One day at the Prancing Pony

On the first day of autumn, yet warm as summer’s lingering breath, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and Boromir, son of Denethor, departed from Rivendell. They crossed the Bruinen and took the northwest road, dismissing their retinue and the Grey Company, who galloped swiftly northward, eager to outpace the promised chill. The lords followed at a leisurely pace, oft afoot, for here, in ancient days, lay the borders of Arnor, one of the two great kingdoms of Númenorean Men. Aragorn, resolute to restore these lands under the winged crown, walked with purpose. Every hill, barrow, and winding path bore an old tale. Aragorn, usually taciturn and sparing of words on the road, now spoke without cease to Boromir, recounting all he knew of these lands—tales of yore and, most vividly, adventures scarce two years past, when he and four hobbits trod this way. He showed Boromir the fords where the Elven river had barred the Nazgûl’s path and a notable glade where weathered stone trolls still stood, battered by wind and rain. At the ruins of the watchtower of Amon Sûl they made camp, as if defying dark memories, and slept soundly as babes. Boromir drank in Aragorn’s tales with unfeigned curiosity. He oft lamented that he had scarce ventured beyond Gondor’s bounds and knew little more of the world than the hobbits who first left their cosy Shire. Yet Gondor, harried by war, was no such haven. Campaigns within its borders and brief forays to Rohan were all the paths Boromir had known, and his journey to Rivendell marked his first and furthest venture. There was no sorrow in this, save that Boromir, for reasons obscure, believed his ignorance troubled Aragorn—perhaps merely due to the latter’s jesting grumbles about Boromir’s faltering study of Elvish. When Aragorn proposed they ride north together, alone, he scarce hoped for assent. Yet, to his great joy, Boromir hesitated but briefly. The chance to travel shoulder to shoulder, to see the world through Aragorn’s eyes, drew him. Moreover, the shadow of Sauron’s malice, though a summer had passed, still loomed, tainting fair days with ill memories. And what better remedy for dark thoughts than new sights? Above all, Aragorn would not have gone alone. Arnor could wait till spring, when unease would fully settle. To spend months apart, each day gnawed by fear and awaiting letters with bated breath, would ill serve their duties. Together, the long road through the gates of Rohan, Isengard, mountain passes, and fords seemed but a merry jaunt. The Great Road, as in the days of the Kings from Over Sea, was safe throughout, and here, north of the Misty Mountains, where war’s echo was but a distant rumble, there was no need to fret over camp or supper. After the victory, as travellers, envoys, and merchants plied the road from Gondor to Arnor, inns and wayhouses sprang up like mushrooms after rain. Yet Aragorn insisted they lodge at Bree, in the inn called The Prancing Pony. ‘Why this inn?’ Boromir asked, catching a queer smirk on Aragorn’s face. The sun had set, and it was past time to find a bed, yet the stubborn king would grace no place but The Prancing Pony. ‘Nothing, save that there I met Frodo and his companions,’ Aragorn replied, waving a hand. ‘But, more importantly, I owe the innkeeper a debt.’ ‘Did this good man ply you, a ragged wanderer, with free ale?’ Boromir laughed, ever delighted by the kingly figure’s roguish habits and tales of his wayfaring past. ‘Nay, this good man oft refused me his threshold,’ Aragorn said, shaking his head. ‘And through his efforts, I gained most of my less flattering epithets—Longshanks, Strider, Vagabond, and worse.’ ‘And you mean to teach him a lesson? Don’t you dare call me vengeful or vainglorious again.’ ‘When did I call you vengeful?’ Aragorn protested, pointedly silent on the other charges. ‘There’s naught to avenge. Butterbur’s a good soul, truly. His only faults are a loose tongue and a sieve for a memory, but his heart’s sound.’ ‘Butterbur?’ Boromir chuckled again. ‘That’s his name? Fitting for an innkeeper.’ ‘Nay, his name’s Barliman Butterbur, but that’s a mouthful even sober, and the drunken lot never get it right. “Butterbur” serves well enough.’ The evening breeze grew chill, the horses weary, and the riders likewise. When Boromir spied the torchlit palisade of Bree in the distance, he spurred his mount. Aragorn hastened to catch him. ‘Play along,’ he urged. Then, veering into the dark bushes, he dismounted and began to shed his garb. ‘Play what, you minx?’ Boromir asked, bemused by the sudden disrobing. ‘On my nerves,’ Aragorn muttered, jesting. He drew from his pack tattered rags and an ancient grey cloak. His kingly raiment, embroidered with silver and bearing the emblems of Gondor, he folded carefully and stowed in his saddlebags. He glanced doubtfully at his horse. ‘Listen, take my horse and ride to Bree alone. Don’t hide your name or your arms. Find the inn, ask Butterbur for a room and supper. I’ll wait in the common room. Don’t sit at my table—pretend we’re strangers. Agreed?’ ‘Complicated, isn’t it?’ Boromir grumbled. ‘What’s in it for me?’ ‘Plenty, but later,’ Aragorn replied with a nod. ‘Please, it’s but a jest. One harmless prank.’ ‘You’ve been to Bree as king—they’ll know you. It won’t work.’ ‘I came once, called myself Elessar, and spoke only to the village headman, who shuns taverns.’ Boromir scarce recognized Aragorn now—not the weathered king, wise with years and loss, but a rogue of the wilds, delighting in fooling folk for sport. The ranger’s patched garb suited him no less than silks, and his pleading look won Boromir over. Duty may demand reason, but madness is a right worth fighting for. They parted at a crossroad. Boromir took Aragorn’s horse, leading it beside his own. No oddity in a man wealthy enough for two fine steeds travelling with both, but such a horse under the guise Aragorn now wore would seem amiss. The gatekeeper of Bree, roused by a late visitor, was surly until he glimpsed Boromir through the wicket. At once, he flung open the gate and courteously directed the rider to the inn. Fine horses, sturdy boots, a sword, and a rich cloak ever mark a man worthy of respect—if not for himself, then for his blade and purse. When Boromir entered The Prancing Pony, Aragorn was already there. He had slipped through a familiar gap in the palisade, entered the inn as if it were his own, taken a pint of ale, and settled with a pipe in a shadowy corner. Here he had sat in days past, watching and listening; here he had met Gandalf and Frodo’s company. Now, sipping fine ale and lighting his pipe, he sank into the strange comfort of those days when no crown pressed his brow. The jest was worth it. None paid Aragorn much heed, save for Butterbur’s grumbling, which stirred in him an odd, fond warmth. Some things in the world endure, however much it changes. But when the door creaked and a new guest entered, something novel broke upon the inn’s familiar scene. Boromir had to duck to pass the lintel and near sidle through the door. He stood a head taller than any present—save Aragorn—and broader in the shoulders. Though Bree-folk were descended from Arnor’s Men, they had mingled with hill-dwellers over two and a half millennia, dwindling beside the Númenoreans of the South. From his shadowed nook, Aragorn watched the room. All eyes were on Boromir. Beyond Gondor, he bore no steward’s insignia, being but first counsellor here. Yet the black, deep burgundy, and purple of his garb suited him better than white and looked costlier. Butterbur, bustling behind the counter, froze, his gaze fixed on Boromir’s fine wool cloak with its glossy fur collar. Boromir cast it over his arm, letting onlookers admire the gold embroidery on his velvet tunic. ‘Welcome, noble lord, how may I serve… er?’ Butterbur’s voice dripped honey, and Aragorn hid a grin in his tankard. The innkeeper’s sincerity was the jest’s crux—he was genuinely thrilled a lord had chosen his inn and was determined to make a fine impression. ‘Boromir, Steward of Gondor and first counsellor to King Elessar,’ Boromir declared, glancing briefly about, his eyes lingering a moment where Aragorn sat. ‘Tomorrow I ride north, but tonight I need supper and a room.’ ‘Of course, of course! We’ve a fine room upstairs, kept for special occasions!’ Butterbur exclaimed, diving beneath the counter to rummage for a key unused for years. The uppermost rooms—two, with a private parlour and bedchamber, and a bath—were seldom let. Bree’s usual travellers, simpler folk, needed only a cot in the common room and a bucket of water by the stables. Cheap was key. To let fine rooms too cheaply would turn them to a doss-house. Tonight, Butterbur rejoiced that a worthy guest would take the upper rooms, that a maid must bring towels, that Bob must heat water, and that breakfast must be served there come morn. These tasks somehow made the innkeeper feel near to the noble sir for whom they were done. ‘I’ll have your room prepared at once. Or would you wash and change first? Nob! Where’s Bob? Find that rascal and tell him to carry hot water to the upper room!’ ‘No need,’ Boromir interrupted gently. ‘It can wait. I’m famished, truly—I’d rather eat than wash.’ His plain speech and touch of local coarseness endeared him further to the room. Aragorn saw smiles in their eyes, heard whispers of the king and steward. He caught a tale that this tall, mighty, comely man was not merely Gondor’s steward but the king’s ardent heart’s desire. The womenfolk agreed the king’s taste was fine indeed. Two hobbits, Nob and Bob, who served Butterbur, took Boromir’s gear to his room, while the innkeeper fussed about him. He led Boromir to a cozy nook, bringing ale, meat, fresh bread, cheese, stewed vegetables, new apples, raisins, and honey. Seizing a lull in Butterbur’s bustling, Aragorn took his half-empty tankard and joined Boromir’s table. ‘Well, what think you of the folk here?’ he asked softly, filching a morsel of tender veal from Boromir’s plate. ‘They seem goodly folk,’ Boromir replied, savoring a draught of cool ale before attacking his meal, speaking in pauses. ‘I know their kind, like this innkeeper. They may be unlearned, but their hearts and souls abound.’ ‘A queer town, this,’ Aragorn nodded. ‘At this crossroad, you’ll find dwarves, men, hobbits, even elves, living peaceably on this scrap of land.’ ‘Save for rangers, aye,’ Boromir said, popping stewed vegetables laced with bacon and herbs into his mouth, leaning back with eyes half-closed in delight. Just then, Butterbur reappeared, bearing a platter of thinly sliced smoked meats, ham, and venison. He glared at Aragorn, who had shed his hood, but whose weathered, sun-browned face suited his tattered guise and roused no suspicion beyond what it should. ‘Ever clinging to good folk, that scurvy knave,’ Butterbur muttered, setting the platter down with a louder thud than needed, his words soft enough to ignore but loud enough to hear. ‘Filching vagabond…’ ‘I caught but half your words, goodman,’ Boromir cut in, ‘but I grasp your meaning. You mislike this man?’ ‘How not, my lord?’ Butterbur wailed, lowering his voice. ‘He loiters here, pestering honest folk, luring them to wastes and bogs, and we see them no more.’ ‘Truly? I could use a guide in these lands, being new here. This… what did you call him? Knave? He seems trusty enough.’ ‘Look, my lord, he’s already pilfering your plate, half your roast gone, the shameless rogue!’ ‘Hunger’s no crime. Bring him what you’ve brought me. On my account.’ ‘And don’t you dare water the ale,’ Aragorn added, snatching another piece of meat. Butterbur, swelling with indignation, stormed off. Aragorn laughed softly. ‘They respect you here,’ Boromir drawled. ‘Two years back, I led four respectable hobbits from here to the wilds,’ Aragorn recalled. ‘That, it seems, they can’t forgive.’ Butterbur returned with another generous portion, unskimped for a paying lord’s coin, and the ale unwatered. Yet Boromir’s meat was sliced fine and laid like parquet, while Aragorn’s, though good, was coarsely chopped, as for a dog. The vegetables, meant to be layered and steeped in seasoned juices, were jumbled, and the ale poured from the barrel’s bitter dregs. Snorting, Boromir ordered another tankard, as if for himself, which Aragorn promptly claimed. Butterbur huffed, grumbled, and rolled his eyes but could do naught. Sated, Aragorn spoke of Bree and its folk. On Fridays—such as this—the inn brimmed with stories, each soul bearing their own. He told how Frodo vowed to mention Bree in his book, and the locals awaited it eagerly. Both he and Boromir half-heard the tales swapped by the crowd, who spoke louder, hoping to catch the lofty guest’s ear. They spoke of the war, news from the south, and elves frequenting the Grey Havens. Aragorn tossed in remarks, ignored as ever, while Boromir chuckled into his tankard, shunning disputes. As the hall emptied toward night, Butterbur returned, replacing a spent candle and clearing plates. He asked when the lord wished to retire. ‘Shall we expect his majesty, my lord?’ he inquired, wiping the table so the wet rag grazed Aragorn’s knees—had he dared, he’d likely have swiped his face. ‘Expect him; he follows,’ Boromir replied, draining his ale and upending the tankard on the tray. ‘Tomorrow, perhaps, he’ll be here.’ ‘When shall I serve breakfast?’ Butterbur pressed. ‘Half-past eight.’ ‘You do like your lie-in, my lord,’ Aragorn teased, raising a brow. ‘As I travel without king or escort,’ Boromir said, his glance heavy with meaning, ‘I can afford to sleep late.’ With that, Boromir rose, stretched with relish, and loosened his belt to ease his full stomach. Whether from drink, food, warmth, or other comforts, he swayed slightly. Butterbur hurried to steady him, though the innkeeper, barely reaching Boromir’s shoulder, would have been crushed had the man fallen. Aragorn earned a glare, as if he’d forced spirits on an innocent traveller. What Butterbur whispered to Boromir, Aragorn didn’t catch, but he guessed—a warning to check his purse and lock doors and windows. The advice went unheeded. Aragorn slipped into the upper room through a window, climbing via vine and balcony with practiced ease. Unlike past ventures, he found no scene of despair but clothes strewn like a shed snakeskin. The door to a small bath chamber stood ajar, steam wafting out. In a great oaken tub, brimming with water and foam, lay Boromir, ankles crossed and propped on the rim. Aragorn shed his rags and joined him, settling opposite. ‘Still think the jest was worth it?’ Boromir asked. ‘Aye,’ Aragorn replied, closing his eyes and near purring with pleasure. ‘A crown weighs heavy, even when ruling a beloved folk.’ ‘They’re good folk, simple but kind,’ Boromir said. ‘You know I’d choose kindness over wisdom. Elves oft make me uneasy, but here, in a strange inn, I feel at home.’ ‘Because you’ve coin to make any place home,’ Aragorn teased, then softened. ‘I know your meaning. Butterbur’s kind to all his guests, be they in fine rooms or buying but a crust. Were I to come penniless, ragged, and bruised, saying I’d not eaten in three days, he’d find me bread for naught.’ ‘Then I mislike fooling him,’ Boromir frowned. ‘He deserves to know whom he hosts and feeds.’ ‘Tomorrow he’ll know, I swear. I’ll be merciful.’ A knock came at the door. Boromir sighed, rose, and donned a long shirt over his wet frame, modest enough to forgo breeches, and went to answer. Aragorn shifted to Boromir’s place, facing the door, legs propped on the wall. The door creaked, a moment’s silence followed, then a squeal and pattering feet, chased by Boromir’s laughter. Aragorn pictured what the young hobbit maid saw—a towering, drenched man in a clinging, near-sheer shirt. Poor lass. ‘Stop splashing!’ Boromir called, hearing stifled laughter from the bath. He sought breeches and a towel. ‘I must go apologize, lest she think worse…’ ‘Make it a rule to wear breeches when answering doors,’ Aragorn chuckled. ‘I didn’t think they’d send a girl!’ ‘You’re not at home, but “as at home.” At home, none would send a maid to our chambers, especially late. Here, they think you a noble lord with proper manners, set to pass a chaste night alone.’ ‘Alone, exactly,’ Boromir said, appearing in the bath doorway. ‘So hush.’ Before he reached the outer door, now dry and dressed, another knock came. Expecting to apologize for startling the maid, Boromir opened it to find Butterbur himself. ‘My lord, forgive the lass—she’s green, you startled her, she’s all aflutter, don’t be cross,’ Butterbur rattled off. Boromir raised a hand to stem the tide. ‘No, I must apologize. I forgot you’ve a maid. I should’ve minded my manners. Pray, convey my regrets to her.’ ‘Here’s your towels—she dropped them fleeing down the stairs,’ Butterbur said, handing over a stack. Then his gaze flicked to the bath. Aragorn caught his eyes, wide as saucers, and the flush flooding his round cheeks. What the maid saw was tame by comparison. ‘Goodnightmylord,’ Butterbur blurted, his footsteps thundering down the stairs. Boromir slammed the door, threw the bolt, and leaned against it, tossing the towels onto a bench. ‘Another heart nearly stopped. Happy now?’ he asked, eyeing Aragorn. ‘Your hairy shanks will haunt that man’s dreams.’ ‘Well, the lass won’t be dreaming nightmares,’ Aragorn smirked. Boromir sat on the tub’s edge, unceremoniously dunked Aragorn’s legs into the water, and splashed soapy foam onto his head. ‘What did that innkeeper just see?’ he demanded. ‘My hairy shanks,’ Aragorn mumbled, spitting foam. ‘Aye, a vagabond’s bare legs sticking out of a noble steward’s bath, who travels without his king. Why do you think he asked if the king was coming?’ ‘Thinks I’m here to seduce you?’ ‘You were staring daggers from your corner and gawking all evening,’ Boromir reminded him, sighing heavily. ‘Aragorn, if a whorish rumour spreads about me, Gondor will be kingless again.’ ‘Alright, the jest got out of hand,’ Aragorn conceded, turning serious. ‘But I swear, I’ll let none speak ill of you. Tomorrow, I’ll set it right.’ Seeing Boromir’s smile, he grinned slyly. ‘But tonight, since you’re accused of faithlessness, my lord steward, may I seduce you? Smoke without fire is dull.’ ‘So be it. We’ll say naught to his majesty,’ Boromir relented. The next act of the vagabond-turned-king’s charade unfolded privately in the bedchamber, after Boromir double-checked the bolt. At half-past eight, as ordered, a knock came. Aragorn, grabbing his gear, shut himself in the bath chamber, donning his kingly garb—tunic gleaming with silver, emblazoned with stars, crown, and white tree. He listened through the door. Butterbur, wary after last night, brought breakfast himself. His cheerful tone had turned reproachful, his ‘good morning’ devoid of good. It was as if he doubted any good remained in the world. ‘You shouldn’t, my lord, oh, you shouldn’t,’ Butterbur muttered, clattering dishes. ‘Taking up with that vagabond last night.’ In another moment, Boromir might have reminded the innkeeper not to judge, but he held his tongue. Aragorn heard only the rustle of cloth and clink of buckles. Butterbur was right—he’d witnessed what he thought was betrayal, and Aragorn had ensured he thought so. Yet, as the sole witness to this supposed sin, quarrelling with him would only worsen any rumour. ‘They say our king’s a good man,’ Butterbur went on. ‘And you, I believe, a noble lord, but why thus? What’s that vagabond done to earn such honour?’ ‘Will you tell all?’ Boromir asked. ‘No, my lord,’ Butterbur replied, his voice soft and sorrowful, piercing Aragorn’s heart. ‘It’s not my place to judge, nor mine to tell him. But he’ll learn, mark me. I’ve seen much. Such things always come to light, sooner or later.’ ‘What exactly comes to light?’ Aragorn asked, flinging open the bath door. He spoke loudly, strode boldly, and stood regal. Catching Boromir’s glance—mingling gratitude and ‘at last!’—he smiled encouragingly. ‘What wouldn’t you tell me, Master Butterbur?’ ‘I… we… that is, he… the lord steward…’ Butterbur stammered, struggling to reconcile the clean, shaved, finely clad noble with the vagabond he’d cursed. ‘The steward?’ Aragorn feigned ire. ‘What’s he done?’ ‘Slept not alone, your majesty,’ Boromir said, bowing his head in mock contrition, poorly acted. ‘And who kept you company?’ ‘A knave, Longshanks, Strider.’[1] ‘All three? A merry night you’ve had! Can’t leave you alone!’ Aragorn roared, then laughed, clapping the gaping Butterbur on the shoulder. ‘Allow me to present, good host, Elessar,’ Boromir said. ‘Also Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Thorongil, Estel. And Strider, Wanderer, and so forth. Chieftain of the Rangers, now king of Gondor and Arnor.’ They sat Butterbur in a chair with a cup of tea to recover. Aragorn apologized for the masquerade. ‘I kept looking, thinking something’s amiss!’ Butterbur finally spoke. ‘Hobbits, kind as they are, took this ranger as guide, but a warrior so courteous to a vagabond? I was gobsmacked! And now I see why!’ ‘You suspected me of worse than thievery, didn’t you?’ Aragorn grinned. ‘Rest easy—my steward guards his honour as fiercely as Gondor’s walls, never yet yielded.’ ‘I’d not have blabbed, I swear, silent as the grave!’ Butterbur cried. ‘I wouldn’t!’ ‘Fair enough. Tell them, if you like, how the king played a jest on you,’ Aragorn laughed again. ‘You’ve earned it.’ ‘It was all his idea,’ Boromir interjected. ‘I was on your side.’ ‘Of course, you never got a thrashing here or daft nicknames.’ ‘An innkeeper who’d thrash… not a king, but a ranger chieftain? Friend, I’d enlist you in my guard,’ Boromir said, nodding to Butterbur, saluting his valour. ‘I need bold men.’ Butterbur flushed brighter than when he’d glimpsed the unmeant sight. More still when Aragorn recalled the night the inn withstood Nazgûl, and how, the day before the hobbits came, the stout host barred two ‘black riders’ from his door. Deeds vary—some belong on battlefields or marches, but those done at one’s own threshold hold the world together. As does an innkeeper’s sorrow over another’s betrayal. Word of the king’s arrival, and that he’d been there since eve, swept Bree. By ten, the inn was packed, reaping a week’s custom in a morning. Aragorn answered queries and shared tidings till noon, when time pressed. They called for their horses, and king and steward rode on. ‘No more Strider for you,’ Boromir said as Bree vanished behind the hills. ‘They’ll know you now.’ ‘I’m not overjoyed,’ Aragorn admitted. ‘I cherish the name and the freedom it grants.’ ‘Remember when you asked if a northern vagabond was enough for me, wanting to be worthy?’ Boromir said. ‘You recall?’ ‘Of course.’ ‘Well, it is enough. I care not what name you bear or if you wear a crown. I didn’t say it then, but it’s true.’ Aragorn caught Boromir’s hand, riding beside him, and kissed the Ring of Barahir on his finger. Strider he might no longer be, but to be Aragorn filled him with joy—for it was by that name he introduced himself when first they met.