Nine hundred and fifty years had passed since the ascension of our lord Sighard the Hammerer. And in those nine and a half centuries, Terra had enjoyed what historians generously call "relative peace."
True, there had been the little matter of the Dark Queen, the reconquista of Iberia, the Caliphate's invasion of Sparta, Uther's conquest of Albion, the Franks' disastrous attempt to invade Albion in return, the interminable Kislev–Empire border wars, the Great Crusade against the northern barbarians, the northern barbarians' equally great raids against everyone else, the slave-hunts of Araby, not to mention the occasional famine and plague. But aside from such trifles—and the fact that something terrible happened roughly every other year—the age was peaceful enough.
In spite of this "peace," the West had begun to flourish. New cities rose, trade fattened coffers, and, most importantly, strange discoveries trickled in from far-off lands. Chief among them was black powder, a substance that promised to make every battlefield even louder and deadlier than before.
The tale of its arrival is recounted in taverns with great mirth. It seems that the young Prince of Albion, Gandalf by name, had set out with thirteen dwarves on a perfectly ordinary quest to reclaim a mountain. But curiosity carried him farther east than intended, into the realms of the Great Heavenly Dragon Empire. There, among scrolls and fireworks, he uncovered the secret of black powder—along with a dozen other marvels the West was not meant to know. Most of these secrets he wisely kept to himself, for nothing stirs the appetite of kings faster than the word innovation.
Most importantly, during his journeys in the East, Gandalf discovered a primitive and little-known folk dwelling in the wind-scoured midpoint between West and East, where few lived besides ill-tempered, man-eating centaurs, and further in the mountains in the distance the vile Ogre's stood always hungering for flesh. From a hilltop Gandalf first spied bright faces peering from turf burrows his own shoulders could never squeeze through, and—misled by their stature—took them for lost youngsters. Yet even at a distance something contradicted that first impression: their body proportions were plainly that of adults, their curiosity frank, their laughter the easy kind one hears among grown neighbors.
Patience corrected the rest. After long weeks learning their brisk gestures and hill-cant, he recorded that they were a race in their own right—Halflings—near-human of feature, some with the faintest point to the ear, all with sun-tough skin like fine leather, dense bones, broad feet, and nails hard as horn for digging the hill-loam. Harsh country had shaped them to endure: quick to recover from scrapes, sturdy in constitution, and—by nature and necessity—fertile enough to keep their numbers steady against winter and wolves. Although despite all of this they barely came up to his belt in height and physically they were lesser compared to humans. However despite this they still were well developed little people with their own allure and clear strengths in their flexibility and tough nimble little bodies.
In those days they lived as peaceful burrow-folk, close to the earth and closer still to one another. Their homes were simple hollows warmed by shared bodies and furs; furnishings were few; privacy was a custom not yet learned. They spoke first by sign and small, practical sounds. Curiosity often tugged them forward when caution tugged them back, and if logic warned them away, wonder sometimes won the argument.
Gandalf won their trust with honey-cakes and cookies, like earning the trust of birds to come and sit on ones hand. Namely at first it was Bilbo Baggins who won Gandalf's attention by being light as a cat, sure-footed, and steady where larger folk blundered. With a few cookies and a quick tackle of the little man, he took him on an adventure that later songs would call destiny, the wizard drafted him into the northern venture. Bilbo proved ideal for quiet work—nimble, wiry, and blessed with that second kind of courage which arrives five heartbeats after common sense. When the dragon business was finished, many ogres and centaur's slain, and the road curved home, Gandalf turned to the matter of safety for the little folk as he saw a great use for them. With more persuasion than the chroniclers admit—and several caravans of flour, tools, and promises—he guided the Halflings far west to the island of Albion: rolling shore-hills behind sea-breaking mountains, under the gentle radiance of the Angelic Queen Lili's holy lightstones.
On that long road and after came a bond the midwives swore they had predicted. Bilbo's sister—keen-eyed, strong-hearted, more beautiful than her kim, and memorable in every painting—formed a lasting attachment to Gandalf of well he really was the one who left a lasting seed within her womanly cave, and in Albion she bore a son: Frodo Baggins. Unlike most Halfling lads, who grow to a neat one hundred centimeters or so, Frodo ran tall for his people; by fifteen he already measured one hundred twenty-six centimeters and carried the compact strength of a stonecutter. Folk said he'd caught a spark of the Red Core from his sire: his body toughened early, wounds sealed in a night, fevers passed quickly, and stubborn doors reconsidered when he set his hand to them. He was, as the aunts concluded over cooling tea, "very soundly put together and large in the places that love making took interest in"—which in the Shire is praise enough.
So it was that on this island called Albion—within the Kingdom of Albion, which older songs remembered only as a wilderness of giants and magic—the Halflings were at last resettled by royal decree. Gandalf, their shepherd and patron, was granted the title of Governor of the Shire, though even he remained but a vassal beneath Albion's angelic crown.
There, in the far west of the island, beyond the tall mountains and among the rolling hills that sloped down to the restless sea, the Halflings carved out their new home. Beneath the radiant glow of the holy lightstones, their burrows opened into neat farmsteads, and the little folk, guided by Gandalf's stern hand, learned to till valleys rich enough to deserve the name of hearth and home. On the hills above, sheep grazed in wide flocks, tended by laughing children and vigilant dogs, while below, furrows of wheat rose thick and golden, as though the soil itself had been kissed by blessing. Orchards bent heavy with fruit each season, pressing their branches almost to the earth, and the sheep, grown fat on the sweet grass, gave mutton and milk in abundance.
Albion had given the Halflings what their forebears had never known: not mere survival in borrowed burrows, but plenty, permanence, and a peace to be called their own.
Truly life in Albion was safe in a way unknown to Halfling forebears. The great predators had long ago been slain by the Big Men, and so wolves, beastmen, fairies, and worse no longer prowled the nights of the island. Disease was a rarity, swiftly driven out by the radiance of the lightstones; death from sickness became less a fate than a fireside tale. Thus it was that Men, Lycans, and now Halflings lived side by side in a peace that might have seemed impossible elsewhere—neighbors divided by hedge and by clear physical differences, yet united by law, religion, and the gentle authority of Albion's angelic royal line.
The Lycans themselves were a wonder and a warning, depending on who told the story. Most were fair women, tall and strong-limbed, marked by red eyes like the colour of rose's and unmistakable bright red hair. By old nature they were hunters and pack-creatures, given to primal animalistic natures and moon-howls; but centuries under Albion's crown had tempered them into something more civilised, real citizens. Although they still bore the power to shift their forms, to take on the aspect of the man like wolves, yet they were bound by oath and custom to use that gift in defense of their neighbors rather than their own urg to run naked into the night. Though civilised, they remained fierce, and their presence alone was reminder enough of why Albion drilled even its smallest folk in the ways of war and disciplined.
Indeed, life was so bountiful, so strangely easy here, that the Halflings—whose inclinations leaned ever toward comfort and contentment—might gladly have spent their days napping in the sun, feasting without labor, or idly gossiping at the well. But Albion was not a kingdom built for idleness. It was a realm of vigilance, innovation, and endless preparation, for the sea was no wall but only a restless moat, and hungry eyes had always stared from the mainland of Europa. To grow lazy here was not only a personal failing but a national sin. And so, schools were established in every Shire, not merely to teach letters and sums, but to harden bodies, discipline wills, and ensure that even the smallest citizen could march, fight, and kill when called upon.
Almost every morning, before the dew had lifted, the coaches would come clattering into the villages. They would rouse every child and youth, gathering them together in the square before leading them out across the hills. Ten kilometers they ran, bare-footed and grumbling, until lungs burned and legs trembled. Then came the sets of drills: one hundred pushups, one hundred sit-ups, one hundred squats, and one hundred practice swings with swords so heavy they seemed forged for giants. After that, the sparring began—Halfling against Halfling, wooden blades and blunted steel flashing until blood was drawn and an instructor declared the bout satisfactory.
The lightstone of the village church restored cuts and bruises once the morning's work was complete, but the ache of tired limbs lingered long enough to teach endurance. What seemed harsh at first quickly became routine; and what seemed unbearable at the beginning soon proved tolerable, even easy, once the body learned to obey the whistle. Halflings, adaptable as ever, began to joke that the drills were no worse than "the warm-up before second breakfast."
After the morning's trials came the schoolhouse, which by comparison felt almost a relief. There they learned to read and write, to count and reckon, to chart the wide world upon maps, and to master the everyday arts of keeping hearth and home. Yet above all, they were taught the trade that Albion valued most: the art of war. Halfling children learned to march in step, to fight in line, to loose arrow and throw spear, to keep courage steady when shadows moved. Older students were taught the tongues of the continent: the courtly speech of the Francians, and the deep, thunderous German favored by many noble houses. A clever Halfling might earn himself advancement by mastering both, for in Albion knowledge of languages was as useful to a soldier as the edge of his blade.
Thus, what had once been a people content to curl together in burrows became a folk drilled, literate, and quietly formidable—still merry at heart, still fond of feasts and songs, but now bound to Albion's order and armed with Albion's discipline.
And so it was that on the 25th of December, Year 950 After Sighard, Albion celebrated a Christmas day like any other. Though the date matched the dead of winter elsewhere, here the sun shone warm, the air was clear, and the meadows glowed green. Such was the gift of the Angelic Princess Lili, whose blessings kept Albion in perpetual spring.
In the forest near the village of Shire, Frodo lay beneath a mighty oak, half-hidden in its shade. Upon his lap rested a book of war—no ordinary volume, but one written by the Crown Prince Arthur Pendragon himself, hero of Albion and, more amusingly, Frodo's own grandfather. Arthur's words, set down in strong and noble hand, thrilled him more than any other text.
His face was serious, his blue eyes intent as he read again of mighty struggles—the three hundred Spartans, for instance, who had once stood in their bronze splendor against the million-strong peasant horde of Persia. For the hundredth time he turned those pages, and for the hundredth time he felt his chest swell. "Grandfather truly was a genius," he thought.
But then a new sound drifted through the forest: a man's voice, humming and singing a cheerful tune. Frodo's head snapped up, his expression softening into a grin. At once he shut the book, sprang to his feet, and ruffled his golden curls into place.
Though built like a sculpted athlete, his steps were light and swift as he darted between the trees, chasing the sound. The book he left where it lay, but in Albion such things mattered little. No one here would ever steal; the unity of the realm was such that if anyone found it, they would likely carry it to his doorstep themselves, as cheerfully as any postman.
With this in mind Frodo ran without a care in the world, eager to meet the man he regarded as his master, his friend, and perhaps even more. As he ran he fussed with his appearance: tugging up the sleeves of his mostly open white shirt, brushing the dust from his green trousers, and glancing down to make sure his leather shoes bore no scuffs.
Ahead, through the trees, he heard the creak of wagon wheels—and louder still, the unmistakable singing.
"I ride a lonely road, the only road that I have ever known.
Don't know how it goes, ever on and on,
down from my home to some woman's bountiful bosom.
La la la, I do so love women and magic, tra-la-la!
When I was but a young man, my mother said to me:
'Don't go playing round with fire magic,
or you'll end up burned in bed, you see.'
Oh, this lonely road goes ever on—
may it end in red string panties ere too long!"
It was hardly a beautiful voice, but it made Frodo grin all the same. He came to a rise overlooking the road and there saw him: the old man himself.
He sat upon a rickety cart, puffing on his great pipe that always smelled of herbs (said to "cleanse the lungs," though Frodo suspected it was simply for amusement). His gray robes were as casual as they were shapeless, his absurdly large hat flopping with every bump of the wheels.
The cart itself was drawn by the Black Horse of Albion, a beast nearly three meters tall—far too massive for such a paltry wagon. The sight was ridiculous: a godly steed hitched to little more than a farm cart.
And then there was the man. His white hair and beard made him look ancient at a distance, but up close his face was young, his frame muscled, his whole bearing more suited to a gallant knight than an "old wizard." If only he would cut his hair, polish his look, perhaps don some shining armor—why, he'd be the image of a hero! But instead he chose gray and smoke and silliness. Frodo sighed.
Crossing his arms with mock sternness, Frodo called down:
"You're late!"
The cart rattled to a halt. The old man fixed him with grave eyes, removed the pipe from his lips, and intoned:
"My boy, a prince is never late. He arrives precisely whenever the fuck he wants to."
For a heartbeat they stared at one another in perfect seriousness—then both broke at once into grins and booming laughter.
"Hahaha!"
Without hesitation Frodo leapt into the man's arms, and Gandalf welcomed him with a booming laugh and a crushing hug. Frodo buried his face in the old wizard's cloak, breathing in smoke, herbs, and the familiar scent of home. No matter how old he grew, Frodo always felt like a child again in that embrace. The man was still towering—well over two meters—and to Frodo he was both father and mountain. Smiling at the thought, Frodo murmured,
"Oh, it's wonderful to see you, Father."
"Oooh!" Gandalf chuckled, squeezing tighter. "You didn't think I'd miss your birthday, my boy? Hah!"
Frodo's heart leapt. Every year his father remembered—every year without fail. They did not see each other often, and Gandalf saw his mother even less, but when he came, he came with joy and gifts. It was enough.
Breaking from the hug, Frodo scrambled up onto the cart beside him, beaming. "What news of the outside world, Dad? Has Grandmother gotten pregnant again yet? Any wars? Any new inventions in the capital? Please—you've got to tell me everything!"
The cart creaked into motion, the Black Horse of Albion straining against its load of fireworks. Gandalf puffed his pipe, then patted Frodo's head with a fond smile.
"Everything? Ooh, you curious little Halfling, always wanting everything. Well, curiosity's a good trait, though dangerous if you stick it in the wrong hole. That's how I nabbed your Uncle Bilbo and made him my friend. Worked out for him in the end—mostly. Hah!
"As for the world… well, it rolls along much as ever, full of its comings and goings. Most folk beyond our borders scarcely know Albion exists. Father still insists we keep to the old isolationist ways, and to outsiders we're but a mist of mystery and magic. Which is just as well—we don't need French spies sneaking around our hedges." He winked. "Though if they're young, unmarried, and pretty virgins, well… exceptions can always be made. Ha!"
As the towering father and his small Halfling son rolled into the village of the Shire, heads began to turn. Little ones—so small they looked like toddling human infants though most were already four or five—came dashing out of their burrows.
"Look! It's Gandalf, it's Gandalf!" they cried, their tiny arms waving. One girl puffed her chest proudly and squeaked, "Hey Gandalf, I'm a big girl now—sixty-five centimetres!"
At this Gandalf threw back his head and laughed. With a sweep of his arms he conjured sparks, fireballs soaring high before bursting into shimmering star-showers. The children shrieked with delight, hopping up and down as the embers rained. Then, with a clap of his palms and a gust of wind, he snuffed the flames before they touched the grass.
But the old wizard was not above mischief. He angled the gust just so, swirling beneath the hems of the women's skirts, drawing out surprised squeals—and giving himself a generous glimpse of the "modern undergarments" his wife, the Angelic Queen, had so graciously introduced to Albion.
Frodo, watching from the cart, smiled knowingly. Underwear fascinated him—so many colours, cuts, and clever designs. Grandmother had called it progress, and Frodo for one was always eager to study progress in motion.
Catching his son's eye, Gandalf winked and chuckled. "My boy, this will surely be a night to remember—ha!"
And so, to cheers, laughter, and a few flustered matrons, the great wizard and his eager son rumbled further into town—bound for Bilbo's burrow, his family hearth, and Frodo's waiting mother.