Freawine sat near his favorite creek after his Mother told him to go outside and play. The neighborhood is lively enough for the time of day. He would wait for his Nan to meet him. He didn't understand why his Mother was so closeted about anything regarding family. But again, why should he? He was only seven. He quietly compared himself to other seven-year-old boys. Why were other children bored when he showed up? Why was he taught to read before he could pick up a sword? It didn't make sense.
He stared at his reflection in the creek. His memories of his Father were very vague, he was only three when the man passed. The boy runs his fingers along his cheek, then ran his fingers through his coal-black hair. Watching as the reflection imitated his every move. It's true, he looks like his father, just like in the painting. The only thing that pointed back to his Mother was the fair skin of the Eorlings. His knowledge is limited in regards to Rohan.
He only knew what his Nan described the Eorlings as "Proud and willful. Belonging to none but themselves. Singing many songs and were mighty among the houses of Men. They forged an alliance with Gondor in the days of old."
Everything felt so strange he was born in Bree-land. He knew the hills, he was familiar with the smell of orchards in the Summer. The way the grass felt underneath his feet when he ran through the neighbor's yard. Creating all the mischief that is expected of a young boy. But his mother always looked so tired and sad to him.
He tried to be happy, he didn't hate her, not really. He just hated how nothing ever stayed the same. This was the second house they moved to. And his mother only told him that it was "For the best."
Eventually, he reached into his satchel or 'bag of treasures.' as he liked to call it. And took out a golden toy, a sphere of elven-make. Something that wasn't seen among the children of Bree. His childhood anything but conventional.
He rolled it between his hands and thought about the elven-maid that gave it to him. His mother said it was left with Butterbur. What child could say they met an Elf? And one that cared about people other than their own? Not many.
Her name was Linglorel and it brought happiness and pain to think about her. Because he couldn't understand why she left. But she spoke of him to his mother as if he were some great treasure.
This was all he needed to soothe his worries.