Prologue: Rumours in Bree
The common room of the Prancing Pony was crowded that evening. Travellers from every corner of Eriador filled the benches, while the smell of pipe-weed, roasting meat, and fresh bread drifted through the air.
As many good Hobbit tales do, mine began around a table laden with food, laughter, and stories.
I had come to Bree expecting little more than a comfortable bed, a hearty supper, and perhaps a few interesting travellers. Instead, I listned at a minstrel, playing on his Mandolin
Five leagues east of Karningul,
where the wild winds wander free,
Beyond the road and mountain pass,
lies a place no map should be.
Most folk talked of weather, roads, or the latest news from the Shire. But at a nearby table two Elves listened quietly at the od tune, paying little heed to anyone who might be listening.
"...surely it is only a tale," said one.
"A tale, perhaps," replied the other. "Yet some among the Little Folk vanished from the old eastward roads before their people reached the Shire. Few now remember where they went."
I pretended to be occupied with my meal, though every word now held my attention.
The first Elf shook his head.
"Hobbits west of the Misty Mountains are common enough. But a village hidden in the East? I find it difficult to believe."
The second leaned closer.
"Believe what you will. The records mention a settlement called Lyndelby. It is said to lie somewhere east of Weathertop, beyond the wild lands and the mountains."
"Lyndelby?"
"A hidden valley. Protected for centuries. Some claim Elves once watched over it."
The first Elf laughed softly.
"A hidden valley of Elves? There is only one place that sounds like."
The second nodded.
"Indeed. If answers are to be found, they may lie in Imladris."
Before I could hear more, the innkeeper called for fresh ale, and their conversation drifted elsewhere.
Yet their words would not leave me.
A village of Hobbits.
Far from the Shire.
Living beside the Great River.
Growing up, I had heard the occasional traveller speak of distant Hobbit-folk who had never crossed the Misty Mountains. Most dismissed such stories as little more than old gossip passed from one inn to another. I had never given them much thought myself.
Yet now I wondered.
If Hobbits truly lived so far from home, were they really so different from us? Did they love good food, warm hearths, and cheerful company as we did? Did they tell the same stories, or had they made new ones of their own?
The more I considered it, the more impossible it became simply to return home and forget what I had heard.
The next morning the Elves were gone.
Most would have dismissed the tale as fireside gossip.
I could not.
So I packed what provisions I could carry, settled my account at the Pony, and turned my face east. If Lyndelby truly existed, I meant to find it. Perhaps, before the road reached Imladris, I might even find others willing to seek the answer alongside me.
And so my journey began.
