A golden meteor streaked across the night sky, a fleeting scar of light that vanished as quickly as it appeared over the lands of Middle-earth.
The Men who happened to glimpse it paid it little mind, dismissing it as a common shooting star. The Elves, ever romantic and artistic, whispered wishes upon its fading glow. In their mountain halls, the Dwarves attempted to track its trajectory, dreaming of the rare sky-metal they might find at its impact site.
But one observer saw it for what it was. Far away, a wizard in grey robes held a pipe between his lips, his wise blue eyes fixed on the point where the light had disappeared. His ancient face was a mask of contemplation, and for a long while, he remained silent.
"A star from a foreign sky falls," he murmured to the wind. "A Tarnished Grace shall rise."
He took a slow pull from his pipe, the smoke curling into the darkness.
"Is it friend… or foe?"
With the question left hanging in the air, the grey wizard spurred his horse, galloping away in the opposite direction of the fallen star.
The Shire, Hobbiton
The afternoon sun cast a warm, golden glow over the rolling green hills. It was a peaceful, lively day, and the air was thick with the comforting aroma of afternoon tea and freshly baked pastries.
As a respectable Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins should have been seated comfortably inside his home at Bag End. He should have been indulging in grilled sausages, buttered toast, and sweet biscuits, all washed down with a fine black tea. Afterwards, he would have settled into his rocking chair by the fire, letting out a contented burp—the highest compliment one could pay to a well-enjoyed meal.
But he was not.
Instead, Bilbo, dressed in a brown shirt and black trousers, stood frowning on his own doorstep. He was not alone. A circle of his relatives, friends, and neighbors stood with him, their faces all wearing the same concerned frown. Every pair of eyes was fixed on the grassy, curved roof of Bilbo's own smial.
"Well, Bilbo, perhaps you should climb up and see what's what," a sharp-voiced Hobbit suggested. "It is your roof, after all."
The speaker, a woman in a dark yellow dress, regarded Bilbo with a look of malicious glee.
Bilbo pointed a finger at her, his patience already worn thin. "I know what you're thinking, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins! You're just hoping I get stabbed by whatever that is so you can sneak into my house and make off with my silver spoons! Don't think I've forgotten the last time you tried!"
A ripple of laughter went through the gathered Hobbits, and Lobelia flushed with embarrassment.
"Be that as it may," she huffed, "the thing is on your roof. You'll have to deal with it sooner or later."
Bilbo shrugged, affecting an air of nonchalance. "That is no concern of yours. For all we know, this suit of armor is a gift from the heavens! Perhaps I'll sell it to a wizard. It might fetch a handsome price. Then I can use the money to buy more cheese and sausages…"
Clang!
As if in response to his words, a gauntleted hand on the armor twitched, the sound of metal on metal sharp in the sudden silence. The chatter outside Bag End ceased instantly. Even Bilbo and Lobelia stopped their bickering, their hearts thumping in their chests.
After a long moment in which nothing else happened, Bilbo let out a shuddering sigh of relief. He turned to address the crowd, only to find that his relatives and neighbors had vanished, leaving behind nothing but a mess of sunflower seed shells and fruit peels.
Bilbo sighed again, this time in exasperation. He took a deep breath, puffed out his chest, and looked up at his roof. "Right then," he said bravely. "Let's see what dares to crash land on the roof of a Baggins!"
He marched back inside Bag End, grabbed the trusty frying pan he used for fish and sausages, and clambered onto his roof. He crept toward the motionless figure, brandishing the pan before him.
"You'd best not provoke a Baggins!" he announced, his voice trembling only slightly. "We're the fiercest family in all of Hobbiton! I'll knock your helmet off with my frying pan, I will, and then… then I'll kick your boots off with my foot!"
The figure was humanoid, encased from head to toe in unfamiliar silver-white plate armor. Intricate, branch-like carvings adorned the helmet, and a plume of what looked like snowy wolf fur cascaded down its back. Similar leaf-like engravings decorated the silver pauldrons. Where the plate did not cover, such as the neck and joints, there was only black chainmail, making it impossible to see if there was a person inside or something less pleasant.
Perhaps it's an Elf? Bilbo wondered, marveling at the fine craftsmanship. The thought sent a thrill of fear and excitement through him. He had only ever read about Elves in books.
Closing his eyes, he gave the armor's chest a gentle tap with his frying pan, which still smelled faintly of sausage. There was no reaction.
Bilbo blinked, a thoughtful expression on his face. Mustering his courage, he gripped the strange helmet and pulled with all his might. It came off with a soft hiss of air.
"Good heavens…" Bilbo gasped.
Staring back at him was the unconscious face of a young man. His features were handsome, framed by short, black hair. His lips, however, had a purplish tint, and his skin was unnervingly pale. He looked as though he were in desperate need of a warm bed, a roaring fire, and a bowl of hot soup.
He had assumed the armor was empty, but it held a living, breathing person.
Bilbo's first thought was: How did he survive a fall from that height?
His second thought was: How am I going to get him off my roof and into the house?
Leaving the stranger where he lay never crossed his mind. At his core, Bilbo was a kind soul. The master of Bag End glanced from the unconscious Man to the soft earth below and had an idea.
As he struggled to drag the armored man, who was nearly twice his size, toward the edge of the roof, he mumbled, "Well, you fell all the way from the sky. I don't suppose this little drop will do any more harm, will it?"
After muttering this reassurance, he carefully placed the heavy helmet back on the stranger's head, patting it twice to ensure it was secure.
"Three… two… one… heave!"
With a final, mighty shove, the armored man tumbled off the roof and landed with a heavy thud directly in front of the round, green door.
Bilbo peered over the edge. "Well, look at that," he said, wiping his brow. "Lucky for you. You won't get any more mud on you."
The Tarnished awoke to a gentle orange light, the peaceful chirping of insects, and the faint, herbal scent of a poultice. A low, wooden ceiling hung just above him, lit by a simple black chandelier. He was covered by a clean, white blanket, but it only reached his chest. His silver wolf-plumed armor had been removed and placed neatly on a small cabinet at the foot of the bed, leaving him in only his black underclothes.
His legs, he discovered, were propped up on a velvet-padded chair. The bed he was lying in was much too short for him.
Clink, clank.
From another room came the distinct sound of a knife on a cutting board, accompanied by the savory aroma of cured meat. Someone was slicing sausage. He tried to sit up, but a fresh wave of agony shot through his body, as if every bone had been shattered. With a grunt of effort, he managed to swing himself into a sitting position on the tiny bed.
Where am I? Was I saved by demi-humans? No… demi-humans don't live in places this clean and tidy. And they certainly wouldn't put an unconscious stranger in a bed. They would have treated him as an unexpected feast.
Just then, a figure emerged from the other room carrying a wooden tray. He was a small man, barely reaching the Tarnished's waist, with a kind, smiling face. He wore a tidy brown waistcoat over a white shirt and simple trousers.
But…
The Tarnished's gaze fell to the man's feet. They were large, bare, and covered in thick, brown hair—not the feet of a man.
So it is a demi-human? A well-dressed one? But I've never seen a demi-human with the face of a man.
As the Tarnished wrestled with his confusion, the small man's face broke into a wide, happy grin. "Oh, my friend, you're finally awake! Do you know you've been sleeping in my bed for two whole days? If your chest hadn't still been moving, I'd have thought you were done for!"
The Tarnished managed an apologetic expression. "My apologies, kind stranger. May I ask where I am? Is this Leyndell, on the Altus Plateau? Or a town in Liurnia of the Lakes?"
Bilbo's eyes widened. He glanced around his cozy smial, particularly at the round window to his right, as if to confirm he was still in Hobbiton. "No," he said slowly. "I've never heard of those places. This is Hobbiton, in the Shire. It's where we Hobbits live."
He walked over and placed the tray on the low table beside the bed. To the Tarnished, the table was low. To Bilbo, it was just right.
"I've made dinner," Bilbo said, presenting a plate. "But I'm not very good at taking care of sick folk. Can you eat this?" On the plate lay a cod fillet, pan-fried in butter until it was golden brown.
The Tarnished started to raise his hand, but the intense pain seized him again.
Seeing his guest wince, Bilbo immediately clucked with concern. "Oh, forgive me! I forgot you fell from such a height. Your bones must be broken all over. I've never played nursemaid before, but since you landed on my roof, I suppose I can help feed you."
"No," the Tarnished said, shaking his head. He endured the pain and raised his right hand, making a grasping motion in the empty air. A moment later, a crimson tear-shaped flask materialized in his grip, a small amount of glowing red liquid sloshing at the bottom.
Good, he thought with relief. There's one drink left.
He raised the flask and drained the last of the liquid. A familiar warmth instantly flooded his body, and the agonizing pain from his injuries vanished as if it had never been there. Color returned to his pale face, and the weariness faded from his dark eyes. He stood up from the bed.
THWACK!
"Ow."
His head collided squarely with the chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
Bilbo, who had opened his mouth to warn him, snapped it shut. He cleared his throat. "You Men are a bit too tall for Hobbit-holes, I'm afraid. Please, sit down. Oh, where are my manners? I haven't introduced myself. My name is Bilbo Baggins. And you are?"
Bilbo then pointed curiously at the flask still in the man's hand. "How did you do that? Is that one of a wizard's potions? Are you a wizard? Like Gandalf the Grey, who comes here to set off fireworks for the New Year?"
The Tarnished was taken aback by the Hobbit's rapid-fire questions. He'd never met anyone so talkative. He considered for a moment before answering. "I… do not remember my name clearly. But I remember others calling me the Tarnished, for I have lost my Grace."
He shook his head. "I do not know this Gandalf. As for the flask, I am no wizard, but this is no alchemical potion. The liquid within is a form of Grace. So long as you draw breath, a single drink can restore your body to its peak." He glanced at the deeply interested Hobbit and added, "However, it cannot cure disease or poison. It only restores the body to its state before it was afflicted. As for the taste… it is something like a blend of apples, grapes, and strawberries."
Bilbo shook his head. "Oh, I don't really care about all that… well, I do care a little about the taste. But you've drunk it all, haven't you, Mr. Tarnished? Why don't you enjoy some of my cellar's finest wine while I prepare a proper dinner to celebrate your waking? Please wait here."
Before the Tarnished could reply, the Hobbit scurried away on his big, hairy feet, disappearing into the other rooms of his cozy home.
Is this kind person… a bit too hospitable? the Tarnished wondered.
He did not know that Hobbits were a very hospitable, kind, and peaceful people.
***
(End of Chapter)
[Check Out My Patreon For +20 Extra Chapters On All
My Fanfics!!] [www. [email protected]/meowthtl]
[+300 Power Stones = +1 Bonus Chapter]
[+500 Power Stones = +1 Extra Chapter]
[Thank You For Your Support!]