Chapter Text
“How can I not interfere?!” A shriek pierced through the hallowed halls.
“Nienna, it is not our right nor judgement.”
“It is every right!” Tears slowly slid from their container, weaving into compassionate despair. “A child should never bear the fruits of labor in such a young age, nor shall they be smitten by a hand raised by their own kin!”
The grief awashed the fair face with each declination coming forth from her own brother. She placed the black veil over her crystal clear eyes, no longer looking at the handsome sculptured face of her brother, Námo. She shook her head in denial, her black robes billowing with each movement.
“It is not our right, sister. It is not our world to interfere.” The imposing black figure says sternly. His voice reverberated the very halls they stood. “Is it pity you feel for the child?”
“Pity?” Nienna’s face twisted to one of anger, shocking the Valar. “It is not pity for the child that I came to you for this specific boon. I seek this child in hopes of some compassionate soul willing enough to hand aid! But it seems it was for naught.. Námo what do you not understand? What plagues your mind so? A helpless child abused by his own kin deserves aid! He deserves mercy!”
“My ever merciful sister, nothing plagues my mind so.” Námo placated. “But your thoughts trouble me. You speak of, you speak of the impossible. We are the creators of Arda, we are the advisors over the creatures that now inhabit the world we have created. Other universes are not our proxy, they are not under our jurisdiction; therefore, they mean nothing. That boy, he means nothing compared to the Eldar.”
Nienna’s eyes widened at the Valar in front of her. Meaningless, a word Nienna witnessed more times than not when viewing the world through Vairë’s webs. Orcs pillaged villages, steal and kill everything they see, take back children to eat them under the moonlit sky stained with blood. Nevertheless, she feels and seen orcs care more than the Valar standing in front of her.
But it hurt. It hurt being rejected by her own brother. He was the only one who could possibly save the boy from his own demise, and yet… the boy means nothing to him. Nothing at all.
But she knew, she knew what he says was true.
The Lady of Mercy watched as Vairë’s webs slowly formed around the curved columns supporting the corridor. Although Nienna did not appreciate the Weaver’s interference with her business, she knew Vairë’s webs weave a tale upon their land that supported the Doomsman’s argument. The elves danced under Varda’s stars. The dwarves carefully mined Mahal’s treasure, the hobbits tilled Yavanna’s lands safe from enemies abound, and the men erected kingdoms distances away from one another. Peace, the Valar assured, should forever reign over Arda. It was a sworn oath she and the other Valar had taken with Eru.
Therefore, she cannot interfere with otherworldly problems as it wasn’t under the Valar’s jurisdiction.
She, however, was called and labeled the Lady of Mercy, of weeping. Growing compassion was placed on the child she’s been envisioning with dark tufts of hair, beautiful emerald eyes, and pale skin covered in the blood dripping down from his head. Her countenance nor her thoughts shifted to anything but the child she knew was dying, alone on the floor. She insisted her brothers in helping her grant mercy to the child dying at the hands of his own kin, but they rejected her; and so she weeped, she weeped for the child. The child she cannot help.
“Merciful sister, we cannot interfere.” Mandos sighed deeply.
Nienna’s tears fell from her high cheekbones. “Then what can we do?” She felt the fight drain from her vessel, ebbing itself into the bottomless sea.
“Nothing, sister.” Námo whispers, regret clenching his chest. He knew he relayed hurtful things to his merciful sister, things he knew he would regret when he returns to his throne.
Nienna looked on, new tears forming in her clear eyes. “Nothing…”
~
Freak woke up.
The first thing he noticed was that he felt no pain. He remembered his Uncle Vernon loom over him with the metal end of his belt. But when he felt the area where he knew his uncle struck, there was nothing! No pain! No boo-boo!
Instead of pain, Freak felt something press gently on his cheeks. Then it moved. He felt spindly fingers card through his hair after a few minutes, he peeked his eyes open to see who was touching his hair. The picture in front of him should scare him, but all he felt was comfort ebbing through his veins.
A dark, looming figure cradled him in their arms.
“Master…” It says, but Freak didn’t know what it meant. What was a master? “Master…”
Again, Freak doesn’t quite understand. He quirks his pert head over at the figure’s face, blinking up at it when he saw nothing but a dirty rag. Concerned, he lifted his own hands and pressed it against the hood.
“Are you okay mister?” Freak asks innocently. He was both curious and concerned, wondering what the hood hid from sight. But, with a childlike patience, he waited for an answer he knew wasn’t to come.
Still, the figure continued to card its spindly fingers in his messy hair. Freak pouted because his question was left unanswered.
“It is with great regret you died so soon, Master.” The mister says with a deep, reverberating voice. It comforted Freak. Though the words did confuse him because he hasn’t quite understood what the mister was saying, the words sounded foreign to Freak’s ears. “But soon, I will grant you this boon.”
Freak quirked his head.
“A life cherished.” The entity says endearingly. “A life without estrangement, without torment. A gift I bestow onto you.”
“I get a gift?” Freak was now looking over the place, eyeing for something wrapped in a bow. He’s never received a gift before! His Aunt Petunia always gave gifts to her precious ‘Dudders’ on his birthday. When he asked though, his uncle cuffed him over the head and locked him in the cupboard. So admittedly, he was excited. It was his first present, who wouldn’t be?
The entity nodded its hooded head. “A gift I bestow to you. A life without estrangement, without torment.” Freak inclined his head, pressing it against the entity’s shoulder. It pressed its hood against Freak’s forehead. The little boy felt a cold breath press against his scar before it disappeared, and replaced with another spindly finger pressed against his cheeks.
Voluntarily, Freak held onto the hand that never drew back. “Will I get a mama and papa?” The little boy quirked his head expectedly at the hooded figure. He was hopeful. He wondered if his mama and papa would like him. Wondering if they can take care of him like Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would with Dudley.
“Mister?”
This time, the hands drew back. The figure carefully placed the boy on the grey tiled floor.
Mister slowly bowed to the ground, a big curved blade in hand. Suddenly, he disappeared from sight in one big flash that flooded Freak’s own sight.
“Mister?”
~
“T-the child,” again Námo’s sisters porcelain face glossed itself with tears. “He’s gone.”
Námo watched her sister woes pour rivers in the very halls, his hands clenching. “I am sorry, merciful sister.” The Lady of Mercy said nothing in return but continued her weeping. “But we could not have helped nor grant the boon to the child.”
Nienna sniffed, turning away from her brother.
The Doomsman of the Valar looked on in solemn as his sister floated through the hallway like a spirit, weeping in every step.
~
“What is this?”
Bilbo Baggins just got back from the markets. At the plump age of thirty-three, the hobbit never expected the unexpected; nor did he appreciate the unexpected, as it does make him late for dinner! He got back from the markets after perusing the wooden stalls filled to the brim with the latest harvest the farmers plucked from their garden. Spending little to no coin with no interest in any daily harvests in the marketplace, he decided to head back to his lovely hobbit hole on Bagshot Row.
When he got back, however, he didn’t expect to get a little visitor waiting for him on his doorstep.
At first he thought of the little boy as a faunt, lost and waiting for his parents, but as he got closer the child was no faunt. In fact, the child was anything but a faunt! First of all, the child had little feet with barely any hair warming his little toes. If one was to distinguish a hobbit, they will surely tell when they look down. Second of all, he was wearing odd clothes. Didn’t look fitted at all, not even his young Tookish cousins dared wearing baggy clothing that covered their feet. Uncomfortable they were!
Though the clothes themselves look well-crafted and quite regal. The cloak draping from the boy’s back shimmered a green hue, camouflaging itself with the hobbit’s own very green door. The brass clasps clipped together around the boy’s neck shimmered in gold and bespeckled jewels. It befitted a king, Bilbo thought.
Bilbo felt himself gasp when the child seemed to have noticed him staring. The child curiously looked at the hobbit with a childlike innocence. Those eyes! Those very green eyes! They reminded Bilbo of a time when his mother plucked a very rare flower which bloomed with her red roses. It was a green rose. Though, now that the hobbit thinks about it, those green roses his mother loved so much paled in comparison to the green eyes of this child. His eyes looked ethereal and beautiful, all packaged in two sweet irises.
But it was enough putting the poor child under a gentlehobbit’s scrutiny! Bilbo felt like his father might be rolling in his grave right about now all because Bilbo lacked any Baggins’ hosting capabilities. The stern voice of his father screaming in his mind demanded him to greet the ethereal child and offer himself as a host, until the child’s parents pick him up of course. Though he wouldn’t mind the company while he prepares his mid-afternoon tea, in fact it was almost time for such a thing to prepare!
Opening the gate, Bilbo greeted Hamfast who appeared ever so slightly nervously. The hobbit tend to fumble with his gloves when he felt quite nervous with anything, primarily Lobelia.
“Ah, Mister Baggins, sir…” Hamfast feigned a glance at the boy then to his friend. “What brings you in so early, sir? Found anything at the markets?”
“Good day Hamfast,” Bilbo greeted with a genial smile. “You ask about my time at the markets? Well they were severely lacking the things I needed. It seems I would need to wait until another season warms the Fall” He shook his head. “It seems I have a little guest.”
Hamfast sighed. “I’m sorry Mister Bilbo. I tried scaring the kid from knocking on the door, but the little tyke is too stubborn for my wits!”
“There was no need of that, Hamfast.” Bilbo gently admonished the Gamgee. “It seems I would be having company for my mid-afternoon tea.”
“Are you sure Mister Bilbo?” Hamfast shot his friend a shocked look. “The other hobbits will be yammering about this in the markets tomorrow!”
Bilbo gave Hamfast a pointed look. “It is impolite for a Baggins to reject hosting guests. And when have I ever spared a care for gossiping hobbits?”
Hamfast sighed. He always knew his friend was an odd one. His Tookish blood, perhaps. “If you so wish, sir. Then I will be on my leave then! A wife to attend, and pumpkin pasties to eat before Winter comes!”
Bilbo rolled his eyes which did not bely his amusement for his friend. “Go then, Mister Hamfast. Pumpkin pasties wait for no one!” The gentlehobbit watched as his long time friend waved a goodbye and took his leave towards the home his family belonged in. He turned a smiling face to the child who was all but silent. “Hello.”
The child did not reply, much to Bilbo’s distaste.
Bilbo cleared his throat awkwardly. “My name is Bilbo Baggins, master of this house.” He waves at the child.
The child blinked, opening his mouth to speak. “ Hello. ” The boy waves.
Although the gesture transcends through language barriers, Bilbo still blinked at the unknown language spewing from the child’s mouth almost effortlessly. In all his years spending times in the woods looking for elves and his time at Bree, Bilbo encountered many languages. From the elegant Sindarin of the elves his mother spoke as if it was her mother tongue, the guttural curses spewing from a drunken dwarf’s mouth, and the Westeron he himself speaks as his native language. Ever the linguist, Bilbo made sure he would look in a lexicon that might shed a light on the language he has never heard. For now, Bilbo finds himself in a less ideal situation.
He did not know how to host a child that does not understand him!