Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was a big, round door up ahead of me. Fourth—no, the fifth?—I had come across this evening. No, no, it was the sixth. I couldn't be sure. I didn't even know how long I had been walking.

The charming wooden gate and smooth flagstone steps that led up to the door were unfamiliar. I was hesitant to walk up them, yet I knew as sure as I knew the sun would rise come dawn, that I needed to speak with someone. Anyone. It was the matter of why, that I was less certain of.

A soft, warm light shone through small circular windows either side of the door. A beckoning sight amidst the darkness that surrounded me. Now that I was closer, I could see that the door was a beautiful deep green. There were little round nails decorating the door, and a single round brass handle in the very centre. All in all, I thought it was a very handsome door.

Timidly, I rapped my knuckles against the wood, hoping those inside were not asleep or eating. I didn't want to disturb anyone, but I needed to find somewhere to sleep and something to eat. Then, I could hear the faint sounds of footsteps. Giving a cautionary glance over my shoulder, I found no one, so it must have come from inside.

The door opened and out spilled more of that glowing light onto the cold stone I stood upon. My bare feet looked orange in the light, as if my skin was on fire. My musings cut short when I heard a shocked gasp.

The person in the doorway also had bare feet, but his were large and hairy. He wore a patchwork robe over what I assumed to be his night clothes and I felt guilty. Had I interrupted his bath? Or supper? Or even sleep?

"Par-pardon me sir?" I hoped I was polite enough, not sure what the protocol was for knocking on someone's door in the middle of the night. "But, could you possibly tell me where I am?"

He made a funny sound, almost a gasp and an exclamation of disbelief all at once. His big green eyes widened, his brown, bushy eyebrows disappeared into his curly fringe and his mouth hung agape.

All at once he seemed to remember my question. He straightened, closing his mouth with a sharp click that I was sure hurt, righted his robe and bowed.

"Pardon me miss," he began, his tone pleasant if a little wary. "You are in Hobbiton, which resides in the Shire, and my name is Bilbo Baggins. How may I help you?"

The Shire? Hobbiton? These words sparked no memories in my mind. I was without any knowledge or understanding as to where I was.

"Miss?" Came the tentative call from Mr Baggins. "Are you all right?"

He was leaning forward through the curved doorway, his head tilted to one side as he observed me. The light coming from behind him brought with it a warmth, and it was then that I realised how cold I was. I shook, indulging in the urge to wrap my warms around myself.

"I apologise Mr Baggins I-I don't seem to-to know…" I paused and took a deep breath, rubbing my arms to strive off the chill and panic. "I appear to be, to be lost."

Sniffing as a strong wind blew past me, I looked apologetically at Mr Baggins, hoping he would help me. I was too tired to try and find help elsewhere at the moment.

"Lo-Lost? Oh, of course, please come in. And you're cold, well of course you're cold, silly me. Come in, we need to get you next to the fire, you're practically blue!" He exclaimed, ushering me into the warmth of his home.

Thankful, I crossed the threshold into his house, feeling the warmth prickle my icy skin. The rug beneath my feet was a different sensation from soil, cobbles or stone, it was soft and comforting. The fibres were smooth with age, yet rough in contrast to the worn stone I'd been stood on moments before.

"Here," he said after shutting the large round door behind us. "Follow me miss and we'll have you warm in no time at all. Would you like a cup of tea? As it happens I've just made myself one."

"Umm, ye-yes I would like that very mu-much Mr Baggins, thank you," I answered. The half memory of a cup of hot liquid materialising in my mind.

He smiled with a touch of nervousness. Was he worried about what his wife might think? Bringing a strange girl into their house in the darkness of night? Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea?

"I'm, I am terribly sorry if I, I interrupted your nightly habits, Mr Baggins." I spoke softly for fear of waking a sleep child. What had I been thinking? "If you would rather I-I left, I would completely under-understand."

Mr Baggins came to an abrupt halt as we entered a cosy room. It was set aglow with the amber light of a cheerful fire sitting in a hearth below a large, ornate wooden mantle.

"Leave?" He questioned as he processed the word.

I nodded. "Yes, I-I mean, I wouldn't want to disturb you and your family."

He blinked again before smiling and shaking his head.

"Nothing to worry about, it's just me here I'm afraid. Just me."

"Oh."

"So, you really aren't disturbing anyone. In fact, your knock stopped me from falling asleep in my chair again," he declared while pointing to a straight backed, light green armchair by the fire. "Speaking of which, if you'd like to take a seat, miss?"

I lowered myself into the offered seat, a smaller, darker and softer looking armchair across from his own. Once I was seated, Mr Baggins smiled and produced a thick, dark blanket from a chest near the wall by a little arching window opposite the fireplace, which he then draped over my knees with the utmost sense of propriety.

"There we are." He smiled at me as if I had helped to accomplish something grand. "I'll get you a cup of tea and then you can tell me how you came to lose your way, yes?"

I nodded, glad I had managed to knock on the door of someone so kind. Mr Baggins left with another smile and soft instruction to try and warm up as best I could. Looking down at my shaking hands, I realised that the beds of my nails were blue. I was positive they were supposed to be pink.

The heat from the fire next to me was starting to seep into my bones like water soaks cloth. It was a little painful, the prick of the heat feeling like a thousand tiny blades piercing my skin. I half wanted to move away from the fire, but something told me to stay put, that the pain was my frozen limbs thawing. I wasn't quite sure how I knew this, I just did. The same way I could identify objects around the room, a bookcase here, a loveseat there, and the bucket of logs beside my seat. Yet, I struggled to remember events wherein I used or even encountered such, or any other, objects. Apart from the tea.

Speaking of, I could hear the faint clatter of crockery as Mr Baggins entered the room. He was carrying two small cups and saucers along with a plate of biscuits, and a brown teapot on a little wooden tray.

"Here," he said as he rested the tray on a small footstool between our chairs. "I wasn't sure what type of tea you liked so I thought a simple mint tea would do for now. And I found some pieces of shortbread from when my aunt last visited, and thought you might like something to eat."

"Thank you Mr Baggins." I smiled, completely charmed by his generosity.

"Please, call me Bilbo," he answered congenially. "What should I call you miss?"

I blinked, unable to recall my name, my title, or any word that may have ever been used to address me.

"I don't know."

Bilbo froze, stunned. "You, you don't know?" He questioned.

I could only shake my head, frantically scrambling for a reason why I didn't know. I couldn't find anything, nothing, not even a glimmer of a memory.

Looking up, I found Bilbo pursing his lips. I half thought he'd say I was lying. Instead, he surprised me by leaning forward, his elbows on his knees and a soft, patient expression on his face.

"If I might ask miss, how did you come to knock on my door?" He asked, tone gentle and patient.

"Oh." I wasn't expecting him to ask that. "Well, the first thing I remember is waking up and seeing the stars staring back at me. I was lay back on dewy grass by a hedgerow, there was holly in the hedge. I remembered seeing it somewhere, it's a dark green colour, isn't it?"

He smiled then, not as if I were a child stating something obvious, but as if I had noticed a small detail no one else had.

"Holly, yes, yes it is, that's right," he said, small dimples appearing beside the corner of his lips. "I wanted my door to be holly green, it was painted yesterday. What else do you remember?"

"There was a slight light in the distance I noticed once I was stood, so I managed to climb under the hedge and find a road to follow the light. There was no one around me, not even an animal. No bags, or even my shoes," I explained, looking at my bare feet as pain began to ebb from them.

It was then that I realised the dress I was wearing was a deep red, embroidered with gold and holly green thread. The sleeves were long, reaching my wrists but they were also torn and dirty. But it was the bottom of my dress that drew my attention, for it had been ripped and shredded until the hem ended a few inches above my ankles. My exposed legs were littered with scratches and deep bruises.

"What happened to me?" My words were a whisper in the quiet of the room.

I shook myself, remembering that I had not finished telling Bilbo how I came to find his home, and so continued. "Once I was on the road, I followed it towards the light, coming to a couple of homes in the hillside. However there was no light from within them so I carried on. Yours was the first I had come across that had a light."

Bilbo stared at me as I finished my tale, his mouth hanging open a little as he did.

"And do you remember anything else? Anything at all?" He asked, looking throughly intrigued by my story.

"Nothing except when you offered me a cup of tea. I remembered a cup of tea being handed to me. But I do not know who by, or where I was," I explained, feeling inadequate of my feeble answer.

Bilbo was contemplative, humming to himself as he leant back in his armchair and took a sip of his tea.

"That is quite the story."

I nodded, sighing. Warming up was starting to awaken aches and pains I did not know I had. The injuries on my legs stung, there was a dull ache ebbing from my back and a harsh throbbing pain from my head, not forgetting the numbness now settling in my feet. If I had known being warm would involve such discomforts, I would have preferred to stay cold.

"Well," Bilbo continued. "I believe I might be able to answer one or two questions if you cannot my dear."

Any pain I felt faded into the back of my mind at this.

"You do?" I asked eagerly.

He nodded. "It seems to me that you have Dwarf blood."

"Dwarf?"

Again he nodded. "Yes, you have the right build, height. Though I must admit I didn't know Dwarves could have hair as curly as yours. I mean, if it wasn't for your feet, I could have said you were a…Hobbit." Bilbo paused and watched me with deep concentration.

Under his gaze I nervously reached up to touch my hair. He was right, it was curly and, bringing a piece around to see, it was a deep golden colour, almost exact to the amber light that had lead me to Bilbo's door.

Satisfied that I knew a little more about myself, I tucked the piece of hair behind my ear. Bilbo gasped.

"What is it, Bilbo?"

"Your ear."

"W-what about it?"

"You, you have Hobbit ears!" He exclaimed.

Frowning, I bit my lip. "But, you said I was a Dwarf?"

He nodded, eyes fixed on my exposed ear intently.

"Perhaps, yes, you do bare a remarkable resemblance to Dwarves. However, your curly hair and pointed ears are undoubtably that of a Hobbit!"

"So," I began, fighting around the shady image in my mind of a stout figure I presumed was typical of Dwarves and what I could see of Bilbo now. Who, upon further inspection, had curly hair and pointed ears. "You are a Hobbit?"

"Oh!" Bilbo snapped upright in his seat. "Yes, yes I am."

"Do you believe I could be…is there a name for a half-Dwarf half-hobbit?" I asked, tentative.

Bilbo's gaze grew sympathetic. "There isn't one for polite society, but yes my dear, I do believe you are one."

At this new development I sat back, aghast at what I had learned in such a short amount of time. To wake with nothing and to now have half an identity was staggering to say the least. The pain in my head thumped like the beat of my heart, but I ignored it as I watched Bilbo. He had forgotten about his cooling tea and was instead staring at me with a thoughtful expression.

"Bilbo? Are you all right?" I leant forward to ask him, reaching for my own cup, the heat warming my stiff fingers.

"Hum?" He blinked away his stray thoughts, frowning a little.

"I asked if you were all right."

"Oh, yes, yes, I'm fine thank you." His polite sensibilities seemed to be an automatic response regardless of his actual thoughts and feelings.

At my sceptical look he sighed. "It's…something is bothering me."

"What is it?"

Again he sighed, deeper now as if he was fortifying himself for unpleasant news.

"You woke alone, correct? Without so much as a coin?" He clarified.

I nodded, a little worried where his questioning was leading.

"Dwarves, and I've only met a few Dwarves in my life, and what else I know has come from my books…but Dwarves by their very nature are protective of their own. This includes their women." He shifted nervously. "It is unheard of, unknown even, for a Dwarrowdam, that is a female dwarf, to be left alone."

Bilbo looked saddened with his revelation, but I was only confused.

"So, so, they don't leave women by themselves? Ever?"

He shook his head. "As far as I am aware my dear."

"But they left me."

How could what Bilbo have said be true if they left me alone? Bilbo sighed and I could see that he was upset that he would be the one to break the news to me. He leant forward, setting his cup on the tea tray before reaching for my hands. Laying a hand on my own, the warmth from his hand was soothing against the ache that lingered in my bones.

"They might not have," he said. "Maybe something happened outside of their power, and they had no choice but to leave you?"

I bit my lip and sniffed back the unexpected swell of tears that welled in my eyes.

"Maybe," I agreed, my voice quiet in the stillness of the room.

Bilbo patted my hand and leant back into his chair, a soft smile on his face.

"But you are also a Hobbit!" Bilbo exclaimed, grinning. "And I have to say that once everyone gets a look at you, they will never want you to leave the Shire!"

"What makes you say that?"

Bilbo smiled, the lines around his eyes softening them until his gaze felt as warm as the fire we sat by.

"Simple really, Hobbits love other Hobbits. We are naturally a community based species who thrive together. When they all see that there is another Hobbit in our midst, and an unfamiliar one at that, why I doubt you will have a moment to yourself."

I couldn't help but chuckle at the thought of being surrounded by Hobbits, variations of Bilbo with large feet and friendly dispositions, all of whom I guessed would pepper me with questions.

Questions I did not know the answers to. Questions I sorely needed to know the answers to. Even just so I knew who I was.

Bilbo must have seen my despondent thoughts on my face for he frowned and leaned closer again.

"What is it?" He asked.

"They will ask questions, as is their right to know what I am and where I've come from because I am a stranger in their home. Though, I'm ashamed to say that I'm afraid that not everyone will be as openminded as you are Bilbo," I explained, feeling more lost with every word I spoke. "I don't even known my own name!"

Absent of thirst or hunger, I set my cup back down and my hands began to worry at the fabric of my dress in my lap. My mind was too full of fear and dread to think of manners at that particular moment. What would they say when they discovered I knew nothing about myself? Surely it would raise suspicions? How could anyone possibly trust me if I do not even know my own name?

Then I looked at Bilbo.

Bilbo trusted me enough, even before he had asked what my name was, to invite me into his home without ill intentions. Maybe, just maybe, there were others like him. And perhaps they would accept me just as he has.

All this time Bilbo had been patiently waiting as I sorted through my thoughts. He sat in his armchair, looking for all the world like someone having tea with an old friend.

"What will I tell people Bilbo?" I asked the quiet Hobbit, starting to panic about what I would face in the morning. "What am I to do? I have no money, no clothes, nowhere to stay and nowhere to go!"

"Now that isn't true," Bilbo was quick to add.

"Pardon?"

"You can stay here, that is, if you would like," he offered, looking a little shy at his sudden proposal.

"Stay-stay here? With you?"

"Yes, I mean, it is the very least I can do for someone in need. Certainly for a fellow Hobbit!" Bilbo exclaimed, with every word looking more and more involved with the idea brewing in his mind.

I felt like the chair beneath me had given way to a bottomless pit in the earth and I was falling completely without control.

"Bilbo, you cannot be serious?"

Where all Hobbits were this odd and brash?

He'd only met me moments ago, neither of us knew my name, nor who I was, and all of the implications that might come with this uncertainty were unvoiced. Yet he was willing to offer me a place to stay in his home. This was bizarre. Even I knew inviting a stranger to stay wasn't normal. For all he knew I could kill him in his sleep! Not that I would! But he couldn't be sure of that.

"I am completely serious. You are a young Hobbit, if only by half, alone without anywhere to go and without anyone to turn to. It would be against everything I was raised to be if I were to turn you away! My, not only that, but I would never be able to live with myself when I ignored someone who needed help. I can offer you help, I want to offer you help, so I shall," he said, and nodded decisively, mind made up. "I will hear no more on the subject."

I found myself sniffing, not because of the rapid change in temperatures my body had experienced, but because of Bilbo's touching speech.

"Thank you Bilbo, thank you so very much," I whispered, unable to stop the couple of tears that spilled over onto my cheeks.

Bilbo smiled and leant forward to give my hand a gentle squeeze.

"It seems our tea has gone cold," Bilbo huffed, looking a little put out by this.

I smiled at his small pout, his round features illuminated by the firelight as he contemplated our tea. He felt the round, earth brown teapot.

"Not to fear," he said, happy. "Still warm in the pot."

I laughed, the sound wet. "Perfect."

Bilbo took both my lukewarm tea and his own half finished mug and added more of the hot tea. He handed mine back and held out the plate of biscuits in offering.

The shortbreads were stout slices of a golden, crumbly biscuit. Along the top of each were rows of four dots, spaced evenly along the entire length, as if made by a fork. I had the vague memory of standing at someone's elbow as they pressed a fork to make these marks onto a pale dough on a wooden countertop. We were making the same biscuit. The person, the woman, beside me smelled of sugar, apples and spices. I had been happy, I could feel the memory of emotion warming me form somewhere inside my chest.

"Miss?" I could hear Bilbo ask, tentative. "Are you all right?"

I was better than all right! I had remembered something!

"Yes, yes I'm fine Bilbo," I answered, smiling. "I'm fine, I actually, I just had a memory. I remembered something!"

"Really?" His eyes were wide and a smile blossomed on his face.

"Yes, it was, I was by someone's side. They, she, I think was making shortbread. She was pressing a dough with a fork to make marks like the ones on the shortbread." I indicated to the plate now held frozen in Bilbo's grip as he waited wide eyed for me to finish. "I could smell apples and sugar and spices, I think I was in a kitchen, one I knew, I felt…oh Bilbo, I felt happy there, safe and so, so happy."

I couldn't have contained the smile on my face even if I tried. Bilbo looked much the same. I'd remembered something, and it was more than just a flash of tea being handed to me.

"You see," Bilbo spoke with warmth. "You'll have your memories back in no time!"

At that moment I couldn't help but feel the same, I hoped beyond reason that the rest of my memories came back as easily. I wanted to know who I was, and what I was doing bare footed on the edges to Hobbiton. More than anything, I longed to know my name, something that identified me as me, not just a Dwarf-Hobbit hybrid.

That also bothered me, as here I sat in what I could deduce was a once expensive gown, without so much as a ring left as a clue to any matter of my past, and there had been no one banging on Bilbo's door asking if he had seen me. Surely someone was looking for me? What Bilbo said earlier about Dwarves puzzled me. If I was one of their own, then they would not have left me in the middle of nowhere, could they? I must mean something to someone? Someone must miss me, mustn't they?

I refused to believe that I had just been abandoned. If I had a family, for surely I must have one as I am sure I did not just appear from thin air, they cannot have purposefully left me on a field somewhere. There had to be a reason for my being alone.

Something must have happened that was beyond their control. Like Bilbo had said, of course.

Content in the surety of this, I sipped my warm tea, letting the heat from the mug, liquid and the fire chase away any lingering chill in my being. Upon eating some of the delectable shortbread, I found my stomach growled with hunger, making noises I did not know it could make. Bilbo, rather than being disturbed by the noises, chuckled and handed me more biscuits. After seven of the biscuits and a cup more of tea, I felt tired, the warmth was like a comforting embrace for me to fall asleep within. Bilbo must have noticed my relaxed figure as he smiled.

"I can understand if you feel tired, warmth does that. Especially if you have been cold for a while," he remarked. "I will make sure the guest room has everything you might need, and then I think I will retire to bed myself."

He stood, placing his now empty mug onto the wooden tray.

"I won't be a moment," he reassured me before vanishing through the doorway behind his armchair.

Alone again, I felt different. Before when I had happened upon Bilbo's door I had been alone, but now the solitude felt…odd. It was as if I had only just realised that something was missing. Not missing from the atmosphere, as Bilbo's home, as far as I had seen, was inviting and cheerful and all that I could want after waking to blackness and the dewy grass of an unnamed field. No, something was missing from me. I was without a part, a…vital piece of, of my being. I had no other way to describe it other than that.

I didn't know what, but I was missing something and it wasn't just my memories.

The sudden pop of the fire jolted me from my thoughts. Now wasn't the time to dwell on that which I cannot change. I could leave such things until tomorrow when I could start over, and who knows, I might dream of my memories if I was lucky.

Bilbo took that moment to reenter the room, his brown curls dishevelled.

"Everything is ready if you wish to retire." He voice was soft and unsure.

I was confident that, as welcoming as Bilbo was, he was not used to strange women turning up at his doorstep with no memory and nowhere to go. This was as strange to him as it was to me. For some reason his nervousness settled the battle of guilt and uncertainty in my head. It was endearing that he was, despite his uncertainty, willing to help me. I could only hope to return the gesture of kindness one day.

"Yes, thank you Bilbo I think I will," I said, standing.

I replaced my cup of tea to the tray on the footstool and then folded up the blanket Bilbo had settled over my knees. It was a soft wool that sparked memories of the same sensation. Bilbo smiled gratefully when I replaced the blanket to the chest he had taken it from earlier.

"Thank you," he said. "You know miss, I have not had such a thoughtful guest in a long time."

I felt so warm now that the smile that graced my lips at his words felt lush and easy.

"Thank you Bilbo, I can only hope to be of use around your home, if only to lighten the burden of my presence here."

"Burden?" Bilbo spluttered, aghast. "You are no such thing! You are my guest, and you do not need to do anything to compensate me for letting you stay. I will not have you thinking you are indebted to me."

I was glad for his words, but he was wrong in the fact that I wasn't indebted to him, I was. It was a simple truth, but a truth nonetheless. But his words made me decide against taking the tea tray back into the kitchen, which I was sure I could find, and washing up.

"Thank you, Bilbo."

He nodded, satisfied. "Now, if you'll follow me, I'll show you were you'll be staying. I hope it is to your tastes. If it isn't, let me know what changes you would like and I'll do my best to perform them."

"Oh, Bilbo I am sure I will love it," I assured him, humbled that Bilbo wanted me to feel comfortable and at home in someone else's home.

He lead me through a door to the left of the fireplace, into a hall Bilbo informed me was called the East Hall, and that we had just left the parlour. As we walked, he pointed out the kitchen, which was next to the parlour as I had expected. Then, we entered a grand looking space, much more than a hallway, and I thought that the title Atrium, that Bilbo supplied, suited it rather well. To the left was an archway leading to the sitting room, and to the right, the pantry and behind that were two cellars, a wine cellar and a cold cellar. Further ahead to the left was a door leading to the study, which Bilbo told me connected to his bedroom, should I need him. Another beautifully carved archway gave way to the West Hall, with a small passage to a storage room to the immediate right after entry to the hall. To the left was a passage leading to the back door after another archway, and then the hall divided into two, the right towards a back room, and the left to the guest room.

"Or, perhaps we should call it your room?" Bilbo asked, hesitant.

I couldn't control my smile if I'd even attempted to.

"Do, do you mean that?" I asked, keeping my voice to a bare whisper for fear that I'd speak too loudly and break the illusion of comfort I'd found in Bilbo's home.

Bilbo smiled, watching me fondly.

"I do," he whispered as well, but his tone, nor his expression, was mocking. Instead, he seemed to me to be sharing a secret in the strictest of confidence.

"Oh, Bilbo!" I exclaimed, unable to hold myself back as I launched myself at Bilbo to embrace him.

He caught me, though I knew he hadn't expected it, as I hadn't anticipated that I would embrace him myself. Still, he recovered from his shock and hesitantly patted me on the back, chuckling. Conscious that I was hugging an almost stranger, I pulled away.

"Thank you Bilbo! Thank you so very much!" I said through the swell of emotion I could not control or hold back.

He chuckled again. "You are very welcome."

I noticed the flush of his cheeks and thought for a moment that perhaps Bilbo wasn't used to such displays of affection.

"Sorry if I startled you, I couldn't contain my thankfulness. I have been so worried that I would not find a place to spend the night, and yet here you are offering me your guest room!"

He continued to chuckle, appearing very much pleased by my reaction.

"It's no trouble at all, as I said, anyone else would do the same. Everyone needs to be shown a little kindness, especially when they are in need of it," Bilbo commented wisely, looking for all intents and purposes a teller of grand tales from his youth.

"Anyone might well do the same, yes, but what really matters is that you have done so for me," I said, holding a deep, warm fondness for Bilbo in my chest.

Bilbo grew flustered, all ruddy cheeked and flickering eyes. He cleared his throat and smiled.

"Yes, well, as I said," he replied a tad awkwardly. "Now, shall I give you a quick tour of your room?"

Flushing with happiness, I nodded, and turned to open the beautiful oak door, but was halted by a gasp behind me.

"Oh!" Bilbo gasped when I turned back to face him. "Your head! It's bleeding!"

"What?" I questioned, reaching for the back of my head only to wince away in pain.

When I examined my fingers, I found there to be red flakes and clotted scarlet liquid. Bilbo was right, I was bleeding. Or, I was more inclined to conclude that I had been bleeding, quite a lot if I was to estimate from the amount that stuck to my fingers.

"Oh miss, you must let me look at that," Bilbo tried to calm the panicked tone in his voice, but it was all to clear to me how frantic he was at the sight of my blood.

I didn't blame him. The sight of it both turned my stomach inside out, and raised so many questions that it felt as if my head were spinning endlessly.

"Come into the study, I've got a small supply of healers tools, bandages and what not," Bilbo spoke quickly as he ushered me back the way we had come, past the corridor to the back door and back to the study. "I should be able to clean up that gash, but tomorrow I can call our healer, Hilda, or if you're feeling well enough we can call by her home, she'll be able to patch you up much better than I can."

He laughed nervously, and I couldn't find fault for him in doing so. In fact, I was a little worried that dear Bilbo might faint at any moment. His behaviour was so erratic I feared he was just speaking to keep his mind occupied from the shock of his discovery.

Meanwhile, I had begun to feel increasingly weary and tired. My head felt hot and sore as if it had been beaten like a worn out shoe in the heat. I was sure that this wound was the reason my head had begun to ache so much when I was warming up. I just hoped that if the pain in my back was from another wound, it was only brushing or mere scratches. If I asked Bilbo to examine my back I feared he would lose all sense — common or otherwise. Tomorrow I would just ask the healer, Hilda, to examine it for me.

Bilbo guided me into a wooden chair beside a small made up fire, to the right as we walked through the door. Once I was seated, he quickly found a box, hidden among a paper littered bottom drawer in the desk beneath a small arched window. He returned to me, smiling when he caught my gaze, and placed another chair behind me.

"I'll try my best to clean the cut, please tell me if I hurt you. I do not want to cause you more harm." Bilbo's voice shook, but I was sure he would have a steady hand when tending to me.

I nodded, mindful that the action caused my temple to ache and a pain, sharp and sudden, to throb from the base of my skull.

"Of course I will Bilbo," I reassured him, it seemed my excitement had dampened the pain momentarily.

I heard him splutter behind me in what I thought was a rushed and muttered variation of: "Good. Well, then, I suppose I had better get along with it. Bilbo Baggins don't you dare faint on this poor girl."

I didn't comment, rather staying as still as I could when I felt Bilbo's hands part my hair to lay over both of my shoulders, then the tentative touch of a cloth soaked in something against my scalp.

"Ahh!" I couldn't help but wince away from the stinging sensation that prickled my hair on end.

"Sorry!" Bilbo burst. "Sorry, sorry, err, I'm so sorry miss, I should have warned you. The cloth is, it has a disinfectant on it. It might, sorry, it obviously does sting a little."

"It's all right Bilbo. I'm okay, I was shocked is all." I moved back to my original position. "It's all right."

I could almost see his hesitation.

"If you're sure."

I nodded. "I'm sure Bilbo. I know you don't mean to hurt me."

I heard him sigh before he touched the cloth to my hair.

"I'm going to clean the cut now miss, just to prepare you," he warned.

"Thank you Bilbo, it's fine, go ahead."

With another sigh, he began to gently wipe at the gash to my head. I took the time to relax, the warm atmosphere of the study seeping into my skin and pulling at my drooping eyelids. Bilbo was gentle as he tended to me, and I wondered if he had any family members who were younger than him. I could almost imagine him patching up a mischievous niece or nephew without their parents knowledge before telling them to tell their parents what they had been up to.

"You have suffered a rather nasty cut I'm afraid, miss. I would not be surprised if this head wound was the reason for your memory loss."

The thought puzzled me, how could a wound cause memory loss?

"That can happen?" I questioned, feeling wholly unsure of myself as I did so.

"Oh yes," Bilbo explained. "I've seen these sort of injuries before. The young Hobbits tend to get overzealous and a few have ended up losing a number of days in their memories. Why, I recall an incident when I was still a child, when a farmer, I can't quite remember his name, forgot he was married!"

I gasped, not even thinking of such a thing in regard to myself. Was I married? Betrothed? How could I tell? What if I had a child, or children and I knew nothing of their existence?

Bilbo, unaware of my inner panic, carried on with his tale.

"He believed himself to be a whole five years younger than he was! Though it was amusing to watch as he regained his memories, whenever he remembered arguing with his wife or doing something that had upset her, he would apologise and ask her for forgiveness, even though he had already done so!"

I could hear the merriment in Bilbo's voice, this was obviously a fond memory for him.

"So, did he regain all of his memories?" I asked, afraid of the answer.

Bilbo paused in cleaning my head, the cloth resting against my hair for a moment as he thought.

"Yes, I do believe he did," Bilbo answered, sounding sure of himself. "There might have been a few moments he could not recollect, but one can hardly be expected to remember a whole five years. And if I may say so miss, you shouldn't expect yourself to remember everything. A lifetime lost could take another lifetime to remember."

I nodded, mute, somehow knowing that Bilbo was right. Anyway, there was only one thing I wanted to remember more than anything: my name. I longed to know my name, not even all of it, but just enough to have something of my own, something of me. Half remembered images of a blurry figure wasn't much in the grand sense of things, but it did give my hope.

The sound of Bilbo clearing his throat broke me from my thoughts.

"Ahh, Miss?" He asked, cautious.

"Yes, Bilbo?"

He cleared his throat again.

"The wound it, it may need stitches, however I do not have adequate supplies to do so here. I can bind the wound through other means to last until tomorrow, or, if you would prefer, I can go and fetch Hilda?"

I paused. "Is-Is it that bad?"

Bilbo rushed to reassure the tremor in my voice. "Not at all! Not at all, Miss! It would just heal much faster and leave minimum scarring if it was stitched."

"Oh." I suppose that made sense, from what I could recollect, sewing a ripped piece of fabric together again looked neat. But trying to apply that image and replace the ripped fabric with my torn flesh made me shiver. "No, I wouldn't want to bother her this late, it can wait until tomorrow."

Again Bilbo hesitated.

"Are you sure, miss?"

I pictured a needle piercing my flesh and fought against a wave of nausea and another forceful shiver.

"I'm sure, Bilbo. I'm quite sure."

"Very well then," he said, and I heard him place the cloth down. "Now, what I am about to do is something my mother once had to do to me when I bumped my head."

"Were you very young?" I found myself asking.

"Not very," Bilbo answered. "I'd gotten my foot caught on a tree root and fallen on a rock, gave myself a rather nasty gash just above my hairline. I was terrified of needles as a child, and if I am honest, I still try and avoid them as much as I can."

"So what did your mother do?" I was enraptured by the thought of a young Bilbo watching a sewing kit wearily as his mother washed his cut as gently as he had mine.

"Well, she used my hair," he started.

"Your hair?"

"Yes, I asked the same thing, I thought she was just trying to trick me so she could thread a needle through my forehead." He chuckled to himself as if reliving the moment with his mature wisdom of adulthood.

As we spoke I felt Bilbo's hands start to gently brush through my hair, softly tugging strands loose and untying snarls of hair. It was strangely soothing.

"But she explained that by using a short plaiting method, the hair would secure the wound so it would remain closed, and I wouldn't even have to see one needle." I could hear the smile in his voice as he spoke fondly of his mother.

"How strange," I commented, wondering how such a thing could be accomplished.

Bilbo laughed, his fingers now gliding through my smooth hair easily.

"I thought so too, but I must say that it is quite effective. As a matter of fact, Hilda uses the same technique on the children in the village. It certainly helps to contain any fears about needles." He paused for a moment, I heard him hum to himself quietly in thought. "In fact, I do believe that every mother knows this trick, at least among Hobbits that is, and to the best of my knowledge."

We lulled into a comfortable silence for a moment, each of us immersed in our thoughts. I wondered about Bilbo's memories, how quickly he had recollected them and the emotions that came with them. I must have memories like that to recall, happy moments, embarrassing moments, moments of fear and joy and wonder. Perhaps it was only a matter of time before they came back to me. Perhaps I would receive each one separately, recollecting segments of my past piece by piece as Bilbo had told me one Hobbit had? Or, maybe I would not remember anything. Maybe fragments of my mind would unfurl themselves for me, but others would remain lost to me forever.

"Maybe my mother knew about it too," I found myself commenting.

Bilbo's breath caught in a half gasp and his hands paused in my hair. I heard him swallow before he seemed to reanimate, his fingers weaving my hair into separate plaits that bared my wound to his sight.

"Maybe she did," he answered, then cleared his throat once more. "Do you think your mother was a Hobbit?"

Biting my lip, I hesitated in answering. Now that Bilbo has posed the idea, I felt an undeniable knowing, a gut feeling, that he was right. As if the idea of my mother being the Dwarf was impossible.

"Yes," I whispered. "I-I do believe she was."

Bilbo hummed behind me, and for a moment I thought he might tell me I couldn't really know for definite until I remembered her. But, he surprised me yet again, as if his utter expectance of my memory loss and uninvited, unexpected arrival at his door was not enough proof of what a gentle and undeniably kind soul Bilbo was, he then patted my hands from where they lay on my lap, leaned around my back to look at me and smiled, saying, "I haven't a doubt in my mind that you aren't right, miss. Not one."

I couldn't help but mirror his smile, mine taking a grateful edge. How had I managed to find someone so willing to help me, who was also excepting of my peculiar circumstances? Bilbo patted my hand again, and then returned back to tending to my wound.

"Thank you." I was sure to say before emotion threatened to fill my throat and block the words.

Bilbo didn't answer, but I could tell he was still smiling.

"B-Bilbo?" I asked tentatively, unsure if what I was about to ask was considered over stepping over the bounds of our acquaintance or not.

"Yes?" He replied.

"How, I mean, what erm…could, could you tell me about your mother? I-I mean that she sounds like a wonderful Hobbit, and I'd love to know more about her." My voice was high pitched with nerves and my speech stuttered as I tried to form a complete, comprehensive sentence.

"Of course," he answered, happy to dive into the topic of conversation I had posed, contrary to my hesitations. "In fact, it may help take your mind off of any pain you're feeling. I find that nothing distracts one quite as easily as good conversation."

"I must say I do not know, but it seems to be distracting me thus far," I commented lightly.

He chuckled. "And for that I am glad. However, I must warn you miss that I am about to begin braiding over your wound so you may feel some pain, but I will endeavour to be as efficient as possible so as to not prolong any sense of discomfort."

"Thank you." I was warmed by his consideration of my wellbeing, he truly was a gentle soul.

"Now, as to the topic of my mother, her name was Belladonna Baggins, nee Took. She was a wonderful woman and I do miss her, she passed away seven years ago now," he lamented, sounding forlorn.

I suddenly felt awful, I should have known better than to ask after his mother since I knew he lived alone.

"I am so sorry, I did not mean to upset you," I tried to apologise hastily.

"No, Miss, not at all! I adore talking about my mother, it keeps her alive in my memories. And I am sure she would have loved to have met you," he laughed to himself.

"Really?"

"Oh yes! For sure, a strange young Half-Hobbit, Half-Dwarf appearing out of nowhere with no memory, she would have loved nothing than to help you solve the riddle that you are."

I couldn't help but chuckle at the image of Bilbo's mother my mind presented, being endearingly polite and hospitable while peppering me with questions and posing several theories to my memory loss.

"Was she a lot like you?"

Bilbo contemplated my question for a moment, and it was then that I felt the very first tugs against my scalp. It wasn't awfully painful, but I knew that Bilbo was there, I could even feel my hair pull over the wound, the full feeling of flesh pressing together making me shiver. He saw it, and was quick to reassure me.

"Are you cold miss? I can fetch you a blanket if you need?"

I almost shook my head but remembered at the last moment.

"No, no, I'm fine."

"Are you sure? I can light a fire for your room if you think you may become chilly in the evening." Bilbo was the epitome of a gracious host.

"I'm sure I'll be fine, but I will let you know if I change my mind before we retire."

He made a noise of approval from behind me. I couldn't help but picture the satisfied smile on his face, it seemed to be easy to make Bilbo happy, one just had to have nice manners.

"Now," he began, and at the same time I felt him begin to section off another part of my hair. "My mother was from a large family, being the ninth child and youngest daughter to my grandfather Gerontius Took and Adamanta Took. My mother married my father, Bungo Baggins and together they financed the construction of their home and, my own."

"They built this house?" I asked, having had been imaging that the maze of a house Bilbo lived in had been here for many years.

"Yes, yes," he nodded. "Bag End, my home, is currently the Shire's most luxurious and comfortable Hobbit hole. They lived happily together until I was born fifty years ago, and we became the closest of families."

"Sounds like you had a wonderful childhood growing up in such a lovely home," I commented, day dreaming of a young Bilbo running through the very passage the elder version had lead me through.

"Yes, it was," Bilbo sighed happily. "And my mother was the one who made my young Hobbit-hood so very memorable, for she was as cunning and witty as any Baggins, and as adventurous and brave as any Took. It was often remarked among other families within the Shire that long ago one of the Took ancestors must have taken a fairy wife, as it was thought there was something unHobbit like about the family as they were always getting up to mischief or having adventures."

"And is there?" I asked, utterly enthralled by the image he had painted for me.

"Is there what, miss?" He questioned back.

"Do you have a fairy ancestor, Bilbo?"

He laughed, though not the shameful laugh that could be aimed at someone who said something foolish, nor was it a laugh of disbelief that someone had the gall to ask such an appalling thing, but, to me, it seemed to be a laugh of someone who had been suddenly struck by a thought they had never had before.

"Good grief," Bilbo began, chuckling. "In all honesty I'd never given it any real thought until now."

"And now that you have?" I asked.

"Now, I cannot help but think that it is entirely possible, what with the Took's background and…preoccupation with adventure," he stated with utter surety.

He chuckled to himself for a good while, still weaving his fingers lightly through my hair.

"There!" He suddenly proclaimed. "Those should hold until we can get you to Hilda tomorrow."

"You've finished?" I asked, bewildered that it had taken him so little time and without much discomfort on my part at all to do.

"Yes," he answered, sounding pleased with himself. "And I must say that they could rival Hilda's own!"

I couldn't help but giggle at Bilbo's contentment at his medical skills.

"I'm sure they could," I complimented, and heard Bilbos happy sigh at my praise. "Thank you."

"You're welcome my dear," he sighed again and I heard him stand from his seat. "Now, before we retire for bed, are you injured anywhere else?"

I stayed seated, taking stock of my now thawed body, and biting my lip when I realised the ache in my back was now throbbing painfully. There were other aches all over my body, my left ankle itched, my knees were sore and I was sure my right hip was bruised too.

"Yes, I think I am," I answered, hesitant, realising that any injury to my back would need to be looked at without the obstacle of my dress.

Bilbo came around to face me with a concerned softness to his features.

"Where?" He asked. "Are you in a lot of pain?"

I shook my head, I really wasn't. I was sure that tomorrow I would be, however, whether it was the cold or shock, I wasn't yet feeling the full brunt of the pain from my injuries.

"No, not a lot of pain, I think it's the shock more than anything physical that pains me the most at the moment," I admitted, feeling a little hesitant to reveal what I felt for fear that Bilbo would panic.

I was sure he was a hardy Hobbit, but the knowledge that I may have to be treated for injuries underneath my garments may be a bit much for him to take.

"Are you sure?" he persisted.

"Yes," I answered, nodding decisively. "I'll be all right until morning."

He copied me, almost as if out of habit to agree with someone if they insisted rather than because he believed I was telling the truth.

"Yes, yes, morning, we'll see Hilda right away," he said, then paused and frowned. "Before breakfast! Although…that may be a little early…perhaps before second breakfast."

Second breakfast?

Was that normal? Maybe it was, I had a whole culture to remember, a way of life, a routine to follow.

"That sounds like a sensible idea," I haphazardly input an opinion, well aware that I could at any moment trip on a misunderstanding.

Bilbo saw right through my attempt at playing pretend.

"I have a lot to tell you miss," he said, a happy smile on his face. "Tomorrow you will have a whole culture to explore."

There was no judgement in his eyes, no hesitation in offering his help, and no exasperation at having to give it. He seemed genuinely pleased to be the one, the only one, to help me relearn everything. This perfect stranger who had shared his home, his food, his help, and all without once asking for anything in return.

How lucky had I been to happen across Bilbo's home and not someone else's? For I could not imagine that such warmth, understanding and kindness spread to all Hobbits. Or, perhaps it was just good manners that I had simply forgotten were instilled in every being, but there was something about Bilbo that made me pause in that assumption. Something that I would have wagered stemmed from his mother.

Out of the blue, Bilbo hummed as he was watching me but I could tell that his musings lay somewhere else entirely, somewhere deep in his own mind.

"Bilbo?" I called softly, after waiting a moment to see if he would speak.

"Hmm?" He jolted from his thoughts, humming again in a questioning tone as he blinked back to the present.

"Are you all right?"

"Me?" He blinked again, as if processing my concern for him. "Oh, yes, yes, I'm quite all right, thinking is all."

I bit my lip to keep from smiling at his pondering expression, a small crease appeared between his eyebrows, his bottom lip protruded slightly and I could see the index fingers of both hands began tapping a silent beat against the outsides of his robe pockets.

After a minute of silence I prompted him to speak his thoughts aloud.

"Your situation upon waking makes me wonder how the Bounders didn't see you," Bilbo commented, eyes adrift in the waters of his mind.

"The what?" I asked, trying to follow the trail of his invisible thoughts.

"They are border-watchers of the Shire, a volunteer force employed to 'beat the bounds' and prevent incursions by undesirables," he explained, then sighed heavily, clearly exasperated. "I don't know how no one saw you or how you came to be in that field as they are posted all around the Shire! Someone must have to have seen something!"

He looked angry at this point, now muttering furiously under his breath about the uselessness of the Bounders, and one in particular, a Mr Adalgrim Took, about whom Bilbo had nothing pleasant to say.

"Bilbo?" I called again. "Perhaps we could ask the others tomorrow?"

I was beginning to feel my eyelids drooping, my body sore and my soul aching. I needed rest.

"Hmm? Oh, yes, yes, of course," he muttered, slowly emerging from his thoughts with the clearing of his throat and a decisive nod. "Tomorrow, yes, tomorrow I'll have a word, several actually, with that Took, mark my words. No good pilferer…sticky fingered thief…why anyone would want that smarmy, no good Hobbit protecting them I'll never know."

I bit my lip, feeling an amused smile begin to flourish at his grumpy mutterings. From what I could gather, Mr Adalgrim Took had grown up alongside Bilbo, and that there was most definitely no love lost between them. If I understood correctly, Adalgrim was a known thief in Hobbition, but got away with most, if not all of his crimes, because of how well known, liked and envied the Took family was; a family Bilbo was, in his mind, unfortunately included in. It would seem my stay in Hobbiton would not be a boring one, of that I was certain. And when I caught the glint of mischief and the bright spark of cunning in Bilbo's eyes, I knew that he would be the one to make my stay here all the more entertaining and instructive.

For, who could be the better teacher of social constructs and mannerisms dedicated to Hobbits, than a Hobbit?

"Good night Bilbo," I said softly. "And thank you, for everything."

He smiled at me, warm and charming, finally putting a stop to his mutterings.

"You're welcome miss, I'll see you in the morning, good night," he wished, taking his leave with a smile and retreating back down the corridor and towards his bedroom.

Still smiling at his antics, I opened the bedroom door.

The room was utterly charming.

Small and quaint, with cheerful yellow walls and a small, round window on the far wall, with a bare wooden chest, made up of four little drawers and two doors. The bed was to my right, just big enough for me. There was a small bookcase, and by small I meant that it couldn't house as many books as the others Bilbo had in his house, but was still as high as the ceiling. It seemed that Bilbo had a fondness for cosiness, a feeling I felt myself mirroring, my very being warming in a way that felt familiar, as if the sight in front of me was one I had seen before.

Something that both warmed and worried me.

I know there are parts I'm missing, vast fragments of memory that make me, me. It's like my mind is a room full of objects covered in white sheets, I can see that the memories are there, but I can't remove the sheets to see them. It's so frustrating, knowing that there are things to remember, but not having the power to do anything about it.

But, perhaps that was a topic of thought best left till the morning.

So, I curled up under the covers, laying back against the small mound of pillows that I suspected were stuffed with downy feathers and relishing in their plumpness. Still in my dress, I only felt slightly guilty for inevitably getting the neat bed dirty as my eyelids grew heavy and I resigned myself to putting my worries on hold in favour of rest.

***

There were whispers, murmurs in the dark that were as soft as the sheets I lay on. Finer than any silk, caressing my skin like feathery kisses, tingling and warm, I didn't want to move. A pleasant feeling like liquid warmth was settling in my belly and making my head muggy, as if I were sat in afternoon sun filling me with lazy ambition. But I was indoors. There was no sun, only the soft glow of candle light and the shadows of figures stood at the foot of the luxurious bed I lay upon filling the room. I could see no faces, no distinguishing features of any kind on them, and only hear their rough, harsh voices, the sounds of which made little sense to my clouded mind. The language was abrasive, unlike Westron, which I knew I could speak, but oddly familiar, as if I had been taught it as a child and had simply forgotten over time. The room itself held some familiarity to me, but as I reached for the answer, it slipped away, replaced with the dark abyss of sleep.

***

Chapter Text

It is a strange feeling, to wake without any memories to visit of the days before. 

Because waking in that field didn’t count. 

Waking in a bed was a completely different experience to waking in the dead of night, battered, dressed in tattered, dirty clothing, and all alone in a field. For one, I was warm, for another, I wasn’t confused as to how I came to be here. 

Perhaps this is how it would always be from now on, waking in warmth and comfort? I would not be against that, not at all. I still had to think about Bilbo’s generous offer, and the sobering fact that at any moment my luck could run out. Bilbo could marry, have children, or need me to leave because of some other means. I was not so naive to think that circumstances could not change. 

That, at least, was not effected by my memory loss. 

I knew the names of objects, and some history of the world; though the gaps in this could be accounted for due to a lack of good teaching rather than memory loss. There was enough to know what races currently inhabited Middle Earth. Yet, I could not apply any of this knowledge to myself or my life. Not for lack of trying, of course. It was as though I was removed from the world, my existence an anomaly in the great movement of life. There was nothing tying me to my own life or another’s, and no circumstances to give evidence of my existence save for my beating heart and Bilbo’s witnessing of me. 

I heaved myself out of the warm bed and from my morbid thoughts. I regretted leaving the soft blankets when my feet touched the cold stone floor. Shivering, I moved onto one of the rugs laying around the room, finding the soft texture much more agreeable. I took a moment to relax, the slight chill in the air waking me up from the dredge of sluggish sleepiness lingering on my mind. 

I didn’t need to get dressed, as I was already clothed in my tattered dress from last night. The garment still did not spark any memory. There was nothing to put on my aching feet to shield them from the cold, nor to hide the bruised state they were in. Violent purple flesh decorated along my toes and the bones atop my foot, tender to the touch. Thinking back to last night and the sight of Bilbo’s large, hairy feet provided my answer to the obvious question. Bilbo didn’t need shoes, Hobbits don’t need shoes. But it seems Dwarves, or at least Half-Bloods, most certainly do. 

I went to make my way out of the bedroom, before turning around and remaking the bed, fluffing the pillow and straightening the blankets without paying much attention to my motions. Thinking of leaving the room without doing so felt wrong. Perhaps it was something I was just used to doing, and my body complied? 

Whatever the reason, it was a little troubling, so I left the room and went in search of Bilbo and safer thoughts. 

 After finding myself wandering into what I had thought was the kitchen, but was the pantry, I found Bilbo coming out of what I hoped was the parlour and into the hallway.

“Good morning, miss!” Bilbo called, grinning. “How are you?”

“Very well, thank you. How are you this morning?” 

“Good, refreshed,” he replied. “We best be off soon to Hilda’s, but first, a good breakfast. Most important meal of the day, breakfast. Sets you up for the rest of the morning, until second breakfast, that is.”

“Second breakfast?” I echoed, hoping he would explain, as I was not too sure that this was something I had known about, or even participated in, previously. Was it a special Hobbit meal? A different type of meal? Perhaps first breakfast was just a drink? 

“Oh yes,” Bilbo sounded approving, of what, I had no idea. Maybe the thought of more food? “Second most important meal of the seven a day!” 

“Seven?” I asked, now second guessing my previous knowledge of mealtimes. Just how many were there? 

Bilbo, unaware of my inner turmoil over something as simple as breakfast, carried on, now leading the way into the kitchen where he moved a dark kettle over the fire and then set out some plates and cutlery either side of the table clearly as place settings for us both in the places not occupied by food. 

“You have breakfast,” he explained. “Then second breakfast, elevenses, lunch, afternoon tea, dinner, and finally, supper.” 

I had stopped in the doorway to the kitchen as he bustled about, feeling, for the first time, that I was a stranger in Bilbo’s home. Truly an outsider, not only to him and his way of life, but apparently, mine as well. And that was a daunting thing to comprehend, much less think about in any genuine length. 

“That is a lot of food,” was all I could think to comment, while swallowing back the swell of uncertainty and nervousness flooding my throat. 

“It certainly is!” Bilbo agreed, cheerfully ignorant to my inner plight. “Hobbits do like to eat!” 

“I can tell,” I muttered under my breath, eyeing the plates of food on the bare wooden table with trepidation. Was this all just for one meal? 

Laid on the table in attractive, earthenware plates and dishes were boiled eggs, and bright red tomatoes the size of my fist. A large joint of home-cured ham, from which several slices had already been carved ready to serve, and cold, cooked sausages. Fresh baked bread, still warm, rested waiting to be cut and a dish of soft, golden butter sat to the side of it, along with tiny bowls of bright red jam and amber coloured honey. I spied a platter of cooked eggs on the fireside, kept warm by a metal shelf that stuck out over the flames. There was a pot of creamy milk, still frothy, and a large brown teapot steaming beside one place setting. 

“Well?” Bilbo questioned my hesitation, smiling as if amused. “Tuck in!” 

Laughing at his enthusiasm, I did just that, shaking off my nervousness to enjoy what was the first meal I could remember sitting down to eat. Two slices of shortbread and a cup of mint tea did not in my limited experience count as a proper meal, not when faced with the cornucopia of food before me. 

I had not thought food could taste so wondrous, and was woefully unprepared for the explosions of flavour upon my tongue. The bread was warm and coaxed the golden butter to begin to melt. Oil from the butter dripping down my fingers when I was too slow to eat it. The ham was sweet with its honey glaze, salty in a way not even the sausages could emulate, and came apart easily in my hands when cutlery took too long. The tea wasn’t mint to my pleasant surprise, but something malty and a decadent warm brown. Bilbo poured a little milk in for me, and after an initial sip I found it too strong, he then sweetened it with a small spoonful of honey. The sausages, packed fit to bursting with bites of apple and something herby I didn’t know, pared well with the scrambled eggs Bilbo had scattered chopped chives onto. 

I had popped my last morsel of buttered bread into my mouth, and was just about to reach for a scoop of eggs when I heard Bilbo’s bone weary sigh. 

“It’s heartbreaking watching you eat.”

I looked up to find him observing me with a shine of tears in his eyes. I inquired after his thoughts with a tilt of my head, mouth still full of bread. 

“You look at every mouthful as though it were the finest of foods,” he explained with difficulty, as though the words pained him. “And the wonder on your face when you taste something new is like that of a child experiencing new flavours.”

I swallowed the mouthful of bread and butter, licking away the oil on my lips, biding my time to reply to this new train of thought. 

“Why is that heartbreaking?” I finally asked. 

Bilbo’s smile was brittle and weak. “Because you should remember what food tastes like my dear, and the fact that you don’t is enough to drive me to tears.” 

That made me squirm in my seat. No one should cry because of me, no matter why. The notion that Bilbo was upset made my insides wriggle about uncomfortably and my face heat with a flush I didn’t understand. 

“Please don’t cry,” I pleaded and reached out to hold his hand. 

Bilbo chuckled and held my hand in his, his fingers encircling my wrist. When he looked down, sniffing to compose himself, he frowned and twisted his hand so we could both see his middle finger and thumb encompassing my wrist and overlapping to his first knuckle. 

“You’ve not eaten well, or perhaps at all, in days,” he whispered, so soft he was most likely speaking to himself, so I didn’t reply. His next sentence came in a rush of tormented air, the words escaping before he could trap them behind his teeth. “What happened to you?” 

Again he sighed, and he sounded achingly sad. His hand encircling my wrist moved to capture my hand, squeezing it gently before reaching and placing a spoonful of eggs in my plate, along with two more sausages, a whole tomato, and a fresh cut of bread. 

“Please, eat as much as you want, as much as you can,” he insisted, hesitating for a moment before adding another slice of ham. “You will never have to go without food again, I’ll make sure of it.” 

Now, I found myself tearful. How lucky it was that I’d found someone so compassionate and caring? I doubted I could have knocked on the door of a more warm-hearted individual at that moment.

“I’ll eat you out of house and home!” I chuckled, hands shaking when I brushed a few escapee tears from my cheeks. 

Bilbo smiled, at last tucking into his own breakfast. “That would make me profusely happy.” 

***

After polishing off as much of the breakfast as we could, Bilbo placed a couple more small logs onto the fire, telling me that the fire would keep until we came back in time to cook our next meal. He led the way to the entrance, where he pulled on a deep red jacket with gold buttons that shone in the soft early morning light. Before I could ask if I could borrow a coat, he reached behind the coat stand, his arm disappearing past his elbow for a moment, before he withdrew it and brought with him a swathe of blue fabric. 

“Here miss,” he said, handing me the garment. “Though it is late summer, the morning is still quite chilly, and will get colder as the days go on. This will keep you warm until we get to Hilda’s. There’s a chill in the air this morning.” 

It was a cloak, dark blue in colour, nearly black, but around the hem of the hood and down the sides there was some beautifully delicate embroidery in white thread. Pulling the garment closer for my inspection, I found the embroidery to be of tiny flowers interwoven with a winding ivy plant. 

“Will Hilda not mind our coming so early in the morning?” I asked while wrapping the thick cloak around my shoulders, letting my fingertips trail over it as I held it closed in front of me for there was no clasp to fasten it. 

Bilbo shook off my concern with a flutter of his brown freckled hands, already turning his back and digging through the cabinet beside the coat stand in that preoccupied, pottering way of his. 

“No, no, no, of course not. Where in Middle Earth? She would hold me down and do,” he shivered from head to toe as if freezing. “Well, all manner of unpleasant things to me if she knew I had kept you from medical attention for this long. Confound it all!” 

He dug deeper into the drawers which were very clearly perplexing him. 

“But,” I licked my lips, feeling inordinately uneasy about leaving Bilbo’s home. The prospect of stepping out into a world I did not know and had only glimpsed in the bleak darkness of night was clenching my heart in a tight grip of fear. Yet…there was something in the manner of Bilbo’s oddity I found amusing, having a conversation with both me and himself successfully stirred a humour in me I had not expected to feel, but it was certainly not unwelcome. “Didn’t you say that it would have been too late to see her last night?” 

Bilbo nodded, turning his head to look at me before quickly returning his gaze to his search. 

“I did, however, blast! I’m sure it was…I also know that Dinodas would not have appreciated an interruption so late, ow! What is a pin doing in here? Which would have made Hilda annoyed at Dinodas,” Bilbo explained with wide eyes. He then withdrawing his right hand in favour of sacrificing his left to the dangerous drawers. “And caused yet another round of disagreements between them. Even as a member of the family I would not dare be anywhere in the vicinity when they begin rowing.” 

I nodded, though I didn’t fully understand. 

“Ahah!” He exclaimed, pulling a silver broach from the drawer with a triumphant grin. 

“Here,” he came towards me and pulled the cloak closed. “Would you hold this still for me? Thank you.” 

I watched as he fastened the knot work broach to the cloak and fastened it in front of me.

“Beautiful,” I couldn’t help but whisper.

“Yes, it is, isn’t it? The broach also works as a hair ornament. Mother used to use it to keep her’s out of her face whilst baking,” Bilbo said, gazing off into the air fondly.

“It was your mothers?” I was fearful of losing it. 

“No, I will not hear a word about it, miss.” He spoke sternly before I could protest. “You are in need of a cloak, and I just happen to have one. It also happens to be my late mother’s but I could not think of a person who would appreciate its beauty more than its current wearer.” 

He smiled at me, the lines around his eyes and the corner of his mouth creasing into familiar places, softening his face further whilst further endearing him to me as I fought with my emotions over an act as kind and thoughtful as this. 

I at last whispered, “Thank you Bilbo.” 

I hoped my face portrayed my sudden affection for the Hobbit as words were escaping me. 

“Think nothing of it my dear,” he said offhandedly, as if the action and compliment were but a flyaway thought. 

“Umm, so who is Dinodas?” I asked, watching him with curiosity as he pulled a small comb from another drawer in the cabinet and began brushing the curly hair on the top of his feet. 

Now it was daylight I could see his feet in more detail, as well as the differences between us, clearer. Where he had large, thickly haired feet, I had smaller, softer feet with some small smatterings of hair on my toes. Where he had stocky, hairy legs, my own were slim about the ankle and knee and smattered with shiny, white thin scars beneath dark blonde hair. His body shape was soft but sturdy, no rotund belly that I remembered could mean a fondness for alcoholic beverages. My own body, after making curious inspections of myself last night while trying to sleep, was nothing much different from what I knew a feminine form to look like. A thinner waist than a male and a bust, but all still soft and warm. Besides my feet, I came to the assumption that I looked like any Hobbit lass should. 

“Ah, yes, Dinodas is Hilda’s husband,” Bilbo provided before nodding downwards in satisfaction at the state of his feet hair and replacing the brush. 

“Does he not like interruptions at home?” I asked, feeling the corners of my lips begin to quirk upwards at my strange, silly companion. 

“No, he just likes his sleep…err…,” Bilbo paused and then laughed. “So yes, I do believe he doesn’t like interruptions at home!” 

I chuckled along with him, feeling excited at meeting more Hobbits, even as the fear of the unknown was rapidly making it hard to breathe properly. Bilbo seemed to sense this and stopped by the door, one hand on the door handle, a basket in his other that he’d acquired while I was otherwise engaged with my thoughts. 

“Are you ready?” He asked. “It’s all right if you aren’t, I can fetch Hilda here if need be.” 

I swallowed and began fidgeting with the cloak as it hung in front of me, worrying the material between my fingertips. 

“I hardly know,” I admitted, eyeing the door in trepidation. “I do not know what to expect, so I do not know how to prepare myself for what is to come, although…you are quite sure that everyone is agreeable and friendly?” 

Bilbo smiled wanly. “The only family in the entirety of the Shire who would not be pleasant are the Sackville-Baggins’. A family, that yes, I have the misfortune of being related to, but never fear, they will steer clear once they see me.” 

I moved to his side whilst inquiring, “Why is that?” 

He chuckled, looking entirely unfazed at this matter, as if it were so natural now he took it as the way of things. “They are unforgivingly hostile towards me and envious of the wealth I inherited, that they feel I do not deserve.”

“How rude!” 

“Precisely!” He agreed with me. “You will be fine miss, I have no intention of abandoning you in the middle of Hobbiton. We will see Hilda and then I think we might have a short walk around the village, and inquire as to if anyone saw you or heard anything last night, if that is fine with you? I may even be inclined to have a quiet word with a certain Bounder who was on duty.”

I nodded in agreement with his plans, suppressing a smile at the mental image of Bilbo confronting Mr Adalgrim Took to have, what I imagined would be, a rather stern word. In truth, I could not picture Bilbo shouting or even raising his voice above the necessity of needing to be heard, so to picture him giving another Hobbit a telling off, I imagined it to consist mainly of finger wagging and stern words, a notion that carried with it a wave of familiarity I could not yet place. 

Shaking myself, I realised that Bilbo was still waiting for me to answer him. “That sounds like a fair plan.” 

“Well, then miss, may I at last introduce you to Hobbiton.”

He then opened the door with a flourish and into the hallway poured a beautiful golden light. For a moment I was blinded by the brightness of the sun, but then I could see the front garden I’d walked through last night, the smooth flagstone steps, and the wooden fence I’d walked past and beyond that the rolling mounds and colourful doors of Hobbiton. 

I was met with a burst of colour. It was so full of life that I felt overwhelmed, having to take a small step back to ground myself that the image in front of me was reality. The dark and almost ominous surroundings I had walked through last night, seeking refuge and help, were actually the homes and gardens of who I now imagined to be the most cheerful of species. Hobbits, it seemed, had a great love of nature, and even more so of laughter because all I could see was grass, flowers and plants of so many varieties it made my eyes water, and all I could hear was merriment and cheer in the form of laughter, song and one proud exclamation over the size of a pumpkin. 

“Oh Bilbo, it’s, it’s…wonderful!” I exclaimed, eyes darting about as I tried to see everything at once, my apprehension gone as I moved forwards to the light. 

There was just so much to see. So much that wasn’t the blackness I’d woken up to or the coziness of Bilbo’s home, so much that was new and bold and bright. 

“It is, isn’t it?” He asked rhetorically, standing beside me in the doorway and looking out to the village too, a small smile on his face. In that moment, he looked…proud, beaming down at the village that I assumed he’d spent his entire life in.

He turned to me, still smiling. 

“Shall we?” He asked, holding an arm out to me once we’d stepped out the door and he’d locked it behind us. 

I took his arm whilst returning his smile, seeming to know without hesitation how to tuck my hand into the crook his elbow presented and walk beside him in a leisurely manner. I swallowed the lump in my throat that had begun to form the moment he handed me this cloak.  

Habits were coming to me as I was acting upon them. Perhaps my memory was not entirely gone? Little cracks in the blank wall I’d faced when waking in that field had begun to allow moments to bleed through to my conscious mind. I just hoped that more would continue to come, and not just what a cup of tea was, but moments that might allow me to piece together who I was or at least where I came from. But how long would that take? And would all of it ever return? 

Whilst these thoughts swirled about in my head, we walked down the lane to the right of Bilbo’s home, then taking several turns and passing an apple orchard, we eventually came to a door tucked away in a little nook where one hill met another. Bilbo had explained that these homes were in fact called smials and were a creation entirely unique to Hobbits. 

Other than this, Bilbo had been relatively quiet along the way, only greeting the odd Hobbit lad or lass, but he didn’t introduce me, leaving the other Hobbits confused and obviously curious. Despite the glances thrown in my direction, I felt far from ignored, having understood that Bilbo was merely avoiding the topic of my name for as long as possible; after all, how could he introduce someone who had no name? 

Then, after greeting a rather enthusiastic Hobbit by the name of Asphodel Brandybuck (who seemed utterly fascinated by my presence and asked Bilbo if Bag End was receiving any more visitors, to which he replied that there was only, at present, one visitor and there would only be one visitor for the foreseeable future), Bilbo informed me that we would probably be followed by the occasional inquisitive Hobbit during our outing, and to not be alarmed, as some were just intrigued, such as Asphodel. When I inquired as to why he was hesitant to linger with any Hobbit we encountered, he answered that it might be best for me to become more comfortable around Hobbits in general before actually undertaking such a feat…whatever that meant. 

Nothing like Bilbo’s large and lavishly gardened residence, Hilda’s smial, with it’s cheery yellow door and the presence of an old, wind blown apple tree resting atop the mound of earth above the entrance way cast a shadow over the doorway and small front garden, was minute and marvellous.

“This is Woody End,” Bilbo explained, gesturing to the other smials around us while opening a small yellow painted gate. “Later, I’ll take you for a short walk around the rest of Hobbiton, if Hilda says that’s all right, so you can see it all. It’s not a long walk and such a sunny day, it would be a shame not to enjoy it, what do you say?” 

I nodded. “I’d like that.” 

Despite my earlier hesitations, I was enjoying being outside and interacting with other forms of life. Last night felt like a distant, dark nightmare I’d finally woken from. The pain from my head was a faint ebb now, and my back still ached whenever I moved, but the distractions all around me were proving to be a far better medicine than distraction by food, as at breakfast I’d been unable to hide my discomfort sitting at the table. Further distraction in a walk might help to prolong this feeling of slight euphoria. 

Bilbo returned my smile quickly before ringing the little iron bell hanging by the side of the door. 

From inside the home, I heard a voice call, “Coming!” 

A few moments later the door opened and revealed a beautiful Hobbit, whose brown curly hair was piled on her head, had wide, bright eyes shining with good humour when she saw Bilbo, and her hands instantly went to her hips and she struck a pose that looked stern, but the dancing light in her eyes remained. 

“Bilbo Baggins!” She crowed. “Why I never! I would have thought you’d forgotten our existence it’s been so long since a house call!” 

Bilbo bowed his head, cheeks reddening, and looking thoroughly chastised. “Yes, I know Hilda and I do apologise. I will endeavour to visit more often in future.” 

She fixed him with a glare I wasn’t sure was real before laughing and reaching forward to bring him into a tight hug which he returned, also laughing. 

It struck me then that laughter might be a part of Hobbit language, as it seemed to feature most frequently in their conversations. 

Hilda was a lively Hobbit lass, full of energy and immediately struck me as a motherly figure when she stepped back from Bilbo and proceeded to fuss over his shirt which apparently needed a damn good ironing. It was quite amusing to see him nod and agree with her until she asked him why he hadn’t bothered to dress properly before leaving his home, to which he had more than a few words of disagreement to share with her. While they tittered away, I spied a small Hobbit lass with chestnut curls peering out from behind her mother’s blue skirts. 

“And who is this?” Hilda asked when she caught sight of me, quirking an eyebrow high on her forehead. “You haven’t secretly been courting, have you Bilbo?”

Bilbo proceeded to turn a bright pink. He spluttered and started and couldn’t form a whole word for a moment, much to everyone’s amusement. While he fought for a single syllable, I recalled the notion of courting, that of seeking and wooing one with the intention of them becoming your husband or wife and watching others partake in the ritual of it all, but never engaging in it myself. 

“No,” Bilbo eventually answered, voice low and the colour still remaining on the apples of his cheeks. “No, I haven’t. I would tell you more now but the topic is rather sensitive and there are ears lurking.”

He wasn’t wrong. 

To the right a little ways off, sat a wide green door and in front of it were two older Hobbit ladies, each with their heads turned towards us as a somewhat younger male, closer to Bilbo’s age, stared unashamedly at us all, a pinch of a frown between his dark brows. 

“Yes, yes,” Hilda agreed quickly. “Best come on in then.” 

She then turned to her neighbours and gave them a look I could only conclude came with motherhood, for it was a perfect mixture of sternness and scolding that drove them to go about their business and leave us to ours like admonished children. 

She nodded to herself in what looked like satisfaction before ushering us all into her home, closing the door behind us while muttering under her breath about nosey neighbours. 

“Daisy!” Bilbo cheered when he finally caught sight of the little lass standing with her hands behind her back in the cheerfully lit hallway, his own hands resting on his knees as he bent slightly to meet her eye line. “My, how you’ve grown!”

Daisy glowed under his praise. She looked very much like her mother, with brown ringlets and bright green eyes, but with freckles dotting the brow of her nose that were her’s alone. 

“You would not be so surprised cousin if you thought to visit more often,” Hilda chided good-naturedly while smiling at them both. 

“You are cousins?” I asked. 

“Very much second cousins twice removed, in that instance,” Hilda answered me with a kind smile. “But, yes, cousins after a fashion nonetheless.” 

Bilbo nodded as he rose to stand. “Yes, Hilda’s from my father’s side of the family.” 

Hilda laughed and ushered us to follow her down the hallway into a small kitchen. 

“The ones with our heads firmly on our shoulders!”

“I won’t disagree with you there,” Bilbo muttered under his breath as he took a seat at the kitchen table, Daisy following suit and sitting beside him. 

I hesitated for a moment, wondering if it was bad manners to take a seat without first being invited to do so, particularly as I was the only one present who was not family, and therefore a stranger in this situation.

“What do you mean?” 

“Do you remember when I told you about the Took’s?” 

“Oh? Oh, yes,” I answered, nodding as their words made sense. “The fairy wife.”

Hilda began to laugh. “Yes, yes, I’d almost forgotten about her. Explains the entire lot, if you ask me. Oh, do take a seat, dear. Would you like any tea?”

“Thank you,” I said as I gingerly sat on Daisy’s left side, feeling my back begin to twinge and pinch from the upright position. “But, I’m quite all right.” 

“We’ve only just had breakfast Hilda,” Bilbo explained. “I thought it best to eat before we came.” 

Hilda nodded as she set about making tea for herself and Daisy; I had the feeling that they had only just eaten themselves. At least I hoped they had, and that we hadn’t disturbed their meal. 

“Where is Dinodas, Hilda?” Bilbo asked, peering into the passageway leading further into the home. “Not sleeping in again?”

“Oh no, he’s at the market, gone for some cheese and bread. He decided to have a midnight snack last night and eat what was to be our lunch!” She huffed with a scowl, shaking her head. 

Daisy giggled beside me. “Papa is always hungry,” she informed me. 

I couldn’t help but smile with her. “Really?”

She nodded enthusiastically before leaning towards me conspiringly. “It gets him into trouble all the time,” she whispered, louder than she intended.  

“Yes, it does,” Hilda agreed as she turned to the table, setting a small yellow mug in front of Daisy and keeping a larger, light blue one for herself. “And we know better than to do the same, don’t we Daisy?”

The girl nodded, eyes wide and wise. 

“Now, what is it you need to speak to me about?” Hilda asked once settled, her eyes lingering on me for a moment. “You haven’t come just for a social call, have you?” 

“Well, it’s a little queer and altogether hard to believe, but bare with me,” Bilbo began before clearing his throat and worrying his hands together. “This young lady visited me last night, quite to our shared surprise. She has no memory before waking in a field outside of Hobbiton in the dead of night. Once she righted herself, she made her way to my door as my light was the nearest to her.” 

Hilda didn’t answer him, stopping still as thoughts rapidly flying over her face and through her expressive eyes, but I could not identify one. Then she turned to me, focused and professional. 

“Do you remember anything at all?” She asked. 

She didn’t question Bilbo’s claim, neither did she argue, frown or flinch. 

“No, I-I mean, I’ve been having little flashes of memory or, or of smells, but I…I don’t even know my own name,” I admitted, curling my shoulders inwards as now, the weight of my predicament felt heavier and darker than it had in the solitude of night. 

“You don’t know your name?” Came an inquisitive question from beside me. 

Little Daisy had propped her chin on top of her hands where they rested on the table, her big green eyes watching me with open curiosity. 

I bit my lip, feeling very silly to have such a conversation with someone so young. I wondered if she understood the implications of me not knowing my name. 

“No, no I don’t.”

Daisy looked contemplative for a little while, humming to herself in a way that reminded me of Bilbo, before, all of a sudden, “You should be called…Flower!” she announced happily with a wide smile. 

“Why is that?” I asked, casting her mother a quick glance and finding Hilda watching us with a small smile of her own. 

Daisy was undeterred by my hesitation. “Because flowers are pretty and you are pretty so you should be named after a flower, but I can’t decide which one so it will have to be all of them!” 

I couldn’t help but smile at her childish reasoning. 

“I like it. Flower,” I rolled the word around my mouth, feeling it. It did feel pretty. “Thank you, Daisy.” 

She grinned and giggled. “You’re welcome, Miss Flower.”

“Oh, Daisy,” I said, finding it impossible not to laugh along with her. “I think you can just call me Flower, there’s no need for formalities, after all you did just name me.”

Again she nodded, but now with the faux seriousness of adulthood on her youthful face. 

“If you think so,” she said, sitting up straight and facing me. 

“I do.”

“Okay then.”

Our discussion was peppered with chuckles and now I could see that Bilbo looked positively chuffed at the advancements I’d made. Hilda was watching her daughter fondly and sipping her tea between chuckling with her cousin. 

“Now that that’s settled,” Bilbo said, still smiling, though now with an edge of dithering. I glanced down and saw that once again his hands had taken to worrying themselves, his thumbs rubbing in the joint of his knuckles. “The real reason we’re here is that when she came to my door last night, she was injured.” 

“What?” Hilda burst, mug thumping onto the table as she rushed to stand and move towards me, skirts swaying and brow furrowing. “Why didn’t you tell me that first? Pleasantries could have waited!” 

She took hold of my cheeks, her hands surprisingly cool, and turned my face right and left slowly and softly. 

“How are you injured?” She asked, eyes scanning my face for something, what, I had no clue. 

“Well, there is a cut on the back of my head—” I began only for Hilda to huff and turn to pin Bilbo with a withering glare. 

“A head injury!” She lamented, furious. “Bilbo Baggins, I could ring your neck! You know better than to let a head injury wait!” 

Bilbo shrunk beneath her scolding, his neck sinking between his shoulders. 

“It was very late Hilda,” he protested weakly, trying to reason with the irate mother, much to my surprise. “Almost morning in fact, she had stopped bleeding, and I dealt with the wound as best I could—” 

“I don’t care!” Hilda retorted, pointing a threatening finger at him again. “Head traumas can have other symptoms and effects! It’s not all physical you know!” 

“Yes, I know. But I waited a good hour with her, watched her eat, and drink, and I dealt with the cut before bed—” at this point Bilbo cut himself off, and by the look of despair on his face he knew just what was coming next. 

“YOU LET HER SLEEP?” Hilda shrieked, causing us all to startle in our seats, though Daisy looked unworried about her mother’s temper and was now staring with open curiosity at the back of my head, leaning back in her seat to get a better look. “You idiot! She might not have woken up!” 

Hilda now ignored Bilbo and his cowering, and her daughter’s delight in the proceedings and half dragged me to a little, cool room off to the right of the entrance hall. The entire way she muttered under her breath about Bilbo and his inability to judge the severity of issues, though she used more colourful words and curses. 

The room was shaped rather like Bilbo’s parlour, though smaller, but there was still a small circular window on the far wall. There was also a simple bed with a white cloth draped over it in the centre of the room, a neatly pressed pillow at the top, fresh linen piled next to a cabinet to the right and a large lamp on a side table to the left. This was her healing room. 

“Have a seat,” she directed, helping me onto a white mattress. A small wooden stool helping with the step up as the bed was raised higher than the one I’d slept on last night at Bilbo’s. 

“Now, first things first,” she said, settling into a wooden chair by the side of the bed with a serious air. “Where is the pain? And don’t say there isn’t any, I saw you wince when you sat down at the kitchen table.” 

I settled on the mattress, and not knowing what to do with my hands, let them rest on the soft linen beside me, my fingers curling anxiously around the material. 

“My head and back hurt the worse,” I began to list, ticking off each pain or niggle in my head as I went. “My right ankle kind of…itches? I think that’s the correct word to use, but it’s a painful itch. And my knees and hands are sore, stinging really.” 

“All right,” Hilda nodded to herself, and I could see she was storing away the information. “Head injuries take priority at the moment, so I’ll start with that. Where is the cut?” 

“The back of my head. I didn’t even realise it was there until I turned my back on Bilbo and he saw the blood in my hair.” 

“Show me,” she ordered, but not harshly. 

I dutifully went to turn and move my hair to show her, but she moved around the bed so I wouldn’t twist, and her hands intercepted my own, finding the wound. 

“Any fresh blood when you discovered it?” She asked. 

I had to stop myself from shaking my head as she gently cradled it. 

“No, no, it had already clotted.” 

“Well, that’s something,” she lamented, while I could feel her fingers lightly pressing on various places on my scalp, some were tender while others not so. “Any dizziness? Spotted vision? Lack of depth perception? Sensitivity to light? Did you pass out or experience any black outs?” 

“Umm,” I began, chewing my bottom lip, trying to piece together my foggy memory of the previous night. Had I passed out in Bilbo’s home? I remember being so warm by the fire, so sleepy but that was merely tiredness, wasn’t it? “I-I’m not sure. When I woke up in the field, I know I felt dizzy. But other than that I, I don’t know.” 

“Hmm,” she hummed in acknowledgement, urging me to continue. 

But I wasn’t sure there was anything else to continue with. I scrambled to recall everything that had happened for anything worth telling Hilda. Some knowledgeable voice deep in my mind urged me to tell her every detail I could. 

“Erm, then, when I was walking to Bilbo’s I didn’t really feel anything, it wasn’t until I was sat by the fire in his parlour that I realised that I was cold. Bilbo said I was blue with it, and I really was, my fingernails were blue.” 

I looked down at my hands, as if to reassure myself that the colour had gone and was assuredly replaced by a pleasant pink. It was. 

“That can be a sign of hypothermia,” Hilda explained, her gentle fingers leaving my scalp and she came around to sit in front of me again. 

“What’s that?” I asked, but then she began inspecting my neck with gentle probing and I felt suddenly nervous again. “W-what-what are you doing?” 

My nervousness didn’t phase her. 

“I’m checking to see if there is any damage to your neck. The wound looks as if you’ve fallen on something. Sometimes a fall can jar your neck, or even damage your spine. Is it tender at all?”

“No, not really, I mean, it’s, it’s a little stiff but I feel stiff all over.”

Hilda laughed. “I would be sceptical if you didn’t.” 

She went back to probing my neck, running her hands up to my jaw too, and the back of my ears. 

“Hypothermia,” she explained while continuing her assessment. “It’s a condition a person can experience after being exposed to cold over a long period of time, or if you’re submerged in ice water and unable to warm up. The cold feels like it’s coming from inside you and you can’t get warm.” 

“Have you ever experienced it?” I asked as she pulled away from me, her hands settling in her lap. 

“I have.” 

“Really?”

Hilda nodded, a calming smile on her lips. “Yes, I was a child and fell into the river one winter. I’d slipped on some ice on the bank and fallen in. I was sick for a long time.” 

“I’m sorry.”

Her pleasant smile didn’t falter. “Thank you, dear, but you needn’t.”

“I…I’m not sure why I said that…just…it felt like I needed to say that.” I bit my lip, feeling shy. “Do people say that?” 

Hilda hummed, thoughtful, as she sorted through a box on the stand by the bed. 

“Yes,” she replied. “They do. It’s a common enough manner, though in my mind needless.” 

I fidgeted under her gaze, wondering what else was common but for me would be foreign. But then, the topic was changed and my thoughts with it. 

Hilda’s sharp eyes focused, as if preparing for bad news. 

“Now, about your head,” she began.

“Yes?”

“You are going to need a couple of stitches, I’m afraid.” She pulled out various tools from the box, each clean and obviously well cared for, but none sparking any knowledge as to their use. “As well as Bilbo’s home remedy might have turned out, the wound is too deep to leave open.”

Fear gripped me again, as did nausea, and I tore my gaze from the unknown instruments before I vomited all over them. Bilbo had told me about needles last night, but now I had a prickling sensation along my arms and the palms of my hands. In an instant I knew I did not like needles. 

“Why not?” My voice luckily didn’t belay my nervousness and remained steady. 

Hilda seemed to have not noticed my panic, continuing to organise the equipment she would need. “Well, for one it will become infected quite quickly, hair isn’t known for cleaning itself very well. Your hair may also become trapped, so the skin might heal around some strands of hair, which we do not want. And, if left open, the wound won’t close up by itself, it will heal open so you’ll have a, for lack of a better word, gap in your head.”

Well, those were certainly not pleasant images to have rattling around my mind. 

“Okay, stitches it is then.” 

She laughed as she washed her hands in a small basin to the side of the room and then moved about the room to finish collecting everything she would need. 

“It is strange though,” she commented. 

“What is?”

She was looking for a glass bottle in the wooden cabinet set to the side, searching among their uniformed ranks until she pulled a half empty one triumphantly. “Your injury and your memory loss, well, I don’t think the two are connected.”

“Why? Bilbo said that people have been known to fall and lose their memories. Couldn’t that be what happened to me?”

“Yes, they can,” she agreed. “Though it is very rare. And, to be completely honest with you my dear, from past experience with those I’ve treated before with memory loss the wound is usually much worse.” 

This didn’t make any sense. If the injury isn’t the cause of my lack of recollection, then what was? 

“Really?” 

Hilda noticed and turned back to give me a sympathetic smile. “Yes, and when those incidences have occurred, the person who is injured will lose maybe a day, a week at most, and mostly it is because they have been unconscious all that time. Memory loss due to head trauma isn’t very common.”

“B-but Bilbo told me about a farmer,” I argued, feeling like I was defending my memory loss, that I was trying to prove I wasn’t making it up.  

She nodded, arms full of carefully wrapped needles, thread, the glass bottle and several other items I wasn’t confident enough to name. 

“Oh, yes, he was a special circumstance indeed. We had to bring out a doctor from Bree, if you can imagine! It’s about a third of a day’s walk from here,” she explained when she say my confusion. “The doctor thought there was something wrong with the farmer’s brain, he wasn’t sure if it had swollen. Like when you stump your toe and it goes red and throbs, or something of the sort. In any case, there wasn’t much he could do, but luckily Farmer Throm turned out just fine.” 

I watched her for a moment, eyeing the one curved needle with trepidation and tried to hide my shaking hands in between my knees. “Do you think the same could happen to me? That I will remember everything eventually?”

“I’m not sure, my dear,” she said as she unfolded a pile of fresh cloth on her lap, and began to thread the freshly sterilised needle with carefully precision. “We shall have to wait and see.” 

I eyed the metal warily. “Is, is this going to hurt?”

Hilda melted into the caring mother I’d fist met and reached over to take one of my trembling hands. 

“I’m afraid it will.” 

I then scrutinised the needle with distain, wondering not for the first time if this was some sort of joke Bilbo and Hilda were playing on me. “I don’t remember if I’ve ever been sewn up before.”

Hilda laughed, eyes again bright. “It’s called stitching you up dear, not sewing you up.” 

Well, the definition certainly didn’t help. 

“Stitching?” I echoed, appalled. “How is that any better? I’m not a ragged hemline needing to be mended!”

Again she laughed, looking fond. “No, you are not a ragged hemline,” she chuckled. “But yes, I have to stitch the flesh together, it may be a poor choice of words, but it suits. Now, do you remember what would happen if the wound was left unattended?”

“I remember,” I nodded, again watching the needle she was now disinfecting again carefully; she was certainly thorough about cleanliness. “It could heal open.”

Hilda nodded calmly. “So I must do this.”

“I know.” 

She gave me a quick smile, then presented me with a vial of clear liquid. 

“Here,” she said. “Drink this, it will help with the pain.” 

I cast a doubting glance her way before taking the vial and drinking the liquid in one gulp. It tasted sweet and reminded me of sweetened water, though a little thicker in consistency. Handing Hilda back the glass, she eyed me for a moment, watching with the practised ease of a concerned mother as her free hand came to hover at my side, as if I were about to tip over in a faint. It only took a moment for me to feel the effects of the pain relief, but it merely felt like a numb sensation over my skin. 

I shared my doubts about the medicines effect and Hilda laughed, informing me that it was a mild concoction that would help moderate the pain once she’d finished. I nodded, again knowing I couldn’t very well leave the wound as it was. Knowing it would hurt and actually going through the pain of it were completely different things. To her credit, Hilda did numb the skin around the wound first, and though it provided very little pain relief in addition to the medicine, I knew without it the experience would be much worse. 

I could feel the needle piercing my flesh and the pull of the thread through my scalp which caused me to gag a time or two, but Hilda was professional, placing a bucket between my knees should I feel the need to vomit. Luckily, the bucket escaped our encounter unscathed. 

“You only needed a couple of stitches,” she announced, tying the thread and finishing up. 

It had not felt like a couple of stitches, but I wasn’t going to tell her that, lest I sound like an ungrateful child. 

Hilda proceeded to tidy away the instruments, including the bucket, cleaning and setting the needle to disinfect. I watched on, feeling a little woozy, but chalked it up to having my head pierced multiple times. 

“Now, your back,” Hilda announced, after washing her hands. “Would you mind removing your dress? I can help you if you need.”

I nodded carefully, bashful. “Could you? I’m having trouble remembering how it comes off.” 

She smiled at me, once again the mother I’d seen when she first opened the door to myself and Bilbo. “Of course my dear, it’s not the easiest thing in the world, believe you me.” 

She stood and helped me stand. “Feeling a little dizzy?”

Had I spoken aloud before? 

“Yes, a little.” 

“Perfectly normal,” Hilda assured me. “Should settle down soon. Now, if you stand still, and hold the back of the chair if you need, I’ll loosen your dress.” 

I found that holding the chair was just what I needed as when Hilda began pulling ribbon loose behind me, I swayed with the tugging no matter how gentle she was being. I’d had no idea just how tight the garment had been, and with every give of the fabric, felt my breath came easier. 

“Such a beautiful dress,” she lamented, voice soft. “What a shame it’s ruined. Though,” she continued thoughtfully. “I may be able to hem it for you. The skirt looks in good enough condition.”

This gave me pause. The dress was the only garment I owned, and even though I knew Bilbo would never let me want for clothing, I desperately wanted something that was my own. 

“You could?”

“Oh yes,” she answered. “I know Dwarrowdams prefer full length gowns but a Hobbit’s dress is always hemmed short as our feet can take on the elements. In fact, I think the shorter fashion will suit you better my dear, you have the figure for it.” 

“Thank you, I—”

Dwarrowdams. 

How did she know? Had Bilbo told her? No, I’d been with him the entire time. But then how? 

“Don’t fret,” she soothed, noticing my distress. A cool hand came to rest on my shoulder. “I saw your ears and feet and put it together myself.” 

“Oh.” I failed to form any other words. 

Hilda carried on loosening the bodice. I found my voice again. 

“Thank you.”

“For what, dear?” She asked over the ragged sound of ribbon pulling through fabric. 

“Being kind.”

She stopped for a moment, then I felt a hand stroke my hair back from my neck and place it over my shoulder. The movement was so loving, it felt motherly, warm and comforting.

“You are very welcome,” she answered, voice soft, before setting about with the bodice again. 

It wasn’t long after that when I felt the dress give, slipping off my shoulders and down my arms until it caught in my elbows. I looked down and saw pale linen wrapped around my torso tightly.  

Hilda sighed behind me. 

“Stays,” she explained. “No wonder you’re in so much pain, you’re laced in tighter than you should be.” 

As she set about loosening the contraption she answered my unspoken question. 

“It’s an undergarment, used to hold your chest in place under the dress. Though I must say I’ve not seen one as extravagant as this…ever.” 

“Extravagant?”

“It’s embroidered.” 

I looked down again, and sure enough, she was right. Green and red thread wove minute figures of flowers around the edge of the stays. It was quite pretty. The idea of such delicate work on something so obviously concocted to inflict pain and discomfort made me uncomfortable. The dress too had been drawn tight, and I felt the loss of tension around my shoulders and upper arms. Surely I would not have been able to do so to myself? Someone must have helped me get dressed, as Hilda is helping me now. But who? 

At last, the stays gave way and I instantly took a deep breath, wincing and crying out in pain as I did so. Hilda’s calming hand on my shoulder held me steady when I swayed.

“Try to breathe normally,” she coached in serene tones. “You’ll need to get used to not wearing them again.”

With tight shut eyes, I nodded. The pain of my ribs ebbing like flames of a long burning fire, in a word: reluctantly. 

“Well,” Hilda began. “That’s a nice bruise you have.”

Gasping for breath, I managed to speak, winded. “I’m bruised?” 

“From shoulder to hip I’m afraid.” 

I blew out another painful breath. 

“No wonder it hurts so much.”

“I’m going to check your ribs.” 

She pressed along my back, tracing to the edges of the bruise I assume, humming to herself from time to time. She occasionally asked me questions, how painful was it to breathe? Did this hurt? Are you struggling to breathe at all? When all her questions had been answered, she helped me take the fabric off and threw it onto the bed. While it was certainly beautiful, it was a contraption of evil, I was sure. I looked down and saw that the bones of it had left matching imprints on my skin, red and bold. 

“You will not be wearing stays for a while, about a week I think, so the bruises can heal. Here,” she handed me some cloth wrappings. “You’ll need to wrap your chest up for support without it I’m afraid. But it will be more comfortable than that blasted thing, I can promise you that. On the bright side, your ribs don’t appear to be damaged, just bruised like the rest of you.” 

I took the wrapping, grateful, and relived I wasn’t more seriously injured. 

“Thank you, Hilda.” 

“It’s not a problem, dear. The real problem is my idiot cousin out there.” She jerked her thumb at the door. “And his lack of medical knowledge.” 

I stifled a laugh imagining Bilbo being forcefully taught proper medical practise by a vigilant Hilda. She helped me wrap my chest, keeping her eyes respectfully adverted to my back. Then she helped me dress again, threading the ribbons back in place with great care and much looser than it had been. 

“Let’s see to that ankle next. I’m wondering how it could possibly itch.”

“It’s a very painful itch,” I said as I sat again, feeling grateful to be rid of the stays once again as I found I could sit in comfort, though mindful of my sore torso. “As if I’ve knocked a bite or sting embedded in my skin. I remember being stung by a bee once and it’s a similar pain, though stronger.” 

Hilda nodded and lifted my foot, resting it on her thigh, and respectfully not commenting on my memory. 

She didn’t even have to poke or prod my flesh to see the problem. 

“Ahh, here we are,” she announced. 

“What is it?” I asked, fearful of looking and seeing something that would once again turn my stomach. I’d been dutifully ignoring the pain until now, hoping it was just my body protesting the abuse I assumed it had been through. 

I could feel her fingers lightly tracing around the painful sensation above my foot, in the vulnerable hollow of my ankle bone.

“You’ve got a rather large splinter of wood just here.” She touched nearer to the mark than before to show me, the sensation of her cool finger against my heated flesh making me flinch and she apologised. “The itching sensation you are feeling is probably the result of your body trying to push the offensive piece of wood out.” 

How bizarre. 

“It can do that?” I questioned. 

“Oh, yes,” she answered, reaching for metal pincers on the table. “Though, larger pieces like this would take a very long while indeed.” 

“I wonder how I did it.”

She hummed, and set to her task. 

The rest of the examination carried on much the same, thoughtful hums, informative descriptions of my injuries, and passing remarks of ambiguous small talk. Once my leg was rid of wooden splinters, cleaned to get rid of any Hilda couldn’t see and wrapped, she examined my hands and feet, which had luckily only sustained a few cuts. 

“Just scrapes on your hands and feet, looks like you were running barefoot and tripped. Your dress saved your knees from a similar fate,” Hilda commented, once again looking at my dress forlornly.  

***

Back in the kitchen, Bilbo and Daisy were playing a card game I did not recognise. It looked as though Daisy was winning, though not on purpose judging by Bilbo’s sour pout. There was another seated Hobbit, who I assumed to be Dinodas, watching over the game with a fond smile, a mug of steaming tea in hand. 

“Mama! Miss Flower!” Daisy called when she caught sight of us. “Come look! I’m winning!”

“So it would appear you are,” Hilda praised, a teasing smile on her lips. “Does Cousin Bilbo not know how to play?”

Bilbo harrumphed, cheeks beginning to redden. 

“I most certainly do know how to play Gin Rummy! I’m surprised that your daughter does!”

Dinodas laughed. “Taught her myself. She clears me out if we ever play for sweeties.” 

He caught sight of me behind his wife and smiled. He had a pleasant face, soft and kind. Where his wife and child’s heads were downed in soft brown curls, his own were as black as ink. He had a comfortable air about him, leaning back in a time softened chair, arms propped up on a cushion in a way that led me to believe this was the way he always sat in that particular chair. 

“Hello there,” he greeted me, not moving to rise. “Dinodas, pleased to meet you.”

“You as well, I’m, umm, Flower,” the greeting caught in my throat when I uttered my new name. Daisy beamed encouragingly up at me, urging me to become familiar with it. 

“Bilbo and Miss Flower are here on business, Dinodas,” Hilda informed her husband. 

“Oh?” He turned to Bilbo with a cocked eyebrow. “I thought I had paid you back?”

Bilbo nodded, eyed fixed on his cards. “You have.”

Hilda was quick to pin down her husband with a stare I imagine wasn’t often used. 

“Paid Bilbo back for what?” She asked, tone light, though there was nothing innocent about the way she crossed arms and her stern expression. 

“Nothing, dear, nothing,” was his hasty response as he sunk a little more into his chair. 

Hilda hummed again, but going by the uncomfortable swallow Dinodas made of a mouthful of tea at the sound, I was willing to bet it was more of a warning to him. 

Bilbo and Daisy paid the two no mind, focused entirely on their game. That was, until Daisy slammed down her cards, triumphantly exclaiming: “Gin!” 

Her opponent’s left eye twitched, before he threw down his own cards and began muttering to himself about never playing that wretched game again. All the while, across from him, a gleeful little Hobbit raked in her winnings: a handful of small paper wrapped balls. 

“Thank you, Cousin Bilbo,” she said, positively radiant with pleasure in her win. “I love peppermints!”

Peppermints! I know those, they’re sweets! I recalled the phantom taste of one on the back of my tongue. A soft, creamy treat encased in a sugary shell. One I didn’t remember eating very much of. Yet, I had the distinct feeling this wasn’t because I didn’t like them. 

Bilbo was on his feet next, sparing his cousin’s daughter a fond if not exasperated glance, before turning to me with a reassuring smile. 

“How are you?” He asked. 

“Very well, Hilda’s patched me up.”

Said lady of the smial began to laugh. “She’s all stitched up and ready to go.”

I chose to ignore her quip at my indignation of the correct name for sewing someone up, and instead asked Bilbo if we were staying for another game.

Whilst his face soured, Daisy’s brightened. 

“Oh, yes, please!” She chirped. 

“I don’t have any more peppermints!” He burst, much to her amusement. “You’ve cleaned me out. I’ll have to go and buy more, and some of those were meant for Miss Flower whilst we went walking.”

Daisy didn’t like that we might be leaving, and then shrunk into her seat when she heard some of the sweets were meant for me. She was quick to grab half of the pile and come over to me, spilling the sweets into one of my cupped hands. A hand which she positioned herself, making sure I did not drop one sweet. 

“We can share,” she informed me. “And the next time you come over, we can both play against Cousin Bilbo for them!” 

I had to laugh at her tenacity. 

“That sounds like a wonderful idea, but I’m afraid you’ll have to teach me how to play first, as I don’t know the game.” 

Daisy shrugged. “No matter, it doesn’t take long. I’ll be happy to teach you!” 

 “I can’t wait.”

While we chatted, I noticed Bilbo approaching and then talking with Hilda. The conversation didn’t look too serious and I gathered that Hilda was only telling Bilbo about my injuries. Our conversations stopped at the same time and a beat of silence passed before Bilbo cleared his throat. Dinodas sipped his tea as he watched us all, an easy smile waiting between drinks. 

“I was hoping to take Miss Flower around the village,” Bilbo began. “If you’ll agree she’s able to. I know she would like to join me, but if you say she isn’t ready for such exhaustion then we will save the walk for another day.” 

Hilda smiled, looking far more at ease than when we entered the smial. 

“That should be fine, Bilbo. Just keep an eye on how far you’re walking.” She turned to me. “If you feel tired or short of breath, tell Bilbo and he’ll take you home to rest. If you start to develop head pain, a headache, or sensitivity to light, come here immediately, I don’t care what time of night it is.”

“Of course Hilda.” 

“Your stitches will need to come out in a week or so. If you come back every four days perhaps, I can check on them regularly.” She smiled, eyes bright and twinkling with mischief more suited to her daughter. “Maybe even get them out early if you’re lucky.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to be lucky given her gleeful smile. 

“And if you should ever need anything else,” she continued. “And I really do mean anything, we are here.” 

“Thank you, for everything.” I began to feel emotional as I realised how much this little trip had given me, feeling keenly the physical evidence of their kindness in the peppermints I still held. “If it weren’t for you, I’d have so many unanswered questions still.”

I turned to Daisy, wondering if it would be improper for me to hug her.

“And if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have a name.” 

She decided to answer my unvoiced question and launched herself at me, wrapping her thin arms about my waist and burying her face into my side. I winced, but was careful to withhold any noise of pain. 

From within the folds of my dress and her tumble of curls I heard Daisy reply, “You’re very welcome.” 

Chapter Text

After saying goodbye to Hilda, Dinodas and Daisy, (who quickly informed me of the proper way to store my new peppermints) we set off towards the centre of Hobbiton. 

As we came to a soft rise, I could see into the village green by The Green Dragon pub. Bilbo had kept up a steady stream of informative chatter once we’d left his cousins. I was pleasantly surprised to see a collection of tables set with wares clearly to sell. Bilbo informed me that this consisted of the weekly market. He told me a larger one took place every other month, and there were especially large markets around the winter and summer solstices. The larger markets were accompanied by a festival with a grand party, that featured colourful bunting and lights to continue the celebrations into the evening and usually the following day also. There were vegetable competitions at both, while the prizes for the best pig, and a pie eating contest were held during the summer solstice. 

As we ventured closer, taking no great pains to walk with any considerable speed, we shared the peppermints. I was beginning to favour my injured foot but Bilbo didn’t complain at the slowing pace. In fact, he sighed gustily, and there was an air about him that felt peaceful. 

“When was the last time you took the time to walk at a leisurely pace?” I asked, unwrapping my third mint. 

He shook his head, eyes creasing with deep thought. “I can’t recall,” he remarked, chuckling. “But I am glad to do so again, there really isn’t any need to go rushing from one place to another. Not in the Shire!”

Bilbo continued talking with a light hearted air as he told me all about the treats and surprises that were usually to be found at the market. 

Before I knew it, he was as gleeful as Daisy. He began listing the stalls and wares on offer. “There’s a fishmonger, a wonderful cheese stall.” 

I popped the mint into my mouth to keep from laughing when he practically skipped with anticipation. I wondered if his glee was because of the abundance of food. It seemed Hobbits were never without a snack to munch on. 

“You’ll love the knick-knacks!” He continued, jubilant. “There’s toys, games, and one seller has beautiful broaches. If memory serves, Asphodel Brandybuck runs that stall with her mother Mirabella. It’s been some time since I’ve had cause to stop by their stand.” 

“I’m sure I’ll love every stall Bilbo,” I agreed. 

He threw around names with little thought and, while I enjoyed hearing them, I could not possibly have any hope of remembering or knowing to whom they belonged if I were to meet the person. Also, while I was enjoying his good mood, I found myself wincing when my head throbbed occasionally. Logically, I knew it was because Hilda had just examined and stitched my flesh back together, but with each name passing Bilbo’s lips, it throbbed a little worse. 

Though, judging by the cheerful smiles that were sent my way as we continued to walk, my inability to recall any names wouldn’t matter much. I hoped the pain would subside so that I could enjoy the market with Bilbo. Despite Hilda’s cautionary warning, I didn’t want to return to Bilbo’s home and wait until tomorrow. 

I enjoyed the sight of the colourful bunting and the sound of the upbeat, bubbling laughter, and bright wares on offer. All were good distractions from my throbbing head and the crowd. I was a little hesitant to be surrounded by a lot of strangers. The crowds, though happy, were large. 

But, I suppose that any collection of people greater than four was large to me. Hilda’s kitchen had felt cramped with the five of us. Bilbo seemed to sense this and took hold of my arm once more, offering silent support while keeping up a steady stream of conversation. The remaining mints were stowed safely in the pocket of his waistcoat. 

Everyone we came across, whether they were tending stalls or purchasing, were very welcoming. Several Hobbits engaged me in polite conversation, seeming to have no worries about my sudden appearance in their village. And I was correct, their names flew from my mind almost as soon as I greeted them. At first, their openness startled me, but Bilbo quietly informed me that there were many Hobbits who lived outside of Hobbiton, so travellers while rarely unknown, where not unordinary. 

“Will you tell me more about the world outside of Hobbiton, later?”

He smiled. “Of course. I’ll show you all of my maps and I can try to answer any questions you have. I’m not exactly a scholar.” 

We made our way through the market and, with Bilbo’s gentle coaxing, I began to look around for pleasure. Rather than, in his words, “Stare at everything and everyone like it and they were in a private collection, and you’ve been forbidden to touch them.” 

Between looking through bolts of cloth and nick knacks, Bilbo would take us to food stands where the owners would be all too happy to allow us to sample their produce. Creamy goats cheese, tart lemon biscuits, and moreish quince jelly. There was no immediate need for the sellers to attract our attention. Rather, we were persuaded over to their stalls with the offer of samples and good conversation. Every time we did stop, Bilbo engaged the seller in cheerful chats. I was introduced as Miss Flower, a visiting distant relative of the Baggins family. 

“It’s better if it’s the Baggins’ you’re associated with,” Bilbo informed me in a rushed whisper as we left the second stall to ask after my family. 

I matched his volume. “Because of the Took’s reputation?”

“Precisely.” 

Humming with neither agreement or disagreement, I decided that this business with the Took family name was quite atrocious. From what Bilbo had told me, and overhearing pockets of conversation at the market, the Took’s weren’t a family of thieves or layabouts. Quite the opposite, in fact. Was it really the family’s tendency to go off on adventures that gave them this reputation? And if so, what was with all this nonsense of avoiding them?

Nevertheless, I kept quiet as we continued to walk around the stalls. Bilbo introduced me to Asphodel Brandybuck when we came to her stand. A pretty Hobbit, she spoke of light topics with Bilbo while her periwinkle eyes lingered on my feet. 

At first I thought the bandage around my ankle had caught her eye, but when she caught my gaze and adverted her own, I realised what had captured her attention. I fidgeted, feeling the urge to hide my feet behind something. A basket on the ground by the stand served such a purpose. No one had yet commented on my feet, but I wondered if the polite constraints of society were all that held them back. If Bilbo noticed my unease, he didn’t let on. Neither did Asphodel, who had looked back to Bilbo, laughing at his quip about someone I didn’t know. 

In an effort to divert myself from this uneasy feeling, I admired the wares on offer. Bilbo had been correct, Asphodel offered a range of beautiful trinkets, varying from small buttons that shone like the stars, to polished pewter backed brushes. I was admiring a broach the shape of an oak tree when I heard the crinkle of paper. I looked up to see Bilbo accepting a small parcel from Asphodel, passing her a few coins with a smile. 

“What did you purchase, Bilbo?” 

He turned his smile to me. “Nothing much,” he remarked, a twinkle in his eyes. “Some small fancy.”

Asphodel chuckled. “I wouldn’t worry, Miss Flower. I oversaw his choices, there’s nothing to fear.”

Unsure of her meaning, I merely smiled and nodded. Bilbo took hold of my elbow once again and led me away, tucking the parcel into his other elbow. We said our goodbyes and Asphodel wished us a good day. I felt lighter when she did not look back down at my feet. 

“Shall we look at the books next?” Bilbo asked, peering over to our left at the stall that had caught his attention. 

“You aren’t going to tell me what you bought?”

He shrugged. “Eventually, but why spoil the fun of anticipation?” 

I was just about to remark that I was unfamiliar with the sensation and that it wouldn’t matter if he’d bought himself a new comb, when a large pig crossed our path. 

“Watch out!”

“Give way!”

“Mind yourselves!” 

The pig was followed by several Hobbits, each of them crowing warnings. Though, whether they were more for the benefit of others in its path, or for the pig, I was unsure. 

“All manner of things happen here, don’t they?” I found myself laughing as we watched the pig trot away between tables, snout to the ground, uncaring as it tipped baskets and trod on toes. 

Bilbo joined my mirth. “I can honestly say, my dear, that I am never bored here.” 

***

Our enjoyment continued as we wandered the stalls, but a lingering unease prickled my skin as I recalled Asphodel’s stare. The pain in my head did not help matters, and I found a painful sensation throbbing around my eyes, a headache was well on its way. 

Bilbo often asked after my health and if I wanted to turn back, but I was unwilling to miss out on any more wonders within the market. I knew there would be more to attend, but…there was something nipping at my heels. An instinct to keep on moving, to explore and discover. Also, I found I was enjoying myself. 

After a while, I turned my back for a moment to admire an old book, leaning against the stall to ease the aching of my foot and the strain on my back, when Bilbo took the opportunity to scuttle away. It was only when I looked up from the book, that I realised he had ventured further afield than the next stall. Turning, I tried not to panic, keeping my eyes fixed on the crowd as I looked for his green waistcoat. He returned through a huddle of Hobbits ladened with packaged goods. Just how long had I been admiring the book? 

“We shall see to our spoils later I think,” he said when I questioned him, a glint in his eye. 

I watched as he asked another Hobbit if he could leave these purchases behind the stall for safety. This Hobbit turned out to be a third cousin on Bilbo’s mother’s side and was more than happy to do so, if we bought something from his wares. I was all too happy to select a thin length of pale green linen to use to tie my hair back. 

“But what did you buy?” I questioned as I pulled the bundles of curls back to the nape of my neck. There was a slight sting as my hair caught in the stitches Hilda had so carefully arranged, but I felt better knowing my curls were contained. The sun was warm and my thick hair only enhanced the heat.

Bilbo eyed my hands warily. I wasn’t sure if I should show my ears or not, and so left them shielded with a low ponytail, securing the excess fabric into a big bow. 

“You will know later,” he responded once I was done.  

“But, Bilbo!” I protested. 

He only smiled, his eyes bright and cheerful. 

“Mister Bilbo!” Called a voice from behind us. 

We turned to see a stocky, light haired Hobbit waving to catch our attention. He attracted several other’s eyes as he jogged towards us, but he paid them no mind. 

“Hamfast!” Bilbo called back. 

The approaching Hobbit was dressed in browns and greens. His rosy cheeks flushed with exuberance, and he was beaming. 

“Miss Flower, may I introduce Hamfast Gamgee, my good friend and gardener,” Bilbo introduced me to the round cheeked, friendly faced Hobbit. “Best in Hobbiton if you ask me!” 

Mister Gamgee grew bashful beneath Bilbo’s praise, but charmingly so. The flattery was not empty, for I had seen Bilbo’s garden, and I could also see that Mister Gamgee appreciated the commendation of his skills. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr Gamgee,” I greeted, extending a hand. 

He shook it, his palm pleasantly warm and dry. 

“The pleasure is all mine, miss. And please, call me Hamfast, Mr Gamgee is still my father,” he chuckled. 

“Hamfast, this is Miss Flower, she’s a guest at Bag End.” Bilbo tacked on my living arrangements in a gush of breath, as if he’d remembered at the last moment to add it. “So you will be seeing much more of her.” 

“I look forward to it,” the cheery Hobbit enthused, animated. “Are you an avid gardener, Miss Flower?”

“Oh, well, I don’t really know,” I answered. “I’ve not had much opportunity.”

“Well, we shall have to change that.”

Bilbo chuckled with him, very much at ease in his friend’s presence. “Hamfast is such a great help, the garden of Bag End is just too much for me to handle by myself.”

Hamfast winked. “Not only that, but Mister Bilbo has his favourites.”

I had the distinct feeling Hamfast was teasing Bilbo and that he was encouraging me to join in. 

“He does?” I questioned, hoping I was right. 

“Oh, yes,” Hamfast commented wisely, eyes round and comical. “He never did get on well with the pansies.” 

I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing when Bilbo’s face darkened. 

“Only because the blasted things are so temperamental,” he bit out, annoyed.  

“Only to you Mister Bilbo,” Hamfast said, chuckling quietly. “Only to you.”

We laughed at Bilbo’s expense for a moment and I found the quick camaraderie with Hamfast enjoyable. Bilbo was right, Hobbits were very agreeable. 

Hamfast bid us goodbye, as he was being beckoned over by another Hobbit to help move a large bench from outside The Green Dragon. Bilbo shook his head as he watched him go. We watched five Hobbits lift the piece of furniture and walk a few paces to their left, successfully moving the bench closer to a table for more seating. Once it was moved, all five of them sat upon it and ordered a mug of ale each from the barmaid who was collecting dirty dishes. 

We left Hamfast to his drink and had just crossed the bridge to investigate the rest of the marketplace when Bilbo stopped in his tracks. 

“What is it?” I asked. 

Bilbo’s lips twisted and the tops of his ears reddened. 

“Aladgrim Took,” he grumbled.

I looked, following Bilbo’s cross gaze and found said offending party who had met Bilbo’s eyes and was watching him with a sheltered expression. 

Mister Aladgrim Took was a round Hobbit, portly. I would certainly wager he had a greater love of food than my new found appetite. He wore clothes of a similar nature to Bilbo, and they were clearly well looked after, but with the addition of noticeable tares in his waistcoat and a stain on the collar of his shirt. I could never envisage Bilbo looking in such a state. 

Bilbo began to stalk toward him and I hurried to follow, mindful of my ankle. Aladgrim watched us approach him with weary eyes, his thin lips twisting. 

“Master Took,” Bilbo greeted with what was clearly a false smile. 

“Master Bilbo,” Aladgrim greeted back, his smile also lacking depth. “How wonderful to see you again, and I see you have a companion.” 

“That I do,” Bilbo confirmed, not missing a beat. “I was wondering if I could speak with you about a matter, in private?” 

Aladgrim did his best to cover the visible distrust on his face with another hollow smile. 

“Of course, I’m only too happy to help.” 

“Thank you.” Bilbo led us away from prying ears and towards the edge of the market. Our mixed company brought a few looks of worry and astonishment, it seemed that it was a well known fact Bilbo and Aladgrim did not get along. 

“How can I help?”

Bilbo cut straight to the point. “You were on patrol last night, were you not?” 

“I was.” Aladgrim cast me a curious glance. 

“Did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary?” 

“How so?” 

“Voices? Shouting? A pony maybe?”

Aladgrim wasn’t stupid, his eyes instantly found mine. 

“Does this have anything to do with your new companion?” He questioned. “You haven’t even introduced us Bilbo, are your manners escaping you?” 

Bilbo reddened. “No, they are not,” he responded tartly. “This is Miss Flower, she is staying with me for the foreseeable future—”

Before Bilbo could give a reason why, Aladgrim had created his own. 

“You’re courting?”

Bilbo was now crimson. “No.”

“Huh,” Aladgrim grunted, a noise rather like that I had just heard from the pig who was still ploughing his way through the market stalls. “So the bets will have to be called off, then.”

“Bets?” Bilbo squawked. 

“Oh yes, after you paraded around with such a beautiful young lass on your arm this morning, everyone has been speculating as to when the wedding will be. Many have been commentating that it’s taken you long enough.” 

I decided to step in before Bilbo turned purple, as he was well on his way if this continued. 

“Bilbo and I are not courting,” I informed Aladgrim, who had been grinning with a self-assured gleam in his eyes. “He is helping me in a time of need. I have recently found myself homeless, and without a friend in the world. Bilbo has offered me help and shelter as I find my feet.” 

Aladgrim snorted. “And afterwards?” 

“We are friends Master Took, that is all.” My tone was firm and offered no leeway on the subject. I could see now why Bilbo was so irate with him. How someone could be so rude, yet still dress like a gentleman, I did not know.“Should anything come about in the future, that is in the future, and therefore undecided. I would appreciate your help in the meantime. Now, do you recall anything out of the ordinary last night?”

He chewed on his bottom lip before deciding to answer. “No, I do not. Why do you ask?”

“Last night, I awoke alone in a field on the outskirts of Hobbiton.”

“I beg your pardon?”

I continued, explaining my story. “After waking, and discovering I was indeed alone, I made my way toward the lights on the horizon. The first home I came across with a light was Bilbo’s, so I knocked, trying to find help.”

“Help?” The Hobbit echoed. “With what?” 

“I cannot remember anything about myself.”

“Apart from your name.” 

“It is not my real name,” I admitted, wondering if it was wise to tell him this, but Bilbo didn’t stop me or contradict me.  

The news looked to perturb Aladgrim. 

“And how can I help in this matter?”

“It has come to my attention that I did not arrive at Hobbiton in good health.”

Aladgrim looked to interrupt but I charged forward. 

“We wondered if you might shed some light onto my plight?” 

He grunted again. I wondered if he had a cold; it certainly sounded like he did. 

“I am afraid I cannot help you.” 

Bilbo scowled while I asked: “Cannot or will not?” 

Aladgrim huffed, and I could see the moment he decided he did not like me and wanted to be rid of my company as soon as possible. 

“Cannot,” he ground out. “I did not see you miss, nor did I hear you. Now, if you have no more questions, I have errands to run.” 

“So what were you doing last night to have missed Miss Flower?” Bilbo questioned, stopping Aladgrim from leaving. “You patrol the fields she woke in. If you had been doing your duty, you would have seen her.” 

The round Hobbit span and pinned Bilbo with a cold eyed glare. 

“I do not have to answer you, Bilbo Baggins,” he hissed. 

“You were drinking again, weren’t you?” 

Aladgrim refused to answer. 

“Weren’t you?” 

Bilbo scrutinised Aladgrim, before leaning in and sniffing him. Bilbo recoiled, nose wrinkling in disgust. 

“You were! You still sink of ale!” Bilbo burst. “I shall be having a word with Hildigrim, and see to it that you are stripped of your title as Bounder, mark my words!”

Aladgrim twisted his lips again, cheeks pinking ever so slightly with embarrassment and shame as now there was a small crowd dithering about watching us as they pretended to go about their business. 

“Well, that’s that!” Bilbo announced, steering me away from the Took and back over the bridge. “I’ve had quite enough tomfoolery for today!” 

I tripped over my own feet at the sudden change of events. My elbow was caught and Bilbo helped me to navigate around the crowd gossiping  at the scene we had just made. 

“Where are we going Bilbo?”

“Home,” he replied, his tone clipped. He took a deep breath and the tightness in his voice eased as he continued: “And to our elevenses. We’re late, it’s almost time for lunch.”

Home, I had a home. The thought made me rather dizzy. 

***

Once the excitement of our outing had calmed, and my companion had ceased muttering under his breath about a certain Took, Bilbo brought in his parcels of goods from the market to the parlour. He asked if I needed to recover from our walk, but I felt fine if a little sore and told him as much. To which he pursed his lips and all but tugged me into the chair I’d sat in the night before. 

“But Bilbo!”

My protests fell on deaf ears. Bilbo had set his mind to a task, and he was not going to be swayed from it.

“I am not making the same mistake again!” He announced, sounding a little hysterical. “Hilda will have my head if she sees you aren’t being tended to as she ordered. I rather like where it is at the moment, if you don’t mind.”

“She never said I had to sit down,” I reminded him, teasing. 

He huffed at me. “She said to rest. So, you will rest.” 

I resigned myself to my fate and allowed him to fuss about me. He draped the same blanket over my knees as he had last night, taking care to avoid my tender ankle. Tutting at the bandage, he shook his head, mumbling something I couldn’t catch under his breath. 

“What was that?” 

“I should have made a proper inspection of you, myself,” he explained, as if admitting his greatest sin. “What could have happened to you…it hardly bares thinking about.”

“Then don’t.” 

It appeared as if he would argue with me, but an internal monologue convinced him otherwise. Sparing a brief pat on my clasped hands, he nodded to himself before rising.

“I won’t be long.”

It occurred to me then that Bilbo was feeling guilt at what he saw as his poor care of me. Did he not know that if I hadn’t found my way here, I might have found someone who was not so kind to strangers? Perhaps that was what he meant? The thought brought a shiver and the quake made my scalp ache. 

After a while, Bilbo brought a tray laden with tea things into the parlour, before leaving once more to retrieve a plate of shortbread, two scones, butter and jam.

“Elevenses,” he explained. 

I was glad it wasn’t a large meal. 

“Bilbo?” I asked as he poured our tea. 

“Yes, dear?”

“We still don’t know how I got here.”

“Hmm,” he hummed, frowning into the milk jug. “We can see if any of the other Bounders saw or heard anything tomorrow, if you like. Aladgrim was my first thought as his patrol includes the fields you woke in.” 

The thought of accosting someone again made my innards tighten. 

“I was planning on going to Hilda’s tomorrow again,” I ventured. “She offered to hem my dress if I’d like her to.”

“If you see Hilda, I can pop around and see if anyone heard anything.” 

And just like that, I had plans set in motion for my future. It was at once, a freeing, and constricting feeling. Not altogether a bad feeling, just different. 

After eating, we began to unwrap the parcels from the market. 

The brown paper crinkled when it was handled and the sound pulled at something in my memory, but not tight enough to free it. Bilbo placed parcel after parcel into my lap, smiling as I unwrapped everything with care. I didn’t want to rip any of the paper, and the twine could prove useful. 

When the first parcel revealed fabric, I frowned up at him, but Bilbo ushered me on, a wide smile fixed on his lips. He’d bought me a nightgown. A ankle length, pale cream cotton garment with a blue ribbon woven into the chest to create structure. Such a delicate, beautiful thing, I wanted to wash my hands before handling it. 

“Oh, Bilbo!”

“You need something to sleep in. It isn’t much, and we shall have to buy you something thicker for the winter months.”

“Thank you!”

“Open the rest,” he encouraged. 

There were two dresses, basic in design, but just as pretty as the dresses I’d seen Hobbit ladies were in the market. One a grass green, the other a shade lighter than the buttercups Bilbo had pointed out in his garden when we returned. 

“We’ll go shopping for more elaborate dresses when you’re feeling better,” he explained and I had trouble wondering how a dress could be more elaborate, or what I would need one for.

He had bought himself a few books, one had come all the way from Bree he told me. When I asked him if that was far, he showed me a map that had been rolled up on a shelf. My eyes quickly found that Hobbiton was in fact, rather small in the scale of Middle Earth and when my breath began to quicken, Bilbo took the map from my hands. 

“I think we’ll leave map gazing for another day,” he cautioned, handing me my tea and coaxing me to try and slow my breathing. 

I nodded and agreed with him. Just how large was Middle Earth? My chest felt tight and my heart was heavy as I thought of all the places I could have come from, and how far away they were from the Shire. Would I ever find my home? 

When I was calm, he handed me the final parcel. It was a hairbrush, pewter backed, and small enough to fit in the palm of my hand, but it slid through my curls effortlessly when I tried. Bilbo was beaming at me. 

“Is this what you bought from Asphodel’s stall?” I asked, remembering the other items she had had on offer. 

He nodded. “Do you like it?”

“I do! It’s beautiful! Thank you.” With the items stacked neatly beside me, I felt at a loss for words. “I honestly do not know how to thank you, Bilbo.”

Bilbo continued to smile. “Seeing you whole and hale and happy is more than enough, my dear.” 

***

That night I watched my dress from the bed. 

I’d hung it to take to Hilda in the morning to be hemmed. The nightgown was as soft against my skin as it had been in my hands and I felt more relaxed than the previous night. The other two dresses were hung on the bookcase, the hems just brushing the floor. Bilbo promised to move a wardrobe into the room tomorrow, and as much as I protested, he told me I would need space for clothing eventually. 

As much as I loved the dresses Bilbo had bought me, there was something about the red dress that sung to me. The lure of my past lingered on it like dust and I longed to shake the memories free. Now I’d had time to take it in, I could see how badly I’d damaged it, and how magnificent it had once been. 

Luxury seeped from its stitches and made my skin itch uncomfortably at the thought of its price. 

How had I come to own such a garment? Was I from a wealthy family? Or was this a gift? But if it were a gift, who had given it to me? This was not something passed down, it was new and vibrant. The deep red hue, the intimate gold accents…if I was truly honest with myself, I knew what it was.

A lover’s gift. 

But if I had a lover, where were they now? 

Chapter Text

***

I heard noise before I saw anything. Shouting, screaming, curse words that were cut off mid syllable. I felt as something fell at my feet, the dull thump shaking through the ground and up my legs. When I could see, I couldn't digest what I was watching.

I was standing on rock that was slick with what I instinctively knew to be blood, but I didn't know how I knew that. A pale giant, of a species I did not know, stood roaring on a high mound, holding aloft the head of a Dwarf. Above the battle cries, shoutings of pain and anger, I heard a roar of grief.

Turning, I saw another Dwarf, black hair falling past his shoulders, a shield in one hand, a sword in his other, and he was watching this giant with eyes as wide as the full moon. Then, in the blink of my eyes, I was on the outskirts of a battle between the two. I could feel the disruption in the air as they jabbed at each other. The shield was torn from the Dwarf's grip by a swing of the beast's bladed club. Though he battled against the brute's sheer size and strength well, the Dwarf was pushed back until he slid on the wet ground and his sword was ripped from his hand. With a roar, the pale giant swung his axe, and then—

***

I woke in a cold sweat, the blanket tangled around my legs and my pillow crushed in clammy hands. The clang of blade hitting armour reverberated in my ears even as I became aware of the window creaking as it swung in a lazy wind. The air tasted cleaner than it had before I fell asleep, but with a tang of smoke that bit at my tongue; the memory of the scene lingering. Swallowing roughly, my cramped hands relaxed and the pillow dropped to the floor.

Shaking, my head fell into my hands and I pulled my knees up to cradle my elbows. Breathing was difficult, but closing my eyes, I focused on the thud-thud thud-thud of my heart and forced myself to breathe in and out, counting each breath as I went. I was in Bilbo's home. Safe, in the spare bedroom he'd given me three nights ago. Not in the battleground with blood so thick on the ground, it looked as black as the night sky. My stomach lurched with the memory of the smell, the pure stink of iron rich blood, fouled britches, and burnt hair.

I took a deep breath and began to count aloud.

The dream, for I knew it to be one, had felt awfully real. I touched my cheek, half expecting my fingertips to come away red with blood, but found nothing but the tears I'd shed whilst asleep.

What was happening to me?

***

The following morning, I felt more at ease in Bilbo's home, though my head hurt and the stitches in my scalp ached. But the pain convinced me that I was awake, not trapped in a realistic dream. With the sun shining, the darkness of my nightmares felt further away. The dream still lingered with haunting unease, but I rationalised that as it was a dream, it could not hurt me. The sounds of Bilbo making tea in the kitchen were a further comfort, familiar sounds that told me I was not alone. But I now had a sense of understanding. I knew I was not wholly a Hobbit. Asphodel's stare and Aldagrim's shrewd looks were enough to show me just how different I was. As much as Bilbo's statement yesterday had warmed my heart, I knew this was not my home, but it was kind of him to say so.

Bilbo gasped when I appeared in the kitchen doorway, frozen in shock with the teapot still in his hands.

Nervous, I pulled at the skirt of the new green dress he'd bought me.

"Does it look that bad?" I asked, unease sinking my heart. The petticoat had been difficult to work out, particularly as when I bent over or reached up, my back twinged with a sharp pain. The tie to fasten the petticoat was a cord within the waistline. It tangled easily and I'd knotted it three times before I put it on, finally working out that it was supposed to tie at the small of my back only once I had the garment on.

Bilbo was silent, gaping at me with wide eyes. Wavering with indecision, I swayed on the threshold, hands fisting in the skirt of the dress. Had I screamed in the night? Had I put the dress on backwards?

Finally, I stepped into the room and took the teapot from him before he either dropped it or inadvertently poured our tea onto the flagstones.

"Bilbo?" I inquired quietly.

His cheeks were pale. "Your—your face."

"What about it?" I enquired, placing the teapot on the table with our breakfast.

"Oh, my dear," he lamented, voice breaking. "You're—you're all mottled red, purple and blue!"

That, I was not expecting. "I am?"

I looked down as if I could see it for myself. My legs were bruised, it was true. I'd seen as much while I got dressed. But I didn't think it was all that bad. The binding around my chest had been difficult to put on, painful even when I tightened it. And Hilda had told me that the scratches on my legs and hands indicated I'd fallen, so I was bound to bruise eventually. But I wasn't sure it was enough to warrant Bilbo's aghast expression.

He held up a polished copper dish, so I could see a wobbly version myself in the reflection.

"So I am."

The bruising was around my hairline in patches. As if there had been great strain on my hair. It was violent against the freckles on my skin. Another injury to add to my list. What hell had I endured before waking in that field?

"What will Hilda think?" Bilbo lamented, dropping the pan onto the table and shaking his head.

I pressed one of the larger marks at the side of my face gently, the flesh was somewhat swollen and tender to the touch. It didn't seem very serious, and I was sure Hilda would prescribe the appropriate method of healing when I saw her. Perhaps it was a result of my head trauma? At the very least, I was dressed appropriately.

"I don't understand."

I knew my state might be upsetting, but we also knew I had been through the wringer, as Hilda had put it yesterday. But there also was this fear in me that didn't want to keep coming back to what might have happened to me. It felt safer not knowing.

Bilbo was still occupied by his thoughts, and unaware of mine. "She'll see you in such a state and blame me again." His hands twisted around themselves and his thumbs worked the space between his knuckles.

"Bilbo," I sighed, finally realising the core of his worries. "Hilda heals people, I'm sure she's seen bruising before."

"But—"

"Yes?"

He sighed gustily and his hands stopped their fidgeting.

"Yes, my dear, however—no don't interrupt—it is the matter of your being bruised in the first place. It should never have…whatever befell you to cause this…"

"But it has," I insisted, my tone just this side of sharp. After the night I had had…the possibilities of what had happened to me didn't bare thinking about. "It has happened, and I don't see the point in dwelling on that which we can't change."

"I suppose," he replied, watching me closely. "If you insist."

"I do."

"Well, then, in that case, shall we eat?"

I smiled and nodded, eager to tuck in and change the subject of our conversation. Food was a very agreeable distraction. This morning, the table was once again laden with food. I idly wondered if it would begin to creak, even break, beneath the weight of our feasts if this carried on.

Again, we had sausages for breakfast. As well as the rest of the home-cured ham, small brown shelled boiled eggs, the pot of tea, new-baked bread that was still warm, a small pot of light gold honey, butter, and frothy milk. Maybe Bilbo was making up for missing second breakfast yesterday? Or was our second breakfast the treats we snacked on at the market? I wasn't sure how much food yet constituted as a meal to hobbits.

I bit into a slice of buttered bread spread with honey with relish.

"What are we doing today?" I asked Bilbo, catching a dribble of honey with my thumb as it slid down my chin.

He smiled at me as I licked the smear off of my thumb.

"You remind me of Daisy," he chuckled, his earlier fears banished. "Well, I need to go into the market and run a few errands. Would you like to accompany me?"

I considered his invitation, but decided that I should spend time with other Hobbits if I were to ever learnt to leave him to his life.

"I was actually going to ask if you could take me back to Hilda's?"

Bilbo didn't seem offended, in fact, he was concerned.

"Of course, but is something the matter? Are you feeling all right?"

I knew the bruising on my face was a clear indicator that I had been through some sort of trauma, but without my memories, it felt wrong to feel out of sorts. Without any reasonable evidence, any ill feeling could be chalked up to other events, including paranoia, or my anxieties.

"Yes, I'm fine Bilbo," I reassured him while pouring another cup of tea for myself. Could he sense I felt guilty for not saying yes? "I was going to ask if she would help me hem my red dress. I'd like to preserve it if I can."

"That sounds very reasonable," Bilbo agreed. I was sure I had mentioned going to Hilda's the previous evening, but it seemed to have slipped his mind. "I'm sure she'll be able to help you."

"Would you mind walking me back to Hilda's? I'm afraid I don't remember the way."

"Of course, of course." He nodded, tucking into another boiled egg. "I'll accompany you to Hilda's and then be on my way." There was a pause as he thought and peeled the shell. "What do you say I pick us up some fish for our lunch? We'll ask if Hilda minds you staying for second breakfast, as I have a feeling I'll be eating at the market today."

"How do you mean?"

He laughed to himself, cheeks ruddy with warmth and food. He looked bright and cheery and I found myself smiling at his jovial attitude. A sharp change from moments earlier.

"You got only a small taste of what goes on at market yesterday," he informed me, smiling. "Some days I can't cross the bridge without being rolled, I've eaten so many free samples! Makes up for any forgotten meal!"

***

Dinodas met us at the door of his house, shrugging into a brown jacket as he stepped outside. The nosy neighbours from yesterday were absent, but I could have sworn seeing the curtain of one window twitch as we walked up the lane.

"Bilbo, Miss Flower, nice to see you," Dinodas greeted with a quick nod, but was preoccupied with buttoning the garment up. "Are you back for another game of Gin, Bilbo?"

"Afraid not," Bilbo was quick to deflect with a smile. I would have teased him for his avoidance of a repeat game with Daisy, but I had a feeling she would tease him mercilessly when she had the chance. "Miss Flower wanted to see Hilda about her dress."

"Right, of course, come on in. I was just about to leave, myself. Hilda!" He called into the home, pushing the door further ajar. "You'll have to excuse me."

I nodded. "Of course."

Then, Dinodas caught sight of my face.

"Oh!" He gasped, eyes wide with shock. "Miss Flower!"

I was quick to cut off anything else he might say. I'd had enough of pity and placeless sorrow. "I'm all right," I assured him. "The bruising came out over night, but I'm in no pain."

Dinodas wasn't set at ease by my little lie. His eyes traced over my hairline, and a frown creased his forehead. Bilbo cleared his throat when the silence lengthened too long, and his relative jumped, apologising.

"I understand," I reassured him, guessing that his wife would be just as, if not more, concerned. "After spending time with Bilbo and meeting other Hobbits, I've come to understand that violence is very uncommon in Hobbiton."

"That it is," Dinodas muttered, still concerned. "That it is."

"I'm not staying, Dinodas," Bilbo cut in, breaking the somber air that had gathered around us. "Got a few errands to run. Where are you off to?"

"To see Mister Worrywart," the darker haired Hobbit explained, feeling in his coat pockets for something. "He's expecting a delivery of tubers any day now, and I want him to put a few aside for us."

"In that case I'll walk with you, if you don't mind the company. It will be nice to have a third party present if I were to be accosted by a certain Sackville-Baggins." He paused, considering. "And I think I'll ask Mister Worrywart to put some tubers aside for us as well."

"I'd be grateful for the company," Dinodas agreed, still rummaging in his pockets. "Maybe you could help me locate my pipeweed on the way?"

Bilbo laughed. "Are you sure it's in your pockets and not by your chair?"

"Quite! I didn't take it out last night after being in The Green Dragon." Dinodas shook his head, clearly growing frustrated with his futile search. "Go on in, Miss Flower," he directed, jerking his chin towards the door. "Hilda will be out soon, I'm sure. She and Daisy are…well I'm not sure what they're doing."

He was suspiciously edging away from the front door as he gestured for me to enter. Bilbo saw his slow retreat as well, and narrowed his eyes, a slow smirk beginning to blossom on his lips.

"Eager to leave, Dinodas?" He questioned.

I took pity on Dinodas and walked into the doorway. His eyes flickered over my shoulder, looking into the depths of his home.

"Too right," he agreed under his breath. "Hilda questioned me all night about that money."

Bilbo's mouth puckered and his smirk died in a cruel twist.

"Ah." He then began to follow Dinodas, taking small steps backwards, nodding as he did so. "Perhaps it might be best if we left before she came out?"

The two were side by side and backing away to an increasing distance, much to my amusement. But I kept quiet; I feared if I were to stop biting my inner cheek I would burst into laughter.

"I agree! Good day, Miss Flower." Dinodas tipped his head to me.

"I'll see you when we return," Bilbo called to me, keeping his voice low while casting fervent glances at the door. "Err, if the subject should come up, could you possibly throw Hilda off it? Distract her, I mean?"

Finally unable to stop smiling at the two, I nodded.

"I'll try my best."

"That's all I can ask. Thank you! And be sure to let her know we'll be gone a while, most likely until luncheon."

With that, the two left around the corner with such haste I felt offended on Hilda's behalf. Shaking my head, I shut the door behind me and walked into the kitchen, looking for the women of the house.

"Daisy? Hilda?" I called into the halls, entering the kitchen to see the fire burning cheerfully.

Daisy was the first to spot me as she and her mother came into the kitchen.

"Miss Flower!" She crowed, skipping over to me, hair bouncing over her shoulders. Just as I had anticipated, she didn't make a fuss of my bruising. Hilda, however, narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips at the sight of me.

"Good morning, Daisy," I greeted her. "How are you?"

"I'm well," she answered, beaming with such force her cheeks were practically circular. "Mama made scones for breakfast. Would you like one? I ate three!"

"Did you? My, you have a healthy appetite." She swayed with clear excitement at the praise. "I would love to try one of your mother's scones, if she doesn't mind."

Daisy quickly shook her head, eyes wide. "She won't."

I begged to differ given the wry smile Hilda was giving her daughter behind her back.

"Still, we should ask," I said, trying not to smile along with her.

"Okay." Daisy span on her heels to face her mother, face cleared into the epitome of innocence. "Mama?"

Hilda, having clearly had years of practise to school her features, smiled benevolently at her daughter. I would have to ask her how long it took to perfect such an expression. I had the feeling she used it on Dinodas too.

"Yes, dear?"

"Can Miss Flower have one of your lovely scones?"

Hilda laughed at the buttering up. "She can."

Daisy paused, on the verge of running off to their pantry, before she pursed her lips.

"Mama?"

"Yes?"

"Can I have one too?"

"Of course, but that's it. No more until elevenses."

Daisy was already running to the pantry. "Yes, Mama!" She cried over her shoulder.

"She is remarkably calm," I told Hilda who shook her head after her daughter. "Dinodas nearly swooned at the sight of me."

Hilda laughed. "She's made of sterner stuff. Now, let's have a look at you."

She lead me to the kitchen table and directed me to sit. Daisy ran back in with the scones along with butter and plum jam and set about making up a plate for us to share from. When Hilda began to inspect the bruising on my face, she prodded a tender part by my left ear that caused me to wince.

"It looks like someone took handfuls of your hair and pulled," she observed. "Whoever did this had a strong grip. Some patches of your hair have come out."

Mouth full of scone, her cheek smeared with jam, Daisy leant forward to peer at my face from beside me.

"Do you remember anything yet, Miss Flower?" She asked.

"I'm afraid not," I admitted, wincing as her mother prodded my scalp. "I wouldn't have noticed the bruising on my face if Bilbo hadn't gone into shock at seeing me this morning."

"He did?" Daisy pressed, eyes wide at the prospect of her cousin being in shock. Though, I wasn't sure if she knew what it meant.

I nodded, spying the beginnings of a smile on the corners of her lips.

"He almost dropped the teapot onto the kitchen floor."

She giggled, some crumbs spraying out of her mouth. Slyly, she wet her forefinger and picked all the crumbs up before popping finger into her mouth and getting rid of the evidence. I shared a smile with her when she saw her mishap had gone unnoticed by her mother.

"I'm sure the shock did him good," Hilda commented, voice wry. "Now, I'm afraid I haven't anything but salve for the bruising, we'll have to let it heal in it's own time."

Nodding, I accepted the offer and she left to retrieve a bottle. Daisy, in the meantime, nudged my ribs with her sharp elbow. The prod wasn't painful, just uncomfortable. She was watching the hallway, but spoke to me without breaking her gaze.

"Miss Flower? Are you going to eat your scone?"

I smiled. "Yes, Daisy."

"Oh."

"Why?"

She shrugged. "Just wondering."

I tucked into the scone, thanking Daisy for preparing it for me, though I wagered she had hoped I would forfeit my scone for her while her mother's back was turned. With a nudge, I broke the top half in two and pushed it towards her side of the plate. The grin she gave me felt warmer than any fire and she could hardly contain her giggles of glee as mopped up the last of the crumbs.

Hilda returned once we had finished, and applied a light layer of balm onto my skin. It smelt of beeswax and something medicinal.

"Tea tree," she supplied when I asked. "It will sooth the bruise. I didn't ask, but was there something I could help you with, beside the bruising? I see you've brought your dress with you."

She handed me the bottle of slave which I placed into the basket containing the dress and nodded.

"I wondered if I could take you up on your offer of fixing my dress?"

Daisy, having seen the dress for the first time since I'd arrived, reached in and began to stroke the fabric, her eyes wide.

"Of course," Hilda replied, eyeing her daughter. "Daisy, we mustn't touch what isn't ours, remember?"

Her daughter dropped the dress as if it were a hot coal.

"Yes, mama," she answered, chastised. "Sorry, Miss Flower."

"That's all right Daisy," I assured her and handed her the dress. "Would you help your mother and I fix it?"

She beamed, nodding, and clutching the garment to her chest with both fists.

"Yes! Yes, please!"

***

Sat by the hearth, I could feel the heat of the fire against my bare skin. Daisy had insisted I eat three of after it was decided we should sew by the fire. I had also shared with her half of my third, much to her greedy happiness. She'd also insisted that I distract her mother while she ate her extra half scone. I'd asked Hilda about some family portraits in the hallway, but I wondered if she only went along with it for her own amusement. As her daughter had not been successful at stifling her laughter. Daisy had declared that I was her best friend once our clandestine operation as complete, not Dora. Though who Dora was, I was never told.

Along with the tea, hazelnuts and candied orange peel Hilda had brought out from the pantry, our elevenses turned into a lovely picnic. Daisy curled up on the rug at our feet and began to play with dolls made from scraps of fabric once she was full and tired of sewing. I was introduced to Holly, a doll with red thread for hair, and Ivy, who wore a dress made from the same green checkered cloth as Hilda's apron. We played together for a little while, I even made Holly talk, though Daisy corrected me several times about the pitch and tone of Holly's voice. Eventually, Daisy commandeered the dolls and set them to bed on the woven rug beneath a kerchief.

Hilda sat in the other chair by the fire across from me. She'd shown me a couple of easy stitches and my memories of sewing came back like trickling water. The only thing missing was my speed. Hilda had taken over when I'd stuck myself with the needle for the fifth time. The sound of the needle and thread pulling through the fabric reminded me of the stitches in my own scalp. Daisy had looked with morbid wonder when I'd lent forward to allow her mother to check on them after we'd eaten and settled. I wagered she was the sort of child to pick at her own scabs just to see if the wound would bleed again.

Now, the warmth and sated feeling of a full stomach pulled at my eyelids, and I found myself sinking back in the chair. Promising myself to shut my eyes only for a moment. Just a short while. Just to rest.

***

Instead of the blackness tinged with indescribable colours, my minds eye took me to the image of a night's sky. I couldn't mistake the starry roof of the world that shone brightly down at me. Where was I? I wasn't safe in Bilbo's guest room, but in the middle of dirt track on a softly banking hill and among a small coppice of trees.

The next thing I noticed was that I was on the back of a pony. Bound. My wrists tied in front of me with a length of rope held by a hooded figure who was riding beside me. The pony I was on being led by another robed, mounted figure ahead of me. I began to panic. What kind of dream was this? Where was I? Was this another memory? If it was, then I was sure I didn't want to have this memory. I wasn't sure I would want to know my past if it included this.

The figures exchanged gruff words in a language that was gravelly and deep. They offered no translation for me, but our pace quickened. Ahead, I could just make out the crest of the hill through the trees and against the lightening sky. The sun was rising and that seemed to worry the figures, because they spurred the ponies to quicken again.

***

The next day amounted to my third day of knowing Bilbo. It also brought my total up to three nights of sleeping restlessly, my kip peppered with dreams of shaky understanding and varying content. I was desperate for answers. So, when we had returned home after a day of gardening, I plucked up the courage to speak to Bilbo about my dreams as we were settling down to read in the evening.

"Bilbo?"

"Hmm?" He hummed, turning a page in his copy of the accounts of a war years ago by some Elf. I hadn't been paying much attention as we chose our books and sat down, in fact the thin book I'd chosen was one I had already read the previous evening.

"Do you dream? No, I'm sorry. Do you…well, I mean…when—when you dream," I began, stuttering, my tone of voice half questioning and half pleading for an answer already.

He watched me, peering at me from above his book, the firelight casting half his face in shadow.

"Yes?" he asked, putting his book down onto his lap, a finger keeping his place.

I sighed, closing my eyes to steady myself.

"I had a dream yesterday…and well, I've had dreams like this since I woke up in that field. They're different…real. Well, I—I don't know if they are real, but it…they feel real. So real that it's scary." I watched for his reaction, but he didn't react beyond pursing his lips slightly. "How can I tell if it's my dream?" I continued in one quick breath. "A work of my own imagination, or, or if it's something more?"

"More how?" He inquired, tone measured and thoughtful.

"I mean…they will happen…sometimes are happening as I'm dreaming," I explained. "I don't know how I know that, I just—I just…do."

Book completely forgotten, Bilbo now stared at me with wide eyes.

"Are," he cleared his throat when his voice came out at a slightly higher pitch that normal. "Are you telling me that you're having…prophetic dreams?"

"I don't know. What are those?"

"Dreams of the future, of events that will one day come to pass," he explained.

"Not quite," I admitted, biting my lip. "I—I have had dreams of the past too."

Bilbo dropped his book, it slipped from his hands to the floor with a thud. I watched it fall and stared at it's shambled landing.

"The past?" He croaked, looking winded.

I nodded, concerned.

"Yes," I admitted. "Years in the past, sometimes hundreds, or thousands of years. I cannot recall knowing the events before my memory loss, but I just know that they have occurred."

"Events?" He pressed. "Such as?"

I thought for a moment, recalling one in particular that had woken me last night in a fit of near hysteria.

"The most vivid, which I had last night, was of a battle. There was a terrible mountain spewing fire and ash that loomed over us all…and the Elves were fighting alongside Men against someone called Sauron."

He gaped at me. "You dreamt about the battle of Dagorlad…that was nearly four hundred years ago! Are you sure you haven't read it somewhere, and then dreamt about it? I have a few books on it, maybe you saw those?"

I shook my head. "No, no I—I haven't read about it, I…" Swallowing, I closed my eyes and tried to remember the dream. "It was like I was in the centre of the battle, right in the midst of it. I could feel the heat of bodies pressed against mine, the smell of sweat and blood…see so much death…feel it almost. A solider called out for reinforcements, then, then I could see a fight between a Man and a creature of," I shivered. "Pure evil, he stank of it. He had a demonic helm on, the metal looked like teeth, it was frightful…"

Bilbo went very, very quiet. When I opened my eyes, he was a shade or two paler than he had been before.

"Is, is that abnormal?" I tentatively asked.

He let out what I can only describe as a shocked bark of laughter, which he immediately quelled and wriggled his nose in that funny little way of his.

"Sorry, sorry that was rude of me," he apologised.

"It's all right."

He shook his head. "No, no, it isn't. You just shocked me."

"So, it's not normal?"

He shook his head. "No, no my dear it is not normal."

We sat for a moment, each of us staring into the fire as it popped and cracked. It felt like I'd both learnt, and lost something. A feeling of emptiness sat in my breast, and I wasn't sure where it came from or how to fix it.

"Is there something wrong with me?"

"No!" He was quick to shout, making me jump. "No, please don't think that," Bilbo continued in a more sedate tone. "There is nothing wrong with you."

"But then why am I seeing these things?"

"That I don't know," he admitted. "But what I do know is that not every question has an answer. At least, no answer right now."

"But when?"

He shrugged, helpless. "I don't know, I'm afraid. But, I am sure that we will find out. In the mean time, would you like to talk more about these dreams?"

"I think I would, thank you."

I proceeded to tell him everything. From my first dream to the nightmare that had gripped me in terror only this morning. Throughout it all Bilbo tried to maintain a steady act of nonchalance, but occasionally he would twitch, sigh or cringe at my words. Once he even gasped in shock, causing me to halt speaking until he ushered me on. And while he couldn't shed much light on the content or context of all of my dreams, he lent a sympathetic ear for which I was most grateful.

***

On my fourth day in Hobbiton, breakfast was yet another grand affair. I'd come to the conclusion that Bilbo had never eaten this extravagantly whilst alone, given the sheer volume of food and how little he ate in comparison at mealtimes. It had also occurred to me that he was most certainly trying to make sure I never went with too little food.

He'd gone to the bakery (Mrs Proudfoot operated one from her front garden during spring and summer, retreating back into her own kitchen in fall and winter) early, I knew this because the small buns he'd purchased were still warm. He had obviously paid attention to my love of warm bread and melting butter for the butter dish had been placed nearer to my side of the table than his, rather conveniently near to my plate. There was also a pot of cream with a thick yellow top on it, blackberry jam, honey, and a pitcher of strongly scented coffee. Which, Bilbo informed me, was an acquired taste. I found I didn't like the bitterness, but once I'd added some of the runny cream and a teaspoon of honey, I liked this new drink. Spread out on the table there was also fresh baked scones, again from Mrs Proudfoot, along with baked apples, fried eggs, and crisp, crumbling bacon. 

We settled into easy conversation about Bilbo's plans with the garden as we served ourselves. Both agreeing, nonverbally, to leave the topic of last night's conversation in the past. He planned to move some fledgling flowers into his flower beds, but was having an ongoing debate with Hamfast about how best to accomplish this. While I didn't know much about gardening, I had to admit that, with Hamfast's profession being solely to the wellbeing of plants, I had to concede that he would know more than Bilbo.

"But he transplants them too quickly!" Bilbo argued, gesturing with his fork in a vague direction down the road to Hamfast's home.

"I'm sure Hamfast knows what he is doing," I countered, pouring myself a second cup of coffee and adjusting it to my tastes. "I doubt he would suggest something that would damage your flowers, Bilbo."

I had learnt yesterday while we were tending to his herb row, that Hamfast had begun gardening after tiring of working alongside his father and brothers as Ropers. As Bilbo tells it, Hamfast was wandering down towards The Green Dragon when he spotted Bell, who up until then he had only known in passing, potting poppies in her garden. Hamfast was, as Bilbo put it: "A goner," after that and had pursued Bell for all he was worth. He took up gardening as a way to spend more time with her, and the two have been together ever since.

Bilbo made a grumbling answer, too quiet for me to hear. He made quick work of his last piece of bacon before taking a scone and smearing it with cream and blackberry jam.

"You know, Bilbo," I began, eyeing his plate as the scone began to disappear. "When we're gardening, why don't you ask Hamfast if we could move half of the plants? That way you can see if potting them works?"

More interested in finishing his scone, Bilbo hummed in answer, before beginning to serve himself a baked apple and another mug of coffee. Hunger had won over our conversation this morning. I sighed and returned to my own cup, deciding I liked the bitter flavour when paired with honey and cream. Over the last day or two, I'd started to use the same mug, rather than whatever was easiest to grab from the shelf. Bilbo too, had a preferred mug, but was content to use different ones should his favourite be out of reach or in need of washing up.

I had first spied my favourite in the cabinet, sitting on the middle shelf at the back, a short, stout mug, of deep green flecked with brown and black. The colour of imperfections in the baking of the clay, Bilbo told me when I inquired. Yet, to me, they weren't imperfect discolourations, but marks of character that made the mug whole.

"We should think about getting to Bree sometime next week," Bilbo said, breaking our silence.

All the walking we were doing had given me sore, cracked skin on my feet. Hilda had seen yesterday when we passed her in the market and given me a topical ointment for them, but it was a patch up job, she'd said.

"What you really need are shoes," she had informed me, motherly.

Bilbo had been quick to reassure her he could see to my needs just fine, but Hilda hadn't been impressed. Bilbo told me there was a cobblers in Bree, the town upriver. But it was far to travel by foot and he reminded Hilda that I was recovering, and to travel so far would go against her wishes for me to be cautious. She had agreed.

"You think I'll be up to the walk?"

He nodded. "Oh yes, we won't make a day of it. I can procure us a couple of rooms at The Prancing Pony so we can rest, if need be."

***

Gardening at Bag End was something of a novelty as while Bilbo had hired Hamfast as his gardener, Bilbo still had trouble agreeing with every suggestion Hamfast had. They discussed, at length, the usefulness of potting the heather to move it to another flower bed rather than just moving it straight over. My suggestion of moving half of the plants was forgotten.

While Hamfast explained, again, the usefulness of potting, allowing time to ready the flower bed for planting, Bilbo was steadfast in transferring the plants directly. Adamant he knew what he wanted, but would proceed to change his mind time and again whenever they began planting anything into the ground and not a pot.

We ended the day with potted plants all over the garden, much to mine and Hamfast's shared amusement. After a glass of fresh lemonade and bread with the apple jam Bilbo and I had made the day before, Bilbo had invited Hamfast to join us for dinner, and he was more than happy to accept. Though, we had to remind him to go back to Bell and that it would still be a few hours until dinner was ready to be eaten. I extended the invite to his wife as well, knowing she would appreciate the break from cooking, and I was eager to meet her. I knew many Hobbits now, but was only in regular contact with Hilda, Daisy, Dinodas and Hamfast outside of Bilbo.

Hamfast left with a wide grin and a fist full of yellow daisies, Bell's favourite flower.

I was in the process of making a pot of tea when Bilbo came in for the day, also with a bunch of flowers in hand. He fussed with the pots after Hamfast had left, so I had gone back into the house and left him to it. He knew was he was trying to accomplish, and I would only get in the way.

"Here, what do you think?" he asked, laying the flowers on the table. "Thought we could use some colour in the parlour."

He fetched a clay vase from the cupboard next to the sink, but I couldn't stop looking at the flowers. Roses, bright sunset orange and fragrant. Beautiful and so familiar, like that creeping sense of knowing a persons face but not knowing where from.

"Roses," I whispered, searching in my weakened memory for the recognition. What was the significance of them? Why did their presence tug at my mind so? 

"Yes, they are, well remembered," Bilbo praised, filling the vase with water, not noticing my struggle to grasp at something I couldn't quite remember. "Beautiful aren't they? One of my favourite flowers, but they have to be a particular colour and variety."

Hamfast and Bilbo were very thorough in their teaching of me. I knew near enough all the names of the flowers, plants and vegetables in Bilbo's garden. But these roses, they stuck with me for a reason that caused my heart to beat erratically.

"Here," a jolly, gruff voice called. "A rose for my Rosalyn!"

"Rosalyn," I stuttered, gasping in shock. My head hurt as voices I didn't know or recognise started calling, shouting, laughing the name in memories that appeared and vanished too quickly for me to grab onto them. But it was the first that stuck with me. Male, older sounding, cheerful, maybe a relative?

It couldn't be that easy, could it? I had waited so long, and now to know my name because of something so trivial, so run-of-the-mill, felt anticlimactic. And it felt right. Like coming back to the hearth after a long day spent out in the bitter cold.

"My name is Rosalyn," my words came in a rushed whisper.

Bilbo almost dropped the vase.

"What?" He croaked, eyes wide with panic.

I stood and rushed to him, frantic with happiness.

"My name is Rosalyn!" I cried, jumping, unable to contain my glee. "Bilbo! I remember my name! Rosalyn! Rosalyn! I am Rosalyn!"

He was flabbergasted, scrambling to put the vase on the table before he dropped it or I knocked it from his hands.

"What? But…how?"

"I don't know! But that's my name!"

He frowned. "Are you sure?"

I stopped jumping, put out that he wasn't as happy as I was.

"Of course I'm sure!" I rebuked him, feeling stung.

"Well, pardon me, but you could have just remembered anyone's name!" He argued, flustered.

I stamped my foot, upset he'd write off my epiphany so easily, rather than believe me. He believed me when I told him I had dreams of the future and past, so why was this so hard to believe? 

"It's mine!" I declared, cross. "I know my own name!"

He waved his hands at me, trying to deflect my anger. "All right, all right!" He muttered something under his breath about my likeness to Daisy, but I hadn't a care.

My name. I knew my name! I wasn't this nameless thing anymore, I had a name. Surely now more would come back to me? Such a crucial piece of information, of my being, would not be all I recalled. It couldn't be.

"Do you think this could help me find my family?" I asked Bilbo and he sat me down and began to place the roses into the vase. He was frowning so deep, I wondered if he would contradict me again.

"Do you remember your family name?" He asked, tentative. "Or a Dwarven clan?"

I thought hard for a moment, but then crumpled back into my chair, my excitement gone in an instant.

"No," I admitted, realising that I was no nearer finding my family than I had been before remembering. "No, just Rosalyn, nothing else."

My discovery was overshadowed, I was no nearer to knowing what had happened to me. Bilbo came over to sit beside me, sighing.

"Do you want to rescind our dinner invitation to Hamfast and Bell until you've recovered?" He asked, placing a hand over my own where they were clasped in my lap.

"Recovered?" I repeated, then, realising what he meant I shook my head and rose to my feet. "No, no, I'm fine. I'm fine, Bilbo. There's nothing to recover from."

He remained seated. "Are you sure?"

"Quite sure," I retorted, adamant, pushing away the empty feeling and trying to smile as I had been before. "We invited our friends and we'll see it through. But first, I want to go and tell Daisy."

Bilbo smiled and nodded. "Go on, I'll begin preparations. I'm sure she'll be thrilled to hear."

I ran the whole way there and when Hilda greeted me at the door, I blurted the news out to her. She'd beamed and embraced me, laughing and smiling. When I was in the kitchen with them all, I repeated my news. Daisy was thrilled, so much so, she hugged and held onto me while her mother and father congratulated me. While I was there with them, I felt right. Not entirely whole, but as if there were less cracks in my skin than there had been before. As if I were mending.

***

Later, when Bilbo opened the door for Hamfast and Bell, I was sure I was seeing things. Hamfast was no different than he had been hours before in the garden, but Bell. She was a stunning beauty of warm grace. With large, soulful brown eyes and dimpled cheeks, her entire face showed her emotions as if painted upon her skin. How one being could possibly encapsulate the meaning of the word 'cosy,' I did not know, but Bell Gamgee did.

"Bell, Hamfast," Bilbo began after inviting them in and taking their coats. Had I been standing around staring at Bell all this time? If I had been, that was very embarrassing. "May I introduce, Rosalyn."

Hamfast beamed at me. "You remembered your name, miss?"

I nodded, finally taking my eyes off of his wife. Feeling again that whole sensation when I'd told Daisy, Hilda and Dinodas.

"Yes, at long last."

"Oh, that's wonderful!" Bell enthused, cheeks lifting as she smiled wide enough to show off her straight teeth and pale rose fleshed lips. "Hamfast has told me so much about you, my dear! I'm so happy for you!"

She scooped me into a tight embrace.

"Oh!"

I was squashed into her chestnut curls and the smell of rosemary. Not something I would ever need to complain about. It felt like Hilda's hug, warm and comforting.

"You might want to let her take a breath there, my love," Hamfast chortled.

Bell released me from her embrace but she kept a friendly arm around my back. She pursed her lips at her husband and his laughter came to a swift halt.

"Now," Bell said, turning back to me. "I can't wait to hear about what you've been getting up to. Hamfast tells me you've taken to gardening like a flower to root!"

"Oh, well, I wouldn't say that." Flustered, I tried to duck from the compliment as my cheeks heated.

"Nonsense!" Crowed Bilbo. "Hamfast's right, and he'd be the one Hobbit to know."

We moved into the parlour and nibbled on salted crackers whilst the stew bubbled in the kitchen. Bilbo would scurry off to tend to the food at irregular intervals whilst we talked to our guests. But I kept sniffing for signs of burning. The first time he'd left, I'd felt out of place all of a sudden. As if time had rewound and I was once again sat in his parlour for the first time, waiting to see if his wife would shoo me back out into the cold.

But Bell and Hamfast kept my attentions diverted with well-developed skill. They asked about my time with Hilda and Daisy. The latter apparently had developed a renown around the Shire for betting large amounts of sweets in card games. No one knew where she had gotten this talent, but Bell suspected Hilda had been secretly improving her own ability in games and teaching her daughter at the same time.

"Hilda was never one for card games as children," she informed me, and I cherished the tidbit of information like a nugget of gold. "So for Daisy to suddenly be a protégé is confusing to say the least."

Hamfast had chuckled. "Maybe the talent skipped a generation?"

Bilbo reentered the parlour at that point and began to laugh. He explained that he wouldn't be surprised if that were the case, as many other things had skipped a generation in Dinodas' line. When Hamfast and Bell laughed, I had the feeling I was missing a previous joke they had all shared, but I didn't ask about it.

Dinner was an entire feast. If we had a couple more meals like this, I'm sure my figure would be forever as round as Aladgrim Took's. Bilbo had prepared a rich rabbit stew with crusty bread, and braised red cabbage. When it came to cooking on the fire and with the griddle pan, I was still a novice. My contributions were the mounds of buttery mashed potatoes, with honey sweetened roasted carrots and parsnips.

Bilbo unearthed a jug of decadent red wine and a sweeter, elderflower wine which he placed beside me at the beginning of the night and after I sampled the red wine, the other did not move from its place. By the time desert was served, my head felt full of fabric stuffing and my extremities were warm and tingling. Desert was bread and butter pudding, which was creamy, nutmeg and cinnamon scented goodness, dotted with plump currents. Served with a healthy glug of sweetened cream.

We all sat down in the parlour with mugs of mint tea afterwards and I could hardly bare the thought of moving, I was so full and sleepy. But it was a good full, a healthy full. It made me feel loved, and at home. Food has a wonderful way of comforting a person, I was finding.

No wonder Hobbits ate so much of it.

Chapter Text

Bilbo

After his strange encounter with Gandalf the Grey, someone Bilbo had not thought to see so much later into his years given the fact that the Wizard had been old when Bilbo was himself a child, Bilbo had decided to go about his business as usual…but perhaps with a small amount of added caution.

He didn’t want talk of adventures to be following him around, as it gives one, especially a son of a Took, a bad reputation. So, he walked into the market with food on his mind. They would have fish for dinner, bream, he decided. Rose would like that. 

Thinking on his companion, Bilbo smiled, recalling her frantic joy upon remembering her name. He’d spoken to Dinodas this morning, walking into the market, and his cousin had remarked how odd a coincidence it was that Daisy named her Flower. 

Speaking of his littlest cousin, Bilbo could have sworn he could hear her laughter from the other side of the lake. Sure enough, he looked, hand covering his eyes against the midmorning glare, and saw Daisy dragging Rosalyn along behind her. Hilda was way behind them, chatting with Asphodel Brandybuck. He realised that they must be on their way to pick flowers, or look for frogs, or something equally as entertaining to Daisy, as she was the one leading their little expedition. Satisfied that Rosalyn was in good hands, he turned back to his shopping, ruminating all the while. 

His days spent in Rosalyn’s company were vastly better than those he’d previously spent alone. Though the sweet peaceful solitude of bachelor lifestyle called to him, he had begun to see the perks of married life. He had entertained the thought of matrimony with Rosalyn in mind a day or two ago, but came to the swift conclusion that while their marriage would be the sweet, comforting sort of wedded bliss, he could never refuse Rosalyn the chance to find someone she loved. For, while he was certain his own feelings for her were in the realm of love, he was sure it wasn’t romantic. 

Though, he had to admit, his life had certainly brightened since her arrival. 

He had come from the fish stall when Mister Worrywart caught sight of him. 

“Hello, Mister Bilbo! Here, have a feel of me tubers,” Mister Worrywart said in leu of a normal greeting. The farmer had known Bilbo since he was a wee tot and therefore ignored social convention when trying to sell to the young bachelor. “Nice and firm they are. Just come in from West Farthing. I’ll have your order ready by tomorrow, no fear.” 

“Very impressive, Mister Worrywart,” Bilbo praised, for the tubers were of a very high quality. But Bilbo had other matters on his mind. “Thank you. Now, I don’t suppose you’ve seen a wizard lurking around these parts, have you?” 

Farmer Worrywart crossed his arms, taking on a serious air as he thought aloud, and in doing so completely missing Bilbo’s ducking behind him to hide from what he thought was the Wizard in question walking between the stalls. 

“Tall fellow,” the farmer began, trying to remember what a Wizard looked like. As the only Wizard the Hobbits of Hobbiton had ever seen was Gandalf the Grey, that was the very Wizard Mister Worrywart was trying to conjure an image of. “Long grey beard, tall pointy hat? No, can’t say that I have.” 

Meanwhile, Bilbo had skulked to the bridge, hoping the Wizard hadn’t seen him, but turned to see that the grey hat he thought he had seen was in fact a grey cushion piled atop a stack of crates. Shoulders sagging, Bilbo sighed, partly in relief and partly out of frustration. 

“Mister Bilbo?” Mister Worrywart called, still standing by his cart and regarding the Baggins heir with concern as he startled from his thoughts. 

“Sorry, sorry, never mind,” Bilbo placated, waving a soothing hand as he stood from his awkward crouch. 

“How, er, how is Miss Rosalyn?” Mister Worrywart asked, still eyeing Bilbo. 

Bilbo smiled, happy for the deviation of his peculiar behaviour, and unsurprised to hear that Daisy had made the rounds informing all of Hobbiton about Rosalyn’s recollection. 

“Fine, she’s fine. Thank you for asking.” 

“Good, good,” the farmer ruminated, and nodded absently. “Is she waiting for you at Bag End?”

“No, no, she’s out with Hilda, Asphodel and Daisy until lunch.” 

“Hmm,” Mister Worrywart hummed, his bushy eyebrows coming to form a line across his brow as he watched Bilbo. “And er, has she seen this Wizard as well?” 

Bilbo barely felt polite enough to dignify that with an answer. 

***

The rest of the time Bilbo was in the market, he felt this unwavering sensation of urgency. As if the shadow of the Wizard was lingering directly behind him and ushering him along. 

He hurried home, remembering that Rose did not yet have a key, having refused to get one cut for herself.

“I’m merely a guest,” she had insisted, much to his annoyance. 

He had tried, multiple times, to reassure her that she was not only welcome in Bag End, but he considered her a permanent addition. She didn’t have an ounce of confidence in her self worth. It often plagued Bilbo that, because of her memory loss, she might never regain who she was beforehand. Both in memory, and in spirit. He had, of course, had a key cut anyway and had hidden it in the eaves above his front door, but she did not know and so would be locked out if she were to return before him. 

Once home, he shut the door behind himself, then, after a moments deliberation, turned back and locked it. He was not having a Wizard walk into his house unannounced, he decided, he’d just have to listen out for Rose’s return. 

***

Rosalyn

The market had been just as busy as the days previous, but now, armed with my name, I felt shielded from the masses. It was an awkward comfort, to know my name but to still not understand who I was. 

Bilbo had insisted only an hour or so before at breakfast that I was welcome to stay as long as I liked in Bag End. When I had attempted to tentatively approach the idea of my leaving in search of answers, he’d pursed his lips and developed a unsureness in his eyes. Clearly, the idea of me leaving Bag End, armed only with dream visions and my name, unnerved him. 

That said, I was beginning to grow uneasy myself. The visions, now that I knew what they were, terrified me. Why was I seeing these things? For what purpose? Did I have them before my memory loss? The implications of them were unimaginable, far more than my damaged mind could comprehend. I knew, logically, that the day might never come when I understand what I am going through, or why. The thought drew a cold feeling in my breast, as if a weight of ice sat over me. 

“What’cha looking at, Rosie?” Daisy asked, nose up as she scrutinised the wares. 

She had popped up at my elbow while I was admiring some broaches at Asphodel’s stall. After I had told her my real name, she hadn’t been upset that her moniker for me was now obsolete, rather she immediately began to think of a nickname to use. Hilda had confided in me last night that her daughter took pride in using nicknames to those closest to her. Apart from Bilbo, because she had once attempted to call him ‘Billy,’ but Bilbo had adamantly refused to answer her if she did so. 

“This broach,” I told her and held it up for her to see. She hummed, but wasn’t interested. 

Asphodel’s mother, Alyssum, turned to tend to another customer while we looked over her pretty trinkets. 

“Mama wanted to know if you were all right,” Daisy whispered.

I had gone to see them early this morning, eager to have the stitches removed at last. Hilda had said that it wouldn’t take long and I was determined to have them removed as soon as possible. While painful, I was relieved to be free of them. My scalp still ached, and she’d advised that I pin up my hair in such a way that it didn’t pull on the still healing wound. It had lead to an impromptu lesson on hair braiding. It had been an enlightening experience to say the least. 

“I’m fine,” I reassured her. 

But Daisy’s face clouded. She frowned up at me.

“What is it?”

“When grown ups say they’re fine, they don’t really mean it,” she said. “They think children don’t understand. But I do. You’re lying.” 

Shamefaced, I floundered. What could I say to that? I suppose, I could only tell her the truth, though watered down.

“No, I’m not fine,” I admitted. “But I will be, in time.”

Her earnest eyes watched me, looking for another lie, I suppose.  Then, she nodded, and grabbed my hand. 

“Good, come on,” she ushered me, tugging me away from the stall.

I managed to pluck my basket up before she pulled me too far, bidding Alyssum goodbye. 

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“On an adventure!”

“Where to?”

She shrugged her small shoulders. “Anywhere.” 

***

I was coming back from the bakery, having promised Bilbo I would fetch us a slice of carrot cake for after supper, when I happened upon a tall, grey clothed Man walking from the top of the hill. 

“Hello,” I greeted him, a little startled by the Man’s appearance in Hobbiton. He was the first I had met and now I understood everything Bilbo had told me about the race of Men. 

While I knew, from reading and Bilbo’s explanations, that Hobbits and Dwarves are shorter than the majority of the inhabitants of Middle Earth, there was a vast difference in hearing the fact, and seeing the truth. The Man towered over me, his staff the height of me three times over. He seemed to sense my hesitation and smiled. Soft lines appeared above his long grey beard and under the brim of his large, pointed grey hat that gave him a kindly appearance. 

“Hello, my dear,” he greeted back. 

What do you say to a Man? One who was so obviously not a local. Was he lost? 

“Can I help you at all, sir?”

He looked warmed by my offer of aid.

“No, I was just visiting an old friend,” he assured me. “However I must say that I am very surprised to see a young Dwarrowdam in Hobbiton.” There was a question in his tone, a quiet curiosity. 

I felt my cheeks flush at my own forgetfulness. 

He would have noticed right away that I wasn’t a Hobbit. Bilbo had seen that almost immediately, of course this Man would. I had gotten used to those in Hobbiton treating me no differently than they would each other, with no inclination as to my other race. Bilbo had been right, the Hobbits were all too happy that there was another to bring into their families to worry about my mixed blood. There were still some glances down to my feet, but no one said anything to me. If anything, the Hobbits were growing more daring. Even now, on my quick journey to the bakery, I had been offered the hand of three eligible Hobbits. Only one was a repeat proposal. 

“I can see how that might be confusing, sir,” I admitted, starting to hate that my heritage would always raise questions. 

“Not confusing my dear, intriguing,” the Man assured me as he smiled. “I apologise, my name is Gandalf, Gandalf the Grey.”

I smiled back at the Man, he seemed kindly and gentle, despite his enormous stature. If other Men were like him, perhaps the world outside of Hobbiton wasn’t as scary as I was imagining? Though, I could see one inconvenience, speaking to Gandalf I found I had to tilt my head up quite far to meet his eyes. Continuing might cause considerable neck pain. 

“My name is Rosalyn, it is a pleasure to meet you mister Gandalf,” I said, embracing the opportunity to have a conversation with someone new. 

The only people I’d spoken to since waking in the field where Hobbits. I even remembered to curtsey as Bilbo had taught me. He’d tried to instil in me some manners, as he felt I was lacking a certain politeness. Secretly, I thought it was a load of hogwash, but Daisy and I had had fun mocking the exaggerated curtsey for some time afterwards. 

“The pleasure is all mine Miss Rosalyn.” Gandalf tipped his head politely as he spoke. 

I was glad that he didn’t ask after my family name. 

“Do you need directions, sir?”

He shook his head, already looking out over towards The Green Dragon. 

“No, no, I think I will be fine Miss Rosalyn, but thank you for your concern.” 

“Then, I’ll bid you goodbye, I’m afraid I’m rather late for lunch.”

He chuckled. “Goodbye Miss Rosalyn, I am sure I’ll be seeing you again.” 

Watching the Wizard leave, I felt the slightest unease that he would be back, and a sense of thrill at the same time. 

***

As I walked towards the door, something caught my eye. It was the tiniest flicker of light, like the reflection from a moving lantern on a mirror, but it came from the wooden door. I stopped for a moment, watching the wood carefully, but no other light appeared. 

Curious. 

Also curious: the door was locked. 

“Bilbo?” I called, knocking on the door.

He opened it, looking very flustered. Ushered me in with fluttering hands, poking his head back out into the daylight to look around suspiciously before quickly shoving the door shut and locking it again. 

“Bilbo, why was the door locked?” I asked, taking off the cloak and placing my basket on the floor out of the way of his pacing feet. “What’s happened?”

“Rose!” He clamoured, as if he had only just recognised it was me who had come through the door. I now noticed that his face was red and the curls on top of his head were fluffed in agitation. He must have been running his hands through it. “You will not believe that has happened!” 

He sounded angry and I wondered if he had had another altercation with Aldagrim Took. The two had taken to avoiding one another, but when Bilbo had gone to tell Hildagrim about Aldagrim’s drinking, an argument had ensued. Aldagrim had been stripped of his title of Bounder, and he had taken to festering in his anger ever since. 

“Oh?” 

“I had a visitor, Gandalf the Grey,” Bilbo started to explain. “I haven’t seen him since I was young.”

“Gandalf? I ran into him at the bottom of the hill just now, lovely Man.”

“Lovely?” Bilbo scoffed but then froze, eyes wide. “At the bottom of the hill? Just now?”

I nodded, hanging up the cloak as I watched him. He looked as if he were on the verge of bursting into tears or fuming anger. 

“That’s what I said. Bilbo, are you feeling all right?”

“Hmm? Yes, yes, yes, fine, fine.” 

I raised an eyebrow at his dithering answer and wringing hands. At this moment, Bilbo was anything but ‘fine’. 

“Perhaps we ought to sit down?” I prompted, retrieving my basket and leading the way into the kitchen. 

Bilbo followed me, but I could hear him muttering behind my back. 

***

After a long winded explanation of who Gandalf was and how Bilbo came to know him, it had taken many cups of tea to calm Bilbo’s nerves. We contented ourselves that the Wizard’s arrival had been a chance thing, and we settled back into our established routine. We had just sat down to our rather modest dinner of whole roasted bream, with boiled potatoes and carrots with a sprig of parsley fresh from Bilbo’s garden when the door bell rang. 

Bilbo looked up from where he had been happily dousing his fish in lemon juice with a petulant frown on his face. 

“I wonder who that could be at this hour?” I asked, leaning towards the circular window, but I couldn’t see anything. 

He shrugged, looking put out by the distraction from his supper. I laughed, promising to keep it warm by the fire while he answered the door. 

He huffed and mumbled under his breath, “Anyone would think it was her home, not mine.” 

“Anyone would, if they saw how messy you really were!” I retorted, laughing. 

He just grumbled again, though now looking more amused than annoyed as he stood and left the kitchen. I did as promised and moved his plate to the warming ledge by the fire. The heat let the scent of lemon fill the room. 

I could hear the murmur of voices, both deep and male. Perhaps it was Hamfast? Had he forgotten his gloves or shears in the garden again? No, if it was, Bilbo would have invited him in for a bite to eat, or at the very least some tea by now. Though Hamfast was married, it was a new marriage, and he often forgot he had his own supper to go home to, so he often took Bilbo up on the offer of joining him for meals. Much to Bilbo’s pleasure for company and much to Bell’s disgruntlement and annoyance at a wasted meal. I had half a mind to offer her my own company the next time Hamfast agreed to dine with Bilbo. 

When I heard Bilbo’s approaching footsteps I took the plate from beside the hearth and placed it back on the table. Bilbo came back into the kitchen with a large figure following him. 

One who was assuredly not Hamfast Gamgee. 

“I’ve actually just served supper,” Bilbo said, a note of nervousness in his voice. 

They both entered, the taller figure suddenly stopping when he spotted me, wild eyebrows raising on the smooth skin of his forehead. 

“You dinna’ tell me you had company.” His voice gruff, his tone shocked, and his accent one I didn’t know. 

“Oh, yes, yes,” Bilbo suddenly startled out of his own shock, looking a little annoyed at his lack of manners, though if it were his own or the strangers which irritated him more I could not say. “This is Rosalyn.”

The person I now recognised as neither being a Hobbit nor a Man, bowed to me. 

“Dwalin, at ya service, Miss Rosalyn,” he greeted, while his eyes cast down my frame quickly, as if cementing in his mind that he was really seeing me and not imaging my presence. “Forgive me fa askin’, but why is a Dwarrowdam living with a Hobbit? Where is ya family? Ya chaperone?” 

“Ah,” I began, sharing a nervous glance with Bilbo who stood awkwardly, as if waiting for Dwalin to turn his questioning to him. “Um, well it’s a long story.” 

Dwalin chuckled, surprisingly, an easy smile blossoming on his pale thin lips. 

“I’ve got time lass, how bout we talk over supper?”

“Oh!” I shared a startled look with Bilbo, had he invited this stranger to eat with us? “All-all right, then.” 

“Bream!” Dwalin exclaimed when he saw the plates on the table. “Ya have good taste Master Baggins.” 

Bilbo couldn’t help but flush at the compliment, however, it was very quickly banished from his cheeks when Dwalin sat himself in Bilbo’s chair and began to dig heartily into what had previously been Bilbo’s supper. It appeared he had not invited Dawlin to supper. 

After a pause of pure surprise, I took this moment to turn to Bilbo, taking hold of the teapot to pour us all a cup of tea. 

“Bilbo, is that a Dwarf?” I questioned under my breath, pouring into a fresh mug for Dwalin, who was ignoring us and seemed to only have eyes for Bilbo’s food.

“Yes, yes it is,” he nodded, muttering distractedly, his fingers twitching. “I will have to convince him that he’s in the wrong house, yes, yes, that’s it. A misunderstanding, of course.” 

He was planning to get rid of Dwalin? 

“But Bilbo, he’s a Dwarf!”

Bilbo blinked and then it seemed my words finally made their way through his head, for his face cleared as his mouth gaped. It looked as though he were struggling to explain the sudden appearance of a Dwarf in his house after another had cropped up only a week previous, and coming up entirely blank. Bilbo was attracting all sorts of peculiarities, first a Dwarrowdam without a memory, then a Wizard seeking help on a quest, and now a Dwarf with what looked to be a bottomless stomach. 

Sighing, I gave the mug of tea to Dwalin who thanked me and took a long drink before adding a spoonful of honey and topping up the mug with tea once more. 

“So lass, what’s this story o’ yours?” He asked, placing the mug back upon the table after another sip, and taking a smaller bite of carrot and potato, waiting for me to explain with focused blue eyes. 

“Well,” I began, swallowing as I felt a rise of nerves. Despite him being a stranger, he was a Dwarf. He was my kin. Surely he could help me? “I’ve been here for a week, I woke up in a field not far from the village.”

Dwalin frowned, stopping mid-chew. “Woke up?” 

I nodded, forcing myself to take a sip of tea to hide my nervously twitching cheek. 

“Yes, I was alone, with no one around me and…and with no memory, at all. I didn’t even know my name.”

Dwalin was so shocked that he stopped eating all together, something I knew must have taken him a great deal to achieve, given his earlier gusto. 

“You’re pulling me leg, aren’t ya?”

“No.”

He was silent for a moment more, now chewing slowly as he thought. He swallowed before speaking again, leaning forward slightly in his chair. “No memory, at all? And you were all alone?” 

I nodded.

He shook his head, wrinkling his nose in distaste. His giant fists clenched on the tabletop and I got the sense of danger. Hair stood up at the back of my neck, but I fought to keep eye contact with him. I didn’t get the feeling he was a bad person, just…capable of violence. 

“Whoever left you is a villain who should be caught and strung up by their toes for such a crime,” he growled.  

“Crime?” Bilbo echoed, shifting on the balls of his feet, as he was still stood beside the table, looking entirely too nervous to contemplate sitting down again. 

Dwalin nodded, his eyes dark under his bushy brows. 

“Aye, to leave a Dwarrowdam, as young as you are lass is punishable by arrest and time in jail. Our dams are far too precious to be left without someone to care for ‘em. Not that they aren’t able to handle themselves, a’course,” he was quick to reassure me, seeing the indignant frown I was giving him. “But there are those in this world who would take advantage of a young Dwarrowdam such as yourself.” 

I swallowed nervously. “You mean…?”

“I mean they would take you and you would never see the light of day again.” Dwalin was nothing but serious as he spoke, his eyes unflinching from my own as he impressed upon me the importance of his words, and the meanings behind them. 

My hands started to shake, suddenly my loss of memory meant more than the gaping hole where my life once was, it was now the void of all the possible events that could have befallen me. 

“How—how often does this happen?” 

Dwalin watched me for a moment, as if deciding if he should tell me the truth or not. 

“I’ve only known it ta happen twice,” he finally admitted softly. “Both times the Dwarrowdams were taken durin’ a raid on a travellin’ party.” 

“And what happened to them?” I asked, leaning forward earnestly, desperately, needing to know the answer as surely as I needed my next breath. “Did you find them again?” 

Bilbo was instantly at my side, placing a steady hand over my own that were trembling on the table. 

“Rose, my dear, maybe it would be best not to know the answer to questions like that,” he suggested, shooting Dwalin a look that told him to keep quiet until I made my mind up. “It won’t help any, will it? And you should focus on now. You are safe, nothing will harm you here and now.”

I sighed, leaning back in my chair and tried to force the shaking of my hands to stop, but they still shook beneath Bilbo’s. 

“You’re right Bilbo,” I whispered, unable to raise my voice anymore as panic and desperate hope swelled in my chest. “But, what if I am one of those Dwarrowdams?”

Dwalin looked uncomfortable by the suggestion, shifting in his seat while chewing on a bite of fish, his thick moustache twitching from side to side. 

He grunted. “That’s not possible, lass.”

“Why not?”

“Because we found ‘em both,” he answered, avoiding my gaze.

“You did?” I grasped hold of the hope I could be reunited with my family once again with both hands. “So, so my family could find me?”

Dwalin swallowed, as his eyes met mine reluctantly. “No, lass, it wasn’t like that…we, we found ‘em both dead.”

Air escaped my lungs in a wheeze and I was dizzy and light headed. 

“Oh,” I gasped. 

“But,” Dwalin coughed, his voice a gruff growl. “As Master Baggins said, you’re safe now, and that’s all that matters.” 

“Yes, I…I suppose you’re right,” I admitted, tucking a stray curl behind my ear.

Dwalin dropped his fish, staring at my ear with eyes wider than the dinner plate he was currently bent over. 

“By my beard,” he whispered. “Lass? Am I seein’ things or did ya put something in the tea?” 

“Oh!” I realised what had captured his attention so avidly and felt a rush of unplaceable embarrassment that shocked me. What did I have to be embarrassed about? 

“Oh, no, no there’s nothing in the tea,” I reassured him, watching his reaction carefully. I was not unaware that HalfBlooded children were rare. Bilbo had told me as such, as well as Hilda and the fact that I hadn’t yet met another like me proved this. “Umm, my ears, yes well, Bilbo thinks that perhaps I am a half Dwarf, half Hobbit. He…he says I have Hobbit ears, and well, that no Dwarf has hair as curly as I do.”

“Master Baggins would be right,” Dwalin agreed in a hushed voice, and swallowed with a grimace. “Dwarf hair is corse by nature, too heavy for such curls. Perhaps, it may be best if you covered your ear back up. This night may go more smoothly if so. The hair can be overlooked, the ears cannot.”

“All right,” I agreed, wondering what he could mean while rearranging my hair. 

But before I could ask, Dwalin lent back in his chair and turned his head towards Bilbo, who had moved to perch on a chair by the fire, hands clasped nervously between his thighs. 

“Very good this, Master Baggins, any more?” Dwalin asked, raising his voice a touch. 

It seemed that particular topic of conversation was over, at least for now. 

“More? Oh yes, yes,” Bilbo said, nodding with a vacant expression. It struck me then that he hadn’t heard Dwalin’s comment about my ears, he’d been away with his thoughts. 

“Help yourself.” Bilbo hovered at Dwalin’s shoulder as he offered him a plate of scones. “You know, not that we aren’t happy to have you, but it’s just that, umm, we weren’t expecting company.” 

The door bell suddenly rang. 

“That’ll be the door,” Dwalin growled in amusement, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he plucked a scone from the plate. 

Bilbo gaped for a moment before good manners forced him to answer the door, abandoning the plate of scones in the process. I turned to Dwalin with a cocked eyebrow. 

“Are you expecting company?” I asked, beginning to feel like there was something afoot. 

He grinned at me and stood from the table, pocketing a couple of scones and munching on another. “Come on lass, let’s see who it is.”

I followed the large Dwarf, half feeling like I was about to scold him, and half like an excitable child. He devoured the rest of the scones as we walked.

“Do you know who’s at the door?” I pushed. 

“Well, roughly.” He chuckled as we exited the kitchen. “Could be any of a number.”

A number? Just who was he expecting to follow? And why didn’t Bilbo know about them?

“Maybe we should go and see who it is?” I suggested, feeling suspicious at Dwalin’s words and worried over Bilbo’s reaction to more unexpected guests, especially if it were more Dwarves given his reaction to Dwalin. Perhaps it would be best if I was present to mediate?

Dwalin nodded, chuckling good naturedly. “Sounds fair lass, in any case, we’ve run outta food!” 

***

Bilbo

Meanwhile, Bilbo answered the door again, half expecting it to be one of his neighbours asking what a Dwarf was doing at his door so late at night. But his hopes were quickly dashed when he saw another Dwarf stood in the doorway. However, this one was shorter, rounder, with white hair and a long white beard. 

“Balin,” the Dwarf greeted with a kind smile. “At your service.”

Bilbo blinked. “Good evening.”

“Yes, yes it is. Though, I think it might rain later. Am I late?” The Dwarf, Balin, asked calmly.

Bilbo could only frown. “Late for what?”

“Bilbo?” He heard Rose call from the sitting room. 

The white haired Dwarf looked towards the sound of the voice and smiled, stepping past him and into the warm home without invitation. 

“Oh! Haha!” He laughed. “Evening, brother!”

Dwalin stopped his pillaging of the biscuit jar from the mantle to stare at this new Dwarf and grinned in welcome. 

While the Dwarves were otherwise occupied, Bilbo took the opportunity to look outside, searching left and right for any more unexpected visitors to pop out of nowhere. Nope, not even the shine of anonymous eyes appeared in the undergrowth. Where on Middle Earth were they coming from? Thin air? 

“Oh, ho, by my beard,” Dwalin chuckled. “You’re shorter and wider than last we met.”

The white haired Dwarf, Balin, laughed. “Shorter, not wider, still sharp enough for both of us.”

They embraced, and then, with an almighty crack, smacked their heads together. Neither seemed effected, rather, continuing to gaze at the other fondly, chuckling the entire time. Bilbo felt more than a little startled. 

“Err, excuse me,” he said, trying to be heard over their reunion. “I hate to interrupt, but I’m not entirely sure you’re in the right house.” 

Rosalyn had meanwhile edged around the Dwarves, watching their violent greeting with both awe and trepidation. She leant into Bilbo and whispered into his ear, “Do all Dwarves do that?”

He didn’t answer her, merely whimpered and looked forlornly at the mud the Dwarves had brought in with them on his polished floor and previously clean carpet. 

This was going to be a very long night indeed. 

***

Rosalyn

“Have ya eaten?” Dwalin asked his elder counterpart as he rummaged through Bilbo’s recently restocked pantry. 

They were both currently inspecting a jar of the apple jam I’d helped Bilbo make only days before. The neat little label filled me with a surge of pride, as did the approving noise Dwalin made when he sampled some. He placed the jar next to the growing pile of what I assumed were ‘approved’ food stuffs. One red onion which had apparently gone past its best, a loaf of dark dense bread neither Dwarf liked the smell of, and a small pot of too sweet honey had been returned to their places as ‘unapproved’ items. 

Bilbo began talking over the Dwarves, but never raising his voice very loud at all, maintaining the perfect air of polite anger. 

“It’s not that I don’t like visitors,” he informed them, pacing in front of the doorway to the pantry. Not that either Dwalin nor Balin seemed to notice him there, or that he was talking at all, least of all to them. “I like visitors as much as the next Hobbit, but I do like to know them before they come visiting. The thing is—”

The Dwarves began to talk over Bilbo, paying him no mind at all. 

“What’s this?” Dwalin asked, holding aloft a piece of the smelly cheese Bilbo liked to have on oat cakes. 

“I don’t know, I think it’s cheese,” Balin correctly identified before sniffing the wedge experimentally and eyeing it closely. “Gone blue.”

Dwalin shook his head. “It’s riddled with mould.”

Balin made the swift decision to chuck the offending bit of cheese onto the floor beside Bilbo as he came to a stop. They then started to talk about the cask of ale waiting to be sampled. 

“The thing is,” Bilbo continued, looking down at the foodstuff with a twitching eyebrow, trying to contain an unfriendly protest. I could barely suppress my laughter at the lengths Bilbo would go to just to remain polite! Surely there was a limit to his kindness? “I don’t know either of you. Not in the slightest. I hate to be blunt but I had to speak my mind. I’m sorry.” 

“You think—” The two Dwarves stopped and turned to face Bilbo, who cleared his throat somewhat awkwardly. 

Balin nodded. “Apology accepted.” Then turned to his brother and gave him an empty flagon. “Now, fill it up, brother, don’t stint.”

The doorbell rang again. 

Bilbo sighed. “Would you please watch them while I answer that?”

I cast a look back to Dwalin and Balin. 

“You wanna get stuck in?” Dwalin asked, holding a plate of cured ham in offering. 

“I suppose I could eat again if you insist, brother.”

I chuckled and turned back to Bilbo. “Not on your life, the excitement is where you’re going.”

“You’re spending too much time with Daisy.” He gave me a dry look that made me grin, but I wasn’t concerned about his short temper at the moment. I was too excited at the possibility of who could be at the door. 

He gave a long suffering sigh and with one last glance back at the Dwarves, went to answer the door. I followed in his wake, feeling light and excited. There were Dwarves here! Actual Dwarves! Maybe, once the business they’d come here for was done, I could ask them…well…anything? 

We came to the door and Bilbo hesitated for a moment, taking a deep breath to fortify himself. He opened the door with a quick tug. 

Then, he gave a whimper when he saw who stood on the other side of the threshold. Two more Dwarves, one blonde, the other dark haired and both were young, much younger than the two Dwarves we had already met. 

“Fíli,” announced the blonde.

“And Kíli,” greeted the brunette. 

Then, they spoke together while bowing. “At your service.”

It sounded as though they had practised that many times, and from the self-satisfied smiles on their faces when they straightened, I had an inkling my suspicions were correct. 

When they were both stood again, the dark haired one, Kíli, blinked at me for a moment before sending me a surprised grin. 

“Good evening,” he repeated to me, bowing at the waist again. 

Limbs stuck for a moment, I stumbled into a curtsey and smiled back at him. 

“Good evening.” 

The fair haired one stood in shock at the sight of me, his eyes and mouth agape as he watched me dip and greet his companion. They clearly hadn’t expected my presence, and Fíli looked ready to faint. I had to admit it was sweet seeing such a worldly Dwarf looking so vulnerable. He seemed to have finally shaken off the shock and bowed to me, bowing far deeper than he had to Bilbo. 

“Good evening, miss,” he said, his voice soft. 

“Good evening,” I replied, remembering to curtsey to him.  

When we stood upright, his eyes never left mine. They were almost the same shade as the cloak Bilbo had given me. 

“You must be Mister Boggins,” Kíli proclaimed loudly and with a wide grin. 

“No, you can’t come in, you’ve come to the wrong house!” Bilbo burst and tried to close the door on them, stepping forward and shoving his shoulder into the wood.

But the Dwarves caught the door with ease, even as Bilbo continued to push it shut, his feet sliding on the tiles. 

“What?” Kíli lamented, oblivious to Bilbo’s attempts to close the door on his hand. “Has it been canceled?”

Fíli, attentions diverted to the matter at hand, was frowning as he peered round the half closed door at us. “No one told us.” 

Bilbo, realising he couldn’t shift the wood anymore, had come to a loss, blinking and stuttering as he tried to make sense of the happenings of the evening. 

“Ca—canceled? No, nothing’s been canceled.”

“That’s a relief,” Kíli sighed and pushed the door open despite Bilbo putting his entire weight behind it. 

They strode in, Kíli excitably, Fíli, calmly. Bilbo, resigned, closed the door but not before checking outside once again. The two new Dwarves made themselves comfortable, loosening their coats and taking off their weapons. I hadn’t realised how well armed they were. Kíli, upon divesting himself of his bow and quiver, and after placing them over Bilbo’s right shoulder as he looked around the smial, began to wander along the annex trailing mud after himself. I couldn’t take my eyes off the intricate runes carved onto the quiver. 

“Careful with these, I’ve just sharpened ‘em,” Fíli warned, unloading two large swords into Bilbo’s cradled arms. 

I stood by and watched them, trying to contain my amusement and excitement from showing on my face. Four Dwarves! Then, I realised that Fíli had only begun to unload his weapons, there were two small throwing axes strapped to each ankle, and two long, thin daggers sheathed into the bracers on his forearms. 

“It’s nice, this place, d’you do it yourself?” Kíli asked, before starting to wipe his muddy boots onto one of Bilbo’s treasured items. 

“What? No, it’s been in the family for years…” Bilbo answered, polite but still confused, until he caught sight of what Kíli was doing. “That’s my mother’s glory box! Can you please not do that?”

“Fíli, Kíli, come on, give us a hand,” Dwalin said, thankfully ushering Kíli under his arm and into the dining room before Bilbo said something less polite. 

“Mister Dwalin,” Kíli answered with a chuckle and a look at the larger Dwarf that I can only describe as admiration. 

Fíli followed him, passing me with a soft look that almost seemed understanding. Maybe he too realised how amusing this situation was, Dwarves appearing at the door of a Hobbit with no aforementioned welcome. Or was he sharing a look of commiseration over the behaviour of his unruly companion? 

“Let’s shove this in the hallway. Otherwise we’ll never get everyone in,” Balin directed, having taken hold of the large crockery cabinet. 

“Everyone? How many more are there?” Bilbo asked, arms full of daggers and swords, a full quiver and bow hung over his right shoulder. 

“Bilbo, they knew your name!” I exclaimed once the Dwarves were occupied. 

“What?” He asked, distracted as he pouted. 

“They knew your name,” I explained, positively thrilled at this turn of events. “The young ones, they knew your name, or at least the mispronunciation of it. Someone must have told them to come here.” 

He chuffed at me, no more pleased by my observation than he was of the Dwarves moving all his furniture. 

“Do you know who?” I pressed. 

Bilbo shook his head, eyes watching the Dwarves shrewdly. 

“No, but I can guess.”

“Who?” 

Bilbo sighed, nose twitching irritably. “I sincerely hope I’m wrong.” 

“Where do you want this?” I heard Dwalin ask just before there was the sound of heavy furniture being dragged over the floor above the sound of the doorbell ringing again. 

“Oh, no,” Bilbo lamented, casting only a quick glance backward to the sound of the Dwarves rearranging his home before dumping the weapons onto the floor and trotting towards the door.  I followed at his heels. 

“No, no! There’s nobody home!” He shouted. “Go away and bother somebody else! There’s far too many dwarves in my dining room as it is. If—if this is some clot-head’s idea of a joke, I can only say, it is in very poor taste.” 

He roughly opened the door, and I expected there to be another lone Dwarf stood who was about to be on the receiving end of a tongue lashing, only for a spilling of Dwarves to pour over the threshold and land in an undignified pile. 

“Get off, you big lump!” One of the Dwarves said from beneath a large dwarf who had landed, rather unfortunately, on top of them all. 

“Gandalf,” Bilbo sighed. 

Indeed, the Wizard was stood outside behind the mound of Dwarves, smiling, the glint of mischief clear in his eye. 

I lent to the side to whisper: “Where you right?”

“Yes…unfortunately.”

One Dwarf, whose hat looked precariously close to falling off his head, suddenly held up the bell that had been previously hung beside the front door. 

“Might want to be gettin’ this fixed,” he announced, sounding winded as he lay at the bottom of the pile. 

Bilbo shut his eyes and let out a long suffering sigh. 

***

What followed next was the rush of Dwarves in motion. 

All at once, they worked together to get the dining room ready for supper, bringing and taking several different objects to and from the dining room. Once, I had tried to help and attempted to lift a sturdy chair into the dining room from Bilbo’s study, knowing Bilbo would much prefer that chair to hold the weight of a Dwarf than his antique chairs. However, I had been stopped by Dwalin, who took the chair from me, telling me not to worry and to let the others get me a drink and something to eat. I had refused as kindly as possible but Dori, the kind hearted, intricately braided, grey haired Dwarf had overheard and ushered me into the dining room and onto one of the chairs already there and handed me a cup of chamomile tea. 

So, I now sat and observed them all over the rim of my mug, watching Bilbo trying in vain to restore some sense of order to his normally quiet home. In between moving around and reorganising the rooms, each Dwarf had come up to me, some individually, some in family pairings or triples, and introduced themselves. It seemed to be a trend to have rhyming names in Dwarven families. 

As I watched them I noticed that Fíli and Kíli had to bend their heads to step underneath the curving roof of the doorways, like Dwalin. They were quite tall compared to the company I had been keeping recently. I watched as they walked ahead of me and into Bilbo’s dining room. I couldn’t help but notice how pleasing they looked at my eye, Fíli more so. Kíli was attractive, I could see that plainly, but to my eyes he seemed a little young. His eyes and the exuberance of his character captured a childishness in him that couldn’t be mistaken. Fíli, however, was handsome. 

Occasionally, our eyes would meet. A handful of snatched glances, by design or happenstance, I wasn’t sure. What I did know, was that with every time his azure eyes found mine, I liked it more and more. 

Chapter Text

***

Fíli

Fíli was dumbstruck. 

Baffled and shocked, completely and wholly. But he hadn’t a clue why. All he knew was that it had something to do with the golden haired lass who was watching him with a patient, soft smile. He inhaled, realising he hadn’t drawn a breath since he had laid eyes on her, and it was followed by the ghost of his mother’s voice in his ear: Well, didn’t I raise a gentleman? Bow, Fíli! For Mahal’s sake! 

He hastily complied, adding on, “Good evening miss,” for good measure. 

She curtsied to him, wishing him the sam, her voice soft. 

Yes, his mother had raised a gentleman, and he’d be damned if he showed her up in front of such a beautiful Dwarrowdam. For she was one, regardless of the fact she seemed to be living with a Hobbit, there was no doubt in his mind…except for her exceptionally curly hair. And the lack of shoes on her bare feet, her incredibly distracting bare feet. Never before had he found feet to be so delicate looking, but then again, never before had he had the occasion to look at a Dam’s bare feet. Apart from his mother’s, but those didn’t count. 

By the time he had pulled his gaze away from the floor, Kíli had already divested himself of his quiver and bow, and draped them over the Hobbit’s shoulder. His brother was talking off the poor Halfling’s ear, much to the large-footed fellow’s irritation, and much to the Dam’s intrigue. Fíli found that the attention she was giving Kíli irritated him. He knew his brother was handsome, many Dam’s back in Erid Luin had told him so, much to Fíli’s annoyance. Fíli also knew that he himself was not unattractive, given the female, and on two occasions male, attention he had garnered over the years. Though, if he was honest with himself, he knew that her wide eyed gaze at his younger brother was not the attention of attraction, but, rather a stare of wonder. 

She looked as if she had never seen a Dwarf before.  

But that was impossible. 

Perhaps she had never met a Dwarf her age, or close to it. That wasn’t uncommon. Given how far some Dwarf clans travelled, and had migrated after the fall of Erebor, he had met other young Dwarves who had grown up as the only one within a twenty year age range. If Fíli had to guess, he would put her at Kíli’s age, or, on second thought, younger. She didn’t have the full sideburns of a mature Dwarrowdam, rather tuffs of golden hair in front of her ears that weren’t yet past fledgling length. While some Dwarrow physically aged at a slower rate than most, it was rare, and Fíli was sure that rather than appearing young, she was in fact young. Pausing on the thought, Fíli decided that she was around sixty, or sixty-five at a push, and on the cusp of adulthood. 

Which begged the question, what was she doing unchaperoned out in The Shire? The nearest permanent Dwarven settlement was Erid Luin, but he had never seen her before. So where had she come from? 

While he thought, he started to unpack his more obvious weapons. His mother had not only instilled manners befitting a royal, but those that would befall any manner of Dwarf. Wearing weapons, at least obvious weapons that were easy to spot, whilst visiting another’s home was the height of bad manners in Dwarven society. It was seen as the visitor believing both that they weren’t safe in the home they were visiting, and that they believed that their host could not protect them if the occasion called for it. Which was a great insult to any Dwarrow. Of course, Fíli doubted that Mr. Baggins could protect them if he needed to, particularly whilst in his patchwork robe. 

“Careful with these, I’ve just sharpened ‘em,” he warned, handing over his dual swords and smirking when he saw the Hobbit’s eyes widen in response. His arms already laden with two of Kíli’s large daggers. 

Fíli had given those to his brother the evening before they left Ered Luin with their uncle. Kíli, for all his talent with a bow and sword, needed protection for closer range fighting. He had tried to object, but Fíli had been firm, reminding his brother that the smaller counterparts were still safely hidden on his person. It wasn’t as if they were ever to be short of weapons. 

If Fíli took off every single weapon he wore, he would have been doing so well into the night. On many occasions, after a long day of walking or working in the forge, or attending meetings with Thorin back in the Blue Mountains, he would forget one or two of the daggers hidden in his coat or breeches. 

That was not an experience worth repeating. 

Once Fíli’s swords were added to the pile in the Hobbit’s arms, and having heard him, the lady turned her gaze to him. Her eyes were wide as she took in his daggers and throwing axes. Her awe amused him. It reminded him of when Dwalin had introduced Kíli and he to Grasper and Keeper. Dwalin's war axes had inspired a mixture of fear and awe in them as Dwarflings. It was a found memory for Fíli, remembering being able to, for the first time, touch the fierce blades and hold them, with Dwalin taking the actual weight. Lest Fíli lose one of his fingers and therefore Dwalin invoke the wrath of Dis. 

“That’s my mother’s glory box, could please not do that!” The Hobbit shouted at his brother. 

Rightfully so, as Fíli could see from the corner of his eye that his brother was wiping his muddy boots onto a carved wooden box. Rather than telling Kíli to stop, Fíli caught the Dam’s eye. He liked that she watched him, as trivial as it was. It meant she saw him, and not through him. Or, like so many Dam’s back in the Blue Mountains, saw the wealth of his title and the possibility of one day becoming Queen of Erebor. 

Fíli knew that it didn’t matter what he did, the lady would draw her own conclusions about him whether he was short, tall, fat, or thin (of which he would like to proudly declare that for a Dwarf, he fell into none of those categories). Fíli knew that many Dwarrowdams did not chose to have a partner, rather studying their craft with vigour. However, Fíli couldn’t help the fleeting image from blossoming in his minds eye of this lovely lass sat beside him, tucked under his arm and pressed against his chest in front of a warm fire. Inspiring a warmth to grow in his chest at the thought. 

It was folly to think such a thing could ever happen, but the possibility of it occurring plucked away at his hopeful heartstrings, stirring emotions in him not felt before.

“Come on then, give us a hand!” Dwalin called, coming to retrieve them. 

Fíli nodded to himself, and shoved aside his day dreams for the slow moving reality he was now starting to loath. 

“Mister Dwalin,” his brother greeted warmly. 

Fíli smiled tightly at the grizzled warrior, wanting desperately to fall back into the illusion of running his fingers through the Dam’s unruly curls as she drew mindless patterns on his tunic covered chest while they basked in the warmth of a lit fireplace. 

As he passed her, her eyes haunted his thoughts, shining as blue as sunlit sapphires. 

***

Bilbo

Bilbo had now reached the full extent of his patience. He was fluttering about, having divested himself of his robe as soon as convenient once they had all tumbled through his door, and was now following the Dwarves as they made themselves impolitely comfortable in his home. 

“Here, take this one!” Dori, the Dwarf sporting a grey braided beard, directed the rotund, fiery haired Dwarf with a large circular beard, handing him a platter of cooked chicken, much to the larger Dwarf’s pleasure. 

“Excuse me, that’s my chicken!” Bilbo had entered the hallway, just in time to see the Dwarves systematically carrying out his food from the pantry and ferry it across to the dining room. 

One such transported item caught his eye and ignited his ire. 

“And, that’s my wine!” He cried. “Excuse me!” 

Under normal circumstances, Bilbo would not have responded with such sharpness, but the wine was of a particularly good vintage. Being one his father had fermented several years before his passing. So the bottle held sentimental value as well as actual value. 

The Dwarf turned around, his braids flying around his head. A bottle of the fine red wine held tightly in his grip. As if he knew its value. Bilbo’s gaze was drawn to the axehead embedded in his skull, to which the Dwarf pointed to, seeing where Bilbo’s eyes had gone. The wound was not new, but it concerned Bilbo that no one had thought to remove the object. 

“Korse bafor,” the Dwarf seemed to explain gravely before walking off, still with the bottle in hand. 

Bilbo watched, ready to burst with stern, level toned shouting, when he saw Rosalyn intercept the Dwarf and calmly explain the wines importance. Though he didn’t understand, another Dwarf, the one with the dirty hat, translated for her. Rosalyn was handed the wine and she disappeared, hopefully to place it somewhere safe. 

“He’s got an injury,” another Dwarf, presumably the oldest given his ear horn and age lined face, piped up from behind Bilbo, startling the Hobbit. 

“Oh, you mean the axe in his head?” Bilbo guessed, struggling to keep the bitter sharpness out of his tone. He was still not happy with their abrupt appearance and was running out of opportunities to tell them to sod off. His ingrained politeness was starting to wear frighteningly thin. 

The Dwarf raised his ear trumpet, frowning. 

“Dead?” He shook his head. “No, only between his ears. His legs work fine.” 

He then walked off, leaving Bilbo gaping like a fish out of water for a moment before his attention was drawn to the other Dwarves emptying his pantry. Shelves looked startlingly bare. Just where were they putting all this food? Bilbo knew his dining room table couldn’t hold all the plates and bowls he had stored. They must be eating on the go, he decided, then looked down and saw the telltale crumb trail of a fruit cake. Yes, they were preparing a sit down meal whilst snacking. The horror. 

“Put those back, put that back,” Bilbo ordered, pointing to each item in the Dwarves’ hands, determined to be heard. “Put that back. Not the jam, please. Excuse me. Excuse me!”

His attention was diverted by a stack of cheeses making their way out of the pantry. Bilbo looked around the load to see that the large Dwarf with the circular beard was holding them. His eyes wide and expression eager. 

“Tad excessive, isn’t it?” Bilbo commented, hoping to draw some sense from the Dwarf.  Three wheels of cheese was far too much, even for a group of Hobbits this size, let alone Dwarves. “Have you got a cheese knife?”

“Cheese knife?” Chuffed the hat wearing Dwarf as he passed the pair, a stack of plates in hand. “He eats it by the block.”

Bilbo sighed, allowing the Dwarf with the cheese to pass. It wasn’t as if he could stop him, the cheese was heavy. In fact, Bilbo couldn’t have lifted the three wheels by himself, he had trouble with one. 

He spotted one of the Dwarves walking into the dining room with a wooden chair. It was the elderly one again, Bilbo hadn’t caught his name. Not that any of them besides Dwalin, Balin, and the two youngsters had given their names. 

“No! That’s Grandpa Mungo’s chair,” Bilbo cried as if that explained the chair’s unsuitableness for use. He put himself in front of the Dwarf and grasped the chair legs, pushing back against him. “Take it back, please.”

“I can’t hear what you’re saying laddie,” the hard of hearing Dwarf stated, pointing to his ears. His horn was hanging by his side. 

“It’s an antique. Not for sitting on,” Bilbo persisted, enunciating his words clearly. 

Rosalyn then appeared from the hallways with another, much sturdier chair in hand. Dwalin intercepted her and, with a chair in each hand, exchanged it for Grandpa Mungo’s chair. When Rosalyn went to take the fragile chair back, Dwalin took it himself. Bilbo could only hope that he put the chair away where it wouldn’t be sat on. 

The Dwarf with intricate beard appeared at Rose’s elbow and ushered her into the dining room, telling her he had a pot of tea ready. 

“Oh, thank you, but I’m fine,” Rosalyn politely declined. 

The Dwarf shook his head. “No, no, I insist. Sit here.”

Bilbo, torn between seeing what tea the Dwarf had used, and physically baring the pantry with his body, turned and saw the Dwarf with the hat putting a mug of ale down on an illustrated version of the history of the Elves of Rivendell. He also held, in his grubby mittened hands, a hand drawn map of the Shire. 

“This is a book, not a coaster,” he pointed out, a hair’s breadth from shaking his finger at him. “And put that map down.”

Meanwhile, Gandalf had made his way into the atrium, standing around and trying not to be in the way of the Dwarves. Bilbo ignored him in favour of tracking down where Rose had put that bottle of wine. Finding it safely stored behind a book in the parlour, and Grandpa Mungo’s chair back in its rightful place, he returned to the melee of bodies. 

Just in time to get knocked in the back by a string of sausages. 

“Whoop! Mind out.”

Another Dwarf passed him, snatching up the link with fast hands, and never pausing on his way into the dining room. Meanwhile, Gandalf had begun counting. 

“Yes. Ah. Uh, Fíli, Kíli. Uh…Oin, Glóin, Dwalin, Balin, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur…Dori, Nori, Ori!” Gandalf exclaimed, seeing Ori and Bilbo engaged in a tug of war over some very red, beautifully ripe tomatoes. 

“No. Not my prizewinners, thank you,” Bilbo grunted, winning the war. “No, thank you.”

He spun on his heel, determined to hide the tomatoes somewhere high. The pantry had a ladder for just such occasions. If only he’d thought to put a lock on the pantry doors. After all of this was over, he’d invest in one. He could never be sure this sort of thing wouldn’t happen again, especially if Gandalf was to stick around. 

“Um paya. Mayima rootkaliva.” 

“Yes, you’re quite right, Bifur. We appear to be one Dwarf short.”

“He is late, is all,” Dwalin spoke up from leaning against the door frame, sipping from a mug of ale. Bilbo suspected it to be his third, but thought it best not to mention that. “He travelled north to a meeting of our kin. He will come.” 

“Mr. Gandalf? A little glass of red wine, as requested…it’s got a fruity bouquet.”

“Ah. Cheers.”

“Bombur’s on his second leg of lamb already,” the fiery red headed dwarf spoke as he passed the threesome. 

Bilbo startled. Second? Leg of lamb? He wasn’t sure he’d heard the Dwarf correctly. Had he eaten an entire leg himself? Just how much food could these Dwarves put away? 

***

Rosalyn

Supper, which began after they had seen that I had enough food to finish my interrupted supper and something to drink, ended surprisingly quickly, and with surprising ease. Though, not without a fair amount of mess. I had initially thought that they would need convincing that Bilbo’s pantry had been exhausted. Rather, it seemed that once the Dwarves were full, they knew the evening was drawing to a close. As a group, organised or not, they moved to begin cleaning up. 

I was helping stack plates in the dining room when I heard Bilbo in the hallway. 

“—There’s mud trod into the carpet. They-they-they’ve pillaged the pantry. I won’t even tell you what they’re done in the bathroom. They’ve all but destroyed the plumbing. I don’t understand what they’re doing in my house!” 

Edging out of the dining room, I could see that he was glaring at our Wizard guest. Not without cause, but I wondered why Gandalf hadn’t just told Bilbo in the first place about our impending houseguests? Why were they all here? Surely he hadn’t found them and told them about me…had he? One Dwarrowdam could hardly be worth all this fuss. But why else would a Wizard bring Dwarves to Hobbiton? 

“Excuse me, I’m sorry to interrupt, but what shall I do with my plate?” Ori asked, endearingly polite. 

Fíli stepped out of the pantry. “Here you go Ori, give it to me.”

He then took the plate and confidently threw it at Kíli who had just appeared, pipe in hand, from the kitchen just in time to pluck it from the air and throw it towards the sink, where I dearly hope someone caught it. 

“Excuse me!” Bilbo protested. He raised his arm, making to catch another plate from the air as crockery continued to fly, but missed. “That’s my mother’s West Farthing crockery, it’s over a hundred years old!”

Fíli, ignoring his host, was jumping about, catching and throwing cutlery and crockery in quick succession. I ducked my head, moving back and out of the line of fire. Inside the dining room, the remaining Dwarves had begun to scrape and clank the cutlery, stomping their boots to a rhythm that echoed the slide of metal on metal. 

“And c—can you not do that? You’ll blunt them.” 

“Oh, you hear that lads? He said we’ll blunt the knives,” Bofur chuckled, while continuing to do what Bilbo asked him not to. 

“Blunt the knives, bend the forks,” Kíli began to sing. 

“Smash the bottles and burn the corks,” Fíli continued, bouncing a plate from elbow to elbow. He tossed me a wink before he threw it towards Kíli. My cheeks flushed and I felt my skin prickle under his attention. 

“Chip the glasses and crack the plates,” the others began to jÓinin, seeming to know the words everyone else was going to sing without hesitation. “That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates!”

I began to suspect this was something they did often. 

“Cut the cloth, tread on the fat. Leave the bones on the bedroom mat, pour the milk on the pantry floor…splash the wine on every door! Dump the crocks in a boiling bowl, pound them up with a thumping pole, when you’re finished, if they are whole…send them down the hall to roll!”

Bofur conjured a flute from somewhere and added a merry tune to their song, while helping to toss pottery from the dining room to the kitchen rather skilfully with his elbows. Dwalin had generated a mandolin, and was gently teasing notes from it’s strings with his bow contently, occasionally head butting a cup before getting up to help Bombur clean off the plates. His musical input no longer needed. Oin, however, had taken a teapot and was playing that, blowing down the spout and lifting the lid at irregular intervals. How, I could not figure out. But sure enough, a merry little whistling tune came from the crockery rather like Bofur’s flute. 

Caught up watching the musical performance, when an arm took hold of mine and pulled, I tripped. I was taken into Kíli’s arms and he spun me about to the merry tune, singing and laughing, his mouth split by a toothy grin. He twirled me in a dizzying spin, with a hand clasping one of my own, lifting them up above my head, until I ended up in Fíli’s grasp. My feet hardly had time to catch up with the rest of me before he took me into his arms without pause and lead me into the kitchen. Leading us in a dance that circled, and thankfully did not disorientate, before finishing with a flourish and laughing with me as I gained back my balance. He placed a hand on my back to help and I could feel his warmth through the fabric of my dress. I was thankful I hadn’t changed into my nightdress. Still feeling the effects of Kíli’s twirling, I rested my hands on his chest to steady myself before realising what I had done and snatching them away, cheeks aflame. 

“That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates!” They all finally concluded with a loud cheer. 

Nori offered Fíli a mug of ale, diverting his attention from me. He’d been looking down at me with an expression I couldn’t pinpoint, and one hand had hovered in the air at my side.

Grateful, I backed away, tucking my palms against my ribs. That had been…I couldn’t find the words. 

They somehow managed to finish in the kitchen, all gathered around the table which was laden with stacks of clean crockery. Much to my surprise. They all fell about into laughter at the shock on Bilbo’s face until two thumps on the front door stopped the merriment in its tracks. 

“He is here,” Gandalf declared, somewhat ominously. 

We all gathered at the front door. Who had been so late as to miss supper? With the Dwarves’ appetites, as I couldn’t imagine a Dwarf willingly missing a meal. They rather reminded me of Hobbits with their fondness for food and ale. 

Gandalf opened the door, revealing a dark haired Dwarf stood at the threshold. His brow wizened and there were laughter lines around the corner of his eyes and at the crease of his mouth. He had a close shaven beard, rather like Fíli’s, that was dark and peppered with grey. The crown of his head was likewise streaked, and there was a dark light of wisdom in his eyes. I instantly knew him, he was the Dwarf I’d seen fighting the pale giant in my dream a couple of nights ago. Though now he was decades older. 

“Gandalf,” he greeted, his voice low and gravely. Not as it had been in my dream, sore from screaming coarse war cries, but measured and weighted. “I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way, twice. I wouldn’t have found it at all if it weren’t for that mark on the door.” 

Dori and Ori bowed their heads to him as he stepped over the threshold. I turned around and saw that all but Dwalin, Balin, Fíli and Kíli bowed to him. Who was this Dwarf? 

“Mark? There’s no mark on that door! It was painted a week ago!” Bilbo insisted, coming from behind Dwalin, Dori and Ori as if to investigate the mark himself.  

The dark haired Dwarf ignored Bilbo’s fretting, instead, taking off his bag and handing it to Kíli, who had been waiting to relieve him of it. I took a step back as the others pressed forward, my chest tightening. This felt like a dream. Rationally, I knew it wasn’t, but seeing a Dwarf I had only seen in a vision now stood in Bilbo’s entranceway scared me. It meant I had been seeing real events. The undeniable proof stood before me, greeting the other Dwarves with a warm smile. 

I was having visions. 

“There is a mark, I put it there myself,” Gandalf soothed, closing the door so Bilbo could not go out to see the mark for himself. “Bilbo Baggins, allow me to introduce the leader of our company, Thorin Oakenshield.” 

The name had no meaning to Bilbo, who looked between Wizard and Dwarf waiting for an explanation. I had a feeling he wouldn’t be getting one anytime soon. 

“So…this is the Hobbit,” Thorin said, surveying Bilbo. “Tell me, Mr. Baggins, have you done much fighting?” 

“Pardon me?”

“Axe or sword? What’s your weapon of choice?”

“Well, I do have some skill at conkers, if you must know,” Bilbo started to comment, the sarcastic Took in him coming about, only to be quietened when Thorin returned to face him head on, crossing his arms as he watched Bilbo. “…but I fail to see why that’s relevant.” 

“Thought as much,” Thorin smirked, sending a look over his shoulder to the rest of the Dwarves. “He looks more like a grocer than a burglar.” 

The troop chuckled with him before leading and following the way into the dining room. Bilbo just stood still, and I knew he was processing what had just happened, like me. Once all of the Dwarves were out of sight, Gandalf collapsed against the eaves of the front door, huffing as if exhausted. Whereas Bilbo looked to be pondering if he should take offence to Thorin’s comment or not. Steeling myself, I moved forward from my shadowed cove towards the Wizard. 

“Gandalf?” I asked. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, yes, Miss Rosalyn, I am fine.” He sighed, straightening as much as he could to his normal height. “I believe it is going to be a very long night. A very long night indeed.”

Thorin must have heard my voice for he had stopped in the main atrium, looking back the way he had come, his eyes narrowing when he finally saw me emerge from behind Gandalf’s tall form, Bilbo a step behind me. 

“And who is this?” He directed his question to Gandalf, though his eyes did not stray from me. 

His intense gaze made me want to run away, but I stood my ground, fisting my hands so tight I could feel my fingernails biting into the flesh of my palms. 

“Oh! Forgive my rudeness,” Gandalf apologised. “Miss Rosalyn, this is Thorin Oakenshield. Thorin, this is Miss Rosalyn. She is currently Mr. Baggins’ charge.”

Thorin raised an elegant eyebrow, his piercing gaze shifting from myself to Bilbo for a moment. 

“Is that so?” He murmured. “And how did a young Dwarrowdam become a Hobbit’s charge so far from any Dwarven settlement?”

Nervous, I spared a glance at Dwalin, stood at Thorin’s shoulder. He was steadfast, and nodded to me in reassurance. Thorin noticed. 

“It, erm…it’s a, a long story,” I admitted, very aware of the listening ears close by. 

Thorin hummed. “Then it is a good thing we have the rest of the night.”

“Yes,” Gandalf agreed, appearing pleased by this development. “Perhaps it can be explained while you have something to eat, Thorin?”

Bilbo perked up upon hearing this and, despite his earlier grumbling, became the perfect host. 

“Of course,” he said. “Mister Oakenshield, if you’d like to wait in the dining room, I’m sure your companions will show you the way, I’ll fetch you what is left of the food and drink.” 

Thorin looked a cross between amused and grateful, nodding to Bilbo slightly as a sign of respect. The rest of the Dwarves smiled to themselves and began to lead Thorin into the dining room. Gandalf stood watching it all with a patient, if surprised, smile. Meanwhile, I felt a little dazed. 

“Miss Rosalyn,” came the deep, polite voice of Thorin himself as he waited a few steps from us. “Would you care to jÓinus?” 

It was beginning to dawn on me that this Dwarf was important, and I would do well to not upset him. In the back of my mind, there was an inkling that I had met this Dwarf before. Or at least heard of him beyond what I knew from my dream, but I couldn’t say where or when with any certainty. He did not know me, so why would I know him? 

He held out his arm towards me, indicating for me to walk with him. I did so with hesitation, for although I did not know who he was, there was no mistaking the air of importance that flowed about Thorin Oakenshield. He cast an imposing figure, maybe he was a Lord of some sort, like the Elves in Bilbo’s books? 

We walked into the dining room, and I took the seat that Balin pulled out for me, on his left side so that I was on the right of the person at the head of the table. Now, everyone avoided that chair, instead squashing together along the sides of the dining table, Bombur being the only exception. I believed that was wise considering his width.  He was sat at the opposite end of the table munching away on a wedge of cheese he had produced from thin air. 

Thorin took the empty chair, completing the arrangement as Gandalf was seated in a larger chair to Thorin’s left. Now, everyone was seated except Bilbo, and I felt a fluttering of nervousness to know I was alone with strangers. Hearing Bilbo potter around in the kitchen was of little comfort when he would have to get past several large Dwarves to get to me. 

“Now, Miss Rosalyn,” Thorin began, resting his forearms on the table top in front of him and folding his hands atop one another. “How is it that you found your way here?”

“Umm, well.” Taking a breath, I tried to squash the feeling panic rising in my chest. They were Dwarves, they could help me. But Dwalin’s warning from earlier lingered and I dreaded what could happen when my ears were revealed. What would they think? “I don’t know.” 

Silence followed my words. Dwalin watched me and the others with guarded eyes, waiting for the questioning to break out. Gandalf, meanwhile, was cleaning out his pipe, one eye fixed on the proceedings, the other on his task. 

“You don’t know?” Ori questioned from the far end of the table. I could see his mittened hands clutched. 

I nodded, and swallowed to try and move the lump of nerves in my throat. Though they were all strangers to me, I felt a kind of kinship towards them. They were, after all Dwarves, and therefore in some way family to me. Even if we had different physical features. Wouldn’t that count for something? Extend some sort of understanding, sympathy, trust between us when they heard my story? 

“I woke up in a nearby field a week ago in the middle of the night,” I expanded, recalling the night in my minds eye. Knowing now how that night might have gone, I thanked whatever force that had been watching over me. “I had no memory of how I came to be there, nor of who I was…am…anything. I followed the only light I could see, and found myself entering Hobbiton. I passed a few doors, but the lights inside were out. Bilbo’s was the first home I came across with a light inside. I knocked and he answered, taking me in and helping me. I’ve been here, in his care, ever since.”

“You said you didn’t know who you are,” Balin questioned gently after a moment of silence. “Do you still not remember anything, lass?” 

“Well,” I hesitated, finding the thought of explaining my dreams uncomfortable, so I kept those to myself for the time being. I could tell them later, once things were more settled. “I remember some things, snippets of memory that appear like fragments at times. But, no, I still do not know who I am. It is only by chance I remembered my name. Bilbo brought in a bunch of roses from his garden, and once I saw them, I knew my name. Before that I was using the name Flower.” 

At this point, Bilbo appeared and handed Thorin a bowl of hot, rich stew, a mug of frothy ale I had a hunch was from the hidden barrel in the cold room, and a plate with the only bread left from the Dwarves’ pillaging. Thorin took all with an appreciative nod. Bilbo also placed a mug of mint tea in front of me, smiling and placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder. I returned the smile, grateful at his presence and his ability to know when I needed comfort. The tea provided me with the excellent excuse to stop talking, and take a fortifying sip. 

“So, you were alone. Completely?” Dori asked. He seemed to not understand, frowning in what I concluded to be distress. 

I nodded, taking another sip. Bilbo had found my favourite mug, and even though it was a small comfort, the familiarity of it gave me strength. I had a home here. I had a favourite mug. I had Bilbo. Even if these Dwarves refused to help, or couldn’t help, in the end I would still have my mug, I would still have Bilbo, Hilda and Daisy. I would more than I had when I woke in that field. 

The group began to mutter to each other, their tones rank with disproval. This I wasn’t expecting. 

“What is it?”  

The taller, red haired Dwarf, Glóin, shook his head. “No Dwarf, no respectable Dwarf, would have ever left a Dwarrowdam alone. Never.” 

He looked repulsed by the very idea, shivering, his bushy eyebrows squashing together.

Nori slapped at the table in agitation. “Who would do such a thing?”

“Was there nothing with you? No bag, coin, or anything with you when you woke?” Fíli asked, a small frown pinching his brow. 

I shook my head. “No, nothing, I didn’t even have shoes on, nor a cloak.”

This caused the group further distress. 

“Bilbo and Dwalin told me that it is very unorthodox for a Dwarrowdam to be left alone,” I supplied meekly. 

Thorin turned to Dwalin with an arched eyebrow. “He did, did he?”

“Aye, I did,” Dwalin grumbled, arms crossing over his chest in a defensive move. 

One corner of Thorin’s mouth pulled upwards in the shadow of a smile as he turned back to me, tearing off a chunk of bread. 

“What else did he tell you?” 

Remembering, I couldn’t hold back the shiver of terror that caused gooseflesh to break out along my arms. The elder Dwarrow noticed and tensed, furtive glances traded as wordless conversations began. Did they know the events Dwalin had described to me? Fíli, Kíli and Ori were confused, but I was loath to explain. If they did not know about the occurrences with the two Dwarrowdams, then they might not know the circumstances that could have befallen me in the vacant space of my missing memory. What would they think if they knew the possibilities of my past? I could hardly bare thinking on it. Not when terror was the prevailing emotion for such thoughts. 

“Rose,” Bilbo’s voice was soft and gentle from beside me. “We can stop if you want, there’s no reason for you to think on such things.” 

Blinking, I came back to myself. They were all watching me with concern, worry, fear and in a few, surprising cases, affection. 

“What?” 

Bilbo smiled. “You were in your own little world for a while there. You don’t have to talk about this any more if you don’t want to.” 

My cheeks flushed with heat, and I felt warmer than I had whilst sitting by the fireside reading in the evenings. I must have been quiet for a while, for Thorin’s bowl of stew was half empty. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“You have nothing to be sorry for, dear,” Balin reassured me, patting my arm. 

“I’m okay, really, I just…got a little distracted,” I explained, bashful. 

Dwalin cleared his throat, and took the responsibility from me. “I told the lass about the two Dam’s who went missing on the trade routes.” 

Understanding dawned on every face except for Kíli’s. It seemed Fíli and Ori did know about the circumstances that could have befallen me. By the clouds of anger, sorrow and frustration on many of their faces, they knew what that could entail all too well. 

“What Dam’s?” Kíli asked, a curious frown as his eyes flickered between Dwalin, myself, Thorin and Fíli. 

Fíli cleared his throat. “Never mind Kí, it’s not something that needs to be discussed so openly.” 

I glanced over to him, grateful, a shy smile on my lips. This Dwarf had only just met me, but was willing to provide me with a sense of comfort and understanding. If he carried on, I would begin to hope they wouldn’t abandon me once their business in Bag End was done. 

“Fíli’s right,” Thorin rumbled, and I could feel the pride in his gaze. Where they related? “Onto other matters, we shall revisit Miss Rosalyn’s situation later on.”

A murmur of agreement passed around the table. Gandalf remained silent as he watched all, but I could have sworn there was a small uplift to his lips. I settled back into my chair and watched them too. Were they finally going to tell Bilbo and I why they were here? For all the excitement of their arrival, and then of dinner, I hadn’t a spare moment to imagine the purpose of their appearance. 

“What news from the meeting in Ered Luin?” Balin asked once Thorin had eaten more of the stew as general well wishes were passed around from persons absent. “Did they all come?” 

“Aye. envoys from all seven kingdoms.” 

Envoys? Kingdoms? Were they talking about Dwarven clans? Bilbo had told me what little he knew, but his book collection was woefully under stocked to reeducate me about my own heritage. 

“All of them!” Balin exclaimed, pleased. 

The rest of the group chuckled and smiled at each other. The news generating genuine pleasure in all. 

“And what did the Dwarves of the Iron Hills say?” Dwalin questioned, eyes glinting hard as stone in the candlelight. “Is Dain with us?”

Thorin put down his spoon and took a breath, steadying himself to deliver what I could only guess was bad news given the tight set of his lips. 

“They will not come,” he admitted. 

The troop muttered in disappointment, and the blow felt fatal to the moral of the room. I saw Kíli shaking his head, a fierce scowl on his face. Come to what? Were they in need of help? 

“They said this quest is ours and ours alone,” Thorin continued, tone regretful. 

There was a moment of silence before Bilbo broke through it with his curiosity. I must admit, I too was intrigued by the mystery quest. What were they all on a quest for? Bilbo had moved to stand behind me, watching from the shadows as he fidgeted. 

“You’re going on a quest?”

“Ah, Bilbo,” Gandalf spoke, looking up at the Hobbit behind me as he at last engaged in the conversation. If I didn’t know better, I might have said the Wizard had fallen into open-eyed sleep. But I did know better. Hobbiton was full of likewise quietly careful, carefully observant persons like Gandalf. Instead of locked in dreams, he had been entrenched in ruminative contemplation. “My dear fellow, let us have a little more light, if you please.” 

Bilbo fetched a candle with an agreeable hum. The dining room did not have any windows so for all I knew, dawn could soon be upon us. Time was suspended at present, there was no gentle ebb as the minutes crawled into hours like they had so often in the evenings when Bilbo and I sat and read in the parlour. Time, instead, felt suspended in a glamour of magic. The events of the evening did not yet feel truly…real. I wondered if, come morning when whatever business the Dwarves had here was completed, would they vanish? Along with the hope of regaining my memories and learning any truth of my appearance? 

“Far to the East, over ranges and rivers, beyond woodlands and wastelands, lies a single solitary peak,” Gandalf regaled as he unfurled a parchment he’d produced from his sleeve. It looked old, creased and time worn. 

Bilbo peered at the map, close to Thorin’s side, reading as he placed the candle down. 

“The Lonely Mountain?”

“Aye, Óin has read the portents, and the portents say it is time,” Glóin spoke up, his chest puffed up in what I imagined was defiance to any argument against his words. There were several grumblings of dissection among the ranks. In fact, Dori even tutted at the other’s words, shaking his head. 

Portents? Those were signs, weren’t they? Like omens. I looked to Óin, wondering how one read portents. The Dwarf who had trouble hearing evidently did not have the same issue with his eyesight. That is, if one read omens the same way one reads a book. 

Map unfurled, Gandalf plucked up his pipe and set about lighting it with his fingertip. He even forgot it was still lit and was burnt by it, but the occurrence didn’t seem to bother the Man very much. I stared in wonder at him for a moment before he caught my eye and winked. I didn’t fight the smile that responded. 

“Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain, as it was foretold,” Óin spoke up from beside Fíli, his grey brows peaked with deep furrows. “When the birds of yore return to Erebor, the reign of the beast shall end.”

“Uh, what beast?” Bilbo asked, nervous clear in his voice and how he clutched his hands to his chest. 

“Well, that would be a reference to Smaug the Terrible, chiefest and greatest calamity of our age,” Bofur answered, pipe in hand as he gestured with his words, waiting for Bilbo to guess what he was talking about with every new clue he gave. “Airborne fire-breather. Teeth like razors, claws like meat hooks, extremely found of precious metals.” 

My head felt light and my vision began to blur as Bofur’s words resonated in my mind. I could smell the smoke of Gandalf’s pipe, burning at my nose as if I were right beside him. It smelt like Dinodas’ favourite pipeweed, a potent blend. 

“Yes, I know what a dragon is,” Bilbo’s voice echoed in my ears. 

Dragon. 

Feeling as if I were about to fall over, I steadied myself with a hand on the table. My sight fogged for a moment. I tried to blink it away. 

“Rose?” Bilbo asked as he moved to my shoulder, having noticed my stumble for balance. 

My vision restored but it left an ache behind my eyes. When had the air grown so thick? 

“I’m okay Bilbo, a little tired.” 

He eyed me, but didn’t comment. 

Ori, who had before now had been quiet as a mouse, stood up, his face twisted in angry passion. 

“I’m not afraid!” He shouted, cheeks rouging with scarlet rosettes. “I’m up for it. I’ll give him a taste of Dwarfish iron right up his jacksie!” 

Some at the table cheered alongside him, fists meeting the table. 

“Good lad!” Nori cheered, thumping his younger brother on the back. 

“Ori!” Dori admonished. “There’s a lady present!”

“Sorry, miss!” Ori squeaked as his brother pinched his ear and pulled him back down into his chair. 

Dori was not through. “Sit down!” He growled, giving his hand, and therefore Ori’s ear and sharp shake. 

“The task would be difficult enough with an army behind us…but we number just thirteen. And not thirteen of the best…nor brightest,” Balin observed, mouth set in a thin, grim line. 

“Here, who are you calling dim?” Nori demanded, leading the way for the rest to begin arguing about how fit they were for battle.

Tensions mounted, and soon accusations were thrown about in place of fists. But it didn’t look to be long before the arguments became physical. 

Bombur, during all the commotion, was the only one not arguing. Instead he was looking at the rest of the pork pie in his hand, munching away contemplatively with a small frown squeezing his small eyes together. I wondered what he was thinking of so heavily that his enthusiastic chewing from earlier had slowed to the thoughtful chomp that now worked his jaw. And just where was he pulling all this leftover food from? Did he have hidden pockets on his person he had secreted food into during supper? 

“What did he say?” Óinasked, ear trumpet firmly in his ear. 

“We may be few in number,” Fíli stated with a strong, firm voice, thumping a fist onto the table to extenuate his point. “But we’re fighters, all of us, to the last Dwarf!”

Thorin nodded at Fíli, which Fíli returned, a look of understanding passing between them, and pride shining in Throin’s eyes. 

“And you forget, we have a Wizard in our company. Gandalf would have killed hundreds of dragons in his time,” Kíli continued on from his brother. He sounded so certain of his words, I wondered if he had ever met a Wizard before. Was dragon slaying a common occurrence among them? Kíli seemed to believe so.  

“Oh, well, now. I wouldn’t say—” Gandalf began, clear his throat and smacking his lips as he searched for words.

“Well, how many then?” Dori demanded, half out of his seat. 

“What?”

“Well, how many dragons have you killed?”

Gandalf remained silent, coughing and spluttering uncomfortably under their scrutiny. Smoke rose from his lips even though he had not taken a recent puff on his pipe. 

“Go on, give us a number!” Dori cried, standing from his crouch as if he were about to launch himself across the table to Gandalf.  

After his outburst, they all descended into anarchy, shouting and crying out at each other. The tension from before now close to boiling over. 

“Excuse me, please,” Bilbo tried to intercede unsuccessfully, his voice barely heard over the racket. 

We were only bystanders. I half wanted to get up and leave the room. I could wait if all they were going to do was argue. Their anger left the air feeling hot and tight. It was not something I wanted to be around. 

“Shazar!” Thorin bellowed and stood up. 

The Dwarves fell silent. I had the distinct impression that Thorin had shouted the Dwarfish equivalent of ‘quiet’. Though, on second thought, maybe it wasn’t as polite as that. 

“If we have read these signs, do you not think others will have read them too?” He spoke with such power, it left little doubt in my mind that he was their leader. “Rumours have begun to spread. The dragon, Smaug, has not been seen for sixty years. Eyes look east to the mountain, assessing, wondering, weighing the risk. Perhaps the vast wealth of our people now lies unprotected. Do we sit back while others claim what is rightfully ours? Or do we seize this chance to take back Erebor?” He raised a fist and clamoured: “Du Bekar! Du Bekar!”

The rest responded triumphantly, fists waving in solidarity, cheers cried and smiles shared. 

“You forget, the Front Gate is sealed. There is no way into the mountain,” Balin struck down their joy, though I could see it gave him no pleasure to do so. 

“That, my dear Balin, is not entirely true,” Gandalf said, producing a key from thin air. 

Thick, dirty and carved from stone, it looked old. Old enough to come from the stories Hilda told to Daisy about beasts and fair maidens. A key fit for a quest. 

“How came you by this?” Thorin asked, mesmerised. 

“It was given to me by your father, by Thrain. For safe keeping. It is yours now.”

They all watched the key with a reverence I didn’t understand, but wanted to know. 

Breaking the spell upon them all, Fíli spoke: “If there is a key, then there must be a door,” 

The realisation of this spread across all the Dwarves faces and I could not find a fault in them for looking like eager children. This sounded like a quest many years in the making. How long had they waited? Was this their only attempt? Thorin had said before the dragon had not been seen in sixty years, but I wasn’t sure of the significance of that. How long do dragons live? Or, even, how long do Dwarves live? 

“These runes speak of a hidden passage to the Lower Halls,” Gandalf supplied, pointing to the runes on the map with his pipe. 

Kíli gripped his brother’s shoulder, a wide grin on his face. 

“There’s another way in.”

Gandalf shrugged. “Well, if we can find it, but Dwarf doors are invisible when closed.” He sighed, shaking his head. “The answer lies hidden somewhere in this map, and I do not have the skill to find it. But there are others in Middle-earth who can.”

Bofur leaned forward to see the map, his brow pinched in curiosity. 

“The task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth, and no small amount of courage.” Gandalf looked to Bilbo and I. “But, if we are careful and clever, I believe that it can be done.” 

“That’s why we need a burglar,” Ori stated, nodding as if now the plan only just made sense. 

“Hmm,” Bilbo agreed. “And a good one too. An expert, I’d imagine.”

“And are you?” Balin asked shrewdly. 

Oh. 

Bilbo blinked. “Am I what?” 

“He said he’s an expert, hey, hey!” Óinmistakenly celebrated, earning him a confused look from Fíli. 

“Me?” Bilbo backed up a pace. I could see his hands beginning to tremble. “No. No, no, no. I’m not a burglar. I’ve never stolen a thing in my life.”

“Well, I’m afraid I have to agree with Mr. Baggins. He’s hardly burglar material.” Balin observed. 

“Nope,” Bilbo agreed. 

Thorin cast a watchful eye over his company and back, out of the corner of his eye to Bilbo behind him. Did he truly expect Bilbo to steal from a dragon? Was this why he asked what Bilbo’s weapon of choice? 

“Aye, the Wild is no place for gentle folk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves,” Dwalin cast his opinion with a growl. 

“He’s fine,” Kíli argued back, slightly whining. 

The group then dissolved into chattering again. This seemed to be a conversation often had, as Ori started to vehemently demand that he go with the group, and that he could fight when the occasion called for it. During this, I noticed Bifur muttering away under his breath while making graphic hand gestures of decapitation and what looked like the crumbling of shattered bones…or was it the fluttering of ashes in the wind? 

“Enough!” Gandalf shouted, a black cloud spreading out from behind him to branch out to the roof and walls, shadowing us all. I leant back in my chair and tried to keep from toppling over. What was this? “If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is. Hobbit’s are remarkably light on their feet. In fact, they can pass unseen by most, if they choose. And while the dragon is accustomed to the scent of Dwarf, the smell of Hobbit, is all but unknown to him, which gives us a distinct advantage.”

Gandalf sat back down, the darkness behind him receding. 

“You asked me to find the fourteenth member of this company and I have chosen Mr. Baggins. There’s a lot more to him than appearances suggest, and he’s got a great deal more to offer than any of you know…including himself.” Gandalf leant forward to Thorin, earnest. “You must trust me on this.” 

The pair locked eyes and the entire room held their breath. Even Bilbo, who should have a say in his being hired as a burglar, remained silent. 

At last, Thorin nodded. “Very well, we will do it your way.” 

Bilbo came back to life, looking around for a way out of the predicament he’d been cornered into. 

“No, no.”

“Give him a contract.”

“Please.”

“We’re in. We’re off,” Bofur proclaimed, happy and completely ignoring the bleats of his new, reluctant burglar. 

Balin stood, parchment contract in hand. “It’s just the usual,” he informed Bilbo, passing the paper in front of me. It looked thick. “Summary of out-of-pocket expenses…time required, remuneration…funeral arrangements so forth.”

Thorin, seeming annoyed by Bilbo’s lack of action, took the contract and tossed it over his shoulder to him, clapping the parchment to his chest as Bilbo began to sort through the words that had been spoken to him. 

“Funeral arrangements?” He questioned weakly. 

I felt rather faint myself. What did Bilbo’s new employment mean for me? Would they expect me to remain here in Hobbiton alone while Bilbo went off with them who knows where? Bilbo took the contract and unfurled it, sighing deeply when he saw the length of the document. 

Thorin, meanwhile, had stood and was now leaning towards Gandalf, the two trading whispers as Bilbo read aloud. 

“Terms: cash on delivery, up to but not exceeding one-fourteenth of total profit, it any. Seems fair. Present company shall not be liable for injuries inflicted by or sustained as a consequence thereof, including, but not limited to lacerations…evisceration…incineration?” At this, he looked incredulously back into his dining room at the Dwarves watching him read the contract. 

“Oh aye,” Bofur quickly answered. “He’ll melt the flesh off your bones in the blink of an eye.”

None of the other Dwarves seemed alarmed by the contents of the contract. Had they signed one too? Bilbo closed the contract, wavering a little on his feet, suddenly looking pale. I could sympathise, feeling my gut lurch at the image brought to mind. 

“You all right, laddie?” Balin asked. 

“Huh? Yeah. Feel a bit faint.” 

Bofur stood, a mischievous look in his eye. “Think furnace with wings.”

Bilbo tried to fan himself with the paper. 

“Air…I—I need air.”

“Flash of light, searing pain, then poof. You’re nothing more than a pile of ash.”

There was a moment when we all watched Bilbo, and for a second I thought he would be all right, but then again…he was looking peaky.

“Nope.” Bilbo then, rather promptly, fainted as he finished the last syllable of the word, onto the rug with a thump. He didn’t so much as twitch once on the ground. 

“Very helpful Bofur,” Gandalf grumbled as he stood to help Bilbo. 

Bofur merely cocked his head in what I thought was faked confusion until he spoke.

“Odd little fellow,” he commented thoughtfully. “Even Kíli didn’t faint when I told him the tale as a Dwarfling.” 

“Hey!” Came Kíli’s squark of indignation, and then the troop was back to good naturally ribbing one another, their Hobbit host forgotten on the floor. 

I squeezed myself past them and helped Gandalf move Bilbo from the floor. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that he would have a sore head when he woke up. 

Chapter Text

***

Rosalyn

Getting Bilbo into the parlour wasn’t as difficult as I had expected when Nori and Bofur lent a hand, though they did chuckle to themselves the entire time. Kíli, still outraged that Bofur had embarrased him in front of the rest, began refusing he had ever been close to fainting. Ever. Even as Fíli began to regale all with reminiscences of his—and he made sure to stress the younger when he titled Kíli—brothers antics. Some of which sounded recent. Kíli tried to speak over him and proclaim what he viewed as bravery rather than fear or shock. The majority of the Dwarves did not believe him, only made worse by Fíli’s increasingly humorous, and judging by the smile beneath his moustache, good natured teasing. 

Their ribbing paused as Gandalf and I sat Bilbo up. When I looked into the dining room, there was a noticeable mixed reaction amongst the Dwarves. I didn’t look long enough to see who in particular spoke, but I heard several mutterings expressing less than favourable views of Bilbo. What did they expect? Coming to a Hobbit's home, unannounced, eating all his food, and scaring him half to death? I was beginning to see why Hilda and Bilbo shared a dry sarcasm. Their outlook seemed to be the best fortification against constant weariness. 

Gandalf muttered something once we got Bilbo upright, a moment later he was half lucid, able to move his legs so we needn't drag him. After sitting him by the fire in the parlour, Gandalf again muttered something and Bilbo blinked away the last of his sleepiness. He did indeed have a sore head, much to his annoyance, proven by his grumbling complaints about sudden shocks. I fetched him a cup of tea in his favourite mug before reentering the kitchen, leaving him and Gandalf to talk. Bilbo would no doubt have some stern words to share with the Wizard. As entertaining as it would be to watch, I felt it wasn't a conversation I should sit in on. 

In the kitchen, the Dwarves had accumulated. There was an empty place left at the table, even as they squeezed into the room. I knew then that I was about to face my own reckoning, and my gut exploded with a sensation like crawling worms. Many gave brief smiles as I entered, and Ori waved from his cramped position from between Dori and Dwalin, behind Thorin’s back. If I didn’t know better, I would say that some of them looked as nervous as I felt. But what would they have to be nervous about? 

The kitchen was clean of debris from their feast, and most of the crockery had been put away. I dearly hoped in the right place and not in random locations around the home. Bilbo's shredded nerves could not take much more tomfoolery. 

“Miss Rosalyn, shall we continue our earlier conversation?” Thorin gestured to the empty space on the bench from his place opposite. 

Someone had placed a jug of ale for whoever sat there. Most likely to fortify my constitution so I wouldn’t faint like Bilbo. If their opinion of Hobbits wasn’t disenchanted before, it certainly was now. 

To say I was hesitant to join them was an understatement. But I knew this was a conversation I needed to have, sooner rather than later.

I sat, moved the jug to one side, and they crowded closer. 

“Where shall I begin?”

“You’ve been here a week?”

“I woke up a week ago to the day, yes.” 

Some of the Dwarves began whispering to each other, and I tried to ignore them, but Fíli’s eye caught my own as he frowned. Blue beneath his flaxen brows, they felt brighter than the sun at noon. Heat rose within me as I struggled to pull my gaze from his. Want to continue looking and never stop stabbed in my gut with the force of Daisy running into me. What was this? My palms dampening, face warming, even my the tip of my nose was tingling. I cursed the fire at my back. Someone had fed it before I had entered.  

Stern words broke through the dull ringing in my ears. Dwalin and Balin gestured as they both spoke to Thorin. Their leader never took his eyes off me. His gaze was different to Fíli's, colder, withdrawn. If Fíli's gaze was the summer sun, then Thorin's was a winter gale. The penetrative nature of both shocked me, but for different reasons. 

This was what I feared. For them to see me and left wanting. 

My name rose out of a pocket or two of conversation.  I knew from the vehemency with which they had spoken that my being alone was a rare thing. Something that caused even the gentle Bombur to frown and glare with vim at the tabletop. Was it something they could remedy? Or something they wanted to remedy? I knew they could take me with them, but the matter of their quest remained an obstacle. One I was certain I could never understand the full weight of. 

“And you had nothing with you to identify yourself? Or your family? Your clan?” Thorin clarified, unmoved by the chattering around him. 

“Nothing.” 

“You are sure you have nothing, lass?” Balin pressed, leaning forward from beside Thorin, his brow peaked by fluffy eyebrows. He gestured with his hands as he spoke and I noticed how worn his gloves were. “Nothing at all to tie you to a clan or family? It could have been the smallest thing. No detail is too little, I promise you. There was no jewellery, no satchel or cloak?”

“I have only the dress I woke up wearing.” I wasn’t sure what else they expected me to say. What else could I have on my person when all but my clothing had been left? 

As it had before, my lack of provisions and supplies distressed the group. Dwalin cracked his knuckles as he leant to the side and spoke with Glóin. The brutish metal plates over Dwalin’s knuckles creaked with the movement. 

“And were you injured?” 

Thorin’s question brought my attention back to him. With his placid features and closed off expression, I couldn’t read his impression of me. Did he believe me? I wondered if he had seen the healed wound at the back of my head. I had undone the intricate plait Hilda had shown me when I’d come home. Bilbo had inquired after it conversationally, but hadn’t gone out of his way to gawk at my head as Daisy had when the stitches had come out. My scalp still felt a mite tender. 

“Yes, there were scrapes on my hands and knees, it looked like I had fallen. I had a piece of wood, a splinter about so big.” I gestured with my thumb and forefinger, much to Ori’s horror whose eyes widened as they stared at my fingers. Even Dori shook his head as his cheeks paled. “Embedded in my ankle. I was bruised from hip to shoulder across my back. Hilda, the one who healed me, wouldn’t say more than that about it. She thought I may have bruised ribs, I was in pain for some time afterward. If I move too quick even now, my back will protest.” 

Thorin nodded, unaffected at my list. “Anything else?”

I reached up to the back of my head, feeling the tender flesh beneath my hair. “I had a head wound. The stitches came out this morning. It’s still a little sore.” 

“Óin.”

The elder Dwarf was already on his feet, shuffling towards me with his ear horn at the ready.

“Might I take a look, lass?”

“Of course.”

He frowned and leant forward with the ear horn stuffed into his right ear. “What was that?”

There was a groan from several of the party, but no one explained to him what I had said. A laugh chuffed out of me as I realised they must have all been together for a while. Common curtsey had been and gone, as far as their interactions with other were concerned. 

“Of course,” I said a little louder. How did he practise medicine if he couldn’t hear what his patients ailments were? Or was Glóin on hand to help with the explanation? 

I parted my hair and turned for him, wincing at the pull on the still delicate flesh. Glad to be rid of the stinging, itching pain from the stitches, I was left with an aching sensation. I adverted my eyes when I caught Fíli watching me. Óin’s fingers probed my scalp with care, never pressing very hard. For a Dwarf and with his large hands, he had a gentle touch. 

“By my beard, lass. How old did you say this wound was?”

“About a week, why?” 

He continued to prod at my scalp. I could see his ear horn hovering near my head. No wonder he could hear me. 

“Whoever patched you up, they did fine work," he observed. "Very fine indeed. However, head wounds are always trouble. Did you have any effects from it?”

“Some headaches, neck pain.” 

“And do you still have any pain?”

“No, not really.” 

Óin then sat beside me, pushing Bombur along the bench and began to inspect my hands. His ear horn was abandoned on the table as he set about taking stock of my palms, hemming and hawing under his breath. I looked with him. Small pink marks were the healing thin cuts I’d had, and a faint green tinge around my wrists. I imagine a hard floor like bare wood boards or even rocks had impeded my fall. Nothing new, nothing shocking. 

Thorin cleared his throat. “And aside from your name, what else do you remember?”

Pausing, I thought of all the little moments I had recalled since waking. Shaking off the murky understanding that accompanied my dreams, I focused on those that felt real. True. Honest. Maybes and half-truths wouldn’t help me here. 

“Snippets, like I said. A hand giving me a plate of shortbread, a voice calling my name. Some moments walking through grass, others of a stone room with a fire in the hearth. I remember feeling water on my skin and a harsh breeze through my hair.” I sighed, knowing it wasn’t what they wanted to hear. “But no faces, no names, no places, nothing about my family.” 

“Well,” Thorin began, his eyes appraising me as Óin let go of my hands. “I would say you have not yet reached full adulthood, going by your physical features. You don’t have sideburns, so I would put your age nearer to sixty than to seventy. There were no beads in your hair?” 

My hand went to my hair, feeling the texture of my curls and tugging on them, careful to keep my ears covered as per Dwalin’s instructions. I now knew what he was talking about beforehand. Would they work out my heritage from my hair? Was wearing no beads a sign of not being a full blooded Dwarf? Something clenched in my gut and I fought hard against the urge to run out of the room, out of the smial and straight to Hilda’s. Towards what I knew was safe. 

“Beads? No, it was loose.” None of them shouted with outrage, but a few shook their heads. Kíli reached up to his own hair and patted something out of my sight. “Why? Should there be?” 

Their leader was sad, and unsurprised. He’d expected my answer. “Some Dwarves chose to adorn their hair with beads and clasps. It can show family ties and engagements," he explained. "It would have told us to which clan you belong.” 

Belong? I wasn’t sure I liked his use of the word. Bilbo had told me a little about Dwarf clans, what little he knew from his books. Dwarf clans were private, rarely moving from outside of their territory. So much so, that Dwarrowdams were rarely, if ever seen. But the way Thorin spoke, it sounded like clans weren’t a part of a Dwarf’s identity, the Dwarf was a part of the clan’s. 

Dori turned from his spot near the fire and showed me the sliver clasp gathering his braids over his hair. It was fine work, finer than any silver work I had seen in Asphodel’s stall. There were intricate runes around the edges and an image, rather like a stamp in the centre. 

“This was my father’s. It bears the mark of the Broadbeam clan.” He indicated to the stamp on the clasp. “You have nothing like this? It wouldn’t look exactly the same, only similar.”

“No, no I have nothing like that.” 

This caused unease around the room, many shifted in place, arms were crossed and heads were shaken. 

“Well,” Thorin spoke up, louder than the group’s dissatisfied voices and they quietened. “While I cannot say with any certainty what happened to you, we can agree that you are in safer hands now.” 

“What do you mean? Are you saying you will you take me with you?”

“I have not decided,” Thorin admitted, pursing his lips. “We will be journeying on the road for months, without respite. I would prefer to escort you back to my sister in Ered Luin. However, I must take into consideration that time is not on our side, and I fear our task takes precedence.” 

Bilbo had a map of Middle Earth I had studied extensively in my first few days here. Though it hadn’t turned up any memories for me, I had looked at it every morning afterwards. Each day, I hoped  that it would be the day my memories returned. 

I knew that the mountains were north of the Shire, spanning a far reach across the land. With forests at its feet, and the ocean to its back, the mountain range held many people. If the Dwarves called it home, could others? Dwarves the company might not know of? The sheer size of the world baffled me. My kin hadn’t been that far away from me after all. I did wonder, in those first few days, had I come from the mountains too? Bilbo mentioned that the settlement there was made up of many clans. Could mine be a part of it too? But if it had, if I had lived there, the Dwarves would have recognised me. 

“Is that where you are all from?” I asked, trying to take my mind off of finding my home. The scale of the task before me was beginning to sink in. Would I be able to search without help? 

“Yes, though the aim of our quest is to retake our ancestral home, Erebor.”

They all came from Erebor? The Lonely Mountain? Now Gandalf's subterfuge made less sense. 

“You’re related?”

Some laughed as I inspected them all for likewise features, and Bofur laughed loudest. 

“We haven’t introduced ourselves, lads!” He crowed, grinning. “Where are our manners?”

The earlier sombreness of our conversation vanished, instead an agreeable grumbling sounded before they all, bar Thorin, stood, forming a neat line around the room. Thorin stood when they were assembled and bowed to me, a regal smile pulling at his lips. He looked years younger when he smiled. 

“Miss Rosalyn, it is an honour to meet you. I am Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, prince regent of Erebor, and Lord of Ered Luin.” 

For a moment I was shocked into speechlessness. A prince? He was royalty? Then, remembering myself, I hurried to stand and knocked the bench backwards with my knees. Without any Dwarves sitting on it, it buckled and skittered along the flagstones. Flushing, I curtsied to him, nodding in greeting. Before I could greet him back as I was sure was expected of me, Fíli stepped forward and bowed. His eyes gleamed in the candlelight, and he has a wicked tilt to his lips beneath his beard. Was he laughing at me? 

“I am Fíli, son of Víli, prince and heir to the throne of Erebor. It is an honour to make your acquaintance, Miss Rosalyn.” 

He was a prince too? And I had entertained thoughts of how handsome he was! What other impropriety had I committed? But, heir to the throne of Erebor...he was Thorin's son? Nephew? Cousin? A relation of some sort, close enough that I could now see they shared the bridge of their noses. 

Before I could form any response, one by one, the rest of the group all stepped forward and bowed to me. In the cramped quarters of Bilbo’s kitchen, their polite introductions reminded me of Daisy’s rag dolls and the pantomime conversations she made them perform. While I, their hapless audience, stood agape at them. 

“Kíli, son of Víli, prince of Erebor.”

“Balin, son of Fundin.”

“Dwalin, son of Fundin.” 

“Óin, son of Gróin.” 

“Glóin, son of Gróin.”

“Dori, son of Náin.”

“Nori, son of Náin.” 

“Ori, son of Náin.” 

“Bofur, son of Brokkr.”

“Bombur, son of Brokkr.” 

Bifur stepped forward and Bofur introduced him. “Bifur son of Baldr.” 

Bifur bowed and when he stood again said: “Lanz galikh.” 

The words were guttural, suiting the rugged Dwarf they came from. Thick, harsh sounds falling on the ‘g’ and 'n’ in a way I was unfamiliar with. It sounded like the language he had spoken earlier to Bilbo and Gandalf. I hadn’t caught them, nor paid too much attention during the chaos. 

Smiling at Bifur, I wondered what the appropriate response would be. The rest of them were watching me, expectant. Was this another sign I was not a proper Dwarf? If I claimed to know it, I would surely be found out later on. My only hope was to tell the truth and trust that they wouldn’t judge me. 

“I’m sorry, but what language was that?” 

Silence followed my question. 

Each one of them stared at me, eyes wide, some with brows furrowed. Had I insulted them? Or were they at last realising what I was? I cast a look back to the parlour, seeing Gandalf’s back as he paced. But his and Bilbo’s presence were of little comfort when there was a bundle of Dwarves between us. Dwarves who looked as if I had asked them a complex riddle. 

Fíli was the one to shake off his confusion first. He took a step towards me and I tensed in anticipation of rage. But he shifted his weight back, as if the realisation of movement occurred a beat after moving. 

“You cannot understand Khuzdul?” He asked. 

“What is Khuzdul?”

There were several gasps and the urge to run intensified. My cheeks were flushing, I could feel the heat as it rose up my neck and face, but Fíli was patient. 

“The language Bifur spoke,” Fíli explained, holding my eyes with his. “It’s Khuzdul, the language of Dwarves.”

“Oh.” I licked my lips. “Umm, no, I’m afraid I didn't understand it.” 

“How can this be?” Thorin asked the room at large, but I felt the need to answer. Even if my response lacked a true answer. 

“I don’t know,” I admitted, feeling small. “Am…am I supposed to understand?”

“Yes!” Came the answering chorus. 

“Every Dwarf is raised to speak Khuzdul, before they speak Westron,” Fíli explained after I jumped at the sudden roar of voices. 

Balin shook his head. “How is this possible?”

 The company began talking amongst themselves again, but this time, it sounded like a heated discussion I didn’t want to be a part of, but was the subject of. Sinking back onto the bench, I felt small.  

“Later,” Thorin ordered when the conversation began to border the volumes of shouting. “It is late, we can speak more on this whilst on the road.” 

General agreements were voiced. Though I doubted that there would be time for a linguistics lesson in their travels. That was if they took me with them. I had noticed that no one had asked me if I wanted to go with them. Both I and they seemed to have accepted that I would without question. Still, I wondered if Bifur's words needed answering. 

Fíli, once again, came to my rescue. “He said good evening.” 

“Oh! Lannz galikha.”

“Lanz galikh,” Bifur enunciated, taking his time with the words so I could hear the cadence of each syllable. 

I felt like a child taught to walk. What else had I forgotten? 

“Lanz galikh.”

“That’s it, lass,” Bofur praised, face brightening. “You’ve got it!” 

Pleased, I rose once more and curtsied to them all. 

“Then I should formally introduce myself. I am Rosalyn, and am pleased to meet you. I’m afraid I don’t know my title or my mother’s name to greet you back properly.” 

They assured me I needn't worry. Sitting again, I ignored the stinging sensation in my eyes at their pitying tone and placating gestures. Before, when it was only Bilbo and I, there was no expectation for me to provide my parent’s names. And even though they were assuring me I didn’t need to, I felt devoid of reassurance. This was a fundamental part of my being, and I didn’t have it. What else was I missing that was so essential to being a Dwarf, to being me? I suppose, I had a lot to remember about Dwarven culture. If I were to live among other Dwarves, would this be a common occurrence? Would every introduction feature a void in place of my mother’s name? How long until those I spoke to demanded an explanation? How long before I had to face the reality that I may never know? 

“Rosalyn?” Balin called. 

“Yes, sorry, I was…thinking.”

He smiled, patient and kind. “Yes, we could see that, dear, don't fret. 

Now, what do you think of joining us?”

“Joining you?”

“On our quest to Erebor,” he clarified. “We will be leaving in the morning, would you want to come with us? As Thorin said, it would be preferable to take you somewhere safer where there are Dwarves to take care of you. But, given our need for urgency, we won’t be making any detours.”

“I…may I think on it?”

“Of course.” 

Thorin rose to his feet. 

“We will leave you to your thoughts. Should you have any questions, any of us will be able to answer. You need only ask.”

“Thank you.”

Thorin left with Dwalin, Fíli, Balin and Kíli in tow. The younger two and Dwalin lingered behind after Thorin left the room, nodding to me or, in Kíli’s case, smiling. Once they had left, it felt like all the air had rushed into the room and I felt a chill despite the fire at my back. 

Everyone remaining sat at the table. I knew they were watching me, but I couldn’t look up from the dark knot in the wood. Eventually, they began their own pockets of conversation, but still I did not look up. 

Everyone remaining sat at the table. I knew they were watching me, but I couldn’t look up from the dark knot in the wood. Eventually, they began their own pockets of conversation, but still I did not look up. 

While the others seemed to have forgotten about the circumstances in which I’d found myself here, I had not. Dwalin’s words still sent a wave of terror through me, and the group’s avoidance of the subject was not comforting. Not for the first time I entertained the idea that my injuries were the result of maltreatment. Óin hadn’t said anything, my description alone seemed proof enough for him. But how had I been injured? Looking at my wrists, I imagined rope or shackles over the bruises, instead of the trip I had been picturing. I hadn’t told them about the missing patches of hair as it felt too real. Having ones hair torn out at the root was a rough, desperate attack. Even in my short time in Hobbiton, I had seen enough children pulling each other’s hair whilst playing to know it was not the first port of call to harm someone. 

How had I been so blind? 

Someone had wanted to hurt me, and had succeeded. These weren’t the injuries of mistakes and accidents, they were purposeful. 

“Miss Rosalyn?” Ori’s tentative question rose above the quiet chatter of the other Dwarves.

Startled, I jumped in my seat. “Ye—yes, Ori?”

His mittens worried, I spied a loose thread between his thumb and forefinger. The Dwarf in question appeared contrite at spooking me. His nervous demeanour was a small comfort to the nightmarish turn my thoughts had taken. I wasn't the only one afraid here tonight. 

“Will you…I—I mean…would you….” He stuttered and stammered, but I remained patient. His shy persona felt like a balm against the lingering air of disappointment left in the room. “Well, no, maybe…are—are you going to be joining us?”

I found myself smiling at the Dwarf. While my past was uncertain, and my present peaceful, within my future lay the opportunity to escape the role of abandoned, forgetful waif. I could forge a path with these Dwarves, just as I had with Bilbo. Despite their anger at my lot and outrage that I did not know their (my) language, they were kind. 

“In all honesty I would like to, yes.” The Dwarves turned to listen to me, and I felt more at ease than I had before, more sure of my decision. Though Thorin’s warning still weighed on my mind. “I’ve found people who are like me, I didn’t think I ever would. But would there be any problem with my coming along? I wouldn’t want to cause trouble for you all.”

Poor Ori shook his head, wide eyed and nervous. He looked frantically at the other Dwarves; I wasn’t sure if he was in need of reassurance or permission. Glóin took his hesitation as a sign to intervene. 

“It’s not that we wouldn’t want you to come along, lass, it is just...” He sighed roughly and shook his head. “You should never have been alone in the first place. That is where our hesitation lies. There should have been someone with you. Or at the very least, you should have had something that you could use to defend yourself with.”

His eyes drifted down to my hands, I knew he was looking at my wrists. So they were aware of the danger I had no doubt faced. 

“Where we are going is not safe,” he continued, dark eyes fixed on my bruises. “Our journey is no doubt going to be dangerous too.” 

“Aye, lass,” agreed Bofur. “It’s a tricky business, this situation of your’s.”

“Does this mean you don’t want me to come along with you?”

“Nay,” Glóin adamantly refused. “We want you with us lassie, of course we do. But in our stubbornness, we would much rather you were safe.” 

My head was starting to hurt from their exhaustive repetitions about my safety. I didn’t understand, wouldn’t I be safer with them than without? Yes, I understood they were journeying towards a dragon. If I understood correctly, they were going to steal something from said dragon. But they didn’t seem to understand why I wanted to go with them. For all of Bilbo’s chivalry and kindness, he could not protect me if those who had harmed me wished to do so again. 

The circumstances of my arrival to Hobbiton proved that someone somewhere had once wanted to hurt me. What evidence did I have that they were done with me? I doubted that whatever they had gained, be it my purse or a family heirloom, was of any real value when I had so obviously sustained such a drastic trauma. My head wound, as Hilda had pointed out, could not explain my missing memory. So simple an occurrence as a mugging could not explain that. So the question remained, why couldn’t I remember? 

“Won’t I be safer with you? Safer than I am now?” I asked, pleading with them to see sense. “Even if you are venturing somewhere dangerous?”

“Well, therein lies our problem,” Glóin admitted, sharing a look with Nori who sat beside him. They seemed on edge, so perhaps they did understand why I was so insistent. They had known of the Dwarrowdam Dwalin had told me of before. “You are safest with us…but you will also be put in danger by being with us.”

“In danger? You mean from the dragon?”

Nori shook his head. “We are not expecting this to be an easy quest, even before we reach the mountain. Some may attempt to stop us on the road.” 

“It does sound dangerous,” I agreed, thinking back to the wording of the contract they wanted Bilbo to sign. “But, you are the only Dwarves I’ve met, and are likely to be the only Dwarves I would ever meet staying here in Hobbiton.” 

Nori nodded. “True.”

I bit my lip. They weren’t understanding what I was trying to say. 

“I need to think.”

They nodded, pleased that their warnings had gotten through.

“Of course, lass.” 

“Take your time.”

“We’re here if you need to talk.” 

Stuffed full of Bilbo’s food and now drinking from mugs filled with cold, frothy ale, they were content. While I was frustrated by their lack of awareness of my circumstances, I was glad to see there were more similarities between Hobbits and Dwarfs than I’d first thought. 

“Thank you, all of you.” 

I exited the kitchen, intending on retreating back to my room to catch my breath. Bilbo wasn’t in the parlour anymore and one look at Gandalf told me that their conversation had not gone well. Or more accurately, not as he had planned. This entire night felt like a dream. Dwarves and a Wizard appearing to take Bilbo away on a quest? What next? Daisy knocking at the door demanding I come with her to see Elves drinking at The Green Dragon? 

Head full of thoughts, I watched the carpet beneath my feet, and bumped into someone coming out of the pantry, mug of ale in hand. The mug sloshed, but didn’t fall, and a firm hand steadied my elbow. I found my footing and stood with the help of the person I had almost knocked down. Looking up, I found those eyes which had caught mine so often tonight.

“Thank you, Fíli.”

His reply was as quiet as my thanks had been. “You’re welcome.” 

His hand remained on my elbow even after I found my balance, and Fíli kept staring at me. Looking up at him, I couldn’t help but notice the freckles on his brow and across the bridge of his nose. His beard cropped like Thorin’s, but his plaited moustache was entirely his own. The way the braids framed his mouth was rather appealing, and there was a scent lingering on him that whispered of pipe smoke and pine needles. So intoxicating was it, I found myself leaning into him.

His breath caught in a gasp and I fell back onto my heels. 

What was I doing? He was a prince. A prince! I was…a nobody. I had no title, no family, no claim to wealth, nor power, or status. Nothing. What made me think I could behave so familiarly with him? My mind whispered of the close embrace he had held me in while we danced, but I told myself to see sense as much as it pained me. 

Embarrassed, I could barely look up at him, ashamed of my thoughtless action. Peeking from beneath my eyelashes, I had to smother my own gasp. He looked…entranced. His eyes unfocused, and for a moment I was sure he had stopped breathing. Scared, I called his name wondering where his thoughts had gone. He came back to himself in a rush, and let me go as if he had gripped a hot iron. It was only then that I realised how his thumb had been stroking the bare skin in the crease of my elbow. My arm tingled when the sensation of his swirling thumb caught up with my senses. 

“Apologies,” he mumbled, sounding winded. 

“It’s all right.” 

We shuffled away from each other. The hallway was strangely empty of other people. Whatever that had been between us, it felt intimate and I was glad no one had been around to witness it. Yet now I wished for an easy escape from this awkwardness that hung in the air, no matter how it came. 

“Will you come with us?” He asked, tone still hushed and rough. 

I had been looking down the hallway towards my room and was surprised when he spoke. Wasn’t he as eager to run from this as I? 

“Do you want me to?”

Fíli shook his head, and the clasps at the end of his moustache braids swayed, calling my eye to them and his mouth. 

“What I want doesn’t matter,” he insisted softly, so soft I could see their brush against his bottom lip as they left his mouth. “It’s what you want to do that matters.” 

He moved towards me again and I didn’t know what to think, what to feel. All I knew was that I wanted to move closer to him. I wanted to replace my hands onto his chest as they had been when we finished dancing. To feel his warmth again. To be in the cradle of his arms again. His scent clouded around me until all I could smell was him, so strong it grew I swear I could see pine trees.

“I need a moment.” The words burst from my lips strangled, distorted, rushed. 

I needed to move away from him before I lost whatever sense I had left. 

Without pause, he moved to one side, eyes soft as he watched me. 

“Of course.” 

I left him and walked down the hallway, struggling not to run. I felt his eyes on my back until I rounded the corner but I didn’t dare look back. 

***

Fíli

Watching Rosalyn walk away from him was a physical torment.

But for a moment, for a few precious seconds, she had been so close he could count her eyelashes. While she hadn’t been in his arms as he had truly wanted, when she had leant forwards it was the next best thing. Her breath warm against his lips, how soft the skin of her elbow was against his thumb, the skirt of her dress brushing his trousers, a gravity defying curl bouncing against his cheek as she jerked away. If only she had not moved back so quick, Fíli would have taken her into his arms and been sore pressed to let her go again. Consequences, and the mug he held, be damned. 

Before, when they had danced, holding her to him had been the greatest of pleasures he had encountered in his life. Then, feeling her warmth so near just now, he’d felt all at once both at peace and in utter inner turmoil. Sense had escaped him in favour of mindless adoration. Her eyes weren’t as deep as the sapphires he had first compared them to in his mind, but darker circle around the edge and lighter at their centre. There were sun birthed freckled around her eyes, grouping up to her temples, and fine lines that spoke of a fondness for laughter. She came up to his shoulder, and he fancied that her head would fit well in the curve of his collarbone. He felt the want to hold and keep her close with a bone deep ache that unsettled him. 

Her retreat reminded him how she had flinched back in the kitchen. How timid and nervous she had been, and still was. What must she have been thinking in those moments? Yes, her inability to understand and speak Khuzdul was shocking, but he wasn’t as surprised as he thought he would be. Head traumas often resulted in changes to speech. Bifur being the prime (and only permanent) example he knew. Perhaps that was why the elder Dwarf had patiently waited for Rosalyn to understand him? The toymaker had been quieter since his accident, but Fíli remembered a brighter Dwarf who had played and schemed with the two young princes. Fíli wagered that Bifur would be only too happy to protect Rosalyn if she joined their company. 

He knew what caused her distress, and it wasn’t whether or not she would be safe if she was to accompany them. Fíli too was concerned, and had voiced this to his uncle when they had left the kitchen. Thorin had listened, as he always did when his nephew gave council, and had agreed that Rosalyn would be safer with them. He had told Fíli how troubling it was that she had been left here with nothing at her disposal. They all knew what the bruises circling her wrists were from, and none liked the thought. Why let loose a captive? One who could have seen her kidnappers faces and be able to identify them? Fíli could only surmise that they knew of her memory loss before leaving her. This made him sick to his stomach. To think that someone chose to abandon her rather than kill her...sadistic only began to describe such an individual. Dwalin and Thorin had admitted to seeing something similar, but when pressed, neither would share any details. All his uncle would say was that he doubted those who had harmed Rosalyn were gone for good. Fíli agreed. 

***

Rosalyn  

My red dress swung from its hook as I closed the door behind me. Collapsing onto my bed, I watched it and bit my lip. It was my best dress. But, that thought, that deep-seated inkling I’d had sincefirst  seeing hung, now festered like an untreated wound. It was a lover’s gift. I knew it in my bones, to my very core. The fine thread and rich fabric shouted wealth and status, but the intricate flowers on the stays, and the white lace trim around the bodice spoke of a more intimate origin. 

Not for the first time I wondered if I had a husband waiting for me somewhere. Now the thought accompanied a pang of disappointment. I remembered Fíli’s eyes. How he had held my elbow until I was steady. How never looked away first when our eyes met. How his breath had caught when I had leant into him like some love drunk fool. How his scent both calmed and warmed me. How I had felt him at my back, lingering in the hallway, watching me leave him. Surely I wouldn’t feel this way if I did have a husband or betrothed? Life couldn’t be that cruel, could it? 

Exasperated, I grabbed hold of my pillow and held it over my head as I dropped back down onto the mattress. It was all too much. Why couldn’t I remember something, anything of my former life? Navigating my way through social practises I knew nothing about, or feelings I didn’t remember the reason for, was exhausting. 

How could I be expected to remember an entire language? An entire culture? Being a Hobbit was easy enough. Or so my limited experience was showing me. Live peacefully, take up a job for income to see you living comfortably, and be kind to all. There were examples to avoid, such as Aldagrim Took, but in general, living in Hobbiton was relatively easy. Sure they ate an excess of food, and some liked to drink and dance the merry night away down at The Green Dragon, but they were a welcoming, happy folk. Bilbo had even commented that I fit right in. As if I were always meant to be here, with him, Hilda, Dinoadas and Daisy in Hobbiton. Sometimes it felt like I did. 

I enjoyed gardening with Bilbo and Hamfast. Chatting with Hilda as she taught me a new stitch, or hunting for newts with Daisy. When it came time for meals, the wealth of food once overwhelmed me, but now, I was eager to try tastes I did not remember. I began my day with a stroll to the marketplace, and ended it sat on the garden bench beside Bilbo, watching the sun set. It was a simple life, and I knew that it was all my life would ever be if I stayed. 

If I did stay, there was also the matter of those who had left me in that field. It hadn’t been clear to me at first, consumed with worry about my lack of memories and the influx of realistic dreams, that my waking might have been a mistake. Perhaps they had thought I was dead, and left me? Why would anyone who took me to the outskirts of Hobbiton to leave me for dead, come to see if I had been found, buried or burned? Sense told me if I stayed in Hobbiton, I would be safe. But doubt liked to whisper of a more worrying option, that I was being watched. Someone could be following me, and I wouldn’t know how to tell. People in Hobbiton were approachable and conversations struck up over the smallest of things. It could be possible that one of the many strangers who had greeted me was responsible for my pain. But I couldn’t imagine that those who had hurt me were Hobbits, at least, the Hobbits I had encountered. 

It was a problem I couldn’t solve without help and the Dwarves were offering to help me, at least, protect me. I knew I had to leave with them, or else I would regret it for the rest of my days. Because beside the part of my being that thrummed with contentment at the simlisicty of my life here, there was another that grew restless. Was there not more to life than walking, shopping, chatting and eating? What waited beyond the borders of the Shire? What wonders could I encounter with the Dwarves, what mystery? Yes, I was afraid of going with them. The fear of what lay ahead was beginning to plague me. Not only of what the journey itself would entail, but what would await me after the task was complete. Could I stay with them at Erebor? Would becoming a part of Dwarves soceity be that simple? I assumed they wanted to reclaim the mountain once the deed was done. But how? They said themselves, a dragon lay within the mountain. I highly doubted it would leave once Thorin had the right to rule once again. Whatever that may be. I was still trying to understand why they needed to steal something in order for Thorin to rule. What was it they wanted Bilbo to steal? What object could hold such importance? 

Then there was Fíli to consider, with his understanding eyes and blush pink mouth. This uncontrollable onslaught of emotion he inspired within me rattled my nerves. I wasn’t obtuse, I knew what attraction was, and that couples courted before marriage. There lingered in my mind faint memories of blushing couples giggling in dark corners. Of shy smiles traded when passing in a candlelit corridor. Even in Hobbiton, it was phenomon I couldn't ignore. When Hilda, Asphodel and Rosie had caught wind of my inexperience with suitors, they had taken to teaching me with vigor. Much to my horror. Asphodel had delighted in introducing me to several eligible bachelors just this morning. Hilda had been no help, hiding gleeful smiles behind her hand while I floundered to escape the eager grip of one bachelor who made it his mission to detail to me all of his family’s accomplishments. Of which, I must admit, there hadn't been many of note. Daisy hadn’t understood why he had been so insistent, interrupting him to declare we were going on an adventure. When he had asked if he could accompany us, she’d shaken her head. 

“No, Rosie and I don’t play with boys.” 

And, thankfully, that had been the end of that, much to Asphodel’s mortification and Hilda’s amusement. 

Pillow tossed aside, I looked down at the yellow dress I wore. It wasn’t my favourite of the two Bilbo had bought me. I felt pretty wearing it, but pale. The light colour made me feel like a ball of light, though Hilda and Asphodel had complimented it. Daisy, on the other hand, preferred the green dress. As did I. The green was darker, the hue more like damp moss. I thought it suited my complexion, what little of it I could make out, though I didn’t mention that to Bilbo. 

My eyes drifted back to the red dress and I wondered how pretty I looked while wearing it. Would Fíli think I looked pretty in it? Maybe I should wear it tomorrow? It was, I assumed, the only Dwarven made item I owned, perhaps wearing it would help me to feel more a part of the company? Though it was of fine make and delicate design, it was travel worn. More suitable for walking than the thinner, longer skirted gowns Bilbo had bought me. But would the Dwarves recognise the design? There could be something about the dress that was a clue to my past I and others didn’t know to look for. Could it help to find my family? Or was it just a piece of clothing and I was reading far too much into it? More to the point, would the Dwarves reaction to the garment be positive or negative? I hadn’t given it a second of thought, but now I wondered over the possibilities: could the dress hold some significance I was ignorant of? A significance that would read as a slight to the Dwarves currently bunking down in Bilbo’s parlour. 

All these questions, all these possibilities hurt my head. Even burying my hands in my hair and tugging, unable to let out my frustrations any other way, did not ease the pressure behind my eyes. 

***

Walking back towards the kitchen, intent on making myself a peppermint tea, I was once again accosted by Fíli. This time his hands were free and his eyes were bright as he took hold of my hand. I liked how he threaded his fingers through my own. 

“You’ll want to hear this,” Fíli assured me. He didn't elaborate, and lead me into the sitting room where the rest of the Dwarves had congregated to smoke. 

I noticed that none of them had sat in Bilbo’s seat, leaving it free for their host. Who had not reappeared since walking out on Gandalf. The Wizard in question, was now sat at the kitchen table and blowing smoke rings into the air while he ruminated. 

Fíli pulled me with him to the window seat, and at his ushering, I sat down, looking around for any clue as to why he had brought me. None of the others made to explain. Fíli stood at my side; for a moment I thought he would sit beside me and even shuffled to the side to allow him more room. But he wasn’t looking at me, rather into the room at the other Dwarves. His expression a mixture of expectant and mournful. He squeezed me hand once before releasing his grip. 

As I was about to question him, the room began to fill with a deep humming. The room took on an air of stillness that felt separate from reality. We existed only in this moment, in this state of watchful sorrow that I could feel ebbing from each Dwarf. The fire popped and crackled in the hearth, but the cheerful flames now cast long shadows onto the walls.

“Far over the misty mountains cold,” Thorin began to sing in a deep, warming voice. He had a far away look on his face, turned to gaze into the flames, his pipe forgotten in his hand. “In dungeons deep, and caverns old.” 

One by one, the rest joined him in song. The youngest members of the group continued to hum the tune, the elders singing as if mesmerised. I had the distinct feeling that this was a song for the elder of the group, singing about their pain and sorrow. So tangible was their grief, I could feel tears stinging my eyes and a tightness around my chest like a compressing band. It only increased when I listened to what they were saying. 

“We must away, ‘ere break of day, to find our long forgotten gold. The pines were roaring on the height, the winds were moaning in the night. The fire was red, it flaming spread. The trees like torches blazed with light. The wind was on the withered heath, but in the forest stirred no leaf: there shadows lay be night or day, and dark things silent crept beneath. The wind went on from West to East. All movement in the forest ceased, but shrill and harsh across the marsh, its whistling voices were released. Farewell we call to hearth and hall! Though wind may blow and rain may fall, we must away ere break of day. Far o'er the wood and mountain tall.” 

They finished singing, and the room held its breath, with the fire lulling into a low light, no one reached to feed it. Fíli was away with his thoughts, lost so deep, there was a glaze over his eyes that frightened me. This preoccupation with Erebor and finding what was hidden within the mountain plagued each of them. Yet, the look in Fíli’s eyes was a deep yearning bordering on hunger. A longing I couldn’t understand, and wasn’t sure I wanted to. 

Balin, after a long moment of contemplative silence, came and sat beside to me in the armchair under the window. He gave a deep sigh, a gloved hand patting my own that I hadn’t realised I had clasped together in my lap. 

“That is a song about the day we lost Erebor to that vile worm,” Balin informed me in a quiet voice. 

He had a far away look on his face, like most of the room. However, the elder Dwarf’s voice held a lot of his grief. I wondered if the singing had taken him back in time and his mind had not yet returned to the present. Had Balin been there when the dragon took Erebor? 

“It is…I have no words,” I admitted, feeling listless and useless. 

“It is our pain,” Thorin replied, looking decades older than he had while we spoke in the kitchen. “And our hope to never again encounter such destruction.” 

He turned to face me with a sigh, finally taking a puff from his abandoned pipe. 

“After the dragon came, our people were disbursed in the mayhem. I took as many as were able onward towards Dunland where we lived for many years before we made our way to the Blue Mountains. Over the decades, many other Dwarves who had lived in the mountain but had not come with us, found their way to Ered Luin. Many of them had been thought dead. Perhaps, your family was part of this dispersal?” 

“Perhaps,” I considered, feeling my chest tighten. “There are too many maybes in my past. For all I know, they have been dead and gone for years now. I’d hardly know. Bilbo and I tried to jog my memory by looking through his maps, but…nothing. I can’t even remember my mother’s face.” 

A sob caught in my throat and broke apart the last word. Bilbo and I had been hypothesising my origins based upon my mixed heritage with little to show for it. But I hadn’t considered until Thorin’s story that I might not have anyone left in the world. Had my family been killed by the dragon? As I was gathering many had. Or, more sobering, that I was alone on purpose. Abandoned because of my heritage. Thorin himself had said I was still young, sixty years is nothing to a Dwarf. Had I always been alone, drifting from place to place? My memories the kindness strangers had shown me along my way? Would the company help me if they knew what I was? Dwalin hadn’t reacted so terribly when he saw my ears, but he had said things would go smoother if they were hidden. And yet...the thought of lying even by omission twisted my gut. 

“Here, lass.” Balin offered a handkerchief, patting my arm much in the same way Bilbo did when he couldn’t think of the right think to say to me. “No need to hide your tears. A good cry does you a world of good, trust me.” 

I chuckled into his handkerchief. 

“I haven’t cried since I woke up in that field,” I admitted. “It…it felt like a dream. Waking here, without a past or present. It’s only now sinking in that I—I might not have a family to find.” 

“If you have family still alive, we will find them.” Fíli spoke unwaveringly, moving closer to hover at my side. 

Again our eyes met, and once more I tried to ignore the pull that urged me to fall into him. 

“Thank you.” 

We were all quiet for a while, letting the last moments of sadness drift over the room. Some, like Bifur, had closed their eyes, their pipes finished. It made my heart heavy to look around them and not see the joyful troop who had sung and danced with Bilbo’s crockery only hours ago. 

“I would like to help you, if I can.” 

“We would be grateful of your help, Miss Rosalyn,” Thorin thanked me with a smile. “Without a burglar we’ll surely need a moral boost.” 

I shouldn't have been surprised, given what I knew of Bilbo and what I had gathered from their quest, but still it bothered me. 

“Bilbo isn’t joining you?”

“No, it appears not.” 

That meant only one would know of my true heritage if I were to travel with them. It would be a matter of time before my ears were exposed, or some other happenstance that revealed my lineage. I turned to find Dwalin. The larger Dwarf was leant against the far wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He knew the question that lay in my eyes and nodded, though his mouth twisted into a grim line. 

“I would like to share something with you.” 

Holding my breath, I tucked several curls behind my ears and bared them to the room. All but one gasped. Dwalin stood resolute, arms crossed over his chest and his hands clenched into tight fists, looking like he was ready to take on anyone who raised an issue about my ears. For the corner of my eye, I could see Fíli’s hands also make tight fists, knuckles whitening. I daren’t look at his face and see whether he was angry or disgusted. Balin hid his emotions well, his face a blank of expression. 

When I looked up, I locked eyes with Thorin. He had moved towards me, his earlier smile had contorted into outrage. 

“What is this?” He demanded. “What are you?” 

Injured, I shrunk back. What was I? What did he mean? Dwalin reached out and put a staying hand on Thorin’s shoulder. 

“The lass is a HalfBlood,” he explained. “She’s part Hobbit.” 

Thorin’s anger left and he gaped at me. 

“A HalfBlood?” He whispered. “But how?” 

Around me, the room broke into hushed murmurs. Flushing under the attention, I shied away and into the cushioned seat.

To my right, Balin shifted, gaining my attention. 

“There hasn’t been a halfblooded Dwarf in centuries,” he explained. I noticed he was making a point to look directly at me, and not at my ears. 

I almost covered them back up, but a voice in my head (that sounded rather like Bilbo) told me that I had nothing to be ashamed or embarrassed of. Any prejudices they had against me were their own. No Hobbits had been hostile to me. The Dwarves had no reason to be either. 

“Why?”

Balin grew uncomfortable. “It is a long, complicated story, my dear.” 

They all fell into an uneasy silence. Clearly no one wanted to broach the subject. My gaze was avoided and feet were shuffled. It was Bifur who approached me, tentative as if I were a cornered animal. His dark eyes soft and his face open. He sat beside me and smiled, speaking in Khuzdul again.

“I—I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I admitted, fearful of offending the softly spoken Dwarf. 

Someone cleared their throat. 

“He said, that we all look different, but we are Dwarves, and you are one of us,” Bofur answered. 

“He’s right." It was Nori who spoke up.

This was met by a cautious chorus of agreement.  

“You all think that?”

“Of course, lass,” Balin assured me. 

Tearful, I thanked them. While they might not be certain of their agreement, I had a feeling they were not the sort to lie so openly about this. My being a HalfBlood had unsettled something deep within them all, even Kíli and Ori, who had watched with wide eyes. If I wasn’t going to discover what the cause of this unease was now, I  hoped that when we knew one another better, they would tell me. 

Their leader cleared his throat. 

“Miss Rosalyn, I would very much like you to accompany us on our journey,” Thorin announced after sharing a look over his shoulder with Dwalin. “However, I understand that this place has become your home, and I would never want to take you from your home. But, I must say that as Dwarves we do feel this need to protect you, even if we are headed toward danger. We will be able to protect you if you come with us. We cannot offer that protection if you stay here.” 

“Will you be wanting me to replace Bilbo as your burglar?”

Thorin’s face softened into a small smile. “No, I will not.” 

For a moment, I hesitated. Should I tell them about my dreams? That I had seen Thorin before in a dream? It felt like I was stood at the edge of a precipice, if I leant one way or the other I would be either saved or doomed. But if I told them, which way would I fall?

“Then yes, I will join you.” 

“I am glad.” 

***

Bilbo had retreated into his bedroom. I knocked and waited for him to call me to enter. 

“Bilbo?”

I opened the door to see he was lay fully dressed on his bed staring into the fire in his small hearth. 

“You’re leaving with them?” He questioned even before I had closed the door behind me. 

I suppose I shouldn’t have been shocked. He knew me as well as I did. 

“Yes.”

He nodded and sat up, sighing heavily, running a hand through his curls. 

“I knew this day would come,” he admitted to the floor, dour. “But I thought it would be many months, even years down the line.” 

Stepping forward, I knelt on the floor beside his bed to look up at his face. When he saw he couldn’t hide his expression from me, he gave me a wan smile. 

“If they can help me, I have to try.”

“Oh, yes, yes, of course you do, my dear,” he assured me, brown hands flapping. “Of course you do. I never meant otherwise, it’s just, well, I’ve rather gotten used to having you around.”

“So you’re not coming too?” I prodded, hoping he would tell me Thorin had it wrong. That he was coming too. And that what he and Gandalf had discussed were merely the terms and conditions of his contract. If I was going with the Dwarves, I didn’t want to leave behind the first friend I ever remember having. 

“No,” he said, deflating any hope I had. “No, I think that adventures of this nature are better suited to Dwarves, not to Hobbits.”

“But I’m not either,” I protested. “Not a full blooded Dwarf nor a Hobbit and yet I’m going.”

He smiled patiently. “Yes, you are. And you’ll be taking a part of me with you.”

“Whatever do you mean?” 

“Here.” Bilbo stood and crossed to his chest of drawers, reaching into the bottom drawer. “I want you to have this.”

He drew out a dagger the length of my forearm. It was encased in a dark leather sheath and attached to a pretty, but sturdy leather belt with a silver buckle. 

“Bilbo! Oh, it’s beautiful!”

He smiled and handed it out to me. “It was my mothers.”

“Oh! I can’t—”

“Yes,” he retorted, taking one of my hands and placing the dagger into my palm. “You can. She would want you to have it. She might have married a Baggins, but at heart she was always a Took.” 

Clutching the dagger to my chest, I could smell the same perfume that had been on the cloak he’d given me. “What does that mean?”

“It means that…it means that she would have been proud to know that her dagger is not collecting dust anymore.” He spun round to face the dresser again, sniffing and wiping at his eyes before he span on his heel and threw up a stern finger in my direction. “And you’re keeping the cloak too!” 

I knew better than to argue with him by now. 

“Thank you, Bilbo.” 

I held the dagger close and sat at the edge of his bed while Bilbo pottered about and fetched a backpack from the bottom of a large wicker basket. 

“It wasn’t even an entire day ago that you weren’t convinced I should go looking for answers,” I reminded him. 

“This is different,” he argued, folding two handkerchiefs and packing them into the bag. “You’ll have company, protection.” 

I watched him find a cream coloured shirt and a pair of soft brown corduroy trousers. I reached out and fingered the materials, wondering when I would need to change into them on the road. I didn’t remember ever wearing trousers before. 

“Bilbo?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think I should have told them? About my dreams?”

He sighed. “I think you did the right thing, my dear. With a delicate situation such as yours, it is natural to be cautious. While they are Dwarves, we do not know why you were abandoned or by who.”

“You think it was because of my dreams, don’t you?” 

I thought it was the most likely of reasons after my mixed heritage. If it was as rare and strange as Bilbo believed, what did other races believe of my dreams? If Thorin had asked what I was when he first saw my ears, what would he say when he found out about my prophetic dreams? His words echoed in my ears for a reason different to my blood. If my dreams were real, and I was seeing the past and future, then what was I? 

Bilbo gave a long sigh, bowing his head towards his chest. In the shadows, he was older than his years and time had not been kind. 

“I think it was a factor, yes.”

I remembered the many weapons the Dwarves had shed for dinner. 

“Should I keep it a secret?” 

“Perhaps,” he considered, lips twisting. “Then again, perhaps they can help. There is no way of knowing without telling them. I’m sorry that I don’t have the answers you need, Rose.”

I nodded, beginning to feel the nerves of my impending departure. This would be my last time here with Bilbo, all the things I knew and understood for an unknown length of time. Tomorrow morning brought with it the dawn of something new, and the unknown, as well as the end of the safety I had been so lucky to find in Hobbition. 

“I understand.” 

"You'd best get some rest. I imagine they'll want to leave early tomorrow." Bilbo patted my hands and rose to pack the selected items into the bag. 

“Yes, they want to depart at dawn. I hadn't thought to pack...thank you."

"You're welcome. How are you feeling?" 

"Excited to be with Dwarves, to learn about a part of my heritage. But I'm also scared of the unknown...of the danger they are so adamant we will be in." 

Bilbo nodded along as I spoke, eyebrows furrowed when I mentioned potential danger. 

"Most of all, I know I will miss you, and Hilda, Asphodel. I’ll be sad to leave Daisy,” I admitted, wondering what she would think of all of this. She would have loved to see the Dwarves arrive, and had taken great pleasure in joining them all for dinner. I had a feeling she’d fit right in when they’d begun throwing food. 

“She’ll be sad to see you go.”

“I should tell her I’m leaving, shouldn't I? At least say goodbye, to leave without a word...she'd never forgive me.”

He nodded, smiling at me, a twinkle in his eye that mirrored the spark I so often saw in Hilda's. “I think it would be for the best. I know she and Hilda would be glad you let them know. It would also save me from their wrath when they discovered you missing.” 

That made up my mind. “Then I’ll go tonight. What time is it?”

“Nearly eleven,” he observed his mantle clock. “Dinodas will still be up, he likes to see the fire down to embers on the warmer nights before bed.”

“I won’t be long, Bilbo,” I said, standing, feeling like spiders or ants were crawling along my bare feet. “Shall I take that key you had cut?”

“No, my dear, don’t worry. I only locked the door because of Gandalf earlier, but never mind now.” 

***

I made my way back to my room, clutching the backpack Bilbo had given me in my arms. As I passed the parlour, I saw the Dwarves sleeping in various places, some more comfortable than others. Snores shook the floorboards, and I couldn’t help but smile. When I turned to go, the hair at the back of my neck stood up. I was being watched. 

Looking back into the shadows cast by the dying fire, I couldn’t see the gleam of any eyes, but the feeling did not go away. It wasn’t an uneasy feeling. In fact, it was pleasant. Warm, and stirring a sensation in the depths of my belly. Some small part of me hoped my phantom observer was a certain fair haired Dwarf, but sense told me I was imagining things. 

***

Knocking on Hilda’s front door, I cast glances all around, wary of her neighbours. What would the gossips think of my visiting in the middle of the night? Dinodas answered in his dressing gown, eyes creased as he took me in. 

“Rosalyn?” He asked, looking around for Bilbo behind me. “Whatever are you doing out so late? Is something wrong?” 

“No, no, nothings wrong, I just—I have some news.”

“Come in, come in,” he ushered. “I’ll fetch Hilda, she’s doing some mending.”

The house was quiet, dark and cool. A shadow of how it was in the daylight. How long would be it before I saw this house again? If ever? No, I had to return. No doubt dragged back by the little Hobbit who I knew slept down the hallway. Bilbo had pressed upon me the fact that I could call Bag End my home now. Had insisted upon the fact until I had agreed. 

"You have a home to come back to," he had whispered as he embraced me. "The door will be open, and you know that tea is at four, don't you?"

I'd nodded, tearful and trying to bite back sobs. 

"Good." When we pulled apart from each other, Bilbo too had been blinking through tears. "Now, go say goodbye to them so you can get as much sleep as possible. I've a feeling you'll need it." 

When Hilda came from a room down the corridor, she was as worried as her husband. 

“Rosalyn? What is it?” She demanded, her eyes were darting over my body, looking for wounds no doubt.

“I’m sorry for calling so late. Everything’s fine, I promise. It’s all a bit, odd, in truth,” I admitted, unable to keep my hands from fidgeting. “Bilbo and I were visited by Dwarves tonight.”

“Dwarves?” The word was an empty echo, full of confusion. 

I nodded. 

“Do they know you?” Dinodas questioned, moving to seat us all at the kitchen table. “Is it your family?”

“No, and no, unfortunately,” I confessed, pausing to chew on my lip. Why was this so painful? “But they have offered to help me find my family. They are leaving tomorrow morning and I’ll be leaving with them.”

They both stared at me, mouths agape and unblinking. 

“Leaving?” Dinodas finally repeated. “Tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“So soon?”

“I’m afraid so. They’ve offered their help to find my family, and I can’t refuse.” My explanation felt flat when I saw their faces fall. “I don’t know when I’ll meet Dwarves again here in Hobbiton.”

They were both quiet for a moment. 

“I understand,” Hilda said at last. I had a feeling she was hiding how she truly felt, but, like her daughter, I found her hard to read. “It’s a shock, is all.” 

Dinodas nodded, reaching over to take Hilda’s hands in his own. “But we’re happy you’ve found a way to look for your family.”

Hilda smiled and I saw tears welling up in her eyes.

“Just remember to come back and visit, eh?” Dinodas asked, smiling crookedly. 

Tears muddied my sight and I tried to sniff them back but a hot droplet fell down my cheek. How many times would I cry tonight? 

“I promise. Will you tell Daisy for me? We’ll be leaving very early and I wouldn’t want to wake her up to say goodbye. She'd only insist on coming with me.” 

The realisation of how Daisy would react stung like gripping onto a nettle with my bare hand. 

“We will," Hilda assured me. "But you’ll have to come back, because if not she’s liable to track you down.”

“I wouldn’t put it past her,” I tried to laugh but the sound was strangled. “I will come back, this is the only home I know.” 

Hilda stood and embraced me, pulling me to her with a fierceness that took the breath from my lungs. She smelt of soap and lavender water. She smelt of comfort. 

“We’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too.” 

***

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

***

Rosalyn

After Balin had settled the matter of the ponies, there came an audible relief from the rest of the Dwarves. Another pony would be ready to join us in the morning. As it turned out, they had journeyed to Hobbiton separately. Hence their staggered arrival times to Bag End. They hadn’t known what awaited them in Bree, each assumed someone else had made preparations. This struck me as very Hobbit-like, though I didn’t point it out. Luckily, Thorin and Balin had sent messages ahead to procure the animals and provisions. 

Though, there was a short discussion about buying more ponies for load carrying. The issue raised was that the animals would tire quicker if they carried larger loads. The opposing argument to this was whether or not the company could afford to purchase more ponies. Thorin sent us off to buy provisions in town before I heard the decision. Although, the overwhelming feeling was that the company could not afford to purchase more ponies. 

Thorin and Balin stayed behind to arrange a few rooms for the night, urging the rest of us out into the streets. Gandalf and Thorin decided we should rest for the night and begin early the next morning. Their choice was met with very little resistance. In fact, many of the Dwarves were relieved to spend another night beneath a roof, rather than ‘roughing it,’ as Bofur explained to me. 

Meanwhile, Gandalf left without a sound. Off to do whatever it was Wizards do in a town, I imagined. 

Bilbo and I led the way into town, arm in arm, enjoying the sights and smells while he showed the Dwarves several shops. Ori perked up at the sight of a book binders and scuttled over with Dori fussing behind him. 

“Before we do anything, we need to buy you some shoes, lass,” Nori said, eyeing my dusty feet, to the agreement of the rest. 

“There’s a cobblers shop on the main road that should suit our goal,” Bilbo informed us all. 

Wide-eyed, I watched as a group of ladies strolled down the street, all towering above us. The rest of Bilbo’s instructions lost as I listened to their chatter. Their voices were pleasant, and as I listened I learned they were discussing the butcher’s son and his talent for wood carving. Not unlike the topics of conversation I’d heard in Hobbiton. The world of Men was turning out to be not so far from the world I already knew. 

Bilbo tapped my arm. 

“What was that, Bilbo?” 

He laughed at me, not seeming surprised to find I had not been listening to him. 

“Follow me,” he chuckled with a teasing, crooked finger. “You don’t want to get lost here.”

I took his words to heart and moved to his side, grabbing hold of his wrist as a large cart came towards us. A Man steered it, but the giant wheels wobbled and it looked only a moment away from running out of his control. A tug on my elbow brought my attention back to where I was walking. Bilbo’s lips were thin and his gaze tender when I looked at him, sheepish. 

“A tour,” he announced with a wry grin, much to my embarrassment. “Before we lose you to your wandering eyes, Rose.” 

The remaining Dwarves chuckled and grouped into a huddle around us. I wasn’t sure it was that funny, but they seemed to think so. 

“If it’s good enough for Rosie, it’s good enough for us!” Kíli exclaimed. 

Bilbo ignored their chortling, pointing out various shopfronts as we passed them. He also ignored our company as they began hemming and hawing at everything around us. I wondered if they would be this way the entire way to Erebor. I hoped not. Judging by the tense set of Bilbo’s jaw, he wouldn’t survive much more of their interruptions. 

“The drapery, the bakery, a very fine apothecary,” he listed as we walked. 

Bombur took particular interest in the bakery, sniffing the air and licking his lips. He muttered something about inspecting the wares before trotting away, following his nose. Bofur laughed at his brother and called out the he shouldn’t spend all of his money on bread. 

To which Bombur replied: “I won’t. They’ve got pastries too!” 

He vanished into the clutches of the shop, his hair bright and at the waist of the dun haired Men and Women waiting in line. 

We carried on until Bilbo brought us to a halt. 

“Here we are, the cobblers.”

The shop front had buckled under the weight of the above floors, creasing with furrows not unlike Gandalf’s wisened brow. Beneath the bowed timber fronting, diamond patterned glass windows glinted in the sun. 

***

Our expedition into the shop took far longer than I had imagined it would. 

First, the Dwarves argued over what sort of shoe would suit me best for our travels. It had been a toss up between a sturdy boot and shoes that would allow my ankle to move with more dexterity. According to them, our path would be over many different terrains, flat, rocky, wet. Then, they grew concerned over the material the cobbler offered them to examine. Finally, after shooing most of the Dwarves outside to wait, Bilbo found a pair of brown leather boots intended for a child. 

The cobbler, a man of advancing years with brown teeth from smoking and a chesty cough to match, explained he could mould the boots for my feet in a few hours. When Dwalin had produced a pouch of coins, the cobbler had taken the boots and begun the work immediately. 

Now, I wiggled my toes, which were once more free of the boots, and bit my lip. 

“I’m sorry, Bilbo,” I apologised for the third time. “They feel strange, I can’t explain it any better than that.” 

I had put the boots on and Dwalin had taken it upon himself to check they fit me. Using a gentleness belaying his stature, he pressed the toes to find where my own rested. Watched me walk in the shoes the length and breadth of the shop with a thoughtful eye. With each step, I knew the shoes would fit my needs, but they had felt wrong. Confining, restricting, an alien texture on my soles and around my ankle. Even with the added barrier of the socks Bofur had produced from his pocket —“Just in case,” he’d quipped when I had asked why he’d had them to hand — the shoes had not endeared themselves to me. I had taken them off as soon as we had exited the shop. 

“You have the feet of a Dwarf and yet you prefer to run about shoeless like a Hobbit.” Bilbo shook his head, a fond smile on his face. “Why did I expect anything less?”

“I am sorry, Bilbo, truly. Thank you, I will wear them at some point, I promise.”

He waved a hand, brushing away my words. 

“Don’t be sorry, dear,” he assured me. “Think of them as an investment. But you will have to wear them for the time being. It might be best to get used to them now, in town.” 

Sighing, I tugged them back on and laced them up, ignoring the strange texture. 

“I suppose I’m not going to be able to walk the entire way barefoot.” 

Despite muttering to myself, head bowed, Kíli sniggered. 

***

When we left the cobblers, Kíli announced he was in need of a seamstress. He told all who could hear, or would listen, that there was a rip in his trousers in need of mending. I offered to mend it for him, but he waved me off. 

“I’m sure there’ll be plenty of stitching in need of doing on the trip if you want to mend trousers,” he said. “And besides, we need to get more needles.”

“What happened to the last ones?”

“Dwalin tried mending his jacket,” he chuckled. “But he ended up blunting the needles on his hands!” 

Dwalin grunted, but didn’t contradict him. Several of the others began teasing him, all in good humour. 

“Well, in that case, you’ll need to visit the drapery. Back down the street.” Bilbo took the lead again. “I’ve only been to Bree once over the last year, but not a lot has changed.” 

“I thought you’d only got as far as Frogmorton?” Bofur joked. 

“On a walking holiday,” Bilbo corrected him. “I take the ferry to Bree, like we did.” 

We all parted ways at the door of the drapery, items taking their individual attention almost at once. Bofur immediately began bartering over the price of a length of mustard yellow cloth. For what reason, I could not hear, but he was very insistent on having it for a much lower price than advertised. 

I made my own way around the shop, taking in the fabrics and items of clothing for sale at my leisure. A bright flash of colour caught my attention as I reached the far corner. There was a coat hanging off to the side. It was the colour of cranberries, rich and bright. Little golden brass buttons down the front and pale brown fur trim about the neck and wrists. It was beautiful. 

It wasn’t until I was beside it did I realise the garment was intended for a Hobbit. Short, and for the full form of female maturity, it matched my height and figure. Almost in a trance, my fingertips found the fur at the collar. It was softer than I imagined. Yet, there was a burrowing guilt in the pit of my stomach. Bilbo had given me his own mother’s cloak, which was practical and lovely in its own right, even if it wasn’t as thick as the coat. Yet here I was, pining for a luxurious coat I couldn’t even pay for. 

The shop owner noticed my preoccupation and come forward, smiling. 

“Can I help you, miss?” He asked. 

I shook my head, not wanting to tell him I hadn’t any money to purchase anything in his shop. Let alone what was no doubt one of the more expensive items. 

“No, thank you. I was looking around and the coat caught my eye.”

“Very good,” he smiled still. “If you need assistance, don’t hesitate to come and find me.” 

“Of course, thank you.” 

He left, still grinning. 

I turned, sighing, back to the coat. It had a hood, lined with fur so soft and dense it felt as if my fingers were buried in a cloud. 

“You have good taste,” Fíli complimented. 

I gave a start and yanked my hand from the hood, feeling like a child caught touching something she ought not to be. 

Blushing, I tried to retain some dignity. “Thank you.”

But Fíli didn’t seem to notice, he was too busy looking at the coat. 

“Aren’t you going to buy it?” He asked. “You’ll need all the layers you can get on the trip.” 

I shook my head, again feeling shame for longing for something I could not buy. 

“Why not?”

“I haven’t any money,” I whispered, shamefaced.  

Fíli observed the coat for a moment, before taking a sleeve in hand. He hummed to himself as he observed the garment. 

“The wool is closely woven, and the fur is rabbit so will hold heat well. It’s a decent length.” 

He paused before: “here.” He pulled the coat from its hanger and held it out to me, open. I stared at him, mouth agape.

He smiled, a crooked thing that lifted one of his moustache braids higher than the other. I could see the similarity between him and Kíli far clearer now. 

“Try it on, please?”

“But why? I cannot purchase it, so what is the sense in trying it on?”

He continued to smile. “For me?” He teased. 

Sighing, I did as asked and stepped into the coat. How he managed to look so earnest with such a lopsided grin was beyond me. I had a feeling Fíli used his smile to get his way often, and knew full well the effect it had. 

Fíli wrapped it around me, even buttoning it closed. The words to protest were on the end of my tongue, but when I felt the warmth of the coat I couldn’t remember them. The entire coat was fur lined and I could feel its plushness through my clothing. Closing my eyes, I savoured the feeling, knowing it wouldn’t last long. The fit was almost perfect, but a little big around my upper arms, middle and chest. I wondered if I would grow anymore as I aged. Surely then, I’d fill the coat out better? It seemed a shame to not fit a coat as perfect as this. Nimble fingers pulled the hood over my head and I turned my face to rub my cheek in the fur. 

Fíli chuckled in front of me and I blinked up at him, having forgot his presence.

He’d finished buttoning me up and was now standing very close. One of his hands came up to my face. Instead of brushing my cheek, as I thought he intended, his hand dipped into the hood and brought my hair forward. He smoothed it down around my neck before repeating the same action on the other side. In doing so, I could feel less of the cool air of the shop against my neck. The memory of getting tucked into bed lit up in the back of my mind, a half forgotten thing. 

He was tucking me into the coat. 

I couldn’t control the heat that flushed my face and I dipped my head down to feel the soft fur against my lips. 

“What do you think?” He asked once he finished, voice low and soft. 

Shy, I spared a glance up and saw those blue eyes of his were half lidded and sleepy looking. I felt warmth in the pit of my stomach. 

“I love it,” I admitted. 

“Good. Does it fit all right?”

I wriggled my hands and felt the fur at my wrists. Looking down, I noticed the hem reached to the bottom of my knees, an inch or two above the hem of my dress. 

“It does.” 

“Good,” he said again before beckoning me to follow him. 

I knew I should take the coat off beforehand, but I was enjoying the luxury far too much. So followed him while brushing the cuffs with my fingertips. Reasoning that I could wear it while he looked around the shop for his own purchases. As we walked I looked around for the rest of our company and saw we were the only ones left in the shop. They must have moved on. 

Then, instead of going to ponder the other wares on offer, Fíli led me to the seller I’d spoken with earlier. He grinned when he saw me wearing the coat. 

“Change your mind, did you lass?” He asked. 

Fíli stepped forward. “How much are you asking for the coat?”

“Twenty-five silver pieces.” 

Fíli nodded as his eyes cast over the selection of scarves, gloves, mittens and woollen hats next to the seller. He reached forward and picked up a pair of brown mittens, a red stocking cap and an evergreen scarf. 

With patience, he wound the scarf around my neck, tucked the cap over my head before replacing the hood, and even put the mittens on my hands. All while ignoring my weak protests. The mittens were half gloves, the fingers cut to expose the tops of my fingers. With a folded pouch attached to the back of the hand and Fíli unhooked these to pull over my fingers. I had to marvel at the dexterity of his large hands. How he unbuttoned the fastening, and how reverently he handled my own hands as he did so. 

I watched his movements, letting my eyes linger on the freckles on the backs of his hands. The small white and pink scars on his fingers. Did he get them fighting? Or through harmless means? One of his fingernails that had a crease to it, like something heavy had fallen on it a while ago. I wondered if it hurt him. 

When he was done he turned back to the seller, who was watching us with a softness to his face not there before. 

“Thirty silver pieces for the lot,” Fíli offered. 

The seller nodded without pause. “You have yourself a deal, my boy.” 

“But, Fíli,” I began to protest. 

He chuckled, freezing any retort I had. His tone was deep with an emotion I couldn’t name as he said, “Let me spoil you, Rose.”

My gasp of surprise at the use of Bilbo’s nickname was muffled by the thick scarf, but I was sure he’d heard me when he winked. 

The seller chuckled. 

“Aye, I’d let your love take care of you lass. He’s a good’un, treats you right. It warms my heart to see a young couple like you, it does.”

I went to contradict him as he counted the coins Fíli had passed over, but a hand on my forearm stopped me. Fíli caught my eye and shook his head, tucking my hand into the crook of his elbow like Bilbo did. Though the way Fíli stepped closer to me, and placed his own hand atop mine was unlike Bilbo in every way. At the same time, it felt familiar, and strange to have him so close to me. 

There was someone else in the shop with us, a Man to Fíli’s left who had stopped walking with a jolt. I hadn’t realised he was watching us until Fíli used his body to tilt us away from him. The movement rocked me into Fíli until I was tucked more into the curve of his shoulder and chest. For a moment his motivation baffled me. The fluttering in my gut tricked me to thinking he was feeling the same lightheadedness as I was. Then, I saw the Man. He was moving closer, and his eyes were boring straight into Fíli’s skull. Taking Fíli’s lead, I lent into him, allowing my cheek to brush against his shoulder. I kept my head dipped low but my eyes remained watching the Man. 

He was very tall, with large shoulders rolling over a gaunt, sunken in chest. His clothes lead me to believe he had little money, but the pretty, yellow, and clearly expensive shawl in his hands belayed this. He was waiting to be served, but his eyes were fixed upon Fíli and myself. 

“Thirty coins,” the seller announced, cheerful. “Thank you lad, miss. Anything else for you today?”

Fíli was already moving us away from the silent figure beside us. 

“No, that’s everything we need. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, do come again.”

Fíli nodded and I spared the seller a quick thank you before he led us out the door. The Man behind us stepped up to the counter, but his face turned to watch us. 

Fíli, still holding my hand on his arm, set a leisurely pace back towards The Prancing Pony. I realised that the others had left the shop long before us, and were now nowhere to be seen. There was this stillness between us that I was loath to break, because I knew he was silent for a reason. It was only when we turned onto the main street that he finally spoke. 

“I apologise for taking liberties in the shop, Rosalyn,” Fíli began to explain. He kept his voice low and our pace slow enough that we appeared to be browsing the shop fronts around us. “But it would be best if no one knew you were a Dam here without a familial escort.” 

“What do you mean?” I looked around, feeling my skin prickle. Were we in danger? “I don’t understand what happened back there, is something wrong?” 

“Nothing is wrong,” he assured me, patting my mittened hand while avoiding my gaze. “If you had been in any danger, I would not have waited to get you out of there.”

Though the sentiment was reassuring, his reluctance to meet my eyes or answer me directly was not. 

“Then what is it? Something has you on edge.”

Now outside, the sun beat down on us with unflinching warmth. It might not be the height of summer, but the bite of winter had yet to come into the wind. I took off the mittens, stuffing them into the coat pockets.  

“Did you notice the Man?” 

“Yes, he was watching us.”

I knocked the hood of the coat away, reaching for the hat. 

“No,” Fíli grumbled, eyes darkening and face tightening. “He was watching you.”

His words stopped my hand. “He was?” 

“Yes.”

I swallowed. “Oh.” It took me a moment to gather my frantic, feathered thoughts. “W—why?”

Fíli led me down a side alley and then around in a circle until we came out, once again, onto the main lane.

“I do not know for sure,” he answered. 

I eyed him. “But you have a theory?”

He nodded. 

“What is it?” I asked, impatient.

“I don’t wish to upset you—” he began, leading us to the far side of the street as he cast a look back over his shoulder. 

“Too late, now spit it out,” I ordered. Feeling for the first time, the frustration that was, as Hilda told me, characteristic of a Hobbit. 

Fíli huffed out an amused snort. I wondered if I sounded like Bilbo at all, but Fíli didn’t comment on my tone. He was too focused leading me through a merry maze of streets and alleys. To the plainest of eyes it was easy to see he trying to lose someone behind us. When I turned to look I could not see anyone who stood out to me as watching us. The fur lined boot and coat were beginning to make my upper lip damp. 

“Very well,” he acquiesced, glancing at me as I surveyed the street. “I believe he correctly identified you as a Dam.” 

I didn’t understand the point he was trying to make. 

“And?” I questioned. “Fíli, I don’t understand what the matter is with people seeing me as I am. I understand, being a HalfBlood is not—”

“It’s nothing to do with that Rose, trust me.” He heaved a great sigh. “You don’t remember what it is to be a Dam in this day and age.”

“Well, then, tell me.” 

He grinned, a fledging thing that started from the pursed rose of his lips and blossomed to curl the corners. My challenge amused him. 

“Your wish is my command,” he joked, more like the Dwarf who had danced with me in Bag End. “You know, you might have been royalty yourself, you certainly order people around like a royal.”

I knew he was joking but something about that sentence irked me. 

“No, I get frustrated when information is being withheld from me that I should know. Particularly when smart-aleck Dwarves try to drip feed me said information.”

His grin transformed into a smile. 

“Very well,” he acquiesced. “It is an archaic and outdated viewpoint, one which many still hold. One I do not agree with, that it is unsuitable for an unmarried Dwarrowdam to be out in public.”  

I frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“There is the belief,” he began, before halting and taking a deep breath. “I never thought I’d be explaining this to anyone,” he chuckled to himself, humourlessly. “A belief backed by years of hardship, that an unmarried Dwarrowdam should be chaperoned.” 

“What? Why?” 

“Without a chaperone, they are vulnerable. Many were once tricked by folk with evil intentions. Many clans now bar their Dams from leaving the safety of their homes, their villages. The few who travel, do so disguised as male Dwarves.”

“They aren’t allowed to leave their homes?” I asked, my voice very thin.

“I wouldn’t say exactly that, but…no, for some of the Dams they do stay with their clan most of the time. Though, I know of a few clans who deem it too risky to allow their Dams outside.”

I shivered. 

Allow.

Bilbo had taught me all he knew of Dwarven culture and history. I knew that many clans lived underground, preferring to be nearer to stone and gems than to grass and wind. 

“What is it?” He asked. 

“I could never remained trapped like that,” I admitted, unable to stop my mind’s eye from conjuring such a scenario. “I would sooner die.” 

Fíli turned to face me head on, stopping us in our tracks. 

“What? Rose, you don’t mean that.”

“I do,” I was fierce, staring at him, daring him to defy me. If this journey was going to be full of rules and restrictions because of my sex, then I was going to set them all right. Starting with him. “If anyone ever contained me like that, never allowing me to see the sun again I would already be dead.” 

I had spent what I could remember of my life outside, gardening with Hamfast and Bilbo, running after Daisy through the hills, and savouring the mellow sunsets and rises that painted green grass purple and blue. How could I ever be expected to turn away from such beauty? 

His face was grave, skin ashen beneath his golden beard. I knew he was fighting the instinct to protect me as a Dam, and no doubt years of ingrained teachings. And now, I was demanding for him to put those aside and see me as separate to what he knew. I had to make him see that a life such as that was imprisonment for me. 

“Well, then,” he finally spoke, voice quiet as his eyes held mine. “I will have to do everything in my power to make sure that never happens.” 

I wanted to move on from this topic of conversation, so I tugged on his arm to get us moving again. Fíli followed my lead, but there was an air of solemness around us now. 

I thought back to Dwalin’s comment. 

“Do Dwarrowdams get married very young? Is that why lone ones are rare?”

He hesitated long enough for me to already know the answer. 

“It depends on the family. For my mother, she was allowed to wait until she met my father. My uncle was pressured to look for a match from the age of sixty.”

There it was again. Allow. The word echoed in my ears. She had been allowed to marry. Someone had allowed her to be happy. 

“Turning sixty seems to be a landmark age for Dwarrow,” I instead commented, feeling as if I were balancing between a world I knew and a world that knew me. “Is it the same no matter your gender?” 

Fíli nodded. “Yes, in fact, Dwarrowdams mature far faster than Dwarrrow. Unfortunately, now there are far too few Dwarrowdams in the world. Partnerships are few and far between, marriages even less so. I was twenty-seven when I last attended a wedding.”

I wondered how old he was now. 

“So, what does this have to do with me?”

He sighed again. “Once we have reclaimed Erebor and you have become known to the Dwarven world, there are seven clans who will try to claim you as their own.”

“Claim me?” The words felt heavy on my tongue. “You said before that they would be honoured to have me as a part of the clan.”  

He nodded. “I did. It would be a great honour to have a Dam as beautiful as you as part of their clan. We might be a race of the earth, but we have a fondness for beauty."

My tongue felt thick in my mouth. His flattery fell empty when I realised what he was saying. I would be a pretty gem for Dwarves to decorate their clan with. 

“If you don’t remember your past, your family, or,” he hesitated. “If your family are gone there will be a fight for you to return to your birth clan.” 

I swallowed, uncomfortable at the thought of being so alone in the world. 

“But, if I must be with Dwarves, can I not stay with you?”

Fíli startled at my words, pulling up to an abrupt stop in the middle of the cobbled street. 

“You—you would want to stay with us?”

I shrugged, embarrassed under his wide-eyed stare. 

“Yes, I might not have known you all for very long, but you are now, aside from Bilbo, the only family I have ever known. If no one would…claim me, as you say, then why can’t I claim you?” 

His cheeks were growing rosey beneath his beard, his eyes wide and unblinking. I had a feeling I was stepping over the line of Dwarven propriety. 

“I mean—” 

My apology was cut off by the approaching group of Dwarves, and Bilbo, their arms full of purchases. Bilbo, however, carried nothing. 

“Well, don’t you look a sight?” Nori whistled when he came to a stop in front of us. “All dressed up for us? You shouldn’t have.” 

“What did you do, lad?” Glóin questioned, both chuckling and sounding stern. “Buy her the entire shop?” 

Fíli had shaken from his stupor. “No Glóin, just what she needed.” 

“You look really pretty, Rosie,” Kíli complimented, grinning. 

“Thank you, Kíli.” 

He cocked his head to the side. “Aren’t you warm?”

“A little,” I admitted, reaching to take off the stocking cap.

Fíli stopped me, earning curious looks from the others. 

“Fíli?” I tried to catch his attention, but his eyes stayed fixed down the lane as he lowered our arms and put my hand in the crook of his elbow again. 

At the end of the street, a dark shape disappeared behind a house. 

Dwalin stepped forward. “Everything all right, lad?” 

Fíli nodded, eyes trained to where the shape had vanished. He lowered his voice to answer Dwalin, though no one passed us who could overhear. 

“A Man watched us in the drapery, he recognised Rose for what she is.”

Dwalin became a watchman, surveying our surroundings. He moved so his back was facing me. Kíli came up beside us and stood by my side. He seemed taller. He too watched the area around us like a hawk. Unlike the others, his vision scoured the rooftops and windows above us. Bofur, ever the comedian, had lost his jolly smile. He frowned, the line of his eyebrows harsh beneath the brow of his hat. 

“It might be best if we get you indoors, lass.” 

Glóin stepped up beside Dwalin, his hands clenching, knuckles popping. “I agree.” 

They herded me along the street, forming a circle around me. Even Bilbo took part and placed himself at my back. We walked to The Prancing Pony as one, and I was sure we earned curious looks, but no one approached or stopped us. 

“Is this really necessary?” I asked. “I doubt it’s all as serious as you’re fearing.” 

“We have to keep you safe, Rosie,” Kíli answered, ignoring my doubts. 

I wondered how long their protectiveness would last once we were on our way to Erebor. Surely they couldn’t keep this up the entire way? 

***

Thorin met us inside at the bar, where he was sat with Balin. They both frowned and rose to their feet when they saw the protective bubble. Dori, Ori and Bombur had joined their ranks on our way back to the pub. The wall of Dwarf had garnered stares on our trip back, which I thought would have been the opposite of their intent. But I didn’t want to mention it. 

“What’s wrong?” Thorin questioned as soon as we were close enough.

“Someone watched Fíli and Rosalyn in the drapery,” Dwalin supplied, keeping his voice low as he watched the patrons around us. 

Bilbo and I were moved towards the bench set against the back wall. I took a seat, grateful to rest my feet and at last shed the layers of winter wear. Balin watched me with quirked lips, and even asked whether Ori had been knitting for me. I chuckled, but was cut off from answering by Thorin. 

“Who?”

I looked up to see Fíli watching those sat at the bar. He hadn’t relaxed with our change of location, and his unease was reflected in the others faces. The tense set of his eyes made me hesitate when reaching up to take off the cap. Yet, I reasoned that by taking the distinctive coat off, I had already made myself noticeable. 

“A Man,” Fíli reported, eyes elsewhere. “Dark hair, gaunt, wide shoulders, and he limped on his left leg.” 

They all turned to watch those about us. Even Bilbo craned his neck to see into the crowd from his seat at the end of the bench next to Balin. Gandalf was still missing, I assumed he was either in town or his room. 

“I can’t see him” Fíli at last admitted. “I’m hoping we lost him in the town.” 

Thorin moved and gestured that the rest all take a seat at the table. 

“We will keep watch while we’re here,” he reassured them. 

Everyone sat, but were still on edge. Packages and parcels placed either at their feet or onto the table. 

“We all have rooms for the night,” Balin informed us all. “We’ll get something to eat now, and then we can rest. Early start tomorrow.”

After a while, the tense silence eased into quiet chatter, and then loud conversation as our food arrived. Beef and ale stew, hearty and filling, served with thick, crusty loaves of brown bread, and many mugs of frothy ale. I sipped some ale from Bilbo’s mug, but didn’t like the bitter tang to it. Balin flagged down a barmaid and she came back with a honeyed mead which was more to my taste. Conversation soon flowed with ease, the incident in town forgot for now, and eventually I found myself nodding off in the cosy warmth of the room. 

Standing, I bundled my new clothing into my arms. 

“I’m going to retire for the night, good night everyone.”

Fíli jumped to his feet at my announcement, his half drunk mug abandoned. 

“I’ll walk you to your room.” 

“That won’t be necessary,” I said, watching as Kíli reached over and pilfered his brother’s mug, drinking from it in long gulps. 

His brother didn’t notice, instead bowing at the waist shallowly and smiling. “I insist.”

“Rose,” Bilbo called to me over the clamour of the pub. His cheeks were rosy from the ale. “Let the lad, dear. We can’t be too careful.”

Worn out from the day’s excitement and worn down by the tension my phantom tracker had caused, I nodded. 

“Very well.” 

Fíli stepped to my side and held his arm out for me to take, a wicked grin on his lips. It seemed the ale had done more than make Bilbo’s eyes droop with sleep. 

“My lady,” Fíli invited, winking. 

His teasing tickled my lips to smile, but I pursed them, not wanting to encourage such behaviour. Well, at least too often. It felt nice, good even, to be the one his gaze focused on. Even though the pub was full of ladies of all shapes and sizes, and some of the others had adopted wandering eyes, Fíli did not. Cheerful hoots and whoops came from our group, goodnatured ribbing and teasing as I took his arm. 

Kíli belched, mug drained and placed back where he’d taken it from. “Enjoy him while he’s polite, Rosie! It doesn’t last long!” 

“Goodnight everyone,” I bade them again, fighting a flush. 

They chorused back the same, some louder than others. 

Fíli walked beside me up the creaking stairs and to the room numbered seven in silence. It was in the middle of a corridor of rooms likewise set up for smaller folk. The others had the rest of the rooms, but I was the only one not sharing. When Balin had told me at dinner, I’d asked why and received a brief explanation about upholding proper sleeping arrangements for as long as possible. I suppose what with the impending necessity of camping outside with only sleeping bags for protection, propriety was going to be long forgotten in a weeks time. 

“Thank you, Fíli.” I let go of his arm and brushed the fur of the coat, not wanting to part from his company just yet. 

He remained close. Close enough that I could smell the ale on his breath. I found it wasn’t as bitter to smell as it was to taste, and wondered if its potency would be likewise dulled if I were to sample it from his lips. 

His head bent forward. “What for?” 

The lure of his lips beckoned to me, their song laden with damp promise. Was he thinking the same as me? Did I distract him as much as he did me? 

“The coat, I know it wasn’t cheap and I will pay you back as soon as I have the money to do so.” 

Had his warmth always been this heady? After the crush of bodies downstairs, the hallway felt cold, and his heat was a hearty hearth in this barren chill. 

“Rose,” he sighed, but seemed amused. He shook his head, and I managed to tare my gaze from his lips to see his eyes dart down to the floor before they met mine. “I did not buy you this coat with the aim of being repaid. I bought it because you needed it, and because it makes you happy.”

“But—” I tried to argue but he wouldn’t hear it. He shook his head and backed up away from me, a teasing grin on his lips. 

“You do not need to pay me back.” 

“But I want to,” I insisted, unable to stop my feet from stepping after him.  

His shrug and quiet chuckle stopped me. Was he laughing at me? Maker, why was I pursuing him so? I must look a sight, staring at his mouth and then unable to resist following in his wake. How else could I embarrass myself in front of him? 

The gentle call of my name brought my eyes to his once again. 

“You can pay me back by wearing it as much as you can.” 

“That hardly pays you back the thirty coins you paid,” I argued, not liking the way his easy generosity made me feel. 

“It will,” he assured me with another wink before turning on his heel. “Trust me,” he threw over his shoulder as he walked down the hallway. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

***

Rosalyn

The next morning, conversations were sparse and strained. The company moved around, breaking fast and gathering belongings with sour faces. Even Gandalf, who had kept back from the argument the night before, walked with drooped shoulders and a deep frown on his brow. 

Ori, more than most, seemed effected by the sombre atmosphere, so I shared my secret peppermint stash and he cheered up considerably. We both ignored Dori’s scathing comment on how the sweets would rot our teeth, proceeding to pop our second mints into our mouths with relish, much to the amusement of Nori. Our antics brought some smiles to faces, and a wicked gleam to Kíli’s eye when we neglected to admit that after three sweets each that we both felt sick. It was swiftly agreed that the rest should be saved for later. Kíli meanwhile, took one mint as bribery to not tell anyone, and cackled to himself when he went back to his pony. 

After that, I wrapped the bag with some twine Bombur had given me to ensure the bag wouldn’t open and the sweets spill out. 

“Thank you,” I told him. 

“You’re welcome, lass,” he mumbled, cheerful. I think he was the only one who wore happy ruddy cheeks this morning. “My own bairns have secret stashes for sweeties. Perfect for times like these.”

He cast a glance back to Dori who was trying to scold Ori for taking the treats in the first place. 

“I’ll tell you about their pockets sometime,” Bombur continued in a hushed tone. “Me misses don’t even know ‘bout the secret pockets, sewed them m’self.” 

He looked so proud of this fact, and such a light, pure secret had my lips lifting into a grin. Imagining this adorable Dwarf conspiring with his children to keep sweets secret from their mother, was such an innocent scene that it made my heart hurt. I wanted to ask him how old his children were, but Bofur called for his brother from the other side of the camp. 

“Till later, lass,’’ he bid before trotting off, his circular beard swinging with his steps. 

Ori appeared back at my side and mutinously muttered that Dori could do without being proved right all the time. As Ori told it, such mentions of jokes, rebellion and gluttony indulged to the point of regretfulness, only led to an inflated ego and his eldest brother strutting around as if he were Mahal’s gift to Dwarves for the ensuring few days. While I watched his brother mount his pony, I saw Dwalin roll his eyes and sigh. It looked like others shared Ori’s thoughts. 

But, despite our queasiness, Ori mentioned that he was intrigued by the mysterious appearance of the bags, and he conspired with me while we readied our ponies as to who the culprit may be. 

It was a welcome distraction from the morbid thoughts that had intruded upon my sleep the night before. 

“You’re certain the bags were not in your pockets when you first put the coat on that morning?” He asked, having already ascertained that the bags may have magically appeared from nowhere. Although I’d not counted that as a possibility, Ori thought it was a reasonable option to consider. He was quick to point out Gandalf’s apple, and his swift and accurate reasoning brought my attempts of refutal to an end. 

“I’m certain,” I replied, having already had this conversation with myself umpteen times in my head. 

Ori nodded, in a manner rather like his brothers with long downward tilts of his chin, while his eyes narrowed in deep thought. Sometimes I caught myself watching the company, as I was watching Ori now. Their mannerisms and traits were all at once amusing and puzzling. Alike Hobbits in numerous ways, it was the cultural and familial quirks which caught my eye and interest. Like how Ori and his brothers nodded the same way. Did I nod like someone I once knew? 

“So,” he mused, weighing his words with the care of someone far older. “Someone must have placed them there between you leaving your room and entering the yard, or we would have all seen them do it.” 

He paused, pondering with a frown that was too large for his face. 

Beside me, Bilbo muttered to himself under his breath as he secured his saddle. His words sounded dark and bitter, but I couldn’t catch them. He had been out of sorts since the argument last night, and was making a conscious effort to avoid the eyes of anyone else. Even me. 

It was deeply troubling and a pain twisted in my gut when I thought of him deciding he no longer wished to be a part of the company. He could very well leave us all. I doubted that Thorin would hold him to his contract, what with the fierce disquiet about the leader. I hoped Bilbo wasn’t thinking of going back to Hobbiton. Even if I wanted to join him, wanted to throw everything away, bolt on Berry a fast as she could carry me to see Daisy's face myself, deep down I knew doing so would cut my ties to the company. I doubted some of the others were that attached to me to ignore my abandonment of them. But, I also wanted to stay and learn about my people. To turn my back on them and leave with a Hobbit? It was doubtful Thorin would overlook such a betrayal. 

“Bilbo?” I called softly, worried he would startle. 

He did, jolting so abruptly I heard his teeth clack together. It took him a moment to gather himself, but he did, to my surprise, turn to me. 

“Yes, Rose?”

I noticed that when he was stressed or concerned, he often favoured to call me by this nickname. I did not mind, in fact, I rather enjoyed it. The familiarity warmed the space in the middle of my chest; it reminded me I was not alone. 

“Are you well?”

He nodded, eyes drifting somewhere over my shoulder as he hummed. 

“Are you sure?” I pressed as Ori turned to attend to his pony’s bridle. 

Bilbo nodded, but his eyes became focused. I turned to see what had caught his attention. Thorin was stood beside his mount, one hand brushing the pony’s mane, while he held the beast steady with the other on its bridle. It was his face that caught my, and evidently Bilbo’s, attention. Mouth pressed thin, and his eyes fixed on us both…no, me. He was watching me. When my eyes caught his own he turned away, but not before I saw the sour downturn of his mouth. As if my mere presence left a bad taste in his mouth. 

“Rosalyn?” Ori inquired sweetly, a hesitant hand on my own which was endeavouring to strangle the leather reins I held. 

“Oh,” I breathed as I came back to myself. “I’m all right, Ori, thank you.” 

Bilbo cast me a meaningful look before he turned back and mounted his pony. Ori, presumably having also seen who was looking our way, tried to smile but the attempt twitched with nerves and ended up resembling a grimace. 

***

A little while later, after much complaining both Dwarven and Equestrian-during which Ori had taken the time to teach me Khuzdul words and phrases I was not familiar with, but the phrases rarely stuck as he so quickly rattled them off, thus leading to the rest of our company suffering through stilted pronunciations and awkward silences-we halted. The long decline from the rocky crag had been precarious, and not helped by the undulating hills and muddy terrain that sent the ponies sliding about in fearful fits. While glad we had missed the rainfall that created the muck, I was not happy at the splattering of mud that slapped across my face and self when Bilbo’s pony panicked as she lost footing on one particularly wet slope. 

The company, meanwhile, erupted into raucous laughter. 

“You’re a true Dwarf now, lass!” Nori cried. 

“Why’s that?” I asked, wiping my face as best I could, lamenting the speckled staining on my beautiful new coat. The leaf littered brown did not compliment the deep red. 

“You’ve tasted your first mud!” Glóin chuckled. “Makings of an adult Dwarf that is!” 

That didn’t sound real. Had he made that up? 

“It is?” I asked, hesitant, sure they were playing a trick on me. 

But he remained jovial. “Sure is, lass!” 

They all watched me, jubilant. Even Gandalf nodded to himself, eyes set in a pleased crinkle. Maybe it was a common saying amongst Dwarves? How would I know any different? The thought brought a sharp pain to my chest so I focused on Bilbo’s face. He too was confused, thankfully. 

He also saw how I was picking at the mud that was quickly drying in the noon day sun. 

“May we stop soon?” Bilbo asked, eyes flickering from my hands to Thorin were he was guiding his pony over the last rock spotted patch of the trail. 

I watched him, shocked. My friend had been quiet all morning, speaking a handful of times during our ride and even those had been sparse and only when someone asked him something that required a verbal response, not just hums of agreement or disagreement. Now, I could see the Bilbo who walked me through Hobbiton and confronted Aldagrim Took. 

“Aye,” Dwalin was quick to agree. “We’ve passed through the worst of it, let’s get the ponies clean. Let ‘em rest a while, Thorin.” 

Thorin did not grumble, that I could hear, and nodded. 

“So be it,” came his answer. “We’ll rest here. I can see a clear area ahead.” 

The verdict pleased everyone, especially the ponies who nosed at the undergrowth and shook their manes in the sunshine. 

The clearing was a swathe of long grass and wildflowers on the cusp of a sprawling coppice. It looked like the Shire, but I knew we had left the Shire far behind us. The pull to return to Hobbiton and seek out Daisy and Hilda still pulled, but I told myself I couldn't help them on my own even if I was to return. In fact, the likelihood of my presence causing more trouble was greater than it being helpful. Berry nosed at my hip once I’d dismounted, which in and of itself was a little scary without help, knocking me free from my dour thoughts. She didn’t wait for me to settle myself and was intent on the bag she wanted, even knowing which pocket it lay within. Tethered to a guide rope fashioned from a length of braided cloth, and one sugar lump and ear scratch later, she seemed placated, leaving me with a swish of her tail to nibble on the grass. 

I dropped my pack to stretch my aching legs and back, watching as others did variations of the same move. Arms thrust into the air, I heard and felt my back pop. The effect was so pleasant, I couldn’t help but moan at the sensation. No one was nearby, thankfully, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t embarrassed. 

As I shed my coat and began to brush it off, retrieving the cloak to ward off the sharp wind, Gandalf appeared at my elbow…well…I appeared at his, given the height difference. 

“I see you have Belladona’s cloak,” he observed. Without his hat, his face was clear and bright in the sun. I had never noticed before, but despite his wisened appearance, his eyes spoke of a youth absent from his skin. He had mischievous eyes, kind, and soft, like those I saw in Kíli. 

“Yes,” I replied. “Bilbo gave it to me to wear my first day in Hobbiton, he insisted I bring it along on the journey as I have no cloak of my own.”

“It suits you, my dear.” 

“I forgot, you knew her, didn’t you Gandalf?” 

“I did.” 

“What was she like?”

His face became soft and warm, full of affection. 

“She was a breed of creature rare to Middle Earth,” he told me, eyes set towards distant memories. “I have encountered few as genuinely kind and wonderful as she.” 

“Is Bilbo at all like her?”

The Wizard chuckled. “More than he probably knows, or will admit.”

“How so?”

“Well," he considered, turning his gaze towards the Hobbit in question. "He is certainly his father’s son, in appearance, however, there is an air of Tookness about him that cannot be denied.”

I couldn't help but grin. “Tookness?”

“Hmm, yes, it’s a term his mother coined for the fancies and eccentricities of the Took family.” He smiled down at me. “It suits rather well, don’t you think?”

“It does,” I agreed, delighted with the new term, but the conversation had reminded me, yet again, of the night before. “Gandalf?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think I’m worrying for no reason? About Hobbiton, and my friends, I mean. Do you think I should be concerned?”

He grew ruminative. “I think that if those who were responsible for your condition when you awoke were to seek you out again, they would not be able to pass through Hobbiton unscathed.” 

His conclusion alarmed me. “Hobbits aren’t a violent people.”

“No, not normally,” he concurred, giving a grumbling sort of hum as he thought. “But these are not normal circumstances, are they?” 

“No,” I had to conceded, hating the dark path my thoughts took. “No, they aren’t.” 

***

Later, most of the group dispersed, milling around doing whatever they had found to accompany their thoughts and restless hands. Yet I found myself listless. The rock I'd perched upon had grown cold, the sun blanketed by thick clouds. While the wind was cool in the sun’s heat, without it, the air nipped at exposed flesh with the promise of winter. The others didn’t seem to mind the cold, though I saw Bilbo shake when a stronger breeze played with the long grass around us all. I was grateful for Belladona's cloak. 

Kíli caught my eye as I gazed around, and beckoned me over. He held something in his hands, but I didn’t pay much mind to it, I’d been wanting something to do for a while now. Yet every time I asked if I could help anyone, my questions was shaken off with a smile and patronising pat on the head. 

As I stood up, a pressure fell onto the exposed nape of my neck. It was cold and damp, as if a hand had fallen there after plunging into ice water. Yet it was the pressure that halted my movements. As firm as the phantom hand it felt like, the grip tightened around my neck with increasing strength. I knew there was no one there, no body to connect this feeling to, no person to whom I could hold accountable. But I felt it. 

Desperate, I tried to find Kíli, but he wasn’t there anymore. No one was. I was alone in the meadow, without even the ponies or Gandalf’s horse for company. The luggage, fire, and scattered detritus had likewise disappeared. Only the biting wind remained. 

Was I dreaming? Or was this another vision? But…I’d never had a vision whilst awake before. 

I bit the inside of my cheek. Bilbo had once told me that one cannot feel pain whilst dreaming, but despaired when I felt the sharp explosion of pain. I bit down harder, savagely digging my teeth into the thickness of the flesh. So panicked was I, I didn’t realise I couldn’t taste my own blood until my jaw began to ache. 

What was this? 

No images pressed themselves to my eyelids, instead, the smells and sounds of laughter and blazing fires assaulted my senses. 

“Give ‘er another,” someone called, chuckling. 

Male, young, and jovial like Kíli, but with a strong accent I couldn’t place. That he spoken Westeron made me wonder if it was a Man. 

Frantic, I searched as best I could, but found no one. 

Something hit my cheek so hard my head whipped to the side. The sound of flesh hitting flesh echoed across the meadow like a clap of lightning, but my phantom attacker did not materialise. 

“She cries prettily,” another voice hummed. Older, still male, and with a mouth full of something. He was eating. The wet sound of open mouthed mastication turned my stomach. 

Heavy footsteps over loose rock, to my left, someone venturing closer. But still, when I turned, there was no one there. I tried to cry out for Bilbo, for Fíli, Kíli, anyone, but though my lips would part, no sound came. 

What was this paralysis? Had I been cursed? 

“If you mark her, you’ll pay for it like for like,” a third voice warned. 

This one was female, but rough, aged by years of smoking a pipe. 

There was a grunt of displeasure from the second voice. “Thought he didn’t mind if we roughed ‘er up a bit?”

“He doesn’t,” she replied, flat. “But I do.” 

“Yeah? Why’s that then?” 

I felt someone’s breath on my face. It smelt of ale and dried meat. 

“I have plans for this one,” came the feminine reply. 

Something moved my hair. Struck still by fear, I watched as a curl from my forehead was moved and tucked behind my ear. I could feel the delicate brush of fingertips against the shell of it, their touch lingering on the point there. 

“Oh yes,” the woman hummed, pleased in a way I didn’t want to understand. “You’ve got something big in your future, my dear. Something big and bad, and delectably bloody.” She laughed, low and deep in her throat before her voice came closer, words whispered into the ear she had stroked. “What I wouldn’t give to be there. I wager you’ll be breathtaking as you cry then.” 

My vision returned, and I was back in the meadow, laid curled with my knees against my chest, on the rock I had previously stood from, and frighteningly dazed. Kíli was sat beside me now, a water skin in hand. He smiled when he saw me looking at him. 

“Sleep well?” 

“Sleep?” I echoed, horse as I moved to sit up. My joints were stiff and sore. 

“You dropped off about a half hour ago,” he told me, tone even and pleasant. “I was going to ask you to come help me check the saddle bags, but Balin told me to leave you sleeping. Sorry if I woke you when I called, I hadn’t seen you had lay down.”

Neither had I known I had laid down. 

Just what had happened here? Had I been awake? Or had that all been dream? If it was a dream, how had I seen Kíli call me to help him? Had the sight of him been a half-awake vision peeked through sleep cracked eyelids? My head began to pound. The tingling at the nape of my neck gripped tighter, and I tried to take a breath but it hurt my chest. 

No, it was not entirely a dream. 

“What is it Rosie?” Kíli prodded, nudging his elbow into my arm, a pensive frown digging into his brow. “You’re far away, where’d you go?”

I shook my head, but the feeling of the hand didn’t dissipate. 

“I’m not sure,” I admitted, choosing my words carefully, lest I fall back into the same state as before. Because of Daisy, jinxing luck was a matter I was well versed in. Was I even awake now? It had felt so real, so tangible. I didn’t mean to speak my next words aloud. “Maybe, maybe it was a memory.” 

Kíli latched onto them, however. Brightening, he sat up straighter, cheeks rounding as he smiled. 

“Really?” He gushed, reaching out to steady my elbow as I sat up beside him with shaking limbs. He capped the water skin. The side I’d been lain on, my left, was full of numbness. “What have you remembered?” 

Hesitant, I wasn’t sure how to explain it all to him. 

“I’m not entirely sure they aren’t visions, to be perfectly honest,” I admitted, biting the inside of my cheek. The pain helped. It reminded me that I was awake. While I had felt pain in the…dream…I hadn’t been able to taste my own blood. Not like this, not with as much depth. “It’s not nightmares, not really. But, I don’t think it was entirely memory, either. I don’t feel panic, terror, or fear…it’s somehow worse than that…I felt…I feel uneasy. Unsettled. As if the ground beneath my feet arches up in a slope and I can’t alter my footing fast enough to stand upright.” 

Kíli, for all his sudden jovial brightness, grew solemn. 

“What happens when you lose your balance?” He asked.

A sob pained my chest as I tried to suppress it, but it broke free in a gasp. Kíli’s hand reached for my own, squeezing. 

“I don’t know,” I told him, looking to the company who I could see were unaffected by my vision. They sat, ate, and talked in more or less the same positions they had previously been in. But something pulled in my chest when I took in the back of Fíli's head by the ponies. He was about to turn around, I was sure of it, and what would he think of me then? Some weakling HalfBlood troubled by a dream? “Sometimes…sometimes I see things, hear things, feel things, and I think those are memories, scraps of voices, sounds, tastes, and touch, but there are...most memories aren’t…good.”

My stilted explanation took longer as I fought to breathe through the panic bubbling in my throat.

“Rosie,” Kíli’s soft entreat of my name felt like an anchor. He waited as I took deep breaths. After my third, he knocked my chin upward with a soft nudge and made me meet his dark eyes. I had never seen him so grave. “What did you see just now?” 

“I didn’t,” I admitted, fighting the urge to clutch at my elbows and huddle into a protective ball. I could feel Fíli's eyes on us now, on me. The last thing I wanted was for him to see me crumple. “I felt it.”

“Felt what?”

“Pain.” 

For that was what unnerved me more than my loss of time, of sense. I had been dreaming, or having a vision and yet I had felt pain. Not self-inflicted violence, but from an outward source. Was there such things as dreams that could injure? Visions that could maim? 

Disturbed, he pulled me into his side, one arm around my shoulders, the other reaching over to clutch at my right elbow. It was as if he had read my mind, and secured me in his grip much in the same fashion I had been wanting to contort into. In the cradle of his arms, I felt safe, held secure against my fracturing psyche. He smelt of horse and leather, of fire smoke and metal. He cooed and shushed me as if I were a babe who had woken squalling in the middle of the night. Even with his brother's eyes on us, I wasn't about to part from the comfort Kíli offered. Not when I knew it came from an honest place in his kind heart. He didn't think me weak, at least I didn't feel as though he did, and the reality of being fragile in front of Kíli didn't feel as monumental as I anticipated it would if his brother were in his place. 

“You’re safe,” Kíli told me. “You’re here, with us. We’ll keep you safe, I promise, Rosie. There’s nothing to fear.”

It sounded like words his mother had told him to keep the nightmares at bay. I didn’t want to disagree with him. Didn’t want to admit that whatever it was, it had gripped me and taken me away from them even while I was in their midst. For all they had known, I had been safely entombed in slumber. 

Kíli asked what had happened in the dream, but I didn’t want him to know the darkness in my mind. Even as he assured me the terrors in my mind could do me no real harm, I resisted the balm his words attempted to bring. 

To relive the experience was to give it weight, reality in the here and now. To let the monsters in my head out. To shed light into the shadow filled corners that haunted my waking hours and drew a fluttering pain to my chest. I couldn’t tell him. He couldn’t know the danger I felt when I closed my eyes to sleep, or the long time it took for sleep to grab me and pull me under. He couldn’t know that what I had remembered stuck on my skin like smoke smudges the air. 

He couldn’t know that some memories had teeth, and mine did not allow escape once fangs pierced flesh. 

***

There were two male Dwarves talking. It was the rumble of deep voices that jolted me to sense, out of the dream-stuck delirium of fading to and from deep sleep. 

The room I was in was vast, cavernous and empty. With no warmth, no solace, no sense of home or belonging to it. The Dwarves themselves were not any of the company, but their features spoke of familiarity. The elder of the two wore a crown on his head, made of gold and a dark metal I didn’t know, shaped in a fashion akin to the embroidery on Fíli’s jacket. With long, greying beards and wisened, creased eyes, I surmised that they were nearer to the ages of Balin and Oín than Ori and Kíli. 

“Thrain!” 

At the elder’s shout, I startled. In the midst of my observations, they had been speaking in rapid, hissed Kuzdhul. The name was the only word I could understand, and the only one I knew. 

Thorin’s father. 

And, judging by the way the two interacted, the shape of their noses and the peak of their hairline, the other must be his father, King Thror. 

This all helped. As now I knew I was witnessing a moment of the past, not present or future. Yet the only thing that gave pause, it was as if I were witnessing this through a dirty window pane. The figures were blurred, distorted in the way raindrops disturb the silhouette of flowers. 

Thror pointed to the throne behind them both, a feature I had missed. Sitting high above the chair was a gleaming white light. A stone was cradled in pride of place at the crest of the carvings. His brandished finger jabbed toward the stone two, three times while Thror spoke. All the while his son pausing his lips and shaking his head. It was clear they were arguing and perhaps had been for some time. 

When Thror was finished Thrain spat something out in a deep growl and beat his chest with his fist. His dark eyes were aflame, the anger he felt thickening the air to palpable bitterness. Even through the passage of time, and the magic that granted these visions to me, I could feel his anger. He shook his head, swiping at the air widthways across his chest with an open hand when his father began to talk over him. 

From the melee of words I heard: “Jalâdishi ‘ala!” 

The words meant nothing to me, but the force with which they were spoken felt like dry heat on a parched day.  As they continued to argue, their figures distorted. At first I thought my eyes were welling, but no tears were to be found when I swiped my eyes. Instead, the room around me wavered, colours mixing and textures overlapping until the Dwarves were gone. Instead, the splendour of the hall had become ruined with dust, grime and broken columns. Debris littered the ground, a chill ran through the air and it smelt of age. Like old books and forgotten food, like cobwebbed clothes and dry feet. Below, in the grand cavern the throne room stood within, something moved. Long, dark, serpentine in its movements: dragon. 

***

Napping while we stopped had been a mistake. The feeling didn’t go away, and had left a dream vision instead of wakefulness. There wasn’t time to think on the words, the Dwarves who I had seen and heard, because Thorin roused all the dozing Dwarves and ordered that we make headway before nightfall. I walked as if still ensnared in the dreamscape that had captured my senses. Limbs heavy as if laden with sodden clothes, head doozy in murky thoughts, I followed the troop to mount once more. Not even Berry’s gentle nuzzle against my face was enough to rouse me from this waking slumber. 

The creak of leather beneath my hands drew a wince as the sound echoed that of the leather gloves worn by the one I’d seen. Who were they? My captors? Sense told me that yes, they were most likely the ones who had held me and been the cause of the rope inflicted bruises around my wrists, but I didn’t want to admit to myself that it had happened. That I had been prisoner, held against my will by beings I did not know the intention of. 

“I have plans for this one,” the woman’s voice curled around my mind like smoke vapour clung to cloth. Saturating it with the intent in her tone, intent I could not decipher, or even begin to comprehend. 

She had sounded so…pleased, as if gaining an achievement hard won. 

“You’ve got something big in your future, my dear. Something big and bad, and delectably bloody.”  

Delectably bloody? Whose blood? My own, or others? 

“What I wouldn’t give to be there, I wager you’ll be breathtaking as you cry then.”

She had taken pleasure in my pain and fear, both present at the time and that which she imagined would lie in my future. What sort of a monster did that make her? Man, Halfling, or Beast? Or something more sinister altogether? 

As we trekked on, I fought a shiver as her words repeated themselves over and over, whispering in my ears as wind rushing my curls. It would do me no good to worry over them, I knew that logically. Not when there were more pressing matters than the foggy recollection; for now I was sickeningly sure that it was one, rather than a vision of an event to come or a dream. My only hope was that other memories were not so dark. 

***

Our stopping point smelt of damp when we dismounted. The ground was uneven, the woods nearby bearing low slung branches and old, moss dappled bark. As the rest of the company set up camp, our Wizard lost to us, chores divided up, I sought out Thorin. No one had delighted any task to me, so I created my own. 

“Thorin?”

He grunted. “Yes?” 

“I…I know we did not see eye to eye last night—” He scoffed and I ignored him to continue: “But I’ve had another dream, a vision.” 

I cast a glance back at the company, worried of what I had to tell him, and not wanting to tell them.

“Oh?” he sounded a fraction more interested, even as his brows remained furrowed in frustration. “What about?”

I swallowed, nervous at his reaction to what I had to say. “Erebor…and something Thror called an Arkenstone.”

Thorin tensed at the word, his face setting like stone against a harsh wind. 

“What did you see?” 

“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “At first I thought it was another vision from the past, I saw Thror talking with your father about the Arkenstone. They were arguing, shouting, your father looked ready to hit your grandfather.”

Thorin nodded. “That sounds remarkably like them, but what made you doubt the vision?”

“Well, after that it sort of…blurred? I guess would be the correct word. I saw that Erebor was in a state of disrepair I have not seen before in the last vision of your father. It was dusty, broken pieces of rubble strewn about the corridors. Then I saw him…the dragon.”

“Was he dead?”

“No.” 

Thorin cursed under his breath in Khuzdul. 

“Do you think they were separate?” He questioned. “A vision of the future, and the past?”

“I—I think the first was a look into the past, but the other was a vision of now. Presently.” 

“How do you know?” 

“This will sound mad, but, it felt present.”

Thorin watched me, his impassive face giving nothing away.

“Do you believe me?”

“I do. You’ve given me no reason to doubt your ability thus far. Thank you for telling me.” 

“You’re welcome.”

I hesitated. 

“What is it, Rosalyn?”

“I know it is not my place, but…may I ask, your plan to retake Erebor, how certain are you of its success?”

Thorin, for a moment, was surprised but hid it well. 

“What are you asking?”

His penetrative stare could melt stone. 

“I—I am scared.”

“Of what?”

“Your plan is to send Bilbo to find the Arkenstone, why I do not know, but I have come to understand it is important to young your family. My…visions do not show context so I am still muddy on the details. However, would it not be more prudent to discuss your plans with Bilbo now? Surely he would be a more effective thief if he knew about the stone, what it looks like, its significance?”

Thorin raised his chin a fraction. 

“He will know when I decide the time is right for him to know. I am not happy of your knowledge of the stone, but—”

“You cannot control my visions.”

“No, I cannot.” 

I accepted his apology, though it wasn’t much of one. 

“Rosalyn?”

“Yes?”

He watched me, but I could not tell what he was feeling. 

“Do you have any recollection of your family? Beyond that which you had in the Shire?”

I hesitated and thought back. 

“The taste of a certain food?” He pressed, almost overeager at my hesitation. “The scent of your mother’s perfume? Hearing a name called out?”

“No, no, nothing."

He deflated, and excused me from his presence with a halfhearted wave of his hand. I felt as if I had disappointed him. How, I had no idea. 

***

The ponies had been tethered in the forest, something I thought was odd. Then Nori explained it was to provide shelter for them. 

“And so they’re not stolen in the night,” he had added.

“Stolen? People really steal ponies?”

“They do, lass, and more besides, but you don’t need to worry about that.” 

Fíli and Kíli had chosen to settle the ponies so far back into the wood that they couldn’t be seen from the tree line. A tactic, I wagered, to help hide them. The princes were sat on a fallen tree when I caught sight of them. 

“Rosie!” Kíli called when he saw me. 

“Hello Kíli,” I answered. “Bombur’s sent me to say that dinner shouldn’t be much longer, and to bring you this while you wait.”

I handed Fíli the water skin and some bread. 

“Thank you,” he whispered softly. 

“You’re welcome. Here you go, Kíli.”

“Thanks, Rosie.” He took the remaining bread and bit off a large chunk. 

“Where’s Berry?” I asked, looking about for my pony.

“She’s over here, I’ll show you,” Fíli offered. 

“Thank you, I pilfered an apple from Bombur’s stocks, but he caught me red handed and then handed me this.” I lifted the bag with the remaining apples. 

We had come across a wild growing tree the other day and stopped to collect windfall apples, perfect for the ponies. Nori had commented that in order to keep the ponies from running away, we had to keep them sweet on us and treats were the perfect incentive. 

Fíli laughed. “So you’re doing the rounds?”

I nodded. “Yep, I’ll start with Berry then make my way around the rest.” 

“I’ll help you, I mean, if you’d like some company that is.” 

“I would love some, thank you. Once they realise I’ve got food, I expect I’ll be mobbed!”

“Well, we can’t have that,” he chuckled. 

***

Fíli

Rosalyn left as gracefully as she came, her bright hair shining like a beacon in the darkness of the trees. He’d have to talk to her about using her scarf or a kerchief to cover it when they reached more dangerous land. He knew from experience that his hair was at times a hindrance and with Rose’s particular features, her hair was another attribute that made her memorable. He’d have to speak to his uncle about it. He already had his suspicions they might have been followed from Bree, but he couldn’t be sure. 

Then, Rose turned and offered them both a shy wave. Instantly, Fíli’s own hand came to wave back, to which she smiled before disappearing from sight. He sighed, the hollow feeling in his chest beginning to widen once more with her absence. 

Did she feel as he did? Or was he imagining all of this? He couldn’t be. He knew the symptoms of meeting your One and he was experiencing them right now. What else could this be? 

Madness? 

Sure felt like it. 

Perhaps she didn’t know what the feelings meant? Maybe he should tell her? Or would that be too forward? 

“So, when’s the wedding?” Kíli asked as he dropped onto the log beside him, nudging his brother as he chewed on another mouthful of bread.

“What?” Fíli snapped out of his thoughts to stare at his brother in shock. For a moment he feared he’d spoken his thoughts aloud. 

Kíli only scoffed. “You and Rosie, we’re not blind you know. Everyone can see it.” 

Fíli avoided his brother’s eyes. 

“See what?”

“Oh, come on! If mother was here she’d be sewing a dress for Rosie to wear down the aisle!” 

Fíli sighed and rubbed a hand over his beard. 

“Am I being that obvious?” 

His brother snorted. “Put it this way, Nori has a bet going on to see when you finally pluck up the courage to tell her.” 

“It’s going to come as a shock,” Fíli admitted to himself, hating that the words tasted bitter. 

His brother nodded emphatically, eyes wide, raising the water skin to his lips. 

“No shit.”

“I don’t even know if she knows what a One is for Mahal’s sake!”

Kíli choked on the water he’d been drinking. Fíli had to thump him twice on the back before his brother could once again regain the ability to speak. 

“One—One? She—she’s your One?” Kíli spluttered, his words strangled, and face red. “Bloody hell, Fí! We just thought you had a crush on the girl!”

“So you’re going to tell everyone now?” 

“Tell them?” Kíli scoffed again, coughing a few more times as he began to chuckle. “Bugger that, I’m gonna up my stake in the bet!” 

“What?”

“Well, when you finally marry her and everything, I’ll have made the biggest stake. No one else thinks this will turn into marriage.” He sighed, eyes drifting into the space ahead of him as he day dreamed. “Hmm, I wonder what I’ll spend my winnings on?”

Fíli snatched the water skin out of Kíli’s hands and then pushed him backwards off the log. His brother only cackled like a Dwarfling, his legs poking up in the air, imitating an upturned beetle as he gasped for breath between chuckles. 

“Oh! Oh! You’ll have to offer Bilbo a bride price!” Kíli chortled. “Can you imagine? The Hobbit? Giving away Rosie? Oh, I almost forgot the sword ceremony! Ha! He'd have to drag it up the aisle to you, imagine waiting for that!” 

“I’m glad you find my misery amusing,” Fíli grumbled, taking a swig from the water skin and wishing it was ale. 

Kíli, between gasping for air, only laughed harder, unable to move for glee. 

***

Rosalyn

Bilbo was fretting. 

“He’s been a long time.”

Bofur, who had taken over dishing supper up, wasn’t as concerned. “Who?”

“Gandalf,” he said it as one expecting the listener to have been paying attention the entire conversation. Overtired of repeating oneself, and reaching the end of their tether explaining. It was a disposition I had come to associate with Hobbits, and, during my time in the company of Dwarves and a Wizard, I had realised how spot on my assumptions had been. 

If any to the others had heard Bilbo, they gave no indication of it. 

“He’s a Wizard, he does as he choses.” Bofur gave Bilbo the two bowls he had been serving into. “Here, do us a favour, will you? Take these to the lads.” 

Bilbo nodded to himself, and Bofur turned just in time to smack Bombur’s hand as he tried to grab another serving. “Stop it, you’ve had plenty.” 

“I made the damn thing!” He protested as Bilbo scurried away. 

That was true, but it was also true that Bombur had been ‘taste testing’ the stew the entire time he had been cooking. It was a wonder he had room left to eat at all. 

“Aye, it’s not a bad stew, Bombur. I’ve had worse,” Glóin praised.

Bombur glowered under the praise, but still tried to sneak another portion. 

“Dori could’ve cooked it,” Nori spoke up, shaking with laughter. 

His elder brother was not amused as the rest of the company burst into laughter.

“Hilarious,” he griped sourly. 

“What’s so funny?” I asked. 

Nori practically giggled. “Dori’s a notoriously bad cook. He once tried to make a pie for our mother some years back and the pastry didn’t cook, at all!” 

“He didn’t know any better at the time, so he served it to our mother,” Ori interjected, uncharacteristically excited. “For her birthday!” 

“What did she do?” 

“She tried to eat it, tried bless her,” Nori said, shaking his head fondly. “But eventually she had to spit it back out, the pastry was so undercooked she would have been very ill had she eaten it!” 

“I didn’t know any better!” Dori protested. “The filling was already cooked, how was I to know you had to cook the pastry for so much longer?” 

“It was the thought that counts Dori,” I assured him. “And I’m sure your mother appreciated it.”

Now Nori did giggle. “On the contrary, she launched into a speech about how he never paid any attention to her when she was teaching him how to cook.” 

“Oh,” I shrugged, not knowing how to retreat from this awkwardness. “Never mind, then.” 

***

Omnipresent narrator  

While Fíli and Kíli continued their squabbling, a couple of the ponies spooked. The brothers investigated after calming the beasts and saw a light in the distance. A reddish, comfortable looking light, the sort that came from torches or a campfire twinkling. The two began discussing the best way to approach this new development. Kíli wanted to explore right away, while Fíli was certain they should investigate with caution. They were discussing the pros and cons of each other’s points when Bilbo came into the clearing with bowls of steaming stew in hand. 

“Here, I have dinner!” He announced happily, though he was quick to lose his smile when he saw the expressions on the brothers faces. “What is it?” 

“We’ve spotted a light,” Kíli said, the over eager smile on his lips disturbing Bilbo in a way he wasn’t sure he could put into words. 

“A light?” Bilbo questioned, wondering if the two had become confused and mistaken the campfire he’d just left for other travellers. “Are you sure you haven’t gotten turned around? Is it our camp?”

“No, of course not, it’s over there.” 

They both pointed in the opposite direction to the camp, much to Bilbo’s growing unease.  

“What is it?”

“We don’t know,” Kíli answered, shrugging.

“Could be travellers,” Fíli pondered, eyes keen. 

“Could be bandits.”

“Or a family.”

“Or Orcs,” Kíli muttered with mutinous glee. 

Bilbo startled, and Kíli began to grin, but Fíli was firm when he ordered his brother to stop scaring the Hobbit. 

Kíli, rather than quipping back with a retort as he would have done, saw the wariness in the crease between his brother’s eyebrows and kept quiet. While there might not have been ample of years between the two—at least, by Kíli’s reckoning—the younger knew when the elder was serious. He also knew the look of a Dwarf readying himself for battle, having watched his uncle, cousins, and even his brother dress for fighting. 

If Bilbo noticed this odd behaviour, he too, didn’t comment. He did, however, notice the strain over the air as he stood there with the brothers. A sick feeling began to creep into his gut. His intuition screaming at him to run and hide and all manner of the sort of behaviour that suited prey about to be found by a hungry predator. 

When the faint murmur of deep, gravelly voices reached them, the Dwarves were quick to dart towards a fallen tree, motioning for Bilbo to follow, which he did, careful to not spill any stew. Dangerous situation or not, to waste food was unconscionable. 

Bilbo poked his head above a dip in the tree. It was just the right height for him to peek over towards the light the two had spotted. Indeed, he had to concede, that it could not possibly be their own campfire as it glowed with an amber glint. This was an older fire than the one the Dwarves had lit a mere hour ago, bigger too. 

“Shall we fetch Thorin?” He asked, mindful to keep his voice low. 

The unknown voices continued in a grumbling sort of way. Bilbo could make out two distinct accents, but when the speakers all spoke at the same time it became very difficult to make any one voice out. 

“No,” was the brother’s immediate responses in two very different tones. Kíli sounded offended Bilbo should think the Dwarf would need his uncle to help with such a situation. Meanwhile, Fíli’s voice held an air of caution, as if he was not sure whether or not this was something to bother his uncle for. 

The Hobbit sighed and muttered to himself about the stubbornness of Dwarves. He was sure at this rate, something had to give and he was clearly the weakest link in the company, so naturally he assumed the weak link to give would be him. He just wasn’t sure how. Preferably not in any sort of way that would cause any permanent harm. 

He need not worry, for the brothers had solved this problem for him. 

“We need to get a closer look at what’s over there,” Fíli announced as they all heard the very distinct sound of someone or something sneezing. 

“Right,” Bilbo agreed, thinking they would ask him to go back and fetch Dwalin or Thoin to then plan a reconnaissance mission. 

“When you get there, if you get into trouble hoot twice like a barn owl, and once like a brown owl,” Fíli directed him with a hand on his shoulder as Kíli took the bowls from Bilbo’s grasp. 

“Wh—What?”

“Twice like a barn owl, once like a brown owl,” Fíli repeated, patting him on the back before shoving him towards the light. “We won’t be far.” 

Bilbo, quite stunned at the turn of events, stood stock still for a moment, gaping as words failed him. They wanted him to investigate the strange voices? Surely not! Then, before he could turn back and explain to them that he could not hoot like any sort of owl any more than he could fly like a bat, the ponies startled again and their loud shrieking caused the faceless voices to stop. 

He cast a nervous glance backwards, but the brothers had already disappeared with the bowls of stew. Leaving one unprepared, miserable, worriedly terrified Hobbit standing in a forest very far from his familiar armchair.

“Well,” Bilbo muttered to himself, sighing. “What do I do now?”  

Chapter Text

***

Rosalyn

A crashing through the brush heralded the arrival of something or someone and the Dwarves shot to their feet, hands reaching for weapons. Dwalin was readying his axes and Bifur his boar spear, when Fíli and Kíli burst out of the woods, out of breath and wide eyed. Thorin shook his head as the others lowered themselves, weapons replaced, and food picked back up. It seemed the brother’s erratic behaviour wasn’t a cause for concern. Something that should have surprised me, but I was finding that most instances did that with my present company. 

As the Dwarves went back to their food, the brothers bowed their heads closer to each other. They spoke soft enough that the pop of the fire covered their words. There was no other sound of someone following them, and although I knew Hobbits moved with ease and in near silence, I worried. 

“Fíli, Kíli, what are you doing back? Has Bilbo taken over your watch?” 

“Erm…no,” Kíli hesitated in admitting. “Not really. Uncle!”

I had not realised he held a full bowl of stew in his hands. As did Fíli. 

Thorin’s head picked up. 

“What is—” 

“Trolls, Uncle!” Fíli cut in, calmer than his brother but I could see tension in the thinness of his mouth and the way he braced his weight. “At least two of them, maybe three.”

“Where’s Bilbo?” Thorin asked. 

The brothers hesitated, and that was all Thorin needed. He fixed them with a look I knew he must have fixed them with many times when they were younger. They squirmed beneath his unblinking eyes, no doubt much the same as they had as Dwarflings. 

“You left a Hobbit, an unarmed, untrained Hobbit with Trolls?” Thorin thundered as he surged to his feet, his voice deep and rumbling, threatening a good tongue lashing. 

His raised tone roused the rest of the company who lost all signs of hunger when they registered the distress on the boys faces. 

“What’s occurrin’ lads?” Bofur asked. 

“Up!” Thorin ordered. “Now!”

“Bilbo’s only investigating,” Kíli defended. “Fí told him to hoot if there was trouble.”

Fíli offered no seconding or comment. Meanwhile Thorin sent his youngest nephew a scathing look. 

“And what makes you think the Hobbit knows how to hoot?”

“He’s a Hobbit.” 

If the moment were of lesser importance, I believe Thorin may have rolled his eyes. Instead, he took his sword hilt in hand and unsheathed it. 

“Rosalyn, stay here.” 

“Bu—”

“Rose, stay here,” Fíli cut my words off as he repeated his uncle’s order, brusque as the elder Dwarf. 

I wanted to argue, to refuse, but no one moved to side with me. They all avoided my eyes when I looked around for support, instead diligently waiting for their orders. My reasoning would be lost within their want to protect me, I knew. No matter what I said, there would be resistance, and I suspected the one most opposed to my involvement would be Fíli. The Dwarf who was staring me down as if to push me back to sitting with his gaze. I hated to admit to myself that it was working. There was no need to endanger myself too and leave the camp and our belongings unprotected, but I wanted to help my friend. 

There was a murmur when I rose to find steadier footing instead of returning to my spot by the fire. 

“Rose.”

Fíli had not moved while everyone else sought to take swords and daggers in hand. He remained steadfast, staring at me with weight enough I felt it on my chest as I drew breath. 

What resistance could I give when faced with the uncomfortable truth? I would be of no use to them or Bilbo in a fight, only a hinderance. Yet it did not mean anything in this moment when all I wanted was to be of more than the role I slowly realised had been assigned to me within the group. That of the protected one, the meek one, and the vulnerable. 

Our eyes met and held. I didn’t want to be the first to yield but I also knew time was running short. My nonresponse was all it took. Instead of conceding, Fíli tipped his head to me. Not a beckoning, nor a wordless demand for retreat, but paired with softer eyes and a grimly set mouth he looked entreating. Begging. He knew as well as I that time was running short. So I retook my seat, giving Fíli my full attention as to not allow Thorin the satisfaction of being the one to receive my obedience. Fíli gave me a shallow nod of what I hoped was thanks before setting down his bowl and drawing one of his twin swords. 

Nothing else was said when Thorin lead the way into the brush. The company bolted off after him into the woods, each with fierce, determined expressions and tight grips on their weapons. Leaving me alone with the fire to tend and our packs to watch over. Torn between indignation and resigned understanding, I stood once more to pace on the cusp of the camp, wringing my hands. 

What was I supposed to do now? 

I looked in the direction Gandalf had disappeared towards. 

“If ever there were a time for a Wizard would come in handy, it’s now,” I spoke into the night, cursing our repeated bad luck. “Where are you Gandalf?” 

***

Bilbo

Being held by a Troll was a novel experience, Bilbo found. Vertigo altering, rib crushing, anxiety inducing, and not one he was in a hurry to have repeated if he could help it. Nor did he especially like the approach of his rescuer. 

“Drop him!”

“You what?”

At that precise moment, after what felt like minutes agonising about how to save the ponies and talk himself into his plot, only to wind up trapped himself, Bilbo also felt like asking the same question. Yes, Kíli, do tell us all what exactly you mean by, ‘Drop him’? 

For surely there were other approaches to this situation? Safer approaches? Ones that did not involve being dropped by a Troll, preferably. 

“I said, drop him.”

If there were safer approaches, it seemed Kíli did not think it prudent to suggest any. 

The Trolls grumbled to each other, and for a moment Bilbo thought they really would drop him in favour of rushing the young Dwarf. Then, heads began to pop out from the undergrowth. 

“Blasted Dwarves,” Bilbo cursed under his breath, shaking his head. 

For battle seasoned warriors, it appeared they had not yet mastered the art of sneaking up on the enemy. Their hair, and Bofur’s hat, standing out in the firelight against the darker foliage. 

“Get the sacks! Stick em in the sacks!” One of the trolls screamed. 

The clearing descended into chaos. Fists were thrown and yells were cried, no shadow untouched by frantic feet or the thrust of a sword. Yet, it was all for nought. As Bilbo watched, restrained in his own sack and dumped onto the hard ground, Dwarves were found, captured and trussed like onions picked fresh. No time or reprieve given for them to dry out in the sun. 

Thorin, Dwalin, Dori and Glòin were the hold outs. 

“Come on, get up!”

Bilbo found himself held a lot again, this time shaken about like a kitten held by the scruff by an irritated mother. 

“Bilbo!”

The Troll holding him shook him once more, so hard his teeth rattled like loose change in a tin. 

“Lay down your arms, or we’ll rip his off!” 

It was that ultimatum that decided his, and their, fate. 

The company all looked to Thorin, their leader would become the deciding factor in this fight. Bilbo watched him, and pleaded, though he wasn’t exactly sure what for. Did he want Thorin to continue to fight? Or submit to capture now, only to rouse them all into righteous rebellion and fight their way free later? Saving not only bloodshed, but no doubt resources too as these Trolls were much bigger than he had imagined a foe they faced would be. 

Thorin watched him in return, the gaze between them indescribable. Too full of emotion to be put into simple words. Did he see the inevitable end to this as Bilbo did? Or was he struggling to face the truth? Wrestling with his knowledge as a warrior, his wisdom as an uncrowned king, and his fears as Bilbo’s…friend? Was that the word? Were they friends? Was that what it was? The simmering concoction of anger, frustration, exasperation and growing understanding he held within him for the Dwarf. 

Bilbo hardly had time to consider this when their leader threw down his sword, and the others followed suit, each as resigned as the last. The Trolls plucked them up with glee and likewise stuffed them into sacks, their weapons discarded to the side for later examination. A pile of Dwarves amassing beside the giant fire, the Trolls counted them all while licking their lips, and set to preparing dinner with gusto. 

“Have we got time to roast ‘em?” One asked the group, examining them with a prodding finger and began to set aside certain Dwarfs, though what exactly he was selecting them for or by which process no one but he knew. 

“Before dawn?”

“If we strap ‘em up now, they should be done in time.” 

“If you’re sure.”

“I do prefer roasted over mashed,” the third Troll finally quipped.  

Bilbo tried to convince himself the Troll was talking about potatoes. 

***

Fíli

Fíli sighed. 

The hessian sack itched, and he was lay on a stone that prodded at his gut. One positive to his current situation was that Rose was not likewise trussed up beside him. He prayed that she had remained at the camp, but doubt crept upon him with sickening dread. Rose was, if anything, unpredictable. He could no sooner know her movements that he could know her visions. He hoped Gandalf had returned before she decided to do something reckless like save them. 

The trolls argued between themselves about the best way to prepare and cook them all. It wasn’t the direst of straits he had ever been in, but it came close. As a member of one of the smallest races to inhabit Middle Earth, it wasn’t as an uncommon happenstance to be considered food for another. 

“You can’t eat them!” 

Their Hobbit had found his feet. 

“Oh?” The Troll who seemed to be the leader, or at least the one who lacked the most absentmindedness, turned to eye the little fellow. “I suppose you want us to let you all go? Is that it?” 

Bilbo, for his part, did not waver in the shadows of the looming Trolls. Fíli felt his respect of the little fellow grow. Timid at first, he could see that stubborn sensibility Fíli was beginning to think was characteristic of Hobbits shine through. 

Bilbo Baggins, trussed and stuffed into a dirty sack, unable to walk and forced to hop to move forward, his head barely reaching the Trolls knee, refused to cower. He did not glower either, but, much to Fíli’s amazement and amusement, he began to reason with the Trolls. 

“I meant with the er, with the seasoning.” 

“What about the seasoning?” 

“Well, have you smelt them? You’re going to need something stronger than sage before you plate this lot up.”

“Traitor!” Glóin shouted, trying to break free of his sack to tackle the Hobbit. 

The outburst was ignored. 

“What do you know about cooking Dwarf?” One scoffed, a puff of putrid breath washing over them all. 

“Shut up,” the first dismissed. “Let the flurgaburburhobbit talk.”

“The secret to cooking Dwarf is um…is er…”

It took Fíli a moment to see where Bilbo was going with his line of questions and answers. It took his brother longer. Yet, when Thorin kicked his squalling nephew, the protests ceased. 

“I’ve got worms as big as my arms!” Oín announced with wide, panicked eyes. 

The rest joined the clamouring, and Fíli lent his voice to them. Their overlapping words seemed to confuse the Trolls for a while. Then, the larger one huffed, pointing a finger as thick as their bodies at Bilbo. 

“What would you have us do, then? Let em all go?” 

“Well…”

“You think I don’t know what you’re up to? This little ferret is taking us for fools.”

“Ferret?” 

“Fools?”

Gandalf appeared on top of the large rock behind the Trolls. 

“The dawn will take you all!” He announced. 

The Trolls turned, disinterested. 

“Who’s that?”

“No idea.”

“Can we eat him too?”

Gandalf struck the boulder and it cracked perfectly in half, showering the clearing in sunlight. The company was silent for a moment, as if trying to believe what they had just seen was actually happening, and then they erupted into cheering. 

“Whoohoo!” 

“Ahha!”

Then, from the spit roast over the fire: “Oh, get your foot outta my back!” 

Once the cheering was done, the group began to free themselves with varying degrees of success. Fíli fought with his bindings, attempting to twist his arms within the tight confines of the sack to yank at the knot around his throat when hands appeared beneath his chin. 

“Are you all right?”

Struck momentarily dumb, by shock and disbelief, he could only stare at the small fingers working to loosen the rope by his chin. 

“Fíli?”

The concerned call of his name drew his gaze up to her face. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Helping,” she replied as though her being there was the most regular occurrence in the world. Far from it if Fíli was to have anything to do with it. 

“When did you get here?”

“Gandalf found his way back to camp and I pointed him in the direction you had all vanished to.”

Ah, so the Wizard was to blame. 

“He would have missed you all if I’d not pointed out the precarious position some were in on that roasting spit.”

What was that? She had directed Gandalf, and then corrected him? It sounded less and less like Fíli could blame the Wizard. 

The knot loosened, the sack gaped and Fíli could free himself. He stood, taking Rosalyn’s hands in his own to help her to her feet just as his mother taught him. She smiled, but her mind was somewhere else. She was looking around the Trolls encampment, though Fíli could not find it within him to look away from her. 

If he needed any evidence she did not recall her upbringing, this moment was proof enough. Any Dwarf or Dwarrowdam, of any social standing or position of power or none, would have thanked him for his assistance in rising to her feet. It was an action so ingrained in his etiquette training that he had come to expect flushing cheeks, fluttering eyelashes and a demure uttering of thanks. Rose offered none of this. She took his help as fact, not a privilege. To her, his actions were normal, actions that everyone would do. Kindness was a matter of fact to her, not societal rules in place to secure alliances or marriages. Despite his outrage that the Wizard had put Rose in danger by allowing her so close to Trolls, he could not refuse himself a small moment of calm. 

She would be good for him, he decided. Yes, before this moment he knew their connection as Ones meant a happy future but now he knew his growing fondness for her would change him for the better. 

The world wherein those empty gestures were utilised as strategically as chess moves was crumbling away. Perhaps they could help to herald a new era of kindness for the simple sake of being kind?

“What is it?”

Rosalyn was squeezing his hands now, face open and patient, wanting to know his thoughts for no reason other than his sudden quiet he supposed.

Yes, he decided, she would be good for him and in return he would be good for her. He would make sure of it. Because he could not live with himself if she became reclusive with her kindness because of his inherited prejudices. 

“Nothing,” he answered. “Only I am happy to see you again, and not to have ended up a Trolls dinner.” 

She giggled, looking both delighted and disgusted. 

“I hardly think it would have come to that!” She assured him. “You all would have thought of something. And Bilbo was doing an excellent job at delaying them.” 

Fíli felt his eye twitch, fighting his instincts. 

“Just how long had you been listening?”

“A while.”

Her answer was far too innocent. He remembered telling her to stay put at their camp, and her reluctant compliance. He distinctly recalled it. Judging by her rouging cheeks, so did she. 

“So you chose not to follow my directions?”

Even with a hessian sack around his ankles, stripped of weapons, and unkempt, he attempted to look strict. Emulating Thorin’s famous glower he had utilised whenever the brothers had been up to mischief. 

Which, in Fíli’s defence hadn’t been all that often. Whereas Kíli had been the recipient of it so often Thorin had given up reprimanding Kíli and called on Dís to discipline him. Kíli had soon stopped misbehaving but Fíli wasn’t so sure the glower would work on Rosalyn. Not that it wasn’t effective, it was. Fíli had the look down to the minutest detail. No, it would not effect Rose because he wasn’t sure he could keep it up while it was she who he glowered at. 

“I did!” She tried to argue, bottom lip taken between her teeth once more. 

Fíli offered a raised eyebrow. 

“But you were gone so long, and then I began hearing noises, then Gandalf came…” she trailed off as she shrugged before continuing, “it seemed silly to sit by and not help.”

By now, several of the company were free thanks to Gandalf, and watched and listened with glee. Thorin gave no indication to his thoughts on the matter, and followed along with a shielded gaze. 

Fíli took a deep breath. 

“While it is admirable that you wanted to help, Rose, that doesn’t change the fact that it was dangerous.”

“But you all ran off.”

“I know. It wasn’t the best scenario to leave you alone—”

“No, you ran into danger,” she explained her reasoning. “So why can’t I?”

He waited for her to realise the truth of the matter herself while Bifur laughed.

She looked between the chuckling Dwarf and Fíli, dun coloured eyebrows furrowed. 

“What?” 

“Rose, you’re untrained.” 

“I know I am,” she retorted, uncaring or unaware at the clear reasoning behind their actions. Her hands went to her hips, her posture so similar to that of his mother’s that Fíli felt uneasy. He had never been much good at withstanding his mother when she took on that stance. “And whose fault is that? Not mine.”  

Fíli was starting to see how Thorin and Dwalin had felt when he and Kíli began asking for weapons training far before they were of age. It was yet another matter their uncle had diverted to Dís to handle. Right now, Fíli reckoned his mother would agree with Rose on this matter. Truth be told, he did too. 

“You’re right.” 

Rosalyn was surprised and her shoulders relaxed. 

“Oh? I am?”

“You are,” he agreed, ignoring the frowns of several bystanders. 

Fíli was not a Dwarf who agreed with many of the old ways, he’d as much admitted to it when they were in Bree, not that Rosalyn would understand the significance. 

He kicked aside the sack and walked over to the pile of weapons and clothes the Trolls had stripped them of. When he stepped around her, he noticed a sudden flush colouring her chest and neck but didn’t draw attention to it. Any state of undress was far less than he supposed Roslayn was accustomed to seeing, particularly from a male. Fíli tried to not make a conscious effort to push his shoulders back to appear broader or to flex his fingers to make that muscle in his forearm jump. He tried, and he failed. How could he not when Rose’s eyes darted to his exposed forearm as he reached for his coat? Her open admiration sparked raw want in him. 

But those urges were best left for later. 

He found one of the many small daggers he owned. It was practical, almost crude compared to Rose’s beauty, and he resolved to forge her a dagger of her own that could stand up to her comeliness. How his fingers itched to be back in a forge, letting the world fall away until only he and his work remained. 

He handed the dagger to her. 

“I’ll teach you,” he promised her, nodding as she took the dagger from him. “You should know how to defend yourself at the very least.” 

“Fí, do you think that’s wise? Even we started out with wooden swords and we grew up around weapons!” Kíli had wandered over once he was freed and stared at the dagger with open concern. 

“It’s fine,” Fíli reassured his brother. 

He watched Rose examine the dagger, pleased to find her smiling and admiring the sharp edge of the blade and the runes he had carved into the hilt. 

“I don’t know,” Kíli grumbled, lowering his voice. “Uncle won’t be pleased.”

Their uncle was occupied helping those trussed on the giant spit to find their feet. He was paying little mind to his nephews and the fair-haired Seer. 

“Not to fear, laddie, with all of us the lass will learn in no time!” Nori chose that moment to appear at Rose’s elbow, gaze probing. 

Bilbo wandered over. “What’s this?”

She offered him the dagger for inspection. 

“Fíli’s going to teach me how to fight,” Rose told him, clearly proud of the fact, and expecting Bilbo’s reaction to be much the same. 

The result was far from expectations. Fíli had never seen flesh turn that shade of puce as quick as Bilbo purpled as Rose’s words registered. 

“He is? He isn’t!” 

“Why not? Because I’m a female?”

Bilbo looked constipated, the violent flush of his cheeks doing little to ease the comparison. Fíli could practically hear his mind frantically trying to work out how to refuse Rosalyn training without conceding that it was, indeed, because of her gender. Notably, no one else rushed to his aid. 

“No, it is because…because…”

She took up the defensive stance once again, fisted hands resting on her hips. Fíli watched how she handled the dagger, and was pleased to see she held the hilt in her palm so the blade lay harmlessly against the underside of her forearm. Perhaps she was not as untrained as they all believed her to be? 

“Yes?”

Bilbo looked around for help, but there weren’t many among them willing to upset Rosalyn by siding with him. There was, however, Thorin. 

“Because you are his ward.”

Rose turned to face the older Dwarf, lips pursed with what Fíli assumed to be frustration. 

“I don’t know what that means.”

Their leader came closer, offering Rosalyn the courtesy of facing her as he spoke. Something he had always done when telling his nephews off in the past. 

“It means that Mr Baggins’ word is law as far as you are concerned.”

“What! That’s preposterous!”

Thorin’s eyes gleamed, dark and sharp as flint axeheads. 

“Would you rather I took you on as my ward?” He needled, pressing the only advantage Fíli could  see leading to any peace between the two now. “As the leader of this company, the heir of Erebor and of Druin’s name it would be my right to claim you for the Longbeards as a ward of my kin. I need only say so.”

Rosalyn’s head snapped to face Fíli. He knew she had latched on to the word ‘claimed’. 

His uncle was technically, because of Rose’s clear Dwarven heritage and the shortage of Dwarrowdams within Dwarven kingdoms, well within the law to do so. It would also, not that Fíli, his uncle or any of them agree, be within Thorin’s right as Rose’s ward to betroth her to either Fíli or Kíli. A leftover from the last war, last minute and unvoiced, unannounced betrothals weren’t uncommon. It was usual, some fifty years ago, to be invited to a banquet only to find it a betrothal announcement or even a wedding ceremony that neither central participating party knew about. 

Fíli knew his uncle would never do such a thing to him, and he also knew that Rose would never agree with such an arrangement, nor would he want to manipulate her in such a way. Yet, he could not stop his traitorous heart from thrumming excitedly at the possible prospect. 

At Thorin’s declaration and Rose’s silence, the company had grown likewise still, anticipating another row. Fíli held Rose’s gaze and tried to convey his hope that she would not anger Thorin further. If pushed, Fíli knew Thorin could and would implement his threat, legally taking her on as his ward. It was something that would only complicate matters. Having Bilbo as her guardian worked in her favour, and whatever the others said he would still teach her. He didn’t care. He just needed her to trust him. 

Rose, mute either from anger or self restraint, at last nodded. The group went back to matters of untying everyone from the spit and redressing. Gandalf, who had been watching from the edge of the clearing, and likewise watching the conversation, began knocking on the now stone Trolls. Thorin joined him without another glance at Rosalyn, both dismissing her and brushing her off for now. 

“And where did you come from, if I may ask?” He inquired of the Wizard who began to give wise sounding replies. 

With attentions elsewhere, Fíli reached out and took back the dagger she held. She startled a little when his fingers enclosed around the hilt still held tight in her palm, but soothed when she registered his proximity. He patted her hand, hoping to offer support no matter how small, smiling when she looked up at him. 

“It’s still yours,” he assured her quietly and let her watch as he replaced the dagger in one fo the many hiding places in his clothing. “Whenever you need it.” 

She let out a little giggle, light and giddy. 

“Dolzekh menu.” 

The smile they shared felt like a secret, and Fíli was glad his brother did not know all of his secrets just yet. Some were still his to cherish. 

***

Rosalyn  

Seeing red was a phrase I had heard from Daisy. She had been talking about a time when her mother had found Daisy had opened the tin of mince pies the day before Yule and between her and Dinodas they had finished all but two of the treats. 

According to her, they had believed the second tin to contain more and were going to swap it for the original before she could find out. They had forgotten, Hilda had found the tin and confronted them. Daisy told me in depth of how Hilda’s face had changed colour, and her fists had shaken as Dinodas meekly admitted to their planned trickery. Hilda had shown them the second tin contained a pie. 

It was not a turn of phrase I imagined to experience firsthand, and yet, here I was with a red fog defending over my eyes. 

Ward of his kin? What did that even mean? I doubted it meant he could order me about like he was threatening to do. However, the desperate look in Fíli’s eyes made me pause the furious rant that longed to be spoken into life. Just how awful would my life become if Thorin were to claim me as his ward? Even imagining it turned my stomach. 

So not a word passed my lips, but I seethed in fury. Even after Fíli’s assertion the dagger could be mine to use in the future. Thorin ignored me and carried on his way, ordering the camp to be searched for anything useful, and for the ponies to be rounded up. The company followed his wishes with haste and little comment. All except Bilbo, who spared me a brief pat on the shoulder before joining Nori and Fíli. 

The prince of Durin, who was still dressed in his undershirt and long johns, stood watching me after our conversation came to a natural end. I couldn’t tell if he wanted to say something else to me, or simply remain staring. While I appreciated his gaze, now was not the time nor the place. 

Sense hit him a moment later and he jumped as if struck by a stinging wasp. Though he took his clothes in hand and began to dress, he showed no embarrassment. While I, fighting between flushing with anger or blushing from embarrassment, looked away. My eyes found Bofur’s but when he wiggled his eyebrows I had to look away again. 

Nuisances, the whole lot of them, utter nuisances. 

***

Bilbo was the one who found the Troll-hoard. He said the odour had caught him off guard and as someone who hadn’t met a Troll before, he’d been first inclined to believe that one of the Dwarves had…well, passed gas, was the polite way he had phrased it. His comments had earned many varying protests, and from Ori a bashful declaration to never have done so when a lady was present. That had caused some lighthearted teasing from the rest. 

Sure enough, through the trees down past where the ponies had been tied up, we soon spotted the marks of the trolls’ feet in the long grass and mud. We followed the tracks up the gently sloping hill towards, and just above the rise a big stone door appeared in the cliff face. 

The cave. 

Unfortunately, the great door was locked and even Gandalf could not open it with all his mutterings and spell castings. 

“Would this be any good?” Bilbo asked when the company were all getting tired and angry with the task. 

He held a large key, also made of stone and with clear tool marks. It looked out of place in his small hands, but would undoubtably be suitable mate to the overlarge lock on the door. 

I stayed back, sat upon a fallen tree, quite happy to sit in the cool breeze and listen to the birds sing as the Dwarves argued. But the sight of the key, and the clamour of disgruntled voices, made me sigh and wonder just how Bilbo had managed to survive this long without constant supervision. 

Gandalf was just as frustrated as the Dwarves, but was able to voice his grievances above the rest. 

“Bilbo Baggins, where did you find that?” Though his question, on paper, was polite his tone rumbled with depth akin to the growl of thunder. 

“On the floor,” Bilbo replied, looking quite small and unassuming in the wake of the group’s anger. “Back down at their camp, it must have fallen out of one of the pockets in their loincloths during the ruckus.” 

“Why on earth didn’t you mention it before?” Dori cried, outraged. 

Gandalf, evidently tired of talking, rolled his eyes, grabbed the key from Bilbo and fitted it into the keyhole. The stone door swung back with one big push from the Wizard. The air within rolled out like a soft belch from a monstrous mouth, hot and ripe with a stench matured far past any natural prime. Thorin led the way inside after Gandalf, with Dwalin, Glóin, Bofur and Nori following them. 

The rest spread out, talking, packing, and keeping themselves busy in some way or another. Feet from the entrance, Kíli stood with Bifur, who had found a pile of things just by the entrance of the Troll-hoard. Presently, he was shifting through it and handing Kíli things now and again. Kíli just stood there, seeming to not really understand what Bifur wanted as the Dwarf hadn’t actually spoken or signed to him, just ushered him over feverishly and began to hand him items at random. Including a ram’s skull for some reason and when Kíli went to place it back onto the floor with another pile, Bifur had shook his head and grumbled in Khuzdul before picking it back up and once again placing it in Kíli’s arms.

Eventually, he took the skull and broke off the two horns, pocketing them before chucking the skull back into the pile. Kíli merely looked on, unknowing of Bofur’s goal, but unwilling to say anything to him of the contrary. 

It made for amusing entertainment to pass the time. 

***

“What was it like?” I asked Nori once they had all reemerged. 

Other than dustier they seemed unaffected by the excursion. 

“Oh, uninteresting,” he replied, shrugging. “Typical cave, if you ask me. Apart from the abundance of gold, mind you.”

“Gold?” 

“Oh, aye.” He nodded. “There was a good deal of gold jumbled carelessly on shelves and on the ground, among an untidy litter of plunder, of all sorts from brass buttons to pots full of gold coins standing in the corner. And several swords of various makes, shapes, and sizes.” 

For the matter of fact way he spoke, I had to wonder what amount of gold would cause an appreciative reaction. 

I saw that Gandalf and Thorin had each taken a sword from the cave, while Gandalf held a smaller blade in a leather sheath. He handed it to Bilbo. 

“Bilbo! Here, this is about your size.”

It would have made only a tiny pocket-knife for a Troll, but it was a good as a short sword for a Hobbit.  

“I can’t take this.”

“The blade is of elvish make which means it will glow blue when orcs or goblins are nearby.” 

“I have never used a sword in my life.” 

“And I hope you never have to, but if you do, remember this: true courage is about knowing not when to take a life but when to spare one.”

He drew back from Bilbo, standing tall and hummed to himself as he pulled the sword he still held up to the light. 

“These look like good blades,” he observed, half drawing the sword and examining the tang curiously. “They were not made by any Troll, nor by any smith among Men in these parts and days; but when we read the runes on them, we shall know more about them.” 

Balin nodded. 

“We can use them to teach you runes, Rosalyn,” he said. 

“We can?”

Gandalf agreed. “Perhaps you already know some and these will jog your memory. It would be my hour to teach you.”

I fought the urge to pinch my nose, knowing it might be taken as a slight against Gandalf’s generous offer. The stench coming from the cave was beginning to sour my stomach. 

“I would love that, thank you.” 

Dwalin handed Fíli two daggers. More to add to his collection. He looked happy at the additions, but spared me a quick glance before wrinkling his own nose. 

“Lets get away from this horrible smell!” He cried. 

So the company was spilt as some were sent back into the cave and carried out pots of food that was untouched and looked fit to eat, and also one barrel of ale which was still full. Some were in two minds about taking the food, given where it had been found, but no one wanted to argue with Thorin when he set his wordless, dark glare upon us. 

While ferrying ourselves and the goods back to camp, it was agreed that everyone’s appetites were greatly depleted by the near miss of almost becoming supper themselves. Though Ori meekly asked me if he could have a mint when he saw me slip one from the bag for myself. I shared with a smile, telling him he could have as many as he wanted. 

“Oh, no, I couldn’t! Those are yours, and besides, we still have not figured out who gave them to you.” 

He was right, though after tonights events my consternation over the gifts was now trivial and childish in comparison. There were more pressing matters at hand. 

I looked across the camp, taking in everyone’s haggard appearances. No one had been unaffected by the event, and it looked like that quick refusal of hunger was beginning to wear thin as eager eyes took in the cask of ale and box of cheese with fresh eyes far away from the makeshift spit. 

I caught Fíli’s gaze over the rekindled fire. He was watching me, and I saw his eyes flicker down to the sweet bag as I retied the twine and replaced it into my pocket. When his eyes moved back to my face, he smiled. I returned it, unthinking, a reactive reaction. Then, he winked at me, smile crooking sharply at the corner of his mouth. 

Was…?

My thoughts must have shown on my face because he chuckled to himself before turning back to Bifur who was showing him some of the things he had collected from outside the Trolls cave. 

Fíli, of course. It made sense. His innocent questions about the bags, his easy acceptance of them, and quick bating away of my questions. It also explained Kíli’s glee over the matter. 

I continued to watch him, waiting for his eyes to return to me and sure enough a few breaths later they did. As we watched each other, I popped the second mint I held into my mouth and sent my own wink at him. I enjoyed his chuckle more than the mint.

By the time everyone had all come back to the camp with the ponies freely tethered closer to us at the tree line, it was unanimously agreed that we were all very hungry. Being so hungry, we could not turn our noses up at what had been retrieved from the Trolls’ larder. Our own provisions, even I knew despite the company’s hiding, were scant. Now, thanks to the Trolls, we had bread and cheese, a bushel of apples, and plenty of brown ale, and even some bacon to toast in the embers of the fire. All in all, it made for a fitting meal after almost being eaten, and the warm food and good drink coaxed many of the Dwarves into attempting to retell the tale of the battle with the Trolls before sleep won out. 

Though a watchman was appointed and subsequent watchmen elected to relieve him and so forth before anyone settled down to rest.