet…actually, lad, I didn't get your name?"

"Halt," the stranger said, surprising himself. "Halt O'Carrick." He stood and stretched out a hand to the man beside Butterbur—who he suddenly realized by pointed ears, golden hair, and light-limned eyes, wasn't a man at all.

"A star shines on our meeting," said Finrod, grasping not Halt's hand but his forearm in a comradely gesture. He smiled, but his eyes were weary and his travel-clothes, though beautifully made, were limp and stained. "Huan, there," he gestured to the giant hound, "seems to think we should talk."

Halt narrowed his eyes at the dog, but it didn't look up. He gestured Finrod to the empty seat at his table. They sat in silence for a bit, sipping their drinks, until Finrod said softly, "Sometimes every choice seems wrong—an abandonment of one duty for another, a forsaking of the good of the few for the many—or the many for the few."

Halt looked up sharply, but his companion seemed almost to have forgotten him, staring down into depths only he could see.

"Even with the best intentions, all courses may run ill," he continued, murmuring, "and who can rightly judge even his own intentions? I hope…" He trailed off into silence.

"The throne was mine—my duty, my responsibility," Halt whispered. "But he wanted it, enough to kill me, and I…" he grimaced, "I ran away. I know—I know—he can't possibly be any kind of decent king. But they love him. If I'd fought for the throne…when they hate me…"

"War."

"Yes."

"A king cannot lead those who will not follow. No—not even though he love them."

Halt closed his eyes and nodded, painfully. They sat in silence, again, until Finrod's glass was empty, what remained of Halt's coffee had turned cold, and the three men at the other table had long since left.

Finrod stood. "I hope you find what you seek, Halt O'Carrick," he said, "and all your works turn not to evil. Farewell." He bowed and walked over to where the wolfhound stood, waiting for him. They seemed to converse silently for a moment before, with a gentle stroke on Finrod's part and a sorrowful woof on the dog's, they one at a time left through the door back to surroundings that were not Halt's alleyway.

"Well, Mr. O'Carrick," Butterbur interrupted his introspection, "about that bed?"

"Please," returned the other, suddenly exhausted. He followed the innkeeper up a flight of stairs to a room with clean sheets and a glowing fire, and, thankful for a night to sleep in comfort without his hand on his knife-hilt and ears attuned to every suspicious sound, he lay down on the bed. Yesterday's worries would still be tomorrow's—but tonight he would rest.


A/N: In case it was unclear from the sparse dialogue:

- Halt has just fled his brother's last assassination attempt, and has decided to give up on Hibernia. His reasoning is my own invention (though with some inspiration from Vayar's Bitter as Coffee, Sweet as Honey on AO3), but I can't imagine he abandoned his duty as Crown Prince without a compelling reason: he fears civil war, if he tries to claim his throne against his brother's popularity, and no matter how awful of a king his brother will be it can't, he thinks, be as bad as that.

- Finrod is traveling with Beren and his Faithful Ten after leaving Nargothrond but before they transfigure into orcs. (Don't think too hard about where he found the R&HP...I guess they're still enough in Nargothrond's surrounding civilization to find a town every so often. Or else it just appeared randomly in the woods for him.) His reason for leaving being to prevent civil war (as well as all the angst about one duty vs. another and leading unwilling followers) comes from Philosopher At Large's amazing A Boy, A Girl, And a Dog: The Leithian Script, fully archived on AO3 by GammaCavy (though the relevant bits also exist under Philospher's own name here on FFN). It is, however, also fully inferable from the Silmarillion.

- Huan is still in Nargothrond. R&HP showed up there for him. His characterization is also from the Leithian Script.

- Steve has just woken up in the 21st Century but not yet joined the Avengers. He is still mourning Bucky, has just lost everything else, and is Sad, and possibly a bit Bitter.

- Harry is post-DH but not by much. He had a bad night and wandered around, accidentally stumbling into R&HP.

- Duke Leto is very inspired by the 2021 movie. The Atreides are about to leave for Arrakis, and he knows they're walking into a Harkonnen trap but, still, "there is no call we do not answer, there is no faith that we betray," and all that.

(Those three have already had quite a bit of discussion before Halt walks in. That's how they know each other's stories.)