Disclaimer: Anything you may recognise from Tolkien belongs to the Tolkien estate. Any similarities to other works, or to real life and people, are incidental. This story is rated M, because I'm not quite sure where it will go. Some angst and perhaps romantic situations later on are to be expected. I like to stay safe, though, and the first few chapters will probably not count as 'M'. I hope you like it, and if you do, please review!

- Miss Driver

Chapter one: The travelling cloak

All his life, Amon had known that he was a little bit different to the other children at school, a little bit different to everyone, really. For as long as he could remember, his mother had told him again and again that he was neither special nor strange – simply different. His rather odd-looking ears had been more or less successfully hidden beneath the thick mop of unruly hair that covered his head, but his eyes were ever a cause for glances and turned heads, and of course impossible to hide. "They are just too intense," his aunt would often say. "It's not natural."

There were other things, too, but truth be told, Amon would not have thought much of them, or of being different at all if it had not been for his mother's daily fussing. No matter how much she impressed on him that he was normal… Only a bit different, he always dwelled on it, felt ashamed of it and tried to figure out exactly what was wrong with him.

Yet Amon's childhood was a happy time. Bristol was an exciting place to grow up in, with everything possible to entertain a young boy. Every day after school he went exploring, and whether he watched the boats gliding gracefully along the Avon at high tide, climbed up the stairs of Cabot Tower to see if that door had been left unlocked yet, or threw pebbles from the suspension bridge, he was never bored.

School was more complicated, at least to begin with. When you suspect that something about you is a little bit strange, others pick up on the idea far too easily. Amon was teased by other boys, and ignored by girls, but as he grew, he started displaying talents that not only helped him, but also gained him some respect. He was faster and nimbler than the others, and could easily slip the clutches of even boys a few years older than himself. His hearing was almost supernaturally acute (something Amon suspected he had developed simply in self-defence), and his eye-sight seemed much better than most children's. These are things no-one can hide completely, and as it became evident that Amon was useful for things like spying, squeezing through small spaces and generally being sneaky, he gradually became accepted, and in time even gained some friends.

The night that would change everything came only a week before his fourteenth birthday. It began very well, under the stars on Clifton Down, walking hand in hand with Claire as he had done for the past weeks. The August evening air was warm and dark, full of the sounds of insects and faraway cars.

"You're so odd, Amon, do you know that?" said Claire suddenly.

"Yes," said Amon. Then he changed his mind. "Why?"

"Well… You just are. How come you're not registered at school? My dad won't tell me."

This puzzled Amon, who walked on silently for a little while. Claire's father was the headmaster at their school, so he had no reason to doubt what she was saying. However, he had never been under the impression that he was not registered like everyone else.

"How did you find out?" he asked finally, not wanting to reveal to her that he had not known.

"I was bored one day and just… I just looked at some papers in dad's office and… You're not on any lists or anything. It's like you didn't exist." She spoke quickly and Amon could feel her growing hot, and the palm of her hand was suddenly clammy with sweat. He realised that she had deliberately tried to find out more about him, and the darkness hid his quick smile. He decided not to question her further in the matter.

"Anyway," he said "that doesn't exactly make me odd. So what do you mean?"

"Are we going out, Amon?"

"I guess we are," he said, thinking that if you spent this much time holding hands with one and the same girl, you were probably definitely going out.

"You guess?" said Claire.

"Yes… Or what do you think?"

"Well, if we are, then how come we go up here every night and just walk around?"

"We talk, too," said Amon diplomatically.

"Don't you get it?" said Claire, her voice now shrill and shaky.

"I don't know… Maybe not. If you tell me what's wrong, I can tell you if I get it or not."

"Amon, don't you want to kiss me? Do you think I'm ugly?"

"You're not ugly," Amon said straight away. "But I'm happy just walking, if that's all right with you."

Then Claire tore her hand out of his and ran, leaving him confused and stunned. After a few moments, he turned and walked home.

His mother was sitting in the front room with a cup of tea, watching a television show about interior design. He sat down and stared blankly at the screen for a couple of minutes. Then he said:

"How come I'm not registered at school?"

His mother moved her head slightly, but didn't take her eyes off the television.

"Mum," he said, a little louder. "How come I'm not registered at school like everyone else?"

"What are you talking about, Amon? Of course you're registered."

"Claire says I'm not."

"Who's Claire?" his mother said and turned to look at him for the first time.

"It's Mr Thompson's daughter. My friend."

"Your girlfriend?"

"Well, I thought maybe she was, but now… Anyway, that's not the point! She said I'm not on any of their lists, and…"

"Look, Amon, I hardly think this is the time…"

"But when is the time, mum? When? You never tell me anything, except that I'm different! And I am so tired of being different. It's like I have some kind of disease or something!" Amon was suddenly shouting, the words tumbling out uncontrollably. Fourteen years' worth of questions were bubbling and welling up inside him. He had tried to ignore the signs himself, but what Claire had said had made him realise that something was terribly wrong. He was struck by the thought that his whole life was some kind of lie, and it terrified him. When he had finally stopped yelling, his mother took hold of his shoulder.

"Well, maybe it is time you found some things out. I warn you now that I won't be able to answer all of your questions, but it seems to me that now you're grown up enough to doubt me, I have to earn your trust somehow. Oh, Amon… Where do I start?" She closed her eyes and didn't speak for a long while. Then she looked at him again and said: "First of all, your father…"

"What about him?"

"He's not dead. I suppose he might be now, but that's not the reason he hasn't been with us."

Somehow, Amon did not feel surprised. Somehow, it made sense. He nodded slowly and asked: "Who is he?"

"It's so difficult to explain, Amon. I don't think you would believe me if I told you the truth. But you can be sure of this: you will never meet him. He doesn't know about you, and you couldn't find him if you tried. Please believe me."

He knew there would be no point arguing about that just now. It would be a later problem, so instead, Amon decided to ask about school again.

"Mr Thompson and I have a special agreement," said his mother. "Because of you being a little bit different, you see..."

Amon prepared for another row about this 'different' business, but as his mother's voice trailed off, the expression on her face changed from pained and patient to one of horror as she stared past him out the window. Amon heard a car engine being turned off outside.

"Who'd come around at this time of night?" he asked.

"Amon, dear, you need to listen carefully now." Her voice was clear and calm, and reminded him of being told off as a little boy. "You need to go up to the attic and hide. Hide until I come up and get you again."

"We have an attic?" he said stupidly. He had searched the house very well, and he was sure he would have seen a trap door if there had been one.

"Of course we have an attic. The wardrobe in my room. It has no back wall. If you go inside, you'll find the door. Make sure you close it behind you. Go. Now."

"But…"

"Now, Amon."

As he sprinted up the stairs, he heard footsteps approaching, then the doorbell ringing. Every fibre in his body wanted to run down again, to protect his mother from whoever was there, because he was sure they were bad news. But his heart told him differently. Something in his mother's voice had made it clear that their business was with him, not her. Reluctantly he pushed open the door to his mother's room and closed it soundlessly behind him. He could hear the front door being opening. Quickly and quietly he slipped inside the large, wooden wardrobe, pushing through winter coats that had been put away and making sure the door swung shut again. Running his fingers along the back wall, he at first felt nothing. Then suddenly the sleeve of his jumper caught on something. It felt as tiny as a splinter, but it was a small latch. Amon pulled it, and a horribly loud creaking told him he had found the door to the attic. By now, his eyes were accustomed to the dark, and he could see a steep, narrow staircase ahead of him. He squeezed through the opening and started climbing.

To anyone else, the attic would have been pitch black, but Amon could see quite well. The ceiling was very low and he could barely stand straight, even in the middle of the wide space, and certainly not nearer the eaves, what with the slant of the roof. It was quite empty apart from a few old tea cartons and what looked like a pile of rags in a corner, but none of this was of any concern to Amon who flung himself on the floor and pressed his ear to the boards.

"…absolutely no point in trying to uphold this lie, Ms Kelly. We know you're hiding him here," said the voice of a man.

"We will not harm him. However, we will have to perform a few simple tests…" Now a woman spoke.

"How many times must I tell you, I have no son. I am unmarried and childless," he heard his mother's voice. Amon went cold. His mother was calmly denying his existence, and he marvelled at how careless she sounded.

"Then please explain this room. It certainly looks as though a teenage boy lives here."

"My sister and her son stay here often, when my brother-in-law works abroad. You can check with the bank if you like – she pays part of the rent."

"Look, Ms Kelly. We can make this procedure very short and simple. If you would just call your son and tell him to come home. Or you can come over to our headquarters in London and face questioning. It's your choice."

"A choice? I have no choice, sir, because I have no son."

"Very well, Ms Kelly," said the man "Saunders, I want you to stay here. Wait for the boy to come home. I'll call back-up on the way to the office."

"Of course," said the woman.

There was no further talking, but after the front door had opened and shut again, Amon could hear the woman walking around the house, opening cupboards and shifting the furniture around. He guessed they were from the Ministry of Intelligence. They certainly did not act like policemen – the talk of tests made his insides squirm.

From what he could hear, the woman had now settled for pacing the upstairs landing. There was no way he could slip past her, even with his somewhat special abilities. He decided that this was a time for thought, and not rash actions and crawled over to the pile of cloth he had seen earlier to make himself more comfortable. In fact, it was a number of old blankets, plus what appeared to be a strange woollen cloak. It looked ancient, but it was in good shape and had a clasp in the form of a silver leaf, carved with such detail that Amon doubted it was very old. He settled on the blankets and pulled the cloak around him, soon sinking into the half-slumber he found so useful for both relaxing and thinking…

…He heard the Ministry woman pacing the landing… He heard the sound of a passing car, far off on the main road… He heard a rodent scurrying under the floorboards… He felt the musty damp smell of the attic, then a brief whiff of dried grass… He could feel the wind on his face, and now the sun, warming him…

He opened his eyes.