Arda, Middle-Earth, The Newly Formed Kingdom of Arnor, The Town of Bree: F.O. 06

The Kingdom of Arnor had not been a kingdom for longer than any man nor hobbit had yet lived. It was a memory, and a half-forgotten one at that, in fact to the people of Bree, it was as if they had no king at all.

Of course, they hardly needed one, the men and hobbits of Bree managed their own affairs with quiet efficiency. They had a mayor, and a couple of elected officials from the smaller offshoots of the town, but even then, those were mostly just ceremonial positions. Breelanders were much like their neighbours in the Shire, with very little need for official authority, unless twisted so.

And yet, a King they now had, in fact apparently, they'd always had kings – those strange Ranger sorts who lurked around the wilds, where no decent person should turn their nose to. Still, the sensible people of Bree reasoned, that the new King was hardly likely to bother them, being all the way up in Gondor. They were far too used to being ignored by the so called 'grand' people of the world, that it never even occurred to them that having a king meant that one day he may actually like to rule them.

It was a misconception that was to be quickly remedied.

It began with the castle.

When it was finished, which was quickly since Gondor builders were the best in Middle earth – it loomed over the township of Bree like a warning for what was to come. Of course, Breefolk being Breefolk and unaccustomed to the scrutiny of their 'betters', hardly noticed the thing being built, let alone how it loomed at them…until that was, the resident arrived.

A grand carriage, twice as big as anything that had ever passed through the town– crashed now through their narrow streets, almost as if it were deliberately trying to run down pedestrians. It was pulled by four grey horses, all glittering in the gold of their artificial plumage. But the person that stepped out of it was a stranger sight than even that spectacle .

It was not the King – of course it was not, for Gondor had far too many problems for him to bother with something as small and inconsequential as the township of Bree. Yet it was his kin, for the beauty of his face and voice – almost elf like in its strangeness –spoke clearly of the blood of the Ranger folk. Yet he did not seem a ranger, the velvet of his cape and doublet too fine for such a roguish people, and his gate too wide for the fleet-footed step of a scoundrel. And yet, as he stepped out of the carriage, he gazed at the people of Bree with the same barely smothered disdain that all those of the King's kin held for them.

'People of Bree,' bellowed the finely dressed stranger. 'I bring news from your King.' From within the carriage a nervous looking servant handed the Ranger a scroll. The man unfurled it, turning his fine nose down before looking up again, fresh hatred ablaze within his deep grey eyes.

'For too long the rule of my kin have gone unheeded by lesser men, and now that that order has been restored, I'm afraid that things cannot go on as they have before. Effective immediately, I instate my Cousin Araoet as your warden of Arnor, until such a time as I can install a proper steward.'

There was a general murmur of discontent around the crowd as the man crumbled the scroll into his hand…meaning that the rest of the speech was his own, and not the king's.

'Now that that formality is out of the way our true business can begin. The King might be too busy to do anything but ignore you, but be assured that over the years the line of your rightful kings has not. Your hatred, your bitterness, your insolence to those who would be your kings has not gone unheeded by your lords and masters. We noticed as you settled unwanted onto ground that was not rightfully yours, and how throughout the years you have grown far from what the race of Man should have been. But as we were but few, and only rangers, we could not correct this fault in you – such was it then, but not so now.

'Henceforth, any worshipful practice – that is prayer, chants for mercy, festivals, or in fact any gathering that might call upon a deity's name – that is not directed at those whom have created us all, the mighty and benevolent Valar, is to be outlawed. Those who are caught performing such acts are to be whipped.'

A gasp from the crowd and the man smirked.

'Also, any unnatural acts of what is classified as magic either in your tongue or ours – such but not excluding the brewing of potions and foresight, is henceforth only to be conducted by trusted agents of the crown. Anyone else caught performing such acts, shall be arrested and jailed without chance of parole.'

He stopped and gazed over the crowd, letting the evil air of what he'd just told them sink into their slow, stumbling minds. Soon they would comprehend, soon they would know fear, and finally after all these years of stifling under the greater lines' shadow, his family would know respect.

Or they would have, if that apple had not been thrown at his head. It was rotten, and the trail of ill smelling juice it left as it slid down his cheek, only punctuated the insult. The insult. The insult. Something within the lesser son of a lesser house of Kings, snapped then.

'Who threw that?' He screamed, but no one answered him.

No one answered him…or at least no one answered him in words…for there was a great and booming rumble around the crowd and suddenly they were laughing. They were laughing at him, and nothing not even the threat of hanging would silence them. For you see when you had governed yourself for as long as the people of Bree had, you found it very hard to take any presumed authority seriously.

The man flew into a fit, and suddenly seemed much less dignified, which only made the crowd laugh harder.

'Leave the nob,' yelled a man from the doorway of the Prancing Pony. 'I've got a new batch of Ale that desperately needs drinking!'

And like most fickle creatures, the crowd cheered and dispersed towards the smell of a freshly poured ale.

The King's lesser cousin, screamed.

They laughed because they did not believe he would do it – no one had ever tried to control the people of Bree. Not one man, woman or hobbit born in the borders of the town or any of the lands that bore its name, had ever known the smack of an oppressor's whip. Even the armies of the dark lord had been no match for these boisterous people. Yet there were those in town, those in the crowd, who did not laugh quiet so loudly at the ridiculous man – for not everyone had been born in Bree.

Tom Cotton stood with his back to his wife, who nursed their new-born daughter unconcerned with her husband's ill mood. They came all too often since the strange Ranger folk had returned to town, these strange moods of his. They generally involved him scowling at the walls of their apartment for half an hour, before she lost her temper with him and banished him to his brother's house for the night. Now though he was still, almost frozen in place, not from anger or resentfulness of the strangers but nervousness …she might even say he was terrified. And yet, Pearl Cotton née Took had known her husband in the days of Sharky, and no silly stranger in town could ever compare to a terror as great as they had known then.

Surely Tom was just being silly.

'I am not being silly, Pearl.'

Growled the irate hobbit, gnashing his teeth into his bottom lip.

'It happened before, back in the Shire…we didn't think it would…we didn't think some penny-pinching bureaucrat could touch something as strong as the Ganymen.'

'But the Ganymen weren't strong Tom…no one had believed in them for years, decades even.'

'No one in Tookland.'

'Don't you start with me, besides King's fools have no real power…we're safe here…he can't touch us, we outnumber him. And I think that counts for a great deal more than a fancy title, and a stupid doublet. Now come, hold your daughter while I go and take a nap for the first time in three days, she's finally asleep.'

With that Pearl shoved the sleeping babe into her ridiculous husband's arms, and marched out of the room without even bothering to lace up her bodice. Tom did not growl in irritation, partly because he knew deep down that she was probably right, they couldn't be touched, not here anyway, but mostly because – and this was important, the babe had not slept this long since she'd been born. For Blarney's sake five whole minutes of silence, it was like a blessing from the Ancestors themselves.

Three years later

Blarney bless the day that their ancestors had discovered chocolate.

Butterbur licked his lips as he stared up at the magnificently sweet sculpture of the Blarney son – no one was supposed to talk about it, the substance that seemed to appear like magic in the last year or so. But it was a blessing, even more than the defeat of the dark lord, or the rise of the new royal house. Bakeries, sweetshops, pie shops, even the markets had begun to sell it in great big bars that both man and hobbit alike would half bankrupt themselves to devour.

Ancestors only knew how much it had cost to make this life-sized chocolate statue of the Blarney Son – some poor sweet maker had clearly sold everything they had. Mmm…but one taste would make it all worth it. The Festival of the Blarney was always an occasion for the food craftsmen of Bree to show their merits – pies, pastries, tarts and on one very strange occasion a boar's head made entirely out of sugar – were piled high on the long tables set up in the middle of the town square. The Sugar feast had in years past been meant to break the fast of the previous day – but then no one really kept up traditions that meant you got to eat less.

The day of the Blarney had always been a spectacular event for the township of Bree, yet since the defeat of the dark lord such hobbit festivals had become much more popular. The streets were filled with brightly coloured flags, and paper streamers, and flowers of purple and gold all hung sweetly from the doorways of the Breefolk. Farmers of sheep and cattle from all round the country, and slightly beyond flocked to the town this year. For it was said that a great prize was to be given to the farmer who presented the grandest animal for sacrificing to the Blarney son's memory. Oh yes, they did that too…people forget that hobbit beliefs and traditions weren't all centred round how much food they could fit into their mouths before they burst. Don't get us wrong, most of them were, but not every one.

It was perhaps this bloodier of hobbit traditions that really drew the attention of unwanted eyes. The Rangers of the Wild had lived in the lands the Breefolk still considered theirs for untold generations, most of them had experienced the day of the Blarney at some time in their life. Most of them could even call those memories happy. For it was a day where all were welcomed with a grin and offer of something sweet to eat or drink; in the past some of the rangers had even been bold enough to take their wives and their children for a grand day out. Which was why now they had power – most of them would turn a blind eye to the festival's more unfortunate origins. Of course, not every man brought from Gondor to guard the king's cousin was a Ranger

Gregarious had never seen someone slit the throat of a sheep before. He was a highborn Gondor lord's son; his family could trace their origins all the way back to Numenor itself. Farm work, and animal slaughter was something that people of the lesser blood of men had to do. He'd never thought about how much blood could come from a creature's neck before…it just never stopped. The burly man who had held the knife to the creature's neck, shook his hand to rid it of the excess blood. It was such a careless action to come after such a violent one; it made Gregarious shiver and turn away. He didn't understand how the others could keep looking, he didn't understand why they did not cringe as he did.

They laughed at him, the other boys, they called him coward, they called him weak, but he didn't care. Why should he waste his time looking at something so savage when there was such beauty before him? The purple and the gold of the coloured flags and banners almost made him forget what he'd just seen, and the food – several of the other squires had already cut and run towards the banquet table. Their Lords didn't seem to mind, it was almost like this was a day…a day where anything could go. A day where he could sneak off and steal one of those tarts from under their fat hobbit maker's nose. His feet were already tripping towards the tart stall, before he could comprehend what he was doing.

The fat hobbit, old and crooked as they come, had his back to the bustling crowd when Gregarious finally made it up to the stall. He couldn't see him, or at least he couldn't see him right now and there were so many tarts. What harm could come from taking just one.

Lots it turned out; he could get caught for one. The hobbit who ran the stupid tart stall had the boy's ear gripped between his thumb and forefinger. The creature demanded that he be paid back for the tart the boy had scoffed. But he couldn't…all his coin had gone to the other squires. He lost it betting on silly things during their trip down here…things had become so quite lately that it was the only way to keep themselves entertained. You would think that hobbits being from such a boring little country themselves, would have understood. Admittedly that may have been the wrong thing to say.

'Stop!'

And out of the surrounding crowd his commander stepped forward, his face a brazen burner of anger, and his eyes latching on to the fat-faced hobbit with the knife held to his squire.

'What do you think you're doing?'

The hobbit laughed. 'Carrying out the law by your king, man. This lad was stealing my tarts…on the day of the Blarney no less.'

'Wait,' said the boy suddenly struck by the absurdity of the situation. 'Why does that make a difference?'

The halfling sighed and let his knife flop away from the boy's wrist. He then looked at him wearily as if he'd had to tell the story a hundred times before, and would probably have to tell it a hundred times again.

'The Feast of the Blarney is the day we celebrate all that the Blarney has done for us. As a people…as a society…and as a community. He created magic as it is today, he shaped the world we live in, he took on the men of the sea…and prevented the wraiths of the west from working their wills over us.'

'Wait…wait…wraiths of the west…who the Mandos are they? '

'You know the gods of the far west…the ones who do not belong on mortal soil. Are you stupid as well as a thief, boy? The Blarney is the greatest of all our Ancestors because he…' And like a clatter of a thunderstorm Gregarious' commander whipped out his sword and lopped the hobbit's head off. For half a second there was nothing but stunned silence from the crowd, before the screaming started.

Three weeks later

Gregarious could hear the screaming of the crowd as the guards held them back.

A riot, one endless riot after another had been all that had followed his commander's execution of the hobbit baker. No one in town had liked the baker, but it was the principle of the thing. Men from Gondor weren't allowed to walk around just beheading bakers for following the law set down by…one of the kings…it might not have been the newest one, all Gondor men seemed the same to the people of Bree.

The soldiers had been forced to crack down on the practices of these strange folk. Where before they'd been all too willing to turn a blind eye to the savage beliefs of Breefolk and their subhuman neighbours – especially if it meant gorging yourself on sugared boar's head, but this was different. An old hobbit festival where you got to stuff your face with the sweetest sugary confections to be found this side of Middle Earth was fine, but an old hobbit festival that celebrated a 'false' prophet that 'defended' his people against the Valar was quite another thing indeed.

No one in town had expected the soldiers to carry through on the King's cousin's – distant cousin at that – rant. Especially not on a festival like the Feast of the Blarney, which was perhaps why so many of the rioters had been caught, had been dragged before the wailing, assembled crowd and beheaded without so much as a courtesy trial.

Now Gregarious stood on the platform, his commander's old sword in his hand and stared down at the hobbit that knelt before him. He didn't know who she was…he didn't know why she was here, kneeling before him, with her neck on the chopping block, her baker's apron thrown to the side like it meant nothing at all. He should know…really, he should know but there were so many like her…so many that had died that day…because…because of one stupid tart.

The sword in the boy's hand went down and the head of Pearl Cotton Took, like her husbands before her, rolled away from her shoulders.

I was wrong…this is where it starts.

Four years later

It was many would claim later, a very quick war indeed. For you see, despite their reported knowledge of such matters, the men of the Dúnedain really didn't know very much at all about the secrets of Hobbits. Not even which of the hobbits they had executed, had been the sister of the Thain of the Shire.

So, you see the men that followed them on that most, ostentatious of days, had absolutely no idea what it meant to face a hobbit in battle. And in truth even if their commanders had known, just what they were leading their men into, they may not have been able tell them anyway. It is a difficult thing for a human to comprehend at all, what a hobbit mage was capable of. Even the author of this very work struggles to relay the magnitude of the event, it certainly would have been completely impossible for the men of the North Marsh brigade to comprehend.

It was as if, to their eyes, the sky cracked open and the rain of fire tumbled forth and onto the ground below them. It was as if the trees were ripped from the earth by their very roots, and great thunder roared in the ears of those soldiers that could still bear to watch. Still bear to stand on that hill, on that high ground of theirs, and gaze down on the small creatures they had thought worth no notice at all. These small creatures whose hands now stretched into the sky, the air, the very earth around them and called forth great demons of the mind. Creatures whose like had never been seen on these shores since; it was as if all the creatures, all the monsters these men had trained and been prepared to fight, were here now amongst them. Yet they could not touch them, for these creatures were the kin of smoke, and the ash from the mountain. The world grew vague and fuzzy, and down from up above it began to rain. Not fire, or salt or ash, but regular rain, a rain that gushed down like the very tears of the lady of mercy, a flood down upon the land.

That flood swept away the first battalion, then the next, then the next until all that stood between these creatures of myth and legend and the townships of the Dúnedain people was a singular line of men. And at the head of that line stood the man that had brought it down upon them all.

The cousin knew what he should have been seeing, a hundred of so little men-like-creatures struggling up the side of the hill on their short fat legs. He should not have been seeing this, he should not have been seeing visions of dragons and terrors only the sea could keep at bay. He should not have been seeing these things, for they weren't real: the dragons were all dead, and the creatures from beneath the waves, well they were fictions, the results of too small a people blessed with too wild an imagination. And yet, as he stood there on what he soon realised was an otherwise unoccupied hillside, he realised that it did not particularly matter whether these creatures were mirages or not. When one was swooping down on you from on high, you still pissed your breeches just as hard either way.

Many a month later, when news of these sights and the battle that followed finally reached the ears of the King, it was said that even the dead cringed away from him. For the King did scream then, he stood up from his throne in the middle of his court, and he screamed louder than any man has ever screamed since they first opened their eyes in Middle-Earth and found a wolf gnawing on one of their legs.

It would be many a year hence, before such a mighty man as was the king, would forget a slight such as this.