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Editorial note: in this version, Frodo is a time-traveler
who has unexpectedly arrived in Middle Earth at the
end of the Third Age, bearing a mysterious ring that
is somehow responsible for his transportation. Oh, yes,
and everyone but Frodo speaks with a Scottish accent…
We rode up on a gentle slope, passing a few abandoned
crofters cottages, and drew up outside the inn. The
buildings looked exceedingly strange to me; I stared
up at the three-storied inn and felt my heart sink.
How would I manage to fit in here? How could I keep
the ring secret, in a place like this? After the day's
events, I was frankly rather shell-shocked, and ready
to find safety and a warm bed as soon as possible. Unfortunately,
I wasn't sure this particular inn would provide either.
"We...we aren't going to stay here for the night?" I
spoke up timidly.
The three kilted hobbits turned to look at me, expressions
of half-bewilderment, half-exasperation on their faces.
"Aye, and wha's wrong wi' it?" said Meriadoc MacKenzie.
"I expect it'll be good enough for ye."
I opened my mouth to protest, then thought better of
it. I was beholden to these three hobbits; they had
rescued me from the Black Riders, who would have done
God knows what with me. Better to just make the best
of things, as difficult as that might seem, looking
at our intended accomodations…
…After freshening up as best I could, I made my way
downstairs to the common room with the other hobbits.
The crowd was large and mixed; the squat and easygoing
innkeeper was conversing in the corner with two dwarves
and some rather strange-looking men, while other figures
– kilted men, hobbits, and several undistinguishable
personages – minded their own business throughout the
room.
As soon as we entered, a chorus of welcome sprang up
from several locals; evidently, they knew my companions
intimately. I was shortly introduced to a number of
different individuals, none of whose names I caught
– they were all Mc-something-or-other. The locals were
friendly and inquisitive, and they especially wanted
to know what I, a so-called “Sassanach,” was doing in
the Breelands. Remembering my late uncle's occupation,
I replied that I was writing a history and was interested
in learning more about hobbits outside the Shire. Breelanders,
as I was quickly learning, loved nothing more than to
talk about themselves and their family histories. Eventually,
though, I managed to convince them that I wasn’t quite
ready to write my “book,” and they slowly drifted back
into their normal conversations, leaving me alone. My
companions were more interested, it seemed, in sampling
the ale and catching up on clan news.
Suddenly, I noticed a strange-looking man sitting in
the shadows near the wall; he was staring in my direction
intently. A chill ran down my spine; was this one of
my pursuers of earlier in the day? He certainly seemed
as suspicious as they had been, and while somehow less
menacing, I was still reluctant to meet his gaze. As
the innkeeper passed by our table, I stopped him.
“Pardon, but who is that man sitting over there?”
Looking at me strangely for a moment – he was reacting
to my uncommon accent, I realized – the innkeeper replied,
“Och, I dinna rightly know. He’s a wanderer – Rangers,
we call them. He hasna been here for a wee long while.
I dinna know his given name, but we Breelanders call
him Strider….”