================================== Bree Time ==================================
Real time: Thu Oct 21 20:44:00 2004
Bree time: Dusk 7:11 PM on Hevensday of Summer - June 29,1433
Moon Phase: Full Moon
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Bree, Outside the West-gate
To the east and north lies the village of Bree which is nestled under the western flank of Bree-hill, a grassy mass against the skyline. The East Road crosses by a causeway, but where it pierces the hedge, it is barred by a great gate. The village of Bree itself looks to have about one hundred stone houses of the Big Folk, some above a road carved into the hillside with windows looking west. On the higher slopes, above the houses of the Men, are many hobbit-holes also looking west. On that side, running in more than half a circle from the hill and back to it, there is a deep dike with a thick hedge on the inner side. There is a good assortment of traffic going through the gate: men, hobbits, and sometimes dwarves.

The dusk summer air is very hot and dry around you. A light drizzle trickles from the sky.


Grey-streaked with clouds, damp with rain only just ceased, the evening nonetheless seems to be a very fine one. In the west, the setting sun turns the sky into a blaze of color; catching the treetops and turning them to gold against the blackness beyond.

A young girl hurries down the exact center of the all but deserted road. Her arms are filled with a large and lumpy bag, and brown eyes dart from side to side and occasionally, over her shoulder. Beyond her, the gates to Bree stand open, the stout form of the guard somnolent in the sodden warmth of even.


Perhaps it was distant thunder, or perhaps it was only the sound of the wind. Either way, the sound blended seamlessly with the sound of hoofbeats in the west. Only gradually does the latter, steady and percussive, differentiate itself from the former, naturally rolling and fluid. Horse and rider press into view, emerging from the growing murk at a rapid canter. They are still some distance off, but their rapid pace will bring them to the gates of Bree in a matter of minutes.


Thunder rolls. Tathar looks worriedly up at the sky, then twists around to scan the road behind her. And fear, beyond the wariness for a traveller unknown on the road, tightens her breath and hastens her steps.


Horseman and destrier, grey upon black, draw closer. The steady drumming of the horse's canter cannot possibly be mistaken for wind or weather now. As if to put the final proof before the sentinels of Bree, the mighty beast neighs like a trumpet. The sound echoes off the walls of the silent town.

The horse is graceful and swift, and its rider moves with practiced ease in the saddle. Nearly anyone observing could note that the progress of the pair should be fluid and light- and yet it is not. The black brute surges forward with power, and strength and speed only hinted-at lie coiled within him. Likewise, the figure atop is elegant and skilled, but retains a leaden gravity.

Moreover, the rider is most assuredly armed and armoured. The grey cloak streams like a banner, and the fading light of day glitters on spearpoint and mailcoat, swordhilt and helm.


Hoofbeats ring in unbroken cadence and rapidly grow louder behind her. Tathar glances over her shoulder again, her face white in the dimming air, and begins to run. She is light, and fleet of foot for a girl-child, but the bag hinders her steps. And no girl could ever hope to outrun a horse. The gates grow nearer, but faster still close in the terrifying beast and its rider. The guard himself twitches a little in his doze and resumes snoring, unaware of the small drama being enacted some hundred paces from his post.


The rider draws rein, and the horse's speed slackens. The same cannot be said for its vocalizations, however. As if making up for the effort of forelock and hindquarter with its mouth alone, the horse begins to snort and whinny in a most unruly fashion. Head tossing and eye rolling, the beast lets its annoyance be known to everything with eye or ear for a quarter mile.

The rider appears undisturbed. For all its protestation, the horse's course is assured and its bearing is smooth. It does not buck or balk, and as trot slows to walk it's annoyed demeanour gradually subsides.

The horseman watches the progress of the running girl evenly. He makes no more effort to calm her and still her headlong flight than he did to calm or slow his horse. Impetus to run removed, the girl will surely slow. He turns his attention to the walls of the town, and its solitary sentry. He does not speak, but he lifts the tip of his spear high, allowing the pennon to catch the breeze.


The horse may slow, but its dreadful cries still fill the air. And far from calming, Tathar runs the faster. Until bare feet betray her on the muddy slippery ground, and she sprawls face-first across the road - nearly under the dreaming guard's ignorant nose.

"Wha...?"
Eyes snap open and peer suspiciously about. "What's all this then?" The man heaves himself upright and stares from the fallen girl to the now-sedately approaching horseman.


It must be a lovely way to wake up, if slightly confusing. Dreaming and waking weave themselves together into whole cloth before the walls of Bree, and only a derelict guard and a frightened girl are there to witness it. Straight out of the faded glory of Lindon has this rider come, and he may as well have leapt from a whispered tale of the War of Wrath. Elven spears and elven eyes are few and far between in these latter days, and mithril mail and Beleriand-wrought swords are simply never seen. And yet, here they are, glistening cold beneath the stars. Above flies a standard that neither of the children of the Secondborn could possibly know, and yet it might touch upon the strings of collective memory and, perchance, pluck a few notes of a tune, ancient and martial.

The rider waits for the guard to collect his wits, infinitely patient.


Tathar scrambles to her knees, shovelling a mass of greenery back into the bag. "He," she begins, then stops, swallows and steadies her voice. "I - I thought he was chasing me," she manages, grasping her bag with both hands and sidling behind the portly guard. Brown eyes are caught in the fascination of the rabbit for the snake by the glittering figure - so bright against the faded sun.


"Shouldn't be doin' that," the guard says. He too eyes the rider, and draws himself up stiffly against the ostentatious glamoury before him. "Go on back t'where y'come from, why don't ye?"


The demand is, in and of itself, ludicrous. Corpulent, sloppy, ill-armed and unskilled, the gate warden of Bree might be doing his level best to order the elf about, but his level best is not up to the task. So might a vole bid the raptor farewell, optimistically.

Fortunately, the bird of prey is not hungry. "Indeed I shall," speaks the elf in delicately-sounded Westron. "In a moment or two. But first, I will have some news."

As the ancient creature speaks, some of the malice of his coming might slip away, even as awe would likely remain. He might hold in his hands cruel weapons, and wear upon his back a coat that is proof against every dart that could be hurled from the walls, but his designs are seemingly not for the harm of either the girl or the man.

Still, as the spear head catches the last rays of the sun, a quick thinker might note that while capability is constant, intentions might change with the wind.


"News o' what?" Completely unaware of any oddity in his challenge, the guard stares up at the elven rider, his hand carressing a battered sword hilt.

The sun dips beyond the horizon, leaving the sky to the rule of a mishapen swollen moon. And half-hidden behind the guard, Tathar watches and listens in wide-eyed silence.


"Of judgment and reward, of the gallows and the flagon," the elf says nimbly, his tongue merrily sounding out the syllables. "Though, I suspect it will be more of the former and less of the latter." He laughs, genuinely and merrily, and this more than anything else causes the mood to lift. His horse flicks a desultory ear and studies a tuft of grass. "Speak to me of the trial of Thorn, and how my gift has swelled your reputation beyond all realistic bounds."


...judgment... reward... gallows... The guard's heavy eyebrows collapse into a scowl. "Now then, yer shouldn't be talkin' of such-like, in front of childern an all," he says, turning to pat Tathar paternally on the shoulder, and offering the rider a sly wink, hidden from the girl. "Go on, lass, y'needn't be listening to such things.."

Tathar ignores him, edging sideways to see the elf better; her own dark eyebrows wrinkling into an echoing scowl, albeit genuine. "It was you?" she asks, beginning to bristle.

Already turning back, under fond assumption of obedience, the guard swells pompously. "Made 'im pay, we done. Fer th'stealing of th'beast and requiring of a guard to watch 'im and feed 'im like."

"Hst, Tathar," he hisses over a shoulder. "Leave on, now, yer don't want t'be making 'im angry.. belike there's more in the bottom of this mug."


"Paid, how?" The question comes hard upon the stilling of the man's tongue, and while the query might be rudely probing, the sheer beauty of the elf's speech- even put to use on the rough and crude words of the common tongue- does much to gentle his manner. "In the manner of recompense there are many methods of setting the scales in balance. Did he lend all of his weight, at the end of a rope, to this task, or did he pay his way in silver and gold? Or in good works done for the public benefit?" His voice grows more chill. "Or does he languish yet in a cell, awaiting his ultimate judgement?"


"With money, o'course," the man says patiently, surely this is self-evident. "An' painting up the guardhouse. Been needing it, all musted and patchy. Couldn't keep 'im in a cell longer, twas a burden having to watch 'im and keep 'im fed..." He shifts his weight importantly.

"You shouldn't have left him in there at all!" Tathar, very definitely not gone, is no longer hiding behind the guard. "For weeks! He could have died!" Brown eyes spark furious fire equally from the hapless guard to the indifferent elf. "And why didn't you just take your horse and be glad of it?" Indignation overrides fear, and besides, she is no longer alone outside of Bree where all manner of brigands and bandits lurk. "You didn't have to hurt him like that!"

"Tathar..." the guard makes small hushing movements with his hands, glancing agonized at the elf.

"Don't 'Tathar' me! You saw him, this.. this... " an appropriate adjective seems unfindable "He practically killed him!"


"Practically," the elf agrees, glancing down at the child for the first time. "But not quite. I spared his life for a purpose." He says the last as if it resolves the matter, and turns the palpable attention of his grey eyes back to the guard.

"After all, the guard house needed painting. Your own worthy constable has said as much." He smiles faintly, but this time it is mirthless.

"What a wonderful, liberal society you have carved out of the wilds of Arnor, here in Bree. Truly, the mind reels to think of it. Where once stood the rather arbitrary- if just- rule of the Kings of the Dunedain, you have raised in its stead the wholly capricious rule of the mediocre magistrate." His horse snorts once, almost in equine laughter. The elf ignores it and continues, his words an unimpeded flood of wry remark. "Why, a less worthy society, seeing a thief with his hand caught in the till might do something rash and cruel- like enact a sentence of punishment- but not the Magistrate of Bree. tenderness and mercy are the order of the day. It is no wonder, then, that your streets are alive with the whispers and murmurs of banditry and brigandry- they have all traveled here to witness for themselves the tender ministrations of your justice, and fled the barbarism of their homelands. Most excellently done. I applaud you."

The black steed neighs, offering its own critique on Bree's justice.

The elf continues. "It is said that Men get the government they deserve. If true, I think I now know the worth of the people of Bree." The Firstborn smiles serenely at the pair of mortals. "And, now, I have but one question more." He waits a moment to ask it.


The flood of words washes over the guard's worried countenance, bringing first the numb blankness of incomprehension and then a swelling preening self-congratulation. "Aye," he says complacently. "Us do have a right proper gov'ment. Thinking of running fer th'council m'self, only," he squares his shoulders proudly, "they needs me 'ere at the gates."

The child's face, from white, turns to red. "He's not!" she spits. "He /saved/ us! And you shouldn't say such things when you don't know what you're talking about. There aren't bandits all about Bree only... only..." Here, for the first time, she falters - fear returning to the brown eyes that lift to hunt through the shadows beyond the wall.


The eyes focus upon the child now. "Only what, little girl?" The elf nudges the horse, and the black brute ambles forward, bearing down on the child with indifference. The elflord leans down from the saddle- close enough that his presence fills the world of the little girl, but prudently just out of reach. "Only...what?"

He spares a glance in the direction that Tathar's eyes took, peering out into the shadows of night that are no impediment to the perfect sight of the Firstborn. "Out there? That is where I live. And that is where Thorn must go, soon enough. I shall be waiting there for him." He allows the girl to ponder this, for a moment. "I have but one question left, and then I shall take my leave of you both." He fixes his steely, unblinking stare on Tathar's smooth face. "Answer it well, and perhaps I shall be satisfied and leave Thorn alone. Leave me to wonder, and I will have to press him about it, for I fear he is deceiving me."

Again, a pause.

"Who is the one named 'Grey?'"


"Need me 'ere they do," the guard rambles on, sublimely unconcerned that his audience has dwindled to bats and moles. "Keeping watch on th'gates, shutting them up at night, opening them in th'morning... highly important."

"Only out there," Tathar whispers, backing up until she bumps into the wall. Remembered terror flickers through her eyes like heat lightning and transfers to the one who admits freely to living among the evil men who stalk the land. Yet for another she may find courage unsummoned for herself. And a few more words are forced into being. "Leave him alone... I... he - he brought us home and paid it off." And as if it the elf might yet be placated, "Please..."

"Grey?" The guard swivels. "'E's one of them ranger folks, ain't seen 'im about fer a time. Good riddance, too, I says. Shifty-looking feller."


The focus of those implacable eyes shifts yet again, back to the guard. "A ranger, yes. Know you is true name? Or any other moniker to which he might answer?"

It has come down to this. The timeless creature has bent his will to finding the answer to this question, that much is certain. His whole errand hither was, perhaps, for this purpose alone. Three millennia of cold will is pressed into his all-too-able voice. "Speak now, friend, I bid you. Who is Grey?"

Simple words, a short sentence. How can such terrible weight be placed upon them? How is it that the very wind seems to answer this creature's call, and grow still and close? Even the night music of insect and bird grows silent, waiting, pensively. It is as if the world has fallen away, leaving Tathar and her fat guardian alone to face down beautiful, perilous ghost, this creature that lives in shadows and sees all at night.

The seconds tick by slowly.


Silence falls about them, silence like a living thing that deadens the noises from the town. All the blood drains from Tathar's face, and a kaliadoscope of memories tumble through her horror-struck eyes. "No..." it is a whimper all but inaudible, and the guard (unsurprisingly) notices nothing. "Don't give no name, they don't," he says, shifting uncomfortably - uncertainly. "Wander around 'till someone calls 'em something, then they allus goes by that."

"Tall fellow," he adds, in an attempt to be helpful.


It was a worthy effort.

All the art of elves cannot glean wisdom from what is, in effect, a blank slate. The rider acknowledges this with an exhalation of breath, and the world answers by resuming its routine. The breeze touches ones face again, and birds trill softly in the distance.

"Indeed?" The question is rhetorical. "Well, I thank you for your time."


So might the earth breath again when some ancient menace withdraws its attention and focus. But for one it is not enough, for Tathar is locked into a nightmare inside her own head, and neither the gentle susurrus of wind nor the unconcerned movements in the night touch this. She is frozen still against the wall; thus it remains for the guard to make his still bewildered, but no less pompous farewells.


The reins are gently tugged once. The horse answers with a snort, and the elf is away, cantering smartly into the night. No farewell does he make, nor does he spare the town of Bree or its pitiful soldier a backwards glance.

Only once does he turn, just before he fades from view, and his gaze rests upon Tathar alone. His expression is certainly not open, or warm- but neither is it cold or hard. Indecision can be read for an instant, and possibly regret, and then both are gone with the rider, disappearing soundlessly into the gloom.