Faramir and Oddberry's Misguided Adventure

Oddberry shivered in her soaked cloak as she looked up at the tiered city. “Where now,” she muttered under her breath, reaching for the letter she had received from Gandfalf some months ago. She grimaced slightly as she pulled the tattered, damp piece of parchment out of one of her many pockets.

‘Oddberry --- good health. I require your --- scrolls --- importance. I suspect --- Arnor, --- ruins of Annuminas --- Fornost. Beware --- send word. Meet me --- White Tree tavern --- level, opposite ---. Gandalf.’

She squinted at the blurred writing and sighed. It was largely illegible now, the ink long having run off the page. It had been quite the adventure that was for certain. But what with the jumping into rivers, wading through drowned libraries, bandits, hiding in scraggly bushes, and not to mention the rather more recent downpour, few of her possessions had survived unscathed. She supposed it would have been sensible to store the letter in the same oilcloth she was storing the scrolls for Gandalf. But that would have been sensible and Oddberry was not considered sensible, not by hobbit standards at least.

She was however, quite hungry, rather damp, and increasingly chilly as the sun began to set. It was time to find Gandalf. How hard could it be to find a tavern called The White Tree she thought to herself as she nudged Biter forwards.

As it turned out, the problem was not finding a tavern called The White Tree, but finding the right tavern. As she looked doubtfully at yet another cramped building with a tattered sign and gaunt figures loitering outside Oddberry started grumbling to herself.

“Could you not have picked somewhere with a more distinctive name?” The sky was nearly dark and Oddberry decided that it might just be time to find a good place to settle for the night as her stomach grumbled yet again. She could search every White Tree in the city in the morning when there weren’t dark figures loitering down every alley and side street.

She made her way up the levels, keeping to the wider thoroughfares, all the while feeling as if she were being watched. That was nothing new. The feeling had followed her since Annuminas, and had only got worse since Bree. Every so often she would catch a glimpse of a hood or horse that seemed familiar and she had to tell herself that it was probably her mind playing tricks. There was little reason to follow a hobbit halfway across Middle Earth.

Oddberry had just reached the gate and steep slope to the fourth level when she was cheered by a neat building built into the rock, with a well-polished sign staying ‘Stables’ pointing to the side. She couldn’t help but notice it was also called the White Tree. She was fast growing tired of that name. There was however a clean, vacant stable which she could hardly turn down, complete with a stablehand, an older man who narrowed his eyes at the hobbit, but made no comment.

“Pay for the stable with your room. You’ll have to come back for your tack if you want supper. Food’s almost gone and no saddles in the taproom.” His tone was brusque and Oddberry suspected she would find little warmth and much suspicion from the tavern’s occupants.

“Thankyou, kind ser. Watch out for his teeth.” She nodded at Biter as she quickly removed her packs containing items of value and handed the man a silver coin, internally grimacing at how light her purse was. This trip had not been good for her finances. And it was soon to be even lighter.

The taproom was warm with a great fire roaring in the hearth, and all eyes fell on Oddberry as she entered, most quickly looking away only to snatch hostile glances when they thought she wouldn’t notice. They were mostly shop-keepers and the like she decided, though there were some shadier figures loitering and playing cards in the corner. Oddberry chose a table near the fire, laying out her damp cloak on a separate chair and casually propping her axe up against the table.

She was not even settled into her mead when the barkeep set down her overcooked hunk of meat, accompanied by some sad vegetables and a surprisingly thick gravy, without a word. Perhaps she would have been more welcome at a location higher up the levels. Although she had no doubt they would have come at a price, and this place had been dear enough. It was too late now anyway. She had paid, and she always slept with one eye open in such places. She tucked into her meal, noting that the gravy was the highlight, and kept her pint of mead close at hand as she watched the rest of the room out of the corner of her eye.

Lively discussions died down suddenly and heads turned in Minas Tirith’s twelfth White Three when someone entered through its crudely painted door who had not been seen in this circle for quite some time. His steps were deliberate and one of his hands only briefly caressed the head of one of the three huge dogs by his side to calm it while he made his way through the other patrons who regarded him with shared distrust. His clothes seemed neither old nor new, neither expensive nor cheap, neither truly dirty nor clean. However, they were dark and unevenly colored, the kind that would allow a skilled hunter to blend in with the shifting forest greens during the day and its grays during a moonlit night. His boots, however, made no sound as he moved, even though they seemed quite heavy, of the make a soldier would wear. Neither did the weapon on his uncharacteristically ornate belt, a large hunter’s knife, clearly visible for all. Only his dogs growled low in their throats, assuring those few who did not know him that they neither hallucinated nor were being haunted by some kind of malicious ghostly appearance or indeed the Huntsman himself. Though, one or two still doubted and breathed out with relief when he seemed to be looking for someone else and moved past them without looking in their direction twice.

It had not always been that way. Not that he had ever been particularly welcome. When he had been younger, the woman who had raised him not far from this very White Tree as well as her companions had not been welcome in any other establishment than their own. This had simply been extended to him and most had expected him to follow in her footsteps in one way or another. When he had not people had no longer been able to place him anywhere in society and even those who were known to be criminals themselves had felt oddly relieved when he had turned out to apparently at least be one of them. They had seen with delight how he had been caught, yet with confusion and renewed suspicion how he had taken the executioner’s tool and cut off his finger in punishment for his crimes himself without hesitation nor screams nor shedding a single tear where they could see. How old was he even? They could not say when they had no longer been able to tell. Then he had pledged his loyalty to the steward and joined the ranks of Gondor’s brave soldiers. It seemed wrong in so many ways, yet who could claim that anything about this man had ever seemed right? He had never truly been one of them, yet he certainly was no true soldier either. Some were quite certain that he was not entirely human either, could not be, not the way he moved, the way he acted, the way he talked, if he even talked for once, the way his eyes seemed to see things, the way he seemed to know things. Besides, had be not often been seen in company of that one wizard who came to Minas Tirith occasionally and whom even the steward distrusted as much as he respected him?

Faramir did not have to be a wizard to know what people here made of him and in the shadow of his hood he almost smiled. Contrary to them he knew exactly where to place them and it made him feel almost at home among them, even if concerned for someone else. Mithrandir knew of his reputation, too, yet he had asked him and no other to search for his wayward friend and bring her to him safely. This friend Faramir was worried about. She was one of the small folk, a hobbit, he had been told. He had never met nor seen a hobbit, but it had been easy enough to find her. She stood out even more than him, yet appeared oblivious to it or cared too little. Mithrandir had warned him that she found trouble easily. Seeing her cheerfully surrounded by people who, for the most part, had not even crawled out from Minas Tirith’s darkest underbelly but still debated how to best get rid of her and keep her belongings he could see how.

People made room for him and his companions and the innkeeper made an effort to ignore them. The dogs made sure that the hobbit would not flee, taking up positions on either side of her bench, while he sat down opposite of her at the otherwise empty table.

“Eat up quickly”, he told her quietly. “Then follow me.”

The barkeep silently placed a small slice of something that may have once been an apple pie in front of Oddberry and she viewed the soggy pastry with dismay. She wasn’t fussy about her food in general, not everyone could cook like a hobbit after all, but this was a travesty that somehow managed to be overcooked and undercooked at the same time. It did not deserve to share a name with the light, fluffy delights that she had stolen out of the Old Smials kitchen many a time, a matronly hobitess brandishing her wooden spoon and cursing her as she fled with her partners in crime. Oddberry smiled softly to herself and took a sip of her mead.

The taproom door swung open and all conversation died. Still smiling Oddberry glanced at the newcomer, and had another drink. The other patrons viewed him with distrust, shrinking away from his gaze, relieved when he passed them by. He walked silently, smoothly. It was the pace of a skilled hunter, and his dogs reinforced only reinforced that image.

Much to Oddberry’s dismay he appeared to be making a steady course for her and she had little time to consider her options. As much as she liked a brawl, she did not fancy her chances here, not against this man, who was tall, powerful, and sure of himself. Not surrounded by those who would sooner steal her belongings while her back was turned than aid her. Not when her opponent was accompanied by hunting dogs the size of small ponies. No, a brawl would be an unwise choice. She would be better off biding her time, catching him off guard.

She slapped a cheery smile on her face and took another draught of her drink, although she drank less than she appeared to, slightly withdrawing one hand into her sleeve, feeling the comforting handle of the knife she had hidden there. She quelled her feelings of foreboding as the dogs padded into position either side of her and the stranger sat down opposite.

“Eat up quickly, then follow me.”

Still smiling, she fixed her eyes on him. “It is customary to introduce yourself before demanding someone accompany you, is it not?” She spoke clearly, and deliberately, like one who was concentrating on not slurring so as to appear more sober than they were. “Oddberry, of the Shire”. She gave him a slightly flamboyant nod and large grin before glancing at her apple pie, deciding it was not worth trying to eat. She had some more mead instead.

“Not in these parts”, Faramir replied when the hobbit not only asked for his name but immediately gave hers. He hoped that she had lied and given a false name at least. Few of the people surrounding them and pretending not to listen in were criminals themselves, but nearly all of them were merchants and the names of strangers were always worth a coin or two. His name they already knew, of course, but why the small stranger would need it was beyond him.

“We have a friend in common”, he said instead. “He told me to find you and bring you to him.”

The manner of her speech almost made him raise an eyebrow, almost, in the end his features remained calm and his gaze rested on her while she finished her drink but not her meal. He knew that this unsettled some, but did not know how to change it without leaving an even worse impression. Animals he understood, people oftentimes still confused him. The only exceptions were Mithrandir and the steward’s son, Boromir, and even though he could not quite explain why, he was grateful for it.

“Get your money back for the room. You are not staying the night”, he added, when he noticed the innkeeper’s daughter getting ready to prepare one from the corner of his eye. She he liked, she had always been kind to him and quite honest when it came to coin, but her father did not treat her well. In the past, when her mother had still been alive, but already too sick to leave her bed, she had occasionally paid him for pigeons. Sadly, but unsurprisingly, pigeon-soup had not been enough to heal her. The girl was the only one who smiled when she noticed him and showed no fear of the dogs. Besides, she knew her patrons best and her body language would warn him should they eventually decide to move beyond staring and angrily whispering. With luck he and Mithrandir’s friend would be able to avoid any open confrontations this evening. An option he much preferred.

“Don’t drink too much”, he warned the hobbit. “We have some distance to walk and the streets grow steeper with each circle.”

One of his dogs stretched her neck to sniff the strange small person as well as her apple pie, but an almost inaudible click of his tongue kept her from getting too close or stealing what would only cause her regret.

“We have a friend in common. He told me to find you and bring you to him.”

The stranger’s reply was cryptic and gave Oddberry pause. She considered for a moment. Perhaps he meant Gandalf, although how Gandalf could have known she was here was beyond her. Unless this was the correct White Tree. But somehow she doubted it. The only thing it was opposite was a gate and she was fairly sure that wasn’t what the note had said. And while his intentions may be good, the others in this place were openly hostile towards him, and while they may not be model citizens themselves, that was not a good sign. And his words were too vague. Hobbits weren’t naturally found here in Gondor, so it stood to reason she would be here for a purpose. His words could be little more than a gamble to get her to trust him, at least enough to go with him. The dogs were for the other eventuality. She did not want to think about that.

“Get your money back for the room. You are not staying the night”

He had clearly decided that she was coming with him one way or another, but she did not yet trust this man with his unsettling gaze. She shifted her sleeves and was once again comforted by the small weight of the knives down each one. She realised she had been sitting quiet too long with that grin frozen onto her face when the stranger spoke yet again.

“Don’t drink too much. We have some distance to walk and the streets grow steeper with each circle.”

At least they were going up. Up meant less danger lurking down the alleys. Oddberry did not have the luxury of time to consider her options, or any other angle, so despite the overwhelming feeling that she was digging herself a hole with the drunk pretence, she doubled down and looked gloomily at her finished mead and sad plate as the hound guarding her side sniffed it.

“I wouldn’t. The pie is a travesty.” She stood with a slight wobble, internally berating herself as pulled on her cloak and fastened it with fumbling fingers. She had done far better fake drunk wobbles. This man was unsettling her in a way she had not experienced before. There was something about him, something she just couldn’t quite put a finger on.

She slung her axe across her back, painfully aware of both hounds following her every move, and shouldered her packs. She looked at the hounds pointedly, all the while maintaining her smile as her mind frantically searched for a way out. “Are they going to eat me if I try to move?”

Faramir chuckled when the hobbit called her pie a travesty. Still, he knew that the reason for it was far less amusing.

“Her mother died before she could teach her”, he said and got up when Mithrandir’s friend did.

He moved behind her as soon as the hound let her pass, took one of her bags from her and slung it over his shoulder. It was, of course, much more than a friendly gesture. Carrying at least some of her belongings made it less likely that she would take off without him for whatever reason and get into trouble.

“Don’t overdo it”, he whispered into her ear when she gave her best impression of being drunk. People here knew what another drunk looked like, they were much harder to fool than patrons elsewhere.

He gave her a gentle shove forward, trying to get her to walk a little faster. The innkeeper’s daughter had stiffened somewhat when they had gotten up and her gaze flickered back and forth between them and a group of men at one of her tables. They were too well dressed for this circle and Faramir did not recognize their faces.

“They are guard dogs”, he also informed Oddberry. The three beasts themselves made it clear who it was they were guarding at the moment, watching the hobbit’s every step and growling whenever she threatened to deviate from her expected path or when someone else moved too close towards her.

Only when the innkeeper’s daughter approached their stances changed and they appeared genuinely happy to see her.

“Take the side-door”, she told Faramir under her breath while she patted one of the massive dog heads. “To the stables. There are soldiers outside, Fountain Guard.”

Faramir huffed. “Not getting any better”, he replied, inclined his head and gave her a coin for her trouble. She, in turn, returned what Oddberry had paid for the night in advance.

“I’m sorry about the pie”, she also said. And to Faramir: “Tread carefully. The night is dark.”

Oddberry was rather taken aback at this man’s sudden bout of slight mirth, and even more so at his reply. It took her only a second to decide this was merely another ruse to put her off balance and she said nothing as the hound moved aside. She tensed a little as he took one of her bags, resisting for a moment before acquiescing. It did not have Gandalf’s scrolls, only her poisons, spare clothes, and a couple of relics she has swiped from Annuminas. The relics were irreplaceable but it would not kill her to lose them, and her poison stash could be rebuilt, given time.

“Don’t overdo it”

Oddberry internally swore. She knew that wobble hadn’t been right. She dropped the facade and moved on more swiftly as the stranger, her captor now she supposed (although why a captor would be giving moderately helpful advice was beyond her), pushed her forwards. She suspected she still wasn’t moving swiftly enough for his liking.

Oddberry watched the exchange of glances from the girl with muted interest, and wished she could see the man’s face as well. But she kept her eyes forwards and let the dogs warning growls guide her. Just because they were guarding her it didn't mean Oddberry trusted these beasts not to eat her if she stepped out of line. She was beginning to think that there might not be a way she was escaping from this little predicament unscathed.

She betrayed no sign of hearing the girl and her captor’s whispers; he need not know of her characteristic sharp hobbit-hearing. When the girl apologised for the pie, just for a moment Oddberry wondered if the stranger’s word had some truth and she smiled a small, genuine smile.

“If I come back I'll teach you how to make an apple pie like a proper hobbit. Then you'll have the best pie in the city.” Besides, she couldn’t morally let a pie stay that bad, she had to at least try to fix it.

She pushed the proffered coins back into the girl's hand. “Keep the pony safe. Somehow I don't think he's going to let me take him with me.” She stepped through the side door as one of the giant dogs growled at her delay, turning to look at her captor with a challenge in her gaze. “Can I at least take my pony?”

The girl smiled, unsure if her unusual guest meant to keep that promise, but touched by it nonetheless. She promised to look after the pony as if it were her own when she saw Faramir shake his head, signaling that they definitely wouldn’t take it along now.

“Tomorrow”, he said to Oddberry. “Tonight we will need climb.”

Taking the pony with them would entail leading it past the soldiers waiting outside, the very soldiers he now tried to avoid. His hounds would not be able to follow them directly either, climbing out of the side of the stable and across two roofs of neighboring houses. They, however, could take a different route and catch up with them in the end. They knew the city and moved as quickly and quietly as their master. No one would be able to catch them or follow them unnoticed.

Once in the stable Faramir gestured for the hobbit to wait and carefully peered through one of the cracks in the wall to get a look at the men waiting for them on the street.

“Listen”, he told Mithrandir’s friend in a whisper, fearing that she might approach them, mistaking them for friends. “I serve captain Boromir and I have sworn my life to him, to his father, the steward, and to this city. I am a soldier. These are not.” He made a small gesture.

“The Fountain Guard never leave their post”, he explained. They never wore their armor anywhere else and they most certainly would not come to a place like this dressed in it. Their authority did not reach past the citadel. Chosen from the best and members of the most influential families of Gondor their sole purpose was to guard the Fountain and the White Tree. Faramir placed a finger over his lips so that the hobbit could hear the men talk in low voices.

“They never talk”, he added, then briefly squeezed her shoulder as he moved past her towards the other side of the stable.

“Come. Quickly now.”

As the man peered through a crack in the wall it briefly occurred to Oddberry that now would be a rather good time to stab him. If the hounds hadn’t still been there. But by the sounds of it they wouldn’t be for long. After all, she doubted they could climb. There would be an opportunity soon.

“I serve captain Boromir and I have sworn my life to him, to his father, the steward, and to this city. I am a soldier. These are not.”

“I hope you realise it would have been far more believable had you led with that, not waited until there were a bunch of soldiers hanging around.” Oddberry hissed back. She was painfully aware that she simply did not know enough about this city to say whether he was right or wrong. Not much longer and those dogs would be gone. Then a nice solid cut from one of the knives up her sleeves would be enough for him to not be bothering her again. They may not be the largest, at only 2 inches a piece (small enough for both knife and sheath to be hidden up one's sleeves), but they were coated in a rather irritating venom. Not deadly, but it did burn on contact with the skin and was usually distracting enough for a hobbit to slip away.

Oddberry clenched her teeth as he squeezed her shoulder in what could have almost been a friendly manner, and then he was in front, leading her on. They passed Biter’s stall and she paused briefly as he nipped at her in his usual greeting and she gave his nose a quick kiss before whispering “I’ll be back in the morning I promise. Try not to bite anyone.”

The man was already climbing up to the window at the side of the stables and she hurried after him at the insistence of his dogs. She hoped they would return to ground level sooner rather than later. She’d rather not be thrown off a roof when she stabbed him.

Faramir stopped and turned back to the hobbit.

“It didn’t matter”, he told her in a low voice, taking hold of her shoulder a little more forcefully to briefly pull her closer and empathize his point. She was in danger and distrusting him now could even cost her or his own life. “Now it does. They are not soldiers. They are not friends. They likely are the reason why he asked me to find you. Now move.” A slight push in the right direction.

Then they climbed up, out and onto the next roof. He leaned down to grab the hobbit’s arm and pull her up. Only when she cowered on the roof next to him he gave the hounds a sign and they scattered, disappearing into the night more silently than any creature their size should be able to.

“How far can you jump?”, he asked, before deciding against it or the alternative of simply throwing her and her belongings.

“Wait.”

He leaned back down and pulled one of the longer boards off the wall where someone had tried to repair the very gap that they had used to climb out. Briefly he held still, listening, but it seemed that the sound had been too small to attract attention.

“This will do”, he decided. It did not make for the most stable bridge, but it would hold a person as small as Mithrandir’s friend.

“Leave your bags and that weapon to me”, he suggested. It would be easier for her to maintain her balance without. When she hesitated he added: “I will return them to you on the other side.”

“How far can you jump?”

Oddberry looked at the gap between the two roofs and back at the man slightly incredulously. “I’m four feet tall on a good day. That ain’t happening.” Her protests seemed to matter little as he was already prying a long board off the wall.

It would make a sturdy enough bridge, for a hobbit, and she was used to climbing the odd tree and running on its branches. She was no elf, but her balance wasn’t that bad.

“Leave your bags and that weapon to me. I will return them to you on the other side.”

Oddberry snorted. “I am not that stupid.” She re-assessed the bridge again, realising that the man would most likely have to jump to cross it himself. Or not cross at all, which was the other likely eventuality.
“If I give you this bag you’re just going to bugger off into the darkness. If I don’t give it to you and you mess up that jump the bag you’re currently carrying is going to end in your swift death. I think all round it would be better if you give me my other bag back and I promise not to run off the other side. Mainly because you have far longer legs and outrunning you would be a waste of my energy.” Oddberry kept her terse voice low, just in case someone were to hear.

“If you really want I’ll swap the bag for the axe.” She added after a moment.

Faramir listened. Faramir looked at her. Faramir waited. Faramir closed his eyes, suppressed a sigh and slightly, ever so slightly shook his head. Then he said, with as even a voice as he could muster:

“Can you balance out all of your bags while crossing this?” He nodded towards the board. “I do not care for your belongings, but I did promise to take you to him safely.”

Recognizing that arguing would cost them precious time and eventually result in attracting the very attention that he had sought to avoid, he jumped over the gap without another word, taking the first bag with him. His movements were not quite as graceful as those of a cat but came surprisingly close, almost without a sound, without struggling to keep his balance as he landed, without doubting that he would make it once. He left the bag on the other roof and jumped back, holding out his hand towards the hobbit to hand him the rest. Perhaps that demonstration would do the trick where words so far had failed.

Oddberry couldn’t help but feel a surge of satisfaction at her captor’s irritation at her. She felt more confident now those dogs were gone, more confident now they didn’t control her every move.

She had to admit, he did manage the jump rather elegantly. She also had no doubt that if she handed him her other bag he would just neatly hop over and disappear with both of them. She ignored his words. This man was crafty, keeping up the pretence of 'helping' her.

Oddberry also ignored his outstretched hand and wobbled her way over the long plank with short, quick steps. It wasn’t stylish, but it was functional. “Lead on,” She gestured off into the darkness. “Try to include routes suitable for those who aren’t half feline.” Preferably on the ground she said in the privacy of her own head.

While Faramir had feared that she would reject his offer no matter what, her sudden decisiveness still caught him off guard. He barely managed to kneel down and hold the plank still in time as she resolutely marched across with short legs and short steps.

Perhaps he was being too careful and she would have made it without his help, but considering how small she was and how much she carried, as well as the fact that she had at least some alcohol in her, one could not be careful enough.

After she had safely crossed he jumped once again and picked up the bag that he had been carrying earlier once more.

“Depends. Not if they follow”, was the only thing he said, merely gesturing for her to climb down and pointing out where, not offering her a hand this time.

Earlier that evening her comment about being half feline might have drawn a small smile from him, but now he was tense and deeply worried. He could not control her and he did not know who followed her or why. Too many unknown variables for his liking.

Once on even ground he lead her along a small, dark alleyway, then another and another, stopping every once in a while to listen, once even longer, staring intently into the darkness behind them, before pulling Oddberry aside and into an even darker corner between two houses. Two men without lanterns passed them. Their steps were heavy, their faces hidden, he could hear metal as they walked, without a doubt they were carrying weapons. Faramir pressed a hand over the hobbit’s mouth and held her close to him with one arm to keep her from making a sound or sudden move until they were gone. Only then did he let go of her.

Oddberry was mildly annoyed that the man had got to her bag before her. No matter. It was not important. She followed his order to descend the building without complaint and padded behind him, her own feet silent in the darkness, evaluating her captor with every step.

She wrapped both hands around her small knives and considered. Torso, potentially the easiest target, but there were too many layers between her and his skin. The legs had the thinnest clothing but they moved swiftly and in the dark she did not trust her throwing aim and she could not get close enough for a solid stab. This had to be pulled off right if she were to escape this strange man and his murky intentions.

And then, her opening came. Her captor pulled her roughly aside down an almost invisible crevice between two buildings. He held her close against the wall and she squirmed slightly, attempting to free at least one arm but his grip was iron and she temporarily settled for a defiant glare upwards over the hand covering her mouth But he could not hold her forever and the moment he let go she struck towards his nearest thigh, ready to spring away the second she made contact.

Perhaps he should have expected it. Perhaps he should have noticed the knives, her intention, at least the tensing of her muscles, her slight struggle to free one arm, holding her so close he felt it, but assumed that he had simply startled her. She was Mithrandir’s friend, perhaps that was why he failed to notice the obvious.

Once her knife pierced fabric and flesh it was too late and Faramir cursed. He should not have let go of her so soon, so completely. Now she moved away from him while hurried, armored steps echoed down the alleyway, close enough to have heard him and seen her.

Faramir cursed again and pulled the small knife from his thigh. The worst thing one could do in a situation like this, he knew, but the only thing that he could do to get rid of it, trusting that it had not damaged an artery. Letting go of her bag he pulled out his own, much larger hunting knife and stepped out onto the street fully. Yet, he did not attack the hobbit as she was likely to assume. Instead he moved in front of her, facing those who would emerge from the shadows in a few moments. Three, four, he estimated.

“Run, you stupid creature!”, he no longer asked of the hobbit or explained but ordered. Ordered, in a voice that had the potential to control a battlefield if given a few more years and chance to do so. “Up! No matter where else, just up! Towards the citadel!”

Oddberry winced as the man dropped her bag. And then he took the most unexpected of actions and told her to run, and two things ran through Oddberry’s head. The first that there was no way in hell she was running anywhere through this damn city where she could no longer tell which way was up or down. The second was that maybe she had misjudged this shadowy man. Not that there was time to dwell on it, she could hear the men that had not long passed coming back at a far swifter pace.

She evaluated quickly, there was not a fat lot of room in this street to swing an axe, especially not when there was someone she was not trying to hit in the space. Instead, her mind jumped to the bag the man had so unceremoniously dropped.

“Stall them!” She jumped towards her bag, not knowing what she was looking for. She tore it open, a clear liquid seeping out. She tensed, then relaxed as the stench of alcohol wafted up. She thrust her hands blindly into the bag, uncaring of the shards of glass that pricked her fingers, pulling out an alcohol-soaked rag and carefully bottled poisons. Alcohol. Of course! There was another bottle somewhere. If it wasn't broken. She was internally horrified at how callously she was treating that which she normally gave so much care but there was no time. She looked up briefly. The two men who had passed earlier would soon be upon them.

“Come on!” she muttered. And then she found it, it was only a small bottle, but it would be enough. She hastily uncorked it and stuffed the rag in the top, quick fingers finding her tinderbox and spending a precious sulphur-tipped match. She stood, her arm cocked to throw.

“You might want to get down!”

Stall them, she said and he had no time to urge her to run one more time before the men appeared. Faramir grit his teeth and met the blow of the first crude sword with his own blade, ducking just in time when the second stranger instantly joined the fight. They had no honor and felt no shame in taking on a single, less well armed opponent together.

“Almost dances as prettily as his mother!”, one of them even mocked him, albeit unable to hide his frustration when Faramir avoided both of their weapons several times in quick succession but took his time to counter their attacks. “Hits just like her, too!”

His movements were quicker than theirs, if only because he did not wear armor and his weapon was light, made for agile combat, not brute strength, but the fresh stab wound in his thigh affected him more than he would have liked to admit. It bled profusely, but otherwise felt strangely numb, a numbness that slowly started to spread. At one point he almost forgot about it, then put too much weight on his leg and stumbled, nearly fell and got hit on the side of his head by the side of his opponent’s blade. In that moment he realized that pain might have been preferable to not feeling a wound at all that still affected him in other ways.

When the hobbit called out to him again he felt more exhausted than ever, sweating like he usually did not, feeling his knife tremble in his hands. Sounds suddenly seemed much louder while his vision grew cloudy first, then gradually darkened. He had managed to disarm one of the men and hurt another, but others had heard their screams and hurried to join them. He could barely tell what she was doing, but obeyed her. Or maybe his leg just gave in by chance in that very moment, making him stumble sideways, out of the way. When he reached out to support himself against the wall of an abandoned house, he noticed too late that it was an open doorway instead. He heard the men curse and run when he hit the ground.

Oddberry saw the man throw himself sideways, although it looked rather a lot more like a fall. She lobbed the bottle at the place he had been standing and for a moment all she could see was fire, lighting up the night. And then the men were gone, and the only sound was the guttering of the flames which would soon run out of fuel.

The man. Where was he? She would have expected him to already be urging her down another alleyway. Except, the poison! Mustn’t forget she’d stabbed him.

Oddberry found him, half through the doorway of a building that appeared to be uninhabited. It was only one story, with a fairly significant hole in the roof. Her captor turned ally was sprawled unceremoniously on the ground. She hoped it wasn't just her imagination that he twitched slightly and breathed.

“Oi you.” She squatted down next to him. “Are you ok? Well of course you’re not, your leg is probably on fire right now, but that will calm down in about half an hour. Maybe I could find you a crutch?” She cast around before looking back at the man, finally able to see his eyes now his hood was down.

The dying flames of her makeshift bomb showed that despite the darkness his pupils were mere pinpricks and highlighted the sweat running down his face. It reminded her of that time Pip had eaten the wrong mushroom.

“What the... “ Oddberry sat back on her heels in confusion. What bizarre reaction was he having. The scientist in her wanted to take notes but she was painfully aware that she was lost in a strange city, with the threat of more foes on the wat, and her companion was currently looking to be of little assistance.

She gave his cheek a firm tap to get his attention, hoping part of it was a little too much proximity to the minor explosion she had set off. “We need to get somewhere safe and I can’t carry you so you’re going to need to get up and give me some directions before someone comes to investigate. Or we’re going to spend a very uncomfortable night behind this door.” She stood and unslung her axe, looking about her warily.

She’d made a right old mess of this.

He could hear her voice, oddly distorted. It seemed far away and way to close in the next moment. His breath caught in his throat. Smoke. Fire. He smelled only that, felt too hot altogether. Only his leg, his leg seemed terribly cold, numb and cold. It confused him so much that he did not even notice when something touched his face.

“What are you?”, he heard himself whisper. “What have you done to me?!”

He tried to sit up, but helplessly fell to the side. Immediately he tried to push himself up against the wall clumsily, then, when it failed, begann searching for his knife, blindly moving his hands over the ground, seeking to defend himself from that creature that had stabbed him and smelled of fire.

“Leave me!”, he threatened her, but had to struggle for breath as soon as the words where out. He had to lean his head back and breathe through his mouth. Burning, drowning, everything seemed to move around him, he felt it, sensed it, but all he could see were shadows until the darkness swallowed him whole and he pressed his hands flat against the ground, bracing himself for a fall that never came.

“What have you done to me...?”, a whisper again, scared this time, lost, alone in this twisting, twirling, pulling, pushing darkness.

He felt tears on his cheeks but no longer controlled them, neither them nor his erratic breath, his dancing, meaningless thoughts or the occasional trembling of his body when another shiver ran through him.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered that he had been wounded, that his thigh was bleeding badly and he tried to find it, press his hand over the wound. He wasn't satisfied, ripped the fabric that was in the way and pressed down harder. He could feel the blood, but not the pain. Was it even his leg anymore? It felt so cold to the touch.

The man hadn’t seemed to have registered her tap to the face, instead blindly fumbling, trying to sit up, whispering words of rage, then confusion, and fear. What had she done?

Oddberry saw him reaching for his blade and she retrieved it, sliding it into her belt. He didn’t need a weapon in this state. His futile search over, he turned his attention to his leg, directionless hands covering the wound, his obvious fear and confusion sending a knife of guilt through Oddberry’s heart.

She stood, for a moment purposeless, then took a deep breath and considered the situation logically. He was alive. He might be having a strange reaction but he was, for now, alive. He didn’t appear to be having one of those more deadly reactions that certain substances caused, the ones that cause airways to restrict. No this was different. Definitely more like Pip’s dodgy mushroom. So first she needed to sort that wound. Then find a safer place.

A small part of her questioned why she did not flee from the man who only minutes before she was convinced wanted to rob her. But she could not.

She needed to get him sitting up. “Right. I need you to not try and hurt me when I do this.” She slipped behind him and sat down, using all her strength to get him sitting up leaning against the doorframe, legs in the street. She dragged her pack closer and removed the first aid supplies from their small compartment, thankful that she had remembered to place them there, for doing so had prevented them from being covered in glass shards. She had no alcohol to clean the wound, and there was no saying if the river water she had filled her waterskin with earlier was truly clean. In truth, she was less concerned about the wound than this man’s reaction to the substance coating the knife.

Quick, practiced hands made short work of a bandage. One thing ticked off the list. She regarded her captor come ally come patient again and decided some water wouldn’t hurt. She sat next to him in the doorway, unscrewing the cap of her waterskin and lifting it to his lips. She grunted and spilt a little as another tremor that ran through his body shifted his weight off the doorframe and onto her.

“Why are you so heavy.” She groaned. “Drink. Hopefully, it will help. Might even get you walking. Or stumbling. Any slight bit closer to the cryptic annoyance you were earlier would be helpful.” She was starting to think she’d like the company of his hounds about now.

Something happened. The world moved again, but differently this time, steadier, safer. There was a voice, somewhere, that spoke words or sounds, something. He did not struggle this time, did not try to hold onto whatever he could reach. Instead he let it happen, maybe because something, a tiny voice in the back of his mind, told him that it was better that way, maybe because he didn’t have strength or will left to fight it for the moment.

His mind was chasing thoughts like thin clouds on a stormy day, too fast to grasp, impossible to stop, gone before they could be reached. So his instincts took over. At first he pulled way when Oddberry tried to make him drink, then something somewhere in him registered that it was water, that it felt nice on his dry lips, in his dry mouth, in his dry, burning throat. He drank, carefully at first, then desperately and finally almost playfully. When he tried to reach for his wound again he lost even more of his balance, but being caught by Oddberry once more, without recognizing her as anything other than alive, warm, supportive and soft, he remained calm. His hands found the wound bandaged and that seemed to calm him further. His unseeing eyes closed and he hummed relieved, even went so far as to nudge her hand with his head as if seeking more attention.

Slowly the smell of fire faded, a gentle breeze cooled the sweat on his skin, made him breathe in deeply, gratefully. He had always loved the night air.

Oddberry was glad he had drunk, and drunk properly, not just lain there as she poured water down his throat. Then he had lurched into a search for his leg once more and as he slowly flopped a little further onto her she realised that she was very unlikely to be extracting herself in time to be very useful in the event of a surprise attack. But the night was cool and peaceful and she had a gut feeling that they would not be bothered by those men again tonight at least.

She rested a hand on the man’s head and he almost nuzzled into it, like a sleepy puppy. Her giggle was light and bell-like in the night, and she felt him relax a little at the sound. It was helping. Something a little motherly awoke within her, an odd feeling for the carefree hobbit, and she began to hum old songs of the shire, of sunshine and rolling hills and trickling rivers, as she stroked his hair, fingers unconsciously teasing out any knots as she stared into the night, watchful, a knife within easy reach.

She could not tell how long they stayed there like that, only pausing in her humming and caressing to offer him more water, until finally the waterskin was dry. And then she could only wait until finally, he stirred just a little.

Yes, he liked that sound, her giggle, light and happy, friendly, honest, a sound he did not hear too often, almost never directed at him. It even reminded him of something too far away in his past to still hold any palpable meaning while at the same time being deeply engrained in his being. A feeling of safety and joy from when he had not even truly known that he existed but others had been proud to call him child and brother.

Her caress as well, her patience, her soft humming. Was it a song he knew? Probably not, but it didn’t matter. He felt as much at peace as he had not for the longest time. All of the haunting darkness fled and he smiled, not quite asleep and not quite awake, caught in the pleasant in-between. He did not mind. His thoughts little by little allowed themselves to be caught, allowed him to return to his senses somewhat.

“Can we stay like this? I don't want to go back”, he eventually managed to whisper, not yet quite sure that it was his own voice that was speaking but agreeing with what it said.

Meanwhile Faramir's dogs found someone else, someone they knew and trusted and had been taught to obey, and decided to guide him towards where their master appeared to be in need of assistance.