I may have gone a bit overboard with the length of this chapter (and I did consider making it into two seperate chapters), but I had so much fun writing this - and when you're on a roll, sometimes it's best just to go with it! Still, I hit almost 10.000 words by the end. We turn our attention back to our Marshal in the next chapter once more. Éomer needs his moment in the limelight too - and Rell needs a breather.
But we're soon getting to the good stuff!
Little Sparrow
Chapter XXVIII: The Call
Her heart was in her throat, beating so forcefully she felt it pressing its way out; clawing and digging. The path ahead of her was falling steadily into grey, for night came over the eastern hills. Naught but a pale young moon followed her. It was hard to tell if she was running, or stumbling her way forward, as her mind whirled with anxious thoughts. Good, bad, horrible. Why was a rider there for her? Who? She thought. She felt drenched in shadow, cool and dark yet hopeful all the same.
Rell passed the house of Brenion and his family, saw the lights within, yet carried herself reluctantly forward. It was not before she came to the largest hut – where many moons ago words, scribbled on a piece of parchment, had set in motion a long and terrible journey – that Rell paused. The door loomed before her, only a step or two away from opening to whatever lurked beyond. A sudden unreasoning fear had taken hold of her; so tight she dared not breathe. All that came to her were thoughts more grievous than the last, of friends lost to the darkness ... Of her uncle ...
There was a scramble from within, soft voices.
A shadow passed across the thin slit of light from shuttered windows. Movement.
Then, the uncertain choice was made certain for her, as the door was suddenly yanked open. The man now before her was one of the older Rangers – tall, dark, and weathered, as they all were – and for a moment they watched each other. In a silence that only lasted the span of a breath. His eyes were flecked with grey, mirroring the streaks running like silvery veins though black hair; her father would have been his age. She blinked.
"Hello, Merethor," Rell said, when words had found her once more, and glanced warily behind him into the room.
He gave a gruff hum in reply, before stepping aside to allow her passage. Reluctantly, Rell followed and shrugged off her cloak; bundling the fabric in her arms, more to keep her fidgeting hands occupied than anything, she looked at the others present. The door clicked shut. There was a restlessness lurking in the pit of her stomach, driving her forward; somewhere, somehow, Rell knew fate had come to call. She had known since word of the rider reached her ... If not long before. She willed her fingers to still, but she could not shake the tautness of her shoulders.
There were four others in the room; all of them familiar to her. "Haruven, Delion," she greeted with a soft nod to the two by the fire. One stood leaning over the back of a chair, the other against the wall. Brothers they were. Her brow furrowed. But they patrol by the waters of Lond Daer ... She had seen neither of them in the last six, if not seven, years. Their faces were scarred and grim, set in folds of pondering concern.
The third man she knew better – Hatholdor, cousin of Brenion, and the one who had called her best friend from her side. Rell did not condemn his actions, despite the emptiness it had left in her heart; each followed a duty sworn in life and only broken in death, and he had done as tasked. He was but the messenger.
"I did not expect to see you returned so soon," she noted.
From his place by the table, he gave a subtle shrug but said nothing.
Her gaze wandered to the young boy by Hatholdor's side, as her feet led her forward, and bewilderment soon overtook the foreboding whispers of dread. He seemed entirely out of place, amidst the large Rangers shadowing his frame, so small it was almost pitiful. There was a ghostly paleness to his face, and he sat rigid in his seat. Rell gave a weary smile as their eyes met. Arun muttered a greeting below his breath, eyes darting to the table and his clasped fingers, so tightly coiled they were white-knuckled.
"Take a seat, Avarell," Merethor said from behind her. "There is much to say while the night is young, and much more to do before dawn breaks."
Without question, Rell found a place with a glance across her shoulder. A tiny voice in the back of her mind spoke of reassurance; Arun and she shared only distant relations, and they would not have been brought together to relay words of loss. They are unharmed ... Rell allowed a quiet breath to escape her. Though she did risk another glance at the boy, of equal measures curiosity and concern, and noticed then a sheathed sword resting against his legs. One she had not seen before. But then, why are we here?
Soon, all were they seated around the table.
"The map," Merethor said.
Hatholdor did as he was bid and unrolled a large parchment, smoothing it flat against the table. The map showed things Rell knew well; the mountain ranges of Ered Hithui and Ered Luin, encompassing the vast lands that she called home. What lay beyond, to the East and South, were not marked on the map beyond a scribbled note or solitary names. Before her stretched only the dwindled remains of Arnor, the kingdom of her ancestors long forgotten by the Men of the West; a realm of exile, and a realm she – and the Rangers around her – were tasked to protect.
Even if it would cost them their own lives. Her fingers trailed the frayed edge of the scroll.
But the oldest of their company gave her little time to pause, and instead he spoke again. "Our forces have been spread too thin, covering areas we do not have the strength to hold." At this, he nodded to the brothers. "Halbarad has called many of you and our kin back from their outposts. For so long we have kept the enemy at bay far from the people we protect, so that they would not see the horrors hidden in the shadow. But no more; it is a daunting task before us now, and could be argued that we invite evil to our midsts." His hand moved, following the East Road from Rivendell to the Grey Havens; his fingers spread, covering first the farmlands of the South Downs and then the Shire. "We cannot keep the watch over all of Arnor."
Staring at the map with a brow furrowed, it was a startling realisation that came to Rell, and she could not hold her tongue. "So we abandon the few who live beyond the larger settlements and villages?"
They had lost so many to defend those lands, and the few that remained to fight were set with an impossible charge; Rell understood that, certainly she did, but they could not flee from their duty. She would not believe it true.
They cannot !
Merethor regarded her with cool, grey eyes, as he considered her words, but it was the oldest brother – Delion – that spoke instead. He leaned forward, and only then did she notice his missing eye; it was a pit of darkness, hard-jagged scars running from forehead to his chin. An axe. He had once been fair. But while he appeared menacing, his words were kind and understanding. "There are no one left South of the Greenway; the lands are but dwindled wilderness and ruins speaking of long-forgotten greatness. What little else that may still hospitable have been claimed by Dunlendings and others; those we cannot call friends."
"Vigilance will now, more than ever, be our greatest ally." Merethor watched each of them in turn, gaze keen and back straight. The lines of his face were many, shadowed by the low light, but his eyes shone with veiled fire. His words brought a cheerless thrum of expectation to her ears, a jarring blur that drowned the surrounding world in silence. The time had come. How fast her heart was beating! "It is an hour of wolves and evil things, and the people we have long safeguarded stand wholly unprepared. The enemy will come to their doorstep. It is our duty, as it has been in ages before, to fight."
Rell had been called.
Her voice was without a tremble, and her hands still in her lap when she looked at the Ranger. "What is asked of us?"
He gave a swift nod. "We will ride together at first light to the Last Bridge, and there we will convene with another company coming from the North." His gaze flickered to meet hers, as if sensing the words were most precious to her. And, certainly, they were. "Halbarad travels with them." Joy flittered through her chest, good news following a seemingly endless string of ill; unpleasant thoughts turned aside, and only gladness remained. Thank the Valar, he lives still. "From him you will learn your assignments."
At this, her mind whirred and a thought came to her. The boy's presence finally made sense. "You do not mean to bring Arun with us, do you?"
When Rell turned to look at him, he refrained from meeting her gaze and was, instead, staring adamantly at the sword resting by his feet; if he was trying to avoid her look of concern, or lost to his own hidden thoughts, was hard to tell. She could see his jaw working, teeth clenching and unclenching in tandem with his fingers. "It was his choice. No one forced his hand," Hatholdor said, hooking an arm around the younger boy as he shook him with gentle reassurance. Rell narrowed her eyes at the prideful blush on the boy's face and the squaring of his shoulders. "He wishes to join the fight."
The danger he was willingly, blindly, walking into – albeit carried forward by a noble heart and the intention of doing good – could only lead to bitterness. If not for himself, then those left behind if he fell. Rell knew his mother; a kind and good-hearted woman never shy of a smile or a helping hand. He was her only son. She would be heartbroken. The eagerness to help, to be of use, was not a foreign notion to Rell; certainly, of everyone, she understood the feeling the most. She saw herself mirrored before her very eyes. But she had learned the painful truth firsthand. "He is only thirteen." Her tone was cold and tired.
"Fourteen by January," Arun piped up, though his attention remained firmly planted on his own feet.
"And, if I am not mistaken," Haruven spoke from further down the table. He leaned forward to look at her. "Were you, yourself, not younger than he, when you first followed your uncle into the wild?"
Rell rubbed at her neck, breathing long and heavily, before replying. "Each of you have years of wisdom over me, and have seen and done things that my mind cannot even fathom in my worst nightmares. And each of you hold my respect and admiration ... But in this matter I must speak my mind. I am scared for Arun, on his behalf, as someone ought to be. So speak I shall. He is too young – and so was I, Haruven." She then looked at Merethor. "You will not find a single child in this village, neither boy nor girl, who does not dream of riding out into the wilderness by the Rangers' side. Star on their chest and sword at their belt. But we all know this." She pointed to the shuttered windows, to the deep dark of night. "Out there? There are no great deeds like those you find in songs; there is only evil and death."
Dismal was the quiet that swept over the gathered, a silence in the wake of her outburst that left little room for words; it had come as a truth from her heart. Bleak and so terribly raw, and she sat with nothing but bitterness coating the insides of her mouth. Acrid, just as the comfortless revelation. Her gaze moved over the company; then Rell stood quickly and turned from the table, feeling shameful guilt press against her eyes.
She wrapped her arms around her chest, heart sinking. The time to decide was now, but the steps leading to a choice of bravery were not without difficulty; an unscalable wall seemed to loom before her vision, stretching into darkness and uncertainty. But she had to choose. "Forgive me," she mumbled, so quietly she feared they had not heard her. Then she turned to face them once more. "I spoke out of turn."
Merethor had walked closer, so quiet were his feet Rell had not noticed. His face betrayed nothing of his thoughts, but in his eyes she saw he was not unmoved. Clasping her shoulder, he said, "This worry is not yours alone. It is shared between each of us here tonight – youth is far too soon snuffed out by the hardships of adulthood. Perhaps more so for the children of the Dúnedain. But we live in a time of great peril and many terrors; and each must we rise to the challenge, or fall alone to the darkness."
For a while Rell did not answer. She strove with her own doubt and fears; passing through her mind, as she stood gazing to faraway things. "Who will ride with him?"
"I shall, along with Haruven," Delion answered. "And no harm shall come to him as long as we draw breath."
War will find us all in time ... The boy finally met her eyes, when again she looked up at him; his were golden, reflecting the flickering flames, and clear. It had not been pride, but resolution. Rell nodded slowly, a solemn understanding that the choice was not hers to make, and it never had been. It was Arun's. And in the deepest part of his heart, beyond anything others could reach, a truth spoke out to him – he was ready. "Then I will speak no more of this," Rell said. "And only help as I am able."
The company passed underneath a canopy of branches, woven in hearth-hues of red and orange; the woods grew dense, and the twisting animal-path they followed disappeared under the first leaves fallen. It was Summer still, but cooling winds from the eastern mountains brought an early battle to the glades along the Hoarwell. Their pace was swift but steady, and little was said between the riders. In single file they rode, and each were they left in deep thoughts or with sharp gazes turned to the forest.
They had left the Angle with the first pale light of morning.
Rell had watched from beneath her hood, quiet and unmoving in her saddle, as Arun bid his mother farewell. The woman had wept – and, despite his best efforts to hide it, so had he – and the pair embraced for many long moments. No one had rushed them, and they said nothing as he mounted to join the Rangers. The boy now rode two horses ahead of her, head bowed and crestfallen, following the older men without complaint. Her heart went out to him. A wind carried over the pebbled path, rousing leaves and branches in a rattling whisper, as Rell pulled Luin ahead.
Delion cast a glance her way, a silent question on his face at the sudden move; with a shrug and a pointed look at the boy, he cleared a way to allow her passage.
Ahead, Arun rode a young, skittish filly that let out a nervous breath as Rell came up beside him; the horse was his, and had been, since it was foaled. It was the way of the Rangers, to bond rider and mount from an early age – in loyalty and trust, until death took one, or both. Stretching, Rell reached out to stroke the soft, brown coat and murmured reassurrances. She could feel the boy's gaze on her, but she took another moment before she returned it with a steadfast calm. Puffy blotches dotted his face, and his eyes were red from hidden tears; she said nothing of it.
As it was, she said nothing at all.
Instead, she fell into pace by his side and turned her attention to the path ahead.
For many hours they rode on through the woodlands and scattered meadows, sometimes opening to muddy riverlands, where the ground turned wet and broad with sedges. Mists of morning gave way to warm, fresh winds and clear light. The sun filtered through the trees, kindling the world to gold and emerald green. There was a myriad of life in the blue-white sky; swallows darting about like black arrows, piping and whistling shrill tunes.
When something of interest caught her eye – be it the swift-fleeting blur of a red fox, or marks of paws in the soil along the river – she would turn to Arun, pointing and explaining. He was curious to learn, and eager to keep his mind from darker thoughts, and so they passed the journey so together. And the longer they spoke together, the less Rell saw the flickering shadow pass his gaze; he smiled and laughed, asking many questions about the plants and trees around them, wondering what could be eaten and what should not be touched.
Passing beneath the gnarled fingers of an ancient oak, Delion told them both a story of his youthful days. Together with his brother, they had been lost in a forest – Eryn Vorn, Haruven supplied from further down the line – during a terrible blizzard. So cold it had been, that they had near lost a toe or two. In order to last throughout the night, they had scraped bark off the dark trees and wrapped themselves as one would a cloak; then filled the gaps with moss and dirt. "I may never have seen one with my own two eyes, but I do believe we looked like Ents!"
"Let that be a lesson," his brother called to them. "Always bring dry wood!"
Delion had grinned. "We smelled for days after. But at least we were alive."
They carried on along the sloping path; and Rell shared her own meeting with the bitter cold. Her climb over Caradhras. She, too, had forgone firewood in her haste to cross the mountain, and the price had been paid. She recalled the blinding snow and the biting winds; the eerie howls of wolves and Orcs, that were nothing in the clear light of day. A tired mind playing tricks. It seemed as though they all had tales to share, of Winter's misery, and all appreciated the gleaming Sun, peaking through the trees, that little more in the time following.
They did not take rest throughout the day, not even when the setting sun torched the clouded horizon, and grey trickled over the lands.
They planned to reach the Last Bridge by early midday the following day, and so, despite the long hours of endless green and vigorous winds, they pressed on. No weariness came to their horses; they rode through slow dusk until night gathered about them. The forest gave way to scattered faces of rocks between tall pines, tumbled stones and rolling hills, carved in two by the wide river running steadily by their side. Along its banks came a place of overhanging boulders; a shelter well-known to the Rangers in the company.
It was the halfway-mark of their journey, and from there it would be an even northbound path ahead.
Merethor called for camp.
The six Rangers made quick work; the brothers soon disappeared into the gloom, one up and another down-stream to search the area – for both enemies and food. They would likely encounter nothing afoot, for they were miles from the nearest troll haunts and goblin dens. But there were also ripe Summer berries and mushrooms on the south-facing hillside; and those were most welcome. As Hatholdor and Arun worked the fire on the sandy shore, Rell lured the pack of horses with her to the river's slow-churning waters; they followed without complaint. She stood a while as they drank, with her back stretched and head rolled back, to stare up at the slowly emerging stars.
As the westerning Sun sank further beyond the rim of the hills, Anarríma showed twinkling in the sky. Further, skirting the edge of her sight, were faint glimmers of Wilwarin appearing with the deepening night; a butterfly spreading its wings over the dark canvas. A constant restlessness writhed in her mind, coiling and nagging; but Rell anchored her thoughts to the stars crowning the sky. It was hard to let go of her worries – they seemed to have festered, grown to be a part of her – but she knew doubts should have no place in her heart.
Hesitation could be a deadly companion.
She sighed.
Then, counting the horses, Rell stepped out of her boots and entered the low waters. It was cold, bitingly so, for the river flowed from the distant North; but it stopped her not. Smooth pebbles rolled beneath her feet, slippery, as she waded further out. Her hand brushed against the warm flank of one of the horses, steadying herself as the current lapped around her; Arun's bown filly had wandered off, seemingly with the aim to reach the other shore. Rell clicked her tongue at the horse. "Here, girl," she called. "I do not wish to swim out after you. It is far too cold and far too late for an adventure."
The horse carried on several more steps, disregarding the sounds from the Ranger following, then stopped suddenly; Rell paused, too, waiting expectantly.
As if deciding to return to the safety of the pack, the filly turned and trodded slowly back. With an exasperated roll of her eyes, Rell grabbed it by the reins to steer it in the right direction with a grumble. "Thank you." When she found herself back on dry land, feet cold and wet, and picking up her discarded boots, she shot a dark look at Luin; the horse nibbled the scattered tufts of grass with little care for its rider. "You best not learn from this."
The last shreds of day vanished in the gloom, and only the thin moon gave light to her. She looked back to the camp; the fire was building, and she could see silhouettes weave a way around the flickering flames. Counting their steeds one final time – all accounted for – she trudged back on bare feet. Merethor was at work heating water; thyme and sage, mushrooms a courtesy of a returned Haruven, and the last pickings of a chicken, used more for taste than filling. They would eat their fill in bread, fresh-baked from the Angle.
When Rell sat down on a tree stump, stretching her legs towards the flames to dry, she could feel his eyes on her.
She pointed to the boy and explained very little. "His horse."
It was some time longer before the last of their company came back to the camp, but soon after a quiet came over them. They ate in silence, hungry and weary; and when the pot turned up empty and the bread gone, they were quick to turn over for the night. Day would break soon enough, and they had to be on their way again. Arun asked to take the first watch.
So it was, that Rell settled into a comfortable spot in the sandy heaps, bundled into her cloak and weapons close at hand. The others did much the same, until they lay in a circle around the fire. The moon had climbed high, touching the reeds and bushes with silver; with each gust of wind they would sway, shadows in the folds of the land. She watched the sombre canopy of sky; star-flecked, cloudless. Then she closed her eyes, listening to the crackling logs and the still night. Breathing. Hatholdor snored someplace to her right.
Meanwhile, Arun had sat silent, hidden from their sight on a knoll. She had glanced to him before settling; sword laid upon his knees, fingers drumming silently against its hilt, as his gaze was turned to the open lands around them. Once in a while he wound shift, or move, or stand. Restless and touched by unease. Rell tried – truly, she did – to give him the moment to himself, and for herself to find sleep. But the soft sounds of sniffling, crying, drew her from her place of warmth. Careful not to wake her companions, she found her bearings in the dull-fading light and moved around the camp.
Sitting next to him, he did not look her way. Wandering fingers played with the pointed star at his cloak, idle movements he likely did without thought. "It is not too late to go home," she spoke softly.
"I have no wish to return." His words did not fall without bite, a hiss pressing through clenched teeth; yet Rell was little touched. She hummed in a thoughtful reply, saying no more, and watched instead the twilight world around them. There was nothing to be seen, but much to hear. The solitary cry from somewhere within the trees made him jump. His eyes flickered to her.
Rell smiled, touched by fond remembrance of her uncle many years ago, and pointed to the pines beyond the river. "A screech owl – and our friend in the night." There was a question on his face, and she spoke again. "You and I see very little in this darkness, so tell me this; if you were to run from, or search for, enemies, how would you go about it?" She tapped her ear with a finger. "We listen. And we follow the animals around us. There would be no owl in those trees, were the woods filled with Orcs or trolls. Do the beasts and birds flee ... then so should you."
"What then, if I hear nothing?"
It proved difficult to keep the smile on her lips, but for him she tried. Rell looked at the sheathed blade in his lap. "Then you have that."
And may it prove enough.
The air was heavy with the scent of unfamiliar spices, low fires, and flickering, black iron lanterns burning along the street. But lurking underneath the many smells of market goods, there was an ever-present whiff of rot and filth and mildew. Moonlight painted the arches, narrow alleys, and looming walls shades of silver and grey, as people drifted to and fro. Some were likely headed home to a warm hearth and even warmer beds, but others were only just beginning the night. The faint patches of day were but thin lines in a distant sky. Big men with red, or brown, or black beards, wild and unkept, and weathered skin; they came in from the lowlands surrounding the hill of Bree, trading livestock, pelts, wheat and barley, or firewood from the dense forests.
But there were also merchants afoot. With oiled and braided hair, draped in finery and silk. They moved with an air of importance, and an expectancy that all others would move from their path. At times one could spot the odd Dwarf or small Hobbit, their business their own, but not an unusual sight in the village. It was their home, as much as it was the Big Folks'. There were even a few broad-shouldered men, carrying with them long spears and hidden daggers – sellswords, she knew them to be.
Their purpose in the village of Bree caused quite the worry and whispers amongst the inhabitants, for they belonged to a world much further East and South; beyond the Mountains where such work was of use to some. Yet they paid for their meals and bedding, and so nothing was said or done besides the roadside gossip. But in the eyes of those that searched for hidden dangers, their presence spoke of ill news. And, finally, there, amonst the strange mesh of Bree-land's people, was Rell.
She slipped unseen between them all.
The cobbled road was uneven; muddy and soft in places, sloping gently toward the main way. It had rained earlier, and she saw flickers of her own reflection mirrored in the puddles. She walked with her head bent, and hood drawn, listening and watching – but never seen. No one spared a second glance on a wanderer of the wild. And with her frayed and grimy, often foul, appearance she made sure to keep, there was no allure; despite being a woman unaccompanied.
It suited her perfectly well.
She was clad in black and grey from head to toe; trousers and tunic a coarse wool; sturdy leather boots, and the familiar cloak drawn tight around her shoulders. Fastened there, gleaming every so often when it caught the glare of fire, was the star of the Dúnedain. A new had been cast for her in the days before she left the Angle. It gave her strength. A constant reminder close to her heart.
Of her purpose and her duty.
Pulled behind her, Luin trodded along with a clip-clop of hooves and jangling harness. She had just then returned from a patrol of the Greenway. Nothing had been out of the ordinary; she had encountered no creatures of evil, and had instead spent the moments of peaceful quiet to set up snares and traps in the scattered woodlands. And so, next to her bow and sword, hung three boney rabbits, as well as a small doe slung across the saddle. They could be sold for a few coins, or traded for trinkets or items of need – Rell could do without the peddling, but it gave opportunities to listen and exchange bits of information. Some, perhaps, that could even prove useful.
Dodging around a wobbling pair of drunks, slurring snippets of song, Rell turned to the main road. Someplace to her right came a burst of giggles, followed by a string of sweet nothings and flirtatious murmers, and it caught her gaze for a moment. It was not only the men out, making a living or trading stories in the early hours of twilight. The painted women were hard at work, earning a living in a way Rell found hard to judge, but easy to pity.
Life was certainly difficult.
In more ways than one.
In her first weeks in Bree, it had not been uncommon for Rell to be mistaken for the other women; that her services could be provided – as long as the right amount of gold passed hands. A young woman travelling alone, with naught but a horse and scarcely any belongings to her name? She had looked the easiest of targets. Some still tested their luck, but they were fewer and farther between. Her disregard of clean clothes and baths, if one did not count the odd dip in a cold river-stream, had given her vision a fair amount of repugnance.
Whenever that had not been enough to turn impassioned, often drunk, men from her, Rell had been keen to hand out bruises and broken noses.
She was quickly left alone.
The main road connected the West and South gates, skirting around the hill upon which Bree had been built, meeting in the middle of the village where it then opened up to a market square. Here, most were closing shop for the night. The crowds were swiftly thinning, leaving only the weaving dance of pickpockets and darker types wandering about. The last tunes and hubbub of day were fading fast. Though Rell did manage to haggle herself to a fair price for the deer and rabbits, despite the gruffness and muttered bite of the seller; and, weighing the coins in her hand – five small silvers of little worth – enough for a hearty meal at the inn.
She made The Prancing Pony her next destination.
Rell took the eastern way, walking next to her great horse to keep an eye on her belongings. Coins had moved hands – and many an eye had seen it. But her gaze was hard, and her sword close for use. She was left unbothered on her path. Shadows went ahead of shadows. Puddles of murky water pooled at her feet, finding ways to gather on the sloping path; the cobbled stones slippery, and there was a clammy cool in the air boding another downpour. But it did not take long to reach her destination, and Rell was entirely dry when she stood outside the building.
Three stories tall with many windows glowing amber-gold with warmth; yellow eyes in the deepened dark. She could see shapes and movement from within, and there was a thrum of many voices wafting through the open door. A bit of shouting; ruckus came before laughter. Following the half-timbered wall around the side of the inn, Rell passed through a green-painted arch to where she knew the stables to be. Here, she untied her satchels and weapons – some to leave with Luin, and others to bring inside – and was quickly met by the ostler; a small Hobbit of no more than three feet, who greeted her with cordial care, albeit – quietly – warily.
Rangers – stragglers as they were – were seldom looked upon with kindness.
But his handling of Luin spoke lengths of good-heartedness and a gentle spirit, for the horse followed along patiently. If not, the steed would have stood its ground, and no amount of toil or tugging could have moved it even a bit for the rest of the night. But there was fresh hay, and oats and apples, and so the Hobbit could walk ahead without affront. The sight, nonetheless, looked entirely amusing to her.
Underneath the creaking sign of a rearing pony, Rell stepped inside just as a chorus of merry voices came to an end, and there was a burst of clapping, thumping feet and the meetings of tankards. There were people before her, and for a while she stood waiting – and watching. Rell drew her cloak tighter. Most tables were full, with the Common folks, and Dwarves, and a few Hobbits alike; and there was a constant bustling and clatter, loud noises and too many things all at once. A haze was in the air, and a smell of many pipeweeds mingled all into one. A large man, red faced and balding, carved his way through the throng of people and spoke first to one, then another, before vanishing through a door.
The pair before her moved aside, following another Hobbit down the long hallway to someplace else, and Rell stepped to the counter. Again, she waited.
A brief moment later, the man was out again and stood before her. "Good evening, miss," he said. "What may you be wanting?"
Rell clinked through her small pouch of coins. Then, putting two silvers between them both, she replied. "Stabling for my horse and a meal for the night – for however much this will give me." And so it was, that Rell was shown to the common-room; a blazing fire gave light to the room, high-piled logs, but there was also a veil of smoke thick in the air. It obscured much of her vision, leaving the people vague and hazy. Her eyes were soon itching. Benches and tables took up every available space and corner of the room.
Most were occupied.
Her eyes scanned the gathered, searching without purpose – certain she would know once she saw it, anything, of interest – and felt curious glances or dark gazes returning her attention. Rell stepped further into the room, making her way by a collection of Dwarves; they huddled together, surveying her with untrusting stares, but spared her no words. There were many known to Bree-land, yet also strangers from foreign lands, and they seemed ill-favoured and grim. It was close to such a group, that Rell found an open spot in a shadowed corner; back to the wall, sword hidden beneath her travel-stained cloak, and face to the room.
Food arrived soon after.
Steaming bone broth, with carrots and leeks and mushrooms; freshly baked bread and a spread of butter; a mug of herbal tea. Rell had declined the offered ale, even though the pay had been enough to fill a small tankard. It dulled the senses, and she wanted to keep her wits sharpened at all times – especially when she travelled alone. The accompanying nausea she could, likely, do without as well; alone and disoriented would only invite trouble.
The drink never sat well with her.
For a while she merely ate, enjoying a warm meal on an empty stomach, and listened to the people around her.
They were speaking of distant events, some known and others unknown to her; of grim omens and the growing troubles and looming dangers in the South. The constant stream of travellers searching for lands of peace. There was talk of a horse-thief, some idle gossip of who marrying whom, and other discussions that did not catch her ears for long. For some months now, she had wandered amongst the Small and Big Folks, hearing the rumours coming from beyond the mountains both East and West, and from the cities of Men in faraway lands. Rell watched the Greenway, as she had been tasked; hunted wolves and other beasts rarely afoot, unnoticed and in the shadows.
Yet nothing truly evil ever showed itself.
Each night she would fall asleep under an open sky, with the stars and the wind her company, thankful that she had yet to encounter enemies. It was a comforting thought; each uneventful day told her much. The evil happenings beyond the Misty Mountains had not yet reached the old lands of Arnor, and there was still some semblance of tranquility.
It was an easy duty.
But it was also a lonely one.
Following the Rangers' meeting by the Last Bridge, and after a fond reunion with Halbarad, they were each given a task. Some rode off together, in pairs or larger groups, while others continued the journey in solitude. Rell had been given the lowlands around Bree, the stretch of road running South until skirting the Barrow-downs; and no further. When mists swathed the earth, and an unnatural chill came to the air, she knew to turn back. Only once had she seen the standing stones on green mounds. There were stories of dead bones and evil spirits; it was a space no living creature crossed.
It took only a day's ride to cover her area, and if not for Luin, her only company was that of crows and ravens; beady-eyed and cawing, watching her from stunted, dead trees. They seemed as if waiting. For more than a week she met no other on her path; the last had been a lonesome rider, a merchant lost on his way through the mists. Beyond that, Rell was alone. Her trips into Bree, peddling her wares from the wild, were strangely welcome – to hear spoken words, or laughter, and see the faces of people renewed her will to walk hilly lands beyond.
Her eyes flickered over the tables, lost in her own thoughts. It was not the rocks and trees, or the open glades or the cairns and burial-mounds of those long dead, she protected.
It is the living.
When she was almost done with the soup, soaking up the last with the crumbs of her bread, Rell heard a whispered voice; words that spoke of something else, something new. She swallowed the last of her meal, glancing sideways. The mean-looking pair a table over were hunched, heads close together in a low, secretive talk. Their faces were veiled in shadow, but their eyes were hard and shining. "–they give us no work to live by," one said, and there was anger in his tone. He took a swing of his tankard, white foam dripping from an unkept beard. "Yet sneer when we have no money to pay with!"
"They flaunt their gold and expect nothing will ever happen," the other spat, voice slurred with drink.
Rell shifted, listening, and felt little warmth at what she heard. Bree-land could not keep up with the constant intake of refugees and strangers from afar, some seeking shelter, and others a new place to live and work; discontentment and grievances grew, for always did people wish for better things – even if they rightfully belonged to someone else. Many with wealth to their name had lost their livelihood, or even lives, on the road to and fro Eriador, and in the dark alleys where little light could shine.
Finishing her tea, she slipped quietly from her seat and followed the wall; aside from the flutter of her cloak, she was but a shadow moving.
She wanted to see their faces clearly.
Rell came to an open window, where cooling gusts took battle against the heat, and she leaned against the sill. Concealed in the dim tavern light; a guest merely stealing a breath of fresh air. Then she risked a glance from beneath her hood. They were dark of hair, grim-faced and weathered; spears leaned against the table, and she saw the cold flash of steel hidden in belt and boot. One was large, a hulking mass; the other much leaner – but much viler. Their clothes were rugged and frayed, but each wore rings of gold and gems. Their work was clear to her. She would remember them.
But as she looked again, her gaze met the burly one head on. A grin split his face into a line of yellowed teeth. "The little bird is listening," he told his companion.
The other man turned, squint-faced and leering; he wriggled a finger at her, beckoning her closer. "Come here, girl." Her nose twitched and her shoulders squared, but there was no fear in her steps as she walked up to their table. Only veiled anger. She could take them both – and a part of her hoped it would come to a fight. Her booted steps fell hard against the floorboards. When she stood before the pair, he spoke again with a wickedness. His words were a mockery. "Always waiting, and watching, like a sparrow hunting for crumbs by the Lords' table. Shall we feed you?"
She eyed them. "I see no lords here, only petty thieves thinking themselves high and mighty."
Their gazes darkened, yet neither made a notion to move. The thin man leaned back in his chair. Fingers twitching, hoving just a little bit closer to hidden daggers; Rell would be faster. "Say that again and see what will happen." It was a promise, warning of painful and terrible things if she did not keep her tongue. She held up her hands and stepped away, not yet turning her back on them but circling towards the entrance. Perhaps it was a threat to most – to Rell it was not. It was an invitation she would happily accept.
"It is not I with a noose around my neck." She inclined her head. "I shall see you again."
Moments later, Rell stepped into the cold Winter and felt icy droplets against her face. The rain had started coming down. Pulling her cloak closer, she did not return to the stables; instead, she took a turn left and followed the road at a slowed pace. Only a few were out, rushing from one place to another; heads bowed and hoods drawn. They spared her no thought. But she would not yet return to her camp outside of Bree, for there was still work to be done for the night. She listened keenly.
Two pairs of feet had followed her outside.
They kept their distance, biding their time until she would be alone.
Her heart beat loudly, thrumming for a fight. The road veered, following the dike, and nothing but a frayed silence was in the air. It was easy for her to keep tabs of her pursuers – and there was only one now. He was whistling. When finally there came an opening between two houses, leading off and down the hill, into a narrow passage of deep darkness, Rell took it. Her steps echoed, resounded tenfold, against the enclosing walls. So close it was, that she could touch both sides at once if she so wished. The man behind her followed.
Ten steps.
Then twenty.
He stopped.
Rell did the same. Only a thin sliver came from a wan moon, and her other senses took over; it smelled of damp rot, and the constant dull pitter-patter of rain blanketed the world around her. Everything beyond the alley disappeared in the darkness. She brushed aside her cloak, baring the sword at her belt yet drew it not, as she turned to face the man. It was the larger of the two; so hulking he was, that she could not see the road behind him. There was little else visible, besides the grin on his face – had the light been better, then certainly he would not have been in such a mood.
The man came closer, at a pace that seemed almost leisurely, until he was so close Rell could smell him. He stank; of stale ale and filth, rusted iron. Blood that was not his own. There was a gleam of dull metal, of a blade tucked into his sleeve. When he was within distance of her unseen sword, she finally spoke. Her pursuer came to a halt. "Where is your friend?"
He smiled wider, showing yellowed teeth. Try me, the smile said, please.
"You got a name?" Rell asked.
More teeth.
"Any idea when he will be back?"
Teeth, again.
"Should I be talking slower?"
He scowled.
Darkness closed in tighter around them, seeping out of overhangs and barred doorways. A cart creaked by someplace behind them on the main road. "I shall make this simple for you – for the both of you," she added. "Turn yourselves in to the gate-wardens, confess to your crimes, whatever they may be ... Or be dragged there by me." Rell shifted, so quietly he could neither see nor hear her move; one foot behind the other, adjusting her weight for a blow soon to come. Keeping her face blank in the dull moonlight. For the briefest of moments, a wind blew, and her sword flickered and disappeared once more from view.
Cold rain trickled down her skin, and her hair clung to her face, obscuring her vision in dark tendrils.
The large frame shook in laughter, soon booming between the walls of the alley. The steel in his hand flashed. "I have a better plan." His voice slurred. One hand moved to his groin, and the other raised his weapon until it was level with her head. The tip of the dagger hovered into her sight, sharp and shaky. His breath stank as his grin widened. She exhaled slowly. "I would say an apology is in order–"
Yet Rell was already turning aside, stepping away, as the tip of a spear lashed out from behind her. It swept past her face. There came a grunt of surprise from the second man, when he, instead, carved the air in a wide arch and not her; he had snuck up on them, using the night as his cover. But Rell was no fool. She had heard the sound of shuffling feet and the muffled breathing. She had smelled him. And now he came tumbling past her.
He was given no chance to regain his footing – she turned on him at once, grabbing hold of the spearshaft and then pulling down hard.
Her knee connected with his face in a splatter of warm blood, likely shattering his nose, and in the same move her fingers dug into his hair. She yanked him up, twisting with all her strength; then slammed him into the wall. His body was limp even before he hit the ground. The other – taken by surprise and hardly clearheaded as it was – was only halfway through his own thought of attack. The dagger raised, but he was still standing in the same place as she had left him. Flabbergasted.
So Rell moved first.
She closed in fast, rushing to put herself inside the span of his attack. Ducking down, the small blade soared over her; cutting through nothing, and he was left defenseless against the collision. Stumbling over his own feet, he hit the muddy ground so hard his teeth rattled. So loud it was, that even she could hear it. After that, he seemed little inclined to get up again.
"Stay," she ordered.
Rell stepped on his foot, adding pressure until he released the dagger.
Kicking it away, Rell walked around him so both men were in her sight; the other appeared entirely senseless, but one could never be too sure.
Her attention came to the whimperings by her boot. She crouched. "Do not move if you wish to keep your head." Above her, the moonlight flickered and swayed with each passing cloud of dreary grey, and her shadow spread wide. Her cloak billowed, rippled in the wind. Had he not seen her sword before, he did now. Very clearly. Rummaging through the folds and hidden gaps of his clothes, Rell searched for items of interest; a small, rusted blade, a pouch of clinking coins of both cobber and silver, and a thin chain of solid gold. "There are many ways to make a living," she muttered, leaving her findings – except the knife – for the wardens to handle. "This? This was a poor choice."
He did not reply. Rell poked at him – knocked out, she mused.
The downpour fell harder, pitting against the roofs and stones, drowning the sounds around her to a deafening quiet. Rell brushed hair from her face, then tugged the hood over her head. A quiet shuffle, movement from the corner of her vision, made her look away from the larger body. It seemed her second adversary had regained consciousness; fingers scraping a way up the wall, searching for hold, the man struggled upright. He stood swaying for a moment, uncertain and disoriented, but then his dark eyes snapped to her. His body turned rigid.
Rell clicked her tongue beneath her breath. "You," she said, slowly standing. "Do not move."
Whether she had expected much, or anything else than what then happened, she was left with little time to react. The man scrambled along the alley, heedless of the Ranger's exasperation, for his wild gaze was trained entirely on the roads beyond; even when Rell took up persuit. "Get away from me, you wretched creature!" He screeched, voice slurred by the blood gushing steadily from his broken nose; another dagger was pulled, clutched tight to his chest when he soon understood the hopelessness of escape.
And in that moment he was the most dangerous to her, for the desperate animal had the worst bite. The earlier fight had been easily won, when they were blind with confidence; but this before her now? It was a threat. A wild animal with nothing to lose – and everything to win. And he looked entirely feral; wild hair and wilder eyes, beads of sweat and blood dripping off his face; a constant stream of words spat at her.
She walked no further. Instead, she raised her hands before herself; she wielded no weapon, for the sword had yet to leave her belt, and for a moment she stood unarmed before him. "I hope to bring you to the wardens alive, so that you may pay in a manner most suited the crimes. But," she added, a flash of warning in her eyes. "I have every right by the laws of this land, to cut you down where you stand. I give this choice to you. Your fate is your own."
How Rell had hoped to avoid bloodshed; mayhap their vile deeds were born from hopeless misery, from poverty or hunger. Only the Valar knew what led a person to their path in life. Rell wished not to play executioner.
But as it was, unfortunately – you have made your choice, then – the man saw not her actions for what they were; he saw weakness, and not mercy. With a snarl he lunged at her, with the sole purpose of gutting her with the thin blade. A silver flash of steel. A single cut. That was all it would take for her to watch the man; watch as the last flickers of life kicked and twitched from his body, until he turned deadly still on the ground. The light in his eyes would fade. He would be dead, by her hand. She chose the path of grace.
Rell diverted her sword in the nick of time, turning the blunt side to meet his blow. The small dagger missed its mark.
Another step forward, a twist of her wrist, and she tore a deep gash into his leg. He would live; but he would not flee.
He collapsed to the ground in a terrible scream, clutching at the wound. A sluggish stream of blood pressed a way between his fingers, red on pale white, as he writhed and cursed. Watching him with little affection, Rell cleared her sword in her cloak, then walked over to collect her captive. Through the haze of terror and pain, she saw also turmoil in his gaze. To fight, or escape, or surrender.
She sat down on his back, knees digging into the deep squelch of water and sludge on either side, and found his discarded weapon. "Try anything with me, and I will cut off the one part of you that you cherish the most." He tried to shake her off, to run away, but she grabbed him by the collar and pushed him face down into the mud. Gurgling and spluttering, the man struggled harder; Rell turned his own knife to him, and pressed down harder. "Try with anyone else, then know that I will gut you like the pig you are. Understood?"
There was a whimper.
She grabbed a handful of hair and yanked the man's head back in a hard jerk, baring his throat to the blade. She pressed it close, so close he could feel its cold steel. He was held suspended for a while, wide eyes transfixed on the sliver of metal just beyond his vision; but then Rell released her grip, and he sagged down into the mud once more. "Understood?" Rell repeated, and this time he nodded furiously – or as much as possible, with her pressure squishing his face into the dirt. "Good. Now, I will carry neither you nor your friend over there; so crawling or walking, you will be the gate-wardens' issue within this hour, or no one's issue at all."
With the Winter storm bearing down harder over the sleepy village, where most lights had dimmed and night found most, Rell trudged through the streets; ahead of her went the two men, hobbling and clutching at each other, both so unsteady it was hard to tell who helped who. Neither could likely walk without the other. And while they walked toward whichever punishment they then deserved, she cursed her own thoughts. Some part of her had wanted a fight; to be of use beyond the repetitious patrols of colourless lands, where the hunt only brought critters and empty snares.
They came to the West gate, soon met by latern light and the bleary-eyed gatekeeper. He appared to have been sleeping, rather than working his post; but Rell did not complain.
A fair bit of expaining later, she could hand over her two captives – to the stocks or the gallows, that was for others to decide – and she could return to The Prancing Pony. The thrum and nerves of the fight had were fast abating, leaving her cold and shivering; she packed her belongings and saddled Luin as quickly as she could. Sleep called to her. Rell thanked the Hobbit and bid him a fair night, before she made her way beneath the archway and into the streets beyond.
The cobbled roads were empty, and so she took to riding.
Soon, the gate stood closed behind her; a single lonesome eye of flame seen, telling her the gatekeeper watched her until that, too, disappeared in the all-consuming dark. Rell followed only the path for a short distance. When she was out of sight, she then veered off, scrambling down a grass-strewn slope into thick trees below. The woods stood clustered along the great East Road, and proved excellent cover for the solitary traveller; with tangled thickets and deep hedges, cut through by an unnoticeable animal trail.
Rell dismounted and led Luin forward by hand. The path ran down the hill into a deeply dug bed of fern and wilted heather, sides overhung with brambles and moss. Twisted elms and oaks gave cover from the ceaseless rain, and even the air was still and stuffy. Only the tallest branches rattled in a high wind. It was her camp – and had been for more than a month. Undisturbed and secluded.
She unpacked, got a fire burning, and turned in for the night.
No dreams came to her that night; only a single wish.
Let tomorrow be without adventure.