(AN: I have been planning this story for years [possibly literally]. And one thing that has always been on my mind is how to involve semi-familiar things in a story that is so far detached from the events of the Lord of the Rings, or even The Hobbit. Obviously we are dealing with Aragorn's direct ancestors, and others will appear much, much later, but one throwaway line in Fellowship of the Ring stuck with me, on how the Bree-Landers were "always there". So I decided to depict that in my story: those who have played Lord of the Rings Online, as I have, will enjoy this chapter [i hope].)

(A lot in this chapter has been supplemented from The New Notions Club Archives, which has been invaluable in cataloging now long-lost information from the Middle Earth Role-Playing Game. Some of the stuff, like the four libraries of the Realms in Exile, were original creations by me: I wanted to get across the idea that as Arnor falls, so too lore in the North is falling. This is very important for later in the story. The banner of Arthedain comes from the Edain team's mod for Battle for Middle Earth II, as well as other things that will appear in this story [i am a HUGE fan of that mod])

Those That Endure

The brothers went to their chambers and made their own separate preparations for their journey. Servants were on hand at the ring of a silver bell to bring them anything they required. Aradan had his sword taken to the smithy for sharpening, and his armor to be polished and ready for the journey. As for Aranarth, he studied the old maps that had been made in the days before Earendur and the division of Arnor. They would be going eastward, and he wanted to have a knowledge of the land; at any rate, to demonstrate his usefulness to Aradan.

The younger brother, being trained with his arms, had often gone on patrols with the knights of the King's Guard to defend their dwindling land; Aranarth, on the other hand, had not been far from Fornost in all his life and knew nothing of the strange lands to the east. By the light of a candle on the table in his chambers, he studied the maps and consulted books of lore such that he had: the Library of Fornost was the third of four great libraries in the Realms in Exile, the greatest of which had been the Library of Osgiliath, which had been burned during the Kinstrife in Gondor and was now lost; the other two were the Library of Minas Anor, to which one third of the books from the Osgiliath Library had been rescued, and the Library of Annuminas, which was falling into disrepair throughout the years.

Yet though the years were dark and full of bloodshed and war, and ignorance dominated the lands outside of the Realms in Exile, in Arnor, as in Gondor, the learning passed down from Numenor had been preserved. Tomes of parchment, or of plates of gold and silver, existed in both places which recorded histories, lineages, and tales from almost four thousand years ago: from the first time Dunedain set food on Middle Earth before the Shadow fell upon Numenor. And in the Library of Fornost, at the pleasure of the prince Aranarth, were several volumes of books written about the folk who inhabited Eriador. Most of these were dated to this Age, for the main focus of any book from the time of Arnor's first founding dealt with the War against the Dark Lord of Mordor.

As the late hours passed, and the bells tolled the passing of the moon outside, Aranarth poured over the books in hopes of finding something to aid him in learning about the people in this area. Of such books, there were few that spoke of the Hill-men of Rhudaur. What little he learned was that there were four kindred of Men dwelling in Eriador apart from the Dunedain: the Lossoth, the Endolwaith, the Bregion, and the Torfiriath. Endolwaith was the Elvish name for the Hill-men of Rhudaur; little was known about them in the libraries of Arnor, save that they dwelt in the lands east of the Mitheithel and west of the Bruinen, and that there were nine different tribes.

This provided little to Aranarth. The location of the Hill-men was known to all in Arthedain, as they had been their enemies of old; and as for the number of their tribes, this was antiquated news. How many there were, neither he nor Aradan knew for certain. With a sigh of frustration, he put his books down, cast his eyes out the westward window in the Standing Silence, ate of the little plate of food which Firiel had sent up before retiring for the night, then went to bed himself. His sleep was disturbed by vague images of a forest with a small house by a running river, which flowed out into a frozen lake, which then became the Sea which swallowed everything.

In his room on the other side of the stone wall, Aradan slept soundly and no dreams disturbed his rest.

The morning dawned bright and cool, with the ominous threat of dark clouds looming on the eastern horizon. Servants were sent to the young men's chambers with their gear for the journey. Their traveling clothes were green and they were each given a gray cloak lined with fur: they would need the protection against the cold rains of spring. Aradan's servants also brought him his mail, which he wore openly over his traveling equipment, as well as his sword, and a bow with a quiver of arrows. Aranarth had no weapon, save for a short dagger which hung in a leather sheath beneath his cloak: a very special dagger, for it had been enchanted by the royal saptan to slay such fell creatures as haunted the wilderness eastward. Before Aranarth left his chambers, Arvedui entered and gave him a parting gift and his last message before their journey.

When Aradan came down from his chamber to the stables, where the horses they would be riding were kept, he burst out into laughter at the sight of his brother. Aranarth seemed to be rather off-put by his own attire: for one thing, he seemed to be engaging in an endless struggle with his cloak. Moreover, as Aradan plainly noted, his brother bore no weapon: not even the daggers carried by Dunedain princes all the years of the war with Angmar. Instead, he bore a staff that bore a black bundle tied with many leather thongs.

"Is there a spear beneath that bundle, brother?" asked Aradan in a jesting tone.

"No," Aranarth replied, annoyed at what was coming, as well as the cloak refusing to cooperate with his own movements.

"Ah, but of course," Aradan smirked. "I forget that you've never been farther afield than Annundir." Aranarth rolled his eyes but did not respond; for at that moment, another servant entered into the stable and, bowing before the princes, announced to them that the King and Queen were awaiting them outside.

Taking the reins of their horses from the husbandmen, Aranarth and Aradan walked them out of the royal stables. Aradan mounted up quickly, while Aranarth struggled to get his foot up into the stirrups of the saddle. Aradan laughed, and the Queen cleared her throat rather loudly. A servant, taking the Queen's hint, left his post and helped Aranarth onto his horse; Firiel gave the servant an approving nod, but said nothing.

"Go forth, my sons," Arvedui said in parting to them. "The eyes of the King's Tower shall watch over you, wherever you may go in the ancient boundaries of Arnor." Such was the proper farewell to be said in these parts in those days, when the King ruled at Fornost and the Tower of Amon Sul kept watch over all the lands west of the Misty Mountains.

"May the Valar keep you, my sons," Firiel added. "And bring you back to me safely."

The two brothers waved farewell to the King and Queen, then Aradan shook the reins of his horse and took off at a slow trot: Aranarth followed suit, albeit a bit warily due to his inexperience. The horse, thankfully, was an older horse and more honest and understanding than the younger studs. It did not throw him or try to run off, but kept up with Aradan's rouncey. The King's face was grim and silent, while the Queen gently wiped at the corners of her eyes.

The hill upon which the King's Tower was built provided a strong line of defense in times of peril. Indeed, no army had prevailed against Fornost in the long years since its founding. A wall some nine ells in height and thick enough that five men could walk it abreast surrounded the Tower and its expansive courtyard, as well as the royal stables, the King's armory, and the Palace and its many servants quarters. The hills northward stood about one hundred fathoms from the wall before they rose up again to their height, but the lords of Arnor had carved out another six and sixty fathoms outward, so that none could breach the keep by stealth from the north: the only way to pass into the castle were by two bridges southward. The main gatehouse led from the courtyard into the city streets by a lofty stone bridge, spanning the chasm between the hill of the Tower and that of the walled city; the other entrance was by a narrow bridge that led to the Falconer's Tower, which was built on a smaller hill between the two hills and connected by another bridge that led into the Scholar's District, the first level of the walled city after the King's Tower southward.

Across the main bridge and through the streets of the Scholar's District the horses carried the princes. None outside of the Royal Family and the Steward, and their servants, knew the reason for their departure. But those who saw their departure waved out of the windows of their houses, or paused in their morning work to bid them good fortune on their errand. Yet more than a few faces were grim and some cast down their faces and wept; it was long since the Dunedain of the North had any hope, and the departure of both of the heirs of Elendil on an errand unknown was an ill omen.

From the Scholar's District, there was a walled gate looking westward which led to the Southern District, the larger and general portion of the city. Here folk were busy on businesses of their own, but those who saw them approach waved and cried 'Good fortune, milords!' as they passed by. They did not pass through the entirety of the Southern District, for it was three times as wide as the fenced keep about the King's Tower, and one half its size in height from north to south: the Scholar's District was about the same size as the keep, and sat at the center of the wider district.

Out of the southern gates they passed, following now the North-South road that, even in this day, was known as the Greenway. Here in the north, it passed through the rolling hills south of the larger hills of the Downs. But these hills here were not mere waves of earth, but the tombs of the lords of Arnor. Of the four and twenty kings who had ruled Arnor, only two and twenty were buried here: eleven mounds on the westward side of the road, and eleven mounds on the eastern side. Elendil the Tall lay in the hallowed mound atop Amon Anwar in Calenardhon, far to the south along the Greenway in the realm of Gondor: Isildur remained lost and unburied following the Disaster of the Gladden Fields.

The young men were silent as they rode through the burial mounds, though Aranarth kept his head bowed and his hand upon his breast in sign of reverence for his fallen sires. The mounds were covered with white flowers that gave it the appearance of a gentle dusting of wintry frost: none other than athelas, the healing herb. In those days, when the lore of the Dunedain of the North was still in flower, the virtues of athelas were not forgotten; indeed, Aranarth had studied this plant in particular, for it grew in Firiel's garden in the little courtyard where she had told them of their father's mandate, and knew four of its seven virtues by heart.

Hours passed and they continued south along the Greenway. The mounds ended and the rolling green hills continued on, unbroken save by pines here and there, either alone or in small clusters. The morning was cool, and the clouds were steadily moving westward. Aranarth kept his eyes to the horizon, though his mind was often wandering inwardly, as was the custom among the learned Dunedain in these days of trouble and darkness. Aradan, meanwhile, had his eyes on the shadows of the trees. The patrols of the King's knights had been kept busy in the dwindling kingdom of Arthedain, for there were many dangers in these days, and folk became sturdy and stiff-necked, eager to fatten their own purses with the misfortunes of others. Aradan feared neither vagabond nor ruffian, for he was the son of the King, and a skilled man at his arms.

His worry was for Aranarth. Ever and anon he would look back at his brother, armed only with a short knife in his belt and a bundled staff. At length, he let out a loud laugh.

"What is so funny, dear brother?" asked Aranarth. "Tell me, so that we may laugh together." He knew, or half-guessed, that he himself would be the object of Aradan's scorn.

"I laugh for this reason," Aradan replied. "For all of your lore-wisdom and book-study, you have not grown wits in any measure. Here we are, you and I, on a mission into the heart of the territory of the savage hill-men, and you bring no weapon but a knife? One would think that you wished to die on this sorry venture."

"Such is not my wish," Aranarth answered. "Nor should you be so quick to dismiss out of hand the ancient lore. Of old, the lords of the Dunedain studied both lore as well as arms."

"Yes, yes, things were all so much better in the old days," sighed Aradan. "But we are not living in the old days, big brother, are we? The present need of our people are swords, spears, bows, axes, and trained fighting men to wield them. If all our people were to commit their lives to studying old lore, as you have, the Witch-King would have overthrown us long ere this."

Aranarth sighed. "And if all men did was commit their lives to studying warfare, what would happen? Would they not neglect matters of state? What about the old lore? It would be forgotten, and then old mistakes would be repeated again and again."

"Methinks you talk too much, big brother," Aradan chuckled to himself. "A warrior-king would have no need to give thought to old lore, not when his standard is recognized throughout this Middle Earth for his prowess in battle."

"But one cannot be ever at war with all things," Aranarth replied, ignoring his brother's taunt. "That is the wisdom behind father's task for us."

"Wisdom or folly, it is not our place to question father's will," Aradan said. "But I shall question your love of ancient lore. There is no need for such things: tell me, brother, which of the old songs and tales that we've heard have any bearing on us anymore, hmm?"

"What do you mean?"

"From birth, we learned the tale of our long-father, Elendil the Tall: how he slew Sauron of Mordor in the last battle of the age with Gil-Galad, or however the story goes. But what merit has that to us now? Elendil fell in battle, as the stories say, his son Isildur was lost, and his Bane fell into the Great River and was washed away into the Great Sea. And how many mounds did we pass on our road? I heard you counting under your breath."

"Two and twenty."

"In our lifetimes, brother, we will see the two thousandth year of this age, you and I. And what merit have the old songs and tales on us here and now, I ask you again? Singing songs and telling stories or knowing meaningless old facts will avail us nothing against the Witch-King. Others believe the same as me, I assure you, though they are not quite as plain-spoken. It would be better for all of us if you put down your musty old books and put your sword-arm to use before it withers from disuse."

Aranarth frowned at his brother's words. These and other such words had been spoken between them for many a year in their childhood and young adult lives. Aradan, of course, always seemed to have the last laugh. The adults would often take his side, if they happened to come upon the two arguing and one of them tried to have them gainsay the other: only the Queen, the royal saptan, and several gray-bearded scholars, many of whom were now dead, gave Aranarth any support in his beliefs. Yet as the years went by, time and circumstance seemed to side with Aradan without variance.

The present need of the Dunedain was fighting men, not scholars. And yet he could not give himself to simply throw away what had been the passion and interest of his life.

"Let you win renown and safety for Arthedain with your sword, little brother," Aranarth said at last. "And when all is said and done, the keepers of the ancient lore will rebuild the kingdom as it was."

At this, Aradan shook his head and grimly laughed. "If there is anything left to rebuild, that is."

So was the fear of the Dunedain in these unhappy days. As more and more skirmishes took place along the borders, the downfall of the last kingdom of Arnor seemed inevitable. Last year's harvest was a record low, for there were few hands to till the ground and sow new crops: men of fighting age were being pressed into the army to serve the defense of Arthedain. As plundering bands of hill-men sacked the countryside, as well as, it was rumored, even orcs and trolls, the outlook for this year's harvest was even bleaker. More and more it seemed as though they were being hemmed in a narrow place, the Dunedain of Arnor.

With nothing more to say, the brothers cast their eyes about them, hoping for something to ease their minds from the ill mood into which their conversation had led them. Yet this did little to ease the shadow that hung over their hearts. Many houses and small villages that once inhabited the grassy plains south of Fornost now lay empty; their folk either fleeing in terror or moved to the safety of Fornost. But despite the empty and deserted houses, there was no resistance to their passage. The forests were dark, but no evil things could be seen among them; only a few crows making harsh, mocking sounds at the grim brothers as they passed.

Southward, they had at least a day's journey ahead of them before they came to Trestlebridge, a little town on the southern end of the North Downs. That town was built on the southern banks of the Nin Erain, a small river that had its headway farther north in the Downs, then made its way southward through the forest of Annundir, then a little southwest, before going straight west to meet the Baranduin as it flowed out of Lake Evendim. It would be the first stop on their long journey to Rhudaur. By horse, they would make a journey of two whole days from Fornost to Bree-under-Bree-Hill, a town nearly as central in these parts as Amon Sul had been in the days of the three kingdoms. From there, another day's journey would take them to the Forsaken Inn, the last tavern before the lone and empty lands between the easternmost borders of Arthedain and the Mitheithel River. From the Inn to the River, they had at least another three days of travel ahead of them: and then, things got especially uncertain and dangerous. For on the eastern side of the Mitheithel were be the Trollshaws, and they would have to search them for many days to find the location of the hill-men.

While there was hope of a warm meal and a comforting fire against the cold, as well as the onset of rain, at least for the next three days, the greater part of their journey would be cold, wet, and dangerous. They could not expect any help or rescue farther east than the Forsaken Inn, if a patrol was near; if there were no patrols at hand, help could not reach them any faster than the little town of Staddle, southeast of Bree.

By the end of the day, the brothers had crossed the bridge and arrived at the town of Trestlebridge. The locals opened their houses to them, and they were allowed to stay the night and eat a hearty meal. Aradan received the full attention and admiration of the townsfolk, who spoke often to him and begged to know when the King would send soldiers to protect their town. Rumors had reached Trestlebridge from the east that froze their blood: wolves were hunting again, and they were very large and fierce. Some had crossed the Baranduin and had been heard howling in the woods around the Greenfields, travelers going south along the Greenway had been waylaid by large packs, and three had been slain along the Great East Road.

"It's not safe to travel the roads these days, milords," the people who housed the princes told them. "Especially after dark. Though you'll learn that soon enough, like as not, if your errand takes you away south or east. But, milord, I daresay that you can defend yourself well enough."

The people paid Aranarth little to no heed. Though he bore a silver star as a clasp for his cloak, an emblem worn only by the nobles of Arthedain, their attention and admiration were given to Aradan. They were not unfriendly to the older brother, but it was clear that they thought him more important, in that he could defend himself, and (hopefully) them as well, from the dangers that were threatening these parts.

They slept soundly that night with no dreams to disturb them; though Aranarth believed he could hear the faint sound of a voice crying out in a long, loud wail. He could not make out if it were a wolf or a Man, but the sound made his heart tremble with fear. He gripped the knife-hilt in his belt, and wondered if he would be able to be of any use if they were attacked. Aradan, of course, was the strong one who had the skill of his arms, and would prevent any danger from befalling him. And yet Aranarth had this nagging fear in the back of his mind that something would go wrong: Aradan would be busy fighting off ten men at once (so he, and everyone else, believed in the exaggeration of the younger brother's martial skill), and one would break off from the fight to attack the elder.

When the morning dawned, Aranarth and Aradan mounted up and went with praises and farewells from the whole town. None of them knew their true business, but they believed, which ever way they might be going, that the King's soldiers would not be far behind them: surely they would come and drive away the foul wolves yelping cowardly back to their holes, and all would be well. Some looked hopelessly up at the dark clouds moving westward: the air was cool and there was a threat of rain upon it. As for the brothers, Aradan kept his eyes forward, upon the task at hand, while Aranarth looked back with an uncommon smile upon his face.

The folk of Trestlebridge were Torfiriath, Dunedain whose blood had been mingled with lesser men. Though there were few of the old blood in the town, they were good people who regarded the rule of the King and paid homage to the Scepter of Arthedain. He cared not for praise, nor was not so besotted with the hospitality of the night before that he forgot how little they had regarded him; yet the smiles, waves, cheers of praise and songs that the people of Trestlebridge sang after them as they went warmed his heart for reasons which he could not properly articulate at the present.

Dark clouds covered the face of the sun, and the shadows faded beneath their horses as they rode. Aradan remained watchful, though his eyes were given to the Greenway and the shadow under the trees and the wide plains of grass. Aranarth was fearful that they would be caught up in a storm, for the weather in these parts was prone to change as frequently as one would don and doff a coat or jacket. There was the hope, of course, that the clouds would pass away and that they would have a bright day ahead of them; but as they grew darker and the air became cool and damp, any hope of them passing quickly vanished. Aranarth told his brother to pull down his hood and wrap his cloak about his shoulders, for he was sure that there would be rain.

Midday came and the brothers now came to a gentle rise where they could see the land southwards. The Greenway appeared to be leading through the midst of a great sea of trees; in the midst of the forest a hill rose, and several houses and a great wall of wood and stone could be seen along the edge of that hill. The woods on either side were the remnant of a great forest that had once filled all of Eriador, even as far south as Angrenost and Calenardhon: a great and terrible evil had befallen that forest, which even the lore-masters of Arthedain did not speak of when Aranarth inquired. Now there remained the two woods, split down the middle by the hill, the Greenway, and Tyrn Gorthad.

That had been the resting place of the kings of Cardolan, the southernmost of the three kingdoms of Arnor and the second purest after Arthedain. The line of Elendil had failed in Cardolan after her seventh king, and it was at that time that Argeleb the First had pressed his claim as Heir of Elendil over the south kingdom. After his death, the pride and dignity of Cardolan failed as the elders among them elected a new king, even as the lords of Gondor had done with Earnil. The second line failed after only three 'kings' when Amon Sul was burned less than a generation later. As for the land of Cardolan, nothing but ruins remained of the places where the Dunedain once dwelt, and the grass had grown over the mounds of Tyrn Gorthad. But sometime after the Great Plague, it was said that fell things stirred there, and the sun had no power to warm the standing stones.

Standing almost defiantly against this deceptively beautiful line of green mounds with its tattered wall there stood the little town under the hill on the eastern side of the Greenway. This was Bree-under-Bree-hill, commonly known simply as Bree. Though it was on the border of Arthedain and the old realm of Cardolan, it ruled over its own affairs rather comfortably, being servants to none and desiring only to be left in peace. And in peace the lords of Arthedain and Cardolan had kept Bree for all the days they had ruled; for Bree was a very old town, and there were some who dwelt there who claimed that the town was older even than the first settlements of the Dunedain in Middle Earth.

The brothers made their way towards the town of Bree as swiftly as they could; for just then they felt the slightest drops of water upon their faces. Soon the storm broke out with a ceaseless shower of rain that soaked through their hoods and dampened their clothes. By the time they reached the West-gate of Bree, their clothes were thoroughly drenched and Aranarth was starting to regret that the King had sent him. He was, according to Aradan and the current need of the Dunedain, thoroughly worthless. Aradan complained about the rain, of course, but he was used to long journeys out in the wilderness under such conditions. Nevertheless, they were both more than willing to put a door and a roof between them and the rain when they came to the gate.

As it was only late afternoon, the gates of Bree were not shut, as they were after dark. At the gate, the door-wards asked them of their business. Aradan looked uneasily at his brother: he had no quarrel with the Bree-landers, but here his martial prowess availed him little. Aranarth smiled slightly, in spite of the rain, and unwrapped the soaking wet cloth from his staff. Carefully, lest the pennant fall unceremoniously to the ground by reason of the wetness, Aranarth stretched out the bundle which he had been carrying in the eyes of the door-wards. Their astonished eyes saw, in the light of the lanterns which they bore, the banner of Arthedain: a white scepter upon a sable field crowned by the ring, crown, and surrounded by seven stars.

"We are on an errand for the King at Fornost," said Aranarth. "Where is your chief? We would lodge with him this night and be on our way by morning."

"Ain't often we get travelers from the King's Norbury," one of the door-wards said. "We 'aven't got a chief, but if you want lodgin', the inn is what you're after. Just follow the road into town 'till you come to the 'ouse what bears the sign o'the Prancing Pony."

Aranarth and Aradan thanked the door-wards and rode on into the town. There were few folk about, for the rain had driven everyone indoors. The deep-rutted and rain-muddied cobblestone road passed through the town and turned southward along the side of the Bree-hill. It was here that they found a large inn with the sign of a fat white pony dangling over the door. There was a warm and welcoming light coming from inside, and both of the brothers were well-disposed to go inside and rest for the night.

They dismounted outside of the inn, near a stable-house that stood nearby: poor Aranarth's boot slipped on the wet leather of his stirrup and he fell backwards into the mud, and Aradan stifled a laugh. Once the younger brother had wiped the mud off as best he could, he followed after Aradan inside the inn. No sooner had they opened the door but a loud din of overlapping voices could be heard from the common room. This inn was a favorite haunt of travelers, as well as the idle, curious, and talkative. They looked about for the proprietor but saw no one at the counter for them.

Just then a voice cleared from somewhere behind them. Turning about, the brothers saw a most peculiar sight. A halfling, no taller than a boy of seven or eight summers, was leaning against the wall of the inn with a pastry in his hand that he nibbled at periodically. He wore a green jacket with a yellow waist-coat, brown trousers that went down to his knees, and no shoes upon his large, hairy feet.

"Good evening, my lords," the halfling said. "What brings such fine fellows to the Prancing Pony?"

"Are you the proprietor of the inn?" asked Aranarth in disbelief.

"Not me, no," the half-ling said. "That there would be Mr. Butterbur, First Citizen of Bree: a fine fellow, as far as Big Folk go. Begging your pardon, of course. Alas, he is away on business in Archet up north, or else he would be here to welcome you himself to this fine establishment of his."

"Do you know when he will be back?" asked Aranarth.

"Not for another two days, I should think," replied the halfling. Aranarth sighed in frustration, but Aradan cocked his ear to the sounds coming from the common room.

"Who is running the inn, though, if the good-man is away?" he asked.

"Oh, that would be his son and two daughters," the halfling replied. "As fine bairns as the old fellow himself, sure as Shire-talk."

"You seem to know quite a lot," Aranarth noted. "Do you work at the inn?"

"Me? Oh, no, I do not work here. I work as a farm-hand down in Staddle for my cousin, Adelholm Rushy. See, Rushy was me ma's name before she married me da, Isenbras Longtallow, and good ol' Addie is me ma's brother. No, I don't work at the Pony none, but I come here when I can: it's a good place for folk as want to hear a bit o' news, have a good drink, or a meal or six. Not that the news is ever good these days, Lor bless me." He stood up from the wall, trotted over to the brothers, who towered over him, and, craning himself up on the tips of his toes, whispered to them in a low voice; "Worst I've heard tell of is these wolves. They even say that a werewolf is leading 'em." He stepped back, shook his head, and said in a louder voice: "Now that there's the worst thing any folk in these parts has heard in a month of Mondays." With that, he took a bite of the pastry he was eating, then smiled.

"But let's not let a few rumors dampen our spirits, my lords. Begging your pardon, of course. I see that you've had a nasty run-in with the weather today: horrible business, that. I'd wager a gold sov'ren that you came here looking for a place to spend the night away from the rain."

"And you would be right, Master Longtallow," Aradan replied. "Now, then, since you know so much, why not tell us where Mr. Butterbur's son is, so we can get ourselves squared away?"

"Begging your pardon, milords, but though I would hasten to do just that, on me honor, it would do you no good. All the big rooms are filled up: folk are terrified o' the rumors of wolves, especially after they heard about those three sorry fellows as died east-ways. Big Folk, obviously: decent folk know better than to go about travelin' hither and yon, even if that old wandering conjurer offered them a mountain o' treasure for it."

The brothers looked at each other in disappointment and bewilderment. Apart from there being no rooms, the halfling's manner was not quite to their liking. He seemed to quite enjoy taking his time talking about the little goings on in Bree, or with his family, and straying off from the point for as long as it suited him and taking his time to get back to it. The halfling, however, seemed to notice their disappointment.

"You two seem like decent folk," he said. "If I'm not mistaken, that there brooch on your cloaks is the mark of the King. It's decent folk as know of the King, sure as Shire-talk. If you will give me but half a moment to fetch me umbrella from the hearth in the common room, I would be much obliged to entertain you in my little home. It's just up the road from here, on the side of the hill. I will take you there; should be enough time for a meal or two, and when morning comes, a few more before you set out."

"We appreciate this well-meaning and earnest proposal," Aranarth replied. "But, unfortunately..."

"Forgive my brother," Aradan interrupted. "He has spent his whole life with his nose stuck in a book, he does not know anything."

"On the contrary, begging your pardon," said the halfling. "He's fair-spoken, and handsome is as handsome does."

"Brother, we cannot expect to..." But Aranarth was silenced by a swift jab into his side and Aradan turned to the half-ling.

"We would be delighted to come to your house," he said. "Anything would be better than sleeping in the stables, especially with this storm about."

"But what about the horses?" asked Aranarth. "They will need to be stabled, fed, and housed during the storm."

"I will ask the good-man's son about that while I go to fetch me umbrella," said the halfling. With that, he took off as fast as his little legs could carry him into the common room. While he was away, Aranarth looked in disapproval at his younger brother.

"Are you making a jest?" he asked. "We cannot seriously expect to spend the night in a hole in the ground!"

"Why not?" asked Aradan. "Don't your stories say that Dwarves live underground?"

"We are not Dwarves, or halflings," Aranarth replied.

"Then what does the all-wise, all-knowing Aranarth say we should do?" challenged Aradan.

"We should stay here and try to have a message sent to this Mr. Butterbur," Aranarth replied. "To think that the sons of the King should be made to wait upon the son of a pauper!"

"Pauper?" asked Aradan. "Thought you would have fairer words to say than that, given your study of all those old books."

But Aranarth's words were cut short as the half-ling came out with the news: ten silver pennies for the stabling and provender. Aranarth had a little bag of money with him, and, with frustration over their present position, fished out ten silver pennies. These had been minted in the reign of Araphant, their grandfather, and bore his face upon the coins: the reverse had the tokens of the Kingdom of Arthedain with a tiny Dwarvish T-rune, indicating that the silver had been mined from the Blue Mountains. The halfling ran with these coins back to the proprietor's son, then came back with a smile on his face and his burlap umbrella, folded up, over his shoulder.

"Now that that's all settled, my lords, shall we be off?"

(AN: Hope this chapter has been to your liking. I originally intended to give 'First Citizen Butterbur' the first name of 'Bacopan', a combination of 'bacon' and 'pan', but decided against it as it didn't seem nearly as botanical as proper Bree names. At any rate, he is an ancestor of our beloved Barliman and, most certainly, a person of great importance. I would assume that, at some point in Bree's long history, a Butterbur or two had been elected as mayor of Bree. Not at this point, obviously.)

(I wonder precisely what Bombadil meant when he said that the Dunedain made spells on their knives "for the bane of the Dark Lord". Do you suppose the Dunedain believed that the Witch-King was Sauron? Obviously some foolish ones may have believed such, as there were, according to Aragorn, legends about the return of Sauron woven around the shards of Narsil. I do wonder how swift or slow the waning of lore would be regarding the Last Alliance, since this story is as far removed from those events as Tolkien was at the time of his death from the birth of Christ [a significant and important parallel]).