(AN: I didn't get to say it in the author's note of the last chapter, as it was getting verbose, but I had to redraw the layout of Fornost Erain for this story. I was not thoroughly happy with the layout from Battle for Middle Earth II: Rise of the Witch-King, nor that from LOTRO, and the maps from New Notions Archives were contradictory. So I made an amalgamation of my own, as something of a combination of all of the above.)

(I had a little bit of fun in the last chapter: aside from the dialogue with the half-ling, also in describing coins used in Middle Earth. Mirroring real life coinage, the face of a king would be placed on the coin relative to which ever country is circulating them, along with their emblems [as opposed to the symbol of a deity, as in ancient Rome, due to the informality of Eru-worship/Morgoth cults]. The little rune indicates where the silver was gotten from, and I used the T-rune based on the Khuzdul word "Tumunzahar" for Nogrod in the Ered Luin [which features into this story later, I might add].)

(Thank you, lowercaseenderman, for your review. I will keep an eye on your story about Scatha and the Eotheod. Hope you enjoy the rest of this one, which promises to be another epic.)

A Night with a Halfling

Out from the inn trotted the halfling, and the two men followed after him. There was nobody out and about during the storm, much to Aranarth's relief; if there had been, they would have been an object of much laughter and amusement. As a courtesy to his guests, the halfling held his umbrella up as high as his arm could reach: however, that proved to be only up to the height of their noses, and the brothers had to bend down just for their heads to be sheltered beneath it. The halfling would not have cared for the laughter, nor paid it any mind: he was a good and true-hearted fellow, and very hospitable to visitors.

From the Prancing Pony, they followed the halfling up the side of the hill. Here they left the cobblestone road and went up to a dirt footpath that went up onto the Bree-hill; only because of the rain, the path was muddied and the halfling's feet were stained dark brown with it. From where the brothers sheltered under the umbrella, they saw that there were many curious dwellings built into the side of the hill up which they were going. They saw what looked like round doors and round windows built into the side of the hill itself. Once again Aranarth had misgivings about spending the night inside a hole in the ground, but he went along just the same. He didn't wish to get into another argument with Aradan, one which he knew he could outsmart his younger brother, but would not win due to Aradan's strength and assertiveness.

On the third line of these burrowed dwellings, the halfling stopped and turned to the left. There was a burrowed dwelling with a small wooden picket fence about the round door, which faced back westward. Here the halfling closed his umbrella, unlocked the door with the keys from his coat pocket, wiped his feet on the brown mat just inside the door, and led them inside.

It was very low for the tall men, who had to kneel down or crawl almost on their hands and knees. It was a hole, such as the halflings dwelt in here in Bree, or on the other side of the Baranduin in the little land of the Calendrann, which they called 'the Shire.' It was not a very rich dwelling-place, as those who know only of such holes from west of the Baranduin might believe, but it was still quite comfortable by their standards. The floor was of packed earth strewn with straw, but there were curved wooden beams around the door, the windows, and here and there to hold up the earthen ceiling. The hearth was of brick and mortar, and had tiles around its mouth. There were chairs and tables, a bed, stools, a coat-hanger, and shelves and barrels for a sizable pantry.

Of a certain, those who dwelt in Calendrann would look down their noses at such a modest hole and call it a warren. But the halfling who dwelt here and in whose family this hole had belonged, were not very rich. If truth be told, it was a very respectable hole, and much more homely and comfortable than the muddy holes of the Stoors on the banks of the Great River, east of the Misty Mountains. Not very long ago, by the reckoning of Elves, Dwarves, and Men of the West, all of the halflings dwelt in such burrows, for they had not quite advanced until they had settled in the West and started to 'put down roots.' Indeed, there was still a good deal of kinship among the halflings of the three families, and those in Bree had not yet become so estranged from their kin in Calendrann that they considered them 'outsiders.' This could be explained by the relative peace and stability brought to the region by the lords of Arthedain, who gave protection to the Bree-landers and halflings in exchange for speeding the King's messengers and keeping the roads and bridges in good repair.

Inside the hole, the halfling took the brothers' cloaks and hung them up on the wooden coat-hanger by his door. Then he led them to the dining room, offered them stools for them to sit, and busied himself with kindling a fire on the hearth. The stools were small, and the brothers' heads brushed against the wooden boards on the ceiling. While they waited, the halfling whistled a merry tune as he stoked the fire on the hearth and placed a small kettle full of water over the crackling fire. He then wiped his hands on an apron he had tucked into his belt and turned to his guests.

"Right," he said. "Now that we've got the fire going, let's see to some food, shall we? Once the fire's good and hot, we can get you in front of the fire and get those clothes dry." He looked awkwardly down at the shoes on his guest's feet. "I suppose those boots aren't very comfortable wet, are they?"

"Not at all," Aradan replied.

"Good," the halfling said. "Take them off and put them by the fire. You can even warm your toes while you're at it." The halfling made his way off to the pantry as fast as his feet could carry him.

The brothers moved their stools over to the fireplace and removed their boots. They then placed them by the fire and warmed their toes by the cozy little fire. Shortly thereafter, the halfling returned from his pantry with a wooden platter overflowing with food, then went back to the pantry for more. Within a few minutes, three such trenchers were placed on the table, with more than enough food for the three of them and to spare. The brothers were now dividing among themselves cheese, bread, a small jar of jam, butter, pickles, ripe fruit, several leafy and root vegetables, a savory pie, and scones. The halfling then brought out a large black pot, a wooden ladle and a sack of oats, which he placed near the hearth and stirred the contents at the bottom thereof before taking a few of the vegetables he had brought out on the platters and began cutting them up and adding them into the bowl, along with the oats. Once more he darted off into the pantry as quick as an arrow from the string, and came back with a small barrel that was almost as round as he himself was, along with three cups stacked on top of the barrel.

After a few minutes, the halfling brought out three earthenware bowls, ladled the stew into them, and served them to his guests. Before they ate, Aranarth asked if the westward-looking windows could be open, to which their host acquiesced hastily. The brothers, led by Aranarth, performed the Standing Silence: they stood up as best they could, placed their hand upon the breast and looked westward towards Numenor that was, beyond to Elvenhome that is, and to that beyond Elvenhome which ever will be. The halfling, out of respect for his guests, did likewise; though he did not understand the importance thereof. Once they had finished, they sat back down again and soon they were eating and drinking merrily: the food was good, and the halfling was a merry host. He drank and laughed merrily, and shared with them many charming and amusing stories and simple jests about the goings on of the other halflings dwelling in Bree and Staddle. Aradan laughed at the jests and their guest's simple humor and carefree demeanor. Aranarth laughed as well, but not with the halfling and his brother. After three courses of dinner, the brothers were full to the brim. The halfling offered them a few additional morsels to 'fill up the corners', but they said no. By this time, the kettle was whistling like a tree full of birds, and the halfling brought out cups and saucers and poured tea for his guests. This they accepted, for the memory of the chill and rain was still upon them: especially for Aranarth, who was not accustomed to such journeys in the extreme weather. The halfling nibbled on scones and a small dish of dried mushrooms, and chatted idly with his guests.

Once they had eaten, they sat by the crackling hearth and talked with their host. He seemed uninterested in things happening farther outside of Bree than Staddle, though he had heard some of the rumors from the Prancing Pony, which he frequented every day on his way to and from work in Staddle for breakfast and a bite and a song or tale before dinner. But of the things happening in the little lands where he and his people dwelt, he knew quite a bit of and in great detail.

"Indeed," said the halfling. "We hobbits aren't quite as concerned about goings on outside of our own affairs as Big Folk, begging your pardon."

"Who calls you hobbits?" asked Aranarth with a snicker.

"We call ourselves hobbits."

"How quaint!" Aranarth said, shaking his head.

"I like it," Aradan added. "Very humble, very simple. Easy to remember, unlike those absurd names in your books of lore. How many names did that absurd Elf-smith have again? I lost count."

"Celebrimbor or Feanor?" asked Aranarth, a little spitefully. "And it's not absurd."

"Do you see what I have to deal with, Master Longtallow?" Aradan asked, turning to their host. "A warrior of many battles and hard, journeying with his scholarly brother who cannot even ride a horse."

"Goodness gracious me!" the halfling said. "But I'll wager, sure as Shire-talk, that I would not fare any better than him, were I in his place. Horses are frightfully large beasts, and there's not much good in going off on adventures or battles. Not that there aren't a few foolhardy as do so, especially when that wandering conjurer comes around these parts."

"Wandering conjurer?" asked Aranarth, his interest suddenly piqued. "Who do you mean?"

"Oh, that would be the old chap who goes about all in gray, with a staff in his hand and big leather boots on his feet," said the halfling. "Don't quite remember his name, as it's been a hundred years since he's been up in Bree, if it's been half a minute. Some say he's an Elf, or a friend of Elves, as they say he's been in these parts since before Marcho and Blanco crossed the Brandywine westward. Anyway, he's a friend of the hobbits, Elf or no Elf, and the Big Folk of Bree. He used to come and go and bring most excellent tales from far away, or even lead some lads and lasses off on adventures, if you can believe it!"

Aranarth was about to laugh at the absurd names of these halflings, but Mr. Longtallow's description of the wandering conjurer gave him pause, especially the staff and the mention of the Elves. There was one such person who fit this description, though it had been some time since he had visited Arthedain in distant memory. That person was Mithrandir, the Grey Wanderer, known commonly in these parts as Gandalf. It was written in the library at Fornost, that it was Gandalf who had convinced Cirdan, lord of the Havens, and Carthaen the Brave, the legendary captain of Cardolan, to render aid to Arveleg, son of Argeleb in routing the forces of Angmar from the Weather Hills. But Gandalf was, as was his Elvish name, a wanderer, and was not always present to render aid to the faltering Dunedain; much to the disappointment of Arvedui and his sons.

"Has this conjurer been seen lately?" asked Aranarth.

"Not in these parts, no," Mr. Longtallow said. "Rumor has it that a man bearing his description was seen crossing the Brandywine westward sometime in the autumn of last year. Perhaps he visited Bucca of the Marish, but what they spoke of no one knows. Folk in the Shire are honest enough, but they're a bit uppish, if you know what I mean."

"Not at all," Aranarth chuckled.

"What I mean is that they're a bit comfortable in their land westward," said the halfling in response. "Not many Big Folk as go wandering into that little land, save the old conjuring chap, here and again. But the Shire-folk like that, and they say that their land is the best land in all these parts. Whether that's true or no, I cannot say: never been so far meself."

"I have heard that there was traffic between Calendrann and Bree," Aranarth spoke up. "What you call 'the Shire.' Has that changed?"

"Aye, and not all for the best, I would say. These strange rumors have chilled everyone's blood, and folk are scared to cross the River."

At that moment, there was another long, loud wail heard in the evening sky: it was similar to that cry which the brothers had heard in the woods of the North Downs, but it was unmistakably not that of a wolf. The sound sent shivers down their spines, and even the halfling made a sound of fright. But he quickly got up from his stool and closed the windows.

"What was that?" asked Aradan.

"Barrow-wights, like as not," replied Mr. Longtallow. "Dreadful things, inhabiting the old downs east of the Old Forest. Sometimes their voices can be heard on dark and rainy days, or on cold winter nights: and they chill the blood something fearful. But let's not talk of such dreary things. The tea is still good, the fire on the hearth is warm, and there's a roof over our heads against the rain."

With that, the halfling went out of the kitchen and returned with a large leather bound book. Halflings were not counted among the very wise, and indeed few of them could read the letters used by Men, and none knew the Elvish letters at this time. But this book was a record of a family tree, which things, even in these days, were almost sacred to the halflings. Aradan continued sipping his tea while Aranarth peeked inside the book, as this was his area of interest. This book had listed, as far back as the time of the Malvegil, the family of the Longtallow halflings. Though there were no dates as the Elves kept them, there was a small note indicated B.S.Y. The halfling explained that this indicated the years before Marcho and Blanco crossed the Brandywine and the reckoning of years in the Shire began. It seemed that this book had been compiled by the Longtallows relatively recently, and the earlier dates were less specific.

"I did not think that you halflings would be interested in genealogies," Aranarth remarked.

"A very important thing for us, my lord," said Mr. Longtallow. "It's almost faded, and some of the Shire-folk have almost completely forgotten it, but our family names date back to the first of our fathers who crossed the Misty Mountains. A nasty and dangerous journey it was, and many died in the crossing. We honor the names of those who survived and keep alive the memory of those who did not."

Aranarth was surprised at the halfling's traditions, especially considering how awkwardly he had looked upon them when they performed the Standing Silence. It seemed that they were not quite as rustic and uncouth as he had believed at first, but had little traditions of their own, even as the Dunedain and the Elves.

"If you hate adventures so much," Aranarth asked. "Why did your people leave the East?"

"Big Folk were migrating into the valley of the Great River," said Mr. Longtallow. "We dwelt there long ago, and still some of our relatives dwell there; the Stoors, who are less troubled by the Big Folk. Also..." And here the halfling lowered his voice again, as he had to them at the inn when he spoke of the wolves.

"Also, the Necromancer had come to the East at that time and filled the Greenwood with dark, terrible, nasty things."

At this, Aranarth gasped visibly and even Aradan put down his tea and perked up his ears. Rumor of the Necromancer of Dol Guldur in the vastness of Mirkwood had passed over the Mountains and had been heard in Arnor. Just who or what it was, no stories told. But the East had grown dark and dangerous, and evil things lurked in the shadows of the trees: and not all of the things that walked in the forest were such things as feared a sword or blade. Though the darkness of those days had driven the thoughts of the Dunedain inward rather than outward, there were still some among the old saptain who tried to place where the Witch-King and his cultists who led the forces of Angmar came from. Some believed that the Witch-King had been a student of the Necromancer, and had learned the dark art of sorcery in Dol Guldur before setting himself up as Lord of Carn Dum. Those of less learning thought that the Necromancer had been a student of the Witch-King, and some even believed that the Dark Lord, of whom the old tales spoke of, had returned from death and defeat to take his vengeance upon the sons of Elendil, his ancient enemy, under the guise of the Witch-King.

Though what the Elven-Wise lords knew about this, or believed, Aranarth and the saptain of Arthedain knew nothing. Those of some meaningful learning doubted that the Witch-King was Sauron, for the banner of their ancient enemy in Carn Dum was a rusted iron crown, and the tales spoke of the evil red eye used by those in service of the Dark Tower. As for having been a student of the Necromancer, no one held that to be of any credulity: over six hundred years had passed from the founding of the Kingdom of Angmar, and none but an Elf could have lived long enough to have been around at its beginning. Even before the Shadow fell upon Numenor, the Dunedain only lived to the age of five hundred; these days, few ever reached ages older than two hundred.

But there was no time to linger on the dark things, for Mr. Longtallow was now pointing to the names in the book and listing his relation to them, as well as their little histories. From the book, Aranarth deduced that their host must be Finumbras, for the other names of his siblings - and there were many - had many children beneath them and he had none.

"Oh, I know that it's not usual for hobbits not to be wed," said Finumbras. "But there's still time for me: I only just come of age last midsummer, and have been working throughout me tweens at me uncle's farm in Staddle. There's no cause to hurry; I have all the time in the world."

Aradan returned to his tea: there was no more to listen to about the Necromancer, and his tea was getting cold. Aranarth, meanwhile, was rather intrigued by his host's differing opinion from that of his people. The Dunedain had almost given up on the prospect of marriage, due to the danger of these days and the dwindling resources; yet the halflings seemed unperturbed by the troubles of the times and married and had many children.

Finumbras dismissed himself and went into the tunnel that exited his hole, and came back with their cloaks. Here he draped these on the mantle-piece over the hearth, against the warmer stones but not the soot-stained center. "There aren't any beds large enough for you in here, I am afraid," he told them. "But I can at least let your cloaks dry out and warm up over the fire: you can wrap yourselves in them, if you'd like, and dry your clothes by the fire."

Outside the storm carried on, while inside they continued talking. That is to say, Finumbras talked about the little goings on of the halflings of Bree and Staddle, and the brothers listened; Aradan more intently than Aranarth. They continued talking until the dim light under the storm clouds faded into the darkness of night. Finumbras lighted a few candles in the room from the hearth, and placed these near the window and on the table, and prepared himself for bed.

"I will be up early to make you a nice breakfast," he told them. "And then be off to the Pony for a second breakfast for myself. I fancy you would want to leave as soon as you have eaten?"

"Yes, we would," Aranarth replied.

"Good, good," said Finumbras. "Then a breakfast and a farewell it shall be. Goodnight, my lords, and pleasant dreams to the both of you."

With that, the halfling dismissed himself and went to his bedroom. Now that they had a bit of privacy, Aranarth removed his clothes down to his under garment and laid these out on the stone tiles in front of the hearth. Aradan, on the other hand, refused to take off his mail even to sleep, and so did not do so.

"Do you seriously expect to be attacked from this halfling?" Aranarth asked humorously.

"Not at all," Aradan replied. "He seemed to be a rather pleasant fellow. My fear is that we may be attacked, and I will need my armor to defend you and Master Longtallow."

"You seem rather taken with the little fellow," said Aranarth. "I thought you would have no interest in him, due to his short stature and lack of prowess in arms."

"Oh, I thought of that when first I saw him at the inn," Aradan said. "But, after our conversation, I have changed my mind. All of our people are so grim and sad, that it is a welcome change to see someone so merry and cheerful."

"Cheerful, yes," Aranarth noted. "I will grant you that. But I am not quite so smitten with him. He seemed woefully interested in his own little affairs, which are but a drop in the Great River. His book of lore, high though he thinks of it himself, is rather quaint and rustic. Not what I would consider worthy of study."

"And that is where you are wrong, brother," countered Aradan. "Your infatuation with lore and old tales serves you and our people nothing at all."

"And being passionate over food, drink, and a warm hearth are?" asked Aranarth.

"Yes..." said Aradan, unusually thoughtful. "Yes, they are. I...I do not rightly know how to say it, but as we were eating and talking, a thought came to mind. Our people have been so busy trying to defend our land and preserve what we thought was so important - well, what you think is so important - that we have lost sight of the simple comforts. A soldier on the field is ever looking for his next meal, and some do not live long enough to see their next. The songs and tales that you have learned speak of the glories of our fathers of old; of Elendil the Tall and Beren the Renowned, of Hurin and Turin Turambar, and all the rest. But I have actually lived in battles, rather than in the stories that you have read.

"And believe you me, Aranarth, that there is little glory in such 'great' deeds. And what are the worth of such deeds, since you do not live to enjoy them, but leave the enjoyment to pale, gaunt, womanly scholars such as you?" He turned his gaze down the tunnel where Finumbras had departed. "But listening to him speak, and laugh, and jest, and talk so much about home, family, a warm hearth, and good food and drink, reminded me that there is something else worth fighting for; something worth preserving. The simple pleasures of plate, bottle, and home: these things even the greatest of our people can appreciate as much as the simplest of halflings. These things we fight to preserve, so that we, and those that shelter behind us, may enjoy them for one day more."

Aranarth scowled, but said nothing. He did not wish to admit that Aradan had made a valid point, likely by reason of jealousy: so long had Aradan scoffed at the scholarly pursuits which Aranarth had made his life's pursuit, he wanted to laugh him to scorn over his thinking out-loud, make Aradan feel as he had made him feel all throughout his life. But then a twinge of regret passed through his mind: would he not be doing as Aradan had done to him for all those years, by stifling the opening of his mind to deeper thought with harsh and undue criticism? Therefore Aranarth bit his tongue and wrapped himself in his cloak, trying in vain to fall asleep on the hard-packed earthen floor of Finumbras Longtallow's dining room.

(AN: A humorous chapter, hopefully, but one that has long-lasting impact on our main characters. One thing I wanted to make clear while writing this chapter, which is still some six hundred years before Smeagol, was that the Harfoots and Fallohides, those hobbits we are most familiar with, had advanced slowly but surely up until the time of Bilbo Baggins, where we are most familiar with them. As such, Mr. Longtallow's hobbit hole is not as fancy as Bag End, nor should one expect such in the holes of the common hobbits of this time; especially since The Hobbit states that Bungo [using Belladonna's money] had made Bag End especially fancy.)

(Speaking of The Hobbit, I mentioned him in the last chapter and again here, but based on when the Istari arrived, it is highly likely that Gandalf was around during the time of the War against Angmar. What part he had to play in it, if any, is not recorded. My thought would be that he went about, as he was known to do, wandering among people of different races and befriending them, or [as stated in Servant of Darkness: the Quiet] "finding things out" that would aid in the war against Sauron. At any rate, he will not be present in this story, but his influence will be felt.)