Frodo had been the first to spot the others stringing up garlands and hammering stakes for the feast-tents, and he'd wasted no time in throwing himself into the work. He loved lifting—crates, beams, banners, anything heavy enough to make his shoulders swell and his arms bulge. It wasn't only the labor he loved, but the stolen glances it won him from the lasses. He grinned to himself whenever he caught them looking; strength was its own kind of music, and he liked to play it loud.
Yet for all the attention, Frodo's tastes ran elsewhere. Little folk weren't truly his type, no matter how often Father Gandalf assured him that Shire women were "quite fine, and much improved from their primitive days." Frodo had heard the stories often enough: how, not long ago, the Halflings had been half-starved, skin sallow, ribs poking through. They had stunk of smoke and damp earth, frail burrow-dwellers with no more polish than a root pulled from the ground.
But that was before Albion. Here, like every soul who swore allegiance to the angelic crown, they had been remade. Their bellies were full, their complexions ruddy with health, their teeth white, their hair lustrous, and their bodies carried a proper mix of fat and muscle. Even the plainest farmer's daughter in the Shire now bore a glow that would have made his ancestors gape.
Frodo scarcely understood what life beyond the island was like. He only knew what travelers' tales claimed: that outside Albion, people starved, rotted with disease, aged too soon, and lived brutish, ugly lives. It sounded like another world entirely.
And perhaps that was why Frodo longed to see it for himself. He wanted to behold the aloof, arrogant Elves who sneered at men; the stubborn Dwarves with their stone-stubborn pride; and most of all, he wanted to cross blades with monsters—the real kind, not the sparring partners of Shire schoolyards. He wanted to test his steel on something that could roar back.
But all that would have to wait. Today he was in the Shire, hoisting a heavy timber beam, muscles straining as the lads raised the birthday banner high over the green. The painted letters rippled in the summer air:
"Happy 16th Birthday, Mister Frodo Baggins."
Tents bloomed across the green like bright sails: guy-ropes taut, pennants snapping, trestle tables laid end to end and waiting for pies, roasted lamb, and towers of sugared buns. Benches ringed the dancing circle; lantern poles rose like slim trees; fiddlers tested strings and argued amiably about tempo.
At the heart of it all, beside the lake's bright skin, stood the Great Tree. Its crown spread like a green canopy over the village, and in its highest boughs glimmered the year's blessing: two, perhaps three, apples turned to molten gold by the lightstones. Once a year the tree ripened such fruit, and once a year a handful of names were drawn. Those who tasted the golden flesh were said to feel Albion in their bones—strength quickened, breath deepened, muscles knitting, vigour increased as did women's fertility, and swelling in all the right places as if answering a drillmaster's bark. For a short while, stamina sang, hearts ran like hammers, and, as the aunties liked to phrase it with a prim cough, "future children took a shine to the idea of being born sturdy."
Frodo stacked another crate, shoulders flaring, while his gym-bro Sam huffed beside him and pretended the boxes were heavier than they were.
"Up—two—three," Sam puffed. "You're showing off again."
"Only because the ladies are watching," Frodo said, grinning. "And that one you fancy has very high standards."
Sam blushed and quickly set the last box with a thud, dusted his hands, and glanced towards the the women gathered in the big tent giggling and gossiping while preparing the food.
"Yeah I guess, I just hope they are impressed?" Sam said half a question to Frodo half a wish the women noticed him.
"Well my father did say that this would be a night to remember," Frodo answered, though his eyes stayed on the tree with golden apples. "I'm sure you'll have your own little woman soon enough Sam."
A breeze came off the lake and set the golden apples winking in the leaves. Somewhere a bell rang for the bakehouse; somewhere else a dog barked at the notion of fireworks. Frodo rolled his shoulders, felt the familiar, pleasant ache of work done well, and tried not to wonder too loudly—what was Father doing now?
And as for Gandalf, he had travelled the small hill road to the Bagginses' burrow—quite a lovely home, if a touch compact for a man of his size. It boasted five snug bedrooms, a modern bath (the very sort his father, the Prince, had popularized), and two tidy floors: the upper given to living—writing, reading, cooking—and the lower to stores of food and arms, with a corner set aside for training gear.
He smiled at the familiar round door and rapped his knuckles lightly.
"Knock, knock, knock."
Almost at once he heard the patter of small feet racing down the passage. The door swung open—not swiftly, for three Halflings tugging together did not amount to much in human measure, but with all the eagerness of family.
Foremost among them was his concubine and Frodo's mother, Mary. Barely a hundred centimeters tall, she had, like so many in Albion, taken on the health of the land: curves in the right places, a glow in the cheek, and eyes the bright blue of clear morning sky. Her long brown hair shone in the light like brushed chestnut, and her smile—white and even—arrived before her words.
And though she wore nothing but her loose morning dress leaving little to the imagination, she didn't hesitate at all and pounced on him, as she yelled happily.
"Oh, my love—you came!" she cried, and sprang forward to embrace him.
Her short arms squeezed as fiercely as they could, her head pressing against the lowest part of him she could reach without a stool. Gandalf sighed with mock defeat, stroking her soft hair as she clung to him, knowing well enough she was not only welcoming him home but hinting at what she hoped to gain again.
"Yes, Mary," he murmured with a smile. "It's good to see you too."
Frodo was now basically an adult so looking at the woman he figured that he might as well try it with her again. By the looks of it the woman had been training daily and was most definitely capable of taking at least some of him, so it should be fine if he did it gently with her and they made another child together. After all by the looks of her it seemed that she most definitely couldn't wait no longer.
Turning back to the door, his gaze fell on two fair-haired youths: Bilbo's sons, Merry and Pippin. Both were near Frodo's age, though a little older, their small frames well-built from drills and work, though neither as tall nor as broad as Frodo himself.
Pippin was the first to speak, his grin as shameless as ever. "So, Uncle—did you bring anything good to smoke or drink this time? You know I love my vodka. Gets me going every time, hah!"
Merry, who stood two centimeters taller and lorded that fact over his brother like it was a crown, smirked and clapped him on the shoulder.
"Pippin, you can't seriously be thinking of drinking again? Didn't you have enough when Rosy poured that whole mug of ale down your backside the other day? Hah! Honestly, you're hopeless. You should give up the smoking and drinking, come train with Frodo and Sam like me. That's what makes a real Halfling man."
Pippin crossed his arms, unbothered, and shot back with practiced calm.
"Look, I'm simply enjoying our people's victory over the bad old days. Smoking, drinking, and taking it easy—that's my way. Besides, after installing more toilets and pipes around this Shire than anyone else, I've earned myself a long drag of whatever Uncle Gandalf has tucked in his cloak. Indoor plumbing is progress, Merry. You can keep your gym; I'll keep my pipe."
The back-and-forth was so perfectly them that Gandalf couldn't help but roar with laughter, his great voice booming through the little hall.
"Ha! Still the same pair of scamps I remember!"
Then, as if hefting nothing more troublesome than a sack of rice, he bent down, scooped Mary up under one arm, and tucked her snugly against his side. She squealed in delight but made no protest—by now she was well used to being carried about like a kitten by her giant of a lover.
With her dangling happily from his arm, Gandalf strode into the burrow and grinned at the lads.
"Now then—where's your father? Where's that lazy rascal Bilbo hiding himself this time?"
Unconcerned with whether Gandalf might be disappointed by his absence, Bilbo remained at his writing table, staring out through the large round window as his quill scratched across the page. If he would not greet the wizard at the door, then he would at least greet him in words—sharpened words, dipped in ink instead of courage.
"It began," he muttered aloud as he wrote, "as all good Halfling stories begin. It began in a tidy hole in the ground, where a small family lived primitive but content, happy enough with simple food, simple warmth, and one another. And then came a big Wizard to disturb that peace.
"He lingered for days, prowling the village with his cursed cookies. He lured us with sweets, cooed at us as though we were feral children, bribed us with treats and smiles while his eyes wandered—always to my sister, as if he already meant to snatch her as well. But he never caught her first, oh no. It was me. Foolish, hungry, too trusting by half—I crept too close, and he pounced.
"That arrogant, towering, kidnapping bastard carried me off to his so-called adventure. And what did I gain? A handful of scars, some trinkets of treasure, and the insult of being granted a standing order for 'infinite cookies' as if that were a reward. The cheek of him! The gall! To enslave me with biscuits!"
Bilbo paused, tapped the quill against his teeth, and scowled. "No, no, that's not a proper beginning. A proper story begins at the very root. For me, it began in a hole in the ground—yes—but in that hole a father Halfling and a mother Halfling lay together and made me. Then they made others too, brothers and sisters… most of whom were carried off by wild beasts, may the bastards choke on them." He sighed, shaking his head. "That's honest enough, but hardly inspiring."
Still frowning over his drafts, he scratched out the last line and tried again, but his thoughts were scattered by noise from above: bursts of laughter, the shrill kyaa-ing of his sister, and the unmistakable tread of heavy boots that shook the timbers. Gandalf was inside now. The great man's voice carried like thunder, and Bilbo knew his quiet protest was already drowned out.
The Halfling set down his quill, muttering under his breath, "Trouble's here. As always."
Bilbo kept his eyes on the page, pretending not to hear the heavy tread crossing the floorboards behind him.
A warm shadow fell over the desk. A hand the size of a shovel landed on his head and ruffled his hair as if he were a child.
"No way," Gandalf said, amused. "Are you writing again? Come on, Bilbo—you're barely past thirty by. Too young to be a grumpy memoirist like my old man. Come on, let's go have a drink before your sister takes me to bed and has her way with me. Besides you should enjoy yourself before the big party, and steal all the ladies attention from Frodo again—ha!"
Bilbo's jaw set. Not this time. No drinking, no smoking, no being hauled around like luggage.
He crossed his arms, braced his little boots against the chair legs, and gritted his teeth.
Gandalf did not notice—or pretended not to. With one hand he simply lifted Bilbo out of the chair like a stubborn cat and bore him down the corridor. Bilbo kicked once for dignity's sake. It did nothing.
He was deposited at the dining table. Mary set out cups and a plate piled indecently high with pastries. Bilbo fixed his gaze on the far wall. He would not be tempted.
A bottle appeared in front of him. Gandalf waggled it, the wine glugging cheerfully.
"Come now, Bilbo. One cup. For old times. Or has the richest Halfling in Albion become too grand to toast with an old friend?"
Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel the weight of his vaults behind him—golden plates, silver mail, a crown he tried not to wear in mirrors. Marriage? With this hoard? Not when half the suitors in the West suddenly discovered they liked short men with large cellars. No, better to keep his treasures—and his heart—shut.
"Bil-booo," Gandalf sang, sing-song wicked. When that failed, two enormous fingers jabbed gently into Bilbo's ribs.
"Tickle, tickle, tickle."
"Ah—no—stop that—ha—stop—!" Bilbo sputtered, laughter bursting out despite him. "You great oaf! Mercy! Mercy!"
From the doorway came Mary's bright giggle and the lads' chant: "Gandalf! Gandalf! Gandalf!"
Bilbo swatted at the hands, red-faced and breathless. "Enough! Fine! I'll drink—blast you!"
A cheer went up as if a fortress had fallen. "Go Bilbo! Go Bilbo!" Merry and Pippin drummed on the table; Mary clapped; Gandalf poured with magisterial solemnity and slid over a cup the size of a helmet.
"Just one," Bilbo warned, already reaching for a pastry. "Two at most. Three if the pie is savory."
"Of course," Gandalf said gravely, filling a second cup for himself. "I would never lead you astray."
Hours later, with the sun sinking and the lanterns coming alive down on the green, two figures lay on the hillside above the burrow: one enormous, one small; both pleasantly ruined by wine and whatever "lung-cleansing" herb Gandalf insisted was medicinal. The music carried up on the breeze, along with bursts of laughter and the flare of fireworks.
Bilbo exhaled a long, contented ribbon of smoke. "I hate you," he said, not moving.
"I know," Gandalf replied, equally still. "You're welcome."
Down on the green, while Bilbo and Gandalf lay on the hillside drunk and pleasantly hazy, it seemed the whole Shire had turned out—plus a sprinkling of big folk from neighboring villages. Music rippled, lanterns bobbed, and laughter carried up the slope like warm tidewater. Frodo whirled past below with a young red-haired Lycan beauty, her braids flashing like embers as she spun.
Gandalf could understand the appeal; red hair has always had its admirers. Personally, though, Lycans weren't his fancy. The moonlit business of turning into a very enthusiastic wolf struck him as more interesting than enticing. "I prefer my partners to remain the same species all evening," he murmured, half to himself.
Frodo's gym-bro Sam was stomping merrily with Rosy—Rosamund, probably; Gandalf never remembered which—while Merry and Pippin, incorrigible as ever, had somehow charmed a pair of proud Shire matrons into teaching them a scandalously fast reel.
On the hill, Gandalf tucked his sleeping concubine Mary against his left side and nursed his pipe with his right. Bilbo puffed alongside him, companionably silent. A moment later the Halfling blew a perfect smoke-figure of a stout little fellow in a waistcoat, hat cocked at a jaunty angle—air-weaving trickery Bilbo had practiced since their travels.
"Not bad," Gandalf allowed. He drew deep, then exhaled a towering smoke-image of himself brandishing a hammer. With a lazy flick of the fingers, the giant puff-Gandalf strode over and thunked the poor smoke-Halfling into oblivion.
Bilbo huffed. "You absolute ass."
Gandalf chuckled. "Tradition."
He was about to shape a dove—peace offering to soothe Bilbo's pride—when something higher snagged his eye: beyond the lantern glow, past the gentle halo of the lightstones glowing in the towns church. A brief, sharp flicker in the heavens. Then another. Not meteors; the intervals were wrong. Not lightning; the sky was clear as glass.
He pointed. "Hey—are you seeing this? Look. Those two—no, three—how are they multiplying like that? Do those stars look like they're burning to you, or am I seeing things?"
Bilbo peered, squinted, and finally shrugged. "Probably nothing. Let the gods play their games. Speaking of which, aren't you late for the midnight fireworks?"
Gandalf froze. "Ah. Blast." He slid Mary into Bilbo's arms with a wince and a grin. "Hold this. If I miss Frodo's show, he'll mount my hat on a pike. I'll make it up to you later."
Down the slope he went at a dignified wobble, stumbled twice, recovered thrice, and arrived at the cart with desperate purpose. Merry and Pippin were already there, breathless and delighted, shoving fuses and shouting advice. In moments the sky blossomed: wheels of fire, comet-tails and chrysanthemums, silver rain that hissed into the lake and rose again as steam.
Cheers rolled across the green. Then hush, as Frodo stepped forward to receive the Cross of Light and the day's other honors—applause steady, proud, a village's heart made sound.
None of them saw the heavens shift again. No song marked it; no omen touched the grass. But far above, where Gandalf's eye had first caught the flicker, something bright and tireless wrote a new line in the night.
And unknown to all on Albion's gentle shore, a great evil—unlike anything Terra had yet endured—was already on its way.
High in the upper atmosphere, two vast hulks of crude metal hurtled down toward the world, their jagged hulls glowing red as friction tore at them. Inside, alarms blared in broken rhythms—beep-beep-beep—barely audible over the roars of combat and the crackle of flames.
The ships were less vessels than cages of iron welded in drunken defiance of physics, now reduced to burning coffins. Bulkheads shuddered, pipes burst, and fires raged unchecked as the Green hordes inside did what Orks always did in times of crisis: they fought.
Crude cleavers clashed against jagged axes. Gunfire stuttered in uneven bursts. Orc teeth flew like shrapnel as jaws met fists harder than stone. Goblins—smaller, meaner, and no less stupid—hurled crude grenades into the melee, shrieking with glee even when the blasts consumed their own kin.
The decks ran slick with blood, black smoke seared the lungs, and yet still they roared. The last survivors of each burning hulk bellowed their battlecry in defiance of fire, gravity, and common sense:
"WAAAGH! WAAAGH! WAAAGH!"
"For Big Boss Goremash! Smash, smash, SMASH!"
"No, ya gitz! For Big Boss Killalot! Kill a lot, KILL A LOT!"
Names became weapons, chants became clubs, and in the chaos no one could say which Boss was winning. But in Ork logic, it hardly mattered. The louder the Waaagh, the greater the glory.
Both hulks tore through the atmosphere, burning like twin meteors. From the ground, they appeared as falling stars—two furious omens, screaming with green laughter.
Then came the split. One hulk sheared away eastward, a fiery trail carving its path toward the fabled lands of the Heavenly Dragon Kingdom. The other broke off south, a wounded comet screaming down toward the blistering deserts of Araby, perilously near the jagged Eastern mountain ranges.
The world of Terra below remained blissfully ignorant. In the Shire, songs and fireworks still lit the night sky. But above, in the burning coffins of crude iron, the first cries of invasion had already begun.
Down on the surface, within the Shire the party was beginning to wind down. One by one the mother's gathered their sleeping children; uncles shouldered half-empty kegs; the fiddles eased from reels to soft airs and then to silence. The green became a quilt of cooling coals and drowsy goodnights.
But even still some fireworks stitched bright wounds across the night as Merry and Pippin whooped at the fuses. On the green, Frodo lingered under the banner with the red-haired Lycan girl—two heads taller, all bright eyes and easy poise, moonlight caught in the twists of her braids. Happily he spun beneath the sparks of the last of the fireworks, grinning in his new gift: a reinforced aluminium chain shirt—light as linen, cool as river wind, tough as any steel.
Gandalf, meanwhile, had some time ago vanished in a swirl of good intentions and bad influence—off to honor Mary's wish for another child. He left behind a trail of laughter and the faintest perfume of "medicinal" smoke.
Bilbo, after regaling a ring of children with the usual catalogue—giants toppled, dragons outwitted, and that one time with Crown Prince Arthur and a red mountain—succumbed to the perils of hospitality. He fell asleep where he stood, slid to the grass like a melting candle, and presently snored in a puddle of his own disaster. Someone draped a shawl over him. Someone else fled the vicinity. Both decisions were wise.
Sam, grinning like he'd won harvest festival, scooped Rosy into his arms and carried her—very deliberately—into the bushes he'd trimmed only yesterday. There, under lantern-glow and stars, two nervous hearts found their rhythm in a way that would have made the aunties clap and then pretend not to. There was lots of rustling leaves, giggles and soon lots of moans and dirty words, most of Rose's word's just aimed at asking for more and for him to go deeper, which he did. Thus Sam became a man, and Rosy became his something, he wasn't sure what yet.
Then the sky changed and shuddered.
A dull boom rolled above the hills—felt first in the chest, then heard. All across the green, heads tilted; the few remaining lanterns seemed to draw in. Frodo's breath misted as he looked up.
High in the black, a massive ember burned across the sky, riddled with smaller sparks that fell away, flared, and died. Not a falling star—a burning city, flying. A second ember tore after it at a slant, shedding its own red hail. The two wounded fires crossed the firmament like scarred comets and slipped behind the eastward downs. For a heartbeat the world held its breath.
Thoom.
The sound came long after the light, a far-off hammer striking the earth. Grass whispered with a faint, slow tremor. Then another, heavier thoom—deeper, like a mountain clearing its throat. The older folk traded glances that said not fireworks. Even Merry stopped bragging. Pippin failed to light anything for a full ten seconds, which was a family record.
Frodo exhaled, found his smile, and turned back to the Lycan. "You know," he said lightly, "they say shooting stars are for wishes. I don't know what those were, but—well—I do know what I wish." He took her hand, heart pounding like a smithy. "I wish for you, my lady. If you'd have me."
A blush flickered and vanished. She squeezed his muscular but short fingers—warm, kind—and let go. "You're sweet, Frodo," she said, soft as fur. "But no. I'm not ready. And… I told you, I'll only marry a duke or a king." A teasing smile, then a careful one. "Also, we're cousins. And you're… small."
The word was not unkind. It was simply true.
She dipped a graceful curtsey—the sort taught in palaces—and turned toward the road. In the lantern haze, the crest on her cloak caught a glint, it was the golden dragon, the mark of her mother's house, and so it seemed that the Lycan princess had fallen out of his reach. The sight of her hips swaying away was a sight to behold, but also a reminder that stung like cold air.
Frodo's hand hung empty. He knelt before he knew he was kneeling, the grass cool against his knees. The last sparks drifted and went dark; the evening breathed; somewhere an owl asked a complicated question.
And Frodo felt empty, sure he could do it and lose it with one of the Halfling girls, he knew that much. After all they were all fawning over him and giving him flowers. But no, he wished to have only big women, with big breasts the size of his head and long shapely legs. He wished this because he wished his offspring to be bigger and better than he. The Baggins bloodline would not stand for being small, no way.
He stared east, toward the place the sky had broken. "Fine, tonight I swear," he whispered to the quiet. "I'll become even bigger." He stood, squared the chain shirt on his shoulders. "I'll become stronger, taller, I'll become a King if I have to, I will be more than what I am now. I'll make the Baggins name stand at least taller than a regular man's belly, at least one-forty centimeters tall and higher if the gods will allow it." This oath of his was absurd, perhaps. Sincere, entirely. The best oaths always are.
Down on the green, the last lanterns folded. Sam slept with Rose somewhere in the bushes, Merry and Pippin argued their way into the morning about something to do with fireworks. The Lycan girl—princess, cousin, and out of reach—was already in her wolf form running like a beast somewhere far on the road towards the capital city of Camelot. Behind the hills, far beyond Albion, two wounds in the sky were becoming wounds in the world: one in the deserts of East Araby, another in the far volcano islands. The echoes would take their time to arrive.
For now, the Shire returned to breathing. Frodo looked up once more at the flawless face of the night, at the old stars that did not move and the new ones that had. "All right then," he told them. "Watch me."