Faramir and Oddberry's Misguided Adventure

“Fara-” The word died in her throat. Where had he gone? At least he had left his dogs she supposed. He wouldn’t have gone far, of that she was certain. The man who tried to save the woman who stabbed him wasn’t going to abandon them.

“I knew I should have brought my axe!” It would have meant keeping Gell out of the way but Oddberry suspected that would be for the best in a fight. Well at least it was light. She could use her throwing knives in the light.

“Shit is an appropriate word.” Yet a small smile was creeping across the hobbit’s face as adrenaline flooded through her veins. It wasn’t that she liked killing people, she just loved the thrill of the battle. And it didn't always have to end in death. She also found that a smile helped bury the ever-present knot of worry. “I’m presuming you don’t have a weapon.” She pulled out one of her longer knives and offered Gell the hilt, the other already in her hands. “Just in case.”

The footsteps became people and Oddberry swore quietly. “I should have known.” The figures halted several metres away from Faramir’s hounds and drew their swords.

“Put the knife down little one.” The first man growled menacingly.  

“We know you have something valuable. Hand it over and you won’t be harmed.” The second man took a step forward and the dogs began to growl menacingly, deep in their throats.

Oddberry smothered the urge to look at Biter, where the scrolls were safely tucked away in the bag attached to his saddle. The pony had wisely reversed a little way down the alley, and it appeared their company had not yet noticed him. “I think you might have the wrong girl. Plus, you’re kind of outnumbered so I’ll respectfully decline.”

“I think not.” The first man bit out. “Our… contacts were very clear. And you are very hard to mistake.” His companion whispered something in his ear.

"They're only dogs!" Oddberry heard the man who first spoke hiss, then he regained his composure with a grim smile. “Come quietly little one. It would be a shame to have to hurt such a… valuable creature.”

“That’s a no from me.” Oddberry cocked her arm and threw her first throwing knife in one quick motion. It hit the second man in the left arm, which did not go down overly well. She did not bother drawing the second, there wasn’t time, and if she did not aim properly her throws were want to go a little astray. Her hand sought her second long blade before she remembered she had given it to Gell. Without even thinking she instead drew the blade she had picked up on a whim, little more than an hour before hoping that it wasn’t merely decorative.

“Faramir, now would be a very good time to reappear,” Oddberry muttered as she took up a defensive stance.

Gell grabbed the knife that was offered to him without thinking, realizing only afterwards that he had been handed a potentially deadly weapon.

„What am I supposed to do with that?!“, he exclaimed, his panic only growing when he realized that was expected to fight. He did not know how to fight! Faramir was the one who fought! Faramir was gone. Well, the dogs, too. The dogs knew how to fight!

„Do something!“, Gell told them and one of them had the nerve to yarn and lay down in front of him. While they watched the strangers approaching them intently and they at least started to growl low in its throat eventually, they did not seem that much more intent on fighting than Gell.

„Valuable!“, the young man picked up from what the strangers said. „Sure! Sure … I am … quite … very … absolutely certain that we can come to an agreement … if you just … put those swords down? Yes?“

Yet, when they called Oddberry a valuable creature and wanted to take her instead of any amount of gold or valuables, Gell pointed his knife at them.

„You can‘t just take her with you!“, he decided in a sudden outburst of courage. „She is my friend! And … and Faramir‘s, too! And he‘s a soldier!“

Then everything happened all too quickly and Gell yelped in surprise. She had attacked them. She really had attacked them. And now they were attacking back! He did not even have time to lift his knife again. Luckily, the man coming towards him stopped dead in his tracks when an arrow pierced the air right in front of him. It hit the ground just where he would have set his foot down next. Then another, from another direction, as if they had been surrounded.

While no one could be seen and no warning was issued verbally, the arrows spoke a very clear language. That was, until Faramir stepped out in front of them, his own bow slung over his shoulder, hunting knife in hand, just before yet another arrow from somewhere high above, perhaps the rooftops, hit one of the men in the leg.

Faramir lifted one hand, as sign for the unseen archers to stop, and they did.

“Run?”, he suggested.

“Yes!”, Gell decided. One of them should run. Maybe all of them should run. In opposite directions.

Oddberry's smile had warmed just a little at Gell's defiance when their attackers had mentioned taking her as well as any valuables, though she thought their attacker's faces grew more grim at the mention of Faramir. Her smile grew further as the two arrows flew from above, masking her own surprise as her eyes flicked briefly to the rooftops. This had to be Faramir's doing. She was not going to entertain the idea of it being anyone else.

Her heart was glad when Faramir stepped out of the shadows in front of them, perplexed as a third arrow took the same attacker as Oddberry's first throw had in the leg. How… unless there were indeed other archers, though where they had come from... the hobbit shook her head. She would ask Faramir about that later. The man the arrow had hit hissed loudly in pain and sank down on one knee, glaring balefully at them.

"Run?!" Oddberry growled at Faramir’s suggestion, sounding much like one of his hounds as she barely registered Gell's protest, eyes glinting in both a previously smothered rage and a new triumph now victory neared. "We are five," She looked at Gell, noting that he would be about as much use as a lettuce leaf in a confrontation, "four, if you count the dogs. Plus those archers." She did not truly know if there were any archers, for they were now suspiciously silent. Not a single breath or shift came from the rooftops their attackers were eyeing nervously, but the illusion could not hurt to maintain. "We outnumber them!"

The two men were obviously thinking the same as Oddberry, their eyes flicking nervously at the rooftops in a mirror image of hers just moments before as they whispered. The hobbitess heard little of the conversation, though the name Faramir was mentioned at least once, accompanied by a deadly glare. Oddberry thought little of it as her anger at their attackers caused her earlier (relative) composure to slip. The stand-off felt like it drew on forever, though it was little more than a few seconds.

One last glare and the uninjured man pulled his companion up, and the two began a slow retreat. Obviously they had expected to find the hobbit alone; they had not brought back-up and realised that with one man down, this was not a fight that would go in their favour.

Every muscle was taut as Oddberry's rage threatened to boil over as the two men slunk into the shadows; rage at the audacity of these gutter rats to believe they could just take her and parcel her off to the highest bidder. She was not a toy or a curiosity to be passed around like a pet. And now one of these scum was about to get away unscathed. Almost unconsciously she sheathed her strange dagger and replaced it with her final throwing knife. She drew her arm back and paused, taking a breath, hard eyes following every step of the retreating men.

Then she whirled sideways and the knife thudded harmlessly into the wooden doorframe of an abandoned house as she uttered a quiet scream-hiss, almost shocking herself with her own disappointment that it had not been someone's back. But for all her anger she could not bring herself to attack a foe already beaten and so she would have to live with that disappointment rather than the shame she would have felt had she gone through with it. It was joined by a mild feeling of de ja vu as once again two shadowy attackers faded away. At least this time they were all still standing.

Gell burried his face in one of the dogs' thick fur in relief, hugging the confused animal close to him, while Faramir pulled Oddberry's last knife free from the doorframe and handed it back to her.

"Honorable", he said. "And wise. We would have lost."

Slowly he started to pick up the arrows, one bloody and the rest sticking in the ground, put them into his quiver and turned to move on.

"I did not mean to hit him", he said quietly. "We should hurry before they return with more." Revenge would certainly be on their mind, now more than ever.

Oddberry accepted her knife with a nod, heart pounding in her ears, barely hearing Faramir's words, just watching as he picked up his arrows.

"I'm glad you did." Oddberry's voice was full of vehemence, the revelation that there were no invisible archers passing her by for the moment. "That's the second time they've tried to kill us. And the second time they've run. May his flesh rot from infection." Her blood was still up and her expression was unreservedly vicious. They had made it personal now, and besides, it was hardly likely she was the first they had wished to sell, and she would not be the last.

The hobbitess stewed for a second, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. She forced herself to relax as the adrenaline fled and she sheathed the knives she was holding before turning to Gell.

"I'm sorry." She was not quite sure what she was apologising for but she felt she should as she held out her hand. "I'll have my knife back now. Unless you'd rather keep it until we are somewhere…" she looked around, "...less exposed."

It was then, as she turned towards the alley where Biter peeked out his head that a small glint caught her eye, where the outer wall of a house met the stone beneath their feet. She sprang forward and let out a small cry of triumph, "Aha!" Oddberry lifted her small knife, darkened by spots of dried blood, aloft. "Victory."

She slipped it into its sheath, subtly testing the point with one calloused finger-tip as she did so. A slight burning sensation told her that all was as it should be with the poison, though most of its potency was spent, and she glanced at Faramir for a second and wondered. Still, the familiar weight, small as it was, comforted the small woman and she forced a weak smile onto her face.

"Well I'm still a knife down but the other is easier to replace and moving further away as we speak so..." Oddberry shrugged. "Where next? I'd rather have my axe on me and a little more space to swing it if I run into those ones again." When she thought to herself. Twice in as many days was far too often for comfort and she begrudgingly admitted that Faramir was right. They would soon return, and in greater numbers than they could handle alone.

Brain overtook instinct and Oddberry brightened a little as she thought back to earlier words and processed them in a less vengeful way, flashing Faramir a more genuine smile. “Nice one with the arrows, though it would have been pleasant to have some actual invisible archers on the rooftops.” She grabbed Biter’s reins and rubbed his nose softly as she waited for someone to lead the way.

"Life in the lower circles", Gell pressed out before handing the knife back to Oddberry so fast that he almost dropped it. "Not your fault."

Faramir seemed to almost smile when the hobbit found her knife and motioned for both of them to follow him.

"Mithrandir is expecting you", he said and stopped when she indicated that she had seen through his scheme. "The actual invisible archers were not available. Perhaps another time... or among different people. Mithrandir once told me..." Longing, curiosity, so much younger than he often seemed. Mithrandir's stories, of course. Everything that the wizzard told him always left a deep impact, about the different people of Middle Earth in particular. Yet, he had long given up on ever meeting them. Oddberry was a first. He dismissed it all, waving that train of thought away with a gesture. "Come."

Oddberry gave the abandoned alley one last look as she followed Faramir away, a small shiver running down her spine as the events of the previous evening flashed across her eyes. She stole a small look at her mysterious companion and wondered how much he had remembered. Her lips parted, the question on the tip of her tongue, and then with a small shake of her head she decided not to ask it. She wanted to be away from this place and forget it for a while.

They proceeded with little of her usual chatter until they were well away from the scorched alleway. Oddberry was in fact, a little shaken, both by the hate that still burnt in her stomach, and by the tingling in-between her shoulder blades. She was beginning to think she might not like this city very much after all. She was no stranger to anger, the hobbitess was aware that she could be a vengeful creature at times, but this was beyond the usual sharp spikes, quick to flare and quick to die. This feeling of anger sat there, heavy and burning. She was under no illusion that her actions had led to the deaths of others in the past, but for all her happy-go-lucky bravado she had never desired it. But those men had kindled something different.

She tried to shake those thoughts from her head and instead decided to muse over how she was to admonish Gandalf. It was only once the wizard had been suitably admonished and Oddberry had succeeded in squeezing a few coins out of his tattered grey robes the hobbit’s usual chatter returned alongside her good cheer.

---

It was the day of the party and Oddberry bowled down the stairs to the taproom where she was to meet Faramir, mask swinging joyfully from one hand. It was blue, like her dress, and fairly simple. The hobbitess had elected that if she were to be seen in a dress by the masses, it would have to be a hobbit-style dress, with some modicum of practicality. She was not a woman of Gondor so she saw little point in pretending to be one. They were, of course, also going with the fair expectation that drama would occur and Oddberry had been adamant that she wasn’t going to voluntarily let her clothes restrict her. She was certain there would be some commentary on how unfashionable the garment was but the hobbit gave it little thought. She was happy.

The garment hid a small collection of knives and Oddberry had to admit that Barathi had done a fabulous job at aiding in the concealment of them. Even the pin securing the braids holding her mass of hair back from her face was sharp and deadly. Unfortunately none of them were poisoned, but that was a compromise she would just have to live with. All in all the hobbitess looked moderately respectable. There had been some consternation when she had sauntered into a shop to buy some oils for her hair with an axe on her back but now even her hair was tamed, with soft waves rather than wild curls.

She reached the bottom of the stairs and scanned the room for Faramir, intrigued to see how he looked when shoved into respectable clothes.

And shoved into respectable clothes he had been. So respectable in fact, that Faramir had avoided looking in the mirror after a quick and discomforting first impression. Not recognizing himself had been a first and truly unsettling experience. Not daring to move overly much, out of fear that he might ruin what had been done to him, only made matters worse. Still, he had not protested and endured what to him had felt like hours of preparation. In the end he had left it to the women who had dressed him to decide whether or not he could leave the house once they were done. As such he was positively unaware of how he looked and – though that would have been true even had he known – what the effect was that he had on others.

His coppery hair had been brushed so meticulously that its texture resembled fine silk even more closely than that of some of the women who attended this evening’s festivities. It seemed longer now, without the snarls and tangles. A small strand had been brushed forward over each shoulder, the rest had been left to loosely fall down his back. His beard had been shaven, his fingernails cleaned. He felt naked even though the clothes that he was made to wear were scandalously expensive. Simple trousers and a long-sleeved, high-collared robe, made from silks and brocade, embroidered with reddish gold and so delicately that the full piece of fabric had to have taken a seasoned seamstress years to complete. They also were, just ever so slightly, not typically Gondorian, creating a faint air of exotic mystery and allowing him to hide his knife in the fabric of the broad belt. They matched his hair, as well as his copper-golden mask. Mostly dark blue they were, with highlights that gave the impression of being bathed in warm fire- and starlight.

Faramir quite liked the mask. It allowed him to hide when all he wanted was to hide. Still, why this one had been picked for him made little sense to him: a bird, some kind of hawk, with spread wings, not so dissimilar from the wings adorning the helmets of the fountain guard, but luckily much smaller.

This time he appeared older than he was and at the same time oddly ageless, almost regal in the right moments. Without knowing it he resembled, not his father, but the grandfather and great-grandfather who he had also never met.

When someone passed him he moved aside with easy elegance, offered a quick smile without thinking twice. It made him look approachable. Yet, as soon as awareness returned he stood too straight and lifted his head just a little too high, almost instantly making him appear cold, arrogant and aloof when in truth he felt like a shy, cornered animal.

Preferring easy company around a campfire to the intrigues of a candlelit hall ran in the family, too. If Faramir had known he would have felt less of a disappointment because of it.

This was his home, but this time around it was filled with too many strangers preparing to leave for the wedding. He himself had been turned into one of those strangers …

Faramir, despite himself, breathed a sigh of relief when he recognized Oddberry, but hesitated to approach her, suddenly unsure of how to, now that she, too, appeared … so different. Eventually he clenched his fist, just once, collected himself and took those few steps that separated them.

“My lady hobbit?”, he tried, feeling that even his voice sounded somewhat off and not fully like him. “They are expecting us, I suppose … we should go?”

He caught himself and added: “Pretty dress.” Currently the best attempt at a compliment that he could offer. Should he have complimented her hair instead? Maybe …

“Many weapons”, he added something that he at least felt a little more confident to mention.

"Don't stab me this time." He could be funny when he didn't mean to be.

It took Oddberry a moment to spot her companion in the crowded room and she let out a low whistle. Barathi (for the hobbit guessed that Faramir was not the one who had chosen his garments) had an impeccable sense of style. The rugged man Oddberry had first met had been utterly transformed. He was no longer the shadowy, imposing figure lurking in the corner. This was now a man who could be a great lord, a commander of armies.

“Who are you and what have you done with Faramir.” The hobbit whispered under her breath as the transformed man gave a stranger a quick smile, for a brief moment moving as if he were utterly at home in this guise. For a moment he was an approachable member of the upper echelons of society. Then he stiffened and the illusion was shattered.

She noted the pause as he spotted her. “There he is,” she muttered under her breath, grinning. Then louder at his compliment, “Isn’t it just.” She giggled and did a girlish twirl. Then laughed mockingly at herself. “It takes a very special occasion to get me in one of these.” She nodded at Faramir. “You don’t clean up half bad yourself.”

“Of course, I never go anywhere without my knives.” Including that knife. The one she had found and for some reason, she couldn’t quite leave it behind. The same knife she had somehow forgotten to tell Gandalf about. Not that it mattered. It was only a knife, and most likely the only real payment she was to receive for this little jaunt.

Oddberry snorted, by now used to the small twinge of guilt that inevitably occurred whenever the stabbing incident was mentioned. “No promises.” She lightly teased. “Only if you forget to smile. Can’t have the first man I go to a wedding with not have a smile. Relax, it makes you look a thousand times more respectable. Shall we?” She indicated the door, once the short torrent of words had flown out her mouth. She couldn’t deny it, the hobbitess was just a little excited.

It took a special occasion to get Oddberry into finery. Faramir sighed and the tiniest smile tugged at the corners of his lips. At least in this he was not alone, not so odd, not so wrong.

“It does”, he said quietly, the ghost of that almost-smile lingering for a moment, even when he met the hobbits’ gaze in confusion after her compliment. What was one to reply? He shrugged.

However, by the time she asked him to smile that smile had faded and he struggled to make it appear again on demand. Instead he lowered his eyes apologetically and bit his lip, shook his head, then offered a hand. Not just the taproom, the streets were also crowded. He did not want to lose his small companion, nor get lost himself. Besides, how did one treat a lady?

When they reached their destination Faramir hesitated. The old royal palace was to be where the wedding would be held and many guests had already arrived.

“I will wait here”, he decided. “See who arrives.” Outside. Alone. With air. Hopefully without much conversation. Every possible word would give him away. He knew nothing about politics, history, philosophy or art. In truth, he did not even know how to get something to drink or how to stand without causing offense. After quite some practice he knew how a soldier behaved, at least, but behaving like a soldier was not what was expected of him here.

“You take a charming lady like that to a wedding hosted inside these ancient, lavishly decorated halls and plan to remain outside?”, a voice suddenly said out behind them. It was warm, the small laugh that accompanied the words gentle instead of mocking. “This will not do, lad.”

“Oddberry”, Faramir introduced her. “Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth.”

The man crossed his arms and clicked his tongue in disagreement. “This is a masked ball”, he pointed out. “You are not supposed to tell everyone who everyone else is.”

“You are wearing a mask that looks like a swan, no one shares your height and coloring or voice, and she is the only halfling”, Faramir pointed out and Imrahil, who had been about to add something else, just laughed.

“Allow us to indulge in the illusion”, he said with a wink. “And perhaps … allow yourself to do so, too. In your case people truly do not know who you are.”

"You did."

"My very beautiful, intelligent and charming informant", Imrahil replied, "told me to keep an eye on you. I am to ensure that you are enjoying yourself and that you", he looked at Oddberry, "are treated as any honored guest, who traveled far to visit this city, deserves."

He reached out and squeezed Faramir's shoulder encouragingly, almost, yes, almost fatherly. Faramir, however, merely took a step backwards.

"I need to know who arrives late", he said quietly to Oddberry. "Or leaves too early. Ask him to show you around. I will wait here."

Someone really forgot to teach this one social skills Oddberry thought to herself. Truly she didn’t quite know why it kept catching her off guard at this point. Perhaps it was, despite her travels, social awkwardness was still a concept that was so alien to her after a life spent in hobbit company. Of course, they had a few awkward and grumpy souls, but most hobbits were social creatures.

Faramir’s uncertainty and discomfort was practically radiating off him and Oddberry merely squeezed the proffered hand as he led her through the streets. “It will be fine.”

When they reached their destination Oddberry looked around in wonder at the majesty that surrounded her. It carried the same air of grandeur that Annuminas had, though these buildings were still standing, still carrying the memory of their youth in their stones. For a moment she imagined what that city would have been like, bustling with people like this.

The hobbitess was so lost in her thoughts and surroundings that she barely heard Faramir’s words, or the approach of the stranger. She whirled round in surprise at his words and then gave him a beaming smile. “I may be the only halfling but I would hardly have known who he was,” she pointed our, indicated the laughing Imrahil. The hobbitess watched the rest of the interaction between the two in silence and it swiftly became clear to her why Barathi was such a fan of the man and that she had not been exaggerating.

Oddberry nodded in acknowledgement of Faramir’s words. “Don’t loiter for too long. You might find another rogue hobbit to stab you.” She flashed him a grin and then turned to Imrahil. “It appears my companion here requires a bit more time to work up the courage to throw himself to the wolves so I would greatly appreciate some company. Someone needs to point out when I’m about to make a terrible social blunder. I am only a simple hobbit after all and everything in this city seems to be terribly complex.” Her smile was only a touch mischievous. "It would be terrible if I accidentally stamped on the wrong toe."

Oddberry was, if she were honest, a little nervous of these high society folks. It would not do to draw too much attention for the wrong reasons and she’d rather not end the day facing imprisonment for insulting the wrong person with her choice of wine. Not that she was about to admit to anyone that these Big Folk were unnerving her. That simply would not do.

“I wonder if they have mead. Or will it just be the wine you Gondorians are all so fond of?”

Faramir almost smiled at Oddberry‘s words. Mostly due to relief that she actually agreed to his plan without questioning it, but also because he would have preferred being stabbed by another hobbit to having to lead what in Minas Tirith‘s upper class counted as a cultivated conversation. Besides, she mentioned wolves and those he certainly would have preferred. If only he could have brought the dogs.

Imrahil did smile, but it held a hint of worry, of regret, almost as if he had been the one who had missed a chance to teach Faramir how to act and feel comfortable in situations like this.

“Take your time, lad”, he told the young man. “And do not think too much. We are only human”, his gaze fell on the hobbit. “For the most part”, he added with a grin. “Everyone uses water for cooking, from the poorest to the richest, and you are smart. I have seen people embarrass themselves during these kinds of festivities and they were not people like you.”

People like him? As if people like him ever attended gatherings like this, other than as servants or guardsmen, that was.

Embarrassment was not what he feared, Faramir told himself. But blending in seemed to be crucial to this mission and he did not -- for the life of him, he did not know how to. He knew nothing about fine music, court dances, lady Soandsuch’s second cousin’s son’s wife’s rare flower perfume and, oh, did lord Importantfancyrobe over there not just smile suggestively at lady Onlywantshispouch?, expensive wine … He almost, almost looked like he belonged – his adoptive mother had outdone herself --, but he did not, never would. Being born and raised in the lower circles made certain of that. Becoming a soldier under Captain Boromir’s command alone was more than he could ever have hoped for, and something that he still could not entirely believe had actually happened.

He watched Imrahil leave with Oddberry and was glad for the man’s easy friendship and the hobbit's happy nature. Meanwhile he himself moved away from the main entrance, closer to the shadows, easier to ignore.

“Well”, Imrahil said to Oddberry. “There are some people who would deserve their toes being stepped on and I will do everything in my power to ensure ... being there when it happens.”

As far as mead was concerned he shrugged. “Let us find out.” Barathi would have his hide, but perhaps a drink or two would help her son relax, too? He cast a sideways glance at his short companion, wondering if she thought along similar lines.

Oddberry shot her new companion a grin at his words. “You are going to be a terrible influence, I can tell.”

As they passed into the building the hobbit briefly wished she had some surefire way of drawing Faramir out of his shell and making him see that these people weren’t going to eat them alive. Probably anyway. But that thought soon dropped from her mind as they were engulfed into a whirl of sound and food and people.

She was overjoyed to find that there was indeed a small supply of mead for her to consume and she gave her glass a long appreciative sniff. “Ahhh it doesn’t get better than this.” Oddberry glanced up at her companion before scanning the room. Or at least, trying to. One flaw in this excellent plan of circling the room and keeping watch for anything suspicious was the fact that everyone else in the room was, on average, about two feet taller than she was. The only good thing was that she was attracting very little attention, for now. The odd look and a mutter when someone who assumed she was a child saw a pair of large hairy feet, but nothing more.

She perused the table laden with food, giving a few choice morsels a tentative nibble before positively inhaling them. “Well, the food isn’t poisoned,” she mused. She looked around her at the forest of people before glancing up at Imrahil, a little ruefully. “I think we left the wrong person outside. I’m hardly in a position to keep an eye out for suspicious goings on. Unless I stand on the table...” She eyed it with a mischievous grin as she swirled her mead round her glass.

“It seems we have two options, a hobbit dancing on the table, or trying to get Faramir drunk enough to willingly come in here.”

„My lady, I‘ll have you know that I am one of the most esteemed nobles of this beautiful country“, yet Imrahil grinned, less like a great lord, more like a mischievous boy. Terrible influence, indeed.

He watched Oddberry‘s delight when she secured herself a cup of her favourite drink with gentle amusement and pointed out the stairs on the opposite side of hall. From there they both would have a better view. Though, Imahil still agreed with Oddberry’s assessment.

„I may be of some help“, he said, „but truth be told, I may be somewhat familiar with my brother-in-law‘s ...“, he hesitated for a moment, recognizing that Denethor was not king, but that, for many, it regrettably seemed of little difference, „… court, but I have not attended a great many gatherings in this city for quite some time.“ Or rather, he had actively avoided them whenever he could.

„He tends to keep his enemies close. I prefer to be surrounded by friends“, Imrahil added as a way of explanation. „Denethor has always been shrewd, a tactician, a schemer. My little daughter once called him a spider, appropriately, I believe. We need to be careful not to trip over and get mislead by his machinations when looking for those of others. Since my sister‘s death only he still knows where he has spun the threads of his invisible net … Well, he and Faramir once he puts his mind to it.“

Imrahil smiled. He enjoyed the fact that this lad who came from such humble upbringings had turned out to possess the wit and tactical patience to rival the Steward and his late wife. Oh, Finduilas would have loved him, and even Denthor seemed to hold some sympathy for him, in his own way. Otherwise he would never have allowed a young man from the lower circles to serve his precious son. Others disagreed, quite vehemently and openly.

What happened next illustrated this all too well.

A small commotion caught Imrahil’s eye. It started near one of the tables on which, according to custom, presents for the married couple were placed. The massive size of those tables highlighted how important the bride and groom were in Gondorian society. As did the expensive trinkets already spread out on top of them.

„Call the kennel-warden then, that is what he is paid for!“, a man demanded, followed by a woman‘s hiss and another man‘s voice: „In here? I remind you, cousin, there is a wedding taking place!“

„So what?“

„That‘s disgusting!“, a woman chimed in. „Have you ever seen that man? His kind is not allowed on the premises for good reason. Being here is a great privilege.“

„Luckily I have never met him“, another replied, followed by a small giggle that could have been endearing under different circumstances. „But I have heard unmentionable things … Is it not true that he was raised by a wild dog? That would explain so much, wouldn't it? So fascinating! A creature that is only half-human!“

„And dangerous!“, a third added.

„Why?“, the first man spoke up again. „There are guards here right now and he is one of Captain Boromir‘s men. You don‘t truly believe those tall tales, do you? Such a thing is against nature and would never happen. Just like you cannot pair a royal falcon and street rat. Do not be so gullible, for your mother's sake!“

„One would think that they should respect my nephew's judgment“, Imrahil whispered, visibly displeased with the direction the conversation was heading.

"Call him”, the man insisted once more. “He is a soldier of Gondor and likely the only one who can help you now. You should have put that thing into a cage to begin with. Now make sure that this is resolved before someone gets hurt.”

„That one is no true soldier of Gondor. He is from the lower circles!“, someone exclaimed. "What has this city come to!"

„A criminal!“, another. „I saw the corpse of the good man he butchered! Like only an animal would! Are you out of your mind to invite someone like that into our midst? Who knows what would happen!“

„Perhaps that is why Captain Boromir keeps him close, to protect all of us“, one of the women suggested.

„It is either him or you deal with that … problem yourself“, the first man concluded, pointing at the table, or rather, something rather large that moved under the table. „I have had quite enough of this nonsense.“

„Right, right, this is a joyous occasion! We should not be dwelling on such… dark and gloomy matters“, the giggling woman agreed.

„You see now, lady Oddberry, why their company holds so little appeal for me“, Imrahil said quietly to the hobbit. „We should not get involved.“

Oddberry glanced at where he pointed, just making out the form of stairs past the bodies. “Stairs are just far too sensible. This party needs a bit more life.”

She listened to Imrahil’s summary of Denethor’s court with a small shrug. “Somewhat familiar is better than utterly clueless. At least you have some idea of how twisted those threads are. To surround yourself with people you don’t trust is… well lunacy, to my mind. Why would one deprive oneself of good company?” Oddberry’s ears had picked up at the comment regarding Faramir, yet before she could explore any further her eyes alit on the same commotion as Imrahil’s and she began to sidle her way closer.

“ Are they…?” Oddberry smothered the question before it came out, because of course they were. “I think we just found the perfect feet to tread on.” There was just a tint of vehemence to her tone.

At Imrahil’s whisper. “If only they knew him.” Then she snorted. They were like the Sackville-Bagginses, but worse, unable to see past their own preconceived notions. If only they could see Faramir now, as one of them, in guise if not heart. Never in heart. She edged a little closer again.

Her eyes caught the thing moving under the table and Imrahil’s final words were lost on the hobbit who was already making a beeline for the commotion. She slipped around people with barely a whisper, using every ounce of her natural hobbit-stealth, ears pricked for any clues. It’s probably a large dog, let off its leash and these silly humans are too incompetent to catch it again.

With a furtive look around her, Oddberry slipped under the tall table laden with gifts, unnoticed by those around her. They were too busy drinking and eating, oohing and aahing over the treasures piled high.

The thickly draped tablecloth muffled the light and noise and her eyes swiftly adjusted to the darkness. She swiftly regretted her decision.

A pair of glowing amber eyes turned towards Oddberry and a low growl rumbled towards her. In the darkness one could almost mistake it for a wolf, if it had not been half-crouched, it’s shoulders still touching the underside of the table. No. It was a warg. It had to be. Oddberry didn’t know a lot about wargs, or wolves for that matter, but she reckoned this one was not yet full-grown. It had the lankiness of adolescence, and one could see how formidable a beast it would become. But it was not yet there, and thin. And scared. Oddberry could see the fear in its eyes, in the slight quiver of it’s muscles, in it’s ominous growl. It was also completely unrestrained.

The hobbit took a deep breath and considered her options.

There was a voice to her right. A woman’s voice. “Is it still there?”

“As no-one is screaming, I would say so.” The man who had been defending Faramir spoke. “Now fetch the kennel-warden if you’re too much of a coward to crawl under yourself. Before that beast eats someone.”

Oddberry slowly edged away from the creature, its eyes never leaving her for a second and popped out from underneath the table just as a richly dressed man reached down to lift the table cloth.

“Your warg is still there.” she hissed as his mouth opened in shock. “I would suggest you fetch Faramir before it rips its way through you like a piece of paper. Luckily for you, you’ll find he’s just outside.” Oddberry didn’t really stop to consider that perhaps it wasn’t the best thing to be revealing that Faramir was here when he clearly wasn’t meant to be but at the end of the day, there was a warg loose in a hall full of unarmed, tipsy, nobles.

The fleeting thought that this was the threat they were meant to be looking out for did briefly cross Oddberry’s mind.

“And who exactly are you?” One woman, petite and pretty even with an expression of disgust marring her features, demanded.

“Oh my look at those feet.” Another whispered. “You must be that.. Creature. We’ve heard so many rumours.”

The first nobleman hadn‘t quite got over the shock of a person crawling out from under the table and still stood, one hand lifting up the table cloth.

“I’m a hobbit.” Oddberry snapped irritably, a gleam from the first noble’s hand catching her eye. “You thought that was strong enough to hold it?” The man looked at the delicate silver chain in his hand as the hobbit snorted with derision. “I’ve seen stronger stalks of straw.” His jaw moved a bit, as if he wanted to say something, but couldn’t get the words out.

Now she turned her growing wrath on Faramir’s defender. “You! Go get the kennel-warden as you’re the only one with half a brain.” Who thought bringing a warg to a wedding was a good idea.

“You can’t...!” The pretty girl’s voice rose an octave, presumably protesting the treatment of her fellow noble at the hands of this interloper.

“I can.” The hobbit’s patience had swiftly run out. “Go!” The man was propelled into action and the woman squealed in indignation.

Oddberry cast around for Imrahil, whom she had briefly forgotten, thinking he would be quite handy at people wrangling right now. She was worried that if this shrieking continued the warg would be driven into madness. She knew she was.

The squealing persisted. “How rude.. Oh my!” The indignant squeal became a half-scream and Oddberry whirled round in time to see the young warg leaping out from underneath the table, thrusting the shocked noble aside, hand still clutching the table cloth.

The surrounding nobles, who had up to this point been politely ignoring the commotion, now turned their eyes towards them, shocked gasps rippling away. “A wolf!” One man cried, with a concerning lack of the appropriate fear.

The warg, driven out of his hiding place by light and noise, now found himself surrounded by it, and began to advance on his pretty, shrieking target, ears pinned to his skull, the crescendo of his vicious snarl ripping through the air.

Oddberry grabbed the first thing she could get her hands on and launched a handful of hard candies at the warg. They rattled against its skull like pebbles as she drew the first long knife she could get her hands on even as she subconsciously grabbed another handful of her useless projectiles, slipping them into a previously hidden pocket.

The warg stopped in its tracks and Oddberry had a moment to breathe a brief sigh of relief before it slowly turned that burning gaze on her again. A shiver ran down the hobbit’s spine. “Crabapples.” The warg was bigger than she had thought under the table, it’s shoulders nearly at her head height. She still thought she was right about it being young, despite the height, and the powerful sloping hind-quarters, paws armed with long, jagged claws, perfect for disembowelling hobbits.

At least its not savaging defenceless women. If she could just keep its attention on her long enough for Faramir to her here and turn it into a loving puppy… even as it evaluated the best way to eat her, Oddbery felt a pang of sympathy for the poor creature, ripped from its home and thrown into this cataclysm of noise and light, and decided she didn’t really want it to die.

The hobbit gulped nervously as she assessed her situation. One knife, no armour and a handful of sweets were not the ideal weapons to be facing a warg with. Even a young, underfed one. Especially not when in a very nice dress. The hobbit felt far too exposed for confidence. Faramir, please get here soon. Please have heard some of the screaming. . She drew her second long knife.

Oddberry barely noticed the actions of those around her as the warg took one step towards her. She mimicked it’s motions, taking a small step back. An idea began to form in her mind. Perhaps they could get the warg to Faramir. She sheathed her second knife again, swapping it for a candy.

“Imrahil?” Her voice sounded very small in her ears. “I would appreciate some assistance in escorting our four-legged guest to the door.” Her chuckle was a nervous one.

Well, at least the party was no longer boring.

„Who is Faramir?“, the pretty girl questioned when Oddberry first brought up his name. Of course they did not know. Why would they? Most of them seemed confused, with the man who had defended the kennel-warden earlier being the only exception. An exception that did not seem surprising. Judging by his comments he was likely the only one who had ever actually met the young man.

He also was the only one who looked worried when Oddberry slipped out from underneath the table and relieved when it became clear that she had not been hurt. Still, he did not seem to expect Faramir to be waiting right outside the door, dressed like them, and when the hobbit told him to go and get him he set off into the wrong direction.

That Imrahil had not just stood and watched the scene became clear when the chaos started. The crowd that witnessed it had already thinned considerably. While servants continued to close doors and windows and pull the large folding walls, that had been pushed back to create a bigger space for the guest to mingle, across the hall to separate off this part from the rest, Imrahil ushered the remaining guests to the exits, making sure that they did not hurt each other in the process. This way only some feet were indeed stepped on, but no serious injuries occurred. If anyone would have doubted his identity despite the swan-mask this would have proven it once and for all. His prowess as a military commander was as well known as his ability to shepherd civilians, even if usually to evacuate coastal villages during storm season.

This time he fundamentally disagreed with Oddberry.

“To let it roam the city?”, he rejected her plan and at the same time beckoned her to make her way over to one of the exits. What he had in mind was clear: Leave. Let the soldiers handle the rest. Archers would take the beast down quickly and from a safer distance.

“Run!”, he told Oddberry just as he picked up a likely horrendously expensive vase and smashed it to attract the beast’s attention, away from the hobbit.

“Don’t run”, said another voice behind her before she could react, too quiet, too calm considering the situation, but precisely the voice Oddberry had hoped to hear. Faramir’s hand on her shoulder emphasized his words. He stood close enough for her back to touch him, effectively preventing her from bolting even if she had wanted to. “Don’t turn your back. Don’t move too fast. Never run from it. Move towards it, if you must. Deliberate steps.”

After a brief moment and while the warg turned its attention away from Imrahil and back to them he added: “Don’t leave now. I need your help.”

The hand on Oddberry’s shoulder gave it a light squeeze. “Help me douse the candles.”

Outside night was falling. The hall would first be left in twilight then darkness. Formidable predators as they were, eyes the sharpest at night, wargs did not see well during the twilight hours and well into the first hours of night. Made for extremes their eyes took quite some time to adjust to new conditions. Additionally the many flames, reflected in countless mirror surfaces, seemed to add to the beast’s fearful anger.

To Faramir the young warg appeared to be in a horrible condition. Its fur matted, its eyes dull and watering, nose dry and dirty, breath quivering. Its claws appeared to have either been cut or ripped out, however, only on one paw.

Alone, scared, mistreated ... These beasts could be trained even by orcs and were fiercely loyal to their masters. Orcs who were not known to be gentle. But orcs who also did not separate the young from the pack or mutilate them in the hopes of rendering them helpless and unable to fight.

“There may be nothing we can do”, Faramir spoke his thoughts when yellow eyes met his. Yet, he wanted to try. They were both misplaced in this magnificent hall. Even in fine clothes Faramir feared that with each step he was leaving dirty footprints, that everything he touched would be tainted and wither or shatter. He did not have that fear when he looked at the warg. And not when he touched Oddberry’s shoulder.

As much as he understood the warg, he would not let it hurt her.

“Better than to eat... “ The hobbit took her eyes off the warg for a second and noticed that the hall around her was now both smaller, and considerably emptier. “Oh. Well now everyone is gone I absolutely agree. Keep the warg in the hall.” She doubted Imrahil was actually listening to her ramblings.

Oddberry pointedly ignored his command and vase smashing. Although she was going to file that one away as a great party activity.

Then Faramir’s voice came from behind and she could have hugged him with joy and relief. His touch steadied her and she let out the shaky breath she had been holding. Instead of a hug, she settled for flashing him a genuine smile, risking taking her eyes off the predator in front of them for just a second.

“You know me. Run isn’t in my vocabulary.” Her voice was low and even and she felt calmer already, now she was only half the meal being eyed up as she filed away his advice.

“Douse the candles.” Can’t wargs see in the dark? Oddberry shrugged it off. “I can do that.” Faramir knew what he was doing she was sure. The small voice in her head pointed out that she barely knew the man, and wargs weren’t the same as dogs but she shrugged it off. It was less concerning just to have faith. It’s not like she knew anything about taming wargs herself. She knew what poisons worked fastest against them, but that was not the aim here. At least, she hoped it wasn’t.

The hobbit took a small step to the side, trying to rotate her way out of the warg’s vision. When it kept its eyes fixed on Faramir she took another, and another, until she was out of its sight and could move more confidently. She slipped across the hall on silent feet and one by one began to snuff out the lights, with quick fingers and quiet breaths.

Thankfully all the candles were low enough for a hobbit, on tables or short candelabras. As she neared a corner with a folding wall something caught her eye and Oddberry reached down, fingers brushing a coil of thick rope. This could come in handy she mused, looping the short coil over her shoulder. Unfortunately, there was a very large number of candles and it felt like an eternity had passed before each one was extinguished.

The hobbit cautiously picked her way through the remnants of the party, eyes slowly adjusting to the hall that had been plunged into semi-darkness, lit only by the faint light seeping in through the windows. She finally rejoined Faramir, keeping a steady eye on the creature, slipping the rope off her shoulder as she neared. Instead, she held it loosely behind her back in her left hand, the right still holding the knife from earlier. Oddberry had heard much about the intelligence of wargs, and she did not want to risk it recognising the rope in case it knew what it could be used for. She was taking the risk that it knew what a knife did, maybe even counting on it. She was hardly going to intimidate it with her awesome size.

“What now? I found some rope if that helps. Figured even you couldn’t tame it so it would walk through the city by your side, unrestrained.” She kept her voice quiet in the now silent hall. Even so, those burning orbs flicked to her, and Oddberry moved a step closer to the safety of Faramir’s presence. The taming of wild animals was not within her area of expertise. The only wild animal she had ever tamed was Biter, and the effectiveness of that was still up for debate. "I think I would rather it not die. At least not here, so far from where it should be. It at least deserves to see the sky again, first."

Yes, ‚run‘ seemed indeed to be missing from her vocabulary and Faramir began to appreciate that. This small lady was braver than some soldiers double her size, someone to confront wargs with, without a doubt.

Faramir nodded when she told him about the rope, but avoided looking at it so the warg would not follow his gaze. Instead he kept watching the beast, noting its confusion when the lights had been doused, but also relief. It reminded him of the day when the stables had caught on fire and it had proven easier to lead some of the horses out with their eyes covered. The warg‘s fear of fire certainly was greater than that of the dark and struggling with its eyesight made it less confident even in its anger.

„Imagine a child“, Faramir told Oddberry in the same calm voice. He did not whisper, instead he counted on the warg hearing it. Of course it would not understand the words, but it would notice the tone. „Alone, scared, hungry and hurt, backed into a corner … Would you attack and try to grab it? Scream at it?“

The warg moved and so did Faramir, in the opposite direction, parallel to it.

„On its own terms“, he told Oddberry. „Allow it to find somewhere in this room where it feels safe. It is threatening us, tries to keep us at a distance. If it dared to kill us it would already have done so… Perhaps it will try once its eyes have fully adjusted. Not yet.“

Wargs, even adult ones and despite their impressive physique, were rather cowardly and lazy, as far as Faramir knew. He had loved to hear about all kinds of animals as a child and the scholars who had come across him when Barathi had told him to wait for her had often indulged him. He remembered their lessons. Wargs attacked when they had to defend themselves or their young, or when they had been trained to do so. Like horses they preferred to avoid battle, but could be trained to charge into them. They hunted in packs, cornered their prey, used surprise attacks, if at all. In general they preferred not to hunt but to steal and to scavenge the leftovers of other hunters. This one was alone and severely weakened. Yes, a hobbit and a human could be easy pray, but humans had been the creatures that had captured it in the first place, it had already lost against them once. Hobbits it likely could not place and it could tell that Oddberry and Faramir were somehow connected. Who would fight other costumers at a market stall over a product that they did not know what to use for?

„Stay close“, Faramir warned the hobbit regardless.

The warg growled, but the tone had changed somewhat, just like someone screaming during a heated argument would sound different once that heat started to die down somewhat.

If it were a dog and if they were anywhere else Faramir would have taken his time. Yet, time was what they did not have. Not only would the warg‘s eyes adjust eventually, the wedding celebration needed to continue and the nobles were already displeased. Every moment they took made it more likely for someone to decide that it would be best to just kill the beast.

Faramir saw the warg‘s muscles tense and reacted just in time when it jumped, pulling Oddberry to the side with him. It barely missed them. No earnest attack, a test.

Another growl could be heard, displeased and steady, but despite sounding somewhat similar it did not come from the warg. The beast‘s ears flicked in confusion, for the smallest moment it even seemed to tilt its head somewhat. It ducked and moved backwards, then tensed, ready to risk another attempt. Faramir moved forward and the warg paused, moving back once more instead of risking another jump, then to the side and away. Faramir let it, he had no intention of cornering it. When it tried to jump again he was ready, repeat. A potentially deadly dance, but with each jump the warg seemed less energetic, less convinced that this was truly what was best or what it wanted to do.

It seemed to work until suddenly noise could be heard from the direction of the largest exit, angry shouts and even a shrill scream. The doors were opened, light flooded the room, then shut again with force. The way they had positioned themselves it happened right behind the warg. Startled it escaped in the other direction: forward. It did not mean to attack, but it also did not pay attention to where it was running. Faramir, too, had been distracted for a moment, fearing the worst. The same seemed to be true for Oddberry. Too late. Instead of moving out of the way in the last moment, risking that the warg would collide with the hobbit, Faramir braced himself and remained where he was. The pain was not so bad, the force, however, was more than he had expected. He was rushed off his feet, the impact unbalancing both him and the young warg, causing them to tumble to the floor together. Instinct, training, luck or the opposite, Faramir himself was not entirely certain how, but he managed to end up on top of the beast instead of under it, pinning its massive head down with his arms and the whole weight of his upper body, his own ragged breath mixing with that of the warg, yellow eyes first avoiding then staring up at him. Growl. The warg‘s or his own? He had done this with his dogs as a child, playfully, fighting over their rank in their pack. This was no game.

This warg taming business would have been fascinating if Oddberry hadn’t been right in the middle of it. She kept silent, and only nodded at Faramir’s words, sticking to him like glue as he mirrored the poor creature. The hall was silent, and even with her keen hearing, Oddberry could only hear herself and Faramir, and the odd click off claws on stone. They were alone.

Where was Imrahil? The hobbit suddenly realised she hadn’t seen the tall man since his vase smashing antics and she cast her eyes around the hall. In doing so she missed the slight tensing of the warg’s muscles. All thoughts of Imrahil left her mind as Faramir yanked her to the side and she felt the slight breeze as the warg missed them by a hair. If Oddberry had been a screamer, she would have been screaming very loudly. However, she was a freeze silently sort of hobbit, which was probably for the best at that particular moment.

The warg slowly turned to face them and Oddberry realised that they might be in for a repeat. She exhaled with a stream of curses, smothered to a low whisper, trying to emulate Faramir’s advice to not show weakness. The next sound that filled the air confused the hobbit for a moment and she cocked her head for a second, almost expecting another warg to pad out of the shadows until she realised that it came from a source far closer to her.

That’s bloody uncanny. Oddberry shivered slightly, unable to believe that someone could mimic a warg’s growl so perfectly. But it seemed to be working, even to her inexperienced eyes. She was ready for the leap this time and moved smoothly aside with Faramir. They soon fell into a pattern, and she wondered how long it could continue. There was a surreal quality to the whole affair, as if they had somehow stepped into another world, where all that mattered was this slow dance of predator and prey. Though who was which she did not know.

Then, with a flash of light and sound, the reverie was shattered, and once more Oddberry lost her focus, eyes darting to the source of the disturbance. Then back, to see the beast flying towards them. She pirouetted to the side, out of instinct more than judgement, losing her balance as a muscled shoulder dealt her a glancing blow, pushing into a table with a low grunt. She scrambled up immediately, one flailing arm swiping several objects onto the floor with a tinkle of breaking glass. Disorientated in the darkness, her eyes finally finding the chaos that was Faramir and the warg.

“Faramir!” The hobbit called, trying to separate man and beast. There was no reply, and abruptly, all movement ceased. Faramir was on top. Growling filled the air, from whom Oddberry could not tell. She took two quick steps towards them. Then stopped in her tracks.

With a great heave, the warg tried to move, writhing and raking the air close to Faramir’s side with its claws. One great paw made contact, but instead of claws, there were only bloodstains. In a fortuitous twist of fate, the only thing to make contact was the paw that had been declawed. The warg was weak, from mistreatment and the evening's exertions; and it did not manage to free itself, not this time.

In that flurry of movement, Oddberry noticed something she had not before; on the collar it wore was a large-ish ring from which dangled the remains of a silver chain. She briefly remembered the rest of that chain clutched in the hands of a noble out of his depth. Like you’re not? The little voice in her mind reminded her. An idea popped into the hobbit's mind, an idea that would take her far too close to the warg for comfort.

“Just hold it a little longer.” Oddberry had kept hold of the rope throughout the chaos and kept her voice calm as her fingers worked, not listening for a reply. It would make no difference to how fast she completed her task. She folded the rope in half, then half again, using her knife to slice neatly through the folds at one end, then knotting them tightly. She was aware of another burst of writhing. “One... more... second.” With one last pull, it was ready.

A quick glance showed her that Faramir was slowly losing grip on the beast’s great head. Another violent shake and it began to turn, jaws snapping. Even weakened it still possessed formidable strength. The window of opportunity was closing. She needed to distract it, just for a second. She approached unnoticed by the great creature whose attention was firmly on ridding itself of the weight holding it down. She met Faramir’s eyes for a second, his expression unreadable. She hoped she was doing the right thing. She feared that it wasn’t. But she could not just stand and do nothing. Just as she could not bear to think about what the warg would do if it freed itself now. She doubted it would go back to hiding under a table.

She was close enough now, and the rage-filled eyes flicked to her, briefly. In that moment the hobbit released what was clutched in her left hand with a clatter and a rattle as her knife and the last of the hard candies bounced across the floor on the opposite side of the warg’s head. For a brief second the struggle stopped as the creature assessed this new noise, attempting to turn to see it, determining whether it was a new threat.

It was in that moment the hobbit struck, nimble figures slipping the still folded ends of the rope through the ring, looping it through itself so there was no chance of it coming undone. One hand brushed the warg’s warm throat and the warg noticed too late what had happened, retaliating with an angry snap as Oddberry quickly withdrew. But just as it had not been quite fast enough to prevent itself from being leashed she was not fast enough to withdraw unscathed. A single fang grazed her arm as the powerful jaw snapped shut. The hobbit barely felt it, retreating just beyond the reach of tooth and claw, clutching the knotted end of the rope in both hands, breathing hard.

“Wish I’d had time to braid it.” Oddberry said a little stupidly, not quite sure whether she had meant to vocalise the thought. What now?

Faramir struggled. Every time when it seemed that the beast had resigned, relaxed, calmed down just a little some hidden amber of fear and anger flared up inside of it once more and made its resistance return to full force. Strength alone was not made holding the warg down the most difficult, those abrupt, violent changes in its demeanour were.

Like him it was exhausted. All it wanted was for this nightmare to end, he could tell. Yet, whatever they had done to it, it was afraid, so terribly afraid. It fought for its life like he had seldom seen even a frenzied dog fight. But then, a warg was not a dog.

Vaguely Faramir noticed what Oddberry was doing and from the corner of his eye he saw when she was hurt. It took all of his willpower to keep himself from calling out to her or at least turning to see how she was faring. He had to wait until she spoke and smiled weakly when she did, unable to mask his relief. She was still standing. Of course she was. Faramir felt oddly proud.

The rope. Yes, her idea was good, was a start, but lacking.

„Tie the other end to something sturdy“, he told her, still trying to keep his voice calm while it began to sound increasingly strained from the effort. There was no way that either or even both of them together could keep a hold of that rope and remain standing once the warg jumped.

Faramir had lost his mask, but that mattered little. In the dim twilight of the great hall no one would have recognized him anyway. Strands of his loose copper hair stuck to his face, hiding his ears, the ugly scars that would have given him away, a light sheen of sweat, his jaw clenched, his eyes focused, unexpectedly fierce for a noble, but perhaps less so in the eyes of the hobbit who already had fought side by side with him once.

„Undress me“, he said next, without looking up, breathing harder as the warg struggled once more and hit his leg where Oddberry had not so long ago stabbed him. „Belt“, he added to explain what he meant. He could not reach it himself, even less take it off while the warg kept his hands busy.

Not that this would expose much, if anything, but in polite Gondorian society it was considered an indicent act of undressing never done in public and the result certainly counted as being half-naked. Under different circumstances it would have been quite enough to cause a huge scandal. Luckily Faramir had not grown up in polite Gondorian society and as prudish as he could be, he valued a life higher than the integrity of his overcoat. They needed another rope and this would do. It had to.

„Tie one of her legs. Can you do that? Pick one. Pull it up, bend it, tie it … She will strangle herself or break her neck with the rope if I let her go now ... “ The warg almost shook him off in that moment. His muscles tensed, hurt, but he would not let go, not now. „Tie one leg up so she cannot use it.“ Not that he had ever seen that trick done to a warg, but it did work on other animals. The more massive they were the better. There was a chance. Maybe. It would not stop the warg, but it might force it to move slower and with less strength, limiting its ability to jump. Tying all of its legs was not an option. Neither rope nor belt were sturdy enough to restrain it for long. Besides, they would need to move it from the hall soon if they did not want it to be killed by impatient nobles.

„I am sorry“, he said quietly to the warg. If only they had more time. This was cruel, it had been from the moment someone had captured the poor creature, likely ripped it from the side of its dead mother and siblings.

Faramir leaned forward a little more and since he could not use his hands he pressed first his forehead then his cheek against the side of the beast‘s muzzle, partly to distract it, partly to calm it down. Dogs would place careful licks on that same spot, in a gesture of reassurance or apology. Weaker members of a pack did it to appease another who was angry and stronger. Yet stronger ones did it, to calm those weaker and insecure. If the warg understood what he meant to convey, Faramir did not know, but at the very least it did not suddenly turn its head and try to tear his face off.

“I am so sorry.”

Tie it to something sturdy. At least they were not lacking in sturdy things in this room. Like massive solid oak tables laden with wine barrels. Oddberry would have preferred a stone column but none were in reach of the rope, and this was not a time to be picky. She undid the knot at the end and darted to her table of choice, twisting the four ends of the rope around each other as she did so, so they became one stronger rope. Still not as strong as a braid, but it would do. It had to do. She pulled the knot tight around the smooth table leg, grunting with the effort.

Then back. Back to the two struggling figures. One desperate and frenzied, the other resolute. Faramir wore the same expression he had the first night they met when he had commanded her to run. But he, like the warg, seemed to be slowly weakening. His command this time was far more surprising and Oddberry was about to point out that now was maybe not the time. Then he clarified, and her faith in his sanity was restored.

“Belt. Yes, that makes more sense.” She muttered lowly as she approached the side of the warg that didn’t include flailing legs. “I must admit, this is not a situation I would have imagined removing a man’s belt in.” No, undoing the belt of someone straddling a warg had never crossed the hobbit’s mind as a possibility. Nor was it something she desired to do again. She was sure that any nobles watching would have been suitably appalled as she removed the length of leather with a slight flourish.

The hobbit liked to talk when she was nervous. It made her feel less nervous, especially if she did so in an even, non-worried tone. If she didn’t sound nervous, then she couldn’t be nervous. So her mutterings continued as she worked. “Tie up a leg. This is fine.” Oddberry eyed up the still very much clawed back legs. One of those would be best, she decided. She had seen it done to unruly young horses before, a rope tied around the fetlock and either held by a strong young man, tied to a post or simply wrapped around the poor beast’s waist. It had never been a pleasant sight, and something she would never have done herself. But then they did not have claws, and weren’t at risk of accidentally savaging very important people.

The warg convulsed again and Oddberry leapt into action as she saw Faramir almost lose his grip. No time to plan, or think, improvisation was the only option. Oddberry echoed Faramir’s words as she draped herself across the warg’s thin waist, deciding that in this case, it was probably safer to do this activity in close range, rather than at arm’s length. “Sorry, sorry.” She slipped one arm holding the belt under the creature’s waist, through the small gap raised by the last rib and protruding hip bone. The warg raked her own belly trying to get at the hobbit’s arm and this new thing she was wrapping around her and the hobbit was glad she had positioned herself where she had, just about close enough to the hip to not get clawed. It did not stop a wayward strand of hair getting caught though.

“Ow. That’s fine Mrs warg. I don’t need hair. You can have it if it makes you happy.”

The slightly trickier part of the activity was actually securing the leg. The warg was not exactly cooperative. Grabbing the leg and attempting to force it to bend was not a viable option as Oddberry swiftly discovered. She simply did not have the strength. The warg raked her belly again, and the hobbit grabbed at the already bent leg, holding it with her body as much as her arm as her free hand frantically searched for the belt end. It was not a struggle she was winning. The warg was determined to free herself from the hobbit's grasp.

“Good warg. Just relax now. This is fine.”

Oddberry saw Faramir move out of the corner of her eye. Whatever he did must have worked (and definitely not because she had asked her nicely) because the warg relaxed, just a little, and it was enough for Oddberry to grab the belt and slide the free end through the buckle, pulling it taut. She almost lost her grip as the warg struggled again at the new pressure. But it was a weak struggle, a half-hearted attempt, and then all movement ceased.

It was another lucky twist of fate, for Oddberry realised that there was not enough length left to secure the belt properly, for leather belts do not tend to lend themselves to knotting, and nor was there a hole. She would just have to make one. A knife was drawn, and by some miracle, the warg was still. Perhaps she was just gathering herself, for one last struggle. Perhaps she had given in, or Faramir had cast a magic spell. The hobbit did not know, nor did she stop to try and work it out. She just took the opportunity, for she did not like her chances if the warg had been trying to escape. She kept the pressure on the belt even, not willing to release it even slightly in case the creature took the opportunity. A knife was forced upwards through leather, away from the warg, then discarded, the buckle’s prong forced through the misshapen gap, and the hobbit scrambled away, heart thundering in her chest, adrenaline flooding through her veins.

She stood, on edge, ready for another explosion from the warg. “It’s done.” She wanted to shout in relief but kept her voice somewhat low and steady. She didn’t want to undo all their hard work now by startling the creature, nor Faramir to get hurt by a kneejerk reaction from an abused, terrified creature.

Faramir did not mind the hobbit mumbling to herself, quite the contrary. Her voice told him a lot about how she was faring, where she was and what she was doing. It made him feel more at ease as well and the warg must have felt it too. Exhaustion played a part in how little it struggled, but no longer being certain if it truly wanted to fight them to the death added to it as well. If they were not mortal enemies, if death was not the only answer, if perhaps it could live …

Faramir waited for a few more moments after Oddberry told him that her task was done.

„Get some distance“, he warned her.

Then he slowly shifted his position, lifting first his head, then his upper body, continuing to press down with his arms. He moved his legs off the warg, one hand caressing the beast‘s muzzle. Gradually he put some distance between himself and it, pushing down with less and less force. No sudden moves, gently, carefully. Still, once he let go the beast scrambled to its feet as fast as it could. After having been forced to remain in the same uncomfortable position for too long Faramir failed to move out of the way completely fast enough. The warg’s body collided with his once more and he landed on his back, grimacing as the short, sharp pain registered. For a moment he remained lying on the floor, motionless while the warg shrunk back against the tables. It did not struggle and fight the rope as much as Faramir had feared and instead just cowered down. It watched them, uncertain what would happen next.

With the warg reacting and behaving so well Faramir allowed himself one more moment to catch his breath, calm his heart, one more moment for his aching muscles to unclench. Only now did he fully realize how much strength he had needed to keep this one warg, this one young, starving warg, as still as possible and how much his whole body had screamed for him to stop. He closed his eyes when sweat trickled into one of them, making them burn. But he grinned and eventually turned his head to where he knew Oddberry was waiting.

„Well done“, he said. Truly well done.

A few more deep breaths before he pushed himself up and followed the warg‘s example, trying to stand, then walk on unsteady feet. Ironic that he and the beast once more had something in common.

He had noticed something else even before they had fought and before he had come so close to the beast‘s snout. Now he reached for one of the massive flower bowls that lined the other side of the hall, pulled out the flowers and threw them aside. Expecting the worst he sniffed the water, even took a sip. To his relief he found it to be fresh enough and he put the bowl down where the warg could reach it, giving it a slight additional nudge in the beast‘s direction. It did not take long for the warg to accept the offered drink, even though it waited for Faramir to retreat a few steps. It drank greedily, despite the danger it still had to see itself in. For how long had they not even given it water?

Faramir finally turned his attention to Oddberry once more.

„Let her drink, maybe have a few scraps of food. Then we have to find a way to move her“, he said, frowning as he looked her over.

„Your arm?“, he wanted to know. Of course he had noticed. Of course he worried.

Oddberry was tense as Faramir slowly released the warg, waiting for an explosion that never came. It was only when she saw his grin in the darkness that she relaxed. They were safe, for now. Or at least, less likely to be savaged. And of course, this would be the moment where he first smiled, an actual, genuine smile.

“I’m not the one who wrestled the warg.” She pointed out, wincing in sympathy at Faramir’s stiff steps, watching his actions with interest. Her heart panged a little at the desperation with which the poor creature drank, and she was already moving towards the tables of food when Faramir suggested it.

She paused partway through throwing several bite-sized steaks onto a plate, some chunks of cured meats already lining her pocket. “My arm?” Oddberry looked at the offending limb, blinking a little in confusion, only partly remembering how it had got into that state. “Oh. My arm.” She shook it slightly and winced at the movement. Now the adrenaline was fading and her attention had been brought to it, the wound was beginning to make itself known. “Well… it’s, it’s still attached I suppose.”

Oddberry tried not to grimace too much as she peered at the wound. She couldn’t see much in the strange half-light, but it didn’t feel like it had gone through anything important. “Just a flesh wound. I think.” A little deep, but a straight score across the top of her arm. From what she could see. She’d probably need to stitch it up when they’d finished dealing with the warg. At least it was her left arm that needed stitching, the stitches were always far neater when done with her right hand.

The gash probably needed washing as well, considering the source. The hobbit put the plate of food down for a moment and picked up a pitcher of what smelt like wine, pouring it over the wound with a quiet hiss. That would have to do for now. It was better than nothing for stopping infection. She could bandage it and smother it with honey later.

Oddberry quietly slipped back over to Faramir holding the plate of mini-steaks, popping one into her mouth as she handed him the plate. “You didn’t get clawed did you?” She gave him a quick once over, not seeing any wounds, only a distinct aura of dishevelment. She couldn't believe he could possibly have survived unscathed. There had to be a wound somewhere. But there was no ripped garment, no obvious pooling of blood.

Then she slipped off again, her mind already flicking through ideas. “Would she follow us, out of the city, if we found a quiet exit?” The hobbit peered through the windows to find a door with no nobles outside. “Here’s one!” She padded back. “Perhaps she’d follow the food?”

“Still attached is good”, Faramir replied after he had watched her pour quite old, quite expensive wine over her wound.

Despite the meanwhile almost complete darkness he reached for Oddberry’s arm and inspected it. Whatever he could see, it seemed to be enough and he nodded.

“It has stopped bleeding for now. We take her somewhere safe, then stitch it up ... You are holding up well.” Yet, he did not let go right away. First his other hand untangled a few strands of her hair where the warg’s paw had gotten caught on them earlier.

“No big bald spot”, he said and while slightly exhausted it sounded uncharacteristically light, almost like friendly teasing.

She had impressed him. Not just by confronting the warg, by not hesitating in the face of danger, not flinching because it hurt or became increasingly difficult, but by daring to do it so this lowly beast had a chance to live. Bravery was rare, compassion had become even rarer.

Faramir paused when the hobbit asked him whether he had been hurt.

“Don’t worry. I tend to be lucky”, he said. “Only Halflings with knives get the better of me.”

The warg could smell the food. It had lifted its head and its nose twitched, barely visible in the darkness. Now that it had calmed down somewhat and gotten some water it paid attention to and became interested in it.

“She might follow food”, he told Oddberry. “Not outside the city. I have nowhere to put her there and she is not a creature that should roam our forests.” Not only would she harm the wildlife and pose a danger to anyone who came across her, it would not take long for some hunter, soldier or self-appointed hero to kill her. She also was too young and without a pack or any other of her kind to teach her what she needed to know, her chances of survival were slim. First she needed to regain her strength and Faramir wanted to have a look at her wounds as well. What would happen to her afterwards he did not know. Another detail that factored into this was the fact that the warg did not belong to him. It belonged to some rather influential noble or, considering that it had been intended as a gift, to the bride and groom. They likely either wanted it back or would order it to be killed.

Faramir picked up the mask he had lost and weighed it in his hands. He could wash with fine soaps and dress in expensive fabrics, but at the end of the day he remained a child without a father, born in the lower circles, a branded criminal with no title and no value. His voice did not matter.

“Let us try to take her to my kennels. The least we can do for her is let her rest, drink and eat some more... If she dies tomorrow at least it will be with a full stomach.” He knew people who hoped for no more.

Oddberry found herself strangely touched by Faramir’s concern, smiling softly in thanks as he untangled that small section of hair, laughter sprinkling the air at his words. Of course this was the time he would develop a sense of humour. He was an enigma, one she couldn’t work out, but the hobbit found she was already very fond of him, despite their rocky start. He was brave and kind, and she already knew that there was nobody else that she would rather have to fight alongside. Even if he did need a bit of work to become a drinking companion.

“Well it’s a good thing this halfling has dropped her knife somewhere then.” She teased, smothering her unladylike snort of laughter. She briefly looked at the floor but the hall was only getting darker and she had no idea where her knives had gone. She could only hope that when the candles were re-lit Imrahil would find them and reclaim them before they slipped down some noble’s robes. Especially the knife that she had found in Annuminas. It was a very nice knife and she would be sad to lose it.

Oddberry took a mini-steak off the plate and gently tossed it in the warg’s direction. The creature flinched as it landed but soon wolfed down the morsel, cocking her head a little in their direction. She was still wary, but now longing and a touch of curiosity also lit her eyes. The hobbit tossed another, a few steps beyond the warg's nose and after a moment she half-slunk, half-hopped towards it. It disappeared as fast as the first, and the longing gaze was back. Perhaps food really was the key to the beast’s heart.

“You hold the rope and give directions and I’ll keep up the supply of food?” Oddberry suggested. She doubted either of them were currently strong enough to hold the warg back if she decided to go once they were out of the hall, but the hobbit wasn’t going to think about that and staying longer was not an option. “Is it far?”

Oddberry didn’t know what Faramir was thinking as he stared at his lost mask, but she could guess. She put a hand on his arm and looked up into his eyes. “We’ll find a way. To keep her alive, away from whatever fate these people choose for her. Even if it means keeping her in my room for a bit, sneaking her out of the city under the cover of darkness once she's strong enough and taking her far from here, maybe to Hollin, where there aren’t any people.” It was a silly, impossible idea, and Oddberry knew it, acknowledged it with a small shrug and a sad smile. But it was a plan, a small piece of hope. Hope enough for her. “Besides, if I steal some important person’s warg, what does it matter. I have a whole world to explore.”

An unspoken why hung in the air between them. “She doesn’t deserve this. She might only be a beast, one capable of terrible deeds, but she doesn’t deserve a life trapped. What life would it be to live in a cage, a spectacle to gawp at, to scare children with.” Oddberry shook her head, steel in her voice. “Nothing deserves that.”

“We should go before someone decides we’ve been quiet too long and must be dead.”