A Humble Hobbit Meets a King Among Men
Highday, 19 Afterlithe
12 July 2002

Now, being a very humble Hobbit, it's quite amazing when one comes across a Ranger. Through-out my travels with the Big Folk I call my friends, I've seen many a strange and wonderful thing, if you take my meaning. That includes besting one rather troublesome orc and happening upon one of my own kind in the wilds of an uncouth land called Long Island. But, this day would be even more spectacular, because this was no mere Ranger. He turned out to be a King among men.

As I lay snuggled in my blankets, I came slowly awake and looked at the clock: half past six. Being a hobbit, I rather like sleeping in at least to half past ten, but today I knew would be different. I stretched and rubbed the sand out of my eyes. Yawning, I slowly stood, my legs wobbling beneath me like a new-born doe. After dressing and paying special attention not to forget my pocket handkerchief, I placed a newly-filled kettle on the stove to boil, and took an extra slice of my famous raisin cake to bolster my stomach against the nervousness I was feeling at the dawn of such a big day. I am only a little hobbit after all. Washing down the last of my breakfast with tea and grabbing my satchel, I bid farewell to my faithful cat Cleo and set off.

Stepping into the road outside, I shaded my eyes against the beautifully bright sun greeting me with the promise of an awfully warm day. I headed for the tunnels and passages that would bring this humble Brooklyn hobbit to the big city, made my way to the meeting grounds for my humble fellowship, all the while glancing at my watch and dabbing my brow with my trusty pocket-handkerchief. It was a hot day, and hobbits get mighty warm.

Since there was plenty time to spare and the day was so hot, I decided to sit and have a rest while I eyed all the interesting folk that walked by. Even though I enjoy having a nice chat, I still get very suspicious when many folk are about . So, I kept to myself and waited for my companions to arrive. I soon made friends with a bird that had decided to approach me looking for food.

"Now, I am sorry," I said. "I don't rightly know what a bird such as yourself eats, and, even if I did, I don't have anything to share with you." Actually, I thought to myself, my tummy is starting to rumble for some good cooking as well. Looking at the time, knowing it was high time for some meal or other, I wondered where my real friends were. Taking no offense to birds, mind you, but when in the wilds of the Big city, a humble hobbit does long for honest friendship, if you get my meaning. And, it was alsmost time for second breakfast! Glancing up, I saw my fellows laughing, because I was too busy conversing with a bird and hadn't noticed them across the road. After a nice second breakfast of solid hobbit-fare, more than enough to fill up the corners, we ended up at the last stage of our journey: to the Robert Mann Gallery.

Outside the gallery, there were a few Big Folk. But, as we made our way up to the tenth floor, there were scores of them crowded into a tiny, stuffy little hallway that would have made my Gaffer blush! Why, even the closets at Bagend have more room to stretch many a weary hobbit foot! After some hullos to a few familiar faces, namely one hobbit lass Christine that we had the pleasure of meeting in the wilderland of Long Island, we made our way toward a large silver door that was the gateway to the gallery beyond. Passing some rather rude hobbits, we introduced ourselves through an odd contraption in the wall that had been pointed out by a rather pompous, yet oddly happy man who reminded me rather strongly of Otho Sackville-Baggins. A spritely voice on the other side, inside the gallery if you get my meaning, told us to wait a little little while. Soon enough we were led into a large white room, adorned with some of the most astonishing works of art this humble hobbit has ever seen. At the far end of the chamber, at a long table, sparsely set with a few pens, some note-cards and a simple vase of purple roses lovely enough to have been grown on Bagshot Row, sat a King among men.

Strider is his name in Bree, Aragorn in the West, but in our fair city, he is known simply as Viggo. Walking down the long gallery, the soles of my fellows' boots echoing in the still air, we slowly approached the sitting King. He sat there with a look humble enough for a hobbit, yet with a glimmer of unmistakable royalty in his eye. He was clean-shaven, as is the custom of his folk, and his long slender hands rested lightly on the table. I nervously approached and smiled a greeting to the unassuming King and to my surprise he smiled back. The leader of my fellows, Anthony, announced the name of our fellowship, and Viggo recalled us! He thanked us for coming. What joy! We expressed this to him, as Anthony introduced each of us, and explained our reason for coming.
"On behalf of our sponsor, SideShow WETA, we at Heren Istarion, present you with this bust of Aragorn, as a token of our appreciation for your work on Lord of the Rings."
Being a modest man, Viggo asked if bust was truly for him, and if he "could keep it."
"Of course!" Anthony exclaimed. The bust was slowly handed to Mr. Mortensen and he accepted with wide-eyed amazement.
"This is for you, for your dedication to the people of Middle-Earth. We thank you with all our hearts." Taking the bust with a sparkle of delight and gratefulness twinkling in his eyes, he thanked us.

At this moment I knew that the ballad of Aragorn was true "All that is gold does not glitter. Not all those who wander are lost; the old that is strong does not wither. Deep roots are not reached by the frost...." For in this man's eyes I could see a strength that was hidden behind a shell of love and kindness.

Knowing that our time with this King among men was drawing to a close, we asked if we would be able to take a photograph.

"Certainly!" He agreed with a broad smile. But just as we were going to take the picture a suspicious looking women came over, she reminded me of another of the ungainly Sackville-Bagginses, and began to demand how Viggo would take his coffee.

"I'll take anything," he said quietly, but the woman couldn't hear his voice over the incessant rattle of her own. She continued to prattle off the entire coffee menu of some local café, ignoring the numerous attempts by Mr. Mortensen to interject a repeated "anything... anything... coffee... black.... I'll take anything...." Finally, in a most un-hobbit-like voice, due to the anger boiling up at so rude a person you do understand, I exploded: "Give the man coffee! Just a black coffee!"

The woman's ramblings ceased. Viggo smiled, very quickly saying, "Make it large." He patted me on the shoulder, "Thank you." With a huff the woman strolled away, and we commenced with our picture taking. After we had many handshakes, I said my thanks to Viggo, and we slowly exited the large white chamber that held the king among men and I thought to myself: What other amazing adventures await my friends and I on this amazing journey through life? Then I realized that my stomach had begun to growl. Looking at my watch, I realized that we had missed elveneses, and it was almost time for luncheon. "Well!" I said aloud to my companions. "Where there is life there is hope...and need of vittles!" Laughing in agreement, we slung our packs, full of Mr. Mortensen's books, over our backs, and we scoured the land in search of food, and our next adventure.