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Choosing to become a Ranger meant giving up certain creature comforts that others often took for granted. The sky became your roof, the hills your bed, and the rivers your drink. When you took up the profession some thirty-five years before, you had not felt yourself to be sacrificing much. You loved the outdoors, and wandering Middle Earth beat sitting around waiting for the return of the rightful king of Gondor any day.
But the passing years changed you as much as they changed the forests you traversed. There were nights on which you could not help but wish for a proper roof, a softer bed, or a more tasteful drink.
One such night found you out of doors as always, leading your horse along soggy paths. The thunder rolled in endless waves above your head while the rain poured down in sheets rather than in droplets. The sodden grass and heavenly tumult silenced the sound of your horse’s hooves. So loud was the sound of the storm that you did not even attempt conversation with your traveling companion.
Aragorn, son of Arathorn, did not share your desire for the comfort of an inn that evening. You had run into him entirely by chance three months prior on a serious errand of his own that had, much to your surprise, required an extra pair of hands. As you rarely had the opportunity to spend time with Men of your heritage, you tagged along with great enthusiasm. One errand led to another; now you felt yourself quite comfortably situated with him–at least until some future a job forced your inevitable separation.
Still, he never seemed inclined to stay in civilization longer than necessary. He asked his questions and left, frequently with you lingering outside the town to keep an eye out for any signs of being followed. As such, you were taken rather aback that night when you found Aragorn and his horse stopped in front of you, right in front of a large gate that led into a town. The two of them must have been stopped longer than you realized, because you had no time to ask what he was doing before a panel in the wood slid open and a pair of eyes appeared in its place.
“What is your errand in Bree?” asked the man to whom the eyes belonged.
“We are Rangers,” Aragorn answered. “We seek shelter at the inn.”
“Bit late to be out in this weather in’t? Even for Rangers.”
The panel slid shut once more. You thought that you had been rejected entrance into the town. It would not have been the first time. Aragorn was not terribly popular among those who did not know him. A moment later, however, the gates opened.
The man from earlier appeared in his entirety, carrying a lantern in one hand and peering into the dark beyond. He impatiently waved you both forward. “Well, come along, before you catch cold.”
“If there is cold to catch, we will already have caught it,” Aragorn replied. He was every bit as drenched as you were, with his hair flattened and stuck to face and his clothes equally stuck to his arms and legs. “But we thank you for your kind concern.”
Better to let him do the talking. You simply nodded to the guard as you passed with your horse, then followed Aragon in silence. It was only several minutes later–and after the two of you had gone much deeper down the vacant road through the town–that you gave voice to your concern:
“Why are we stopping? It is unlike you.”
“It will do no good for the horses to continue like this. Even if we do not fall ill, they might, and I dislike the idea of purchasing new mounts. These know our ways by now. A new pair might not be so easily trained.”
All this he said with his eyes on the street ahead. When he stopped, he did so at the head of a path leading to a large building marked with a sign declaring it to be the Prancing Pony. At last, Aragorn focused his gaze upon your face and went on:
“If you will take the horses to the stable, I will get us a room.”
Having never visited Bree yourself, you acquiesced readily to his request of handling business matters himself. In the stables, you found a Hobbit, friendly and willing enough to house both horses once you explained the situation. You left your name so that he could find you for payment should Aragorn neglect it–not that he would–and walked the muddy road back up to the inn to arrive there not twenty minutes after having parted ways with your companion.
Inside, you found him speaking with a plump, bald man you assumed to be the owner.
“Ah,” said the man upon your arrival. “This would be the woman, then?”
“Yes,” Aragorn said.
The man took your hand in both of his and shook vigorously. “Butterbur, Barliman Butterbur, if you please, madam,” Butterbur said as he released you, before promptly returning his attention to Aragorn. “I suppose you’ll be wanting supper and a hot fire.”
“The latter most definitely,” Aragorn said. “But not the supper. We have eaten on the road, and there is no need to rouse your kitchen staff at such an hour.”
Butterbur looked relieved at not having to expend more time and energy on Aragorn than necessary. Although the innkeeper’s words were polite, his body language indicated your friend’s presence unnerved him. Aragorn could have that effect on people. He knew how to handle them; it was one of the reasons you trusted him so implicitly.
“I will have Nob prepare a room and a fire right away. Until then, you may rest in the parlor. There’s still a fire going there, and I doubt you’ll run into any other guests. Everyone else has long since retired,” said Butterbur.
Both of you murmured your thanks and moved down the hallway into another, better-lit room. You stood directly in front of the fire, close enough to see Aragorn’s face through the shifting shadows, but far enough away that touching him would have been difficult. Neither of you spoke for a very long time.
“We will leave as soon as the storm stops tomorrow,” he said finally, and stepped closer to you as he did. “Hopefully all signs of our prey will not be lost in the rain.”
“If you were so concerned with losing our ability to track him, why stop? It was not for the horses at all, was it?” you asked.
One corner of Aragorn’s mouth pulled upward. You could hardly believe it, and turned more fully toward him to get a better look.
“If you decided to take quarters because of me, I will be quite offended.”
“Then you’ll have to be offended,” he answered. “Though you may be comforted in that I did not lie when I claimed concern for the horses. They have not rested in as long as you have, and are equally deserving of doing so.”
“You do realize that I did not frequently stop even before I met you?”
“Of course.” Aragorn inclined his head. “You are unusual, [Name]. There are not very many women in the race of Man that would willingly take up the life of a Ranger, nor for so long.”
“I am not such a rarity as you believe.”
“Perhaps not.” He inclined his head once more, then allowed you an uncommon full smile. “I have been tired, too. Our mark is much more wily than I gave him credit for, and if we take sick as the kind gatekeeper expected, we will lose it longer than if we stayed on the road. We both will benefit from a rest. Please understand that I did not halt our course because I believed you incapable of continuing.”
You smiled back. Men like Butterbur did not have the opportunity of seeing Aragorn’s kindness as you did. He could be just as frightening with you if he chose, but underneath it all, you knew his demeanor was because of how deeply he cared-not just about you, but all of Middle Earth. When at last he returned to Gondor, he would wear his crown well.
“Are you happy now?” he asked.
“I am content,” you said. “Especially in that I have earned the respect of a man such as yourself.”
And you were: content out of doors just as you were content inside, content on the road and off. You had not expected how easy a journey could be made with company, even when you spent time in the company in silence–as both you and Aragorn did for another twenty minutes, until Nob came to lead you to your rooms and sweet, comfortable slumber.