At the Sign of the Prancing Pony
B2MeM
Challenge: Aragorn's first visit to Bree, maybe in the company of
Gandalf or with another Ranger. Were the Bree-folk always so
suspicious of the Rangers, or did something happen to cause
that?
Format: short story
Genre: friendship
Rating:
PG
Warnings: none
Characters: Aragorn, Halbarad,
OMCs
Pairings: none
Summary: Aragorn visits the
Prancing Pony for the first time.
The characters are the
property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made
from this story.
A/n I know nothing about ale and borrowed the
description of Butterbur’s ale from a local brewer’s website.
“We
deserve a drink before we return to the camp,” said Halbarad.
“Those Orcs will never trouble these lands again. Luckily, the Bree
folk lost only a few livestock and had no idea of the danger they
were in.”
“Such seems to be the Rangers’ lot,” said
Aragorn. “We try to remove the evils that could threaten simple
folk before they are even aware they exist.” He took a swig from
his water skin and regarded his kinsman with a slightly puzzled air
as Halbarad made no move to quench his thirst. “I thought you
wanted a drink?”
“I meant a proper drink at the inn,”
said Halbarad. “Butterbur’s ales are spoken of with awe by every
Ranger who has ever sampled them.”
“Who is Butterbur?”
asked Aragorn.
“A Ranger for a year now and you don’t know
who Ryeman Butterbur is!” Halbarad snorted. “He is the landlord
of “The Prancing Pony", as were his father and grandfather
before him and no doubt several generations before that. The recipe
for his famous ale has been passed from father to son for
generations. Much like the shards of Narsil, only tastier, come to
think of it!”
“This Butterbur’s ale hardly helped
destroy the Enemy,” Aragorn said rather icily.
“Peace,
kinsman, I did but jest, but you will get my meaning once you taste
the ale.”
The two Rangers strode through Bree and made their
way up the sloping street, which led to the imposing inn. The
building was adorned by a large sign depicting a fat white pony
prancing on its hind legs.
Aragorn looked at it in wonder.
There were small taverns in some of the Ranger villages, but the
“Pony” was huge by comparison.
Halbarad led the way up the
steps, but paused before he reached the top and whispered in his
kinsman’s ear. “I am known as “Stalker” in these parts. You
may as well be “Strider”.
“Why?”
“It will
suit you with those great long legs of yours.”
“I already
have two names,” Aragorn grumbled. “Do I now have to have
three?”
“You might gain even more ere too long.”
Halbarad grinned. He led the way into the inn’s common room before
Aragorn could protest further.
It was dark inside the inn,
compared to the evening sunlight outside and it took Aragorn’s eyes
a few moments to adjust to the gloom. Visibility was not helped by
the clouds of smoke from the many pipes being smoked and the fire in
the corner. His keen hearing detected a good deal of muttering about
the newcomers, none of it complimentary. When his eyes grew
accustomed to the light within the large smoke hazed room he saw it
was filled with a mixture of Hobbits and Bree-folk. They had all
paused in their eating and drinking to glare at the two Rangers.
A
thin brown-haired man approached them and frowned. “We don’t
serve no vagabonds here,” he said. “This is a respectable
'ouse.”
Before Aragorn and Halbarad could reply, a short
plump man pushed forward and rebuked the other. “Now, now, Ned, we
serve anyone who has good coin, even that strange old wizard.”
“’e
might turn us into something unnatural like pigs,” said Ned. “We
‘as to serve ‘im, even if ‘e does look as dirty as these
two.”
“Baths are hard to come by in the wild places where
we wander,” said Halbarad coolly.
“My apologies, good
sirs,” said the fat man. “Ryeman Butterbur at your service. What
might I be getting for you, sirs?”
“Two pints of your best
ale please, Ryeman,” said Halbarad. “We will sit in my usual
place.”
“Very well, Mr Stalker,” said Ryeman. “I’ll
be fetching it at once for you and Mr-“
“Strider,” said
Aragorn. “You can call me Strider.”
Halbarad led his
kinsman to a table by the wall and the two sat down. “They’ll
soon stop staring at us, especially as this table is in the shadows,”
he said. “The folk here see anyone who is different to them as a
threat.”
“I dread to think then what they would make of
the horrors they know not of,” said Aragorn grimly.
“Such
is the Ranger’s lot, to labour day and night for nought but hostile
stares in exchange from those we protect,” said Halbarad.
“I
wonder if the wizard they spoke of was old Gandalf,” said Aragorn,
changing the subject. “He visits Master Elrond from time to time. A
somewhat tetchy old fellow, but quite likeable from what I’ve seen
of him. He seems interested in me for some reason.”
“Little
wonder given your heritage,” said Halbarad. What other wizard is
likely to come here? From what I've heard of Saruman he would not be
seen dead in a public inn. It seems Gandalf is little better liked
than we are.”
“But why do they hate us so?” asked
Aragorn.
“We are much taller than they and no doubt appear
grim and threatening in their eyes,” said Halbarad. “Then we
appear after their sheep have gone missing or worse, so the Bree-folk
accuse us of the ill fortune that befell them, as little do they know
of the fell creatures that truly committed the crimes against them.
It is better thus that they live their lives free from a care that
would consume them all. You will get used to it in time, even with
your cosseted upbringing.”
“I wonder,” said
Aragorn.
“Cheer up, old Butterbur will bringing our ale any
moment now,” said Halbarad.
“It had better be worth it,”
said Aragorn morosely. He thought longingly of Rivendell and the fine
quality wines served with every meal. He had over the past year
become accustomed to the ale drunk in the Ranger villages, but it was
poor stuff by comparison. He doubted the Bree-folk’s brew would
even taste as good as that!”
Butterbur came bustling along
to the secluded table, balancing two foaming tankards on a metal
tray. “Sorry, sirs,” he said. “It be right busy tonight with it
being market day and all.”
Halbarad reached for his purse
and paid the innkeeper.
“You Rangers might be queer
wandering folk, but you always pay your bill with good coin,” said
Butterbur as he bustled away.
Halbarad picked up a tankard and
licked his lips. “What are we waiting for? Now drink, young Strider
and remember this day!” He raised the drink to his mouth with a
flourish.
Aragorn took a cautious sip then another and
another. The ale was rich and golden in colour, with a hint of hops
and a very pleasant lingering, mildly bitter but malty aftertaste. It
was delicious. He smiled blissfully.
“What did I tell you?”
said Halbarad.
“I think I’m growing to like “The
Prancing Pony,” said Aragorn. “We must come here again.”
TBC
A/N. Written for the 2015 BTMEM Challenge.