[Son of Númenor]

“Who am I?”

“I’ve no notion who you are, but what you are seems plain enough: a feckless vagrant, that's what!” said a voice in reply.

“Well, since you’ve no notion who I am, and I’ve no notion who I am either, I can only beg you to help me stand up, and perhaps offer me a cup of tea,” said the nameless man at length, cracking open his eyes and propping himself up on one sore elbow.

“Lor bless me, the nerve of some people these days!” cried a fat, chestnut brown hobbit. “You’ve had a good night’s rest on the top of my flower patch! Mrs. Longholes will grind you into mulch when she sees this! And you've got the boldness to ask me for tea?”

“I wouldn’t call it a good night’s rest,” said the nameless man. “Would you be so kind as to help me up at least?”

“I would,” said the hobbit, “but only because you are squatting in my wife’s favorite patch. If I saw you in the same shape anywhere else, I’d leave you for dead!”

The hobbit extended his plump, earthy hand. With more than a little effort, the nameless man lifted his much larger gloved hand and clasped the hobbit’s. Then, with a great sigh, he began to heave himself up off the ground. The task proved quite difficult, with the hobbit huffing and grunting as he pulled the much heavier Man. In the end, the hobbit’s efforts were in vain, and the nameless man had to summon all his strength to stand himself up.

“There, you’re up, and you’ve done in my back for good!” said the hobbit, glaring up at the man. “Now be off, and learn to respect other folk’s property.”

“No cup of tea?” asked the man, rubbing the back of his head and standing hunched over. He was a messy sight, his face haggard, his brown beard unkempt and his long dark hair clinging to his head in greasy disarray.

“Why you—you’d be lucky if I gave you a cup of spiders from my garden!” said the hobbit through clenched teeth.

“Very well,” said the man. “Can you direct me to an inn?”

“The Green Dragon’s just a short way down the street. Now be off, before I call Hal Whitfoot!”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” said the nameless man. Acting on some foggy recollection, he pulled four gold coins out of the left pocket of his tattered coat and handed them to the hobbit. “Perhaps that will pay for a few begonia seeds to replace the ones I slept on,” he said with a smile, and then was off.

He wandered down the unpaved road, past hobbit holes, garden patches and an old mill. The sun was still rising in the pale sky, and gusty wind was blowing from the east. Looking out from the vantage point of a small hill beside the path, he saw storm clouds brewing in that direction, riding the wind towards the Shire.

The Green Dragon was around a bend, a few yards removed from the path. The nameless man walked through the creaky front door, crouching to avoid hitting his head. Instantly, he was greeted with the smell of fried eggs, tomatoes and sausages, mingled with the stale odor of Longbottom Leaf smoked the night before.

“Good morning and welcome to the Green Dragon,” said a staggeringly beautiful and entirely unexpected woman. “Are you seeking lodging, breakfast or both?” she said, smiling pleasantly.

“Just a cup of tea,” stammered the man, feeling slovenly and intrusive.

“Have a seat at any table you choose,” said the tall, strikingly golden-haired young woman. “As you can see, we’re not particularly busy now- elevensies has just past, and lunch won’t be served for an hour or so. My name is Aman. What shall I call you?”

Unsure of what to say, the nameless man placed his hands in his pockets, fidgeting with the contents. His hand touched something strange, a hard sliver that chilled his palm even through his thick leather glove. Pulling it out, he saw that it was a small shard from a blade, with faded runes still visible on its dulled surface. A flood of images swept through his mind, with no clear pattern and no clear theme. Visions played out before his eyes of two riders on horseback, the mouth of a cave, a flash of metal and a man lying motionless on the ground, propped against the gnarly trunk of a great tree.

“Your name?” said Aman, looking rather uneasily at her guest. He came out of his momentary trance.

“Úmarth,” he replied grimly, feeling the name come to his lips from he knew not where.

“Have you been long in the Shire?”

“Long enough to be familiar with the Halflings, their land and their ways, at least, or so it seems,” he said at length. “At any rate, I think I may need to make accomodations for lodging after all. And I’ll take a pint of ale with my tea, if it’s not too much trouble.”