Fic: I Ven Eden (A new road) FRT 5/9
Disclaimer in Part One
Wizards, Halabard pondered as they made their measured way towards Bree, are both good news and bad news.
Good, because having one fighting beside you, keeping your company, or even just giving you a gentle nudge in necessary directions, tended to mean that fate and fortune were also on your side. Bad, because their presence generally indicated that you needed their presence - that events were stirring in ways you couldn’t predict or comprehend. Take Gandalf, for instance. Halbarad had known him all his life, from the days of his boyhood, when the grey clad wanderer had turned up on festival days to smoke a pipe or two with Arathorn and set off some of his wondrous fireworks - through to long, anxious times, hunting orcs at the edges of the mountains, or driving dark things away from the borders of the Shire. Things always happened when Gandalf was around. Things that stirred the blood, challenged the heart, and reminded you that you were the descendant of kings.
Radagast was just the same. Well, not the same, since one was more than comfortable in the company of elves and men and hobbits alike, while the other preferred the company of beasts and spent most of his time wandering who knew where … but he had that same habit of turning up at unexpected moments, and spurring strange events, and just being - wizardly, in a way that elves, no matter how powerful or magical, never were.
This one - this Rupertgiles, or just Giles, as the maiden addressed him - had that same air of hidden power and ageless wisdom about him. The magic he had used to burn the orcs had been impressive, although not as impressive as his studied determination to learn, to make sense of words and how they connected to the world around them. He’d been talking - and listening - for what seemed like hours, unravelling Westron into hesitant Sindarin, and then weaving it back up into the tongue he and the maiden shared. Halabard was almost dizzy from the conversation - although some of that could be blood loss and the simple exhaustion of a long day. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the Lady Summers riding behind him, her body warmly pressed into his own, he might well have been slumped over his saddle brow while Gwedartha plodded towards Bree entirely of her own choosing.
Or not at all, if the temptation of the dusk painted turf outweighed her understanding of their journey’s urgency.
There was no real danger of that, though - not with an armed and armoured figure pacing beside her, his gauntleted hand on her bridle and his mailed boots ringing softly with each weary step. There’d been some argument about the arrangement - both he and the wizard had agreed that the lady should ride, while the lady had vehemently protested the idea … and then Giles had countered her with something that had brought a grimace to her face and a reluctant nod of agreement - after which Halabard had found himself being helped into the saddle, and the lady helped up behind him, despite his own protests. It was hard to argue that he was a Ranger and well used to walking through the wilderness, when the people you were arguing with barely understood a word you were saying - and even harder when you realised they were right, and that you were weak from loss of blood and the shock of your fall. It was only later - with the lady’s strong arms clinging to him with trembling concern and seeing the wry glances that darted past him to respond to her anxious mutterings - that he’d realised why she might have been so reluctant to ride alone.
Nearly every lady in his life - from his mother, his sister, and on through most of the women he had known thereafter - had had some skill in the saddle; finding one to whom even seeing a horse appeared to be an adventure might have been reason for an amusing tale or two - had he not seen her swing a sword, or felt the strength with which she clung until her fears subsided. Buffy Summers, Halabard had quickly realised, was not a woman you laughed at - or if you did, not one that you laughed at for long.
Unless you were a wizard, that is. Her wizard, from the proprietary way she addressed him - and his amusement was both quiet and forbearing, something obviously born from long acquaintance and a great affection between the two of them.
Eager conversation and the need to communicate had slowly lapsed into companionable silences, each of them settling into the journey in their own way. Halabard had never been a man of many words, and he’d probably used up most of his monthly allocation in a matter of an hour or two of these new acquaintances. Long nights spent alone in the wilderness reduced the need - and the desire - to chatter, and while he was curious, he was also content for his company to reveal themselves at a pace they felt comfortable with. His wound pained him, and his body ached for rest; the words had distracted him for a while, but in end he needed to conserve his strength and focus on keeping awake long enough for them to reach Bree and the shelter they all needed.
Buffy had chattered on for a while - once she’d settled well enough to be convinced that riding was a sensible way to travel - but even her words had faltered and faded as the evening drew on. Her grip had relaxed, and her head had slowly nodded down to rest on Halabarad’s unwounded shoulder; he’d merely placed his hand over her clasped ones and let her ease into his curves, a warm and somnolent pressure at his back. She weighed far less than many a travel pack had done, and was a softer burden than most; it was humbling to know that she had come to trust him so quickly. He had no intention of betraying that trust by allowing her to fall.
Giles walked on, with the weary pace of someone who’d walked all day, yet still held the determination to walk all night if necessary. He watched the road ahead with wary eyes, and scanned the horizon with thoughtful attention. Halabard felt reassured by his company - and not just because of the way he carried himself, or the sword at his back for that matter. This was exactly the sort of man you wanted beside you in times of trouble - one given to measured thought and contemplation, yet still quick in deeds and action when circumstances demanded it.
Talented in the healing arts, too - not as deft as Aragorn, perhaps, but then few were. Strider had been taught by the Lord Elrond himself, and he had the blood of Kings in his veins. Besides, wizards had other skills to call on, as Giles had so ably demonstrated after the unexpected battle. The column of black smoke which had risen behind them as they headed east was still vaguely visible against the onset of night, its pall obscuring the glimmer of the early evening stars.
“We should hurry,” Halabard murmured, speaking softly so as not to stir the lady from her doze. “If we arrive too late, the gatekeeper may not let us in. Ah … “ He’d earned himself a questioning look from his company, and he struggled to rephrase his concerns in simpler words. “Gates - may be locked.” He threw a glance up at the darkening sky and added: “Night comes.”
Giles frowned for a moment, then nodded. “Is it far?” he asked. Halabarad cast a look around and blinked, realising that they were actually much closer than he’d thought. There was a tended ditch on one side of the road, and signs of cultivation lurking in the darkness beyond it.
“Not far. We may see lights soon.”
They did. Almost as soon as they broached the next hill, in fact. Bree lay ahead of them, nestled in the curve of the landscape - lying like a patch of shadow within the gloom, lit by a hint of hearthfire and shuttered candlelight. Gwedartha picked up her pace, eager to reach the promise of sweet hay and fresh oats, and Buffy nodded awake at the change of rhythm, her grip briefly tightening on Halabrad’s waist before she remembered where she was.
“Bree,” Halbarad announced, looking back to catch her eyes and pointing forward. She leaned round him to get a better look, then sighed and muttered something incomprehensible. He had no idea what it was she said - but whatever it was, it made Giles laugh.
Wizards, Halabard pondered as they made their measured way towards Bree, are both good news and bad news.
Good, because having one fighting beside you, keeping your company, or even just giving you a gentle nudge in necessary directions, tended to mean that fate and fortune were also on your side. Bad, because their presence generally indicated that you needed their presence - that events were stirring in ways you couldn’t predict or comprehend. Take Gandalf, for instance. Halbarad had known him all his life, from the days of his boyhood, when the grey clad wanderer had turned up on festival days to smoke a pipe or two with Arathorn and set off some of his wondrous fireworks - through to long, anxious times, hunting orcs at the edges of the mountains, or driving dark things away from the borders of the Shire. Things always happened when Gandalf was around. Things that stirred the blood, challenged the heart, and reminded you that you were the descendant of kings.
Radagast was just the same. Well, not the same, since one was more than comfortable in the company of elves and men and hobbits alike, while the other preferred the company of beasts and spent most of his time wandering who knew where … but he had that same habit of turning up at unexpected moments, and spurring strange events, and just being - wizardly, in a way that elves, no matter how powerful or magical, never were.
This one - this Rupertgiles, or just Giles, as the maiden addressed him - had that same air of hidden power and ageless wisdom about him. The magic he had used to burn the orcs had been impressive, although not as impressive as his studied determination to learn, to make sense of words and how they connected to the world around them. He’d been talking - and listening - for what seemed like hours, unravelling Westron into hesitant Sindarin, and then weaving it back up into the tongue he and the maiden shared. Halabard was almost dizzy from the conversation - although some of that could be blood loss and the simple exhaustion of a long day. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the Lady Summers riding behind him, her body warmly pressed into his own, he might well have been slumped over his saddle brow while Gwedartha plodded towards Bree entirely of her own choosing.
Or not at all, if the temptation of the dusk painted turf outweighed her understanding of their journey’s urgency.
There was no real danger of that, though - not with an armed and armoured figure pacing beside her, his gauntleted hand on her bridle and his mailed boots ringing softly with each weary step. There’d been some argument about the arrangement - both he and the wizard had agreed that the lady should ride, while the lady had vehemently protested the idea … and then Giles had countered her with something that had brought a grimace to her face and a reluctant nod of agreement - after which Halabard had found himself being helped into the saddle, and the lady helped up behind him, despite his own protests. It was hard to argue that he was a Ranger and well used to walking through the wilderness, when the people you were arguing with barely understood a word you were saying - and even harder when you realised they were right, and that you were weak from loss of blood and the shock of your fall. It was only later - with the lady’s strong arms clinging to him with trembling concern and seeing the wry glances that darted past him to respond to her anxious mutterings - that he’d realised why she might have been so reluctant to ride alone.
Nearly every lady in his life - from his mother, his sister, and on through most of the women he had known thereafter - had had some skill in the saddle; finding one to whom even seeing a horse appeared to be an adventure might have been reason for an amusing tale or two - had he not seen her swing a sword, or felt the strength with which she clung until her fears subsided. Buffy Summers, Halabard had quickly realised, was not a woman you laughed at - or if you did, not one that you laughed at for long.
Unless you were a wizard, that is. Her wizard, from the proprietary way she addressed him - and his amusement was both quiet and forbearing, something obviously born from long acquaintance and a great affection between the two of them.
Eager conversation and the need to communicate had slowly lapsed into companionable silences, each of them settling into the journey in their own way. Halabard had never been a man of many words, and he’d probably used up most of his monthly allocation in a matter of an hour or two of these new acquaintances. Long nights spent alone in the wilderness reduced the need - and the desire - to chatter, and while he was curious, he was also content for his company to reveal themselves at a pace they felt comfortable with. His wound pained him, and his body ached for rest; the words had distracted him for a while, but in end he needed to conserve his strength and focus on keeping awake long enough for them to reach Bree and the shelter they all needed.
Buffy had chattered on for a while - once she’d settled well enough to be convinced that riding was a sensible way to travel - but even her words had faltered and faded as the evening drew on. Her grip had relaxed, and her head had slowly nodded down to rest on Halabarad’s unwounded shoulder; he’d merely placed his hand over her clasped ones and let her ease into his curves, a warm and somnolent pressure at his back. She weighed far less than many a travel pack had done, and was a softer burden than most; it was humbling to know that she had come to trust him so quickly. He had no intention of betraying that trust by allowing her to fall.
Giles walked on, with the weary pace of someone who’d walked all day, yet still held the determination to walk all night if necessary. He watched the road ahead with wary eyes, and scanned the horizon with thoughtful attention. Halabard felt reassured by his company - and not just because of the way he carried himself, or the sword at his back for that matter. This was exactly the sort of man you wanted beside you in times of trouble - one given to measured thought and contemplation, yet still quick in deeds and action when circumstances demanded it.
Talented in the healing arts, too - not as deft as Aragorn, perhaps, but then few were. Strider had been taught by the Lord Elrond himself, and he had the blood of Kings in his veins. Besides, wizards had other skills to call on, as Giles had so ably demonstrated after the unexpected battle. The column of black smoke which had risen behind them as they headed east was still vaguely visible against the onset of night, its pall obscuring the glimmer of the early evening stars.
“We should hurry,” Halabard murmured, speaking softly so as not to stir the lady from her doze. “If we arrive too late, the gatekeeper may not let us in. Ah … “ He’d earned himself a questioning look from his company, and he struggled to rephrase his concerns in simpler words. “Gates - may be locked.” He threw a glance up at the darkening sky and added: “Night comes.”
Giles frowned for a moment, then nodded. “Is it far?” he asked. Halabarad cast a look around and blinked, realising that they were actually much closer than he’d thought. There was a tended ditch on one side of the road, and signs of cultivation lurking in the darkness beyond it.
“Not far. We may see lights soon.”
They did. Almost as soon as they broached the next hill, in fact. Bree lay ahead of them, nestled in the curve of the landscape - lying like a patch of shadow within the gloom, lit by a hint of hearthfire and shuttered candlelight. Gwedartha picked up her pace, eager to reach the promise of sweet hay and fresh oats, and Buffy nodded awake at the change of rhythm, her grip briefly tightening on Halabrad’s waist before she remembered where she was.
“Bree,” Halbarad announced, looking back to catch her eyes and pointing forward. She leaned round him to get a better look, then sighed and muttered something incomprehensible. He had no idea what it was she said - but whatever it was, it made Giles laugh.