(Tolkien Time: 7 years after the second disappearance of Bilbo Baggins)
"Good, Athrodmir! Very good! But be sure to move your feet; You're not planting your left foot again. And Filido, keep your blade up!"
Callie looked out from the kitchen window disapprovingly at Bruidhor teaching ten-year-old Athrodmir how to use a sword near the tomato patch in the backyard. Honestly, why did their only child need to know something as silly as swordplay? This was Bree-land, peaceful and safe, not war-ridden Gondor!
And why did that stubborn Gondorian have to bring the neighbors' children into it as well? Even now, Bruidhor was observing a wooden sword duel between little Ath and young Filido, the Underhill child living next door!
Callie gasped as Athrodmir ducked just in time to dodge a wild swing from Filido that would have cracked his skull - or, at least, Callie thought it would have, although in all honesty it would have just given him a small bump - and rushed out the back door.
"All right, all right, that's enough! Give me those!" she commanded, yanking the wooden "death traps" from the young Man and Hobbit's hands. "Aww!" the children complained. Callie turned to Filido. "Filido, go home. It's about time for your second supper anyways." The Hobbit, completely forgetting swordplay, ran off towards his hole.
Callie now turned towards her son. "And you, young man, are filthy! Go inside, the bathtub is waiting." Athrodmir looked sullenly at his mother, then turned to his father. "Do I have to, Da?" "Do as your mother says," Bruidhor said. "If you hurry, I'll tell you a story before you go to bed."
Athrodmir, forgetting that his father would tell him a story regardless of how quickly he bathed, rushed into their small farmhouse. Callie glared venomously at her husband. "'Do as your mother says?' Hmph. If he did as his mother says, Athrodmir wouldn't be out here trying to kill the local children in the first place. I'm sick of it, Bruidhor!"
"I've told you before," Bruidhor said resignedly, knowing it would do no good, "it is completely safe. And knowing basic weapon skills is an important step for a boy to become a Man!" "In Gondor, maybe!" his wife argued. This is Staddle! There is a rather large difference between the two, ya know!" Callie continued her rant. "Honestly, in the twelve years since I met you in the Pony, you haven't changed a bit! And I'm glad for that, for the most part, but sometimes..." She looked up to see her husband smiling slightly at her. "What?"
Bruidhor grinned. "You haven't changed a bit either, my dear." Callie stared at him for a second. "Ugh!" she exclaimed. "I can't talk to you!" She stormed off, hiding a smile from the Gondorian.
~~~~~
"What did you do then, Da?" a wide-eyed Athrodmir asked his father excitedly. Bruidhor chuckled. "We didn't have to do anything else. After we cornered the Southron forces against the canyon wall, Cuairpharn's archers brought down the Mumak, and the creature collapsed, crushing the entire Haradrim contingent beneath it."
"Wow. You must be pretty smart to think of doin' all that, Da," said Athrodmir, pulling Bruidhor's purple Captain's helm out of the storage box. Bruidhor smiled. "I wouldn't call myself 'smart,' really," he said, hoisting Athrodmir onto his lap and fitting the large helmet on his son's small head. "But I've been blessed with a very...shall we say, strategic mind. He looked at his son. "You have one as well."
Athrodmir looked at his father with wide eyes, which were barley visible under the Gondorian helmet. "Really? I'm...strateegick?" "Strategic, yes," Bruidhor chuckled. "I can see it when you play games with the other children...and in those plans you make to steal Mrs. Sandheaver's pies. Don't do that anymore, by the way."
"I never..." Athrodmir began. His father cut him off with a sharp glance. "...yes, sir," he grumbled. Bruidhor nodded. "Well," he said, "It's high time you were asleep. Go say goodnight to your mother, and I'll put you in bed."
Athrodmir hopped off his father's lap put the helmet with rest of the Captain's armor, and ran into the kitchen where Callie was cleaning up. Bruidhor walked into his young son's small bedroom. Ath trotted in a few seconds later and climbed into his bed.
As Bruidhor pulled the quilt over his child, he heard him ask sleepily, "Da, why do the neighbors say that you make up all your stories?" "Do they, now?" Bruidhor smiled. "Yeah," Ath replied. "Mrs. Sandheaver said that you're...either crazy or a...a bald-faced liar, or sumthin' like that."
The Gondorian chuckled. "Well, some people, especially peaceful, simple people just have trouble believing in strange things without seeing them. And even then, most still wouldn't believe it."
"I believe your stories," Athrodmir yawned. "So does Skandin. He says not to believe what those folks say. He says he sees stranger things than the stuff in your stories on the road between Bree and the Shire." Bruidhor tucked in his son, feeling grateful that the Dwarf weaponsmith had befriended his young son.
"But I still want to see all the stuff in your stories," young Athrodmir continued. "Mumakil...the Great River...the White Tree...and I want to meet Cuairpharn and see Minas Tirith." "Perhaps you will, one day," Bruidhor murmured.
His son looked at him drowsily. "Will you take me there someday?" The exile smiled sadly. "I'm afraid not, little Ath," he said gently. "That's a journey you'll have to make on your own...unless you make some friends who would take the journey with you."
Athrodmir, however, had fallen asleep. Bruidhor listened to his pride and joy breathing softly for a few moments. Then, he stood up and crept silently out the door.
