Chapter Text
Warning: drinking, drawing of weapons but no use of them, talk of terrifying imagery ig? ringwraiths are scary so
Sitting in this dark corner of the Prancing Pony, you try to busy yourself with working on your second pint of mead, ignoring the looks both you and Aragorn are getting. No, it’s Strider out here. An alias.
“You’ve been staring at those four Hobbits for almost an hour,” you mutter to him, tracing your finger along the rim of your mug. “It’s getting a little odd, friend.”
Strider just grunts, a pipe in his mouth.
With a roll of your eyes, you drop the subject for the moment. Aragorn has always been a mysterious man, quite broody. It’s a surprise he puts up with you.
Aragorn has been your friend for many years. You first met him in a pub while off venturing away from your secure forest village of Enmond. You had always hated staying in one place and, as heir, you never had much of a chance to leave and explore, always too busy with your duties.
You had accidentally bumped into him while taking back a glass of ale to your table. You apologized profusely and quickly steered out of his way, much too afraid of this tall and cloaked character. But when he asked to sit with you, you allowed it with little hesitation. In hindsight, it was quite foolish, though how else are you to meet new people?
As time passed and you both went your separate ways, you kept in touch with ravens, occasionally meeting up for a night of drinks and dances. As time passed, he revealed some of his past to you and yours to him.
He’s one of your only friends now.
Yet you’re still not quite sure why you’re here with him. He had sent you a raven not a fortnight ago explaining this task given to him by a man in a cloak and a tall hat. Gandalf. You know the name, everyone does. The wizard had instructed him to protect these Hobbits in their coming journey, as one of them was carrying something of great importance, but Aragorn hasn’t told you what it is.
Still, you promised to come along. You could never say no to an adventure.
Tapping your foot to the tavern songs, you soon find yourself lulling into the comfort of the Prancing Pony. It’s no different than any other inn you’ve been to, still just as cozy and lively as any. It’s your second favorite place to be, probably.
You’re not sure how much time has passed and you soon finish your mug. You ask Aragorn if you should have another, but even you know better, as your words are already slurring together.
Aragorn gives you a smile under the hood and puts your empty mug in front of himself. “I think you’ve had quite enough, Y/N.”
You shrug and sink into your seat. “I guess you’re right, as usual. You always seem to be right.”
Aragorn just laughs lightly and returns his attention to the small-folk. You follow his gaze and see one with curly hair talk to the barkeep. They both turn to you and you tense up slightly. Over the chatter of the bar, you can just make out what they’re saying.
“One of them rangers…What his right name is, I don’t know. But ‘round these parts, he’s known as Strider.”
The barkeep quickly moves away and the Hobbit repeats the name before turning away quickly like he’s afraid.
Aragorn’s pipe puffs and you resist asking for it. With your head gently thumping on the stone, you sigh. You’re bored. What are you waiting for? Maybe you should order another ale? No, you don’t want to be drunk. You’re only tipsy now, but Aragorn has stressed the importance of this mission, so you need to sober up. You’re also hungry, maybe you should order the Thieve’s Stew? You’ve seen a few people with it, and it looks quite delicious.
And so you wave over a barmaid, a quite pretty one at that, and ask, “Excuse me, but could I have a bowl of your Thieve’s Stew?”
She smiles and nods. “Yes, my lady, that’ll be right up.”
You thank her and watch as she walks towards the back.
Aragorn gives you a look and you shrug. “What? I’m hungry. I’ll let you have some.”
He laughs and shakes his head.
Aragorn keeps his eyes on the Hobbit as the lady brings you your stew, setting it down in front of her. With a smile, you hand her a couple of silver coins, winking. She grins, stows them in a pocket, and walks away.
In your bowl is a delicious meal. It smells very meaty and brothy. It looks like it has noodles and beef, two of your favorite things. With a spoon, you quickly dive in, relishing the excellent taste. It’s yummy and hearty, something different from your village’s high-vegetable diet. Not that your father’s cooking isn’t fantastic, either.
You quickly devour half of the bowl before you look up at Aragorn. “Want some?”
Aragorn doesn’t answer you, and he is instead watching something intensely. Following his gaze, as you spoon another bite of stew into your mouth, you see that the Hobbit that was previously talking to the innkeeper is messing with something small in his hands. He’s twirling it, and his eyes close.
That’s not normal.
“Baggins? Sure, I know a Baggins.”
The Hobbit’s head whips towards the bar, and you follow. There’s another Hobbit sitting at the bar, a pint in his hand. He seems a little buzzed, his cheeks all flushed and red in the candlelight. He’s talking with a group of men and gesturing in the other Hobbit’s direction.
“He’s over there,” he says. “Frodo Baggins.” He gives him a small wave before turning back to the men. “He’s my second cousin, once removed on his mother’s side. And my third cousin, twice removed…”
You don’t hear the rest of his speech, watching Frodo, the Hobbit sitting at the table, stand quickly and make his way toward the bar. He seems…panicked? You slowly lift another spoonful into your mouth. Aragorn’s hand drifts down, removing the pipe from his mouth.
“What is he…?” you ask slowly, words muffled from the noodles.
Frodo quickly grabs the Hobbit’s arm, but stumbles over a foot, falling towards the ground. As he falls, something drops from his hand. A small object glints up in the air before falling back down. Aragorn sits up straighter. The group of men watches Frodo fall, but as the glint reaches the floor, Frodo lifts his pointer finger up. To catch it?
Then he vanishes.
You gasp, lifting a hand to your mouth as men gasp, pointing at the group where Frodo once was. “What the..?” you ask, dropping your spoon. Your eyes must have deceived you, there’s no way he just vanished. That’s not possible.
Aragorn stands quickly, hood pulled even lower over his face. “Help me find him, Y/N.”
You gape at him, standing and grabbing your cloak. Is this what you were waiting for? “Help you find him? He just vanished, Strider!”
Aragorn does not seem to hear you, however, scanning the room quickly. Quick, loud conversations break out, and fingers are being pointed towards the bar where people are scrambling around, shouting.
You scan the bar. You see the three other Hobbits make their way towards each other, whispering, looking anxious. Where is the other one? Frodo. Was that his name?
Finally, you spot him beside a table. He’s shaking his head, panting, and looking around. He’s sweating, too.
“There,” you say to Aragorn, but he’s a step ahead of you.
Quickly, he grabs the Hobbit by the shoulder and hauls him up and towards the stairs. Taking this as your queue to follow, you walk back towards the table. Shoveling the last two bites of stew into your mouth and throwing several coins on the table, you grab your bow and quiver, and follow.
Walking up the stairs two at a time, you catch up with Aragorn and see him shove Frodo into an empty room. You catch the door and shut it, keeping your hood over your head.
The Hobbit stands as you latch the door. “What do you want?” he asks apprehensively.
“A little more caution from you,” Aragorn tells him rather than answering. “That is no small trinket you carry.”
“I carry nothing.”
“Indeed.”
What is going on? Was that glint the item Gandalf told Aragorn the Hobbit would have? What was it, then? Clearly, it was small and metallic. Not a knife nor a dagger, perhaps a piece of jewelry? A ring, perhaps, or a bracelet.
Aragorn makes his way towards the window, extinguishing the candles. “I can avoid being seen if I wish. But to disappear entirely?” He turns back to the Hobbit and removes his hood. “That is a rare gift.”
You stand beside the door, somewhat awkwardly, a hand on your dagger hilt. You remove your own hood, shaking your hair out of your face. The Hobbit, Frodo, looks confused, looking between the two of you.
“Who are you?” he asks. You note that he sounds much less frightened than you would have assumed. After all, he was shoved into a room by two Men. If it were you, you would be at least a bit scared. Though, perhaps Hobbits are different. You don’t know much about them, in fact, this is your first time having a conversation with one.
“Are you frightened?” you ask and Frodo turns to you.
Slowly, he nods. “Yes.”
Maybe you were wrong.
“Not nearly frightened enough,” Aragorn says, keeping his voice low. “I know what hunts you.” There’s something hunting the Hobbit? Over what? You really should have asked more questions before you joined up with Aragorn. He always does this.
Aragorn glances at you and approaches the Hobbit. You take a step forward. Behind you, on the other side of the door, you hear footsteps, several of them, all heavy. Your nerves light on fire and at the same time Aragorn draws his sword, you shove the yew bow from your shoulder and notch the arrow, pulling the pheasant fletching to your cheek.
The door bursts open and the other three Hobbits barge in, each holding a different blunt object. One has a chair, another holding just his fists. One has an entire candle stick. You almost shoot them, but you’ve trained yourself to stay your hand and be patient.
“Let him go!” shouts the Hobbit with just his fists. “Or I’ll have you both, Longshanks!”
Smiling just slightly, you lower your arms and put the sharp arrow back in the leather quiver. “You have a stout heart, little Hobbit, but your fists will not save you.”
Aragorn steps forward. “You can no longer wait for the wizard, Frodo. They’re coming.”
“Who is?” one of the Hobbits whispers, looking at his friend.
“Who are you?” asks another one of the Hobbits, the blond one.
“I am Strider,” Aragorn says. “This is Khaya.” Ah, yes, your own alias. “And you four are in much danger.”
The three hobbits look to Frodo and he says, “We can trust them. They know of Gandalf.”
“He is the one who sent us,” you say, glancing at Aragorn with furrowed brows. You two have gotten pretty good at communicating without words, with just a few looks and a couple of glances, and he gets your meaning. You need to know what’s going on and he nods.
“Come,” he says, approaching the door. “You must be tired, and we cannot stay here. Follow me.”
He catches your arm as he ushers the confused Hobbits from the door and says, “I’ll explain, I swear. But, could you make this room look like the Hobbits are sleeping here? Their pursuers will look here and we must throw them off the trail.”
You normally do the weird requests Aragorn has without question, and now is no exception, as it seems so urgent. “Of course. Where will you go?”
“The inn across the way. Use Underhill to find us.”
“Alright.”
“And be careful,” he says, seeming impatient. “And fast. Tonight, I will explain.”
“You better,” you poke him in the chest and then push him. “Go. I’ll be fast.”
And then he’s gone with the four Hobbits and you’re alone. Make this room look like Hobbits are occupying it? Easy. There are already two beds, you just need to stuff pillows under the sheets to fool whoever it is that’s chasing them. Hopefully, they’re stupid enough to fall for it.
Quickly, you get to work, shoving pillows under the sheets and punching and fluffing them to make them look more humanoid in shape. Of course, you hope you got the height right, having to estimate. Maybe you need to add another one just to be safe?
Not long later, you’re satisfied with your work. Besides, you should need to leave, Aragorn seemed impatient. So, taking one last look at your work, you leave the room, latching it shut.
Making your way back down the stairs to the main bar, you see it’s still buzzing with the news of Frodo’s vanishing, literally, but people are beginning to stream out. Silently placing a small pouch of coins on the innkeeper’s stand, you leave the warm, bright bar, and enter the dark, cold night. It’s no longer raining, that you’re grateful for. While rain is comforting, it’s cold and uncomfortable.
You spot the other inn Aragorn was talking about and walk across the muddy street, keeping your head down. Now, you’re weary of everyone. What could possibly be so valuable that these Hobbits need the protection of both you and Aragorn? What’s chasing them? It must have something to do with the darkness surrounding the world, but you have no clue what it could be.
This inn is similar to the one across the way, just much quieter and less busy. The innkeeper is an older woman and she hums at you when you enter.
“Good evening,” you greet her with a smile. “I’m looking for an Underhill? My companions were a bit ahead of me in our travels.”
The lady smiles at you. “Yes, of course. They checked in not too long ago. Up the stairs, last room on the right.”
You bow to her. “Thank you. Safe night.”
With that, you head up the stairs and knock on the door before entering. The Hobbits are already in the two beds, passed out, absolutely knocked out. They must have had quite a night.
“Oh, wonderful, they’re passed out,” you say sarcastically, locking the door behind you. Aragorn is sitting beside the fire, his feet kicked up casually, but his hand is resting on the hilt of his sword. You sit beside him after taking off your equipment and lean back in the chair, the fire warming your legs and making them prickly like they always are near a fire.
“How did it go?” asks your friend.
With your eyes shut, you answer. “Fine. Hope I did a convincing job. Whoever is chasing them must be stupid enough to fall for that trick, though. Stuffing pillows under the blankets.” You scoff, mostly at yourself. “I used to do that as a girl.”
The room is silent, save for snores and the fire crackling. Aragorn is the first to speak. “I apologize for not informing you enough of why I asked you to join, of our being here. Everything just happened so fast…”
You open your eyes and shrug. “I understand. We have time now, though. First of all, let me ask; what is that Hobbit carrying?” You’ve lowered your voice now, not wanting to wake them.
Aragorn sits up and leans toward you. “The wizard told me he carries a ring. A ring of great importance, an old ring.”
“A ring?” you ask with a raised brow. “All right. Why is this ring important? Is that what made him vanish into thin air?”
Aragorn nods and you know he’s not joking.
Your mouth falls open, but you quickly regain your composure. “All right, then. So, who is chasing him?”
Your friend takes a deep breath and looks around the room, seeming to choose his words carefully. “Do you recall the old tale of Sauron and the Rings?”
The fire flickers and a chill runs down your spine. “Yes, my mother told it to me and my siblings to scare us before we went to sleep. Sauron gave the races rings. I think it was three for the elves, seven for the dwarves, and nine for the men. But he also had one for himself.”
“Yes. What happened to the men who received the rings?”
“They went mad with power and they eventually died. But it was rumored that their souls were tied to the rings and to Sauron, so they didn’t die completely. My mother said they turned into these shadow-men called Ringwraiths and they’ve been searching for Sauron’s lost ring ever since.” As you say it, the pieces fall into place. Now, everything clicks. With a gasp, you stand, staring at Aragorn. “The Hobbit has the one Ring and the Ringwraiths are after him?”
Aragorn nods. “Yes.”
You release a long breath and run a hand through your hair before sinking back in your chair. Silently, you stare into the fire, listening to the wood crack and pop. A spark lands on your boot and you watch it fade and smoke. Your mind is whirling. You knew that Sauron was once real, that was a fact, there were records of the battles in the Second Age. But you thought the rest were stories, silly childhood tales of the rings and the men and the Ringwraiths. But Aragorn would never lie to you.
Finally, you look at him and ask, “What now? What do we do? We can never lose them. If what my mother said is true, then they don’t eat or sleep. All they’ll do is look for the Ring and kill anyone who gets in their way.”
“Gandalf has instructed me to take them to Rivendell,” Aragorn answers, his thumb brushing over the hilt of his sword. “From there, we’ll let Lord Elrond decide what to do. He’ll surely know the right course of action.”
He’s right, you know that. Rivendell. The realm of the elves. The Last Homely House. Or the First, depending on where you were coming from. You’ve never been there, but you know Aragorn has been. Over the years and your adventures together, he told you a lot about himself, something he never did with others as far as you knew. He always was a secretive one. Of course, you’re sure he hasn’t told you everything, but he did explain how he was raised in Rivendell by Elrond himself after his parents died. He also mentioned how he fell in love with Lady Arwen, Lord Elrond’s daughter, her beauty untold. You’ve never met her, but now, you might.
With a nod and a deep breath, you fold your arms. “Aright. How far is Rivendell? A few days’ travel?”
Aragorn nods. “Yes. Now, rest up. I fear the Ringwraiths will be here soon, and we’ll need to flee when they get here.”
He doesn’t have to ask you twice. Between the ale and the food, you’ve been tired for a long while. Leaning your head in your hand, you doze off, dreaming of your home village nestled deep in the woods far, far from Bree.