“That’s not my boy.  I know my son; that hobbit up there, who looks like him?  That’s not my son.  My son doesn’t have scars.  My son doesn’t wear a sword or mail.  My son was an innocent, a naïve lad; this hobbit’s eyes aren’t trusting—they’re forceful, certain, and to be frank, they frighten me.”

“Aye, imagine—being afraid of your own son.  But, like I said before, that hobbit up there?  He’s none of my blood and no kin to me.  He’s wild and alone inside—like no hobbit is, more like a wolf, a two-legged wolf; you can see it can’t you?  My son laughed—he doesn’t.”

           “I know, I know.  My boy, my son…he never came home, either.  Oh, some hobbit came back wearing his name, wearing his face—but it wasn’t the lad I raised.  My lad didn’t sit like that, didn’t stand like that—both feet planted at all times, ready to move, ready to…well, do something none of us real hobbits know anything about.  My son didn’t have calluses on his hands from wielding a sword.”

            “He’s not mine.”

             “He’s not mine.”

            “He’s not mine.”