The Raven | LOTR

chapter 5: a gift

The world outside is cool and misty.

Dinah perches on the old windowsill, wrapped in a thick white woolen blanket. She slept hard through the short night, and she still feels caught in the cobwebs of her dreams: her eyes bleary, her limbs heavy, her mind as hazy as the courtyard below.

The sun hasn't risen over the purpling horizon, but the distant trees can sense its coming. Every branch seems to hold itself a bit higher, braving the biting chill. Every leaf hangs on a little tighter, daring the droning wind. The dense fog that swirls in the trickling fountain moves faster in a desperate last dance, curling out across the rippling pool. If Dinah looks long enough, listens hard enough, she can almost convince herself that she hears the steady rushing of the icy water, the sharp whistle of the blustery breeze.

She yawns and stretches, humming softly to herself as she leans back against the wall. It is the second to last day of September. Time moves too quickly when it paces with a curse of immortality – did the seasons slip by this fast when she was a little girl, still blessed with a mortal life? She rests her warm cheek on her shoulder as she checks on the little room.

Liesel is still sunk deep into her fluffy pillow, her auburn hair sprawled around her like a gauzy bronze shield. Even in sleep, her face bears the faint traces of smile lines. It's such a wonderous, happy twist of fate that Liesel was here, her sister was in this inn of all places in the wide world. Dinah almost smiles as she looks at her, a mess of red curls and a little sparkling line of drool – but then she remembers the near-hysterical reaction that the mere mention of another war elicited. She turns away.

The Hobbits took the beds closest to the fire, which still crackles even after burning strong all through the night, and there the four of them still so soundly snooze, a slight snore rising from their cuddled clump. They trust so easily, though they know so little of the world beyond their Shire. In a way, that must be freeing – only knowing what's familiar, never worrying about what's beyond.

Strider's broad back is far too tense for him to be drifting very deeply. When Dinah woke about thirty minutes ago, she offered to take over the watch, letting him get a few hours of rest before they set off to wherever a Wizard and a Man of the Wild would deem a good hiding place. Though Strider agreed, Dinah can tell that resting isn't something he does often, if he can help it. He might not even know how.

As frustrating as it is, Dinah has to trust Strider – trust that he and this Gandalf know a safe place for the Hobbits, for the One Ring. All her too-long life, Dinah has focused on chasing the Nazgûl; she has never been the one to hide, only the one to hunt. She wouldn't have a genuine suggestion for where to send Frodo and his friends, other than a place with a lot of sunlight.

What can be done, really? Hide the Ring forever? Hope the Nazgûl never know? Wish that Sauron is truly gone, no matter if the mounting evidence indicates otherwise?

There's a soft groan, and suddenly Merry emerges from the pile of blankets. His rich honey curls are a tangled mess, and his dark eyes are squinted beneath his furrowed brow as he slowly takes in the dim room.

When he sees Dinah, he lets out a grunt of greeting. He slides out of the big bed, dragging a great green quilt that is several times his size with him. It trails across the hardwood floors as he pads over to her, like the emerald cape of a grand ruler. He hauls himself up onto the windowsill.

"I thought this was all going to be a dream," Merry murmurs, his voice scratchy. "That I'd wake up at home in the dark of my boring bedroom, like always."

"Good morning," Dinah says softly. "What do you eat before bed, to have such dreams?"

"I smoke," he tells her. His forehead falls against the window with a small thud. His sigh fogs the glass. "Pipe-weed. It relaxes me."