The Raven | LOTR

chapter 3: the prancing pony

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.