The Exile's Daughter

The Prancing Pony

We rode on for a little longer but, sooner than I expected, an open gate loomed before us. We dismounted and Aragorn spoke.

"We will not spend the night here. Poor Butterbur will have a heart attack if we all pile in at once." He allowed himself a grin, then continued. "Halbarad, Ness, Legolas and Gandalf – come with me. The rest of you, go to Staddle, Combe and Archet. See what news you can gather, but discreetly. I have heard tell that Southerners were recently staying in Archet."

It must have been around dinner time, for darkness was looming and few people were out on the main street. The cobbled road was lined with houses and shops. I spotted a butchers further up the street, its pig-shaped sign stirring in the breeze. The houses were stone, with wooden beams criss-crossing the upper floors and thatched roofs.

We walked in a huddled group to the largest building in the village – an inn with many floors. Its sign was a wood-carved pony rearing on hind legs, with faded lettering underneath. "What does it say?" I muttered to Legolas.

"The Prancing Pony, by Barliman Butterbur." He answered.

"I never learned to read Westron." I explained apologetically.

"Giñ golthathon." Legolas grinned his assurances from under his hood, offering his arm to me. We had not walked thus since we dwelt in Imladris, but my stomach squirmed with pleasure as I looped my arm through his. I wondered what was different about that gesture all these months on. There was certainly some change in its meaning. Chancing a glance at his face, I saw a slight crease in his forehead. When he saw me looking up at him, he smiled. Stifling another pleasant squirm, I smiled back cheerfully. (S: I will teach you).

Aragorn pushed open the door and made certain that we filed past him. Mithrandir took off his pointed hat before he stepped inside. The main room was mercifully quiet, its oaken tables nearly empty. The warm smell of barley filled my ears, along with something even more welcoming. I thought there must be a casserole cooking, and hoped we could stay to eat.

There was a small man standing at the bar, balding and portly, polishing a pewter tankard with a damp cloth. His apron was stained. The innkeeper looked up from his task and seemed to balk under the gaze of five hooded strangers. His eyes flickered from one dark hood to another. "I won't be wanting any trouble." he warned, glaring. "You best be off."

"Relax, Barliman. It is I, Strider." Aragorn shook of his hood and the barman relaxed slightly. However, he did not relent in his hostility.

"What about your friends? I will have them remove their hoods, if you don't mind."

Aragorn looked behind and nodded once, but in holding out a hand, he warned Legolas and I to stay still. Halbarad shook down his hood nonchalantly. Mithrandir had taken both hood and hat off, but until Aragorn had consented he had stood behind the tall men, keeping to the shadows. 

"Gandalf." Barliman's eyes widened when the wizard stepped into the light. "I am mighty surprised to see you. Word was you'd gone south."

"I can travel fast, Barliman! I have returned." Mithrandir gave a little bow. "Now my friends and I need food and a taste of your fine ale."

Barliman's face hardened again. "Not until I've seen all of them uncovered. It's good practice, in these dark days. There's been strange folk abroad, you see."

"They are my friends." Mithrandir stepped forwards again. "Does my word count for nothing, Butterbur?"

"There is little as counts for anything these days, seemingly." Butterbur muttered under his breath. "I will see their faces, or you can get out. All of you"