A/N:
This is my first fanfiction. I plan on finishing this story before I write anything else, but if a plot bunny bites me I just might have to write it down. I hope you enjoy this story. This how the Lord of the Rings would have gone if there was an entire other race involved. This story answers questions that have been nagging at me for some time, such as: Why were the ents so reluctant to join in the battle of Middle Earth? Why was Sauron out in the open when he was killed? If there were thousands of Orcs living natively in Middle Earth, why didn't Sauron use those to defeat the Men?
Summary: Frodo had a friend called Accalia Ravenheart. He knows she is a skilled swordsman, a good tracker, and a beautiful woman, but he doesn't know she is royalty to the entire forest. When he begs her to accompany them on his quest, she reluctantly agrees. They arrive at the Prancing Pony and meet Strider. He is smitten. She is suspicious. Will love flare between the two unlikely heirs, or will they end up fighting against each other?
Disclaimer: I own Accalia Ravenheart. Everything you recognize is owned by J.R. and J.R.R. Tolkien. I am not making any money off of this, I am merely posting these stories to entertain my readers. Please enjoy them.
Rating: T for some less-then-flattering descriptions. It will be upped, however, in later chapters.
Chapter One: Strider
He propped his muddied boots against the solid oak table, which was scarred by hundreds of imprints of frosty beer mugs. A rough black oilskin cloak was wrapped loosely around his shoulders, and his dark green hood was pulled low over his face, casting his handsome, roguish features in shadow. His pipe trailed a thin line of smoke, and he drew in deeply, relishing the faintly bitter taste of his tobacco, flavored by the earthy taste of pine. One gloved hand tapped slowly on his muscular thigh - the only betrayal of his impatience. Inwardly he was a fuming mass of frustration. The ranger had been waiting for almost three days for the Hobbit to arrive - Ganandalf had spoken of two Hobbits, perhaps a few more, but even with such a small group, the traveling should be less then difficult. Unless they had encountered the Nazgul on their way in…He dismissed these thoughts easily, turning them over like a dead leaf.
Suddenly the door flew open with a bang, letting in a shower of damp summer rain and a rumbling clap of thunder. Four small figures tumbled in, falling head over heels among each other. All of them wore hoods and two of them carried walking sticks. Behind them, a tall, graceful figure stooped and helped one of them to his feet. The others disentangled themselves and stood up, brushing themselves off awkwardly. One of the Hobbits - the one who had been helped to his feet - pulled back his hood and revealed a simple Hobbit face. He was handsome, in a delicate way, with dark curls and a clean profile. Another Hobbit, the one who was standing rather close to him, copied his movements and tucked his hood around his neck. A homely, simple face came into view, surrounded by strawberry-blonde peach fuzz and sandy hair that curled lightly. The other two Hobbits had shrugged themselves out of both their hoods and cloaks, hanging them on a hook by the door. They were alike as two peas, relatively the same height with identical mischievous grins.
Then the slim figure who had entered with them threw back her hood, and Strider's breath caught in his throat.
She was exquisitely pretty, with beautiful honey-colored hair that was drawn back and plaited neatly. A few loose strands of hair had escaped their confinement and had framed her face prettily. She slipped easily out of her cloak, hanging it reluctantly next to the smaller cloaks that had joined the rapidly growing pile. Her black leggings were patched - albeit neatly - at each knee. Her leather boots were laced tightly, and lined with some soft, fluffy material Strider could not identify. She turned to him, and he saw a pair of steely gray eyes that carried no mercy, no hint of gentleness. Her face was drawn and weary - her very stance bespoke of a hard, battle-torn life that had given her no warning or a second chance. The woman wasted no time on him - she merely scanned the crown for potential threats, and then sat at a scarred table with the tidy group of Hobbits.
He caught the low tones of them, caught their names - Underhill, which held no ring of truth about it. These were the only Hobbits he had seen all week, and, if the old wizard's information were true, the youngest one would be called Frodo Baggins. Ganandalf had offhandedly mentioned a partner by the name of Samwise Gamgee, but the gray-bearded old fool had never mentioned a pair of attention-seeking Hobbits who were slurping down ale as fast as they could. Frodo, if that was his name, was watching them with an expression of mild distaste. Strider's green eyes flicked over to the young girl who was sitting at the table. Her hand kept straying to the hilt of a knife that was slotted into her leather belt, mostly when the coarser louts whistled suggestively at her. She ignored them with the practiced ease of a woman who knows she is considered pretty by men and wishes to be left alone.
Sam leaned closer to their escort, murmuring in her ear. "That man over there has done nothing but stare at you ever since we came in," he warned her.
"Thank you, Samwise," the woman whispered back. "But as for your warning, it could allude to any one of the men who are currently drinking themselves into oblivion."
The portly Hobbit shrugged. "Point taken," he muttered, sitting back in his chair. The woman raised an eyebrow at the cloaked man in the corner, dismissing him with the supreme air of a woman born into nobility. She lifted her chin defiantly, just a fraction, daring Strider wordlessly to try anything.
Merry and Pippin, for of course it was they, were relating a highly colored version of their travels to Bree. An uncouth looking man asked an indistinguishable question, which was masked under the noisy din of the tavern, but Pippin's answer was loud and clear. "Sure, I know a Baggins!" he cried cheerfully. "That's him over there. Frodo Baggins. He's a second cousin on my mother's side, once removed, and a first cousin on my father's side, but twice removed."
Frodo's eyes widened, and he lunged for Pippin's elbow. "Pippin!" he hissed in his friend's ear. The tipsy Hobbit turned unexpectedly, catching Frodo off guard and sending him sprawling to the floor. The ring Frodo had been fondling was thrown up into the air. A wave of evil - so heady and tangible that Strider sat up - washed over the whole bar. By an almost unexplainable twist of fate, the ring slid neatly onto Frodo's outstretched hand.
The small Hobbit vanished without a trace.
The woman who was traveling with them stood up abruptly, her beautiful features marred by a disgusted scowl. She knelt to the floor and reached for the spot where Frodo had lain, hauling something upright. Then Frodo reappeared again, his face pale and sweaty. The tiny knot of onlookers who had witnessed the spectacle were already turning away, still in the grips of boredom. Strider took his boots off the table and strode over to where the woman was still kneeling next to the Hobbit, speaking in low, anxious tones. He seized Frodo by his hood and jerked him to his feet then half-dragged him down the hallway.
"What do you want?" Frodo sputtered, freeing himself from Strider's hard grip. Strider tossed back his hood, revealing a handsome, ruthless face. Stubble coated both of his cheeks, and his onyx eyes were hard and flashing.
"A little more caution from you. That is no trinket you carry, Hobbit." Strider growled.
"I carry nothing!" Frodo protested, taking a step backwards.
"Indeed? I can not be seen if I wish, but to disappear entirely - that is a rare gift," he snarled. Then he took a step forward, closing the gap between the tiny Hobbit and himself. He glowered down at the Hobbit, but his expression softened at the terrified look on his face. "Are you frightened, little one?" he asked, his voice low.
Frodo nodded once, rapidly. "Yes." he said.
"Not nearly frightened enough. I know what hunts you." Strider said menacingly.
Behind them, the door banged open, rebounding off the wooden wall and shaking violently. Strider whirled around, his hand flying to his sword on his hip, but a blade was already at his neck. The blonde woman who had accompanied the little band was standing in the doorway, a pair of gleaming silver swords in her hands. They were crossed over his neck, both points jabbing him slightly behind each ear. Strider held his hands up slowly.
"Courage, little miss," Strider murmured. "I am not here to harm you or your companions."
"Rubbish." the girl spat. Her voice had a soft, peculiar lilt to it, accenting every word with a twist Strider could not identify. The tone of her voice was low and silky, like a velvet ribbon being stroked across damp skin. "If you mean no harm, step aside, Ranger."
Strider stepped to one side as Sam, Merry and Pippin thundered up the stairs. Sam looked from the woman to Strider, then put down his fists. The girl, never taking her eyes - nor her blades - off of Strider, motioned for Frodo to come over. He did so, ducking behind her like a child hanging onto his mother's apron strings. A grin twitched at the corner of Strider's scruffy mouth.
"Put down your swords, miss," Strider said quietly. "Ganandalf sent me here to protect you."
The blades trembled just a fraction - her steel gray eyes flickered - then the blades were lowered and sheathed neatly into her scabbards. "How do I have proof of this, Ranger?" the woman asked derisively.
"Only that I am waiting for a Hobbit by the name of Frodo Baggins, and his guardian, Samwise Gamgee," Strider said. "The old wizard said he would meet you here, did he not?"
There was a heavy silence, and the pretty girl averted her eyes. "He must have been delayed," she said with that strange accent. "Otherwise he would have met us. I am sure of it."
"He made no mention of you, however," Strider said, his eyes narrowing. "Who are you, maiden?"
Her gray eyes flared dangerously. "Do not speak to me in such an insolent tone, Ranger," the girl spat. "I am Accalia. Underestimate me and it will cost you your life."
Strider's keen ears pricked up. It could have been his imagination - stress did strange things to the brain - but he could have sworn he heard the scream of a horse from somewhere on the outskirts of Bree. Accalia's eyes widened, and she sniffed the air in a doglike fashion. Then she threw Frodo to the floor like a sack of potatoes. "Get down, ring bearer," she said. "And you, Samwise. Meriadoc and Peregrin, shut up and do as I say before I lose my temper." She made sure all of the small Hobbits were lying on the floor, then went over to the window, crouching low. Her gray eyes peered out the grimy windows and Strider heard her inhale sharply.
Standing outside the inn were five horses - all of them as black as the night itself. Huge and sinewy, the beasts stood there like five bearers of death. Blood - fresh blood - stained their hooves and their flanks were damp with sweat. White foam bubbled at their mouths, and their eyes gleamed a devilish shade of red. Mounted on them were five horsemen, swathed in black clothes from head to foot. Gauntleted hands gripped the bridles tightly, and their feet were clad in metallic boots. Hoods hid their faces, but no breath clouded the air before their mouths. They were the Ringwraiths, neither living nor dead.
"Five." Strider said grimly. "Where are the other four, I wonder?"
"Keep wondering, Ranger," Accalia muttered. "They'll not show themselves to you unless you carry the ring."
They heard the rasping of metal against the floorboards as the five horrors mounted the stairs. They moved with an eerie, silent grace that reminded one of a panther about to strike. The five of them positioned themselves around each bedside and plunged their swords into the bulges underneath the covers. To their surprise, there were no screams, no muffled grunts, not even the satisfying crunch of metal slicing against flesh. All at once they peeled back the blankets to reveal nothing but tattered pillows and slashed mattresses. Unearthly shrieks rent the summer air, tearing through the rafters and sending chills down Accalia's spine. They fled, mounting their ghoulish steeds and speeding off into the night.
Strider stood up, twitching aside a curtain to watch them go. The four Hobbits huddled together, terrified, looking up at the two humans with glassy, frightened eyes of a deer caught in a snare. Strider sighed and motioned over to the bed. "Get some sleep, little ones. We depart at first light."
They obeyed, snuggling under thick blankets and closing their eyes. Within minutes their breathing was slow and even, their sides rising and falling as they entered the gentle fog of slumber. Accalia sat on a chair and wrapped her cloak around her tightly. Strider watched her. Her face carried a strange expression, a kind of feral savageness that bespoke of viciousness beyond human comprehension.
"You don't like them much, do you?" he asked softly after the Hobbits had all fallen asleep. She turned her silvery eyes to him and he saw the hatred in her eyes. Her fists clenched involuntarily for a moment, then relaxed.
"No." she said bitterly. "I absolutely despise them. They were too weak, too stupid. Like all Men." she added.
Strider gave a soft snort. She glared at him. "You are too, Master Strider." she snapped. "All Men are. They think they own the world, think they can control it, but when all they're really doing is putting everything out of balance."
"You speak as if you aren't human." Strider said mirthlessly. She looked away, out the window at the sliver of moon that was peeking through the heavy cloud cover, and said nothing. He studied her carefully. She appeared to be human - her ears were rounded, not pointed like an elf; her skin was of a normal rosy color, and her eyes, although unusual, were not the dark purple of a pixie or a sprite. Her hair was soft and normal looking, and she was not excessively hairy or muscular. She was the epitome of a beautiful princess.
Within a few moments he saw her eyes flutter close. Her head slumped backwards just a bit, and he saw her death grip on her dagger loosened. He watched her sleep, and for a few minutes all of her grief and cares faded, leaving before him a stunning young girl who had finally succumbed to the overwhelming pull of the Sandman.
o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.O
They left Bree at dawn, just as Strider had said. Accalia fed the Hobbits a hunk of bread and some apples, which was a grossly unacceptable meal, in Pippin's noisy opinion. Frodo said nothing, just munched quietly and followed their guides over obstacles and through thick hedges. Sam trailed behind Frodo, watching the sky critically for any signs of a threat.
It was a perfect day for traveling. The sky was still gray with the new morning, and it looked unlikely that they would see the indigo blue of a sky that day. Dew coated every grass blade with a delicate drop of moisture, and it sparkled in the watery sunlight. Mud squished underneath the Hobbit's bare feet, and they found it delightfully amusing to wiggle their hairy toes in the muck and grime. Accalia had boundless energy, it seemed; her long legs would carry her far ahead of the group, then she would double back, her swords drawn, her cheeks tinted the exquisite pink of a sulphur rose. Strider, carefully letting no emotion show on his face, watched her. She was remarkably attune to her surroundings - her ears quivered at the slightest sound out of the ordinary - and her feet were fast and light.
When they had been walking for almost an hour, Pippin sat down and began taking out a frying pan. Accalia, knowing of the strict mealtimes of the Hobbits, rolled her eyes and kept walking, but Strider turned around with an incredulous look on his face. "Gentlemen, we do not stop until nightfall." he chided gently. Pippin stared at him, cocking his head to one side.
"What about breakfast?" he demanded. Strider shook his head, confused.
"You've already had it." he said. Pippin folded his arms, readying himself for a good debate about food. Hobbits were extremely habitual eaters, and it was practically a crime to skip a mealtime.
"We've had one, yes. What about second breakfast?" Pippin asked.
Strider opened his mouth to argue, when Accalia pulled on his arm. "Don't." she said in a low whisper. "You'll never win."
He followed her into the bushes, disgusted with the softness of his traveling companions. Merry glanced at his fellow troublemaker, shrugging his shoulders. Pippin blinked a few times at the retreating back of Strider.
"I don't think he knows about second breakfast, Pip." Merry said. Pippin stared at his friend, aghast.
"But he knows about elevenses? Lunch? Tea? Supper? Dinner? He knows about them, right?" Pippin asked, his voice rising and holding an underlying note of panic.
"I wouldn't bet on it." Merry said, shouldering his pack. An apple came flying from the bushes and Merry caught it one handedly. He, in turn, tossed it to Pippin. "Here!" he said cheerfully. Pippin caught the apple clumsily, and another one thwacked him hard on the head. He sighed.
It was going to be a long walk.