Down. Run. His instincts screamed at him.
We can help our siblings best by going under the surface. Strike from beneath. The non-siblings never look at the ground. Down, farther down, go further. The non-siblings will regret letting us in. Foolish non-siblings.
Stiffly, he walked out of the elvish encampment, sword in hand, and made for the battle that was already underway. He shoved his instincts to the background, even as they raged frantically at him.
One heartbeat after another brought him closer and closer to the very things that plagued every fauntlings' nightmares.
Their sibling race.
Once, they had looked out for each other. They had tended the outposts and way points, had cultivated the land, and had supplied shelter, food, and the more complex medicines. Their siblings had protected the towns, had driven the wolves from the farms, had expanded territories, and had fought the wars.
He wasn't quite sure what had happened, to make their siblings forget, to make their siblings leave.
Or, had it been they who had left?
He didn't know. He didn't think it mattered much anymore, either.
Besides,...
Winter is coming and with it, your brothers.
their Brothers treated them as if they were one of the Free Peoples. Hunted them, killed them, pillaged them, sold them, and tortured them like Free Peoples.
That fact helped to solidify his mind against the onslaught of…
NO! Brothers! They are Brothers! Stop! What are you doing!?
He shook his head and pushed his instincts into a mental cage and left them there.
He let out a low growl as Sting found its next victim, ending him quickly and moving on to another. The sounds of war tumbled together in his ears and twisted into a macabre melody, and his body and sword flowed as one and danced in time with the deadly tune.
His limbs went through the motions as his mind continued its previous pondering In an attempt to keep his instincts at bay.
Yes, the two races had been made for each other. They were meant to stick by their siblings until Father returned.
Although the legend was once a common tale, nowadays even the mighty elves held no knowledge on the origin of hobbits.
The Brothers had certainly forgotten.
At least, as far as his knowledge went. It wasn't as if he could just prance up to one of the other Fell and ask them.
No, even if he was lucky enough to get a response in the middle of the fray, it would just sign his death warrant amongst the non-siblings.
Better to keep the masses ignorant and preserve his species, than to satiate his curiosity and inadvertently educate the only ones not trying to kill him.
It was fine.
He just had to avoid starting a conversation with a certain pale Brother. The formalities of a Fell greeting would be a little too suspicious to his current not-enemies.
After all, the non-siblings believed that the Hobbit race was, and always had been, one of them. Free Peoples.
And as an elvish arrow whizzed past his head and embedded itself in the chest of the orc behind him, Bilbo figured he'd done a decent job reinforcing that belief.
A/N: Happy Hobbit Day! This is just me dipping my toes in the water a little bit, getting the juices flowing. Comments and criticisms are both very welcome; flames will be used to roast marshmallows. The fic has no beta and a tired author, so I'm going to go sleep now.
Hope you enjoyed it. Thx for stopping by!