[Kransha]

The usually jocund, emerald green eyes of Tobias Hornblower the Third, were suddenly immersed in a frosty silence, a reserved melancholia. His sharp, hooked nose was turned down as he let his stubbly head of long, unkempt strands of mahogany hair tempered with aging gray fall without heed onto his face. He nursed his dented tankard daintily, caressing the rim of the cup with his scrawny, gnarled index finger, emitting a very slight, whirring hum that filled his quivering, sharp ears. He sighed deeply, his ridiculously clothed just puffing out majestically before slumping back in upon itself, deflating the area that occupied the roomy confines of his sequined golden vest, the last thing that had actually remained intact since his arrival. His breeches were torn, tattered at the legs, his shielding frock was covered with the caked blotches of dried mud and all the miscellaneous straw that could cling to them. His overcoat was covered, for the most part, with the saliva of the homicidal animals who inhabited the Green Dragon stable, who were apparently out to get him.

It had barely been a day, not that Toby cared, since Snaveling and Roa left the Green Dragon Inn for the south, headed to the grand white city which Toby had only heard about. He vaguely remembered his withered fingers tracing the etched pictographs of old lore volumes unearthed from the chasms of library shelves that dotted the innards of his ample plantation back in the Southfarthing, most dusty relics that had survived since the age of his distant relation, Tobold Hornblower. He had read those tales with sagging eyes, festooned with wintry tedium as he left the records absent-mindedly behind. How he’d hated those things back then, the grandiose cities, looming with their terminating, towering pinnacles far from Eriador, tales of daring folk he’d never meet battling incomprehensible monsters he’d never see. But now, now he wanted all that. Light came at a price, and that price was more than curiosity, it was necessity. Toby Hornblower did not want to leave the Shire, he needed to leave the Shire, and yet both conflicted. He would be loath to leave his newfound home, but he had to, he simply had to.

But what was his home, anyway? When he arrived for a ‘brief’ stay at the inn of the Green Dragon, an unimposing little structure with a warm, flickering hearth-fire and plenty of ale all about, he’d hoped to leave the place as soon as his stumpy little legs could carry him. But now, now he couldn’t even tear himself from here to return to his sisters, brothers, cousins, nieces, and nephews in Longbottom. If he relocated yet again, would he find a new home away from them too? He could still remember, though, the days when he was with them, sitting in a swaying old seat of gilt oak wood on the porch of his pipeweed plantation, watching with a skeptical scowl as his younger relatives frolicked vivaciously through his crops. He’d almost taken a cane to them once for stepping on a surplus of his favorite Longbottom Leaf. The hobbit had been a monstrosity, an old coot who only his sisters and brothers could love. He remembered their faces, some tanned from days in the sun, some pale with the smooth complexion of polished porcelain, some a mixture of each. He missed them. He hadn’t even realized he really missed them until now. But, he was home.

As Toby’s gaze managed to yank itself sideways, he looked drearily upon the new arrivals. There were hobbits, men, elves, all the same. Toby saw the same familiar glow reminiscent in their looks and did not hesitate to scowl again. He was not antisocial, though the look of him spoke otherwise, he had seen what there was and life was a monotonous regularity, but he loved it all the same. Slowly, as he looked down at his murky reflection in the ale, his mouth opened, as barely audible words began to form on his lips. He’d never sung a song, Toby Hornblower, never in his life. He’d only heard a few worth remembering. One had been sung by Snaveling, but he felt unworthy to recite that beautiful, preternatural ode. The only other tune he’d ever committed to himself was something sung in tandem by his eldest niece, still young. He could see her, sitting on the lap of her father, not yet of age herself, and reciting back to him the song she’d just learned, her own gentle hazel eyes and fiery hair sparkling with the residue of pure, untainted happiness. He knew the words, he knew the tune, and he finally knew what it all meant.

Hey-ho, where e’er the wind blows,
The ships, they may come, the ships may go,
But e’er there’s a log to make the fire glow,
Wherever I am will be home.

Hey-hum, t’were the moon or the sun,
And the trees they may sway and the rivers may run,
But e’er there’s a pipe and a tankard of rum,
Wherever I am will be home.

Hey-har, in the light of the star,
‘Neath the blackest of skies and the mountains afar,
But e’er there’s a smile and some ale on the bar,
Wherever I am will be home.

Hey-hee, oh, whatever I see,
If ‘tis Bywater, Tuckborough, Buckland, or Bree,
As long as warm faces are looking on me,
Wherever I am will be home...