The beam construction of the ceiling became unfocused, fuzzy and sort of dim before the greyish was replaced by light green and darker green shades...
There was light, and summers last breath before winter. The Brandywine floated by quietly, as if it too was enjoying the last of summer before the cold would take over reign for a few months.
Somewhere from a small grove laughter and yells could be heard. The young hobbit boys thought the clump of trees were a forest, and they themselves were elvish princelings and lords for the day. Sigismond was the valiant elvish prince, Bilbo was the wise elvish paladin, while Flambard was the coward human lord.
The young boy had complained over this for some time, wondering why he got to be a big-folk while they became faerie tale characters.
Bilbo had sat down with him after half an hour of this, after Sigismond (or Enederinion, as he insisted on being called today) had lead the boy aside from the playing area, Bilbo (well, that was Novwethion for the day) explained that elves actually did exist, and that they were even taller then men.
This did not help any, because now the small boy even more wanted to be an elf - not even the others being okay with changing Ankazig for Nardžs‰i worked.
"I want to be an elf!" said the boy for the seventh time in one minute, as stubbornly as ever. "I don't want to be a stupid big-folk!
The two other boys sighed, slapping their foreheads in union, barely suppressing an annoyed groan.
"They shouldn't be called big-folk, they're Ômen', Nardžs‰i." replied Novwethion, slowly as if he thought his cousin would understand this time, if only spoke as slow as possible.
"But I don't want to be a Ôman', I want to be an elf!" he said again, crossing his arms over his small chest. "Why can't I be an elf when you can?
"We're taller then you!" answered Enederinion in a not very pedagogic way. "And your hair's darker than ours.
The last was indisputably true, for the two taller hobbit-lads were in fact a lot lighter in both skin and general built. Sigismond's hair had the colour of wheat when the sun shone upon it, his eyes dark green. He was uncharacteristically tall for a hobbit his age, and his skin was lighter then that of most. When he was younger people joked about him most likely being a changeling, now it wasn't a joke anymore, most were certain that he was a changeling. Bilbo on the other hand was not as tall, neither as lightly built, but still taller and thinner then most younglings his age. His hair was a light brown, bound to grow darker by the years, and his eyes a light brown uncommon among Tooks, but sometimes seen among Bagginses.
Back to the boy sitting miserably on the rock, stubbornly exclaiming he too wanted to be an elf. Flambard, short, chubby, and commonly hobbit like pouted slightly with his lower lip, glaring at his two cousins. "You're older then me!
"Only by a week." Novwethion reminded the other, not saying anything about the three years old older Enederinion. "But in this game it's of course five hundred at least.
"I don't want to play this stupid game." yelled the younger boy, eyes watering like those of young boy not getting things has way usually do.
"But you agreed on it." did the oldest of the three say silkily, biting his lower lip, in a vainful attempt to look like a beaten puppy.
"That was before I knew I'd get to be a big-folk." the young boy sniffled, stubbornly looking down onto the ground.
After a moment of almost complete silence -- completely silent save for all the sounds of nature that never seem to cease, even in small groves -- Novwethion and Enederinion looked at each other, rolling their eyes.
"You're the royal jest, an elf named Dimdolion, and that is our last offer." said Novwethion after yet another moment's silence, a bit harsher then intended.
The youngest boy looked up, for a few seconds not believing his luck, throwing himself around his cousins' necks the next.
"You're the bestest cousins ever!" the boy shrieked, leaving the small grove in absolute and complete silence for a short moment, before the wind resumed blowing through the yellowing leaves, and the birds took up singing again.
When Bilbo woke up the next morning he smiled, whispering: ÔNo, Dimdolion, you're the bestest cousin.' He had no idea who Dimdolion was, nor why he said cousin; but it all made sense in the early sun rays shooting through the elven-style windows of his bedroom.
There was light, and summers last breath before winter. The Brandywine floated by quietly, as if it too was enjoying the last of summer before the cold would take over reign for a few months.
Somewhere from a small grove laughter and yells could be heard. The young hobbit boys thought the clump of trees were a forest, and they themselves were elvish princelings and lords for the day. Sigismond was the valiant elvish prince, Bilbo was the wise elvish paladin, while Flambard was the coward human lord.
The young boy had complained over this for some time, wondering why he got to be a big-folk while they became faerie tale characters.
Bilbo had sat down with him after half an hour of this, after Sigismond (or Enederinion, as he insisted on being called today) had lead the boy aside from the playing area, Bilbo (well, that was Novwethion for the day) explained that elves actually did exist, and that they were even taller then men.
This did not help any, because now the small boy even more wanted to be an elf - not even the others being okay with changing Ankazig for Nardžs‰i worked.
"I want to be an elf!" said the boy for the seventh time in one minute, as stubbornly as ever. "I don't want to be a stupid big-folk!
The two other boys sighed, slapping their foreheads in union, barely suppressing an annoyed groan.
"They shouldn't be called big-folk, they're Ômen', Nardžs‰i." replied Novwethion, slowly as if he thought his cousin would understand this time, if only spoke as slow as possible.
"But I don't want to be a Ôman', I want to be an elf!" he said again, crossing his arms over his small chest. "Why can't I be an elf when you can?
"We're taller then you!" answered Enederinion in a not very pedagogic way. "And your hair's darker than ours.
The last was indisputably true, for the two taller hobbit-lads were in fact a lot lighter in both skin and general built. Sigismond's hair had the colour of wheat when the sun shone upon it, his eyes dark green. He was uncharacteristically tall for a hobbit his age, and his skin was lighter then that of most. When he was younger people joked about him most likely being a changeling, now it wasn't a joke anymore, most were certain that he was a changeling. Bilbo on the other hand was not as tall, neither as lightly built, but still taller and thinner then most younglings his age. His hair was a light brown, bound to grow darker by the years, and his eyes a light brown uncommon among Tooks, but sometimes seen among Bagginses.
Back to the boy sitting miserably on the rock, stubbornly exclaiming he too wanted to be an elf. Flambard, short, chubby, and commonly hobbit like pouted slightly with his lower lip, glaring at his two cousins. "You're older then me!
"Only by a week." Novwethion reminded the other, not saying anything about the three years old older Enederinion. "But in this game it's of course five hundred at least.
"I don't want to play this stupid game." yelled the younger boy, eyes watering like those of young boy not getting things has way usually do.
"But you agreed on it." did the oldest of the three say silkily, biting his lower lip, in a vainful attempt to look like a beaten puppy.
"That was before I knew I'd get to be a big-folk." the young boy sniffled, stubbornly looking down onto the ground.
After a moment of almost complete silence -- completely silent save for all the sounds of nature that never seem to cease, even in small groves -- Novwethion and Enederinion looked at each other, rolling their eyes.
"You're the royal jest, an elf named Dimdolion, and that is our last offer." said Novwethion after yet another moment's silence, a bit harsher then intended.
The youngest boy looked up, for a few seconds not believing his luck, throwing himself around his cousins' necks the next.
"You're the bestest cousins ever!" the boy shrieked, leaving the small grove in absolute and complete silence for a short moment, before the wind resumed blowing through the yellowing leaves, and the birds took up singing again.
When Bilbo woke up the next morning he smiled, whispering: ÔNo, Dimdolion, you're the bestest cousin.' He had no idea who Dimdolion was, nor why he said cousin; but it all made sense in the early sun rays shooting through the elven-style windows of his bedroom.