Luke, son of Lide, looked out over the vast, golden expanse of his uncle's fields. Shining waves of wheat blew in the soft, chill wind, and the sky was alight in the orange glow of the setting sun. He closed his eyes and felt its warmth flood his face. He stood in momentary bliss, forgetting his lonely existence. He forgot about his long dead parents, and he forgot the bones of his clan of rangers that now rested in the murk of the Gladden Fields. He forgot the twisted faces of the orcs that slew his family and took the young boy of five as their hostage. He forgot how he had been saved by an angel with a sword of blue radiance, and how he had been taken in by a farmer and his wife. He had forgotten his title.

His uncle's yells tore Luke from his bliss, and he ran back towards the small cabin where his adoptive aunt and uncle stood waiting. Owen and Beru had been kind to him, now 18 years old, and had raised him as the son they never had. Yes, they worked him to the bone on their crops, and he lived alone with them far away from the nearest settlement, but they had raised him to be kind and strong of heart. Not a day went by when Luke didn't wish for an adventure like the ones his uncle used to tell him about. He wished to go out and save princesses and slay dragons, but, alas, he was a simple farmboy without any ability to do as he wished.

"…get your head out of the clouds and come eat dinner," his uncle shouted from the cabin across the hill.

"I'll be there soon, uncle!" Luke yelled back, looking out into the sunset one last time. I won't live here forever, he thought, one day I'll find my fortune beyond this farm. He strode back to the farmhouse, entering the confined space of the three room cabin. His aunt and uncle were already seated before a modest feast of bread and milk, dyed blue with crushed flowers. He chuckled remembering how his aunt insisted that the ground pedals would protect them from gnomes and midges. He joined them at the table, and took a sip of his blue milk while he began to formulate his request.

"You got something to say?" His uncle garbled in between mouthfuls of bread. Luke took a final moment of contemplation before he replied,

"Yes uncle, where were you thinking of taking the harvest this year?"

"Only Midsummer's Eve and already thinking about harvest?" His uncle seemed suspicious, "I was thinking of taking it to Tashi Outpost in Dorwinion. They've been good business before, but if you've got another place in mind I'd be happy to hear it."

"Well…" Luke hesitiated, knowing how ridiculous his request would sound to his uncle, a man who hated traveling a day's ride away from home let alone a month's. "…I was wondering if we could take it down to Gondor this year."

His uncle spat out his drink in surprise and stammered, "Gondor? GONDOR! We'd lose half the crop on the journey alone! Not to mention that we wouldn't make any profit on the venture! The answer is no."

Disappointed, Luke stood and retreated to his room. He collapsed on his straw bed and envisioned the glowing marble cities of Osgiliath and Minas Tirith. His mind's eye created the great jade face of Erebor and the workshops of Dale. His mind drifted back to the cloudy memories of a child long lost to time. He wandered through the green vales of the Anduin and giggled as his father chased him through the tall grass. He fell in the mud and smiled as his mother wiped the dirt from his face. He fled from the monsters that butchered his father and cried as he saw his mother's head roll from her shoulders. He fled through the willows and sobbed as the screeches neared him. He gave up and collapsed. But he would not die that night. A bolt of blue filled the dark forest with azure brilliance and it struck the orcs with radiant power. A whirlwind of light tore the beasts limb from limb, and, within moments, he felt a strong hand take his own. This was the last thing the boy knew before he felt the embrace of his new family. Luke, son of Lide, slipped into the world of sleep.

The sounds of conflict tore Luke from his dreams. He drowsily slid out of his bed and looked out into the morning horizon to see a murder of crows swarming around a single white form. He quickly exited the farmhouse and ran towards the black swarm and shouted at the marauding birds. They flew away and the white bird quickly fell from the sky, clearly exhausted and hurt. Luke caught it, saving it from death, and saw that it was a white falcon with shimmering blue eyes. A scroll was tied to his claw, and a small band around his leg read "Artru."

"Uncle Owen!" He yelled, slipping the scroll into his pocket as he ran to the farmhouse with the bird. Within moments of entering the house, Luke had placed the bird on the table and had grabbed a piece of raw quail his aunt was preparing to cook. He placed the meat before the falcon has he coaxed it to its feet. He stroked its soft feathers as the bird pecked at the meat and his family reentered the room.

"Who is this little one?" his aunt questioned as she sat next to him.

"His band says Artru," he replied, "and I found this on his claw" He revealed the scroll and unwrapped it, spreading it along the table. He had been taught to read by his uncle, and the skill had come in handy during his rare trips to the trading posts. The scroll began with a small paragraph over a detailed map of a land he had not seen before. The note read,

To my guardian, my people are in grave danger. A darkness has risen in the North, beyond the notice of anyone but the people of Alderaan. You protected me in my hour of need many years ago, and I call apon you again. Help me Obwain Keeneyes, you are my only hope.

He scanned over the map, and saw a long mountain range mapped out with incredible detail, with several points marked as bases and a large point revealed the location of a city. His eyes were drawn to the uppermost portion of the map, where the mountains seemed to be half finished, and a large red X was scrawled.

"Obwain Keeneyes…" he wondered out loud, "What ever happened to that hermit…Ben Keeneyes was his name if I recall."

"Last I heard, he was run out of the Mos Espa trading post," his Aunt said, dabbing the blood away from the bird's chest, "He moved out into the wastelands further south of here."

He uncle mumbled angrily about some prior disagreement he and the hermit had once harbored. "That old mad man is nothing but trouble. I once caught him sneaking around the fields, doing some ritual. Nothing good comes from magic, let alone an old wizard who tries to turn your corn into a portion of some sort."

The falcon made a pathetic attempt to fly away, and he seemed desperate to continue his journey.

"But…It's always best to let a wizard's things be his own, as I always say. Luke, take the horse and ride down to Arrowpoint Ridge, he's camped out there somewhere."

Excited, Luke jumped up and collected some food items, a knife, and his short bow. The journey there and back would only take two days, and, as a young boy, he had taken a liking to the kindly old man who would bring him trinkets in secret and who had left him many notes in his adolescence regarding crop growing and what animals he could trust. He returned to the table and extended his arm, scooping Artru into his arms and letting him climb up to his shoulder. He smiled at his family and parted with them quickly.

"Be safe!" his aunt yelled after him, "Don't forget to eat on the road! And don't stop at any pubs!"

He rolled his eyes and ignored her protective requests. He mounted his horse and began to trot away.

"Don't stay with that wizard!" his uncle yelled behind him, "And don't…"

His uncle's words were lost behind him as he cracked the reins and began his trek. And so the fate of the North was sealed by the choice of a young man, longing for a life greater than his own.