A drizzling damp settles over their corner of Middle Earth. Thunder rolls its distant displeasure across the grim night sky. The rain brings with it the kind of haunting chill that sinks and stays in the weary bones of unlucky travelers. The muddy forest road leading to the tall gates of Bree is thick and frigid, the wind rare but strong. Still, the promise of warmth shines through the dismal wet with the watery golden lights of the village just ahead on the high hill, twinkling resolutely behind the stone walls like ink that has been muted and splattered by teardrops.
Dinah feels the storm in her hands. They are so stiff with the cold that she finds it hard to curl them around her swords. As their party of five trudges through the towering trees, she keeps trying – staring down at her long, slender fingers as they tremble and fumble with basic commands. When she was a little girl, Dinah loved looking at her own hands. She liked to watch the delicate bones move in the sunlight. It was mesmerizing. She looks a lot like her mother, dark hair and darker eyes and a permanent pout, but the shape of her hands, the way certain fingers slightly turn inwards, the bulging set of her knuckles – those are her father's hands. Smaller, of course, made in size for a lady's body but not actually befitting a lady. They are sword hands, warrior hands, killer hands.
She raises her head abruptly with a sharp inhale. The wet fall night burns her nose, stings her heavy eyes. The sharp sobs of the sky pelt her numb cheeks. She stops fighting and lets the cold in.
The Hobbits are hunched over themselves as they waddle through the muck and mire. Their big feet somehow find even the smallest puddles and splash through them, coating their short hairy legs in sludge. The bickering and whining about the long road ahead through the rain ceased a few miles back, in the heart of the midnight wood, so perhaps they have stopped fighting in their own way, too.
The trees finally end. Just across an exposed path – more like its own river, with how the quickly the rainwater rushes over it – is the village of Bree.
Dinah moves to the front of their little group, craning her neck. No sign of the Black Riders. No sign of anybody. Perhaps the storm is a strange gift in disguise.
"Go," she murmurs, softly nudging Frodo forward. "I'll be right behind you."
The Hobbits stumble and slosh through the street and huddle outside the great wooden door. Dinah joins them, keeping her careful eyes on the dark trees, the draining lane. Frodo sounds the heavy iron knocker.
The gatekeeper throws open the top viewing window with a sour glare. Dinah doesn't know what time it is, but she can feel that it's very late – apparently, such an hour that it's cause for suspicion. The gatekeeper barks at the back of her head, "What do you want?"
She slowly turns to him with an arched brow.
Frodo saves her the dignity of having to respond. "If you please, sir…"
The gatekeeper grunts, peering down. He slams the window shut, then opens another much closer to the height of the Hobbits. They must have many visit, then. "What?"
"We're heading for the Prancing Pony," he explains, having to raise his voice to compete with the steady pounding of rain.
The window closes – but then the shrill sound of rusted latches being undone pierces Dinah's sensitive ears, and the great wooden door to Bree slowly groans open. The gatekeeper, an old greasy-looking Man, hobbles into the threshold. He holds a bright oil lamp high above his head, swinging it dangerously to-and-fro as he glowers down at them. The Hobbits step back at his sudden appearance – probably to avoid getting hot oil spilled on them, too – but Dinah doesn't move a muscle. Even as Pippin tramples her foot.
"Hobbits? Four Hobbits, out of the Shire by your talk, and… and a woman?" The gatekeeper leers, thrusting the lamp closer. Their shadows shiver in the rippling puddles. He narrows his eyes. "I have never seen such a company! What business brings you to Bree?"
Frodo hesitates. He glances at his friends, shuddering in the blustery deluge, and his anxious blue eyes become determined.
There's something peculiar about these Hobbits, so small yet plunging headfirst into a world full of darkness, seemingly with no choice. They remind Dinah of herself, her sisters. They are scared but they are strong; they don't want to leave home but they know that they must, so they do. Whatever their trouble, whatever causes them to be hunted by the Nazgûl, these Hobbits are made to endure.
"We wish to stay at the inn," Frodo says. Despite his chill, despite his obvious fear, his lilting voice is firm. Dinah's heart secretly swells with pride, her lips curling in a subtle smirk of approval as he continues, "Our business is our own."
The gatekeeper huffs and glances at Dinah with clear distrust before nodding to Frodo. "Alright, alright, young sir, I meant no offense." Finally, he steps aside, allowing the Hobbits to enter the brief shelter of the guard tower. Dinah scans the dark woods once more before following. The heavy thud of the gate and the squeak of the lock gives her more comfort than it should. "It's my job to ask questions after nightfall, you know. There's talk of strange folk about. Can't be too careful. If I was you, I'd get to the Prancing Pony and stay there till morning."
Dinah has been inside many inns during her decades of hunting, and while all have the potential to be seedy, this is one of the cleanest. The Prancing Pony is pleasantly warm, the dim lights of the fireplaces casting a welcoming glow about the room. Candles are at several tables filled with bumping elbows and foaming steins. Smoke hangs over their heads, drifting in the rafters. Cramped, but far better than the downpour they just escaped. Though from the way the Hobbits stand so close to her, she knows they still feel uncomfortable. It must be the presence of so many Men – something that usually puts her on edge, too, but for a different reason.
As her ears become accustomed to the hearty laughs and loud conversations, Dinah picks up the breezy whistle of a flute. Somewhere in this noisy den, someone is playing a song, and several feet stomp along.
The innkeeper wipes a rag across the bar, chuckling along to something one of his boisterous patrons said. He didn't notice the chime of the door's bell amid the rabble. When Frodo clears his throat, the innkeeper doesn't so much as glance in his direction.
Frodo looks to his friends with uncertain eyes, then up at Dinah. Her heart squeezes. This is the night they met, yet he turns to her for encouragement. Entrenched in darkness and still so trusting. Years from now, hopefully when Dinah is finally greying from the passage of time, she will fondly remember these four, these Hobbits.
"Your handling of the gatekeeper was excellent," she tells him. "I would see you continue here."
"Do you mean it?" He asks. When they came in, the Hobbits removed their hoods; Frodo's hair hangs in thick damp curls around his sweet round face, which has gone rosy.
She inclines her head. "The world has a habit of silencing voices it should listen to. I will not speak for you; rather, I would see you have the courage to speak for yourself, and the esteem to know you deserve to be heard."
Sam nudges him. "She's right, you know, Mr. Frodo. We're all right here with you."
He nods, smiling down at his muddy feet, then turns back to the front desk with a new set to his small shoulders. "Excuse me," he calls with authority – the same gentle firmness he used at the gate.
The innkeeper turns. He sees Dinah first, notes the glint of the Dark Heralds winking at her hips. She stares at him, impassive. She knows it's unnerving, that dead-eyed daring stare, but she does it anyway. Then she jerks her chin forward. He gulps. Warily, he leans over the front desk, and when he sees the Hobbits waiting expectantly, he visibly relaxes.
"Good evening, little masters," he says. "And… Lady." He spares Dinah – truly, her twin blades – a quick glance. "If you're seeking accommodation for the night, we've got some nice, cozy Hobbit-sized rooms available. We're always proud to cater to the Little Folk here at the Prancing Pony. Why, my father built the Hobbit rooms himself!" His eyes dart nervously to Dinah again, like he doesn't know if he should avoid her or keep a careful watch. "As far as available rooms for Big Folk, well…"
"She's our friend," Merry says decisively. "She stays with us."
The innkeeper regards them quietly for a very long moment. Dinah wonders if he would have turned her away if she had come alone. "Alright, then, will two connecting rooms with three beds each be appropriate for your party of five, Mister, uh…?"
"Underhill," Frodo says quickly – too quickly. "My name's Underhill."
"Underhill…" The innkeeper repeats, leaning back with a low hum. He steals another look at Dinah. Water falls from her hood, which still shadows her face. She drums her fingers along the slick hilts of her swords.
"We're friends of Gandalf the Grey – we're meant to meet him here. Can you tell him we've arrived?"
Now the innkeeper blinks, furrows his brow. "Gandalf? Gandalf…" Then his eyes light up. "Oh, yes! I remember: elderly chap, big grey beard, pointy hat." The Hobbits nod eagerly, beaming at the familiar description of their friend – but then their faces fall when he continues, "Not seen him for six months." He's called away by the bellow of a Man in need of a refill.
Frodo turns to their small group, clustered closer as a stranger passes.
"What do we do now?" Sam asks.
"Wait here, I suppose," Pippin advises. "If Gandalf said he would be here, then maybe we just have to be patient."
Merry snorts. "That'll be a first for you, Pip."
As the Hobbits discuss their options, debating whether or not this Gandalf would return, and wondering what could have detained their dependable friend, Dinah examines the patrons of the inn. It could be this crowded because of the driving rain, or it could be the rumors the old gatekeeper mentioned. Some sinister feeling is hanging above Middle Earth with the recurring clouds, and even those not privy to the knowledge of the Nazgûl's ride seem to sense that something is wrong.
There are many here who have the hard look of travelers, and some who might be locals braving the storm for a drink. The dense circle around the musician disperses as the cheery tune finally ends, and as the thick throng of Men head for their seats, a flash of auburn hair in the firelight has Dinah's head turning so fast her hood falls back.
She has to be seeing things. She's over-tired from the long hours without proper rest and food. Otherwise… No, it can't be.
But there she is, sitting by a foggy window, her cheeks flushed from a merry dance with perfect strangers – though with her infectious good nature, wherever she goes she never finds strangers, only unmade friends.
Liesel is here.
Dinah is frozen, hardly hearing the worried banter of her new friends and the boastful shouts of drunks. The swirl of lights and sounds and smoke fade away as she stares, torn between running back out into the rain and dashing across the old wooden floors.
It has been at least a month. A month since their fight, a month since Dinah started hunting on her own, a month since she last saw her sisters. She thought that Liesel was headed to the Shire. It would be the perfect place for her, somewhere she inevitably belonged. Her presence would enrich its authentic loveliness.
Instead, Liesel is inside a packed inn on a stormy night. She looks well, like she sleeps in a bed, eats regular meals.
Then Dinah notices that Liesel isn't armed. There is no sign of her specially crafted bow and arrows, made from the weeping willow that grew on the banks of an ancient, pure stream, nor the small pair of knives each of the huntresses were given by Tom Bombadil in their early days of learning to navigate the dangerous wilderness of Middle Earth. Liesel carries nothing to protect herself in a room full of Men.
Irritation chases the chill out of Dinah's blood. How could she be so thoughtless?
"Excuse me," she interrupts the Hobbits, though not unkindly. "There's something I must see to. Find us a table by the fire, and order yourselves a drink and a hot meal. We can discuss the next leg of our journey once we're warmed and fed."
"You mean…" She forces herself to tear her eyes from Liesel. Pippin smiles up at her. "You really will stay with us tonight? You won't leave?"
"I will not leave," she promises. "I said that I would see you to safety, and if your friend is the means of that safety, and he is not here, then my duty to you continues. Besides," she says – not smiling, never smiling, but with a rare twinkle in her eyes, "you still owe me a story."
"Thank you," Frodo offers. "It brings me great comfort to know that I have made such a loyal friend out of this darkness."
She doesn't have the chance to thank him for his kind words, or assure him that she feels just as fortunate – though she isn't sure she'd be able to voice any of it, anyway. A loud gasp silences the inn, and every head turns to spot the source. Dinah doesn't have to look – she'd know that sound anywhere. So instead, she cringes and braces herself for impact.
The Hobbits watch with wide eyes as Liesel charges across the room in a swirl of long skirts and unbound curls, throwing her arms around the soaked huntress with such force that Dinah grunts and stumbles.
"Dinah! Oh, Dinah, I'm so sorry! I'm sorry we fought! I've thought about it every day, and how I wished I could apologize. I regret it so much," Liesel swears into Dinah's wet, knotted braid, tightening her arms for emphasis. Dinah feels as though she's being wrung dry. "Gosh, to think we spent a whole month apart! I never want to do that again. You are my sister, and I treated you so terribly – I should've listened to you. I just wanted to see the Shire, but once I got here, my guilt prevented me from going any farther. I sat by that window each night, secretly wishing with all my heart on every falling star that somehow you and Sage would find me, and-"
Dinah grips Liesel hard around the biceps and peels her off. "Liesel, please," she hisses through her teeth, her skin crawling with the stares of curious onlookers. "You're making a scene-"
"I know, I know, I'm sorry – I'm just so happy to see you." She's beaming tearfully as she tucks a strand of Dinah's hair behind her ear. Then she looks at her, really and truly takes her in, and her face falls.
Dinah knows she must look rough after spending days and nights hunting. She feels ragged. Every time she speaks, the small cuts on her face pinch and split open anew. Every time she stands still, the rumble of her empty stomach rivals the booming thunder rattling the windowpanes. She knows all this, fights through it, but she can't ignore how the mere sight of her makes Liesel feel.
"Oh, my sister, what have you done?" Softly, like tending a skittish wounded doe, Liesel's hands cup Dinah's face, tracing the deep purple bags beneath her eyes. Dinah lurches away from her tender touch, but Liesel is undeterred. "Why haven't you been sleeping? Why…" She surges forward and wraps Dinah in another determined hug, but it's not one of reunion – it's investigative. "Why haven't you been eating?"
"Enough!" Dinah snaps, shoving out of Liesel's grasp. "Would you have the whole of the inn know my business?"
"I would have you tell me."
"There will be time for that, if your eagerness will permit the conversation to be private." She checks the room and finds the Hobbits seated at a table by the fire, sipping from small mugs. "I am here on an errand related to our… calling."
The mention of the curse causes the sweet set of Liesel's face to steel. She suddenly looks her age. "You have found proof, then? The Nazgûl truly ride again?" Her voice is considerably lower.
Dinah checks on the Hobbits one more time. The innkeeper is bringing Sam, Pippin and Frodo a loaf of bread, while Merry helps himself to a large pint of ale at the bar. Probably too much for someone of their size, but that can be dealt with later.
She guides Liesel by the elbow to a dim, unoccupied corner. A hooded man sits some feet away, but he seems utterly engrossed in his pipe – too dizzy within its cloud to pay the two girls any mind. "I tracked the Nine to the Shire-"
"The Shire? What brought them there?"
"They hunt a Hobbit." Dinah jerks her chin toward Frodo. He and Sam are whispering to one another, while Merry drains his too-big pint. Pippin has moved toward the bar, probably to get himself into drinking trouble, too. "That Hobbit. I found him and his friends on the run, under attack. They were meant to meet a powerful friend here. They promised to give me their story as soon as it was safe."
When she finally looks away from her new friends, confident they're safe for the time being, she finds Liesel staring at her, a small, sad sort of smile on her eternally lovely face. "You were right. You're always right – you have such good instincts. I should've listened to you. We both should have."
Dinah bows her head as if it were not an important admission, but horribly monstrous pride blooms in her hungry chest. In spite of her exhaustion, her bitter aching, the late hour, she stands a little taller. Vindication. All Dinah wants is to be believed.
She decides to change the subject. "Where is your bow?"
Liesel tilts her head. Her brow puckers. "It's in my room… Why do you ask?"
"Why do you not carry it with you?" Dinah scolds.
"It makes Men nervous to see a woman armed."
"As it should."
Liesel sighs. "Dinah, I've lived in this world just as long as you have. I know how to take care of myself. This place is safe. Nothing of darkness has touched it."
"There are many kinds of darkness. Some wear the clever face of friends."
Liesel frowns. "But these are my friends – you have made yours, and I have found mine. In the month or so that I have been here, everyone has been so kind to me. We sing and dance each night, and the innkeeper, Butterbur-"
"They are kind to you because they hope to take advantage of you."
She crosses her arms. "Not every Man is capable of evil, my friend."
"And not every person can share your blind trust in Men, my sister."
She smiles – fully, crinkling her sparkling grey eyes. "It is so good to hear you call me that again." She slings her arm over Dinah's shoulders. Begrudgingly, she leans into the warm embrace. She really has missed her, as much as she doesn't want to admit it, as much as Liesel annoys her. "I meant what I said earlier. I never want to be parted from you again. Our adventures are meant to be shared. If you are to see these… Hobbits, you call them? If you are to help them, then I will, too."
Dinah takes her first full breath since she saw the Marshall of the Mark. Whatever made her change that tenacious mind, I am forever grateful. "My friends would be glad to have you with us. I think they would like you, and you them. They have had a very trying time and could use some good cheer."
She bites her lip. Though she knows she needs to tell Liesel that she killed one of the Nine, the words have stubbornly stuck in her throat. She's afraid of what she might say, how she might react. Dinah doesn't know how to explain what happened because she doesn't quite understand it herself. For decades, she and her sisters have fought hard, wounding the Nazgûl several times but never succeeding in outright killing them. Six huntresses have been lost. What made Dinah capable of such a feat? How had she done it when better women than her have failed?
She doesn't think she can take it if Liesel doesn't believe her again. It will hurt too much.
This is hardly the place to explain such a thing, so exposed to potential eavesdroppers and hidden ill-wishers. She needs more information – the Hobbits' side of the story, for instance. Once they have retired to their rooms, Liesel can join them, and at last the full tale will be told.
But should she wait that long? Can she wait that long? Her stomach churns and her palms have gone clammy. She hasn't spoken the truth aloud to anyone since it happened hours ago, hasn't even had time to think about how she would break the news to her sisters. She didn't take the hilt of the Morgul blade. Why hadn't she taken it? She had held it right in her hands.
Dinah takes a deep, shaky breath. If it hadn't been her – if one of the other huntresses had managed to kill one of the Nine – she would want to know immediately. She owes Liesel that same courtesy.
"Liesel," she says slowly, at war with herself, with the truth. "There's something I have to tell you."
Please believe me. Please.
The inn erupts in a surprised roar. The crowd around the bar is near frantic, gesturing and shouting and swearing wildly. Dinah's pulse hums. Her eyes narrow, every bit her formidable namesake.
Pippin is on the floor, crawling backward away from the raucous upset.
Merry is standing and gaping, his ale a large stain down the front of his drying shirt.
But the other two – Sam and Frodo – their table by the fire is empty, their bread half-eaten, the foam still spilling down the sides of their mugs.
Heart hammering, Dinah steps forward, desperately searching the crowd. Her blood is singing, her muscles tensing – she feels like she does on the precipice of battle, staring down black hoods and icy swords. Where, where, where-
"Miss Dinah!" Sam runs to her, his sleepy brown eyes wide. For a moment, she is so glad to see him. "That man in the corner – that foul Strider – he's taken Frodo!"