In the deeps beyond Time, where the Music had long faded to a serene silence, Ilúvatar watched. His thought moved across the endless Void that lay outside the circles of the World, beyond the veils of Eä where even the Ainur seldom cast their gaze.
There, adrift in that nothingness, drifted a spark—a single mote of light, fragile yet strangely resolute. It pulsed not with the harmony of the Ainur, nor with the fire of the Secret Flame that dwelt at the heart of the world, but with something else: a yearning.
Ilúvatar beheld it, and in His boundless wisdom perceived its desire: to enter His Creation, to taste time, to walk among song and stone, leaf and shadow.
He weighed it: a wandering will from beyond the Music, a note never sung in the great themes of the Ainur. Yet He saw that its coming might weave new strands into the fate of Arda—paths that even the wisest could not foresee.
And so, with a single, silent thought—gentle as the breeze that stirs the first leaf of spring—Ilúvatar opened a way.
The spark drifted forward, crossing the threshold of the Void. As it passed, it felt itself enfolded by the light of stars unborn, by winds of possibility, and by something older and deeper still: the waiting embrace of a world that did not yet know its name.
And far above, Ilúvatar watched, and in the silence of His thought, a single word formed—a blessing, a warning, and a farewell, all in one:
"So let it be."
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I don't remember falling. One moment, there was only darkness—weightless, endless—and then the next, warmth on my skin. The smell of damp grass. A sky so wide and blue it made my chest ache.
They found me soon after: small folk with round, curious faces and wary eyes. Hobbits, though I only truly understood that word later. They came in pairs and clusters, whispering behind callused hands, poking at my clothes as though I'd tumbled straight from the moon.
"Where'd you come from, lad?" one asked, squinting up at me.
"I... don't know," I said. And it was the truth. My voice sounded raw, as if it had rusted from disuse.
A pause. They glanced at each other, a ripple of shrugs and pursed lips passing among them. Then a gentle hand, surprisingly strong, steered me toward a low wooden bench near a hedgerow.
"Best catch your breath," someone murmured. "We'll see where you can stay a spell."
So I sat. The breeze was cool, carrying scents of earth, pipe weed, and fresh-baked bread from somewhere unseen. My hands still trembled faintly, the aftershocks of fear and bewilderment running through my bones. But even then—even there, surrounded by strangers in a place I could not name I felt it.
A certainty that steadied my breath, slowed the pounding in my chest.
In the quiet of my heart, behind the confusion and the haze, there was something else: a sword. Not of steel alone, but of spirit and fire. It felt... right—a blazing presence, proud and ancient, coiled in my soul like a promise. Majestic, unyielding, and terrible in its beauty.
I couldn't see it—not yet—but I knew it. Its shape, its weight, the heat of its flame that somehow warmed me without harm. A blade meant for a hand, and a hand that had somehow always been meant to hold it.
For a moment, the noise of the village, the smell of earth and pipe smoke, faded. All that remained was the quiet, molten certainty of that hidden companion: my sword, waiting in the depths of my spirit, as though it had been there long before I'd fallen into this world.
But then the feeling faded. The brightness around me started to simmer down as I gathered myself properly, and the strange emotions I'd been feeling disappeared.
All I saw now were Hobbits — actual Hobbits, like from The Lord of the Rings — standing in front of me. I was sitting on a bench while they decided… whatever it was they were deciding about me.
What the fuck. How did I get here?
I turned my head up and took a look at the village around me. It tickled something in my brain, like I'd seen this place before. Which could only mean… this was the Shire? Perhaps.
Fuck me, I'm in The Lord of the Rings.
Did the Hobbits ever get affected by the war? I remembered there were rangers who protected the borders, but… what year was it even? Had Frodo already gone to Mount Doom? It didn't feel like it, which was a weird thought in itself. The world around me felt light, bright, beautiful — like it was greeting me.
I'd have to ask the Hobbits about the year, because if the world was about to end, I'd be completely screwed. Was that even what happened? Why did the elves leave Middle-earth again? I couldn't remember. It's been too long since I'd watched the films.
I let out a slow breath, pressing my palm against the worn wood of the bench just to feel something real. The warmth of the sun on my skin, the smell of fresh grass, the gentle murmur of Hobbit voices arguing politely a few paces away — it all felt realer than anything had a right to be.
Okay. Calm down. Think.Starfang. The certainty still lingered under my ribs, like the beat of a second heart. A sword of fire, older and grander than anything I could explain. Even now, as the haze of my arrival burned off, its presence stayed — warm, reassuring, and terrifying in equal measure.
But beyond that? Nothing. No note, no screen in front of my eyes, no kindly god whispering tutorial messages in my ear. Just me, a bench, and a half-dozen Hobbits who looked like they'd rather be anywhere else right now.
I shifted a little, trying to listen in. Something about "the spare room," "cousin's cottage," "he looks harmless enough."
Harmless, probably — unless Starfang could actually affect the world around me while in my soul?. But let's not bring that up.
My mouth felt dry. I opened it, closed it again, then finally croaked out, "Uh… what year is it?"
They turned to look at me, a few blinking owlishly. One of the older Hobbits scratched his chin."Well now, dear lad, by the Shire-reckoning it's 2938."
My brain spun its wheels for a second — The Hobbit starts in 2941, right? So… only three years.
Three years before Bilbo's little adventure.
Three years before trolls and goblins and a dragon. Before the one ring has been found before Smaug's death.
I swallowed. "Thank you," I muttered, my voice sounding a bit steadier this time.
They nodded, turning back to their debate. And I just sat there, staring at the dusty road winding between round green doors and flowering gardens.
Three years. Three years to figure out what the fuck I'm doing here, why there's a blade beating in my chest and what it meant that I'd landed in the Shire, of all places.
The small crowd eventually began to drift away, muttering softly among themselves. A few glanced back at me with lingering curiosity, but soon they scattered into gardens, burrows, and tidy lanes.
One hobbit stayed behind — a round-faced fellow with sandy hair and an easy smile. He ambled over, hands tucked behind his braces.
"Well now," he began, a little out of breath, "we've decided where you'll stay, if it's all the same to you. My cousin's agreed to take you in for a bit, just so you can find your feet."
"Thank you," I managed. My voice still felt raw, but steadier.
He waved it off as if it were nothing, then set off at an easy pace along the path. I followed, my boots crunching on the packed earth lane.
"You'll be the talk of the day, you know," he said, half-chuckling. "Stranger from nowhere, turning up in the middle of a summer morning. Folk'll say you were sent by Gandalf himself, or fell out of the sky on a shooting star. Always something to brighten the gossip."
I gave a weak laugh. "Guess it's better than them chasing me off."
"Ah, we're decent folk here," he said. "Long as you don't set fire to anything or dig up the gardens."
We turned a bend, and there it was: a round green door set into a neat hillside, smoke curling lazily from the chimney. Flowers spilled from window boxes, and the path was lined with stones worn smooth by years of careful feet. Even from here, it felt... warm. Lived-in.
"Here we are," the hobbit said. He rapped on the door with knuckles that had done this a thousand times before. "Bilbo! It's Milo — got a favor to ask!"
A few moments passed. Then the door swung open.
Bilbo Baggins — younger than in the movie I remembered, but still unmistakable. Darker hair, fewer lines around the eyes, but with the same gentle wariness I remembered from the films. He blinked at us, surprise flickering over his features.
Milo leaned in, voice dropping as though discussing the weather. "Found this lad at the edge of the village. Says he doesn't know where he's from, poor thing. Thought he might stay here, just for a while, till he's sorted."
Bilbo opened his mouth — clearly to protest — but then caught sight of me properly: travel-worn, dazed, probably looking like I'd been tossed out of the sky.
"Oh," he managed. His shoulders dropped slightly. "Well… come in, then."
Milo clapped my shoulder lightly. "Best of luck to you, lad. Bilbo'll see you right," he said, before turning back down the path at an unhurried hobbit pace.
I stepped inside, ducking slightly through the round doorway. Bilbo shut the door behind me with a soft sigh — the sound of a man realizing something had just been gently but firmly foisted upon him.
"Well," he muttered, running a hand through his hair, "I suppose I've room enough."
He led me down a narrow hallway smelling of books and wood polish, to a small room tucked at the back. A low ceiling, a bed built for someone shorter than me, and a round window that looked out over a small garden patch.
"It isn't much," Bilbo said, glancing around as though seeing it afresh, "but you're welcome to it. At least until we work out what to do next."
I dropped my pack on the bed — though there wasn't much in it — and looked around. Cramped, yes, but warm.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
Bilbo smiled, though there was still a crease of worry at the edge of his eyes. "Well then. Let's see about tea, shall we? You look like you could do with a good meal — and perhaps a story or two to set you at ease."
And for the first time since I'd opened my eyes in this world, I felt the knot in my chest loosen — just a little.