Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings or any of it's characters and I cannot claim to hope to do justice to the genius of Tolkien with any of my writing- yet I do it respectfully as an ardent admirer of Middle Earth with it's evils and innocence alike. Thus my story is humbly submitted.
A FIVE SCORE PRELUDE
1368-1418
Chapter 1: A Special Night
* This next chapter takes place in "real time" and marks the chronological beginning of this series- 50 years earlier.
September 22, 1368 S.R.
Hamfast hummed softly to himself as he sat alone at the wooden table, its rough surface cleared and scrubbed and shining dully in the firelight. A single glass sat before him, its sparkling contents untouched. He chuckled softly to himself and looked out the window in front of him. Beyond the dark of nightfall was a light. Another fire burned in the distance in another room less empty.
He reached for the glass.
"Papa?" A familiar voice.
And there he was. All one and a half feet of him.
"Hamson." His father said a bit sternly at being interrupted. "You're supposed to be asleep."
The boy looked at the floor, shuffling his feet.
"Ham?" The tone was softer now.
"Will you sleep with me tonight?"
"I slept with you last night."
"I know, but…"
"But…"
A silence.
"Ham?"
The child looked up solemnly and sighed. "There's a troll outside my window."
"Oh, is that so?"
"Yes, Papa," the boy said resignedly. "It's so."
"Just like there was a goblin under your bed last night?"
Little Hamson dropped his eyes sadly.
The father bade his son draw nearer. Gently, he laid strong hands on little shoulders; leaned and gazed in little hazel eyes.
"Ham?"
"Yes, Papa?"
"And what did I tell you last night?"
"That there's no such thing as goblins."
"And?"
"And they're only in faerie stories."
"And Hamson…"
"Yes, Papa?"
"…there's no such thing as trolls."
"Yes, Papa."
"Ham, you can't go believin' every story you hear."
The child sighed and dropped his gaze. "I know…" but then, "Papa?"
"Yes?"
"Why is tonight special?"
"Who told you it was special?"
"No one. But you only drink that stuff on special nights," the boy pointed to the glass on the table.
"It's somebody's birthday."
"And they gave that juice to you?"
His father broke a smile. "Yes. It was a present."
"Oh…" But the boy's face was still twisted in curiosity. "Papa? Why doesn't momma have a glass like yours?"
"Because she's asleep."
"Why is she so sleepy?"
"Because of the baby inside of her."
"That makes her sleepy?"
"Yes."
"Oh…"
Hamfast settled back in his seat and stared out the window, dismissing his son; but the motion went unheeded.
"Papa?"
The father sighed. "Yes, Hamson?"
"When momma has the baby will that be a special night?"
"Of course."
"Is every night a baby is born special?"
"Aye, son, it is. But you need to go to bed now."
"Okay… but… when the baby is born can I have a glass of that stuff, too?"
"No."
"Oh. Okay. But when will the next special time be?"
The older hobbit paused before responding and looked back at the boy. "Don't you know, Hamson?"
"What, Papa?"
His father offered a tired grin and scooted back the chair, patting his lap. Obediently the boy clambered onto his knees and was soon wrapped securely in his sturdy arms.
"Every night a father holds his son is special."
"Oh." And for once the child was silent, a thoughtful expression on his face.
The older hobbit ruffled his son's hair. "Now off to bed to with you."
"Okay," the child relented with a disappointed sigh and jumped down.
"Hamson?"
"Yes, Papa?"
"Trolls don't come out on special nights."
Feigning a brave smile, the boy nodded and trotted back down the hall, leaving his father alone in his chair. He sat still a moment longer, listening, then turned back to the window and the light beyond. He picked up the glass and drained it in a silent toast.
"Happy birthday," he said quietly. And he put the glass down and went off to sleep with his son.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
an autumn night is faded now
a baby found it's voice
no night fowl serenaded
no nocturnal choir rejoice
the heavens did not open
and no shooting star burst forth
to herald this
the coming of the Hero of the North
thus the evening finds tomorrow
with the rising of the sun
of the days that he will know
a five-score prelude has begun