Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It had long been agreed upon by the residents of Hobbiton, through quiet murmurings over picket fences and whispered conversations during shared meals, that Briar Baggins was a disappointment.

She had shown much promise in her younger years. She had often been observed wearing breeches with a well-worn travelling pack slung over her shoulder, waving cheekily to those of her relatives who found such behaviour quite scandalous before walking across the Shire’s rolling hills.

Her adventures took her along winding trails that respectable hobbits rarely used. The seams of her breeches were sometimes damaged beyond repair by the rough currents of the Brandywine River, and it was rumoured that the Men in Bree had once been entirely dismayed by the sight of a small hobbit wandering through their crowded streets without shoes on.

Whenever she was absent from dinner at Bag End, her mother would not listen to neighbourly concern about the well-being of her wayward child. There was a distinct sense of satisfaction from Belladonna Baggins née Took, who had wandered even further than Mannish cities in her travels. She mended her daughter’s torn clothing and listened proudly to stories about what she had seen.

Briar would always return to Bag End with sun-reddened cheeks and odd mathoms for her parents. The residents of Hobbiton had believed then that she would take after her adventurous mother.

However, the influence of her father could never be denied. At Bungo Baggins’ side, Briar was never seen with a single loose stitch of embroidery on her sensible dresses, with her hair carefully combed and pinned to prevent her curls from becoming tangled in the wind. Her manners were impeccable. She had quite correctly memorised her family history going back several generations on both sides, and knew where seedlings ought to be planted for the best possible yield. It was rumoured that she had once bested Gerontius Took at a game of conkers, without him meaning to let her win.

Whether Briar Baggins would become an adventurer like her mother, or a proper gentlehobbit like her father, was a matter of spirited debate amongst the residents of Hobbiton. Either way, they were certain that she would never be boring.

However, none had anticipated the Fell Winter.

Bungo passed quietly from illness while the snow was still blanketing their smial. Belladonna lasted until the snow had thawed in the long-awaited sunlight, but the chill never left her shaking limbs. She had sat on the bench which looked out over their garden, bundled in nearly all of their blankets.

The neighbours emerging from their own homes, dangerously thin and exhausted, had watched Briar care for her mother attentively—but it seemed that Bungo had taken something vital with him.

They were buried without a traditional ceremony. There were far too many lost in the Shire, and those who had survived could not bear grieving them all in turn.

Time passed, enough that healthy crops were grown and larders fully restocked. Trade resumed, with foreign merchants travelling along the East Road into Buckland once assured of their safety. The thick ice sheet covering the Brandywine River melted, allowing fresh fish to be caught. Sleepless nights became much less frequent, and hobbits remembered their joy in a bountiful land.

It was many months before anyone realised that Briar Baggins was refusing to leave her smial.

She arranged for food supplies to be delivered directly to Bag End, without going to the market to select the best quality produce from what was available. On warmer days, she could be seen hastily planting seeds in the garden with little care for protecting them from the changing weather.

When the skies were clear and the sun was setting prettily, Briar might be found smoking from her father’s favourite pipe outside the front door of Bag End; she was always dressed immaculately, with not a hair out of place, though it was considered somewhat unusual that she continued to wear woollen gloves.

A passer-by had seen her briefly without the gloves, and told others that her hands had been shaking. That rumour was not widely circulated amongst the residents of Hobbiton; there was, to them, a distinction between good natured interest in members of their community and vicious gossip.

For years after the Fell Winter, Briar stayed as close to Bag End as propriety would allow. She accepted invitations when they could not be politely refused, attending parties in modest dresses that she had embroidered herself, giving her formal greetings and dancing perhaps once or twice before finding a comfortable place to sit with her father’s pipe and a pouchful of Old Toby. With practice, she became quite proficient at making shapes with the smoke as she exhaled, though she never did so when she believed that there were other hobbits around to admire them.

She contracted Hamfast Gamgee as a gardener, which meant that she was seen outside even more rarely, instead preferring to practise illustration or transcription in the warmth of her father’s study.

Eventually, the woollen gloves that had brought her comfort disappeared entirely. However, she never smiled in the earnest way that she had while her parents were still alive.

To the fauntlings who had no memory of the Fell Winter, Briar Baggins was an odd hobbit who made perfunctory appearances at social gatherings and might be convinced to tell them a story.

To the older residents of Hobbiton who had long believed that she would be exceptional, it became clear that they had been sadly mistaken. There was little to be said about a hobbit who refused to go anywhere unless she was expected, and was a truer friend through correspondence than direct conversation.

For it was known that Briar exchanged infrequent letters with Primula Brandybuck, likely at the younger hobbit’s insistence. They had known each other since they were fauntlings, being cousins who saw each other several times a year, and the letters had begun travelling the considerable distance between Hobbiton and Bucklebury after they had met again at a celebration of Yule.

These letters changed hands many times until they reached their destination.

That was how it became common knowledge when Gorbadoc Brandybuck, the Master of Buckland, sent a formal invitation asking for Briar’s assistance with preparations for an upcoming party; it would take several months to make the arrangements, so she would be more than welcome to remain as a guest at Brandy Hall.

It was expected that Briar would open this invitation and promptly go inside to sit at her desk, write a politely worded refusal and expression of gratitude, and continue on with her uneventful life.

And perhaps she might have, they would remark to each other later, if the invitation had not been accompanied by another of Primula’s letters. Not only was Primula Brandybuck her most steadfast friend, she was the youngest daughter of Gorbadoc and a permanent resident of Brandy Hall.

As it was, Briar read over both pieces of correspondence thoughtfully. She furrowed her brow, brushed the fingertips of her other hand against the pressed handkerchief in her pocket, and then nodded. “If you don’t mind waiting a moment,” she said to the hobbit who had delivered them.

After a few minutes inside Bag End, Briar reappeared with two envelopes; the wax seals were still warm to the touch, and there were names written across them in ink that had not yet dried. Absentmindedly, she blew on the ink to prevent it from smearing. This had the unintended effect of utterly shocking the hobbit at her doorstep, who had never known Briar to be act so hastily.

She pressed a coin into his hand. “Please pass these along to Bucklebury,” she told him with a small, but sincere smile. “Do let me know if they go astray. Much appreciated.”

The door closed without another word.

Two unassuming envelopes were carried across the Shire, as the residents of Hobbiton murmured to each other about what their contents might signify. Meanwhile, Briar Baggins packed everything that she might need for an extended stay away from Bag End.

Chapter Text

Brandy Hall was a much grander smial than Bag End, with sprawling networks of underground tunnels intended to house offshoots of the Brandybuck family tree.

Although Briar had been offered rooms that were furnished but still unoccupied, it hardly seemed sensible to ask that her hosts spend days making them comfortable for a guest. Instead, she accepted Primula’s invitation to stay with her immediate family, in a small but quite cosy room.

The first night after her arrival, she fell asleep listening to Primula’s parents talking in the kitchen. After more than two decades of being alone, it was unnerving to hear the sounds of everyday life.

When she woke early the next morning and dressed by candlelight, preparing to light the hearth and set a teapot to boil so that the leaves would make her more alert, Briar blinked blearily at the unfamiliar hallway outside her room. There were hushed noises of movement in the kitchen, where Briar found that the hearth was already alight. The teapot’s lid began to rattle. Her aunt Mirabella promptly removed it from the heat before it could whistle loudly.

“My goodness, we weren’t expecting you awake until much later!” Mirabella wiped both hands against her apron in an absentminded gesture. “Please, sit down! I’ll bring you something to eat.”

Briar found herself sitting at the kitchen table with savoury scones and a scalding cup of tea.

“I suppose you would be an early riser, taking care of everything at Bag End.” Mirabella lifted the lid of a large pot which was cooking over the fire, avoiding the cloud of steam that rose from it.

“Yes,” Briar said, voice still hoarse from sleep. She sipped the tea to clear her throat. “Much to do, to keep a household running smoothly. As I’m sure you understand.”

Mirabella looked at her sympathetically, as though she had said something entirely different.

If Briar had been younger and unused to these reactions from the hobbits around her, she might have become annoyed at the unspoken assumption that her lifestyle was pitiable. Instead, she simply contemplated a scone until the older hobbit turned away.

It was considered quite unusual for a spinster to maintain her own household, without seeking marriage or moving in with relatives to care for their fauntlings or assist with daily chores. She had heard her neighbours whispering about who would inherit Bag End next, and wringing their hands about what a shame it was that this branch of the Baggins family tree would extend no further.

Only the braver fauntlings approached her to hear the stories that she compiled about the wider world, and only Primula had ever shown a genuine interest in her studies of language and history.

Briar would not consider her life wasted, simply because she never married or had children.

They made polite conversation until the sun rose. Primula came into the kitchen with her hair uncombed and dress too loosely fastened, and kissed her mother on the cheek with a radiant smile.

“Grandfather suggested that we walk around Bucklebury today, if you’re well rested,” she said, joining Briar at the kitchen table and reaching over to take a fresh scone.

“You will need to take hats with you, my dears,” Mirabella told them.

“I suppose you might have seen everything from the cart as you travelled along the road,” Primula mused, managing to smear flour across her chin for her mother to fuss over later.

“No, it was too dark to even see the Brandywine River,” she reassured her.

Primula grinned at that and leaned close to whisper, “It would be wonderful to go walking along the riverbank, just like when we were fauntlings. If only we had some sturdy breeches!”

It was meant as nothing more than a joke, of course. No proper hobbit lass would do such a thing. Primula’s parents would be terribly worried about their daughter’s safety and reputation.

While Briar did not have to fear public censure, as her reputation mattered little unless she wished to marry, there was a harsh reality that had caused her to stop adventuring altogether: without parents hopeful for her safe return, who was there to notice if she came to harm?

Who would accept the mathoms that she had gathered as souvenirs and display them around their home? Who would listen to her recollection of what dawn looked like from the highest branch of a tree, or ask her questions about the new technologies being developed in Bree?

She had long decided that poetry was a worthy substitute for seeing a different sunrise, and books purchased through travelling merchants would teach her about what was happening in the world. That would have to suffice, without anyone who could be relied upon as a travelling companion.

They left Brandy Hall with a small coin purse, rather than the basket of food she had been expecting.

“We’ll be visiting the marketplace,” Primula explained once she was presentable, dark hair combed back and secured with a ribbon, allowing the remainder to fall loose around her shoulders. “The mayor gave permission for foreign merchants to set up stalls in Bucklebury, because we’re close to the East Road and the Rangers can ensure that they’re safe from anything dangerous. I don’t think that any have travelled as far as Hobbiton yet, though. You must see what they have to offer.”

Primula hooked her arm through Briar’s elbow, momentarily startling her.

Just like when they were fauntlings, she walked so quickly down the hillside that they were nearly running. Their pace slowed when they reached the road and began following signposts towards the marketplace. Primula’s hair threatened to shake loose from its ribbon at any second, and her cheeks soon became rosy. She waved at acquaintances as they passed, but didn’t stop to make any introductions.

“There’s no need to overwhelm you on your first day,” she said sensibly.

Privately, Briar thought that she had been overwhelmed since stepping off the cart the night before.

The marketplace was situated next to the crossroads, with extensive signage directing travellers to accommodation and important landmarks in Bucklebury. There was an enduring superstition that only hobbits could navigate easily through the Shire, and all others would quickly lose their direction.

Although it was still early in the day, most of the stalls were open for business. They offered products that were available to Briar in Hobbiton: barrels of locally grown fruit and vegetables, freshly caught fish laid out on salt crystals, varieties of pipe-weed and tea leaves, stationery for letter-writing and fauntlings practising their calligraphy, and other commonplace purchases.

The stalls used by the merchants who had travelled from Bree had been built with larger frames. Primula tugged her over to inspect delicate crockery with elvish designs painted along the rims.

“Very fine,” Briar murmured, locating the tiny marking near the handle where the artist had painted their distinctive signature. If there was no signature, then the piece should not be valued highly because it was either a forgery or the artisan had felt ashamed of its quality.

Primula looked at her with curiosity, but the merchant recognised what she was doing.

“Never had a halfling know well enough to check,” he said good-naturedly.

Another stall sold books about practical matters such as gardening or seasonal recipes, which seemed to be popular, especially since they could be neatly wrapped and given as a gift. Briar was happy to find that the merchant kept a supply of maps and non-fiction books, and could seek out other texts if she knew the title and author, then arrange for them to be sent through to Bag End.

They bought savoury pies to eat while sitting on the grass nearby, and sampled flavoured ales poured from kegs so enormous that several horses must have been needed to transport them. Primula also showed her an artisan who spun hot sugar instead of glass, shaping it into tiny animals. Apparently, it had become fashionable to purchase this confectionery for special occasions.

Primula soon became interested in spools of brightly coloured ribbons. Briar, who preferred not to wear ribbons in her hair or clothing, glanced around the marketplace.

Set apart from the merchants’ stalls, there was a small building made out of brick, which had most likely been a watch post at the crossroads before the marketplace had been established. From its rudimentary chimney stack came a thick pillar of smoke, which dissipated in the sky overhead.

“What are they using the fire for?” she wondered aloud.

“Hm?” Primula looked over at the brick building and back down to the ribbons. “A blacksmith travels down from the Blue Mountains to offer his services for a few months of the year. He always returns home when the weather begins to change. It caused a commotion when he first arrived. Most of us had never seen a dwarf before, and the mayor had to publicly issue permission for him to remain in Bucklebury because there was an awful rumour about dwarves invading the Shire. Completely unfounded, of course.” She waved her hand in the air absently. “I suppose it sounds rather exciting now.”

Now that she was looking more intently, Briar noticed a low table near the brick building. It was more unceremonious than the other stalls, lacking shade for customers to shelter under. Of course, she supposed, it wasn’t necessary to keep the items that a dwarf would sell protected from the sun.

“He mostly does repair work and shoes ponies,” Primula explained. “The stall is for commissions.”

“What kind of commissions?” she asked, curious.

“Well, anything that would require metalworking. Grandfather commissioned hoops to make new barrels, and Mother had him come to measure our door hinges so that they could be replaced. He has mathoms on display, but there really isn’t much demand for ornate jewellery. I expect it’s the other merchants who purchase them sometimes.”

Primula held up a spool of ribbon embroidered with tiny flowers, clearly considering whether the colouring would suit Briar’s complexion, and apparently decided against the purchase.

At that moment the blacksmith stepped out from the makeshift forge.

Had she been asked to describe dwarves before this trip to Bucklebury, Briar would have relied on the accounts that she had diligently compiled over the years. Those accounts had led her to believe that dwarves were coarse of skin and manner, with beards so thick and unkempt that their eyes could barely be seen, who despaired of hygiene and gloried in scars or disfigurement.

It became immediately apparent that these accounts had been prejudiced.

The blacksmith appeared to be around her own age, surprisingly. His features were quite handsome, though his nose was distinctly dwarven. Black hair fell past his shoulders in gentle waves. His beard was neat, cropped shorter than they had seen on other merchants who had travelled here. Further defying her expectations, he was wearing a simple cotton shirt, trousers and suspenders.

He stared down at a warped piece of metal, turning it over in his hands and frowning slightly. Then, as though he could sense that someone was watching, the blacksmith looked directly at her.

Although Briar was embarrassed to have been caught staring, her cheeks immediately reddening and her heart beating quickly, it was somehow quite impossible to break eye contact.

He appeared to consider her, no doubt unmoved by her plain dress and staid hairstyle. Briar expected him to dismiss her attention outright and continue attending to his stall. Instead, he smiled, which only made him appear more unsettlingly handsome.

“We ought to return before lunch,” Primula said, having purchased a handful of ribbons.

“Hm?” Briar turned toward her, startled. “Oh. Oh, yes. Of course.”

Primula frowned and reached out to touch her cheek. “I think you might have been out too long in the sun,” she said with concern. “We will have to come back another day to see everything else.”

As they headed out of the marketplace towards Brandy Hall, something compelled her to look back.

The blacksmith was still watching her intently, and she kept looking back, her heart beating thunderously, until the crowd of marketgoers filled the space between them.

Chapter Text

Several days passed without returning to the marketplace. Although Briar had none of the symptoms of sunburn aside from that embarrassing flush, and had obediently worn her hat throughout their outing, and was usually the kind to become tanned rather than burned, besides—Mirabella had been adamant that they remain indoors until it was certain her skin wouldn’t peel.

Her own mother had never cared about such things, so it felt odd that her aunt was so concerned.

There was always something for them to do around Brandy Hall, whether it was minding fauntlings for the afternoon so that their parents could rest, or having a discussion with the Old Took about their involvement with the upcoming party. During which he often became distracted reminiscing about how emotional he had been when their births were announced, even though Briar and Primula were among the youngest of his numerous grandchildren.

And sometimes, quite unexpectedly, Primula would look at her for a long moment and say, “I suddenly remember that Mother asked me to run an errand.” Then she would disappear from Brandy Hall, leaving Briar with quiet hours to write letters to ensure that Bag End’s affairs were still in order, spend a pleasant afternoon reading a book that she had purchased from the marketplace, and attempt small sketches of sights around the grand smial that she thought particularly beautiful.

It was on one of these afternoons that Briar noticed a broken down cart on the road outside. A bundle of tools was already laid out beside it and someone was leaning down to remove a wheel.

If this had happened at Bag End, she would have insisted that they come inside until the sun was not directly overhead, because it was not at all sensible to risk health for work that could be delayed.

Although this was not her smial and she did not have the authority to intervene, it wasn’t rude to extend hospitality on behalf of the residents of Brandy Hall. Briar didn’t hesitate before going to the kitchen, where she gathered up a covered basket of apples and freshly made biscuits. She hung it in the crook of her arm, then carried a jug of water and several glasses out to the broken cart.

“The axle will need to be removed completely,” came an uncommonly deep voice from the underside of the cart. “It has been worn down by rocks kicking up from the road, and the seasonal changes in temperature.”

He murmured something about ‘an inferior alloy’, then straightened up. The blacksmith looked over the cart with a critical eye, clearly having mistaken her for Gorbadoc Brandybuck.

“He won’t be able to help you raise it,” she warned him.

The blacksmith turned to her, surprised.

Briar ignored her heart beating faster, just as it had in the marketplace. “He injured his back badly, several years ago,” she explained. “He’ll insist on helping you, but he shouldn’t overextend himself.”

“It doesn’t need to be raised by hand,” the blacksmith replied. He stepped back and gestured towards where he had been working. There was an odd metal contraption where a wheel had been removed, which elevated the cart enough that anyone could access the underside.

“How interesting,” she said, tempted to sketch the contraption so that she could later try to understand how it worked. Briar turned to the blacksmith, who was simply looking at her. “You should sell these at the marketplace, if you don’t offer them already. There are many farmers who would undoubtedly be interested in anything that would make repairs easier and safer.”

He smiled in an unpractised way and inclined his head. “These are common in the Blue Mountains. I did not realise that they weren’t yet being used in the Shire.”

Now that he was standing much closer than their unsettling encounter in the marketplace, Briar could see that his eyes were a shade of blue that she had never seen before.

Beautiful, she thought.

“I brought these for you,” she said abruptly. “Refreshments, I mean. It’s much too hot out here.”

“Thank you,” the blacksmith replied, although he appeared wholly unaffected by the weather. He hesitated for a moment before asking, “Will you sit with me until Master Brandybuck returns?”

So, she found herself sitting on the dirt road, with her back against the broken cart because it provided the only shade in their immediate area. The blacksmith nearly protested her decision, perhaps knowing enough about dresses to realise that hers would be ruined by such a misadventure, but he was clearly sensible and quickly accepted that he couldn’t prevent what was already done.

He sat down beside her without complaining about his own breeches and complimented the biscuits, which she explained had been made by her aunt that morning.

“The axle will need to be replaced…” she mused. “Have you looked over the braces? The cart seemed unsteady when it brought me over the hill last week.”

“Those cannot be salvaged,” he agreed. “The metal has rusted away and become brittle. Even if I tightened the braces so that the cart was steadier, that would risk them snapping on a rough drive.”

“It seems that the Shire has much need of your skills with metalworking,” she said with a smile.

“Dwarven metalworking,” he corrected, taking another drink of water. “Men do not understand that your carts are pulled by ponies, so they are always low to the ground. And few hobbits seem to understand that metal needs to be cared for so that it remains strong and doesn’t rust.”

Briar laughed at that, though the blacksmith immediately became sheepish.

“Not that I mean to offend-”

She waved away his apologies. “We lack an appreciation of metalwork, certainly. Just as dwarves rely on the barrels of fresh produce that we export to the Blue Mountains. I believe that our races are quite complementary in their shortcomings.”

The blacksmith grinned down at an apple, which seemed uncommonly small in his calloused hands.

Although neither of them spoke for several minutes, the silence felt comfortable. The blacksmith bit into the apple while Briar turned her face up towards the sky, briefly closing her eyes, enjoying the fresh air and warm weather even though the cart was digging into her shoulder.

When she opened them again, it was apparent that the blacksmith had been watching her. She flushed without quite knowing why, and he turned to contemplate the apple core.

“You can throw it into the garden,” she told him. “Or put it back in the basket, and it will be mixed into compost that we use to mulch the garden.”

At least, that was what Hamfast Gamgee did. Briar hadn’t taken out the gardening tools since she had hired him on, years earlier. Her neighbours had made unsubtle comments about it being ‘unnatural’ for a hobbit to keep their hands free from soil, but remembering how her mother had looked out over the garden with chattering teeth, despite nearly all of their blankets drawn around her shoulders, still made her chest ache sharply.

He opened his mouth, as if about to speak when the side door opened.

Briar stood up and dusted off her skirts, without bothering to see who had come outside. She gathered the basket and empty glasses while the blacksmith also stood, more reluctantly.

“Oh!” Gorbadoc Brandybuck exclaimed upon seeing her there with the basket. “An excellent thought, my dear. I was remiss in not offering refreshments myself. You had best go inside now, while we discuss what must be done to get this cart in working order.”

This was not Bag End, where she commissioned repairs herself and everyone knew better than to imply that she lacked the necessary understanding to properly conduct business transactions. Her face reddened slightly with embarrassment that the blacksmith had heard the unintended slight.

Briar nodded quickly in his direction, not meeting his eyes. Then she obediently went inside.

Chapter Text

“I need more of the ribbon that I purchased during our last visit,” Primula told her as they walked down to the marketplace, bracing their hats against a gentle breeze. “You needn’t wait for me. Walk around and look at the stalls that you might have missed. I’ll come and find you when I’m done.”

It had only been a week since her arrival at Bucklebury, so most of the stalls remained unchanged. Briar touched the pouch of coins in her pocket as she watched the artisan shaping sugar. Then she wandered through the marketplace, pretending not to notice the merchants who called out to passers-by.

There was no guarantee that the blacksmith would be attending his stall, and she was pleased to see that he had not been called away for a commission. Instead, he was standing expressionless while a hobbit leaned across the table, brandishing loose cutlery.

“-might have been better if you stayed away from the Shire altogether, if you were going to sell such shoddy items! I’ve heard that you take damaged metal when doing repairs, melt it down, and make it into pony shoes which break in less than a year!”

Briar walked up behind the angry hobbit. “Why, Rosemary Brockhouse!” she said in her sternest voice, hands on her hips. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, trying to pass off your great-aunt’s cutlery as a recent purchase! We all know that she ordered it from Bree before you were even born. My goodness, you have often complained about how they are scratched and chipped. Imagine if this blacksmith takes offence, and you never have a better opportunity to purchase a replacement set?”

The hobbit turned towards her with an expression that strongly indicated her guilt. “I never-” After a moment of indecision, she frowned and clutched the cutlery tighter. “You’re making accusations without proof! I purchased this set from the dwarf last year, and it’s already near useless!”

Briar sighed and stood beside her at the table, picking up a teaspoon both from the disputed set and from the blacksmith’s wares. “Look closely,” she said, turning them over. “Every qualified artisan leaves a distinct signature on their work.”

A simple comparison of the two teaspoons made Rosemary’s claims even more absurd. The teaspoon she argued had been sold to her recently was scratched, with a crude design that had worn down over the decades. It was marked with the artisan’s initials.

However, the teaspoon displayed by the blacksmith had a deceptively simple design which was slightly raised, travelling around the handles. Details of elaborate landscapes were so tiny and well-formed that she believed there was a flock of birds which could be completely hidden by a fingertip.

It was signed with a pattern of interlocking lines which resembled a crest. If Briar was not mistaken, runes were disguised within the unfamiliar pattern. From her extensive reading, she knew that dwarves were notoriously secretive about their language, so it seemed improbable that the runes spelled out the blacksmith’s name, or that he would explain them to her if she asked.

“Put your great-aunt’s set into storage,” she told the other hobbit gently. “You can either save up for a wonderful set made by this blacksmith—if he will still have you as a customer, after this—or look over what the merchants from Bree are offering.”

Rosemary appeared dejected, then raised her chin with haughty stubbornness. “I don’t need advice from an unmarried recluse!” she spat, picking up the cutlery and glaring at them both before leaving.

“I used to mind her, when she was a fauntling,” Briar mused, watching her disappear into the crowd.

“Well, she is no longer welcome here as a customer. Not after how she treated you.”

She glanced at him with surprise. “Her comments towards you were much worse,” she pointed out.

“I have become accustomed to false rumours and suspicion during my travels,” the blacksmith told her, returning the teaspoon to where it had been displayed. “Even from customers in the Blue Mountains, who better understand the offence they are giving. It would be a better world if everyone had your kindness and common sense.”

Briar was flustered by the compliment, but reasoned that dwarves might be inclined to flattery.

Remembering that she had brought her own coins to the marketplace today, rather than Primula paying for whatever caught their attention, she decided to look over the blacksmith’s stall.

Although the items on display appeared to have been placed haphazardly, Briar suspected that this simply showed that the blacksmith lacked a hobbit’s aesthetic sensibility, rather than carelessness; they were laid out on a rich fabric which surely protected them from becoming tarnished.

There were pony shoes in a variety of sizes to demonstrate the quality of his commission work, along with door hinges and impossibly tiny gears which would be necessary to repair a broken clock.

The blacksmith offered several sets of metal cutlery, each with its own distinctive design of flowers or natural scenery. It was likely that he had crafted them specifically for hobbits, because these designs were always popular in the Shire despite changing fashions, and they were a better size than those which could be purchased from other merchants.

“How much for this set?” she asked after examining the fine details of a mountain range. Thinner lines suggested that the mountains were blanketed with snow, though the sky overhead was clear.

He quoted a price and only smiled when she glanced up sharply.

“That is much too low for this quality of work,” Briar insisted. “You should be charging fourfold.”

“That price covers the cost of materials and transport from the Blue Mountains. I don’t intend on charging you more than that. It would please me to know that the set was in your possession,” he murmured, and there was an intensity in his eyes that she could not resist.

After a moment, Briar nodded and counted out the coins that he had asked for. When the blacksmith removed the cutlery set from where it was displayed, wrapping it in fabric, she surreptitiously touched a hand to her cheek and was frustrated to realise that she was blushing.

“I will check over the pieces to ensure that they are in good condition,” he told her.

“There’s no need to make a delivery to Brandy Hall. I can come back to collect it directly.” It would be the easiest way to see him again without risking embarrassment by her well-meaning relatives.

The blacksmith might have responded, had that not been when Primula came across them.

“I have been looking in all the wrong places for you.” Primula was carrying a handful of ribbons and swatches of fabric, which could be compared to her old dresses until she decided how to alter them. “Oh, have you already been introduced?” she asked, glancing between them.

Briar could feel herself going terribly red and began wringing her hands. “Oh, my goodness. How could I have been so rude. I really can’t believe-”

“No, no,” the blacksmith interrupted her. “It’s not your fault. I should have-”

“No harm done,” Primula said cheerfully. “Well then, may I formally introduce Miss Briar Baggins of Bag End, who has come from Hobbiton to stay with extended family at Brandy Hall. This is Master Thorin of the Blue Mountains, who we have come to rely upon for excellent metalworking.” She glanced at the table, which now had an empty space. “Have you just purchased something, Briar?”

“Yes. I’ll tell you about it later,” she replied hastily. “A pleasure to meet you, Master Thorin.”

He inclined his head briefly, expression serious. “I look forward to seeing you again, Miss Baggins.”

Although startled, Primula went without protest when Briar pulled her out of the marketplace. They raced together down a cobblestone path until both hobbits were out of breath. Then Primula sprawled out on the soft grass, knocking her hat askew and facing up towards the sun. Even if there was anyone around to see them, it was unlikely that they would pass that information back to the nosiest of her neighbours in Hobbiton, so Briar decided to join her after checking that her hair was still pinned and the wooden clasp that she used to pull it back had not come loose.

There were no clouds overhead to watch, so she closed her eyes and listened to the gentle breeze.

“Bucklebury really isn’t stuffy, like Hobbiton,” her friend tried to reassure her. “And dwarves have different customs altogether. I doubt that he was offended that you forgot to introduce yourself.”

Briar sighed, thinking back on the encounter with Rosemary Brockhouse and how she had managed to have extended conversations with the blacksmith twice without ever learning his name.

“I am beginning to learn that you are never too old to make a fool of yourself,” she said wryly.

Chapter Text

The Brandywine River could be dangerous, especially during the rainy season when the riverbanks flooded, the current becoming strong enough to pull a reckless hobbit down against the rocks.

In winter, there were always stories about fauntlings stepping out onto the ice sheet and hearing a terrible crack before it shattered apart, and they were submerged in water that quickly froze their limbs.

During the spring, however, the water moved so gently that it could carry a paper boat while a hobbit walked beside it along the shoreline. This was the preferred season for couples to borrow a punt and carry it down from Bucklebury together, taking a leisurely ride to the next town, where they could hire a cart to transport them back to where they had started.

Briar removed her hat, twisting the ribbon around her hand so that it would not blow away. She crouched down beside the river to collect smooth stones and then cast them across the water. They skipped several times before sinking, though her father had always been able to send them further.

When she was younger, she had decided to go on a bigger adventure and caught a ride on a farmer’s cart from Hobbiton to Whitfurrows, then walked without an intended destination until she came across the Brandywine River. That afternoon, she had lost her footing on a wet rock and fallen into the water, not noticing that her leg was badly scratched until she had started wringing out her coat.

Fortunately, she always kept bandages in her travelling pack and was able to hobble back to the East Road, then convince the next passing driver to take her along to Whitfurrows. Her breeches had needed to be torn along the seams so that they could be patched by her endlessly patient mother.

Although the memories were bittersweet, she was glad to have accepted Primula’s invitation. Otherwise, she might never have walked alongside the Brandywine River again.

She checked whether the hem of her skirt had become muddied at the riverbank, then began walking through the grassy fields towards Bucklebury. It was not long before she passed an outcropping of trees where birds and other animals might take shelter in rough weather.

There, she just happened to see the blacksmith leaning against a tree trunk and staring at a piece of paper.

“Master Thorin,” Briar greeted once she was close enough to be heard. “Have you been commissioned by Farmer Townsend? I thought he distrusted anyone but family on his property.”

Thorin gave up on the piece of paper, which seemed to be a roughly drawn map of Bucklebury. “No,” he said gravely. “I am trying to find my way back to the marketplace, after making a delivery to Crickhollow.”

She laughed, but stopped abruptly when he appeared quite disheartened. “The marketplace is downhill from Crickhollow,” she said disbelievingly. “You would have had to walk around it, without ever looking about when cresting a hill, and then circled back to reach the Townsend farm.”

He rubbed a hand across his face tiredly.

“I had not realised that there was any truth to the superstition that outsiders lose direction here.” Briar reached out to touch his arm, finding that the fabric of his shirt was somewhat coarse. “It really isn’t far from here,” she reassured him. “I can walk with you back into town.”

“Thank you,” he replied.

It was not long before they reached the neatly trimmed hedges which bordered the Townsend farm. Thorin studied the piece of paper with a deep frown, until Briar pointed to a particularly thick line. Even then, he still seemed confused about how to interpret the directions that he had been given. She wondered if dwarves might experience unique difficulty navigating above ground.

Briar was pleasantly surprised when they came across a wild blackberry patch. It had likely been overlooked by foragers because it was hidden from the road. There were signs that birds had picked at the fruit before it ripened, but had not yet returned now that the berries were ready to eat.

“Wonderful!” she exclaimed and picked a blackberry, careful to avoid prickles throughout the bush. It tasted more delicious than the blackberries which were delivered to Bag End. “Have you ever tried blackberries, Master Thorin? I doubt that they grow in the mountains.”

He did not hesitate to accept the blackberry that she held out to him. “I enjoy the blackberry preserves which are traded between the Shire and our settlement in the Blue Mountains.”

His expression upon biting into the berry was so amusing that she laughed brightly. It would not be sensible to use her hat as a makeshift basket, though it was nonetheless tempting. Instead, she shook out her pocket handkerchief and began picking blackberries, holding them in her palm.

“You should avoid any that are green or pale red,” she told him. “They will make your stomach hurt.”

Thorin reached deep into the bush to pick a blackberry, and was startled when it turned to mush.

She laughed again, hard enough that she would have braced her sides were it not for their small collection of blackberries, and perhaps harder than she had truly laughed in years. “Be careful not to get the juice on your clothes!” she warned him eventually. “The stains are quite difficult to remove.”

When she decided to tie the handkerchief loosely, without crushing the berries to a messy paste, and they had both eaten enough that their hands were stained red with juice, they continued walking until they came to the road. Thorin grinned at her, looking impossibly handsome. Although she was sometimes caught off guard by it, Briar found it comfortable to walk with him.

“What about blackberry muffins?” she asked.

Thorin shook his head. “Only preserves, eaten with the bread made each morning by my sister.”

She made a humming sound. “Blackberry wine?”

“I suppose hobbits can make wine out of anything,” he said teasingly.

“We can certainly try,” she replied. “Oh, you can see the marketplace from here. Hold this for a moment, please.”

He held onto the bundled handkerchief while Briar put on the hat, tying the ribbon underneath her chin and making every effort to convincingly pretend that she had worn it throughout the day.

“You use hair pins, rather than braids,” he observed.

“Younger hobbits might braid their hair when celebrating the changing seasons, but I am much too old to be fussing over my appearance.” Briar smiled at him wryly, taking back the handkerchief.

Thorin frowned, though she had no idea what had caused his mood to change.

“Will you be at the marketplace tomorrow afternoon?” she asked before they separated.

He simply looked at her for a long moment, and then said, “Yes.”

Chapter Text

“Do you need any help with your baking?” Primula asked from the kitchen table, where she had laid out everything that was needed for delicate embroidery and already begun threading a needle.

“No, thank you. I expect that my mother would have wanted her recipe to be protected, anyway.” Although she said that, it was not a deeply guarded secret and really ought to be passed along, given that Briar was unlikely to have children who would inherit heirloom recipes.

In truth, she would feel uncomfortable if anyone else was involved.

Primula quietly worked on her embroidery, stitching a repeating pattern into a length of ribbon.

Briar had already washed the blackberries and put aside the stained handkerchief. She folded them into a batter made with few ingredients, then poured it into greased tins that were ready for baking. There was hardly enough time to prepare two cups of tea and have a conversation with Primula before the heat had cooked through the tins, and they could be removed from the oven.

She put one on a saucer for Primula, who smiled before returning her attention to the embroidery. The others were allowed to cool slightly and then placed into a basket.

“I will be back in time for dinner,” Briar told her without any further explanation and promptly left Brandy Hall.

It was late enough in the day that the sun was beginning to set, casting soft colour across the sky.

Merchants had begun closing their stalls, either covering their displays or packing them away. Fortunately, Thorin clearly remembered that she would be coming to the marketplace. He was standing by the low table, which had already been cleared of valuable items, waiting for her.

“Good evening, Miss Baggins. I have the cutlery set that you purchased.” He placed a polished wooden case onto the table and opened it, so that she could see each piece was perfect. The set would be protected during transit by rich fabric which lined the interior of the case.

“Thank you. I will take good care of it,” she told him earnestly.

Thorin smiled and closed the case, demonstrating how the metal latches worked.

“I thought that you might like… That is, I thought that it would be a shame if you…” Briar trailed off, then held out the basket without saying another word.

He lifted the cloth covering the basket.

“Blackberry muffins,” she explained. “I made them with the berries that we foraged yesterday.”

Thorin looked down at them and then back at her, quite surprised. Briefly, she wondered if he did not often received gifts from others and was unused to accepting them.

Then he asked, “Would you like to eat them with me?”

Soon they were sitting on wooden crates, which had been stacked alongside the makeshift forge. Briar managed to purchase two tankards of cider before the marketplace closed. She was pleased to discover that the muffins had turned out well and Thorin was appreciative of the gesture. When the sky darkened overhead, he was amenable to taking out his pipe and sharing her pouch of Old Toby.

Briar shaped the smoke into circles and grinned because she had not lost the knack.

“You said that you were too old to think of yourself as beautiful,” Thorin murmured.

Her grin faded quickly. “I am already in my forties and unmarried,” she said quietly. “I inherited property from my parents, and can live comfortably for the remainder of my life. No one is interested in courting an oddity and I am quite uninterested in giving up my eccentricities. Perhaps dwarves measure these things differently,” she acknowledged, “but by hobbit standards, it would be absurd to consider myself anything other than plain, and quite boring.”

Thorin exhaled smoke into the air and lowered his pipe. “Then hobbit standards are wrong,” he said with such conviction that Briar thought he could order mountains to move, and they would obey.

When it was time to leave, she stepped close and brushed a kiss against his cheek.

“Goodnight,” she murmured, thankful that the darkness would hide her blush. Then Briar left the empty marketplace and returned to Brandy Hall, without looking back to see his reaction.

When accepting Primula’s invitation for an extended visit, Briar had made a critical mistake: ‘an upcoming party’ was not like the humble gatherings that she sometimes attended in Hobbiton, but Buckland’s annual celebration of Lithe, which attracted guests from across the Shire. She had accidentally committed herself to assisting with preparations for the grandest event of the year.

The party would be held outdoors, of course. A field had already been chosen because it was not far from the road and looked out over the Brandywine River. Hobbits would closely inspect the ground to ensure that the grass was free from weeds, then dig holes to bury enormous wooden poles. Briar and Primula had been tasked with sewing the marquees which would be suspended between those poles, providing shelter if there was unexpected summer rain.

Although it was undoubtedly much easier work than moving tables and benches out to the field, she found that the endless repetition of stitches was tedious.

“It should not take long to finish repairing the cart,” came Gorbadoc Brandybuck’s voice from the hallway.

Briar pushed the threaded needle into a pincushion and set everything down. “I am suddenly thirsty,” she said to Primula, who was making much faster progress on another marquee. “I’ll find some tea and biscuits, so that we can take a break.”

“There are no more of those blackberry muffins?” Primula asked absently. “What a pity.”

Gorbadoc Brandybuck was having a conversation with another resident of Brandy Hall. Neither of them paid much attention when Briar went outside without being properly dressed for the weather.

The broken cart had not been moved from where she last saw it, though it was partially dismantled. The rear wheels were laying on the hillside, along with the long metal rod that had served as an axle. Satisfied that the cart had been raised high enough for the replacement to be installed, Thorin lifted a thicker metal rod without any apparent difficulty, aligning it with brackets underneath the cart. He only looked up once it had audibly clicked into place. “Good morning, Miss Baggins,” he greeted.

“You convinced him to purchase new braces,” she remarked.

Thorin nodded, moving around the cart to see it from another angle. “And to reinforce the wheel spokes. I doubt that he will need to commission me again next year.”

“Primula mentioned that you remain in Bucklebury until the weather changes.”

He looked at her, even when it would have been merciful to look anywhere else. “Yes. Even if the mayor extended permission for dwarven merchants to trade throughout the year, I have…obligations in the Blue Mountains which make it impossible for me to stay longer.”

There was no sense in feeling disappointed, since Briar also needed to return to Hobbiton.

“Will you attend our celebration of Lithe?” she asked.

“I have not been invited,” he told her.

“Well,” Briar said at once. “Then you ought to be- That is, I am inviting you. Please do come.”

He seemed pleased with that informal invitation. “I have no talent at dancing,” he warned.

“The trick is to become drunk enough that no one realises,” she assured him.

Thorin was startled into laughter and took a step towards her, as though he might casually put an arm around her shoulders, but they were both surprised by the side door opening. When Primula looked past the door frame and saw them standing outside, she also seemed somewhat bemused.

“If you were looking for tea and biscuits, the kitchen might have been a better choice,” she said.

“Oh, yes. Well, I… I have just extended an invitation to Master Thorin.”

Primula blinked at her. “I thought that an invitation was implicit. We wouldn’t be able to have the party at all without the farmers and merchants who have kindly provided their assistance. Oh, dear. Perhaps I should speak to Grandfather about putting up a notice in the marketplace.” Distracted now, she went back inside and closed the door behind her.

“I might have to invent an errand that will allow me to escape from the party preparations,” Briar murmured, taking him into confidence.

“The forge would make an excellent hiding place,” he offered.

“Hm.” Briar pretended to consider that for a moment, though it was almost certainly a joke. “Will you be at the marketplace tomorrow?”

“Provided that there are no ponies in urgent need of reshoeing, I will be there.”

Chapter Text

Thorin was not attending to the stall when she arrived, but Briar was reassured by smoke rising from the chimney, carried upwards by the breeze before disappearing completely.

A merchant recognised her when she ordered two glasses of elderflower cordial. “Back again?” he asked conversationally. “Often see you wandering around.”

She decided against knocking on the door and possibly interrupting Thorin’s work. Instead, Briar sat on a wooden crate where she would not be noticed from the marketplace.

Bricks had been removed from the upper wall, a crude method of ventilating the forge. Sometimes wisps of steam escaped from these gaps and there was a loud hissing sound. Curious, she reached out to touch a fingertip against the wall, expecting that it might emanate heat. When she found that it was no warmer than any other surface that had been exposed to the midday sun, Briar rested against it and took out her pipe, watching the smoke she exhaled mingle with the steam.

The door opened when she was beginning to drowse. Without realising that she was there, Thorin spoke several sentences in a language that she did not recognise, his voice sounding unusually harsh. He walked around the building, clutching a piece of metal which had been mangled nearly beyond recognition, his expression thunderous until the very moment that he saw Briar sitting on the crate.

“Hello,” she greeted, hopping up and reaching out to loosen his grasp on the warped metal. It was a pair of tongs, resembling a pair of scissors with a hollow circle at the end for grasping; where the two arms were joined had shattered, and exposure to heat had rendered it completely unusable. “Oh, I didn’t realise that you were using Mannish tools.”

Thorin scowled with frustration. “The forge was not intended for use by dwarven blacksmiths. These tools are inferior to anything that we would use, even in the poorest mountain settlement.”

“And much too large for your grip, I suppose,” she agreed. “You should consider writing a letter to the mayor, asking for the funds to transport your own set of tools from the Blue Mountains. I’m sure that would be vastly preferable to ordering replacements each year from Bree. In the meantime, come and sit with me for a while. I have brought elderflower cordial and some light snacks.”

For a moment, Thorin seemed to wind himself even tighter. Then he sighed and placed the tool aside so that it could be discarded, sitting down beside her without any further complaint.

He remarked that the elderflower cordial was pleasant, though nothing moved him as deeply as those blackberry muffins had several days earlier. Eventually, his brow furrowed and he pressed against the bridge of his nose, before rolling his shoulders in a well-practised movement.

It was not long before he noticed that she was watching. “I have a bad temper,” Thorin admitted wryly. “My sister tells me that it is my greatest flaw.”

“Yet, nothing has been destroyed, no one overheard you who would understand what was said, and we are conversing quite peacefully,” she pointed out, taking another sip from her glass.

“You seem to have a calming influence, Miss Baggins.”

Briar snorted, almost spilling cordial across her skirts. “Absurd,” she said dismissively. “There are many hobbits who find my existence quite exasperating, you know.”

“I have a high opinion of you, and it will not be lowered by the misjudgements of other hobbits.” Thorin stood up and offered his hand. “Would you like to see inside the forge?”

That he had lifted the replacement axle without assistance was evidence of his strength. However, Thorin held her hand very gently, as though he was concerned about accidentally hurting her. His fingers were calloused from years of handling metallurgical tools. Briar noticed faint scar lines and wondered what had caused them, but resolved not to ask without Thorin himself broaching the topic.

The repurposed watch post had a high ceiling, which had likely been a second level before stairs were removed, allowing for the installation of a working furnace. Bricks acted as a barrier against the flame and could be moved by the blacksmith depending on how much space was needed. A set of bellows, similar to those which might be used to stoke a cooking fire, were waiting near the furnace.

There was an anvil with blunted corners, which she suspected might be decades old. Metal sheets protected a makeshift worktable and a variety of tools had been placed on shelves along the wall.

He briefly explained that the crates outside contained ingots, which could be reshaped after exposure to heat and pressure. A finished item would then be cooled rapidly in water. Apparently, it was more common for apprentices to receive burns from the steam, rather than mishandling tools.

“These tools seem too large for delicate work.”

“A skilled blacksmith can work with the most rudimentary tools,” Thorin told her. “Provided that they do not shatter or become twisted from exposure to heat. Here, I can show you…”

The building was almost too small for them both. To reach the shelf behind her, Thorin stood close, with the barest touch to her waist so that she would know not to move.

Briar became breathless, knowing that it would not take much for his fingers to find her dress laces. She could feel the rough fabric of his shirtsleeve brushing against her exposed collarbone. Without meaning to, her face turned towards him, and she became quite intoxicated by his unique scent.

He pulled back with the item that he had reached for, but kept standing close. His fingers pressed against her waist and she shivered at the sensation of his thumb tracing along the seam. It seemed that neither of them wanted to move away. Briar looked up to see those intense blue eyes—and Thorin leaned down to kiss her, slowly enough that she could refuse.

It was unlike anything that she had ever felt before. Their lips pressed together for a moment, then she made an odd attempt to step forward so that they could be even closer. Thorin responded by tightening his grip at her waist and smiling against her mouth, before kissing her more deeply. His other hand, which was still loosely holding whatever he had reached for, touched her jaw.

Acting on instinct, Briar tilted her head and pushed up in the same moment. Thorin gasped, which was quite unexpected and thoroughly satisfying. She moved her hand along his shoulder, then wound fingers into his hair, learning that it was even softer than it looked.

Thorin drew back to kiss the corner of her mouth, then her cheek. “Briar,” he whispered.

This was foolish, she knew. There could be nothing more than mutually assured heartbreak.

Briar leaned back slightly and would not have been able to stop herself from smiling. “What did you want to show me?” she asked, ignoring that her heart was pounding wildly.

Thorin blinked, and she liked to imagine that he was resisting the urge to kiss her again.

He opened his hand so that she could see chain links resting on a scrap of fabric. They were so small that many would be needed to complete a necklace, but it would be incredibly fine.

“I have ruined three pairs of tongs working on these,” he said solemnly.

At once, she was struck by a powerful emotion that was perhaps too complicated to name. Standing in the forge with a dwarven blacksmith that she might have been unintentionally courting, and quite overcome with the certainty that this could not end happily, Briar began to laugh.

Chapter Text

Now that the party preparations were underway, time passed faster than she would have liked.

Fortunately, the marquees had been measured correctly and did not need to be altered. They were raised above the field, providing shelter for banquet tables. Tablecloths made for last year’s celebration were brought out of storage and carefully looked over for loose threads, then laundered. Although she had been hopeful that there would be no more sewing, they were asked to prepare bunting to be strewn along the marquees: flags and ribbons in various shades of red and yellow.

When Briar managed to stick herself with a needle despite using a thimble, Primula did not hesitate to press her own handkerchief to the welling droplet of blood. “No more sewing today,” she declared. “You should take a book and go out for fresh air. Take a picnic basket with you, and never mind about coming back until dinnertime. I’ll tell Mother not to expect you for afternoon tea.”

Thorin did not have to be persuaded to close the stall early and insisted on carrying the basket. They followed Farmer Townsend’s hedge row back to the outcropping of trees, settling in their shade. There would be hobbits fishing further along the Brandywine River, but there was no one else here.

She had completely forgotten to bring a hat, which might have prevented the wooden clasp which bound her hair from coming loose, dislodging the pins that she wore each day. “Drat,” she muttered and began removing the pins from where they were tucked away before they could become tangled.

Thorin reached out his hand and, though confused, Briar gave him the next pin that was freed. It was a short length of scuffed metal without any particular design, intended to be hidden out of sight. Soon she had collected more than a dozen and placed them in her lap somewhat carelessly.

While she was inspecting the wooden clasp to determine why it had come loose, a breeze lifted her curls just as it had done when she was a fauntling, too young to be concerned about her appearance. Briar laughed gently when she had to brush strands of hair away so that she could see the clasp.

“Is it customary for hobbits to wear so many pins?” Thorin appeared quite unimpressed with them.

“Not really,” she replied, setting the clasp down for a moment. “My hair is particularly wild.”

“Dwarves only wear pins for decoration, as a display of their wealth or skill,” he explained.

“You braid your hair, instead?”

Thorin had braids leading down from his temples, ending in silver clasps. She had assumed that his hairstyle was intentionally simple to avoid an unnecessary hazard while working at the forge, though apparently she had been mistaken.

“Each braid has significant meaning. We can recognise each other’s achievements, titles, and familial connections before even having a conversation.”

She had the distinct sense that this was information dwarves did not readily share.

He reached into his pocket and brought out a small bead, which was made from a yellowish metal that she was not able to identify. Leaves had been engraved around its surface. “Would you allow me to braid your hair?” Thorin asked, sounding as though it was a profound request indeed.

“Of course!” she replied without a moment’s hesitation. Briar moved so that she was sitting closer, allowing him to choose several strands above her ear that were long enough to braid together.

Thorin was briefly distracted by the point of her ear, as his own were rounded. After remarking on the difference, they both remained silent while he twisted her hair into a complex pattern. She found the sensation soothing and reflected on how beautiful the river looked at a distance. Eventually, he secured her hair with the bead, and she reached up to touch it gently.

“What does it mean?” she asked.

“That you are my ghivashel.” Thorin smiled at her fondly. “It means that you are precious to me.”

The braid could be pushed back behind her ear without anyone else knowing it was there. From then on, whenever Thorin noticed that she had chosen not to remove it, his expression softened.

Those few months were among the happiest of her life. They planned to meet each other at the marketplace, or near the signpost that directed travellers towards Brandy Hall. He kissed her against a tree with such enthusiasm that Primula later pointed out that bark was caught up in her hair. Briar often slipped away late at night so they could stargaze, discussing the stories behind constellations.

She learned that he did not enjoy drinking tea, preferring a bitter concoction popular in the mountains. Similarly, Thorin was surprised that she could not tell the difference between iron and silver, or polished quartz and diamond. He had difficulty explaining dwarven compliments without using Khuzdul, teaching her a handful of words so that she might understand their nuance.

They practised a simple hobbit dance in the weeks leading up to the celebration of Lithe. When Thorin lifted her by the waist, Briar held his face in both hands and kissed him instead of explaining the next step. It did not take long before he knew how to unfasten the laces of her dress—though she had to rethread them after his first clumsy attempt—and to refasten them so the panels aligned.

“The dress I’ll be wearing to the party will be much more complicated than this,” she warned him, breathless from kissing and how his eyes appeared brighter in the moonlight.

“I will be wearing a waistcoat,” he announced, and then laughingly pushed her back down onto the grass when she pretended to gasp in shock.

As they were getting ready for the long-awaited party, Primula gave her a folded handkerchief. “I embroidered ribbons for everyone else, but I think you prefer things that are practical,” she said, sounding nervous that her gift might be unappreciated. “I’m so glad that you accepted my invitation, even though you were dragged into getting everything ready. I really should have come up with a better excuse for an extended visit. Though I think that it has been going rather well.”

Briar unfolded the handkerchief and found that it was prettily embroidered with her initials. She was overcome with gratitude and reached out to hug her closest friend. “How wonderful! Thank you, truly. It would have been a terrible thing to remain at Bag End without coming to see you.”

They walked to the party with their arms hooked together, feeling very cheerful.

All of the preparations had come together beautifully. The banquet tables were piled high with food, though sugar sculptures commissioned from the marketplace were particularly popular. Nearby, several kegs had been tapped and more were being rolled downhill, directed towards the tents.

A band played from a slightly raised platform while guests were introduced to each other. The celebrations would not begin in earnest until Gorbadoc Brandybuck, as the Master of Buckland, gave a speech welcoming everyone who had travelled from across the Shire to attend.

“Good evening, Miss Baggins,” came a familiar voice.

When she turned towards him, Thorin bowed, which was an unusual gesture amongst hobbits. He was dressed formally in a blue waistcoat so dark that it almost appeared black. An excellent tailor had embroidered an abstract pattern in silver thread at the hem and around the buttons.

“Good evening, Master Thorin,” she replied with wide smile.

They strolled around the field, watching lanterns being lit in anticipation of the setting sun. Eventually Gorbadoc Brandybuck stood up on the raised platform, declaring that Lithe would be celebrated for its importance to the farmers harvesting their crops, and as a reminder to everyone that summer would always return to the Shire, even if the winters were long.

The crowd became solemn when he alluded to the Fell Winter, then cheered loudly when he concluded his speech with a friendly welcome to everyone in attendance.

Now that music suitable for dancing was playing, Briar watched as Primula stepped out with Drogo Baggins and linked hands with other couples, claiming places for the first set.

Within an hour, everyone was in high spirits. Empty kegs were rolled away from the tents so that others could be tapped: fermented apple cider from the Crickhollow orchard; spiced mead which had been transported from Michel Delving; and rundlets of Old Winyards red wine, guarded by an older gentlehobbit who wished to ensure that it was appreciated.

Rosemary Brockhouse spotted them at the banquet tables and glared, though she was soon distracted by a fauntling with jam smeared across his cheeks who was giddily putting fruit tarts into his trouser pockets. She chased him but was thwarted by tipsy hobbits improvising dance steps.

They then narrowly avoided conversations with Briar’s overbearing distant relations by hiding behind the empty kegs, which were stood upright to prevent them from rolling away. Thorin pointed out that smoke rising above the kegs from their pipes might give them away, and Briar was merry enough to find that amusing, leaning her head against his shoulder companionably.

“This variety of pipe-weed is much better than anything we have in the mountains,” he remarked.

“Perhaps you ought to take what remains of my pouch when you go. I have a generous supply of Old Toby in my stores, after all. You will only find Southlinch or Longbottom Leaf available in Bree.” She furrowed her nose at the thought of those varieties preferred by the Big Folk.

There were the sounds of music and cheerful conversation behind them, and constellations bright in the sky overhead. Thorin murmured sentences into her hair that she could not understand. He kissed her, and tasted of her favourite pipe-weed and the apple cider that they had shared.

“Âzyungel,” he called her.

“I love you,” she replied, crumpling the rich fabric of his waistcoat with her hands.

They had not spoken about continuing their relationship and he would soon leave the Shire. It was a long journey back to the Blue Mountain settlement and the weather would become inhospitable, meaning that even if the mayor granted permission for him to stay longer in Bucklebury, Thorin could not delay without risking his own safety as heavy rain and snow encroached upon the roads.

Briar could have been persuaded to go with him. Her parents would not have wanted her to sacrifice happiness to remain in the unbearable loneliness of Bag End. The estate could be passed along to a relative of her choosing and everything without sentimental value quickly auctioned off. Hamfast Gamgee could be trusted to care for the garden, as he had done for many years.

If Thorin suggested that they travel to the Blue Mountains together, then she could certainly return when the weather warmed again to visit with Primula and attend to her parent’s graves. It would not be easy to relocate to an entirely different environment and culture, but living as a proper gentlehobbit had never brought her much happiness, despite what others might have expected.

To her disappointment, Thorin never seemed to even consider the possibility.

And that was what dissuaded her from making important plans: that he was not hopeful about their future, and did not imagine circumstances through which their relationship could endure.

The wooden crates were mostly empty when Thorin loaded them onto a pony-drawn cart. He covered them with a sheet that would divert most rainwater, then secured it with lengths of rope.

When Briar dared to look inside the makeshift forge, the floors were neatly swept and everything had been left in practical order for the next blacksmith who might come to the marketplace.

He helped her climb up into the driver’s seat and they travelled along the East Road, towards Bree.

Thorin stopped the cart much sooner than she would have liked and they both disembarked. She would walk back to Bucklebury while he continued on his journey to the Blue Mountains.

“Âzyungel,” he said. “I tried to create something that would be worthy of you, knowing that only the most precious gems and masterworks would match your peerless beauty.” He murmured something in Khuzdul, momentarily frustrated with his own inability to translate the words into Westron. “This is all that I can give you, though it is a humble offering.”

Thorin opened a pouch made from rich fabric and brought out a pendant: the individual pieces of metal arranged in rigid lines were immediately recognisable as his artisan’s signature, overlaid with a curving pattern of leaves and tiny blackberries. It was set into a flat oval, which would rest against the wearer’s skin.

He moved her hair aside to clasp the fine chain necklace and kissed her cheek almost reverently.

To her dismay, Briar found that she could not say anything at all. Later, she would surely regret not telling him how important it was that he had been at the marketplace for these few months, that he had never shunned her for being a practical hobbit spinster, and that he had loved her honestly.

Thorin brushed away tears that were beginning to fall down her cheeks.

He kissed her forehead and then her mouth, and then he left.

Chapter Text

There was a cracking sound, as though the ice sheet covering the Brandywine River had shattered underfoot—and although he looked up soon enough to see rocks tumbling down the mountainside, the path was too narrow for him to navigate the cart. The pony whinnied in fear, and then-

Briar was often troubled by nightmares about what might have happened to Thorin on the road.

Perhaps it was the interrupted sleep, or simply the increasingly unbearable autumn chill, but she preferred to stay underground where the air was temperate and her dizziness might subside. At times it seemed that she couldn’t stomach anything, though her appetite would later return.

She had never experienced heartbreak before, Briar reasoned. It was likely that after several months at Bag End, having resumed an everyday routine that would keep her mind distracted, she would be able to look back on their relationship fondly and no longer feel so unbalanced.

Primula welcomed her to Brandy Hall with a happy smile and an arm in the crook of her elbow. “Have you heard the news? The blacksmith has come back to Bucklebury this year with a new wife-”

Sometimes she woke up and blinked at the ceiling, clasping the pendant until her heartbeat slowed. “You have been through much worse than a broken heart,” she murmured. Then she would stubbornly lie abed until she went back to sleep, or Primula came knocking at the door to rouse her.

One morning, Briar had barely eaten a mouthful of breakfast before she stilled, abruptly putting down her fork and running to the nearest bathroom, where she retched until her head was spinning.

Primula held back her hair and gently rubbed her back. “Oh, you poor thing. This time of year is always quite difficult. Especially for hobbits who are unaccustomed to Buckland weather. Why, my monthlies can become so painful that I cannot eat anything richer than fresh fruit and tea.”

Briar’s grip on the bucket tightened until her knuckles turned white. “…how long has it been since I last bled?” she whispered, nausea still twisting her stomach.

After a moment where Primula’s hand stopped its reassuring motions, she asked, “How long?”

The pendant struck against the bucket with a dull clanging sound. Tears were welling up in her eyes, but Briar simply could not comprehend the significance of what she was about to say. “Three months,” she replied, and the words sounded oddly distant, as though they were echoing.

“Right.” Primula had gone very pale but when she spoke again, her voice was comfortingly steady. “Right. Stand up, my dear friend. You will feel better after sitting in a soft chair with a cup of tea.”

Primula emptied the bucket quickly and rinsed it out with water, even holding a glass carefully up to Briar’s mouth when it became apparent that her hands were shaking too much. She directed her to wash out the taste of bile, then guided her into an unoccupied room where she could sit down.

She disappeared only long enough to fetch a cup of tea. “This will help soothe your stomach,” she explained. “There is nothing better for morning sickness than ginger tea, or perhaps mint.”

“I had no idea that…that this could happen,” Briar said, bewildered. “If I had known…”

Putting the cup aside, Primula held both of her hands. “Fredegar Smallburrow only had a daughter, who inherited a modest property near the Bucklebury Ferry,” she began, somewhat nonsensically.

“However, she found that the ground is uncommonly marshy and unsuitable for growing. So, when she married a farmer from further north, she left the property quite abandoned. I received a letter several months ago, requesting that I begin restoring the property on her behalf. She intends either to sell it, or establish temporary accommodation for travellers along the East Road.

“I was planning to respond after you returned to Hobbiton,” she explained. “Now, it seems that everything will work out quite well. We can remain there until you are ready to travel again.”

Briar could not have stopped herself from weeping, either from gratitude or utter shock.

Primula smiled and dabbed at her cheeks with a handkerchief. “No need to cry, now. We will get through this together. I suppose it will be something of an adventure for us both.”

It was customary for hobbits to be surrounded by blessings from Yavanna at their birth: vases of brightly coloured flowers which carried different meanings; cuttings from plants which had been carefully de-thorned and inspected for sharp edges; fresh produce grown in the garden outside.

At first, Primula looked at her with surprise when she collected smooth stones at the riverside, or purchased mathoms at the marketplace from travelling merchants that were crafted from metal. The items that she collected were placed alongside acorns and dried legumes strung like beads.

Primula was always working on tiny garments which would be worn by the infant and, upon seeing what Briar was gathering for the birth, she began stitching soft pairs of socks to protect delicate feet.

Briar had no idea whether dwarves had similar traditions and often became frustrated with herself. Perhaps if she had researched more widely, or been curious enough to ask Thorin about these topics, then she would be able to compensate for her own inadequacies as a hobbit mother-to-be.

Whenever her friend was speaking with those who had been commissioned to repair the property, Briar attempted to document the lullabies which she remembered from her own childhood. Although she considered writing down an approximation of the Khuzdul words that Thorin had taught her, she decided that would be a betrayal of his confidence and dwarven notions of secrecy.

Fortunately, the morning sickness abated as the pregnancy progressed. Briar took every opportunity to travel with Primula to the marketplace, knowing that she could not hide her condition much longer and would soon be forced to remain indoors so that others might not discover it.

She looked towards the brick building out of habit, rather than expectation.

Surprisingly, there was smoke rising from the chimney stack. Nearby, a pony was peacefully eating oats from a sack, tethered to a metal hook embedded in the ground. A stall had been set up outside of the makeshift forge, offering a range of items sheltered from the sun by a canopy.

A dwarf was assisting a customer at the stall, while another was working inside the forge.

“Someone must have petitioned the mayor to allow dwarven merchants throughout the year,” Primula remarked as they made their way across the marketplace.

Until the customer had finished up their business, Briar looked over the items for sale. She became interested in a tray of loose precious stones and polished glass.

“Ah. Those are intended for commissions,” the dwarf explained. “Elsewhere, it’s popular to design jewellery as a special gesture towards your loved ones.”

“Do the stones have any particular meaning?” she asked.

This dwarf was shorter than Thorin had been, with intricate braids throughout her black hair. She was wearing a plain tunic and breeches, seemingly indifferent to hobbit sensibilities. The breeches were tucked into a well-worn pair of leather boots.

The question appeared to surprise her. “Yes, they do.” She picked up a dull red stone and a polished black stone, reaching out to place them in each of her hands. “Can you feel the difference?”

Briar felt so incredibly frustrated that she closed her eyes, fighting back tears. “No,” she said.

“This is a ruby mined in the Blue Mountains,” the dwarf told her. “It has become worn down because no dwarf is interested in purchasing a stone which was unearthed close to the surface. It has not been imbued with the mountain’s spirit. It feels like a lifeless thing, like a fruit without taste.”

She gestured towards the other precious stone. “This is a black sapphire. Men would say that it is worth less without the blue colouring, but dwarves would pay exorbitant amounts. Because it was brought to the Blue Mountains by refugees from Erebor, having been mined several generations ago from the deepest caverns, where the mountain itself is strong enough to heal the injuries of war.”

She placed the stones back into the tray, while Briar struggled with her next question.

“Do you have any…which would be suitable for an infant?”

The dwarf looked at her with curiosity. “A very odd question,” she pointed out.

“Please, I… I need your help with this matter,” Briar whispered and pressed a hand to her stomach.

The dwarf gave nothing more away than the brief widening of her eyes. “Víli,” she called out. “Mind the stall. If I don’t come back before sunset, head back to the inn and expect me there.”

She did not wait for a response before stepping out from behind the stall and extending her hand. “My name is Dís,” she said to them both. “I hope you know of a quieter place to continue our conversation.”

Chapter Text

Dís never criticised her intention to give birth above ground, as a hobbit who knew about her access to Bag End and Brandy Hall might have done. It was widely believed that infants born surrounded by the soil would have a better constitution throughout their lives.

“Dwarves born underneath the sky in the Blue Mountains have not suffered from fresh air,” she said after hearing about the superstition.

She inspected the items which would represent blessings from Aulë, separating out everything except for a tarnished bracelet embedded with scuffed gems and an unpolished quartz stone. Dís appeared interested in the river stones, which could certainly be kept as blessings from Yavanna if they did not meet with her approval, as they had been shaped by water and warmed under the sun.

“This one is flecked with opal,” she remarked, pointing at what Briar had thought was discolouration. “It must have been carried along the river from up north.”

As she was leaving, giving every assurance that she would visit again tomorrow, Dís patted her shoulder. “You are doing very well. Never doubt your own devotion to this child.”

Briar suspected that she had cried more these past few months than in the many years beforehand.

Just as she had promised, Dís walked down from the marketplace to visit at lunchtime. They spent many companionable hours discussing the ideal methods for delivery and immediate care. Although pregnancies among dwarves were apparently quite rare, she had given birth to two healthy sons.

“Any dwarf would celebrate upon hearing that he was an expectant father,” she hinted when Primula had briefly stepped out of the room.

“I don’t have the means to contact him,” Briar replied quietly.

Dwarves did not seem to introduce themselves using surnames or fixed addresses. Even if she wrote a letter that could be carried to the mountains by her new acquaintances, what was the likelihood that they would be able to find a blacksmith named Thorin? Perhaps it was a very common name.

Dís muttered in Khuzdul, sounding frustrated. “I doubt that anyone would have guessed a pregnancy was possible, but to leave without any means of tracking him down is incredibly irresponsible.”

As the conversation moved towards more pleasant topics, she presented the gems which had been removed from the bracelet and polished until they shone, along with the black sapphire.

“I cannot accept this,” she protested. “You said that it was very valuable-”

“With this, I am offering to act as a proxy for the paternal line. You approached me for help, and not my husband, who would just as willingly have taken on this important role.” Dís paused, then said, “Primula is already doing an excellent job of representing the maternal line, so I understand if you do not wish to accept my offer. It would simply mean that I would assist you as though we were family.”

“Nothing would make me happier,” Briar replied, feeling considerably more at ease.

On the hardest days, when she could not go outside without risking being seen, and her stomach refused to settle despite the different herbal remedies which Primula attentively prepared, and the weather reminded her of being buried beneath blankets during the Fell Winter—Dís would clean the snow from her boots at the entryway and come inside to stoke the fire, quietly telling another story.

According to dwarven folklore, there was once a magical quern-stone which could be used to grind anything without the necessary raw materials. It was taken across the seas by an ancient king, Mysing, who commanded that slaves use it to continually produce valuable salt. Eventually, the ship sank beneath its weight and a whirlpool formed where the quern-stone was submerged, spreading outwards. Thus, the waters of the sea have been salt ever since.

Briar often fell asleep listening to stories about dwarven warriors and righteous nobles, thinking that she would have liked to document them so that they could be heard again in the coming years.

At other times, Dís recalled historical accounts of Durin the Deathless’ founding of Khazad-dûm, a prosperous city in the Misty Mountains which was elsewhere known as Moria. She could name each successive generation and describe their achievements in craftsmanship and battle.

Among them was a princess, Marís, who petitioned the court to recommence trade with a neighbouring settlement that had been suffering from famine. When the king refused, arguing that there was nothing to be gained from allying with the weak, Marís voluntarily exiled herself and travelled down the mountainside to offer what assistance she could.

While walking along the Gladden River, she found that there was gold glimmering beneath the mud. Marís taught the settlement how to mine for the precious metal and negotiate successful trade. Soon, it became a prosperous city, but its rulers never forgot how they had been slighted.

“Not long now,” Dís murmured, adjusting the blanket to prevent her from becoming cold.

“Thank Yavanna and Aulë,” Briar said fervently, which made Dís laugh.

It was the worst physical pain that she had ever experienced, nearly causing her to lose consciousness several times and making it impossible to form coherent sentences. Fortunately, her friends were both experienced with midwifery and kept her from becoming absolutely terrified.

Dís quickly removed everything that would need to be discarded while Primula dried the infant with warm cloths, whispering a welcome to the world in which she would be dearly loved.

Despite everything, Briar could not stop herself from smiling at the infant in her arms. “Marís,” she named her daughter, believing that a hobbit name might not serve her well, given that her ears were rounded and it was possible that she would need to wear shoes. If the Shire proved inhospitable to a fauntling of mixed race, then she would not have her daughter’s name be a cruel reminder.

Briar remembered standing at the roadside when Thorin had described the pendant as unworthy. “You are the most precious gift that he could have ever given me,” she told her daughter sincerely.

Dís gave a short speech in Khuzdul now that the name had been decided upon, as was traditional. The infant was born to a room filled with flowers, hand-stitched linen and precious stones. Most importantly, she was greeted by those who were determined to ensure her happiness.

Chapter Text

When Briar Baggins returned after an extended visit to Bucklebury with a newborn, carefully cradled in fabric tied across her chest, most of her neighbours were pleased.

Now, there could be no debate about who would inherit Bag End, nor any claims put upon it by unsavoury distant relations. Although still unmarried, she had not scandalised anyone; the pregnancy had been an entirely private matter. There really was no reason to fault a gentlehobbit for rightly wishing to secure her family line.

The cart driver who had been hired to transport her from Frogmorton to Hobbiton could be heard remarking that the infant had uncommonly rounded ears, and that he had observed tiny socks peeking out from beneath the blankets that she was swaddled in.

But that rumour was altogether too vicious to be entertained by the residents of Hobbiton. Within a week, the cart driver returned to Frogmorton and there was nothing more to be said about it.

Briar sat on the bench outside Bag End, smoking contentedly from her father’s pipe. “Good morning,” she greeted the wizard who came strolling up the path, having a distant recollection that he had been a friend of her mother’s and known for spectacular fireworks displays at parties.

“What do you mean? Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good on this morning; or that it is a morning to feel good on?”

“All of them at once,” she replied cheerfully, and blew out a ring of smoke which drifted upwards.

“Very pretty!” Gandalf remarked. “But I have no time to blow smoke rings this morning. I am looking for someone to share in an adventure that I am arranging, and it’s very difficult to find anyone.”

“You shall have to look further than Bag End, I’m afraid.” Briar tapped her pipe against the bench and stood up, habitually brushing at her skirts. “I have had quite enough adventure. You might try asking around in Bree, or perhaps the more adventurous hobbits in the east.”

“To think that the daughter of Belladonna Took would pass up an opportunity to see the world! Why, I recall that you asked me countless questions about the elves and their languages, and were delighted to hear stories about what I have observed during my years of wandering.”

“There are many worthwhile adventures to be had here,” Briar replied with a smile. “Though I would be glad to hear more about your journeys. Please, come to tea—perhaps tomorrow?” She then muttered to herself, “I should be able to have everything in order before tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll search for my father’s old recipe book and try to make a lovely cake. It has been such a long time…”

She nearly disappeared into Bag End without another word, but looked back through the doorframe. “My goodness! I have become quite scatter-brained these past few years. Goodbye, Gandalf.”

And Briar closed the door behind her without giving it another thought.

The study had been altogether neglected in the two years since Marís was brought home. It was very difficult to nurse an infant without knocking over an inkpot, or concentrate on personal reading when she was exhausted after many nights of interrupted sleep.

Were it not for Dís appearing at her doorstep earlier that week, quite unexpectedly, Briar would not have ever been able to sit outside with her pipe and simply enjoy the pleasant morning.

“My sons are embarking on an ill-advised quest,” she had explained while knocking the dirt from her boots. “When I learned that they would firstly be travelling to the Shire from the Blue Mountains, before going eastward, I thought it a good opportunity to visit you. Certainly, I was able to test their skills whenever we made camp.”

Dís had looked uncharacteristically worried, though that was more than understandable. “Were it not for my bad leg making it difficult to walk through rough terrain, I would go with them.”

Briar had welcomed her inside and went to prepare the guest room, while Dís was effectively distracted from her concerns by looking into Marís’ sleeping face.

Suddenly, it was possible to write important letters and spend time on her hobbies, knowing that Dís was more than capable of taking care of her daughter and would never judge her for a messy smial.

Gandalf might not be so understanding, so Briar set about tidying everything and looking for recipes which would have been much too ambitious to handle without assistance. At midday, she walked down to the local marketplace and purchased armfuls of fresh ingredients.

Her friend watched with amusement as she put on an apron and began preparing an enormous amount of food. “I suppose we’ll be eating leftovers throughout the coming week,” Dís remarked.

“The neighbours will be happy enough to take a basket,” she said dismissively.

Briar set down a tray of biscuits which were perfectly golden brown and was marvelling at the precise instructions, detailed in her father’s neat handwriting, when there came a knock at the door. Dís had already walked down the hallway with Marís, so she took off her oven mitts to answer it.

An unfamiliar dwarf stood there and introduced himself with a low bow. “Dwalin at your service.” This was, perhaps, an acquaintance of Dís who had learned that she was staying at Bag End.

“Briar Baggins at yours,” she replied. “We were just about to have supper. Please come in; it will be no trouble at all to put out an extra plate. Though I must ask that you clean your boots.”

He made no argument, checking the soles for clumps of dirt and then hanging up his hooded cloak. She laid out several dishes with the expectation that he had travelled without stopping for dinner.

Then there was another knock at the door, which startled her.

“Excuse me,” she said to Dwalin, who could not be distracted from a mouthful of meat pie.

She was greeted by a dwarf with white hair, who smiled while hanging up his cloak beside Dwalin’s.

“I see they have begun to arrive already,” he remarked. “Balin at your service.”

“Oh, I- This is quite unexpected, you see. But- Of course, do come inside. Please clean your boots.”

Soon, the kitchen table was laden with beer and seed-cake, along with heartier fare. Balin complimented her cooking and explained that they were brothers who had travelled separately.

There was another knock at the door, and the unexpected guests already seated struck their tankards together merrily, without bothering to explain why there would be more still arriving.

This time there were two young dwarves, who introduced themselves in much the same way.

“Yes, yes, a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Briar said, her sense of politeness rather frayed by the still-growing number of guests. “Hang your coats here and clean your boots carefully before stepping on the rug, please. I do not have the time to remove dirt from it.”

Next, it was five dwarves who were clearly enthusiastic about an impromptu party. They nearly fell over each other in the entryway rather than patiently waiting to hang up their cloaks. Briar had to pull the youngest back by the shoulder and remind him to clean his boots, through gritted teeth. Raising an infant these past two years with only infrequent visits from Primula or Dís seemed to have made her quite intolerant of guests traipsing about indoors and leaving behind unnecessary mess.

Briar needed only direct Dwalin to the chairs kept in storage and they were brought out, crowding around the kitchen table, while she navigated between dwarves with more plates and jugs.

There was another knock at the door and she opened it to see three more dwarves. Behind them, Gandalf was leaning on his staff and looking amused, as though this had all been a rather unusual prank.

“No need for introductions now,” she said. “Come inside. I must insist that you all clean your boots.”

Gandalf removed his wide-brimmed hat, which would otherwise have been knocked off by the wooden beams supporting the ceiling, as he was taller than hobbit architecture could accommodate. “Quite a merry gathering!” he remarked about the row of cloaks hanging beside the door. “I do hope there is something left for the latecomers to eat and drink.”

Although she could not have guessed that there would be a gathering of dwarves that evening, Briar had prepared plenty of food and could bring out untapped kegs kept in reserve. She was nearly of a mind to send Gandalf back out again for implying that her hospitality might be unsatisfactory.

“You have brought a dozen dwarves into my home, without any warning at all,” she said tersely when the others had gone into the kitchen. “I suppose there wasn’t enough room at the Green Dragon?”

“I thought that you might be interested in hearing about their quest,” Gandalf replied, drawing out the last word. “How could you refuse an adventure without knowing anything about the terms?”

“Well, yes, about that-”

But he wouldn’t hear another word, and walked past her to join the increasingly raucous dwarves.

They were having several discussions at once, about market regulations and the current value of gold, and their respective statuses within artisans’ guilds, and the fearsomeness of dragons. Altogether, they were making enough noise to be heard throughout Bag End.

“Just a moment, if you please!” she called out above their chatter.

When it did not seem that they had heard her, Briar shouted in her sternest voice, “Quiet!”

The dwarves turned to her at once, cutlery stilling on their plates.

“I really must ask you to keep the noise down,” she told them. “My daughter is sleeping.”

They broke out into confused murmurs, though she cared little about what if they remained quiet. Gandalf, who had been sitting in the corner and sipping at a glass of red wine, appeared more surprised than she would have thought possible. His glass stilled. He was visibly dismayed.

There was another knock at the door.

“Ah, that will be our king,” said the red-haired dwarf with three distinct braids in his beard.

“He definitely got lost,” said the young beardless dwarf, reaching for a biscuit.

“We suggested coming here together,” added another young dwarf. “But uncle insisted that he would be able to find it with nothing more than the innkeeper’s directions.”

A dwarf raised his tankard and declared, “To Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain!”

There was a muted round of cheers and tankards clanking together, as Briar hurried to the door.

When she opened it, yet another dwarf stood there in a blue tunic overlaid with metal panels. He was wearing a thick fur coat that could protect him from harsh mountain weather. The dwarf had turned away, as though he would walk further down the path and knock at the next door. Upon hearing that the front door to Bag End had finally opened, he turned to face her.

“Briar?” he whispered and then looked down at a piece of paper in his gloved hand. “I must have made a mistake. Taken the wrong path, or walked in the wrong direction…”

For a brief moment, Briar believed that she had been rewarded for these years of loneliness. Dís had been adamant that dwarves considered pregnancies to be rare blessings from Aulë. Here was an unexpected opportunity for Thorin to decide whether he would claim parentage of Marís.

But then she remembered the dwarves who were gathered around her kitchen table. They had not raised their tankards to honour Thorin, a humble blacksmith from the Blue Mountains.

This was Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain.

Her mind raced. Surely it would be impossible for him to claim parentage of a mixed race child, born out of wedlock. Marís might even undermine his authority, becoming a political hindrance rather than a beloved daughter. And what assurance did she have that Marís would not be endangered by this unexpected connection to a dwarven royal family?

“No,” she told him, her voice surprisingly steady. “This is the right address. Please, come inside.”

Chapter Text

Briar didn’t realise that she was wringing her hands together until Thorin looked down at them and frowned, the expression making his features appear harsh and unfamiliar.

They had both changed in the nearly three years that had passed. There was silver threaded through Thorin’s hair, while her own was unpinned and had grown long without regular trimming. Perhaps he might look for the braid next to her ear, but it was no longer there.

When it eventually frayed beyond recognition, she carefully removed it from her hair. The bead was now strung along the pendant’s chain. Although Briar could have asked Dís to teach her about braiding, she had decided against it, because it felt like a distinctly private matter.

Without speaking again, he walked into the kitchen where there was a rather muted cheer.

Balin picked up an unfurled scroll and broke its wax seal. “Now we can discuss the matters at hand.”

“I will not accept Miss Baggins as our company’s burglar,” Thorin announced.

The dwarves shifted uncomfortably in their seats, glancing at Briar standing in the doorway.

“Because it would be too risky to leave behind her daughter?” asked a young dwarf, who was then elbowed sharply in the side.

It would have been impossible to describe Thorin’s expression at that moment; only that he immediately went very still, and turned towards her as though seeking a reasonable explanation.

None would be forthcoming. Briar wound fingers into her apron so tightly that they became numb and remained silent, knowing that she would never risk Marís’ future to keep his good opinion.

Gandalf had been resting the end of his unlit pipe against his teeth, and now gestured with it. “You asked me to find the fourteenth member for your expedition. I can assure you that there is no better burglar than a hobbit, though they are forever underestimated, and among them there is no hobbit more suitable than,” he pointed the pipe handle, rather solemnly, towards her, “Miss Briar Baggins.”

“It is much too dangerous-!” Thorin argued fiercely.

“As you said, Gandalf, I cannot refuse an adventure without firstly knowing the terms,” she interrupted, displeased that they were discussing her merits as though she were not present. Briar moved around the kitchen to take the seat which had clearly been reserved for Thorin, moving plates aside and accepting the scroll that Balin passed down to her with an approving smile.

She was accustomed to signing and drafting business contracts. Reading over the contract intended for a willing burglar, she found that the compensation was extremely generous—equal parts of the treasure reclaimed from Erebor’s halls distributed among members of the company—and that was justified by the considerable personal risk—including, but not limited to, incineration by dragon fire.

“My goodness,” she murmured.

“We intend to take the mountain back from that oversized worm!” said the dwarf sitting beside her.

“Then perhaps you would be better off hiring a competent gardener.” Briar continued reading, unaware that she had spoken the thought aloud. “Struck by lightning, crushed by falling rocks…and the whole endeavour would take no less than a year…”

The longer she thought about it, the clearer it became that the decision was already made. It had been since she understood that Thorin was leading this small group of dwarves across Middle-earth.

Briar pushed her chair out from the table. “Just a moment,” she murmured. “I just need a moment.”

She carried the contract down the hallway and knocked quietly on the guest room door. Inside, Dís was sitting on an old rocking chair and keeping Marís distracted from the noise, moving about the handmade doll that Primula had sent with a recent letter; it had a tiny green dress and ribbons.

For a moment, she watched them both and found that she couldn’t say anything.

“I mistakenly thought that your relatives had come to visit and might not wish to meet a dwarf,” Dís told her. “Judging by that contract, you have been dragged into the quest along with my sons.”

Briar let go of the scroll, not caring where it landed, and knelt down beside the chair. She reached out to touch her daughter’s dark hair, other hand covering her mouth to stop herself from weeping. Marís was momentarily distracted from the doll and smiled at her toothily, waving her arms about.

“I have to go with them,” she whispered. “I- I cannot give you a satisfactory explanation, only that I will not be able to wait here without ever knowing-”

“No need to justify your decision, bâheluh. I can remain here to care for Marís until receiving word.”

“I can never thank you enough,” she said fervently. “If… If anything happens to me…”

Dís put a reassuring hand on her shoulder and was entirely serious when she spoke. “Then she will hear stories about her mother’s bravery, kindness and devotion,” she declared. “No one could ever doubt that you love her, Briar, or that you have been her protector these past years.”

There was movement behind her, and she turned to see Thorin standing at the open door. He looked over them with a hard expression and nodded before heading back towards the kitchen.

Briar quickly wiped away her tears and picked up the contract before following.

“-no honour to be had in separating a mother and her child,” Thorin was saying firmly while the dwarves murmured amongst themselves. “The child is not yet old enough to speak, let alone remember their brief time together should the worst occur. How could we, in good conscience-”

She rushed down the hallway, incensed. “You have no right to make decisions on my behalf, Thorin! I will not enjoy being away from my daughter, certainly. But I will go with you all for her sake, because she deserves to be raised in a world where dwarves are not kept from their homeland!”

Dís had told her, with obvious pain, that her family had settled in the Blue Mountains as refugees.

“Where she might one day have the chance to travel across Middle-earth and visit Erebor, restored to its former glory! And so that she may enjoy the Shire’s abundant comforts without guilt, knowing that hobbits do not hesitate to offer aid when our distant neighbours are suffering!”

Balin had set out everything that would be needed to sign the contract. Briar scrawled her name across the indicated line and pressed blotting paper against the wet ink, perhaps smudging it slightly.

“There!” she declared.

“I have the power to render that contract invalid,” Thorin pointed out, his arms crossed.

“If you have any sense at all, you will not.” Gandalf raised his glass, appearing quite satisfied with how everything had worked out. “A toast to Miss Baggins, the newest member of this company!”

In contrast, the dwarves seemed conflicted in their opinions about the freshly signed contract. Several raised their tankards without hesitation, while others looked at Briar with overt concern.

As they sang beautifully about the Misty Mountains, she wrote several letters: to Hamfast Gamgee, trusting him to make decisions about the garden without her oversight; to the mayor, indicating that Dís would be remaining at Bag End for an indefinite period of time, and formally nominating her as proxy in any legal proceedings regarding Briar’s estate; and to her daughter, though she hoped that wax seal would never be broken, explaining why she had chosen to leave.

Dís did not emerge until Marís had been put to bed, at which time it became evident that she was Thorin’s sister. Their proxy agreement during the birth had never really been necessary, as she was a true representative of the paternal line. There wasn’t enough privacy to discuss the matter without dwarves overhearing, but Briar was glad that Marís would be left in her dear friend’s care.

Briar dusted off the travelling pack that she had used as a fauntling and brought out sensible clothing which had belonged to her father. The next morning, with the dwarves awaiting her outside the Green Dragon where they had stabled their ponies, she dressed in a shirt, breeches, suspenders and waistcoat, with the embroidered handkerchief that Primula had gifted her in the breast pocket. She decided to wear her father’s old coat, though it was oversized and unlikely to be waterproofed.

“My beloved daughter,” she whispered and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. She slipped the pendant from around her neck, having already strung the bead onto a hastily knotted length of cord, and placed it among Marís’ blankets, assured that she would have the means to learn her parentage.

The quest began on a sunny morning in the Shire, as they headed towards the East Road.

Chapter Text

After the company had departed, Dís raised the pendant up to the firelight to consider whether it could be trusted beside Marís while she slept.

“Oh,” she said at once, her eyes widening.

The pendant’s design was unmistakeable, because it was nearly identical to her own signature. Only Khuzdul lettering, which might be difficult to perceive for those unfamiliar with the language, identified it as belonging to her brother rather than anyone else in their family.

Any dwarf would immediately recognise the ancient design used by direct descendants of Durin.

Thorin had given her the means to contact him again, but Briar had not understood the gesture.

Even if it had not been Dís and Víli who travelled to Bucklebury later that year, the other dwarven merchants could have very easily delivered a letter that communicated what had happened.

There were leaves entwined around the crest. He had loved her, and likely believed that Marís was a betrayal of their past relationship. Then her brother had tried to prevent Briar from joining them, appearing hostile rather than concerned about her wellbeing, without even bothering to talk to her.

“What a fool,” she muttered.

Dís held the infant up, deftly avoiding flailing limbs and smiling at her with genuine happiness. “You are my nadadnathith,” she informed her. “How fortunate I was, to be present at your birth.”

Chapter Text

Briar came to realise that the dwarves were trying to distract her, so that she would not become melancholic about their ever-increasing distance from Bag End.

When the sun was beginning to set and they decided to make camp, she spoke about methods of cooking and herbs growing in the wilderness which could be used to for seasoning with Bombur, who wasn’t inclined to agree with her until she gathered enough to demonstrate their effects.

Óin was interested in the herbs as well, acting as their company’s medic. They discussed the medicinal uses for feverfew leaves and roots which could be softened over heat then used for poultices. While they remained within the Shire, Briar was able to explain which roots could be pulled from the dirt and washed before being used to cure various ailments.

She collected wood which could be used as kindling for their campfire. Bofur would then choose the thicker branches and use a small knife to strip away leaves before whittling down to the basic shapes of a statuette, though he was better known in the Blue Mountains for crafting children’s toys. As she watched his practised movements, he took the time to show her how the knife could be angled to add details, and spoke generally about the toys preferred by infants who could not yet walk—though other dwarves would clear their throats loudly to interrupt before he could ask about Marís.

Just like the fauntlings who had enjoyed listening to her stories, Fíli and Kíli showed great interest in learning about the everyday circumstances of hobbit life, although gardening and maintaining a household surely could not be as exciting as the pursuits of dwarven princes. Ori asked for permission to include the information in his written record of their journey and was perpetually frowning down at the pages, unaware that his fingers became stained with ink.

“Hobbits will come up with all kinds of excuses to throw a party,” she told them at dinner. “In addition to official holidays throughout the year, there might be a celebration of the first flowers of spring, or a fauntling successfully learning their letters, or perhaps even because a pantry is overstocked. It’s customary to invite every hobbit of your acquaintance. Though you might delay sending cards to anyone you dislike, so they receive them only after the party has already ended.”

Balin chuckled at that, sitting nearby with a bowlful of stew.

“A terrible shame to have missed a hobbit wedding,” Gandalf mused, sounding genuinely regretful. “I have been remiss in not offering my belated congratulations, dear Briar.”

“No,” she said quietly and glanced across the campfire to where Thorin was sitting, posture rigid. “Not at all, Gandalf. I never received an offer.”

Thorin closed his eyes for a moment, as though he was in physical pain. He set down his bowl without finishing it, stood and walked to the agreed-upon watch position, a rock which overlooked the camp and its surrounds where the firelight did not reach.

Briar fiddled with the makeshift necklace underneath her collar, where the bead was safely strung.

The dwarves seemed to have made their own assumptions about why she was an unwed mother, with Fíli and Kíli particularly outraged that an unknown hobbit might have slighted her. There were murmured theories about an extramarital affair, or a premature death before the marriage. Dori was so swayed by speculation that he seemed suddenly protective of her, and she was certain that Nori was encouraging wilder theories than would ever be plausible. Many of the dwarves accepted that there had been unusual circumstances and ate their dinners in peace.

Balin indicated for Dwalin to head up to the watch position, his own expression mildly curious.

“There was no wedding, and my daughter’s birth was not openly celebrated, either-” Briar continued speaking without acknowledging how deeply that clearly upset dwarvish sensibilities, “-but there were trusted friends in attendance who knew her to be a blessing from the Valar. Let nothing unkind be said about her father, who couldn’t have known about the pregnancy before we parted.”

Kíli nodded slowly, somewhat appeased by that. “Would you have married him, if he asked?”

“I wouldn’t have wanted him to propose out of a sense of obligation towards my daughter,” she replied. “I’m fortunate enough to have the means to raise her independently. But I…” Briar trailed off, briefly touching where the pendant had been a familiar weight before lowering her hand. “Yes, I would have married him for love. But now I see that nothing could have come of it,” she murmured.

So, Briar was kept busy until the company settled in their bedrolls, warmed by the fire.

She stirred from sleep, thinking that she had dreamed the arrival of dwarves at her doorstep. There was the familiar scent of smoke from the fireplace and a blanket settled across her. For several moments, Briar blinked up uncomprehendingly at the night sky while reaching for her daughter, who should have been resting on her chest—but she was not there.

Briar gasped with sudden fear, sitting up and reaching out desperately-

A hand pressed against her shoulder, encouraging her to lie back down.

She saw that Thorin was kneeling beside her, barely visible in the dim light of the dying fire, and immediately trusted that he would help her find Marís, clutching tightly onto the sleeve of his tunic. “She is safe at home,” he murmured, and Briar’s senses gradually returned to her. She released her grip, ashamed to have become so vulnerable while half-awake, still at the beginning of their journey.

“Assisting with menial tasks will not be enough for you to sleep soundly,” Thorin told her, his voice quiet enough not to wake the others. “I will speak to Dwalin about weapons training, if you are amenable.”

Briar stared up at him, as though he was a phantom.

“You need not fight,” he assured her after a moment. “It’s simply important that you know how to protect yourself, and you will be too exhausted to dream after training each evening.”

Moments ago, she had believed that she was sleeping in her armchair holding her daughter. Now, it was difficult to convince herself that Thorin had ever left, and that he was not speaking to her underneath the stars as they had laid beside each other on the hillside overlooking the Brandywine River. To her frustration, tears began to well up and she turned her head to wipe at them ineffectually.

Thorin briefly hesitated, before moving across the campsite without another word.

The next morning Briar would have been willing to call it a dream, only so that her heart might not ache. But Dwalin approached her about training with a dagger or other weapon befitting a burglar, demonstrating the motions that she would need to replicate before moving onto the next lesson. Fíli and Kíli loudly protested that Briar wouldn’t have the energy to speak with them anymore, and Thorin—who watched her clumsy movements with apparent disinterest—simply turned away.

Chapter Text

The journey was uneventful in those early weeks.

Gentlehobbits were not inclined to any exercise more strenuous than walking or dancing, so it took time to adjust to the exertion of Dwalin’s training sessions. She had so little difficulty sleeping that, more than once, Briar fell asleep sitting by the campfire while eating dinner, and a nearby dwarf would have to lunge to prevent the bowl from slipping out of her hands.

Fíli and Kíli were sympathetic because they had also been trained by Dwalin, who wasn’t forthcoming with his approval whenever she did successfully copy his movements. He only ever grunted before demonstrating the next manoeuvre. Occasionally, the company would gather around and offer encouragement, with Bofur and Ori’s voices heard most often, though they were hardly subtle about placing bets whenever they believed that she was too distracted to notice.

However, as the roundness disappeared from her middle and the training sessions lengthened, there was an unfortunate return of the nightmares that had been so troublesome during her pregnancy.

Briar opened the green door to Bag End and smiled, hanging up her father’s coat, which had become ragged and worn as they travelled through the woods, protecting her faithfully. Perhaps she would wash her face in the kitchen so that Marís would find it easier to recognise her. She called out, voice echoing through the smial’s tunnels—but no one answered.

They never answered, and—as she wandered to check each of the rooms, increasingly frantic and finding them shadowed and empty—it seemed as though they had never really been there at all.

She awoke with a ragged breath and stared at the constellations overhead.

It was early enough that some of the dwarves remained awake, sitting around the campfire. Briar joined them so that she could warm her hands and shake off the disturbing nightmare. Balin quietly spoke to the younger dwarves about the Battle of Azanulbizar, that ill-fated attempt to reclaim Moria. Most likely, he thought that she knew nothing about dwarven accounts of their history.

Dís had detailed each generation descended from Durin the Deathless and stopped summarily at the Battle of Azanulbizar, saying little more than that it had been a terrible loss.

She had never mentioned that Prince Thorin challenged Azog the Defiler with only an oak branch for a shield, his armour long ruined by fighting against seemingly endless hordes of orcs. That battle had signified his ascension to the throne and earned him the byname ‘Oakenshield’.

Briar looked towards him sharply, wanting to ask: would you have ever told me? The hobbit who was so naïve about the world that she believed your scars were from blacksmithing or mere accidents?

But he never seemed to meet her gaze or speak to her directly, since the contract had been signed.

He laid beside her on the grassy knoll beside the Brandywine River. They were sheltered by an enormous oak tree, and he smiled without opening his eyes as she touched his cheek. “Âzyungel,” she expected him to say—instead, the smile faded and his skin became cold. He would not move at all, and when she looked down there was blood soaking through his cotton shirt-

Perhaps she might have been able to successfully sneak past the trolls, were it not for how eager the ponies were to be released, breathing thickly and snapping twigs beneath their hooves as they rushed to the dwarven encampment, even pushing her aside in their haste.

Briar gasped, in shock and pain, as an enormous hand pulled her upwards by the hair.

There was no hope that she could use her recent weapons training against one troll, let alone three. So she was an extraordinarily cooperative captive, speaking politely with them even as she was dangled upside-down over a roiling stew pot, long enough to become breathless and dizzy.

Had the dwarves given her another few moments, Briar was reasonably confident that she could have extricated herself from the most immediate danger and been lowered safely to the ground. Instead, they rushed into the firelight with their weapons brandished and struck at the trolls wherever they could reach, only to be called off quickly once Thorin caught sight of her.

Her hair was dragging against the bubbling surface of the stew. The rising steam left a foul taste in her mouth and had been making her eyes water, catching in her eyelashes. Briar could feel the blood pounding underneath her skin, which must be turning terribly red.

With her expression, she tried to communicate to Thorin that-

-that she was sorry for having been caught, and-

-perhaps they would be best to leave her here and regroup, before attacking again.

Thorin stared at her while the others waited for his command, their weapons still drawn.

Then he intentionally discarded his sword, and soon the dwarves were trussed up in sacks.

A troll prodded her with a finger. “It’s turnin’ red!” he remarked.

“Oh dear,” Briar said, struggling to catch her breath. “How unfortunate. That means I have expired.”

The trolls glanced at each other uncomprehendingly.

“No matter what method you use to cook me now, I will taste absolutely vile.” Seeing that they still didn't understand what she was saying, Briar continued to explain. “Imagine the worst thing that you have ever tasted. When a hobbit turns red, they taste even worse than that! And- And you can never quite get the bad taste out of your mouth, you know,” she added, somewhat desperately. Black and white dots were starting to appear at the edges of her vision. “What a shame!” she said.

The troll holding her recoiled in disgust, before grunting and putting her abruptly on the ground.

She was so overwhelmed by the rush of blood that she staggered about, then decided to lay down, finding brief comfort in the feeling of dirt pressed against her skin. As the trolls argued about the best method of cooking a dwarf, they did not notice when her dizziness passed and she sat up.

The dwarves were moving about in their sacks and inadvertently kicking each other, trying to loosen the knots that kept them from escaping. Briar hurriedly began pulling at the coarse rope, which scratched at her hands and threatened to leave painful splinters. Seeing that she was no longer in immediate danger, Thorin ordered those with hidden blades to cut through the dirty fabric.

Just as an unusually perceptive troll realised that they were about to escape into the woods, Gandalf called out from atop a nearby rock, “The dawn will take you all!” He struck down with his staff, splitting the rock to reveal morning sunlight.

The trolls couldn’t even protest before they were made into strange statues, positioned around their bubbling stew as though they might begin bickering again at any moment.

And then someone was grasping her arm roughly, pulling her towards the dwarven encampment. Briar turned, dazed by everything that had happened, to see that Thorin was incandescently furious.

“Never again,” he hissed. “You will not listen to my fool nephews when they have dangerous ideas. You will certainly not risk your life trying to rescue our ponies, when this company is more than capable of walking towards the Misty Mountains. If this,” Thorin gestured towards the trolls, “is what I can expect, then you should turn back towards the Shire while you are still breathing.”

Thorin whirled around and completely disregarded those who tried to defend her actions.

She walked quickly to intercept him, side-stepping anyone who reached out to stop her. “How could I have done better? I persuaded them to let me go and was able to free everyone from the sacks-”

“How do you expect to persuade a dragon, Briar?” he replied, voice edged with mockery.

Her hands were shaking and she had the sudden impulse to grip his outer tunic, although pushing against him would assuredly be no more useful than trying to move a dwarf-sized boulder. “A dragon would be less stubborn than you, I’m sure! I am quite capable-”

“You almost died!” Thorin shouted, and it seemed that the woods went silent. “At the first obstacle, you almost-” he broke off with a grimace.

In that moment, Briar believed that he was seeing how the troll’s grasp had tangled her hair into knots, and the foul-smelling stew which was now sticking unpleasantly to the ends. There was dirt smeared across her face, lingering around her eyes because they had been watering. The coarse rope had left scrapes and burns across her uncalloused, trembling fingers.

He looked at her, and she believed that it was with disappointment.

“There is nothing you can say that will change how wholly unsuited you are for this,” he said, voice dangerously calm. Then he walked past her without any further acknowledgement.

Fíli and Kíli were earnest in their apologies, reassuring her that they would wait at the campsite however long it took to wash the filth from her hair in a nearby stream, even if their uncle was angry enough to order everything packed away without stopping long enough for breakfast.

Óin looked over her hands in a perfunctory manner, while Dori was distracted with his own brothers’ wellbeing. The others headed towards the campsite with varying expressions of sympathy, relief that they were rescued, or weariness at having been roused early from their sleep.

When Óin was satisfied that the injuries wouldn’t even need to be bandaged, he patted her shoulder. “Ought not dwell on it, lass. He has always been quicker to anger than anything else.”

Though well meant, those words brought her no comfort.

Rings of smoke puffed out from the makeshift forge’s chimney, rising above the marketplace—she thought that they resembled the rings produced with her father’s pipe and good quality pipe-weed. With all the certainty of dreams, Briar knew that if she turned towards Brandy Hall, she would see Primula swept up in the crowd with an embroidered ribbon in her hair and an affectionate smile-

Instead, she chose to walk towards the blacksmith’s stall—as the crowds parted, he saw her approaching and smiled just as he always had, even though they had seen each other every day—as though he thought her as beautiful as she considered him handsome, and lucky that they had met-

It more closely resembled a memory than a nightmare, yet it hurt her all the same.

Chapter Text

They remained at Rivendell for more than a week altogether. The dwarves complained about vegetarian fare and loudly discussed dismantling the furniture so that they could spread their bedrolls out in the hall, rather than retiring to the rooms which had been provided.

However, Briar soon realised that their behaviour changed considerably depending upon who was present. When the attendants serving meals approached them with politeness, they responded in kind; but if there was muttering in Sindarin about unwelcome guests, they became caricatures of their race.

Bofur winked at her across the table and pointedly raised his cup, a warning that had her reaching for her own, mere seconds before the dwarves slammed their fists down and began a merry song.

They spoke to each other in Khuzdul, sounding more guttural than anything she had heard from Thorin, leaning heavily on consonants and overemphasising changes in tone.

An attendant who brought another jug to their table stood behind them, frowning, and looked across at her for commiseration. Impulsively, Briar finished the entirety of her cupful of potent wine without stopping to breathe, nearly choking when the dwarves cheered enthusiastically and Dwalin struck her on the shoulder, a friendly gesture that would likely leave a bruise. After that, the elves no longer approached her with sympathy about the crudeness of her travelling companions.

Thorin did not dine with them, either meeting with Lord Elrond and Gandalf to discuss the map which detailed a long-forgotten entrance to Erebor, or withdrawing to hear Balin’s counsel.

She benefited from a hot bath and wore the garments which had been generously offered: silk dresses so finely embroidered that the patterns were almost indiscernible, but glowed beneath the moonlight when she wandered out to a balcony and listened to the elves’ singing.

And perhaps Briar should have foregone the ornaments that were laid out so prettily, knowing that it would bother the dwarves to think that she might prefer jewellery made using elven methods, but removing the last tangles from her hair had taken so much effort. It seemed only sensible to use the delicate silver hair pins to pull back the strands that often fell across her face, along with a decorative comb at the back of her head to prevent the smaller pins from shaking loose.

Thorin, who avoided interacting with her whenever possible, noticed them when he walked past where she was practising Sindarin with the friendlier elves. He stopped speaking mid-sentence, causing Balin to ask whether he was quite alright and Briar to glance in their direction. His expression was startled, and quickly darkened as he muttered something in Khuzdul before continuing on.

When her travelling clothes had been mended and put away, and they were still waiting for Thorin’s tacit approval to keep journeying towards the Misty Mountains, she had no obligations other than attending training sessions with Dwalin in the courtyard each afternoon.

She passed the time wandering through the gardens and noting the different varieties of flowers. Hamfast might be interested in hearing about those which only blossomed in the valley. Briar borrowed sheets of parchment from Ori for sketching, so that she would be sure to remember them.

More than once, Briar thought that it would have been lovely to remain here however long she was welcome. If she had never accepted Primula’s invitation and met Thorin in Bucklebury, and never been blessed with Marís’ birth, there might have been enough in Rivendell for her sincere happiness.

As they directed their ponies towards the harsher environment of the Misty Mountains, Briar looked back at Rivendell and felt bittersweet to have experienced such peacefulness there.

“There is still time for you to turn back, Miss Baggins,” Thorin called out.

Far from being frustrated, Briar looked towards the mountains and grinned. His voice was a reminder of why she had travelled further east than perhaps any hobbit had done before.

An unseasonably early chill had crept through gardens, roots withering away beneath the soil before anyone even realised that the Fell Winter was sweeping across the Shire. The crops could not be harvested because they did not grow. Water reserves froze and were difficult to pry open. Once snowflakes began drifting through the air, several weeks earlier than anticipated, it was too late to import food supplies from Bree or redirect them from farming communities to the larger towns.

The slow starvation exhausted them, then. Not days of walking along the narrow mountain paths.

The unrelenting snow had numbed their fingers and dazed them, until they could hardly remember how to move their heavy tongues to speak. Not the cold, thin air of the Misty Mountains.

Briar moved her fingers reflexively and murmured prayers to Yavanna, simply to remind herself that years had passed since the Fell Winter and she could not slow the company down by reliving it.

The dwarves cursed aloud when a violent thunderstorm began. She lost her footing on the wet rock and was hurriedly pulled back against the mountain. Anything more than stepping carefully along the narrow ridge, braced on either side by dwarves who seemed to intuitively understand which footholds would support their weight, was completely beyond her power.

A boulder collided with the mountain overhead and shattered.

“The legends are true! Stone giants!” Bofur cried.

They were battling, their strikes echoing across the Misty Mountains until the sound was nearly deafening. And then the rock beneath them moved, dwarves shouting as it became apparent that they were standing on a stone giant, who had decided to attack in retaliation.

Her vision was blurred in the rain, as she grasped for any dwarf within reach—but they had rushed forward when the company was separated by the giant’s moving limbs, prepared to catch anyone who might lose their balance. An enormous rock falling down the mountainside struck their narrow path. It crumbled beneath the weight, leaving an ever-widening gap between her and the others.

Briar pressed back, shaking and terrified by the certain knowledge that she would need to jump. Even when the stone giant moved back to its original position, dormant once again, rock was cracking beneath her feet. Shards disappeared silently into the mist below.

“We need to find shelter!” Thorin’s voice carried on the wind. “Is everyone-” He suddenly stopped, ignoring the responses from dwarves who had survived the stone giant battled without injury, and shouted, “No!”

That startled her into looking up.

Thorin was moving past the others to reach her, his expression distraught. “Briar!” he shouted.

She realised that he might risk his own life trying to save her—and that was enough to push off against the rock, arms outstretched, half-expecting to miss entirely-

And it seemed that she would have, if Thorin had not caught her by the waist in mid-air. He used the momentum to pull them both backwards, where the other dwarves could further protect them. He let out a wrecked gasp, holding her tightly and not resisting when she pressed her face into his shoulder. The fur lining his coat was soaking wet and felt unpleasant against her skin.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he murmured. “I should have insisted-”

He broke off, and carefully stood before moving away.

Thankfully, the others did not seem to have heard him. Glóin and Bofur were standing closest and nodded when Thorin told them to watch out for her. They were careful to demonstrate where the rock was strong enough to support their weight, and where it lacked structural integrity.

Everyone was relieved when they found an uninhabited cave and could lay out their bedrolls. A fire would have risked setting any lingering gases alight, but the dwarves had no difficulty seeing. Once the storm had passed, moonlight shone through the entrance and she was able to look around.

However, she wasn’t comfortable falling asleep. Her clothes had been soaked and no matter how much Briar rubbed her hands together they still felt stiff and cold. She knew from the years of recovering after the Fell Winter that it was likely a trick of the mind, rather than a real affliction.

While Bofur kept watch and the others settled in their bedrolls, Thorin came to sit beside her.

There were so many things that had gone unsaid between them that she didn’t know where to begin. She could not disclose the secret about Marís’ parentage without knowing the consequences, and neither could she bring herself to ask why Thorin hadn’t told her about his noble birth, as it felt unfair to question him about his obfuscations without acknowledging her own. Her numbed hand pressed against the makeshift necklace, feeling the bead underneath her shirt collar.

“I ran out of pipe-weed in Rivendell,” she told him, somewhat regretfully.

To her surprise, Thorin took a pouch out from an inner pocket of his coat and offered it to her.

“I took a half barrel with me to the Blue Mountains,” he explained. “My sister intends to speak with the mayor to negotiate the trade of pipe-weed to dwarven settlements.”

After a moment where she did not speak, he added, “You should put it deep in your pack, or it will become sodden in the rain.”

Briar put it in her pocket, unwilling to move even the short distance to her pack.

“I missed you,” she whispered. “I kept walking past the marketplace, hoping without reason that you might still be there. For months afterwards I suffered terrible nightmares, fearing that your cart might overturn on the mountain path, or that there would be unseasonably heavy snowfall—knowing that if anything happened to you, no one would think to send word to the Shire.”

Thorin closed his eyes and breathed out slowly. “I knew better than to hope that you might wait,” he began speaking, unaware of the blue light that cast across his features.

Confused, Briar stared down at the glowing dagger that was strapped to her waist.

Her eyes widened once she recalled what that meant.

Near the cave entrance, Bofur quickly moved to stand and wake everyone.

“Thorin-” she gasped.

She meant to warn him that goblins were approaching, but then the floor suddenly gave out beneath them, and they were falling down into the darkness.

Chapter Text

They slammed into what must have been a trap laid by the goblins residing within the mountain, and were immediately set upon by snarling, grunting creatures. There were simply too many for the dwarves to fight off, especially since those who had been sleeping were disoriented.

A goblin lunged at her and she dodged, bringing them both precariously close to the walkway’s edge. It was muscle memory from months of training with Dwalin, or perhaps luck, that had her successfully parrying the goblin’s strikes—but it mattered little, because another goblin knocked into them and she could not even gasp before tumbling further down into the cavern.

When Briar opened her eyes, she saw that mushrooms growing in the damp cave had protected her from serious injury. The goblin had not been so fortunate and was a short distance away, unmoving.

There was an unsettling hissing sound as the goblin was pulled along the floor by its feet. Briar reached for her glowing dagger and remained out of sight.

Even when the goblin began to struggle and was subdued with a rock struck repeatedly against its head until it stopped altogether, she merely clenched her jaw to prevent herself from making any sound. The soft blue light faded, meaning that the goblin had died. She could barely see the odd little creature that was muttering to itself.

Perhaps all her good luck had been used up by the safe landing.

The cord that she had knotted into a makeshift necklace at the beginning of their journey, which had long become frayed during the months of travel—and she ought to have replaced it at Rivendell, but it had become a sentimental reminder of passing the pendant on to Marís—finally snapped.

Briar panicked, hearing the bead hit rock several times without seeing where it had landed. She kneeled and ran her hands along the ground, hoping desperately that it was still within reach.

All that she came across was a ring. After holding it up in the dim light, Briar couldn’t see more detail than its unassuming shape. She slipped it into her pocket without thinking much about it.

Unfortunately, the sounds had caught the odd creature’s attention. “Bless us and splash us, precious. That’s a meaty mouthful,” it remarked, approaching her with wary curiosity.

Heart pounding, Briar pressed the dagger against its collarbone and stood up, moving backwards. “Just show me the way out of here, and I will leave without any trouble,” she said.

“Oh, we knows! We knows safe path in the dark,” the creature told her.

It didn’t seem entirely certain whether it wished to eat her. The creature often turned its face away, scowling, to mutter disparagements and urge itself not to waste time on conversation.

However, it could be persuaded to play a game of riddles. She had the distinct impression that it was toying with its food and was never comfortable enough to break eye contact, even for a moment.

Briar could have cursed aloud when it correctly answered the first riddle, then the second. This would not be as easy as she had anticipated.

She took a step backwards whenever the creature became particularly vicious, and stumbled once, putting out a hand to catch herself—and felt something smooth resting against the rock.

“Last question. Last chance,” the creature told her.

“Yes! Yes, I-” Briar glanced down but couldn’t see the bead in the darkness. She decided on her final riddle. “What can be broken, but never touched, and kept only after giving it away?”

The creature thought hard about the answer and hissed with frustration.

“If you cannot answer, then I have won the game,” she reminded.

As it became more worked up about not knowing the answer, the creature reached for its waist—then froze. “Where is it?” it cried, becoming distressed. “Curse us and splash us, my precious is lost!” It hopped about, peering into the nearby water and wailing at its own reflection.

Briar remembered then that she had picked up a ring and reached into her pocket.

The creature’s expression became cruel. “What has it got in its nasty little pocketses?”

“I won the game,” she said quickly. “You promised to show me the way out!”

“She stole it!” it cried out, throwing a rock that narrowly missed her.

There was no chance that it could be persuaded to honour their agreement. “Here!” Briar held up the ring and the creature immediately stilled. Then she threw the ring with all of her strength. Distantly, there came the sound of it landing in water.

The creature screamed. It scrambled after the ring, but she was certain that it would attack her once it was found. Briar reached down where she thought the bead might have settled, scraping fingers against rock badly enough to bleed and breathing harshly, heartbeat thudding in her ears. She didn’t want to abandon the bead to a cave within the Misty Mountains where it could never be recovered.

Finally, she grasped a tiny, rounded shape and held it tightly in a white-knuckled fist.

The creature had gestured in a certain direction when discussing the exit, so Briar took her best chance and ran that way. She nearly slipped on wet rock and clutched the bead to her chest. Only when she heard the whistling of wind at the entrance to the cavern, did Briar remember to unsheathe her dagger so that its glow would prevent her from stumbling across any goblins.

Agonised cries echoed through the tunnels behind her.

She was fortunate yet again, to find that the company has escaped and were gathered outside. “Where’s the hobbit?” Gandalf asked after doing a headcount and they all glanced around.

“Here!” she called, slowing down and sheathing her dagger. “Here, I- I was knocked into a cave further down,” Briar explained and bent over for a moment until her breathing had calmed. “It took me a while to- To persuade the little creature there to let me leave the mountain.”

No doubt she would be asked to tell the story over a campfire when they continued their journey. For now, the dwarves were simply relieved that no one had been left behind.

While Gandalf and Thorin discussed whether they could descend into the valley or make another risky attempt at passing over the mountains, Briar fumbled with the frayed length of cord. Her fingers were still trembling from adrenaline and she inadvertently smeared it with blood and dirt, trying to make another knot so that she could keep the bead around her neck.

Their packs had been caught up in the goblin’s trap and there was no ready substitute for keeping the bead safe.

She didn’t realise that the dwarves were watching her struggle with the cord until they began to speak.

“Ori has the nimblest fingers,” Bofur remarked. “What with all that knitting.”

“Better replace it altogether,” Bombur said and the others murmured their agreement.

To her surprise, Bifur produced a thin leather strap that was long enough for this purpose. It was secured with a small buckle that could be moved along the strap to adjust its circumference. He gestured in the secret dwarven language that they called Iglishmêk.

“He uses it to keep his carving tools bundled together,” Bofur translated. “Kept forgetting where he put them, after the head injury.”

Óin frowned upon seeing the bloodied cord. “Let me have a look at those scrapes.”

“They’re really not worth-”

But they were unwilling to hear her protests, although they gave her a semblance of privacy to thread the bead along the leather strap and ensure that it was hidden beneath her shirt collar.

“I thought that hobbits disliked wearing jewellery,” Kíli said with curiosity.

Dori spoke sternly in Khuzdul and the older dwarves nodded their agreement. There was no time to ask what he had said, or whether anyone had been close enough to recognise the bead’s significance.

A horn sounded from above them, wargs snapping as their orc riders came upon the company. They had no choice but to run. Dwarves brought down the wargs as they went, quicker with axes and swords than Briar might have believed without seeing them fight—and then came to a sudden halt.

They had been cornered by Azog the Defiler with no escape but a deadly fall into the valley below.

Chapter Text

Gandalf urged them into the trees so that they could avoid being bitten by snarling wargs. Soon, he was passing down fiery pine cones for members of the company to throw towards their enemies.

The orcs were briefly pushed back by the rising flames, but truthfully there was little hope of escape. Briar clung to the tree branches, thankful that she had climbed many during her childhood and utterly certain that the tree would not be able to support their weight for much longer. Roots were being unearthed from where they had been undisturbed for centuries.

Azog the Defiler was taunting them in a language that Briar could not understand. Perhaps Thorin could, or it was memories of the Battle of Azanulbizar that moved him, stepping out from the tree with his sword drawn and an intent expression. He braced his arm with thick bark and shouted.

But Azog smiled at his approach and did not even dismount before striking Thorin down. The warg he rode closed its jaws around Thorin and nearly flung him over the edge.

Azog ordered another orc to dismount and approach his unmoving body, smeared with blood from the warg’s jagged teeth.

She could not lose him like this.

That was her only thought as she jumped down to the ground. Briar narrowly avoided being tripped up by exposed roots, surrounded by branches which had caught alight, running towards them.

The orc was holding a blade to Thorin’s throat, drawing out the moments before death-

She threw herself against its shoulder, hoping to be a distraction that would allow Thorin to reach his sword. The orc had not expected an attack and turned its attention towards her, but she rolled out from underneath its looming body, standing protectively in front of Thorin with her dagger.

It wasn’t wearing the armour that Dwalin had taught her to expect from formidable opponents, so Briar didn’t even take the time to think over her strategy before lunging forward—and that proved to be the right decision, because the orc was stunned by the first stab wound, and hardly even protested as it fell back and was continually stabbed until the life drained from its body. All she could think to do, acting mostly on instinct, was keep attacking until the orc was no longer a threat.

Azog appeared unimpressed and remained on his mount, advancing towards her.

But they were rescued by enormous eagles, who swept down and dropped their enemies over the valley. Each member of the company was gathered up in their talons and carried into the night sky. Gandalf had saved them from certain death once again, though Thorin remained unconscious.

Briar rested her cheek against the eagle’s feathers, grateful that it was unbothered by her tears. Now that they were out of immediate danger, she felt an intense guilt towards her daughter. There was no guarantee that their company would survive their quest to reclaim Erebor, and she had made arrangements to ensure that Marís would be cared for if anything went terribly wrong. Yet, her decision to confront Azog the Defiler to distract him from Thorin had very nearly left Marís an orphan.

The eagles landed on a rocky outcropping as the sun rose. Everyone crowded around Thorin, though Briar stood back and hurriedly wiped away her tears.

Thorin murmured something that she did not hear.

“Briar is here,” Gandalf reassured him. “She is quite safe.”

That appeared to reinvigorate him.

He staggered to his feet and turned towards her. “What were you doing?” Thorin said harshly. “You nearly got yourself killed! Did I not say that you should have remained at Bag End? Did I not warn you that this journey would be dangerous for a hobbit far from home?”

Briar raised her chin and pretended they could not see that she had been crying. “Rest assured, I understood that it would be dangerous. But I signed the contract—I am a member of your company just like anyone else, and will see Erebor reclaimed whether you want me there or not!”

He stepped close enough to reach out and gently hold her shoulders. Her stubbornness faltered at his expression, which was softer than it had been in months.

“I have never known anyone who compared to you, Briar Baggins,” Thorin whispered. “How could I have ever thought myself worthy of you?”

Before she could protest his words, he pulled her into an embrace. There was the lingering scent of smoke in the fur that lined his coat, and she had seen wounds that would need to be tended. He felt much broader than she remembered because of the layers of armour and thick dwarven garments.

However, in that moment there was no distinction between Thorin the blacksmith and Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain—they were the same dwarf and always had been. It seemed that he still believed her to be something greater than she truly was.

Briar grasped his outer coat and remembered the pouch of Old Toby that was still in her pocket. So much had changed since they had first met, but there were still constancies that reassured her.

Meanwhile, the dwarves were awed by the mountain range that could be seen in the distance.

“Erebor,” Gandalf proclaimed, with a satisfied smile now that they were within sight of their destination. “The Lonely Mountain. The last of the great dwarf kingdoms of Middle-earth.”

Thorin’s voice was heavy with emotion. “Our home.”

Beorn’s house resembled that which a hobbit might live in, though it was above ground and everything was oversized. It took considerable strength to raise the tankards of milk that they were given, and Bifur was offering carved wooden spoons to anyone who did not wish to risk pouring soup all over themselves using the cutlery that their host had provided.

Even the flowers were large enough that Briar could have stitched a dress out of their petals. Hives were arranged outside to supply fresh honey, and the bees that investigated them for pollen were easily the size of her hand. It seemed to be a peculiar magic that Beorn cast over his domain.

He was interested in hearing about their journey and, because he had generously provided shelter despite his apparent dislike of dwarves, Briar recounted the story in detail.

“It gave its next riddle:

“Although the odd creature was quite good at riddles, fortunately the answer could always be found in the cave where it resided,” she explained, and waited for those gathered around the table to offer up their own solutions. “The answer was ‘fish’ and I guessed that soon enough.

“‘Last chance!’ it told me, certain that it would soon be having hobbit for dinner. I knew any number of riddles because my father was fond of them, you see, but suspected that this creature might have heard them all. Perhaps other travellers had stumbled across its cave and offered their own riddles.

“So I came up with my final riddle on the spot, and you will find that it was rather simple:

“The creature could not solve that riddle, but it refused to admit defeat.” Briar continued the story up until the company had been reunited, choosing not to discuss their encounter with Azog.

Dori exclaimed, “How remarkable!” while his younger brother wrote everything down in his journal.

“But what was the answer to your riddle?” Fíli asked, leaning forward.

“Hm?” His question had surprised her and she glanced across the table. “Oh, well! I dropped something in the cave and it was difficult to find it again in the darkness. Thinking about it, I came up with the final riddle.” Briar touched where the bead was resting beneath her shirt collar, to remind herself that it had not been lost within the Misty Mountains. “The answer is ‘a promise’.”

She half-expected the dwarves to ask about the necklace, but they respected her privacy.

They did not remain at the skin-changer’s house for long, because Azog the Defiler was likely descending the Misty Mountains with his band of orcs, intent on tracking them across Middle-earth.

There was time enough to enjoy the hospitality that Beorn provided. Briar was delighted to discover that the pouch of pipe-weed had been well packaged, protecting the fragrant leaves. Bofur carved a new pipe at her request, to replace that which had been lost along with her travelling pack. She passed a pleasant hour in the sunlit garden, imagining how Beorn might react upon seeing her tiny daughter if he truly thought that she was small, or how her mother would have been thrilled to hear stories of their astonishing adventures.

And when Thorin came to sit beside her, Briar offered the pouch of Old Toby without a word. He filled his own pipe and neither of them spoke, simply listening to leaves rustling in the wind and admiring the cloudless sky, just as they had done years before.

Chapter Text

In hindsight, it hadn’t been wise to allow Thorin to lead their company along the path through Mirkwood. His sense of direction had not improved upon leaving the Shire.

Before leaving them at the entrance to the dense forest, Gandalf had warned: “The very air is heavy with illusion that will seek to enter your mind and lead you astray. You must stay on the path. Do not leave it, or it is a thousand to one that you will never find it again.”

By Briar’s estimation, they must have lost the path almost immediately.

The dwarves were badly affected by the forest’s magic and became suspicious of one another. While they were arguing amongst themselves, Briar climbed up through the canopy until she could see the sky overhead. She felt better at once and was pleasantly surprised by a kaleidoscope of butterflies.

In the distance, the Lonely Mountain awaited them.

Briar called down to the dwarves, but there was no response.

She unsheathed her dagger and dropped down through branches now covered in glistening web. The company must have been caught off guard. Fortunately, they had not been taken far. Briar soon found them suspended in a thick tangle of webbing. There was little that they could do with their mouths covered and limbs tightly bound, spiders wandering around them with great interest.

Before she could come up with a rescue plan, elven arrows flew through the clearing. Spiders dropped to the ground, lifeless before they even realised that they were under attack. The dwarves were cut down from the web and looked over by several elves, who chose not to remove the web covering their mouths which muffled their frustrated protests.

The elves communicated with each other in Silvan, a dialect that Briar had neglected in her studies.

She followed behind, risking becoming lost without knowing where the dwarves had been moved. Surprisingly, it seemed that there was truth to the rumours that hobbits were easily overlooked. Although Briar had been certain that they would hear a twig snapping underfoot and stop to investigate, the elves hurried towards their destination without appearing to notice her.

Eventually they crossed a bridge suspended over a waterfall and she stayed behind. An enormous gate opened to allow them entrance, but closed behind them, meaning that the bridge was guarded.

“Drat,” she murmured.

There really was no other choice available to her. Briar sheathed her dagger and tried to appear presentable, conscious that there wasn’t much that could be done without a comb and clean water. Then she took a deep breath and went across the bridge.

She knocked on the gate and stepped back.

At first, there was no response. Briar wrung her hands nervously and cleared her throat. “I- I don’t mean any harm,” she called, and then had a peculiar idea. “I have come to call upon-”

She had read extensively from elven accounts of their settlements throughout Middle-earth, but had preferred those written in Sindarin to mastering a dialect that appeared to not be commonly used. For a few moments, she struggled to recall the name of Mirkwood’s ruler.

“-King Thranduil…” There was no chance that she could remember his lineage. Briar decided to risk insulting the elves by excluding it, rather than misnaming the king’s ancestors. “…to request his hospitality, if he would so generously provide it to an uninvited and unworthy guest-”

The gate opened without warning. Armoured guards uttered a Silvan greeting. Briar hesitantly returned it in Sindarin, unable to see their faces to determine whether that had been appropriate. They gestured for her to pass through the gate and follow their near-silent direction.

She was permitted to carry her weapon, kept sheathed. It must have seemed quite harmless.

This was an ancient place shaped from thick roots and stone. Lanterns were suspended high above their heads, as sunlight could not reach this deep within the forest.

The guards brought her to King Thranduil, who remained seated on his throne.

“How did you arrive at my gate unescorted?” he asked coldly, forgoing any greeting.

Briar blinked. “Oh, well- I suppose that your guards were distracted, cutting down the spiders that captured my travelling companions.”

She decided to introduce herself politely. “My name is Briar Baggins, of Bag End in Hobbiton. Those dwarves have escorted me from the Shire, resting briefly at Rivendell, before passing over the Misty Mountains with the intention of reaching Erebor.

“It would have been difficult to request your majesty’s permission before entering these lands, because we are being closely pursued by Azog the Defiler and could not wait for a response. As we were shown hospitality by Lord Elrond, I hoped that we could-”

An elf approached the throne and stood close enough to whisper to King Thranduil. Briar fell silent while the message was delivered and was surprised when the elf remained at the king’s side. Looking between them, she realised that there was a familial resemblance in their features.

“I do not believe that Thorin Oakenshield,” King Thranduil said the second name with a distinct note of mockery, “would have requested my permission, even if the dwarves considered matters of diplomacy.”

“Likely not,” she agreed before thinking over her words and then caught herself. “Well! That is- Excuse me, your majesty. I was quite distracted by the strong resemblance between you.”

When that appeared to startle King Thranduil, who possibly thought that she lacked all common sense, Briar gestured at the elf standing beside his throne. “He was very good at fighting off those spiders. You must be proud of his accomplishments.”

At least that seemed to faintly amuse the elf, who smiled without saying anything.

“If the dwarves have overlooked their responsibilities towards you, as King of the Woodland Realm, then I would act in their stead,” she continued. “Our destination is Erebor. We have no intention of lingering here.”

King Thranduil leaned back in his throne. “You would request my hospitality on their behalf. Yet Thorin Oakenshield disdains my race, even after being brought into the safety of my halls. He attacked a healer who attempted to check for injury caused by the poisonous spiders.”

If the dwarf had been standing before her, Briar would have marched over and tugged his braids.

“No matter how foolish his actions, Thorin has my loyalty,” she replied.

King Thranduil considered her and reached a decision. “Very well,” he announced. “I will consider you a guest within these halls until an agreement can be reached with Thorin Oakenshield.”

Then it was entirely plausible that Briar would live indefinitely amongst the Mirkwood elves, because Thorin would never come to any such agreement. Her heart began beating faster.

“And the dwarves-”

“They were locked in the dungeon to prevent further harm.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Their release will also be conditional upon negotiation with Thorin Oakenshield. I will have his assurance that they are capable of acting with courtesy towards a neighbouring kingdom and its subjects.”

From King Thranduil’s smirk, he understood that he was offering her an unreasonable choice: remain here while the company were imprisoned and Durin’s Day passed before they could reach the secret door, or turn back towards the Shire without hope of seeing their quest succeed.

She wrung her hands and then smoothed them across her breeches to stop the nervous gesture, quickly bowing and murmuring, “Then I must thank you for your benevolence, King Thranduil.”

Briar could not bring herself to smile before being escorted away from the throne room.

Chapter Text

Rivendell had been light, while Mirkwood was shadow; the magic that had brought comfort and dispelled her frequent nightmares there, was oppressive and nearly suffocating here.

As a gentlehobbit who resided underground, Briar would have been able to cope without sunlight if there had been the reassuring sensation of soil that signalled the possibility that new life could grow. She was never shown where the food set before them at each mealtime came from. It tasted wonderful, yet she would have been very glad to see budding sprouts instead of ancient twisting roots.

King Thranduil was partial to wine imported from the citizens of nearby Lake-town, and was only briefly interested in hearing about the varieties of alcohol produced in the Shire. He resembled a fussy hobbit who believed their own preferences superior and would not consider alternatives. Briar was sensible enough to refrain from sharing that observation.

Rivendell had preferred to avoid serving meat, but Mirkwood benefited from hunting animals that threatened to unbalance natural order, whether their breeding season had been unusually successful or their predators had been overcome by incursions of poisonous spiders.

Briar would have undoubtedly enjoyed eating the hearty broth with root vegetables, or braised meat with roasted tubers, or the salty porridge that was available at breakfast, had King Thranduil not told her that the dwarves were being served bread and water until Thorin was persuaded to cooperate.

The elves provided her with a comfortable bed, newly stitched clothing and hot water for bathing. Briar suspected that King Thranduil intended to either surpass Lord Elrond’s generous hospitality, or further punish the dwarves for failing to request permission before entering Mirkwood.

The latter was confirmed when King Thranduil allowed her to visit the dungeon.

An ornate dress was laid out, unlike anything that she had worn while dining with the king. Briar frowned upon seeing that the lace resembled spiderweb.

Attendants were sent to comb through her hair, twisting curls into a distinctly elven style. It was decorated with pins to match the changing season: sparse red leaves on delicate branches which framed the pointed shape of her ears, an attribute shared with elves rather than dwarves.

The leather strap around her neck appeared strange but she could not be persuaded to remove it.

Captain Tauriel escorted her to the dungeon and stood back to observe their interactions.

The dwarves cried out upon seeing her, though they were troubled by her appearance.

“Thorin will not like it,” Dwalin muttered.

His brother patted him on the shoulder. “An understatement, I’m afraid.”

“How did you escape from the spiders?” Ori asked, gripping the bars with ink-stained hands.

“Never mind that!” Glóin said loudly. “What are you doing with those tree-shaggers?”

They were not being kept under the best conditions. It appeared that they washed their faces and hands with clean water but hadn’t been provided any laundered clothing. Her friends were visibly tired and losing hope that they would be rescued from this scrape.

Captain Tauriel had already explained that Thorin was being kept in another part of the dungeon.

“The spiders never caught me. I followed the elves here and introduced myself to King Thranduil-”

Bifur spoke angrily in Khuzdul and the dwarves appeared conflicted.

“I had no other choice!” she told them. “I could hardly have passed the guards unseen!"

She folded her arms. “I explained that we couldn’t have asked for permission to enter the forest because we were being pursued by orcs. However, King Thranduil does not consider me a representative of our company. He will only negotiate your release with Thorin.”

Balin’s expression was solemn. “The Elvenking refused to aid us during Smaug’s invasion, nor the refugees who escaped Erebor and were forced to take longer routes to the Blue Mountains without the Mirkwood elves to guide them. Thorin has never forgiven him for that betrayal.”

Captain Tauriel spoke up then. “Many more would have died if we had intervened.”

“Perhaps,” Balin acquiesced. “But countless dwarves suffered because you did not.”

Briar was becoming increasingly frustrated. “Folly!” she declared. “Just because his anger is understandable, that does not make his actions reasonable!” It seemed to her that they were making excuses for Thorin.

“It is not simple anger, lass-”

“And tragedies are not houses,” she interrupted Óin. “They must be overcome, not lived in.”

“What would a hobbit know of tragedy?” Dori said bitterly.

Her father had died buried underneath blankets, the chill settled deep in his bones. They were all too exhausted to move without reason, so it was hours before they realised what had happened. Her mother had screamed until she could not make any more sound, and forever trembled afterwards, the light gone from her eyes even when the snow melted away and the dirt was freshly turned.

The dwarves went quiet, perhaps understanding that it had been a cruel thing to say.

“Everyone experiences their own tragedies, from which we all do our best to recover,” she replied with very little emotion in her voice. “Now it is Thorin’s responsibility to prevent them. Once reclaimed, he cannot expect to lead Erebor into a prosperous future if he is always looking back.”

She turned to leave with Captain Tauriel, feeling that there was nothing more that could be said while the dwarves resented her for not being imprisoned alongside them.

“Will you speak with him?” called Kíli.

“I will do what I can,” she assured him, “even if it is not within my power to free you.”

Briar was permitted to walk freely throughout King Thranduil’s halls, though she would have been naïve not to realise that a guard was always assigned to watch her movements from the shadows. Just as the dwarves now suspected that she would turn against them, the elves believed that she would betray their hospitality and seek out the means to free her companions from the dungeon. As the days passed, the shadows felt oppressive and the near-silent hallways made her want to scream.

Despite the circumstances, there was a belief amongst hobbits that bad situations could be improved with good food, and that proved true when Briar accepted invitations to dinner each evening.

King Thranduil was willing to set aside political machinations to enjoy his favourite wine, perhaps because she had never presented herself as a threat to his interests. Eventually, he explained what had initially soured the relationship between the kingdoms of Mirkwood and Erebor.

“The White Gems of Lasgalen,” he told her, sounding distant. “Shining like pure starlight. Mistakenly, I thought that the dwarves would be immune to their beauty. I commissioned a necklace from the skilled artisans of Erebor and would have rewarded them richly. By then, the dwarf king was already consumed by gold-sickness and coveted the gems. They remain in the treasury where none can have use of them. I would have them returned in exchange for allowing the dwarves through my land.”

“That sounds more than reasonable,” Briar said agreeably.

“Yet Thorin Oakenshield refuses to consider my request.”

She remembered Dís explaining how precious stones had spiritual significance to dwarves, before gifting the black sapphire in anticipation of Marís’ birth. Thorin, too, had understood the value of his work yet sold it to her at the cost of materials when they had, at that time, spoken only briefly. Both had been willing to give highly valued items without expecting the gesture to be reciprocated.

Briar had never known either of them to renege on a formal agreement. If the gems rightfully belonged to King Thranduil, then it was uncharacteristic of Thorin to withhold them, even without the imperative to secure the company’s freedom so that they could reach Erebor.

Prince Legolas did not speak often during their shared meals and was clearly wary of outsiders. That evening, he dismissed the attendant who would have escorted Briar to her room and did so himself.

“They were intended for my mother,” he said shortly, once they had reached her door. “The gems that my father spoke of. She never would have seen the necklace, even if it had been delivered as promised, for she was captured by orcs and died in their stronghold at Gundabad.”

Everyone experiences their own tragedies, she thought.

“Perhaps Thorin does not realise their significance to King Thranduil,” she suggested.

Prince Legolas scowled, more outwardly emotional than his father. “Perhaps he does not care.”

She wouldn’t have believed it possible that the attendants could dress her even more beautifully, and distinctly non-dwarvish, than they had done for the first approved visit to the dungeon. Now that King Thranduil had granted permission to speak with Thorin directly, Briar was presented with a new gown: silvery-blue silk cascaded from her waist, resembling the waterfall outside the gate, and there was delicate silver brocade along the neckline with patterns of twisting leaves.

The gown had been fitted so that nothing could be hidden within the fabric, though she suspected that this was to present her vulnerability to Thorin rather than thwart any attempts at smuggling items to him. Captain Tauriel was too capable for any unusual movements to go unnoticed.

She would stand before him, clearly unarmoured and decorated according to elven sensibilities.

Attendants braided strands of her hair so that they rested on her shoulders and were uncomfortable to push back, an intentional corruption of dwarven practices. Twigs with silver-coloured bark and tiny clusters of blue berries were wound into her curls, a reminder that winter would soon arrive.

Once again, the pointed tips of her ears were emphasised. That wouldn’t have the intended effect because Thorin had never been troubled by their appearance before, she thought wryly.

Captain Tauriel smiled upon seeing her and said nothing.

They went deeper into the shadows of Mirkwood, where Thorin was being kept prisoner.

None of the dwarves had been shackled and neither was their leader. Thorin approached the bars when he heard their footsteps. “Briar?” he said, stunned. “You look…”

Briar huffed out a breath. “Ridiculous, I expect.” She stepped close to the bars and looked him over, glad that he had not been bitten by those poisonous spiders or physically injured during their capture. “You must have heard that I am remaining here as a guest of King Thranduil.”

“You should have returned to the skin-changer’s house when we were attacked,” he muttered.

“I will not leave you here,” she said adamantly. “Any of you.”

“I don’t trust that,” he muttered an insult in Khuzdul. “He is using your presence to torment me. At any moment, his hospitality could turn into outright threats against your life.”

“We honour our agreements,” Captain Tauriel said evenly.

Thorin scowled but did not respond, instead leaning closer to Briar. “Leave here,” he insisted. “Meet with the wizard so that he might help us to escape this dungeon.” His braids had come loose and there were shadows underneath his eyes. To her dismay, his words were almost desperate. Even their leader was beginning to lose hope that they would reach Erebor before Durin’s Day.

“Why have you refused to negotiate with King Thranduil?” she asked.

He was clearly appalled by the idea. “I will not-”

“But you must,” she interrupted. “Return the gems to their rightful owner.”

“You would reward him for our imprisonment?” he said, disbelieving.

“No! I am asking you to negotiate the terms of your release-”

“It is extortion!”

“It is diplomacy!” Briar argued. “You must set aside your pride and-”

Thorin stepped back from the bars so that she could hardly see him in the shadowed cell. “I would not trust him to honour any agreement,” he muttered. “And I fear that you have been deceived.”

“Thorin,” she said somewhat desperately. “We cannot leave here unless you speak with him.”

“Ghivashel,” he replied, leaning against the far wall. “Go without us. Do not remain here.”

And he would not speak with her any longer, kept imprisoned by his stubborn pride.

Chapter Text

Prince Legolas was sent out to destroy another nest of poisonous spiders. The captain went with him after reporting to King Thranduil about the fraught conversation in the dungeon. Their absence clearly affected the king, who emptied his glass more quickly and spoke little.

Eventually, she decided to break the uncomfortable silence.

“My daughter will be turning three years old as the season changes to spring,” Briar remarked. “She is very young, even by hobbit standards. Hopefully I will not miss her first words.”

Thranduil seemed surprised by this personal information. “What is your daughter’s name?”

No one had asked that question since the beginning of their quest, and she smiled. “Marís.”

“I have heard that name before,” he said after a moment.

“I suppose you would have,” Briar replied agreeably.

“In the historical records kept by Erebor’s scribes,” he mused, “before the dragon arrived, when relations between our two kingdoms were weakened yet persisted despite Thrór’s betrayal.”

“If our quest is successful and the records have survived, she will be able to read them herself.” It was a pleasant image, of her daughter sitting in an ancient library to learn about her heritage.

Thranduil set down his glass and told her, “You are risking your life for the greed of dwarves.”

“Not for their greed,” she disagreed. “For their hope that they can finally return home. And I would do anything to protect my daughter’s future happiness, which might not be found in the Shire.” Briar absentmindedly touched the bead which had remained around her neck. “Her father was a blacksmith from the Blue Mountains, who returned before it became apparent that I was pregnant.”

She had never acknowledged this to anyone other than Primula and Dís, her closest friends. There was no assurance that Thranduil would not use the information against her, but it had little power while the dwarves remained imprisoned and they lacked political influence without Erebor. Whether he recognised Thorin in that brief description, the Elvenking did not give any indication.

“How unexpected,” Thranduil murmured.

A messenger interrupted their conversation: the nest of spiders had been successfully destroyed without any significant injuries. Prince Legolas was now directing healers to attend minor wounds.

Thranduil stood, briefly inclining his head towards her before leaving the room.

The attendants braided a complex pattern into her hair, a more blatant attempt at irritating Thorin. Teardrop shaped gemstones were suspended by delicate chains from silver pins. Briar was certain that they had been created by dwarves according to elven preferences before the fall of Erebor.

She was not given an entirely new gown, which would have been altogether wasteful. Instead, an extra layer of spiderweb lace was strategically sewn over the silvery-blue silk.

Thorin grimaced upon seeing the hair pins, which Captain Tauriel would certainly have noticed. He was reluctant to speak with her but did not move back from the bars to put distance between them.

Briar breathed out slowly and reached up to remove one of the pins. “You once showed me chain links that you had forged,” she reminisced. “They were even smaller than these, and difficult to work with Mannish tools. You were frustrated to have broken pairs of tongs when I came to meet you.”

“A skilled blacksmith can work with the most rudimentary tools,” he said, voice sounding hoarse.

“Yes,” she agreed. “You created a beautiful necklace, despite your frustration.”

Thorin’s expression darkened and he glanced at the leather strap, without seeing the bead strung along it. “It was intended to be worn, not put away in a drawer and forgotten about,” he muttered. “I should have known that a hobbit would not appreciate the significance of such a gift.”

“I did not-” Briar could not explain that the necklace had been passed to her daughter, so that it would not be risked during their journey and as a confirmation of her dwarven parentage. She grasped the bars and stepped closer to him. “You think so little of me,” she whispered.

Thorin did not move away or say anything in response. He still suspected her of betraying them and was struggling with their extended imprisonment, while hospitality had been extended to her.

“A skilled blacksmith can work with any tools,” she repeated. “A leader must also negotiate under adverse circumstances. We are all captive here until you reach an agreement with King Thranduil.”

“There are no bars to prevent you from leaving,” he pointed out.

Briar stepped back, suddenly exhausted. “No, only your stubbornness.”

Captain Tauriel escorted her away from the dungeon and was kind enough to wait in a quiet hallway, so that she could wipe tears from her face and murmur about the frustration of knowing dwarves.

Thranduil frowned almost imperceptibly, setting down his glass. “The captain of the guard has volunteered to accompany you to your home in the west,” he told her. “Unlike those foolish dwarves, you have shown respect during your time here as my guest, for our languages and ways. I would name you Elf-friend, that Lord Elrond might regret not similarly acknowledging your worth. Captain Tauriel would not part with you until you had safely reached your doorstep. Leave in peace, and think not of the dwarves who have condemned themselves by their own foolishness and greed.”

“Thank you,” she said sincerely. “Thank you, but I will not leave without them.”

“They would sooner curse you than repay your selflessness,” Thranduil pointed out, yet seemed to understand that she would not be dissuaded.

Soon after, Tauriel received permission to escort her to the upper balconies, where she could see the sky overhead and imagine walking through the forest with soil underneath her feet.

It was a significant distance to Erebor without their ponies or the Mirkwood elves’ guidance. Even if Thorin soon agreed to the conditions of their release, they would have difficulty crossing the winding rivers, which Tauriel explained had been enchanted to harm unwary travellers. Perhaps their journey would end here, with the Lonely Mountain in sight but beyond their reach.

The attendants adorned her hair with glittering gemstones, likely to remind Thorin of those which had been mined beneath the mountain and stored in the treasury which was now a dragon’s hoard. Lace was removed from the gown and replaced with tiny jewelled pins to highlight the brocade.

When she arrived at the prison cell, Thorin did not greet her. He was sitting at the bars, posture hunched over in apparent defeat, tangled strands of hair falling across his face.

“Thorin,” she murmured.

He did not respond, only turning his head slightly so that it was hidden by shadow.

After a moment, Briar shook out her skirts so that she could sit on the floor, uncaring that it might damage the silk fabric and show more of her bare feet than the elves would have preferred. She reached up to remove individual hair pins, collecting jewels in her lap: rubies, emeralds, sapphires and others that the dwarves could have readily identified, but that she did not particularly value.

The movement caught his attention and he watched her remove the pins, eventually loosening her hair so that curls tumbled across her shoulders. “If only I had a comb,” she said ruefully, reaching through the bars to touch the black and silver strands of Thorin’s hair.

He did not move away, so Briar loosened the braids that he had always worn at his temples, keeping the beads in her lap alongside King Thranduil’s gemstones. She carefully worked out any knots and then twisted the strands into unsophisticated, but passably neat, braids that framed his face.

Thorin watched her with those blue eyes that were more beautiful than any precious stone.

Once she had finished and beads kept the braids from coming loose, Briar touched his cheek.

She had considered showing him the bead that she had worn since his departure from Bucklebury, but it seemed inappropriate to discuss their relationship until their quest was concluded—whether Erebor was successfully reclaimed, or Durin’s Day passed while they remained in Mirkwood. What might have been a straightforward conversation had been complicated by the birth of her daughter.

Briar had never stopped loving him and did not love him less now, despite his flaws.

“Âzyungel,” he whispered, touching calloused fingers against her own.

“I will not leave you,” she replied.

Thorin closed his eyes, looking pained. “You should…”

“But I will not,” she said gently. “You can show me the first place that you called home. We could see whether constellations are different in the eastern sky. Else we could remain here, and I will keep coming to visit you whenever King Thranduil permits, even if you would rather turn me away.”

“I would not,” he murmured.

“Perhaps you would not,” Briar said agreeably, and was pleased that he leaned into her hand. There were dark shadows underneath his eyes and she wondered if he might fall asleep sitting upright.

No matter their disagreements about Thranduil’s proposition, Thorin still trusted her this much.

Eventually, Briar gathered up the hair pins and smoothed out the creases in her skirts. “I will visit again soon,” she assured him with a smile.

He pressed his forehead against the bars and did not reply.

As they walked away from the dungeon, Tauriel stopped so that they might talk.

Her expression was troubled. “There are…certain details that can be omitted from my reports,” she began.

“It is much easier not to keep secrets,” Briar advised. “There is no reason for King Thranduil to doubt your loyalty, and we are really too old to be shamed by the truth.”

“And what is the truth?” Tauriel asked quietly.

“Love is not always expected,” she replied, thinking about how they had met all those years ago.

Tauriel considered that and then nodded. For a moment, she glanced towards the dungeon. They continued through the hallways, saying nothing else of particular consequence.

Without forewarning, Briar was summoned to the throne room.

“Thorin Oakenshield has formally agreed to return that which was stolen from me.” Thranduil spoke louder from his throne, so that his voice might be heard from the adjoining hallways. “If the White Gems of Lasgalen are not delivered promptly, then a delegation will be sent to Erebor to ensure that the agreement is honoured,” he warned and gracefully reclined.

“The gems have already been inlaid into a necklace of my own design. I am told that it cannot be valued until Erebor is reclaimed and the artisans’ guilds are restored. The King under the Mountain has surprised me by foregoing payment for their labour, so that the dwarves can pursue their quest without further delay.”

Briar covered her mouth, truly surprised.

Thranduil appeared satisfied by her reaction. “You will be escorted to the Long Lake. There, the bargeman who transports our deliveries of wine will grant you passage to Esgaroth. Perhaps it will humble Thorin Oakenshield to see what has become of the people who once resided in Dale.” He looked at her intently. “Or perhaps your influence has already humbled him.”

“I-” She hesitated, unsure of how to respond.

“I believed that decades would pass before he considered my offer,” Thranduil said. “The only hobbit to have been welcomed as a guest within my halls, growing old and distant from her child, out of loyalty to a dwarf wholly undeserving, and stubborn as the rock from which he was hewn.” He leaned forward. “You spoke with him three times and he changed his mind.”

Again, Briar could not find the words to reply.

“I have named you Elf-friend,” he announced. “You and your daughter will ever be welcomed here. The Greenwood will provide what aid we can, without condoning Thorin Oakenshield’s quest to reclaim the Lonely Mountain; he has underestimated the dragon that yet dwells there.”

Thranduil’s warning became more emphatic. “Just as his forefathers, his greed will bring about ruin. Be attentive to any signs of obsession with gold. Thrór did not heed my warning, when the treasury could have been emptied to avert the dragon’s interest. Perhaps you might understand,” he gestured abstractly, “though it is not your responsibility to save the line of Durin from their demise.”

Tauriel stepped out from the hallway to stand beside her.

“Captain Tauriel will protect you until the bargeman has arrived at the meeting point,” he explained. “A darkness has encroached upon my kingdom and it is no longer safe for unwary travellers. Go with her, and do not hesitate to return, should the quest prove more dangerous than your reckoning.”

Briar bowed before the throne. “Guren glassui,” she murmured in heartfelt Sindarin.

“Na lû e-govaned vîn,” he replied, so perhaps her accent had not been too atrocious.

They parted on better terms than she had anticipated after knocking on the gate weeks ago.

Imprisonment had beaten down their spirits, but the dwarves’ condition improved immensely after bathing and being provided freshly laundered clothing. Although they were inclined to refuse, Briar persuaded them to accept travellers’ packs which included basic tools and food for their journey. Tauriel had warned against eating anything that they came across in the forest without her approval, even if it appeared to be a plant that they were familiar with.

The dwarves were overjoyed that their company was reunited. However, they avoided speaking with her. They were still uncertain whether she had betrayed their confidence to the Elven-king, forcing Thorin into an unfavourable arrangement. She had become friends with Tauriel, who acted as their jailor and had been personally responsible for ensuring that Kíli was bound after their capture.

Additionally, Thorin did not acknowledge her actions as he had after the encounter with Azog. That could be interpreted as condemnation by the dwarves. That Thorin was still wearing her braids in his hair might have mattered little—though she suspected that they simply had not realised. Fíli even commented that it must have been difficult for Thorin to braid his own hair in darkness.

When they were close enough to the Long Lake to hear water, the dwarves remarked on their gladness at leaving Mirkwood behind. But Tauriel stopped suddenly, angling her head. Then she drew her bow and urged them through the trees where the bargeman should be waiting.

She shot an arrow into the shadows and there was muted cry.

At once, they could hear wargs growling and trampling branches underneath their clawed feet.

Despite their exhaustion and weeks without using their weapons, the dwarves did not hesitate. Ori picked rocks off the ground and aimed them with a slingshot, while Dori protected him with a heavy sword. Dwalin was always prepared to rush forward and knock orcs from their mounts. Kíli shot arrows that occasionally struck their target before Tauriel’s could, which he would surely be pleased about once they escaped danger. Fíli cut down any enemies that came close to his brother, wielding a sword in each hand without apparent preference.

The orcs were subdued, but a horn sounded in the distance.

“That was a scouting party,” Nori remarked, sheathing his daggers.

“The forest’s magic will delay them, but not for long.” Tauriel removed any throwing knifes or arrows that could be salvaged from a felled warg. “We must reach the meeting point,” she urged.

“‘We?’” Briar asked, immediately picking up on a change in her demeanour.

Tauriel smiled at her with the barest hint of mischief. “I was charged with your protection. The king would consider me remiss in my duty if I did not ensure that you reached Esgaroth safely.”

Truthfully, she suspected that Tauriel had always intended to travel with them across the lake.

The dwarves protested her presence but they could not reach their destination without Tauriel, and she had demonstrated that she could fight alongside them. Kíli was clearly enamoured, perhaps because bows were an uncommon weapon amongst dwarves and he admired her proficiency-

-or, Briar thought upon seeing how Tauriel smiled down at him, perhaps not.

They were attacked again at the shore, narrowly boarding the boat while the bargeman grimaced and aimed his own bow, not asking any questions until they were sailing across the water.

“I don’t suppose that you are heading to Lake-town for a diplomatic visit,” he said eventually, then shook his head. “Never mind. I have been paid handsomely to bring you past the guards. Still, not enough to risk the Master’s ire or bring trouble into my household.”

“A sensible man,” Balin commended.

The bargeman glanced at him. “I would not have shot down an orc today if I was a sensible man,” he disagreed, pulling the oars with well-practised movements. “I would have caught enough fish to feed my children instead of making an unusual deal with the King of the Woodland Realm.”

“Well,” Briar said conversationally, truthfully not thinking about much but the sight of Lake-town appearing as a shadow in the mist, creaking wood suspended on stilts above the murky water. “There is still time to go fishing.”

The bargeman laughed despite his suspicion and brought them closer to the town where he lived.

Chapter Text

They were concealed in emptied wine barrels from Mirkwood, underneath freshly caught fish. The barrels were examined by a man who clearly distrusted the bargeman and held a position of authority. There was an argument about whether the fish had been caught without the proper paperwork. It seemed that whoever ruled over Lake-town was not concerned with whether its people were fed.

Because of that near discovery, Bard decided that his house was the safest place. They were given clothing that must have belonged to his son, since it fit better than she would have expected.

His youngest daughter asked many questions about their journey from the Blue Mountains. At first, Tilda eyed the axe head embedded in Bifur’s skull with uncertainty, but soon delighted in his wood carving.

Sigrid sat down to continue sewing what would become a pinafore for her sister. “The lord of silver fountains…” she murmured, frowning slightly. “How did that old story go?”

Tilda recited it dutifully:

Sigrid tucked the needle into the fabric. “Never mind,” she said quickly. “Just a children’s story.” She put the pinafore aside and looked over their company warily, just as her father had upon meeting them. Then she ushered Tilda out into the kitchen, who protested against doing her chores.

The people of Lake-town had not prospered since the fall of Erebor, relying on limited trade with Mirkwood to stabilise their economy, while corrupt leadership often increased taxes.

The town itself had never been intended as long-term accommodation. Rotting wood was reinforced with more wood, and the stilts which kept them above water creaked threateningly. Wind coming off the lake was achingly cold. Briar would not have been surprised to hear that sickness swept through Lake-town throughout the year, regardless of the season.

They distrusted dwarves, which could not be held against them. Refugees from Erebor had resettled in the Iron Hills or travelled westward to establish mines in the Blue Mountains. Without those trade relationships, those displaced from Dale had been forced into ongoing poverty.

“Perhaps the dwarven king can negotiate trade with the fishermen once your quest is finished,” Tauriel said optimistically, having noticed that Briar was troubled by their suffering.

“Perhaps,” she murmured.

Yet it appeared that Thorin had become fixated on the Lonely Mountain since leaving Mirkwood, staring up at it with an intent expression whenever he was not drawn into conversation. He offered riches to the Master of Lake-town and ignored Bard’s shouted protests. It didn’t seem to matter that gold would weigh down the Master’s pockets while the people of Lake-town starved. Thorin only cared about reaching the mountain door without any further delays.

Meanwhile, orcs were sighted along the shoreline, moving closer to Lake-town than ever before.

“I will stay here and protect them,” Tauriel told her before the company departed. “If there truly is a dragon slumbering inside the mountain, then these people will be wholly defenceless.”

She didn’t need to say aloud that the orcs had followed them here.

Briar hurriedly said goodbye to her friend, conscious that the dwarves were leaving without her.

As they walked towards the mountain door, Briar touched the sheathed dagger to reassure herself that it was there, and wound fingers into the fabric of her shirt until it was terribly wrinkled. She had not truly understood Thorin’s decisions since they reached Mirkwood, and had lost the dwarves’ trust by questioning them. It wasn’t difficult to imagine that Thorin, King under the Mountain, would turn against her to safeguard their claim to all that remained in Erebor’s treasury—though Thorin the blacksmith would certainly understand that a hobbit would have no interest in it.

Just then, Thorin stopped to look back over their company.

Their eyes met and he nodded, as though reassured that she was still there.

She had already decided that the distinction between the king and the blacksmith was not useful, Briar reminded herself. Despite Thranduil’s repeated warnings and the concerns raised at Lake-town, she would follow Thorin until there was undeniable evidence that he was no longer the dwarf that she loved.

The dragon was struck mid-flight, wings crumpling as it arced over the Long Lake. Its terrible roar echoed across the mountain range. It collided heavily with the water, sending waves crashing out towards the burning wreckage of Lake-town.

Briar imagined those waves overwhelming refugees in small fishing boats, though not much of the devastation could be seen at this distance: only the plumes of dark smoke and steam rising from the town, which had been completely constructed from wood.

Behind her, the dwarves were cheering because the dragon had been slain.

Dwalin clapped her on the shoulder, as he did whenever she demonstrated improvement during their training sessions.

“You did it, lass!” Óin bellowed, who had dropped his hearing trumpet in the excitement.

“You faced down a dragon,” Glóin said admiringly. “No one can doubt your loyalty to us.”

Kíli had gone pale, looking out in the direction of Lake-town where they had left Tauriel. None of the others yet comprehended that their company hadn’t paid the price for reclaiming the mountain.

The company went quiet when Thorin spoke from beside an enormous pile of gold and jewels.

“Now to recover the Arkenstone, so that it may be returned to its rightful place above the throne of Erebor. Any who see it there will know that we have succeeded in our quest, and that they can make no claim to this untold wealth unless they are counted among the members of our company.” He picked up a handful of gold coins and inspected them with satisfaction.

“Seek out the Arkenstone!” he shouted and the dwarves raised another round of exuberant cheers. “It must be here! The dragon would have coveted it above all else!”

The dwarves followed his instructions, remarking on the valuable items that they could already see.

“A wondrous gem mined deep within the mountain,” Balin explained to her. “It is unmistakable. No need to worry about looking for it yourself. It shouldn’t take long to recover.”

In truth, she had seen a strange gemstone during her conversation with Smaug. When the dragon moved, it had been swallowed up by a cascading pile of gold.

But the dwarves were so convinced that they could recover the gemstone quickly, and that as a hobbit she would not comprehend its significance, that Briar said nothing.

Instead she collected their travelling packs and brought them inside so that they could sleep here. They would have enough dried food from the Mirkwood elves to last several days.

By then, Thorin would certainly have reached out to tentative allies to gain their support. He could leverage gold in exchange for food from Mirkwood and ensure that the refugees from Lake-town were stabilised, Briar reasoned. The dwarves might resent relying upon the Mirkwood elves, but it was fortunate that Thorin had managed to negotiate successfully with Thranduil, or they would be forced to eat nothing but fish from the Long Lake for so long that dragon meat would seem appetising.

The older dwarves returned from the treasury, with brightly coloured jewels braided through their beards, and strewn with necklaces and bracelets that must have been uncovered while searching. They were in good spirits and didn’t even complain about the dried food that she offered them.

“Centuries of masterworks, and the oversized worm gathered them in a pile.” Glóin shook his head. “It will take months to appraise everything, even if guild records survived dragon fire.”

“Ori will want to search the library once the Arkenstone has been found,” Dori murmured.

“No doubt in another year he will be undertaking an apprenticeship to a master scribe! My own son always insisted that he would join the city guard. Never thought he would have the chance,” Glóin admitted, his smile bittersweet. “Not in my lifetime. And yet, here we are.”

He clapped Briar on the shoulder and ignored that she nearly choked on a mouthful of seed cake. “You will be glad to see your daughter again, after all these months! Wee little thing, wasn’t she?”

“Oh, yes!” she replied, seeing that the dwarves were smiling at her. “She is very young.”

“We never asked her name,” Balin said.

They had not spoken about her daughter directly, because they thought it would be cruel.

“Marís,” Briar was pleased to tell them. “Named for a distant ancestor,” though she had not realised that Thorin was descended from Durin the Deathless until after dwarves arrived at her doorstep.

“A dwarvish-sounding name,” Óin said approvingly.

“I would not have thought that hobbits chose similar names,” Dori remarked, clearly thinking that it was an interesting coincidence.

Balin furrowed his brow and was briefly lost in thought.

She noticed that he glanced towards the leather strap, but it was tucked beneath her shirt collar. He met her gaze and inclined his head slightly, saying nothing to disturb their conversation.

They soon realised that Erebor had been warmed by the dragon’s breath while it slumbered. Now that it was gone, and the snow drifts of early winter were settling over the mountains, Briar tucked shivering hands into her pockets and tried to warm herself by walking briskly.

The dwarves were not troubled by the lower temperatures and continued to search through the treasury, following Thorin’s order that at least three must be there at all times, to hold each other accountable. He had been adamant that they could take anything they desired, because every member of the company was entitled to an equal share, but that the Arkenstone must be given to their king without delay.

She passed by the treasury and listened to the discordant rhythm of coins clinking together.

Thorin glanced up and saw that she had attempted to use a strip of fabric as a scarf. Later, he approached her with a fur coat so large that it brushed against her feet, because it was intended for a dwarf. That would have been enough to warm her, but Dwalin hefted a stone brazier beside their bedrolls. It provided warmth and comfort after months of sleeping in campsites, and allowed her to see better in the firelight, while the dwarves relied on an innate sense of the stone around them.

“Once smiths have returned to work the forges, heat will rise through the mountain,” Thorin explained, with a slightly distant expression as he remembered what Erebor had once been like. “That will be enough to keep everyone warm during the winter months.”

He looked towards the enormous pile of gold, seemingly thoughtful.

She hoped that Thorin was considering the refugees from Lake-town. Their homes had been destroyed and they could only survive with immediate aid from either Erebor or Mirkwood. Unless they acted quickly, vulnerable people would die from exposure or preventable illness. Briar didn’t even know whether dwarves from the Blue Mountains would begin travelling to Erebor until the winter had passed, meaning that their company might wait here in a dormant kingdom. In that eventuality, it would be better to travel down to the Long Lake and assist the refugees.

Thorin did not discuss these matters with her. Instead, his eyes caught on a long golden chain, adorned with a diamond almost the size of her fist, surrounded by smaller coloured gemstones. He placed it around her neck reverently and was pleased to see the necklace laid against fur.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, then turned back to watch the dwarves looking for the Arkenstone.

“Th-thank you,” she replied, and left the treasury at once.

Her heart was beating faster as she walked down the hallways in that oversized fur coat. Eventually, Briar pressed her back against a stone pillar and wrung her hands together, shifting her weight.

The dwarves agreed that it was important to find the Arkenstone, because it held significant political power and would prevent anyone from challenging Thorin’s legitimacy as King under the Mountain. It made sense that he would spend long hours in the treasury until the gemstone was recovered.

But Thranduil had warned her that any descendants of Thrór were susceptible to gold-sickness.

Briar unfastened the necklace so that she could string her bead along it, thinking that she should speak to Bofur about repaying Bifur for his kindness. Whenever she neared the treasury next, she would throw the jewels inlaid in gold back into the pile, so that they might be better appreciated.

The second morning after Smaug had been defeated, the dwarves began to show their fatigue. In accordance with Thorin’s orders, they agreed upon shifts in the treasury, with two on each shift and a third transitioning between them, so that Thorin might not immediately notice and question their dedication to recovering the Arkenstone and reclaiming the mountain in its entirety.

Briar heard them murmuring but did not join the conversation, intent on rationing their limited supplies. “We can stretch these further with water and dried herbs to make a broth,” she said.

“If we had fresh fish from the Long Lake…” Bombur trailed off at her tense expression, scratching at his moustache. “Or if Kíli went hunting for birds,” he suggested. “On the battlements, without even leaving the mountain.”

It was entirely possible that the birds had travelled west for the winter. However, they wouldn’t know without checking whether they might be roosting in the ancient ruins. Kíli was willing to take his bow into the open air, and Fíli insisted that he had a better sense of direction, so they walked with her through dark hallways until they heard the sharp whistling of wind.

There was an elaborate network of mirrors designed to reflect sunlight within the mountain, but they had been tarnished by smoke, meaning that there was no distinction between night and day.

They stepped out into a frigid morning. Cold winds cut across the battlements and carried away Kíli’s shout of excitement. Fortunately, it was too early in the season for snowfall and the sky was clear overhead. Briar stepped close to the edge, braced against the stone, and looked out over the valley.

“They are taking refuge in the ruins of Dale,” Fíli said quietly, gesturing at the distant smoke rising from their fires, which looked nothing like the black haze above Lake-town after the dragon attack. “Sensible. That will be their best chance at shelter, unless uncle allows them into Erebor.”

“What will Thorin do once he has the Arkenstone?” Briar asked, almost afraid of the answer.

“He will honour his responsibilities as King under the Mountain,” he replied stubbornly.

“Fíli, your brother is hunting for birds so that we do not starve,” she hissed. “We cannot eat gold, and unless he speaks with the refugees from Lake-town soon, they will not trust us enough to trade their fish once our supplies run out. We will be forced back to Mirkwood, and it is nearly certain that Thranduil’s aid will cost your uncle more than his pride.”

He had gone very still.

“Has he sent word to the Blue Mountains, or the Iron Hills?” she asked desperately. “Has he considered sending a messenger to Dale, to learn about their situation? Or is the Arkenstone more important than keeping our company and the people we have displaced alive?”

He did not reply, and Briar sighed.

Truly, these were questions that she should be asking Thorin rather than his young nephew. She would need to put aside her discomfort and speak with him about how they would proceed.

Chapter Text

Thorin couldn’t be convinced to leave the treasury until he was practically stumbling from exhaustion, meaning that there was always another dwarf close enough to overhear his conversations. They had felt so betrayed by her actions at Mirkwood. Briar worried that their suspicions would return if they believed she was questioning their king’s decisions.

When she arrived at the treasury, she noticed that they were surreptitiously glancing over at them.

“Thorin, I need to speak with you,” she said quietly.

To her surprise, he reached out and held her shoulders. “Briar,” he greeted with an odd smile. The eyes that she had always admired appeared dull, but that could have been from tiredness. “You will have your share of my kingdom’s wealth. Yellow gold,” he said suddenly. “I always thought that it would look best with your hair colour. Perfect sapphires inlaid in yellow gold. Durin’s blue. Nothing less than a masterwork.”

He was muttering to himself and holding her shoulders tight enough that it became painful. Suddenly, Thorin released her and spun around, grasping handfuls of the treasure while muttering.

She looked uneasily at the dwarves, who watched but did not intervene.

“Thorin,” she raised her voice. “I need to-”

Briar broke off mid-sentence when Thorin snarled at the jewels that he had gathered. He discarded them with enough force that coins cascaded down and across the stone floor, making her step back. She pressed the bead resting against her chest, underneath her shirt and this absurd fur coat.

“Thorin-” she tried again.

But he would not listen to anything that she said, frowning deeply until she accepted the jewellery that he draped around her neck, ignoring that she flinched when he tugged on her sleeve, not satisfied until there were heavy bracelets and cuffs weighing down her arms like manacles. Briar was certain that they would bruise her skin unless she removed them quickly.

“Yellow gold and mithril,” he muttered. “I will find something here worthy of you.”

Briar opened her mouth to protest, but Balin appeared beside her.

“Your majesty.” Balin inclined his head, though Thorin had already turned away.

They stepped into the hallway. Once they could no longer be seen from the treasury, Briar tore at the bracelets and placed them in Balin’s expectant hands. “He is-” she gasped.

“Yes,” Balin agreed.

“We will run out of food,” she warned.

“I was unable to persuade him to eat this morning.” Balin glanced back at the treasury. “Now, he is not simply obsessed with the Arkenstone. He’ll be searching for anything that you might wear.”

“He knows better than to think that a hobbit would-” Her hands were trembling again. “I am not a dwarf. Thorin knows that I would not appreciate being given mathoms, especially not when we could exchange them for enough food for ourselves and all the refugees in Dale. I would have- I would have wanted to celebrate that the dragon has been killed with a feast. Anything to justify all the hardships that we’ve gone through, before the work involved with rebuilding.”

For a moment, Balin said nothing.

“You have fulfilled the obligations laid out in your contract,” he murmured. “Nori has agreed to escort you to Dale, or Mirkwood, if the elf has already returned there. You can travel back to the Shire and be reunited with your daughter. If you prefer, you could have nothing to do with us ever again. Thorin would not follow you across Middle-earth, bound here by his obsession. We swore an oath of fealty to our king and will not leave these halls. But you have that choice.”

“He will listen to reason,” she insisted. “He must.”

Their mad king insisted that she wear mithril armour underneath the fur coat, never mind that it was the most valuable item in the treasury aside from the Arkenstone, which had still not been recovered. He moved his bedroll into the treasury so that he could supervise those searching.

Bombur agreed that they should reduce the portions so that their rations stretched even further.

One afternoon, Fíli had explained to her that they used ravens to carry messages. He had sent word to other dwarven settlements with the good news that Erebor had been reclaimed. The letter to his mother had been more straightforward, detailing his concerns about Thorin’s wellbeing. However, they could not expect a response from anyone further away than the Iron Hills for another week, at the earliest, and delegations would certainly not arrive for another month.

Kíli confided that he was worried about Tauriel and the family that had sheltered them in Lake-town.

The older dwarves removed the jewels they had adorned themselves with and returned them to the treasury, which pleased Thorin, who was becoming increasingly possessive about Erebor’s wealth.

Ori’s brothers kept him away from the treasury, distracted with ancient texts in the library.

Often, she ventured out to the battlements to watch the plumes of smoke rising above Dale. It was tempting to take off the fur coat and throw it down the mountainside. Thorin might have been furious with her, but that would be infinitely preferable to being covered in gold, as though he wished to preserve her, a gilded hobbit statue in the treasury who could never move again.

If he wanted to recover the Arkenstone, then Thorin would simply need to move the treasures aside. Instead, he became increasingly fixated on inspecting every coin, feeling its weight in his hand before placing it down carefully and picking up another, muttering to himself.

His obsession did not become violent until Fíli spoke to him about the messages sent by raven.

“Dáin is sending an army from the Iron Hills.”

Thorin, who had been ignoring his nephew, stopped moving.

The dwarves around them tensed.

“They will come to take the Arkenstone by force,” he growled.

“No, uncle. To protect Erebor until dwarves have arrived from the Blue Mountains. It will take months before the guilds are re-established and damage caused by the dragon can be repaired.” Fíli stepped back until he was pressed against the wall, his uncle glaring fiercely.

Thorin’s voice was almost unrecognisable. “You would usurp my throne.”

“No, uncle!” he protested. “The throne is rightfully yours-”

“Then you would see Dáin become ruler over both the Iron Hills and Erebor.” Thorin spoke words that she did not understand in guttural Khuzdul, then reached for the sword sheathed at his waist.

“Thorin!” she said, rushing forward to stop him from drawing a weapon.

His eyes were dull and could not seem to focus on anything other than her face. The dwarves said nothing, only watching as Thorin allowed her to remove the sheathed sword, setting it on the ground and gently touching his elbow. “Fíli is your beloved nephew,” Briar told him fervently. “Your heir, and a faithful member of your company. He would not betray your trust.”

When he blinked at those words, Briar briefly hoped that Thorin would be able to shake off the madness. But even though his expression softened, the life was still gone from his eyes.

She knew with certainty that if they removed this weapon from his sight, Thorin would simply arm himself with a gaudy, impractical sword from the dragon’s hoard. There was no assurance that the Arkenstone would prevent him from further declining. Thorin had become paranoid that the other dwarves coveted the wealth of Erebor and would soon cast them out.

Perhaps he only trusted her because, subconsciously, he understood that hobbits did not value gold.

His obsession would prevent him from eating or sleeping, until he withered away altogether. The dwarves who had followed him across Middle-earth would watch over their king faithfully.

Briar had always intended to discuss Marís once their quest was successful. She had hoped that Thorin might invite them to stay here, so that their daughter could learn about her heritage. Or that he would consider exchanging letters if she returned to the Shire, so that she could read them in her father’s study while quietly mending a broken heart.

Thranduil’s warnings hadn’t prepared her for the possibility that she would lose him to madness.

He was strangely malleable, and could be persuaded to sit down if Briar remained beside him and nothing prevented him from seeing the gold.

“Here,” she murmured, holding out waybread that had been her rationed lunch. “No complaints about it being elven food. We will have nothing else until the fishermen are willing to trade, or dwarves from the Iron Hills are sensible enough to bring supplies with them.”

He ate the bread without protesting, but did not seem to hear anything that she had said.

Thorin touched a strand of her curling hair as though it was precious, and she could not breathe.

“Yellow gold,” he told her as though that was a sentence of itself. “Sapphires the colour of blackberries. Aquamarine for the river, and faceted yellow diamonds that shine like the sun.” He was distracted again by looking through the treasure for anything that she might be willing to wear.

Briar could not have stopped herself from weeping silently, wiping the tears away because she feared that they might provoke Thorin into another terrifying delusion. However, he was wholly distracted by the gold, and did not notice when she gestured for Fíli to leave the treasury with her.

It wasn’t safe for either of his nephews to be near the treasury. In his madness, Thorin considered them a greater threat to his claim on Erebor’s wealth, because they were in the line of succession. She didn’t know much about dwarven politics, but it was likely that the same went for Dáin.

“Do not go into the treasury without Dwalin to protect you,” Briar warned them both. “It would be best if you never went there at all.”

It was fortunate that Marís was safe in Bag End, where there was abundant food stored away for the winter months, and every room would be warmed by the fireplace so that she could sleep soundly. If the gold-sickness was an affliction passed down through Durin’s line—though Fíli and Kíli had shown no signs of being affected themselves—there was nothing in the smial to influence her.

Aside from Balin, the dwarves seemed to believe that Thorin had recently become infatuated with her. They were gathered in the treasury in another effort to find the Arkenstone, and everyone was clearly sympathetic that Thorin no longer responded to anything that she said.

Eventually, Briar stopped trying to convince him that they were in danger.

She sat, unmoving, as he became frustrated that dwarven rings were much too large for her fingers. When Thorin pushed hair behind her ear so that he could decide which piercings would look best, there was a dismayed gasp from behind her, but Briar was accustomed to the contact from years before.

Soon, he moved on to necklaces that were absurd parodies of the pendant that he had crafted.

It had been several days since Smaug was defeated. They were running out of time to make amends with the refugees of Lake-town, who might never forgive the dwarves for displacing them twice.

The Mirkwood elves would be hostile towards Erebor until the White Gems of Lasgalen were returned. However, Glóin had already explained that the gems couldn’t be identified until the artisans’ guild records were recovered from the ruined library, and the treasure was methodically re-documented, as Smaug had hoarded anything made of precious metal. That could take months, but the elves would need some assurance that Thorin intended to honour his promise.

Not everything inside the treasury was supposed to be here, and there would be claimants other than King Thranduil. The dragon’s hoard would be diminished when refugees came forward to petition their rightful belongings returned.

Truthfully, Briar had never intended to claim her own share. These jewels held no value for her. If Thorin had remained unaffected by the gold-sickness, then he would have understood that.

“Among Erebor’s treasures, there will be jewellery worthy of you,” Thorin declared.

“You already gave me the most precious gift,” she told him.

Briar began removing the bracelets that had been placed around her forearms. She set the priceless pieces of jewellery down very carefully, so that she would not insult the dwarves by damaging them.

“What, that pendant?” Thorin scoffed. “Crafted with Mannish tools, from an inferior alloy?”

She removed the necklaces that he had already draped around her shoulders. To her mind, not one of them was worth a single chain link of the pendant that he had crafted for her. Yet there was another gift that was infinitely more precious, whose worth could never be surpassed.

“No,” she replied calmly. “My daughter.”

At that, every member of the company stilled. The only sound in the treasury was the clinking of coins around their boots, and then the awful clang of a goblet dropped in surprise, which rolled across the stone floor and finally stopped after knocking into Bofur’s foot.

“I had hoped to show her the place where her ancestors lived,” she remarked, looking around the treasury with disinterest. “What a shame that there is nothing here but stale air and greed.”

Briar sighed and stood up so that she could remove the fur coat. Unfortunately, Thorin had insisted on wearing the mithril armour between the layers of her clothing. It was too valuable to consider her promised share, especially since there would be no practical use for it in the Shire, so Briar would arrange for it to be returned at a later date. Perhaps Dís would account for its transport.

Finally, she unfastened the chain underneath her shirt collar.

Stepping close to Thorin, she reached for his hand and then wrapped his fingers around the bead. The metal was still warm from her skin.

Briar had worn it every day since his departure from Bucklebury: braided into her hair, strung on the pendant’s chain, then on a piece of cord that had snapped deep within the Misty Mountains as a creature threatened to eat her, on the leather strap that Bifur had kindly offered, and finally on a golden chain that Thorin had found within the treasury.

It was astonishing that the engravings had not worn down to smoothness.

“Marís will hold on to the pendant, so that she will always have something crafted by you.”

She leaned up to kiss him on the cheek, for what would be the last time.

“Thank you for the greatest adventures of my life,” she whispered. “It would have been so different, and so terribly lonely, without you.”

Then Briar walked out into the achingly cold and empty hallways of Erebor.

Chapter Text

The bead was made from yellow gold and engraved with a pattern of vines.

It was strung along a gold chain, the links so delicate that it was certainly forged by a master smith. That which had been forged within the kingdom of Erebor could now be returned to its treasury. He fought against a sudden urge to bury the necklace underneath other treasures, so that only he would know where it could be found, because only he could truly appreciate its value.

Thorin stared at the little thing, resting in his palm.

He remembered searching through the crates that he had transported from the Blue Mountains, heart set on crafting a courtship bead from yellow gold. Even then he had known that Briar would not appreciate the difference between gold and nickel. Perhaps she would even have accepted a bead carved from wood, not realising that it was supposed to endure throughout their lives.

She was not a dwarf and did not intuitively understand their culture. She was a hobbit, and he had fallen in love with her while picking blackberries and sitting beside the river.

And she had loved him even when he proved himself unworthy. She had carried this bead even after he insulted and reprimanded her, trying to convince Briar to turn back toward safety. In the dungeons of Mirkwood, when he believed that she was disloyal enough to leave them altogether.

Here, in the kingdom that she had helped them to reclaim.

His hand began to shake. Thorin remembered bartering with other merchants in the marketplace until he had scraps of yellow gold, then carefully melting them down. He engraved the pattern around the circumference while the metal was still hot enough to burn anyone other than a dwarf. If she allowed him to braid the bead into her hair, then it would need to be perfectly crafted.

The pendant was a courting gift to demonstrate his skill, prominently featuring his own crest. It would be immediately recognisable to any dwarf and showed that he was proud of their courtship.

Truthfully, it was unimportant compared to the bead.

This tiny little thing, made from scraps of gold.

Thorin breathed in roughly. “I thought that she had betrayed me,” he said in a quiet voice. “That she had- That there was a hobbit who had seen her worth. I did not think it was possible- I thought that she decided against waiting for my return. And I- I would not have returned until after our quest.”

He finally looked away from the bead and found that Balin had a compassionate expression. Then he looked past his trusted advisor to the incredible wealth that had been hoarded by the dragon.

“You cannot feed an infant gold,” he murmured, holding tightly onto the bead. “Jewellery will not keep her warm. Armour forged from mithril will not cure her sickness.”

“No, your majesty,” Balin replied gently.

“I had forgotten that the gold served a purpose. Mahal did not intend for us to covet it, forsaking all else.” For the first time since the dragon was defeated, Thorin looked around the treasury, at the stonework that had been constructed to shelter and protect the generations to come.

“I have proven myself unworthy of your loyalty,” he said to the dwarves who had followed him. “We have reclaimed Erebor, and this kingdom will not prosper if gold is valued above all.”

At those words, his nephews began smiling widely.

“It is necessary that we recover both the Arkenstone and the White Gems of Lasgalen, promised to the Elvenking,” Thorin announced. “A messenger should be sent to barter with Lake-town. We can offer shelter within the mountain during the winter months in exchange for food.”

“What about Briar?” Ori asked, surprising the dwarves standing near him.

“We will negotiate with the elves to ensure her safe passage back to the Shire,” Thorin said quietly, and then turned away from the treasury, intending to seek out fresh air untainted by the dragon and the lingering curse of Durin’s line.

Chapter Text

Briar could hardly recall walking down the mountainside until she reached the ruins of Dale; only that she had been shivering in the cold winds and tasted the bitterness of smoke.

The refugees from Lake-town recognised her and were suspicious, but did nothing to stop her from walking past their makeshift encampments, perhaps hoping that she was here as a representative of Erebor.

She shouldn’t have been surprised to find that elves had already gathered in the city, their own tents established along the outer walls. Whether Thranduil was providing aid to a prospective ally or intended to strong-arm Thorin into returning the White Gems of Lasgalen was unclear.

An armed elven guard escorted her to the leaders’ encampment.

There, Gandalf was agitatedly smoking his pipe. Thranduil remained seated on a wooden chair, distinctly reminding her of how he had looked during their first meeting. Bard was here to represent the interests of his people, much better suited to do so than the Master of Lake-town.

“Gi nathlam hí, elvellon,” Thranduil greeted her once the guard had announced her arrival.

Gandalf raised his eyebrows and puffed out an imperfect ring of smoke. “No need for introductions,” he remarked, a question in his voice. There was much of their adventure that he had missed.

“No,” Bard agreed, openly scrutinising her. “Though an explanation would be appreciated.”

“Thorin has succumbed to gold-sickness and will no longer listen to reason,” Briar told them and exhaled shakily, grateful for the water that was offered to her by an elven attendant. “Nothing can be done until dwarves arrive from the Iron Hills-”

“We are running out of food,” Bard interrupted. “Even if we could afford to wait and see if Erebor will make reparations for the destruction wrought by Smaug,” he said drily, “scouts are reporting orc movement in the west. They are preparing to attack Erebor before it can be fortified. No matter that Lake-town is still burning, and my people cannot hope to survive the winter without shelter.”

“I am entitled to a one-fourteenth share of the treasure,” she told him. “I intended to forfeit my claim, but it could be useful to you during negotiations, or put towards reconstruction efforts.” With numb fingers, Briar reached into her waistcoat pocket to pull out her copy of the contract. It had been protected from the weather by an envelope of wax paper and was evidence of her claim.

Bard appeared startled by the gesture.

“If Thorin Oakenshield did not listen to you, then there is nothing else that could persuade him,” Thranduil mused. “How unfortunate that your quest should come to such a tragic end.”

His mouth twisted as though he had tasted something unpleasant, which greatly concerned Gandalf.

“You must set aside your petty grievances with the dwarves,” the wizard warned. “War is coming. The cesspits of Dol Guldur have been emptied. You are all in mortal danger.”

“My people are best protected inside the mountain,” Bard pointed out.

“Thorin cannot be persuaded with words,” Briar said wearily. “Erebor is too heavily fortified to enter by force. Making threats will only turn the other members of the company against you.”

Bard turned towards her, visibly angry. “Then what would you have us do?”

“Hope that the army sent by Dáin Ironfoot will arrive soon enough to fight alongside you,” she replied. “No matter whether they will do so to protect the survivors of Lake-town, or because they intend to protect Erebor from another invasion. Arm those who can fight; protect those who can’t. I am a simple hobbit who can provide you no worthy counsel during preparations for war.” She raised her chin stubbornly, though her hands were shaking.

A scout appeared at the entrance, informing them that the orcish army was short hours away. Tremors shook the ground to the west.

“Were-worms,” Gandalf said, his expression grave. “War is upon us.”

There was barely enough time to establish healer’s tents and the crucial supplies that would need to be defended. Thranduil commanded his warriors to ensure that these areas were untouched by orcs.

Briar was very nearly picked up off the ground and set astride an enormous woodland creature, but protested fiercely that she should be allowed to remain on the battlefield. The elves were not convinced that she had fought against orcs before and pointed towards the healer’s tents, where she could be useful tending to the wounded.

“Yes, yes, I- Of course,” she told them, grasping the hilt of her dagger.

However, Gandalf wasn’t as easily persuaded that Briar would not rush out onto the battlefield. He drew himself up to his full height and peered down at her, looking more serious than ever before.

“While I commend your bravery, my dear hobbit,” he said, “you must get as far away from here as possible. Thorin will not thank you for risking your life needlessly.”

“I’m not about to leave the company now,” she insisted. “Not at the very end of our adventure.”

The wizard was saddened by her words. “There is no company. Not any more.”

A battle horn rang out over the valley, deep enough that it settled into her bones. They looked towards the mountain, where the ancient stone gates were opening for the first time in decades.

“Perhaps I was mistaken,” Gandalf remarked with a touch of his usual good humour. He grasped her shoulder, and led her down the cobblestone path through the city.

The training sessions with Dwalin were invaluable. Briar would never have survived the battle without the movements that she had practised until they became instinctual. As her dagger sank into an orc’s ribcage and came away with the sickening wet crunch of broken bones, so slick with blood that it nearly slipped from her white-knuckled grasp, she thought: perhaps Marís will not need to hear about this part in much detail.

The orcs were wholly unprepared for a hobbit fighting amongst their enemies, and she was able to travel across the battlefield without attracting their notice. Dwarves who did not mistake her for a dwarrowdam appeared awed whenever she killed an orc that had been attacking them, and might have insisted on shielding her. But Briar was always accompanied by Tauriel, or Prince Legolas, and even briefly by Beorn the skin-changer, who had unexpectedly decided to aid them in their fight.

Suddenly, there was the rumbling of hooves and dwarves shouting in Khuzdul.

Tauriel looked up sharply. “They are heading north,” she called.

“What is in the north?” Briar asked, distracted by finishing off another bloodied orc.

“There.” Tauriel gestured in the direction that the dwarf contingent was travelling. “At the crest of the hill, where the orcs are signalling their forces.”

“Ravenhill?” she said, surprised. “What could they possibly-” Briar grunted as an orc slammed into her side, nearly knocking her to the ground. The fight continued despite their conversation.

Although they couldn’t know why Thorin had decided to leave the battlefield altogether, venturing up to the ruined tower where the orcs had suspended their banners, Tauriel expressed concern that reinforcements were not following him to protect the King under the Mountain and his heirs.

It would have been safer for them to defend Erebor at its gates. Why would they venture out so far?

Briar desperately hoped that it was a strategic manoeuvre—and not, as she suspected, Thorin’s misguided attempt at redeeming himself after being corrupted by gold-sickness.

Ravenhill was shrouded by fog and deathly quiet.

Briar could hear little more than her own uneven breathing.

Fortunately, Tauriel’s ears were sharper. “Your majesty!” she called before they passed a ruined stone wall. “We bring news from King Thranduil’s scouts.”

That was enough warning to prevent Thorin and Dwalin from attacking.

Thorin’s eyes widened at the sight of them, but there was no time to waste. “What news?” he said.

“You have to leave here,” Briar urged them. “Now! Azog has another army, attacking from the north.” The information had been passed to Tauriel by an elven scout, and it seemed painfully certain that without forewarning the dwarven army would have been completely overwhelmed. “This watchtower will be completely surrounded. There’ll be no way out.”

Dwalin moved closer to his king and muttered fiercely, “We are so close. That orc scum is here,” he gestured to the ruined tower behind them. “I say we push on.”

“No,” Thorin replied with sudden realisation. “He wants to draw us in. This is a trap.”

Other than their conversation, there were no sounds to echo through Ravenhill. Not from the battlefield, though clashing weapons and warriors’ cries had been nearly deafening. Not from the birds that usually roosted here, which must have been scared away by the early signs of war.

“Stay close with Miss Baggins—protect her.” Thorin glanced at her for the briefest moment, before turning back to Dwalin. “I will find Fíli and Kíli, to call them back.”

That was enough for Tauriel to comprehend that Kíli was inside the tower. She ran inside, footsteps silent so that enemies would not be alerted to her presence. Thranduil himself might not have been able to stop her from protecting the dwarf who she had become so close with.

“Thorin, are you sure about this?” Dwalin asked in a low voice.

“We live to fight another day,” Thorin told him.

He looked at her, then. His expression was complicated. He must see the blood streaked across her skin, her tangled hair which had been wrenched more than once by an opportunistic enemy. Briar could imagine that he was thinking of how to phrase an apology for his own weakness.

Most likely, Thorin was reassuring himself that she was still wearing the mithril armour. It was visible where her outer shirt had become torn during the fighting. Seeing that, and the bloodstained dagger which was not presently glowing blue, he nodded and turned away from them both.

Without thinking, Briar moved to follow him.

“No, lass,” Dwalin said. “You would just be a distraction.”

She opened her mouth, indignant—and was aghast at the sight of screeching giant bats winging out from the fog. Briar crouched down to avoid being clawed by their talons, while Dwalin swung his axes to strike them mid-flight.

Again, she was startled when arrows whistled through the air and the bats, shrieking, whirled away from Ravenhill, leaving behind the motionless bodies of those that had been brought down.

Prince Legolas lowered his bow and smiled at her, pleased to have come to their aid.

“Not safe out here,” Dwalin murmured.

“Nowhere is safe during battle,” she pointed out.

Truly, Briar only meant that her dagger was already bloodied, and the dwarves should accept that she intended to fight alongside them. She could be trusted with her own protection.

But then came a sound echoing from the tower, piercing through the fog.

Azog the Defiler stepped out onto the uppermost precipice, where he could see them clearly. The orc spoke in that unfamiliar language, likely taunting anyone who could understand his words. His figure was loose-limbed, appearing relaxed, as though already confident in his victory. He opened his mouth and laughed, a rumbling that seemed to shake her bones and cast her slightly off-balance.

Her dagger glowed blue in warning before orcs began climbing into the ruins.

They would be overwhelmed out here. There was no choice but to go inside the tower, knowing that Azog might be prepared to intercept them, and that their allies might have already been captured.

Prince Legolas appeared more concerned with the army approaching from the north. Without thinning their number, the orcs would descend from Ravenhill and wreak havoc on the battlefield. When the giant bats made another swoop over the ruins, he grasped their talons and was carried up into the air, as the bat shrieked and tried to dislodge him.

Perhaps he was confident that Tauriel could hold her own against Azog’s elite warriors. More likely, he considered the outcome of the war more important than giving an advantage to his friend.

There was no right decision, she realised in that moment.

There was no war without sacrifice. No victory without grief.

No hope for Erebor unless they succeeded.

Chapter Text

It would have been terribly dark inside the tower without her glowing dagger. Briar held it close to her body, trying to prevent the light from being seen by their enemies. Any that stumbled across them might not even notice her, hidden behind Dwalin. His battle-axes, Grasper and Keeper, were readied to strike down unwary orcs before they had time to react.

He was cautiously following the sounds of combat, echoing through the stone hallways. To her immense relief, they were soon reunited with Tauriel, who had found Kíli scouting the lower levels and was with him when orcs attempted a poorly strategised ambush.

Not much further, she was startled when Fíli kicked an orc down the stairs—a particularly showy gesture to remove his sword from where it had been embedded in the creature’s bloodied chest. He was uncharacteristically tense, though his expression eased somewhat upon seeing them safe.

Seeing him, she knew.

At once, her heart stopped beating.

We live to fight another day, he had said.

Instead of keeping his word, Thorin had been lured out from the tower by Azog’s ugly speech.

Briar nearly stumbled when the others urged her to follow, desperately clutching her dagger. They ventured out to a ruined courtyard. She was distantly aware of snow numbing her bare feet. Her friends surrounded her, so there was no need to use her dagger against the oncoming orcs.

For the first time since discovering that she was pregnant, Briar felt terribly small.

As though she was a fauntling who had wandered away from home, and the dagger was nothing more than a flimsy toy that she had been playing make-believe with.

“Brace!” Dwalin bellowed at her.

Because they had practised combat stances so many times during their journey—including evenings when she was so exhausted that Dori had argued with Dwalin to exempt her from training—her response was purely reflexive. Briar straightened her shoulders, set her feet apart, and brought her dagger up with all of her strength to block an incoming blow.

The orc, not expecting any resistance, was easily disarmed and knocked to the ground.

“Pay attention!” Dwalin shouted.

He had taught her better than to become distracted during battle.

Setting aside her insecurities, Briar gathered up loose stones and began aiming them. Stones impacted the approaching orcs with enough force to knock them slightly off-balance.

But the giant bats screeched and attacked too quickly for her to strike them with stones.

Briar threw herself onto the snow, desperate to avoid being caught in their monstrous talons. Seeing that there was a staircase leading down from the ruins, she decided that it was safest to hide out of immediate sight, until the bats had moved on again. Better to make a tactical retreat than be carried off into the fog where her friends would be unable to rescue her.

She rolled over the edge and then pressed back against the ruined stone wall.

From this position, she had an excellent vantage point over the exterior of Ravenhill: snow settled over long-abandoned ramparts winding down the hillside, not yet trampled by invading orcs. There was a frozen waterfall glittering in the sunlight which pierced through the fog.

And if Briar had looked away even a moment sooner-

If she had heard that the shrieking of bats was becoming more distant, and returned to battle-

Then she would not have seen the unmistakable, hulking figure of Azog the Defiler. He was dragging an enormous flail onto the ice and swinging it relentlessly, pursuing Thorin to the waterfall’s edge.

Briar went still, breath caught in her throat.

His stride was almost leisurely, confident in his victory. No matter that Thorin avoided being knocked down by the flail, or that the blows were causing cracks to form within the ice sheet.

There was no one else around who had noticed their battle, and Thorin was about to die.

It was not a conscious decision to rush down the staircase and across the frozen water.

Briar was not thinking as she ran towards them, fighting to keep her momentum when the snow underfoot became smooth ice. She was wholly undistracted when there were shouts from behind her, and undeterred when cracks deepened through the water’s surface, breaking the ice apart.

Hobbits were nimble on their feet and she was not heavy enough to sink the ice beneath her.

However, Thorin’s boots and armour were working against him, causing him to stagger about.

She understood very well that Azog’s relentless swings were not the only danger. If Thorin was submerged in the freezing water, she would not be strong enough to pull him to solid ground. Every fauntling was warned not to venture out onto the Brandywine River before winter had thawed.

There was no time to hesitate.

As though she were climbing a tree, Briar reached for a rough-edged, chitinous vambrace. Azog had not noticed her approach, and might not even have felt a hobbit’s small hands gripping his armour. Immediately, she used it to leverage her small body upwards.

Her hand moved from the vambrace to a jagged spike at his collar. Briar pressed her knee hard into his upper back so that she could not be easily dislodged.

There, she raised her glowing dagger.

Before the orc could twist around, Briar embedded her dagger into his unarmoured neck. Her expression contorted and she gritted her teeth, wrenching at the dagger until it came free.

Hot blood flowed from that wound, while she quickly angled the dagger towards the vulnerable flesh underneath his jaw. Briar stabbed again, and was intent on not letting go of the dagger while avoiding Azog’s grasp.

He roared fiercely and attempted to strike her with his blade. But Briar kept moving out of reach, and Azog was effectively tethered by his flail until he realised that it would not help him. She maintained her position by holding onto his crude armour and could not be shaken off.

She stabbed again, and again.

Soon, his fury turned to outright panic. Azog clawed at her hand, and then at his own wounds when that did not stop her from attacking, in a desperate attempt to staunch the bleeding.

A strange gurgling sound emerged from his wounded throat. He had stopped resisting. His pale eyes focused on her, though she was not interested in whatever they might communicate. All that mattered was attacking until the dagger dimmed, and then stopped glowing altogether.

His collapse nearly overturned the ice.

Fortunately, she was not instantly submerged underneath the freezing water, and had enough presence of mind to reach for the chain which connected to Azog’s flail, after seeing sunlight glinting on the metal. Perhaps it was a benevolent gesture from Yavanna and Aulë.

Briar clung onto it with numb, shaking fingers. It steadied her while the ice rocked back and forth.

Just as it had been when she arrived, Ravenhill was deathly quiet.

The fog was dissipating in the morning sunlight, she realised. Water, swirling around her feet, mingled with red blood. And Thorin was standing there, wounded and clearly exhausted. His sword was held loosely at his side, and he did not outwardly react when eagles flew overhead—simply watched her with those familiar blue eyes, brighter now that he had overcome the gold-sickness.

Briar opened her mouth but could not think of anything to say. She noticed that her hand was shaking, quite violently, and was uncertain whether it had been doing that earlier. Carefully, she sheathed the dagger and looked about for more secure footing.

Before she could stumble into the water, Thorin dropped his sword with a startlingly loud clatter and moved to hold her shoulders. His expression was unlike anything she had ever seen before. Emotions warred across his features, which were softened by the daylight. Most prominent among them were admiration and a profound grief, though for what she could not understand.

“Âzyungel,” he murmured.

Whether it was the significance of that single word, or her own relief that the eagles had arrived to push back the northern army—or that Thorin appeared anxious about whether any blood soaking through her clothing belonged to her, checking that there were no obvious wounds that would need tending—or, possibly, that when Thorin guided her gently across larger shards of ice, she turned her head and saw that her friends were regarding her with wide eyes and unsettling silence—or that every sensation had become peculiarly vivid, and it had become difficult to concentrate-

Briar breathed in much too quickly and nearly choked, and could not do anything more useful than press her blood-spattered cheek against Thorin’s outer coat. There was a terrible urge to retch, to bend over the untainted snow and cough up everything in her stomach, while shaking off droplets of orcish blood. She resisted it, instead listening to Thorin murmuring in that dwarvish language.

For the moment, Briar could be distracted from the knowledge that they were between two battlefields, and that soon the King under the Mountain would be needed elsewhere.

“Has she been wounded?” was Tauriel’s immediate question.

“Not that I could see,” Thorin replied.

She gathered the strength to raise her head, expecting condemnation. Would it not have been better to call out to the others before rushing toward the enemy, practically unarmed? Guilt was already pricking at her conscience. A second time, Briar had risked her own life without thinking about her responsibilities as a mother. There were no right decisions during war, but she had desperately grasped for the chance that both herself and Thorin would survive it, rather than confronting the possibility that her actions might leave Marís without either parent.

But dwarves would endlessly surprise her.

Her friends were relieved, rather than aghast.

Dwalin was grinning broadly. “Ayamuhud zu, azaghîth! Stories will be told about this for generations!” he told her with obvious pride.

“Ayamuhud,” said Fíli, nodding his head.

She had never learned the meaning of those words during Thorin’s language lessons in Bucklebury. Doubtless, they would not spare the time to explain them now.

While the younger dwarves sought their own reassurances that Thorin had survived the encounter, Dwalin looked out over the broken ice, his expression darkening. He muttered rough syllables in Khuzdul, as though he was swearing an oath that his hatred would endure long after Azog’s defeat.

Horns signalled that the orcs were retreating, their loss severe enough to prevent them from rallying for another attack. The banners that they had flown atop Ravenhill were shredded by an eagle’s talons. The elves, their senses keener than others on the battlefield, were satisfied that it had ended.

A cheer went up amongst the dwarves, who had successfully defended Erebor from invasion. Their shouts and stamping feet resounded through the dirt beneath them. Somehow, despite being wrong-footed many times during their journey—even today, balancing on shattered ice and feeling tremors that warned were-worms were moving nearby—this was what truly unsteadied her. Briar clutched at her chest, which reverberated with the collective heartbeat of an army victorious.

They had won.

This could have been history repeating itself, another Battle of Azanulbizar.

Yet, dwarves were gathering around Thorin Oakenshield, whose heirs were standing at either side. They gestured their respect towards members of the company that had reclaimed Erebor.

Dwalin was instructed to escort her to the healers’ tents which had been established in Dale. It might have been her imagination that the dwarves they passed were particularly reverent. Dwalin did not outwardly react, so she suspected that he was accustomed to their behaviour. It seemed that his reputation as a warrior was even greater than Balin had described.

There were casualties on every side. Bodies lay motionless across the battlefield. Midday sunlight flashed off their armour and life’s blood soaked deep into the untended soil. After celebration would come mourning, she knew, and perhaps resentment between temporary allies.

Fortunately, the River Running was undisturbed. Its clear waters flowed from the mountain and would provide much-needed water to those residing in Dale.

Let it be enough, she thought. Let them move on from what was past and live again.

Chapter Text

The healers were treating anyone who had been injured during the battle. Most were elves, who had travelled alongside the warriors from Mirkwood for this purpose. They were aided by refugees from Lake-town who were either unwilling or unable to fight.

Briar quickly realised that there was an order to everything. New patients were brought into the tents nearest to the main gate, where healers would be called to attend them. Harried-looking Men carried supplies between the tents, and she was careful to avoid getting in their way. There were muddy footprints tracking a path between the tents and the River Running. The healers had fresh water because it was being carried on the backs of exhausted refugees. Her heart ached terribly.

Although she protested that her wounds were not at all severe, and that treatment could wait until the seriously injured had already been attended to, the elves guarding the tents paid no mind.

Much sooner than she had expected, Briar was sitting inside a small tent that held no other patients. An elven healer looked over her injuries while Dwalin stood nearby with his arms crossed, clearly disapproving.

Dwalin might have preferred not to have anything more to do with the Mirkwood elves, especially because their imprisonment had been so recent. He grumbled whenever the elf touched her skin, even though it was only to clean dried blood and dirt from the cuts there. He muttered under his breath when the healer brought out a poultice of athelas and lesser healing herbs.

There were cuts across her palms; it seemed that she had accidentally grasped at the blade of her dagger while fighting, once everything had become slick with blood and slippery. When the healer explained that these would need to be stitched, Dwalin kicked up a terrible fuss. He insisted that Oin would provide better treatment and could be trusted to prevent any long-term damage.

Briar had the distinct impression that the dwarves would be horrified if she lost feeling in her hands.

No matter that hobbits had very thick skin, and used all manner of tools while gardening. Having scarred fingers was considered a sign of experience and was simply to be expected with age.

There was really no need to be so concerned, especially considering that she had survived the battle at all. They ought to be thankful that stitches were the worst of it, Briar thought. As she looked down at her newly cleaned skin, she felt rather distanced from the pain. It meant little, after everything.

Just as she was about to scold him, Tauriel announced herself outside of the tent.

With a few murmured words in Silvan, the healer departed. Tauriel inspected her injuries and began applying a salve before bandaging each finger separately. Briar had feared that she would be walking around with such thick bandages that it looked like she was wearing mittens; this was much better.

“King Thranduil has ordered us to remain here,” Tauriel told her quietly. “For how long, will be decided by what the dwarves do now with their hard-won kingdom.”

Briar turned that over in her mind. It sounded like a warning: Thranduil would withdraw completely, taking much-needed supplies with him, if the dwarves continued to act solely in their own interest. They were at a crossroads, and many of the possible paths before them would end in tragedy. She resisted a strong urge to rub at her temples.

Tauriel remarked in a lighter tone, “That mithril armour must have protected you from harm.”

Dwalin puffed up his chest at that. “Aye!”

“Oh, bother.” Briar frowned down at the tattered fabric of her waistcoat and shirt. The mithril chain links looked altogether too perfect in comparison, shining next to the darkening bloodstains. “If you give me a moment, Dwalin, I can remove it so that you can take it back to the treasury-” She was quite exhausted, and returning it now would be easier than worrying about it later.

Dwalin looked aghast. “Return it?” he said. “It was a gift!”

“A gift that served its purpose,” she told him. “I won’t have much use for it, after today.”

Tauriel carefully packed healing herbs into her palms before binding them. Apparently, stitching the deeper wounds wasn’t an urgent matter. Briar was relieved to find that she could extend each of her fingers without dislodging the bandages, though it caused an unpleasant throbbing pain.

Dwalin, who had never spoken at great length about anything during the journey, and oft remained quiet while his brother was inclined to giving speeches, struggled with his words.

“Returning a gift, is-!” He said several words in Khuzdul that she didn’t recognise, then waved his hands about as though that might help her to understand. “It goes against dwarvish custom!”

At that moment, Briar wanted nothing more than to bathe and change out of these blood-stained clothes—which she was certain were beyond being repurposed, even as cleaning rags—and to hold her daughter and perhaps cry for however long it took to fall asleep.

Instead, she kept her hand steady so that it could be bandaged and stiffened her shoulders.

“Well, then,” she said. “This is an opportunity for you all to learn about hobbit customs. It is entirely polite to return an unwanted gift, along with an expression of gratitude for the gesture. So you may tell Thorin that I said thank you for such an extravagant gift, and that I hope it will be passed along to someone else who intends on risking their life, while I live out the remainder of mine peacefully!”

Her words came out sharper than she had intended. Perhaps she would feel guilty about it after getting much-needed rest. For now, she was simply glad that Dwalin stopped arguing with her.

Tauriel finished tending to her wounds and offered lembas bread to restore her energy, along with herbs dissolved in water. The bitter-tasting medicine would ease any pain. Briar was grateful, because it now seemed to be spreading out from her hands, and sharpening at her temples.

Dwalin must have realised, from her outburst, that Briar had been pushed very far beyond her limits. He did nothing else that might cause offense, acting as her stoic bodyguard.

“I’m certain that King Thranduil will offer his protection and hospitality,” Tauriel told her. “Whether you wish to stay at the encampment in Dale, or would rather travel back through the Greenwood.”

She seemed to be suggesting that Briar might return home, now that Erebor had been reclaimed.

“There will be more than enough room for you in Erebor,” Dwalin said gruffly. “Nowhere safer.”

“The Greenwood will be just as sheltered from the coming winter,” Tauriel pointed out. “You could remain there until the seasons change.” She glanced towards the entrance of their tent before speaking again, more quietly. “The displaced residents of Lake-town might have also offered their hospitality, if they could afford it. They are already murmuring to each other about your generosity. It has given them hope.”

Briar would have understood if they resented it instead, considering everything that had happened.

“Where will you go?” Tauriel asked. Her voice was gentle, as though there was no hurry.

The thing was: she could imagine travelling back to the very beginning of their journey.

As if the memories were loose thread that could be respooled, wound back without consequence.

Beorn’s house, with its abundant natural beauty. A lengthy hike back across the mountain range, this time prepared for any goblin traps. She could practice Sindarin with the elves of Rivendell and exchange her stories for pressed flowers, so that Marís might see what the world looked like.

And at last coming upon the rolling green hills of the Shire, where she had been raised.

Her neighbours would wave as they saw her walking down the path. The soil, well-suited for growing, would always feel familiar between her toes.

Upon reaching Bag End, the green door would look much the same. Her parents’ belongings would be waiting inside, arranged neatly on shelves underneath their portraits. Everything would be precisely where she had left it months before. Dusting to be done, a round of morning teas with the prominent families in Hobbiton to keep their acquaintance, and a short letter sent off to the mayor.

And the reality of the second greatest adventure of her life would be that nothing had really changed—except that Briar had, quite drastically, and Marís must have grown in her absence.

Briar did not want to live comfortably in Bag End, forever wondering what might have been. There were conversations that had been put off much too long—even if they now needed to wait until everyone was prepared for the winter—and friends who she wished to say goodbye to.

“I must see everything settled in Erebor,” she told them.

Dwalin was clearly relieved, though she could not begin to understand why it mattered so much that she had decided to stay in the mountain, rather than a short distance away in the Dale encampment.

In six months or thereabouts, once the winter thawed and crops were sprouting from the fields, Briar would set off back to the Shire. At that time, she hoped they would part on good terms.

Dwalin stayed close and made no protest when Briar stopped on the cobblestone path. She looked up at the ruined stone buildings, which had been abandoned decades before. Their thatched rooves had rotted away. Anyone who sheltered inside would need to worry about rain dousing their fires. Worse still, snow would blanket Dale and choke the warmth out of everything.

This was a very dangerous time for the refugees from Lake-town. Briar resolved to do whatever was necessary to prevent them from suffering through a harsh winter.

“Excuse me!” a voice called out.

Sigrid set down the basket that she had been carrying out from the healers’ tents. She looked exhausted. Strands of hair had come loose from her braid and were caught by the breeze. She paid it no mind, instead searching through her pockets while frowning slightly.

Her dress was streaked with blood—not hers, because it was clear that she hadn’t fought during the battle. There was drying mud where she might have knelt down beside the River Running.

She walked towards them. “I wanted to give you this,” she said and held it out.

It was about the size of Briar’s thumb and wrapped in coarse cloth. A sliver of soap, she realised.

“It isn’t much,” Sigrid admitted, sounding a little self-conscious.

“Thank you,” Briar told her sincerely.

A miracle, it seemed to her. The soap had survived the evacuation from Lake-town and been carried about in Sigrid’s pocket, kept so unexpectedly clean. It was not the kind that elves preferred. She wondered whether it had been whittled down over the past few days, since they had reached Dale. The refugees were still unsure about their immediate future. This was a valuable gift, indeed.

“Thank you,” Briar said again. Her breath came out shakily as she carefully wrapped the soap.

Sigrid glanced at Dwalin, but not with outright hostility.

“Da told me,” she said quietly. “About what you offered.”

“I will do everything that I can,” Briar assured her.

“That hope will keep people moving, who might otherwise give up,” Sigrid confided. “It will reassure parents, so that they can comfort their children. It means more to us than that,” she gestured towards the small bundle, “but that is all I can give you, to show my gratitude.”

It sounded like she was not entirely convinced that Briar could help them with their practical concerns. Still, Sigrid waved to them both from outside the healers’ tents when they departed.

They followed the stone path out of the city. Passing through its ruined gates, the battlefield stretched out nearly further than she could see. It was uncomfortably still. Now that the sun was setting, elves were gathering torches to mark out where they were building an enormous pyre.

The dwarves had entered the mountain, except for a small number who were kneeling beside the fallen. Not to check if they had survived, Briar knew. They were collecting the distinctive hair ornaments that would identify them to their loved ones, so that their deaths could be memorialised.

Dwalin didn’t stop her from watching it all. Neither did Briar ask him whether she should look away.

She held onto the soap with her bandaged hands. Ravens flew overhead, calling to each other, and she wondered whether messages were already being sent to the Blue Mountains.

The breeze was cold across her skin and she fought against the urge to shiver. Briar knew well that it would be difficult to stop shaking once she had started, even if there were fires lit in Erebor.

The ancient stone gates were open, despite the cold. There were no guards posted outside. She wondered whether refugees would be turned away, if they became desperate enough for warmth to walk across the battlefield. Maybe this was a gesture of trust, aimed towards the elves.

It appeared that the mountain was glowing from within. Just like a kitchen hearth, she thought. Though Briar doubted that the dwarves would appreciate the comparison.

Chapter Text

She was stunned. Any hobbit in their circumstances would have cleared enough space to stretch out in, found a serviceable blanket, stoked a fire to keep warm during the winter night, and then rested with the certain knowledge that tomorrow was reserved for hard labour.

Far from being exhausted, the dwarves had cast off their armour and quickly volunteered for work. They had already cleared debris from the entry chamber, so the connecting hallways were accessible.

The entry chamber appeared to have been designed with transporting goods in mind. The ceiling was so high that it could not be fully illuminated by torchlight.

Each hallway was marked out by stone pillars on either side. Temporary structures had been assembled around those pillars. Dwarves climbed up, tethered themselves so that they no longer needed to maintain their grip, and then signalled to others waiting below.

Briar watched as a bucket was hooked onto a long pole, then carefully raised upwards. The tethered dwarf used it for cleaning away soot, revealing rows of carvings that she would otherwise never have known were there. How strange, she thought.

While she was staring, someone called out to Dwalin with a question about the armoury.

He turned to answer it, and Briar decided not to bother interrupting just to say goodbye. No doubt they would see each other again soon.

She walked away, trying to get a better sense of the mountain’s layout. There were no signs written in Westron, indicating what each hallway connected to. Soon, she realised the carvings served that purpose: dwarves would glance up at the newly cleaned pillars before going anywhere.

That might explain why Briar had so much trouble navigating Erebor during the time they stayed here; although she wondered whether hobbits were easily lost inside mountains, just as Thorin had been in the open fields of the Shire.

More than once, her feet were nearly stomped on by heavy boots. Briar was not quite at their eye level. Those who weren’t carrying enormous crates were often looking upwards. She could hardly fault them, although she felt much too tired to be thinking about each step.

She peered up at the stone carvings. No luck. The runes and patterns held no meaning to her.

A dwarf nearly knocked into her, and stopped to apologise.

Briar waved her bandaged hands about. “No, no trouble at all-”

But the dwarf’s eyes widened. “Zabadyusth?”

“Ah,” said Briar, who had only ever learned endearments in Khuzdul. She shifted her weight, and glanced at the carvings again, before giving up on them altogether. “Could you possibly help me…?”

The dwarf followed her gaze, and then nodded. “Of course!”

She introduced herself as Suni, with an odd little bow that was unlike what Briar had come to expect from dwarves—given that the company had barely greeted her before emptying her larder, and Dís always held herself with a grandness that challenged anyone to call her impolite.

Suni had several dark braids across her shoulders. Delicate tattoos peeked out from the cuffs of her tunic. She was certainly the most feminine dwarf that Briar had ever met, but there was no question whether she had fought during the battle: her jaw was coloured nearly black with bruises.

Perhaps realising that she was exhausted, Suni looked her over and then nodded decisively. She changed direction, heading down another hallway and gesturing for Briar to follow.

Now that a dwarf was walking beside her, there was no danger of anyone treading on her toes. In fact, they were given more space than necessary. Several dwarves set down what they were carrying and greeted her with that same word, zabadyusth, and she had no idea how to respond. Their spirits were high after winning the battle and they called out to her with good cheer.

Though the Iron Hills dwarves were quite unrecognisable now without their armour, it was possible she had crossed paths with them on the battlefield. Briar overheard a dwarf describing an ‘elvish blade’, and that was quite enough to make her straighten her spine and try to gather up her remaining energy.

If she smiled at a passing dwarf, they grinned back. She felt an inner tension ease, if only slightly.

“-fought alongside a hobbit. Never would have imagined that!” a dwarf boasted.

“Apologies to be made, once he comes up from the stone,” another remarked, before being shushed.

“Ayamuhud zu, zabadyusth,” yet another spoke in Khuzdul.

That meant something, because anyone who heard it would repeat the words cheerfully, until ‘ayamuhud zu’ was echoing through the hallway.

It was a relief when they finally entered a chamber. Suni closed the door, blocking out most sound. She was unperturbed by the chanting, so Briar had to assume that it was another dwarvish custom.

“These are the bathing rooms,” she explained.

Briar blinked at her.

Suni smiled back, not bothering to hide her amusement. “You remove your clothing, and-”

“Yes, yes, I- I do understand what-” she stuttered.

This chamber was mostly empty, aside from stone chairs and a damaged tapestry.

Suni opened an adjoining door, and Briar gaped at wisps of steam curling into the air.

“Ancient infrastructure,” she said with no little pride. “Water is pumped from deep underground, heated as it travels through pipes suspended over the forges—or manually, for now—and then filtered so there isn’t any sediment by the time it reaches our bathing rooms.”

They stepped further into the bathing rooms, so that Briar could see rows of pools carved into rock.

“The water filters and ventilation systems were checked before anything else,” Suni told her, nodding towards a grate that water was flowing through. “No point risking our safety.”

Again, this seemed an impossibility. She grasped at the sliver of soap in her pocket.

Suni misinterpreted her silence and frowned. “I suppose hobbits think that we never bathe-”

“No! Not at all,” Briar reassured her. “It’s just- I didn’t think that…”

That was enough for Suni’s expression to change. Her voice gentled, as she explained how the bathing rooms were customarily used. She stood close enough to catch her, out of apparent concern that Briar might suddenly become dizzy from the steam and swoon into the heated water.

She felt rather fragile. No one had ever worried about her fainting before.

When Suni offered to stay in the bathing rooms with her, she wondered if it was necessary. She was hardly an elderly hobbit who needed to be watched over during such mundane tasks.

Briar agreed, mostly to spare her newly bandaged hands.

As she stepped into the hot water, she was caught off-guard by tears welling up, blurring her vision.

“Be careful of the ledge,” Suni said gently.

“Ah, yes.” Briar blinked rapidly in an effort to stop the tears from falling. Ridiculous, she thought.

Something about the hot water affected her deeply. At her direction, Suni took out the soap that Sigrid had given her, and worked it into a lather. The water was gently flowing, and it carried away the dirt and blood that had dried on her skin, until Briar could see the bruises that marred her body.

“Lean back,” Suni told her.

So Briar blinked up at the stone ceiling, as Suni worked a balm through her hair. A dwarven product, intended to keep their beards manageable. It had been carried with them from the Iron Hills.

All the while she murmured about what was being done around the mountain. The guilds were being re-established, under the leadership of company members. Bofur was directing miners to clear the ventilation shafts and assess structural integrity, for example. Bombur was responsible for getting the kitchens in working order, although their supplies were very limited.

“Nothing to fear,” Suni reassured her. “There will be caravans from the Iron Hills.”

Suni carefully combed out her curls, to remove any knots and chunks of viscera from the battle. Then she poured water until it ran clear, before instructing Briar to submerge herself fully.

Water droplets on her eyelids made her blink again. This time her vision didn’t clear at all.

Briar bent forward, nearly hugging her knees.

“I’ll wash your back,” Suni said after a moment.

They pretended that Briar’s shoulders weren’t shaking. Tears spilled into the bathwater. Her face twisted up and she cried out silently, though she could hardly have said why she was so distressed; it had come upon her without warning, like a storm that would pass in its own time.

Suni hummed, and the sound was comforting.

When she could breathe again, without the air sticking in her aching throat, Briar had lost all sense of what she should be doing.

Suni encouraged her to wash her face and step out of the bath. Clean clothing was then offered, which Suni explained had been recovered from abandoned residences and very recently washed.

The dwarven tunic nearly reached her knees, and was a particular shade of blue that she had often seen Dís wearing. It was necessary to tie a length of fabric around her waist, to prevent the tunic from slipping off her narrower shoulders.

She must look very small, Briar thought. Like a fauntling who was trying on their parents’ clothes.

At her insistence, the ruined clothing was bundled up so that she could make some effort to repair it later. Suni handled the mithril shirt with greater care—never mind that it was caked in dried blood.

Briar knew that her face was red and raw from crying. Reassuringly, Suni never showed an outward reaction to the outburst of emotion. Instead she smiled and offered to braid her hair.

Everything was terribly unfamiliar. Even the scent of the hair balm, though pleasant enough, was different from what they would have used in the Shire. Rather than fussing about it, she closed her eyes and tried to remain still, until Suni told her that the braids were finished. They were similar to those that Thorin had made, but had been tied off with an elaborate knot instead of any accessories.

“No one will mistake you now,” Suni told her, sounding pleased.

“The only hobbit in Erebor,” Briar pointed out. Her voice was somewhat hoarse.

That seemed to amuse Suni. “You could call yourself a dwarf, if you wished.”

Briar huffed out a breath and stood up. She felt vulnerable, having cried in front of a stranger. But there was a peculiar relief that had come with it, that resonated within her; just as speaking to her parents’ portraits sometimes eased her loneliness now that they were gone, perhaps there would be times that she needed to cry for what had been lost during the battle. Such an awful thing.

There were dwarves waiting in the other chamber, much to her surprise.

They turned towards her. Their conversation immediately went silent, but Briar was so pleased to see them—thank Yavanna that her friends had survived!—that she hardly wondered about what they might have been discussing.

Balin was sitting on a stone chair and holding several rolls of parchment. Kíli stood beside him, with a heavily bandaged shoulder and a troubled expression. Fíli had evidently been pacing the room, perhaps impatient to move on to the next task. Their wounds had been treated, they had recently bathed, and they were wearing only minimal armour underneath their tunics.

Dwalin must have come here directly, because he looked just the same as when she had walked off. The bloodied axes strapped across his back were somewhat intimidating. He approached them both, quite thunderously angry. He have moved between them, but Briar neatly sidestepped and twisted around so that she was grasping Suni’s forearm.

“Oh dear,” she muttered.

Dwalin towered over them. “I could charge you with abduction of zabadyusth-”

“Absurd,” Briar interrupted him. “Utter tripe. Thank you, Suni, for showing me to the bathing rooms. I would still be wandering the mountain, and quite filthy,” she added, “without your help.” She gathered up the mithril shirt. “Here, Dwalin. This can be returned to the armoury, if you please.”

Again, the dwarves seemed rather shocked by the gesture.

“But- That was a gift from-” Suni stopped speaking, possibly because Dwalin was glaring at her.

Balin closed his eyes for a long moment, and then nodded towards his brother. The mithril shirt was handled with such care that Briar wondered about its significance. Truly, it had served its purpose, and would hardly be useful to her now that the battle had ended.

It would be a very, very strange thing for her to keep. She imagined how other hobbits would react to a shirt made out of precious metal, rather than cotton. They would likely suggest taking it to Bree, so that it could be melted down and remade into pots and pans. Hardly wasteful, but certainly not what the dwarves would have wanted her to do with a finely crafted piece of armour.

“Uncle really won’t like it,” Kíli whispered, loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room.

Fíli scowled and crossed his arms. “He should have been here to say so himself.”

At once, her heart stopped beating in her chest. “Did something-” Briar began to say, before taking a moment to steady herself. “Did something happen to Thorin?”

The dwarves looked at each other, without immediately answering.

Kíli was dismayed. “No one told you?”

“She was being treated in Dale and wouldn’t have heard his speech,” Fíli realised.

“His physical injuries were no worse than your own,” Balin reassured her. “The gold-sickness, however… Thorin felt that he could no longer trust his own mind.”

He paused, which emphasised just how serious the matter was.

“There is an ancient healing method, practised by Durin’s descendants. It is our belief that resting deep within a mountain, surrounded by stone on every side, protects the body from further harm while allowing the soul to wander closer to Mahal. May Thorin find peace within himself, and return to us in good health,” he murmured, like a prayer.

“Kanayuthu,” Dwalin rumbled in Khuzdul.

Chapter Text

The dwarves worked together to clear debris from the gates, and then kept moving inwards.

Soon, they came across the throne room. (Briar had not realised that it adjoined the entry chamber. Apparently, so that anyone entering through the main gates could hear public pronouncements.) Many dwarves had never seen them before and marvelled at the row of ancient thrones. Centuries ago, the first throne was hewn from mountain rock, and the room then structured around it.

And there, suspended above the throne intended for the king, was an empty space: it matched the dimensions of the Arkenstone perfectly, so that it could be displayed for everyone to admire.

Thorin had gone pale upon seeing it. Perhaps remembering how his grandfather had nearly pried it out with his hands, such was his obsession, until he was persuaded to wait for the appropriate tools.

He turned to face the crowd with a solemn expression.

He spoke to the dwarves in their language, honouring their achievements on the battlefield. Erebor was reclaimed! Everyone had cheered and stamped their boots, shouting out warnings to any who might consider invading the mountain again. They swore that this ancient kingdom would forever endure, with dwarves to dwell within it, a home for generations past and future.

Then Thorin recounted the journey and those who had chosen to accompany him. He named each member of the company, and described their virtues, and appointed them to positions of leadership that best suited their respective skills. Dori was so struck that he burst into tears after hearing that he would be responsible for the tailors’ guild.

(Briar had already heard this from Suni, although she hadn’t included that last detail.)

And then he had spoken, with obvious grief, about how the gold-sickness had nearly destroyed them. Thorin declared his own unworthiness. He would ‘return to the stone’ (this, she learned, was the phrase dwarves used for the particular healing practice), with Fíli ruling in his absence.

The treatment was only rarely undertaken. Younger dwarves, who were born above ground, often disbelieved that it had any meaningful effect. The princes were among that number, it turned out; Fíli was angry that his uncle had retreated from public scrutiny, while Kíli seemed uncertain about it.

There was a healing chamber that had been constructed for this purpose. Its location was a secret passed down within the royal family. Aside from Óin, who had been appointed as the royal healer and would periodically check on him, only a very small number would be allowed to visit.

Balin told her all of this, as though he was telling a fantastical story.

Imagine that! Dwarves put themselves in what she thought must be stone boxes, or-

-or perhaps dwarf-shaped holes, and then stayed there until they were-

-until they had quite decided to come out again.

Briar sat on a stone chair that was slightly too large for her, and put her hands on both knees so that she would stop wringing them together and meddling with the bandages. Suni stood nearby, without appearing entirely certain whether she should be listening or finding busywork elsewhere.

Fíli raged about writing letters that needed to be sent immediately to the other settlements. He claimed not to know the diplomatic manner of saying: ‘My uncle has decided not to be ruler just yet’.

(Briar hardly needed to speculate that Fíli had probably written a very scathing missive to Dís.)

It was clear that he was simply overwhelmed; not only with these obligations, but by the battle itself.

Dáin Ironfoot had distanced himself from the throne of Erebor, conscious that his presence might undermine the crown prince’s authority. He was now lending his strength to the restoration efforts.

Thusly, they told her everything that happened while her injuries were being treated in Dale.

“Right,” she said at last.

Briar stood up, brushing off the tunic despite knowing that it was still perfectly clean. She would have benefited from a handkerchief, and had the thought that her ruined shirt could be used for that purpose. After thoroughly bleaching it in the sunlight, of course. If there was sunlight in Erebor.

“Briar?” Kíli said, sounding uneasy.

“Right,” she repeated. “I suppose those scrolls relate to some important matter.”

“Documents to sign,” Balin told her. “Renegotiating the terms of your initial contract-”

“Am I still entitled to my share?” she interrupted.

He raised both eyebrows. “Yes. In fact, the newly outlined terms are more favourable-”

“Ah, nothing important then.” Briar sniffed, conscious that her eyes were still red and swollen. “Let’s stick with the contract that I signed in Bag End. My share will be sent to the refugees of Lake-town. Balin, if you could draft the necessary documents…”

He looked at her with surprise. “Oh, yes! I can have a copy sent to their encampment without delay.”

“I can take it with me tomorrow,” she said decisively. “We must ask whether they are willing to trade their fish, else there will soon be nothing to feed an army’s worth of dwarves.”

“King Dáin ordered caravans of supplies to follow our departure,” Suni spoke up.

Briar nearly clapped her hands together. “Wonderful!”

Then they hardly needed to be concerned about food and shelter. And the guilds being re-established would provide direction and purpose once the most immediate work was finished.

“Once the White Gems of Lasgalen are recovered from the treasury,” she thought aloud, “Thranduil will have no grievance with Erebor. He might agree to send scouts towards Ravenhill, to be certain that there are no surviving orcs preparing to mount another attack.”

Perhaps traps could be laid. She had never contemplated how to ward off enemy forces, but it was much the same principle as keeping pests out of your garden. Deterrents and barriers and so on.

“The matter of Lake-town is much more complicated, of course. They will need shelter for the winter-”

Fíli had a question: “We can provide aid, but are we responsible for their every need?”

There was every chance they would disagree about this. Still, she hoped that he would listen.

“Reparations ought to be made,” Briar said, serious. “It is your decision whether they will be.”

The Shire had been wholly unprepared for the Fell Winter. Those tragedies could be prevented here.

"They will receive my share,” she acknowledged. “In truth, that means very little. Not unless they can trade for necessities before the weather turns. Fish cannot be preserved without salt, or cooked without fuel. I doubt that any supplies were rescued from Lake-town as it burned.”

She decided against reminding him that Kíli had been hunting birds on the battlements, not long ago. Their fortunes could have easily been reversed.

“When making your decision, consider that they would have been prepared for winter if we had not driven Smaug out from the mountain,” she said.

Balin smiled, appearing to support her argument.

Suni murmured something in Khuzdul, which included that word again: zabadyusth. Briar was beginning to suspect that it meant hobbit, and briefly wondered whether she should be offended.

In truth, she had been expecting to tuck herself into a corner and shiver through the night. Instead Balin insisted that rooms were set aside for her. Briar found that she was much too exhausted to protest, even for the sake of politeness. A dwarf escorted her to a newly cleared residential district.

The rooms were remarkably clean, perhaps because nearly everything had been removed. No personal belongings that might have provided clues about the previous resident. No wooden fixtures, which certainly would have rotted from moisture coming through the window. She was even told that tapestries had been stripped from the walls and taken elsewhere, so that any damage could be repaired. Without them, the stone walls were quite oppressive.

The stone bedframe lacked a mattress, meaning that it would be no more comfortable than sleeping on the ground. Still, someone had prepared clean blankets and laid them out. Briar appreciated the gesture.

She was assured that the ventilation system had been checked carefully. It was entirely safe to keep the window closed. The air tasted dry, and there was a particular bitterness at the back of her throat, but she had become accustomed to those sensations during her previous stay in Erebor.

At last, she blew out the candle and pulled the blankets up around her shoulders.

Her mind conjured images from the battlefield, so vivid that her muscles tensed. Rather than falling asleep, she was forever looking at her dagger to check whether it was glowing blue—until she became quite irritated by the impulse and moved it from her sight.

Briar was certain that she would have terrible nightmares, if she managed to sleep at all.

Yet she woke up the next morning with the sense of having slept deeply.

How awful it seemed.

Briar opened the window and tried to peer out through it, but could hardly see past the sunlight.

She felt hollowed out, and reminded herself not to fill the empty space with guilt. It would not please those who had passed on to suffer on their behalf.

The sunlight is beautiful, she told herself instead. Good for growing. And it was.

So she turned and began getting ready for the day.

She peered out into the hallway and, with some relief, found that Nori was there. A bandage was wound around his head, covering one eye, but the injury did not appear to bother him at all. It was surprising to see him without knives strapped at his waist. Perhaps they were hidden in his boots?

“Morning, lass,” he greeted. “Glad to see you.”

“I could say the same to you,” she replied. “Very good to see you, Master Nori. Very good indeed!”

Briar glanced down the hallway in either direction, seeing that no other dwarves were about.

“Sleeping late,” Nori explained and then gestured for her to walk with him. “You know that hobbit phrase: ‘early to rise, early to breakfast’.”

It felt too solemn a day to smile at that. She had gathered her possessions into a little bundle, and now tucked it beneath her elbow so that she could close the door. Breakfast was no more and no less than dried meat which must have been brought by the soldiers, pressed into her hands by Nori.

She was soon caught up in the dwarven mourning rituals, despite feeling that she shouldn’t be there.

The dwarves recognised her at once. They gathered around her, protecting her from the dense crowd. Many greeted her with that word again, zabadyusth.

The funeral proceedings took place in Khuzdul. For her benefit, the dwarves standing nearby would often lean down to translate what was being said. Briar hardly knew how to thank them. It was extraordinary that they would take time to explain such an important matter to an outsider.

They wept openly, until their voices were hoarse from crying out. Briar did her best not to stare at those who were twisting fingers into their beards and tugging hard enough to pull out the hair. Staring was rude amongst hobbits, and it would have felt like intruding on a personal moment.

Then, the dwarves began speaking together:

A nearby dwarf quietly translated what she understood to be a prayer:

Those words were repeated several times during the funeral. The translation was simple enough to remember. The third time, Briar murmured the prayer along with them, hopefully quiet enough not to bother anyone.

For good measure, she made a gesture that the most superstitious of farmers believed would call Yavanna’s attention to their fields: she tapped her wrist, then pressed her palm against her shoulder. It was an acknowledgment of the hands that sow seeds and the shoulders that carry water.

Tears blurred her vision. She fought against them, before realising that there was no better time to cry. The dwarves would certainly understand an expression of grief and by now she trusted that they would withhold their judgment.

The dwarves were more physical in their grief than she was accustomed to. When the funeral came to its conclusion, they pressed their foreheads together, tears mingling with their beards. They grasped shoulders roughly, as though to reassure each other that they were still solid and enduring.

However, the dwarves who stood closest to her instead bowed their heads in acknowledgment. They murmured words in Khuzdul that they must have known she would not understand. Ah, but there was a phrase or two that she recalled from the brief lessons she had received in the Shire. Thank you, they told her with solemn expressions.

It was uncomfortable to be thanked for attending the funeral, much like wearing ill-fitting clothes.

When Suni approached from where she had been standing in the crowd, Briar took a chance and reached out her hand. Suni smiled at her and pressed their foreheads together.

Another dwarf did the same, and then another. Briar had the oddest sense that the dwarves were seeking comfort from her rather than sharing it as they would with a comrade. They quieted under her murmured assurances that the sun would rise again tomorrow.

Chapter Text

The industry of dwarves was formidable indeed.

Briar had visited the refugee encampment, carrying with her a drafted treaty which had been deliberated over at length and amended several times at her suggestion. The terms were more than favourable, and in her opinion nothing less than what was owed to the people of Lake-town.

By the time she returned, her rooms were nearly unrecognisable.

She stood in the doorway, utterly surprised. Tapestries now covered much of the stone walls. The most prominent depicted the valley that surrounded Erebor during the springtime. Delicate flowers bloomed along the mountain path, which led down towards the River Running.

The stitching was so fine that Briar would need a magnifying glass to fully appreciate the detailing. It seemed impossible that tapestries of this quality could have been restored in mere days. Even more so that they would be sent to her rooms, rather than those belonging to the royal family. She could only assume that even more glorious works were now on display in the princes’ quarters.

An elaborately carved stone desk had been positioned so that whoever was seated there could glance out the window, even if only grey skies could be seen at this altitude. Briar sat at the desk, and found that the stone chair was rather more comfortable than she would have expected.

The desk was well-stocked; someone had set out a sheaf of paper and writing implements.

Briar sat there for some time, quietly marvelling at how much had changed. Though it did strike her as odd that the dwarves would have prioritised stationery above other concerns.

It soon became apparent why.

“-and here are the latest scouting reports,” Balin told her while setting down a bundle of scrolls.

Briar frowned at them, having no idea what insight she could possibly provide. Still, she unfurled the scrolls and considered their contents. The scouting parties sent out after the battle were mapping the underground tunnels that had been left behind by burrowing were-worms and goblins.

She tapped her fingertip to a section where the scouting party had not moved from their last reported position. Her question was answered before she could even voice it.

“Reinforcement is needed in that passageway,” Balin explained.

No need to contemplate what would happen if a tunnel was left without reinforcement. Briar was already concerned about the risk of winter rains eroding the soil above ground, making it considerably more difficult to establish farmland. If a section of tunnel suddenly collapsed and water flooded in, then it would be a headache at best and terribly dangerous at worst.

Balin was watching her expectantly.

She rubbed at her temple and then gestured at a report from another scouting party.

“They should move further south. There may be more reinforcement needed in that area.”

Balin brightened at that and nodded his agreement.

At first, Briar had suspected that the dwarves were simply eager to make her feel useful. She had gone to the kitchens and demonstrated cooking methods that might lend more variety to a diet that primarily consisted of salted fish and root vegetables, and been shown rather more appreciation than was merited. While being measured for winter clothing, she had described how hobbits often mended tiny holes with embroidery, and the tailors had immediately brought out tambour frames and colourful thread so that they could try to replicate patterns of flowers and leaves.

Briar could no longer deny that she held some influence here, strangely enough. Dozens of scrolls had already been delivered to her rooms. Balin always waited patiently for her to read through them and comment on their contents before he would bow and depart.

So she spent many hours at the desk, reading reports and penning letters to dwarves who she had never even heard of. Missives in her handwriting were carried to the Iron Hills and even further. It was unthinkable to remain idle while the dwarves were so hard at work. Briar could only hope that lending her pen for a short while might be of some assistance to them.

As time passed, her rooms became ever more comfortable.

A thick rug was arranged underneath her desk, yet another sign that the dwarves were genuinely concerned about Briar wandering around without boots on.

Although Erebor was no longer cold, a brazier was placed in the corner and could be used instead of a fireplace. Any absentminded remark about the weather would prompt Suni to light the brazier. It cast the room in such warmth and soft light that Briar could not bring herself to douse the flames, not matter that the fuel would be better put to use elsewhere.

In the adjoining room, a mattress was laid out over the stone bedframe and piled high with blankets.

Embroidered flowers appeared on freshly laundered linen. Briar had smiled upon seeing them. The tiny clusters of holly berries were her favourite, stitched with vibrant red and deep green thread.

“Nature motifs are becoming fashionable,” Suni explained, and showed off a sunflower at her sleeve cuff. It was imperfect, which could only mean that the practice had spread beyond the tailors’ guild.

Perhaps a hobbit was a novelty to dwarves from the Iron Hills, a settlement so far removed from the Shire. It was unlikely that their interest in hobbit culture would endure after her departure.

At regular intervals, Suni would arrive with a tray of food brought directly from the kitchens.

An aroma distracted Briar from the latest report on the valuation of goods in the treasury. She set down the scroll and regarded the steaming cup with interest.

“I am not supposed to tell you that this was a gift from the Elvenking,” Suni informed her.

The tea was bitter, as the dwarves were unfamiliar with how long the leaves ought to be steeped. It was accompanied by a dense cake that was not flavoured with much of anything, so limited were their supplies. She enjoyed it thoroughly.

“I shall have to send him a thank you note,” Briar remarked and drained the cup dry.

Suni set the emptied cup on the tray and hesitated.

“Will you…send anything with the note?” she asked nervously.

“A thank you note will suffice,” Briar replied.

The tension eased from Suni’s shoulders upon hearing that.

Briar raised an eyebrow, but no explanation was forthcoming.

There was a commotion in the hallway. Suddenly, the door was thrown open. Kíli barrelled inside, breathing fast—and she would have feared the worst, had he not been grinning widely. He brandished about a letter, giving every impression that he had sprinted here mere seconds after breaking the wax seal. His hair was wild in a way that would have exasperated his brother.

“They have reached the Aklah'ân,” he announced.

Briar stared at him, disbelieving.

“They are safe!” Kíli cheered.

The convoy from the Blue Mountains had made it to the River Running. The scouting parties would be able to report on the convoy’s whereabouts as it travelled the remaining distance.

This meant that Marís, at last, was within reach.

Kíli did not hesitate to walk around the desk and pull her into a celebratory hug.

“Not long now, irak-amad!” he said brightly.

The words brought with them both happiness and grief.

Not long at all, Briar thought.

In a few short months, she would be departing the mountain with her daughter. There was no such certainty around when Thorin would emerge from the royal healing chamber. Was it possible that after everything they had gone through, she would never hear his voice again?

Chapter Text

When the first snow began to fall over the charred ruins of Lake-town, a convoy was spotted.

It approached from the south, following the Aklah'ân as a reliable marker and source of fresh water. The convoy consisted of more than a dozen weather-proofed and cleverly armoured carriages.

A raven that winged from Erebor down to the convoy soon carried back a message. The dwarves from the Blue Mountain settlement had returned home at long last! And among them were a young hobbit lass and an infant, whose arrival had been highly anticipated since the convoy first set out.

The carriage that led the convoy carried fewer crates and yet was more solidly armoured. As it approached the main gates, its wheels well-constructed to handle the rocky ground, the guards snapped into action. One raced into the mountain on foot, while another blew a horn.

It did not take long for the message to reach their zabadyusth.

She ran out from the gates at such speed that the guard who had conveyed the message fell behind. Although the dwarven-style dress would keep their zabadyusth warm, many were still concerned that her toes would freeze if she insisted on remaining barefoot. Her hair was carefully braided, which prevented it from getting tangled in the wind.

She stood on the mountain path, a noble figure in Durin blue, watching the convoy intently.

The carriage rolled to a stop, having reached its destination. Its occupants disembarked. Lady Dís stepped out first with an infant bundled in the crook of her arm. She did not delay for a moment, striding towards the gates. Soon, her arms were outstretched, holding the infant aloft.

It was the first time that their zabadyusth had been seen weeping since the mourning rituals.

She held her daughter for the first time in many months. Onlookers could not see much of the bairn, other than the dark hair that she must have inherited from her father’s side. They could see even less when their zabadyusth curved around her as though hiding her from the world.

And when Lady Dís put an arm around their zabadyusth’s shaking shoulders, and the hobbit lass joined the embrace from the other side, the dwarves understood that they were intruding on a private moment and did their best to turn their attention away from it.

What endured in their retellings of the reunion on the mountainside was this: that their princess was dearly loved, and had been sorely missed.

Chapter Text

Her daughter was heavier than she remembered, and had developed a tendency to kick her legs with enough strength to bruise. Yet it took much coaxing before Briar could be persuaded to put her down. Marís had reached an age where she no longer slept at all hours of the day, and often cheerily burbled sounds in an approximation of words. Everyone listened attentively, eager to attribute meaning to sounds that almost certainly meant nothing at all.

“She just said ‘opal’ in Khuzdul!” Kíli exclaimed.

This was a point of contention amongst the dwarves. Some were insistent that Marís would speak Khuzdul sooner than Westron, no matter that she had so little exposure through Dís that it was incredibly unlikely, or that obscure words like ‘opal’ were not commonly spoken even in Erebor.

Briar looked towards Primula for commiseration: can you believe this? This provoked her friend into sudden laughter, such that her shoulders shook with mirth and she had to press a handkerchief to her mouth so that she would not spray crumbs across the table. Dís, who had no doubt observed the entire exchange, offered to wallop Primula on the back to prevent her from choking.

“N-no, I’m quite alright,” Primula managed and waved the handkerchief in an appeasing gesture.

That was when Marís, who seemed to delight in being crowded around by dwarves who watched her every movement with unconcealed awe, kicked out her feet and began to repeat a sound over and over. “Li li li li li,” she babbled.

Fíli and Kíli audibly gasped and clutched on to each other, having taken this sound to be their names.

Their reactions were so amusing to Primula that tears began to well up in her eyes from suppressed laughter. She clutched on to the handkerchief while Dís struck her several times on the back.

Primula had been in markedly high spirits since their arrival. It seemed that she had expected the worst and found that her worries were unfounded.

Erebor was marked by recent conflict, but not defined by it. There was a sense of community and optimism among its residents, who had a profound gratitude for the stone that surrounded them. The dwarves often devoted their free hours to creation, approaching at times with little gifts for Marís: hand-carved wooden toys and blankets with traditional dwarvish patterns, among other items. An additional wagon might well prove necessary to transport everything back to the Shire!

Marís was welcome here. Truly, Briar would always be thankful for that.

The door was shut behind her with such care that it did not make a sound.

Dwarves may very well find such an environment comforting, but Briar felt rather anxious. There was little more than bare stone in every direction. The warmth that she had become accustomed to, circulating throughout the mountain since the forges had been lit, did not reach this chamber.

She took a breath and began descending the stone steps. They were narrow, designed to allow only one dwarf passage at a time. Visitors were rarely permitted here.

The royal healing chamber was much larger than she had anticipated. Its walls loomed over her. Braziers had been strategically positioned around the chamber to ensure that it was well-lit without the fires themselves being visible. Strangely, Briar felt that the flickering of a flame might have reassured her. The chamber seemed so devoid of life that it was difficult for her to understand its intended purpose.

Briar reached the bottom of the steps. Here, she saw several stone rows raised above the floor. Each was distinct so that a visitor might walk between them. Khuzdul runes were carved into the stone, offering no immediate insight into their meaning for one who had not learned the language.

And there, laid back on the stone as though he was simply resting, was Thorin.

Briar had not seen him for several weeks. Now, she came to stand at his side.

His hair was splayed out around him. His eyes were closed. His palms rested loosely on the stone surface, which may well soothe a dwarf in much the same way that healthy soil put a hobbit at ease. He barely appeared to be breathing.

Briar’s mouth twisted into a frown upon noticing that. Without thinking about whether such contact was permitted, she clasped one of Thorin’s hands between her own. His skin was cold to the touch, and she was momentarily overcome with panic, raising the hand to her mouth so that she could breathe warmth back into his unmoving fingers.

Frozen stiff, skin blackening…

She soon caught herself reliving a memory that was best forgotten. An involuntary sound escaped her. She pressed her forehead to the back of Thorin’s hand and relied on that pressure to steady her.

Perhaps it had been a mistake to visit here. A return to the stone meant an unnatural stillness, an absence that was disquieting to a hobbit accustomed to being surrounded by life.

Óin had said that most patients could recall what was said to them while in this state. Briar, though sceptical, had come because she had a great many things to say.

So many, in fact, that it was difficult to choose what to begin with.

Briar clutched on to his hand, tight enough that he might have complained.

She opened her mouth and, at last, began to speak.

“We discovered the pregnancy before winter arrived,” she told him, and continued on for some time.

“I should have learned how to braid the bead into my own hair,” she lamented, though it was much too late now. “Then I never would have dropped it during the quest.”

“She resembles you a great deal,” Briar told him with a choked-off laugh, wiping at her cheeks without letting go of his hand. “Just as I had feared. She might never feel at home in the Shire.”

“I thought that I would never see you again!” Briar covered her own face with both hands and took great, shuddering breaths. Her voice was beginning to crack from the strain.

“I would have gone with you,” she nearly wailed, wound tight enough from emotion that her head ached. She cried so hard that her breath came out in wrenching sobs. “I would have gone with you.” It was such a heart-wrenching confession that she had not even shared it with her closest friends.

Briar learned that the cool stone could be soothing to her heated cheek.

“Blackberries will grow on the mountainside,” she whispered. “There are pockets here and there of workable soil shielded from the wind.”

She closed her eyes, feeling utterly exhausted.

“I ought to teach Bombur my mother’s muffin recipe,” she said in surrender.

Heirloom recipes were meant to be passed down, after all. Not to mention that her mother would have been delighted by the notion of her recipe being learned by dwarves in a far-off kingdom.

“By now the Sackville-Bagginses must be petitioning for Bag End to be forfeited without the landowner in residence,” she mumbled with a vague air of complaint. “If they could muster up even a pretence of decency then I would be far more forthcoming with gestures to appease their vanity.”

She rambled on about what was no doubt afoot in Hobbiton, still trying to reconcile herself to what life would be like once this adventure came to an end.

Bag End had seemed so large when she lived there alone, and near-perfect in size once Marís was born. Now that Briar had adjusted to living within the mountain, whose sprawling corridors could not be explored in their entirety even if she had a week to do nothing else, it was impossible not to wonder whether the smial might feel closed off and too small.

“I will miss you,” she told him softly.

I love you, she wanted to say. The words remained true after all this time.

When there was nothing more to be said, Briar ascended the stone steps and departed the royal healing chamber. Let there be no more secrets between them.

Upon exiting the chamber, she was nearly overwhelmed by dizziness.

Óin held out an arm so that she could regain her balance. “You ought to have stayed longer, lass,” he said ruefully. “Looks like you needed it.”

Briar glanced at him with some surprise.

Although the chamber had felt confronting, it was indeed a space devoid of any distractions. She had not feared recrimination while giving voice to everything that pained her. Now her heart was unburdened at long last. Perhaps she had not appreciated the full weight of her regret until now.

Although she could not claim to understand this particular dwarvish healing practice, it occurred to her that perhaps Thorin still remained in the chamber because his regret far outweighed her own.

Briar considered the now-closed door.

“Will you visit again?” Óin asked, though he likely already knew the answer.

She dabbed a handkerchief ineffectually at her sore eyes. Primula had gifted her several handkerchiefs upon arriving at Erebor, each of them embroidered with a different landscape that she had observed during the weeks-long journey. This one depicted the Brown Plains to the south, where hardy grasses stubbornly grew in dry soil inhospitable to all else.

“Yes,” she replied, her voice raspy.

There was little more to say without hearing Thorin respond. Yet having seen him laid out on the cold stone, nearly unmoving, having sealed himself away from the joy that had returned to Erebor’s halls… It was no hardship to visit occasionally and know that he was not there alone.

Chapter Text

The residential district where she stayed was much less populated than other areas in the mountain. Briar had noticed this, but thought little about it. She had assumed that the rooms were simply unclaimed at the time that she had need of them, and considered herself rather fortunate to have access to a window that looked out over the valley if she stood on her tiptoes and angled her head just so.

She had not realised that the residential district was reserved for members of the royal family. Upon hearing this from Dís, who now occupied rooms a short distance down the hallway with her husband, Briar had very nearly gathered up armfuls of scrolls from her desk and found somewhere else to stay.

Strange as it still sounded, Marís was a princess. And there was much to be said about having Marís’ relatives nearby, particularly since they were excellent caregivers.

As infrequent as Dís’ visits had been to Hobbiton, it would be even more difficult for her to travel across Middle-earth than down from the Blue Mountains. How, exactly, they would arrange for Marís to spend time with the dwarven side of her family remained in question.

So Briar accepted that she had been given rooms disproportionate to her standing, and was pleased that she and Primula were both invited to eat meals with the royal family in a dedicated dining room.

Like most hobbits, Marís was not a finicky eater. Rather unlike most hobbits, she would not settle down at the prospect of food, and instead happily flung about globs of mashed fruit with questionable aim. Briar was not looking forward to singlehandedly wrangling her at mealtimes.

In addition to the dining room, the royal family shared a communal living space. Marís played there with the assorted toys that had been gifted to her. Briar would settle into a cushioned chair with a cup of tea close at hand and chat with whoever amongst her friends had time enough to relax. More often than not, Dwalin took on the role of bodyguard to either Briar or Marís—though she had once asked whether the city guard required his oversight and received an incommunicative grunt in reply.

One morning, Dís sat on the ground beside Marís and smoothed hands over the fauntling’s hair. It was dark and curly, in a particularly stubborn way that Briar often had trouble with. Just like her own curls, Marís’ were resistant to being tamed and shook loose any ribbons. There proved a dwarvish solution to this problem.

“Time for braiding, gulmalûm,” Dís told her and, ensuring that Marís was properly balanced, began to deftly loosen the dark strands of hair. She wound them around her fingers as she went.

Marís chattered away and Dís smiled, sometimes responding to her nonsense as though they were holding a conversation. She expertly braided patterns into the strands of hair at Marís’ temples. An ever-curious fauntling, Marís tipped back and tried to stare up at Dís’ face, but her aunt was altogether too familiar with young children for that to interrupt her braiding.

Soon Dís noticed that Briar had taken an interest in the process.

“You pull this section into three strands,” Dís told her, angling her hand so that Briar could see how the strands were kept distinct by looping them around different fingers. “Then pull this through to form a knot. An ornament can be threaded here once Marís knows not to chew on them.”

She continued to detail each step until the braids were finished.

Briar recalled what Thorin had told her many years ago. “What do these braids signify?” she asked.

“She is a descendant of Durin’s line,” Dís explained, pointing at a particular knot and then another. “She is a child without a chosen craft. This method of tying off communicates who braided her hair.”

“That’s a great deal of information,” she remarked with some surprise. Her own hair was typically braided by Suni in a practical style, or by Fíli or Kíli with rather more flourishes. She had not considered that the distinction might be due to more than preference.

Marís squealed, a loud sound that would surely reverberate throughout Bag End, and Dís lifted her to a standing position so that she could bounce around to her heart’s content.

It was fortunate that Marís was there to distract Dís, because Briar became suddenly lost in remembering a long-ago afternoon, sitting in the shade of a tree and plucking an endless number of pins from her hair. If so much detail could be conveyed in a simple braid, then what precisely would Thorin’s have communicated to any dwarf who might have crossed her path at that time?

She now wondered: what had it meant that he had the bead already in his pocket?

Ghivashel, he had called her.

It should not matter. The bead had likely been tossed into the piles of gold that so consumed him. If it had been discarded, then it was gone, with no hope of recovery.

His hand was cold, but relaxed rather than stiff. Briar clasped it between her own and took a breath. There were rather more scars than she remembered from their time together in Bucklebury, but the pattern of callouses was much the same.

Her hands must feel wholly unfamiliar to him now. The wounds on her palms had healed over in smooth and slightly raised lines. A more superstitious hobbit might have fretted over how the patterns that had remained the same throughout her life were now changed: one of the lines that traversed her palm had been extended, and another severed entirely.

She had gotten into the habit of visiting Thorin and recounting recent events.

The convoy from the Blue Mountains had arrived with entirely unexpected supplies from the Shire, which made sense of some rather cryptic letters that she had exchanged with mayor over the weeks preceding its arrival. Apparently, her matter-of-fact statements about driving the dragon out from Erebor and the arduous process of restoring the kingdom to its former prosperity had been so compelling that the mayor had read them aloud at a party, and the hobbits in attendance were so struck that they set aside their excess spices and seeds. When the dwarves from the Blue Mountains arrived at the border to collect Dís, Primula and Marís, they had been fairly overcome by generosity.

“I have never been so pleased to see ground nutmeg in all my life!” she exclaimed, well and truly enthused about how a variety of spices had already elevated the food prepared by the kitchens. “A half teaspoon of nutmeg is the trick to baking. There was just a hint of nutmeg in the blueberry muffins that we shared, if you recall.”

Just as unexpected had been her father’s recipe book, protected by a waterproofed pouch. It had not occurred to her to request that it be brought all the way from Bag End. She really had to commend Dís’ foresight in anticipating that dwarven cooks might not be familiar with the wealth of ingredients that they suddenly had access to. One kitchenhand had actually tried to discard the ground nutmeg, thinking that it was dirt!

“You shall have try my father’s recipes for yourself,” she said with no small amount of pride. “Why, my mother often remarked that he courted her through her stomach!”

Briar expounded at length about the virtues of proper seasoning, and the time passed quickly.

A flat stone board was placed in front of her. It rattled, and she realised that it was not one solid piece. The board had distinct rows, each filled with perfectly square tiles. Straight lines had been carved into the tiles, though she could not venture a guess as to their meaning.

“This is long overdue, irak-amad,” Fíli said wryly while taking a seat beside her.

“It took a while to find a complete set,” Kíli added and sat at her other side.

“How much Khuzdul did uncle teach you?”

They looked at her expectantly.

Briar answered carefully, having no idea whether it would offend dwarvish sensibilities. “No more than a handful of words…”

Fili frowned and shook his head, braids swinging back and forth. He selected tiles from the board and arranged them into a line on the table.

“We will teach you,” Kíli told her, sounding apologetic.

Fíli pointed to the tiles that he had separated out. “These are the basic runes representing vowel sounds,” he began.

The lesson continued on for an hour or two, until Briar could read out the vowel sounds even after the tiles had been moved around. Fíli explained that the language was not so straightforward as to be read phonetically, and that meaning could be constructed from layering basic runes to create more complex characters. Kíli reassured her that fluency could be achieved within a year, and encouraged her to practice reading the signs around Erebor until their next lesson.

The board was now hers, Briar was given to understand.

Once they cheerfully waved goodbye and headed out the door, she stared down at the board. She picked up the tile associated with an ‘í’ sound. It was some relief to know that she had not been drastically mispronouncing her own daughter’s name. Though she had absolutely no idea how the princes expected to teach her a language through correspondence.

“I should like to see the flowers that grow on the mountainside,” she said wistfully.

Before the River Running froze over and snow blanketed the valley, Briar had often ventured out. Now the refugees were safely ensconced within the mountain, and the elves had mostly returned to Mirkwood to wait until the winter thawed. There was no sense in risking being caught in a storm simply because she missed her garden.

Briar traced absentminded patterns on Thorin’s hand as she spoke.

“Dori sketched a design for a winter cloak and asked my opinion. Primula has a far better appreciation for what can be done with needle and thread, of course. At the hem, he had drawn a flower quite unlike anything that grows in the Shire. He described it as reminiscent of a bell, and said that the white petals can be indistinguishable from pure snow.

“I thought that sounded very pretty,” she murmured. “Very pretty indeed.”

It always seemed that she spent a long time in the royal healing chamber.

Once the door had closed behind her, Briar touched her fingers together and tried to gauge whether there was any difference between them. None that she could discern. It must have been her imagination that Thorin’s hand had felt warmer than usual.

“This sample was collected near Ravenhill,” Balin explained.

Without any fanfare, Briar tipped the soil out from its container onto an unused sheet of paper. Primula winced upon seeing the dust that shook loose from that movement alone.

“Nothing can be planted there,” Briar said with a sigh. At least, nothing among the seeds, bulbs and saplings that they had received from the Shire.

Primula nodded reluctantly. “Not without digging down and putting in new layers.”

Briar glanced at the map that the scouting parties had finalised, considering the tight concentric lines that indicated why Ravenhill had been used as a vantage point for centuries. “Would ground cover be useful at that altitude?” she thought aloud.

“Possibly. It might even be worth putting in a stone garden,” Primula suggested.

Briar furrowed her brow, having never heard of such a thing. “What is a stone garden?”

“A form of sculpture, I think. You arrange stones to resemble a living garden. Pleasant enough to look at, no maintenance required, and it minimises erosion on an incline.”

A unique take on terracing, then. Briar gestured for the next sample.

This one came from the flat land between Erebor and Dale. Its consistency was considerably different, coming out from the container in reddish-brown clumps.

“At last, some good news,” Briar murmured.

Primula rubbed some of the soil between her thumb and forefinger. “Clay,” she confirmed. “The ground is nutrient-rich and suitable for farming.”

For a moment, Briar was fairly overwhelmed thinking about just how much would need to be done. The dwarves could produce farming equipment with ease, but there remained a question of how many among them would willingly work outside of the mountain. There would not be much time for demarcating farmland, ploughing the soil and preparing it for seeding, let alone for assessing whether irrigation systems might need to be constructed. Politically speaking, there was a chance that Bard might not agree to the land being used for this purpose.

But Primula grasped her hand across the desk, having come to a sudden realisation.

“Wheat,” she breathed. “The wheat seeds will grow.”

The convoy had brought sacks of seeds, many of which would not germinate in this environment.

But they could grow wheat. Wheat meant flour. Flour meant bread, which would be appetising even to dwarves who were resistant to eating vegetables. Wheat could be used for brewing beer, which could open up trade opportunities with other settlements. The benefits were even more significant long-term: wheat in rotation with other crops would boost overall yield.

Briar clutched onto Primula’s hand and smiled wide enough to hurt.

The seeds would grow here. Undoubtedly, this was another blessing from Yavanna.

Rather than a centralised marketplace, there were shopfronts similar to those she had seen in Bree. They were designed to open outwards, so that customers could look over a selection of goods before wandering into the shop proper. Briar could only imagine what might be on offer in another year or two. Presently, there was great demand for clothing, including protective gear. No currency exchanged hands, as Erebor had not yet formally recommenced trade. To her understanding, the guilds would be responsible for regulating economic activity and standardising valuation.

“Zabadyusth,” a passing dwarf greeted her with a bow.

She smiled and replied, “Good morning!”

Primula hooked an arm through hers, then held something up to Briar's hair and considered it. “Yes, that would suit wonderfully,” she remarked and showed her what appeared to be a rose carved from precious stone. Somehow, its petals were so delicate that they appeared soft to the touch.

Nature motifs truly must be fashionable. The hair ornament was unlike anything that she had seen in the treasury.

“Dwarven touches at the wedding would be quite lovely,” Primula continued with a smile.

Mirabella would have a thing or two to say about that notion.

“I am happy for you,” Briar told her sincerely, though the prospect of searching through her wardrobe for a modest dress and pinning her hair in the style that matrons preferred was not the least bit appealing.

In truth, she thought that Drogo ought to have proposed much sooner; it seemed to her that the young couple were taking their time together for granted.

Primula raised her eyebrows, as though she had said something odd.

“Only remember that if you plan on inviting Dís it will be a far greater commitment for her than it will be for me, travelling the short distance from Bag End to Bucklebury.”

A strange expression came over Primula’s face then. “Oh,” she said.

They left the hair ornament behind and wandered further along the row of shops. All the while, Primula seemed lost in thought.

Rather suddenly, she stopped and set both hands on Briar’s shoulders.

Her friend hesitated before saying, “Erebor is very grand.”

Briar blinked at her, now concerned. “Yes,” she agreed.

“You have been living happily here.”

“Yes,” she agreed. It had been a hard-won happiness, an appreciation of every little thing that came from enduring through difficult times.

Primula asked, “Do you want to stay?”

Yes, was her immediate thought. Of course she wanted to stay in Erebor.

But the ease with which she could answer that question truly rattled her.

Briar was supposed to go home after the adventure ended. She had always returned to Bag End, no matter how far she wandered during her childhood.

Yet, she had once considered the possibility of moving away.

“Think on it,” Primula told her with a bittersweet smile.

A sound suddenly echoed through the mountain like a thunderclap.

“What was that?” Primula asked, wide-eyed.

The dwarves nearby did not seem concerned and began moving in the same direction. Their pace was quick, but not urgent. Briar decided to follow the crowd, holding on to Primula’s hand to prevent them from getting separated. More dwarves joined them until the crowd was quite formidable. If she was not mistaken, they were heading towards the entry chamber. Hopefully the sound had not signalled a mass evacuation from the mountain.

But they slowed at the entry chamber, merging with the crowd already gathered there.

Someone was speaking from the adjoining throne room, she soon realised. The speech was in Khuzdul, the syllables harsh and guttural and incredibly familiar.

She clutched on to Primula’s hand too-tightly.

The dwarves surrounding them had pushed and prodded, not realising that hobbits were there. “Zabadyusth!” someone gasped upon noticing her, and the crowd began pushing outwards to make room for them.

Through the shuffling crowd, Briar caught sight of him.

Thorin.

He was speaking to Erebor in its entirety. His demeanour was undeniably regal. Even at this distance, Briar could see the crown shining atop his head.

Her heart was beating so fast that it might stop altogether.

Don’t look in this direction, she thought desperately.

No doubt her hand was becoming sweaty.

Don’t look this way, she thought even more insistently.

But the crowd was parting around her, as though she was a stone in the spout of a watering can. In another moment, Thorin would notice what the crowd seemed so intent on pointing out to him. Briar was not certain how she would react to his attention—only that it would be terribly embarrassing. She might well dramatically burst into tears, or shout across the crowd.

“Oh dear,” she murmured at the very thought.

Just when Thorin must have looked in their direction-

-Briar tugged Primula into the crowd, weaving through the narrow spaces between dwarves who stood enraptured by their king’s speech.

At last, they reached an empty hallway. Briar pressed back against the stone for a moment and tried to calm down. Primula stood beside her and said not a word.

“Utterly ridiculous,” she muttered and covered her face with trembling hands.

Chapter Text

Thorin must have been preoccupied with kingly matters, because he did not seek her out right away. He was not present at dinner or for breakfast the next morning. As the hours passed, the tension slowly eased from Briar’s shoulders. There was more than enough paperwork to distract her from the near-certainty that Thorin had no interest in speaking with her. Perhaps concealing Marís’ parentage had been too much for him to forgive.

Reading the latest report from the smiths’ guild was far more useful than any such speculation.

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” she called absently while reading over the smiths’ estimation of fuel consumption. They would need a consistent supply of coal to stoke the forges, which meant setting quotas for the miners’ guild and determining what could be directed to the smiths from existing supplies. Fuel was needed for many purposes within the mountain, including operating the kitchen ovens; these reports were vital to understanding where fuel could be diverted if supplies ever ran low.

Suni set down the usual tea tray. “-just came in from the snow.”

Briar had not been paying attention. “Hm?” she said without looking away from the scroll.

“-tracked snow down the stairwell-”

According to the smiths, about a quarter of the forges were currently operational owing to a lack of dwarves available to work them. This supported what Briar had read in another report, that many of the dwarves from the Blue Mountains had not yet joined a guild.

“-might visit at any moment.”

Briar scrawled out a note to speak with the guildmasters about promoting membership.

Suni said nothing for a short while. Her expression was rueful when Briar glanced at her.

Somehow, the tea cup was now empty and there was nothing but crumbs on the plate. No doubt Suni had been waiting for Briar to realise that the snacks had entirely disappeared.

Briar set down her pen at once. “I really must apologise-” she began.

“Not at all, zabadyusth,” Suni replied with a bow.

She gathered up the crockery and soon departed. Briar turned her attention to the next scroll—this time, a complaint about the newly established woodcarvers’ guild defying tradition. The writer was adamant that encouraging younger generations away from the stone would have disastrous consequences. Briar did not bother to conceal her amusement. Just as dwarves born above ground had not suffered from fresh air, as Dís had put it, dwarves who took to woodcarving were no less worthy of being considered artisans than those who preferred metalwork.

There was another knock on the door.

“Come in,” she called while drafting a response to the letter. “If you have come with more scouting reports, then I’m afraid that you will have to turn around and go back out again,” she joked.

“I have not,” came an uncommonly deep voice.

At once, the turns of phrase that she had been considering vanished from her mind. This was not one of her usual visitors.

Briar could do little else but stare at Thorin, distantly aware of the pen dripping ink onto the page.

He was wearing a heavy winter coat and gloves, which was so startling that Briar considered that this might be a particularly vivid dream. Before the battle, he had resisted eating food and gone far too long without sleep. Now his eyes were bright, framed by dark eyelashes that appeared—strangely damp?

Thorin wiped at his face with a gloved hand. “The snow is relentless this year,” he remarked.

“Yes,” she replied faintly, because there was little else that she could think to say.

“Forgive me for taking so long,” Thorin said and took a step towards her desk. His expression was open and sincere in a way that she had not seen for many years. “It did not take much time to find them. Getting back to the mountain door was another matter.”

Briar stood up, not knowing what else to do.

Thorin took another step towards her, and then another.

The distance closed between them, though the desk remained a physical barrier. Thorin paid no attention whatsoever to the scrolls scattered across it. He could not seem to look away from her. He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and brought out-

Briar gasped upon seeing it.

-a green stem with white bell-shaped flowers.

“The elves call it nínim,” Thorin told her softly.

She accepted the stem with tremulous awe.

“What do the dwarves call it?” Briar asked in barely more than a whisper.

Thorin smiled, the gentle smile that she had seen many times before. It was terribly unfair that Thorin was even more handsome now than he had been in Bucklebury. The silver threading through his dark hair and creases around his eyes only added to his charm, she felt.

“I must confess that we also call it nínim,” Thorin told her, as though sharing a somewhat embarrassing secret. “We have a dozen words for quartz, but rely on the elves to name flowers.”

Briar twirled the stem between her fingers. “The king can name a flower,” she pointed out.

“And what should he name it?” he asked.

Her vocabulary was mostly limited to locations within the mountain. Briar tried to remember the word for ‘snowflake’. “Labamra…” The last sound was the most difficult. “Labamrazkh,” she sounded out and then smiled at him, certain that had not been too poorly done.

Thorin was greatly affected by that word alone.

Her smile faltered. “Thorin…?”

“A good name,” he said somewhat gruffly.

“I was not really suggesting-” she began.

“If you will excuse me, I-” he said at the same moment.

They both paused and looked at each other.

“I must attend to-”

“Thank you for-”

They stopped again. Thorin’s cheeks reddened with embarrassment. Briar was struck by the sudden realisation that being crowned king did not mean that Thorin was any less himself, and found that vastly more reassuring than anything that he could have possibly said.

“I,” he said carefully, then continued on when she did not speak, “would like to visit again.”

Her heart leapt. He had not been avoiding her at all. It now seemed silly to have ever thought so.

“Would you be amenable?” Thorin asked with apparent nervousness.

“Yes,” she said, not hesitating for a moment.

They exchanged goodbyes that went on for much too long. Thorin nearly knocked over a side table that had been positioned near the doorway, and Briar glanced down to see that her drafted letter was soaked through with ink from the forgotten-about pen.

The door shut behind him. Briar collapsed into her chair.

A flower, she thought giddily.

This plant did not grow in the Shire. Thorin had gone out into the snow only so that she might see it.

“I should dry it out and press it,” she murmured and immediately searched for anything that would be heavy enough. It was commonplace for hobbits to preserve flowers by placing them between the pages of a book, particularly if the flowers held personal significance.

She spared a moment to press the cool back of her hand against her flushed cheek.

He had never gifted her a flower before. Truly, it was remarkable.

Chapter Text

With Marís settled in her lap, it was even more apparent just how much she had grown. Briar would not always be able to hold her daughter like this. She pressed a kiss to the top of her head—considering herself lucky that Marís did not choose that precise moment to move around—and arranged several tiles in a line.

“N-u-n-g,” she sounded out, pointing to each of the tiles in turn. “Nung,” she repeated.

Marís reached for the tiles. It was only Briar’s arm around her chest that prevented her from tipping forward entirely. The fauntling made an ‘ah’ sound, which Briar took to convey polite confusion.

“Not everything within reach is a toy, sweet pea,” Briar told her, and read the word again: “Nung.”

Her tongue had difficulty shaping the ‘n’ and ‘g’ sounds in combination. From prior study, Briar knew that there was nothing better than practice. And there was no better time to practice than during the pleasant hour after second breakfast, when her stomach was full and the dwarves had long since left the dining room to attend to other matters. Primula had agreed to visit the tailors’ guild to offer her opinion on Dori’s winter cloak, which was in the early stages of construction.

Which meant that there was no one else in the dining room when Thorin opened the door. He appeared somewhat flustered even before realising that they had crossed paths again.

“I missed breakfast,” he said.

“Yes,” she replied, with dawning realisation. “Both of them.”

Thorin glanced past the doorframe, no doubt checking the nearest sign.

Briar pressed her lips together to suppress a smile. A terrible sense of direction was a trait unique to Thorin, it seemed. No map or signpost would prevent him from getting lost.

“Suni will arrive soon with morning tea. You are more than welcome to join us,” she offered.

In his eagerness, Thorin pulled out a chair with enough force that it skittered across the floor and caught on a nearby rug. Thorin spared a moment to fix the rug, then sat down carefully. He had chosen a seat more than an arm’s distance from them, perhaps out of consideration towards her; he had not been formally introduced to Marís and appeared uncertain whether he was permitted to do so much as glance at her.

Briar slotted the tiles back into the board and was grateful that none slipped from her grasp. Then she stood with Marís in her arms and walked the short distance around the table.

“You have not yet had the opportunity to meet,” she said, somewhat shakily. This was a terribly important moment that she had been anticipating since long before Marís’ birth.

Thorin was staring at her, fairly struck.

“This,” at last, “is Marís.”

Thorin took this as permission to look into his daughter’s face for the first time.

“She will tug at your beard, I can assure you,” Briar warned before handing over the fauntling.

Thorin accepted Marís with the utmost care. It was apparent that he had experience with infants, no doubt because he was an attentive uncle. He knew how to support Marís’ small body without needing to be told. Just as importantly, he was not so distracted by Marís’ sweet smile that he failed to notice her tiny hand reaching for his braid.

He grasped her hand gently and waved it about, causing the fauntling to giggle.

His expression softened at the sound.

“Hello, Marís,” he murmured at last.

Watching the two of them, there could be no doubt that Thorin loved their daughter.

Briar had to turn away and dab at her eyes. She had always hoped for this, yet it was painful. Her heart ached at the mere sight of seeing him hold their daughter.

If Thorin had distanced himself from Marís then she would not grieve that he had missed the earliest years of her life. If Briar did not understand just how hard it was to be parted from Marís, then she would not feel so wretchedly sorry for what Thorin would soon experience.

There came a knock at the door.

“Just a moment!” Briar called out in sudden panic.

This was a private moment, but she could hardly shout as much through the door.

Just when she might have wrung her hands together, Thorin touched her elbow.

He nodded towards a nearby chair, which was a rather good thought. Briar sat down, close enough that their knees nearly touched.

It was fortunate that Thorin was not wearing armour underneath his tunic, because Marís had decided that it was naptime. She smooshed her little cheek into his chest and closed her eyes. No doubt Marís could hear the rhythmic thudding of his heart beat, and that had relaxed her.

Thorin smoothed the hair back from Marís’ forehead with an affectionate smile.

If Briar was not already in love with him, that would have been quite enough to do the trick.

Now that Marís was sleeping soundly, Thorin turned his attention towards her.

“Miss Baggins,” he began.

Briar laughed, despite herself. “That sounds very stuffy.”

“Briar,” he said instead, that one word so laden with meaning that she regretted her remark. “In two months, you intend on returning to the Shire.”

So he could remember everything that she had told him while he had been in the healing chamber.

“Yes,” she replied.

“In that time, I hope to change your mind.”

She must not have heard him right. “Hm?”

Thorin shifted so that Marís could rest more comfortably in his arms. “I had planned on letting you go without acknowledging my own feelings. I believed myself unworthy of you. Before returning to the stone, nothing could have convinced me otherwise.”

Briar gaped at him, though this ought not to have surprised her.

“You visited me often and spoke about many things.” Thorin smiled ruefully. “Your perspective is so different from mine. At last, I realised my mistake.”

He offered his hand and she took it, despite her bewilderment.

“I have been making decisions without listening to you. So much could have been avoided with a simple conversation.” Thorin grimaced at some remembrance of his folly. “When I left Bucklebury, it was with every intention of returning once our quest was successful.”

“Oh,” said Briar, with tears now falling down her cheeks.

“I had assumed that you understood the significance of the bead that I braided into your hair.”

“But you never told me what it meant,” she whispered.

Thorin’s eyes shone with unshed tears. “It meant that I love you,” he confessed.

He held onto her hand more tightly, as though to emphasise his words.

“I love you,” he said again as a tear mingled with his short-cropped beard.

Briar smothered a sob with her other hand, so the sound would not wake their daughter.

He had not spoken a word of Khuzdul to her since emerging from the stone, she now realised. Thorin had known that she was a hobbit when they met, but it had taken all this time for him to understand it.

“It is not for me to decide whether I am worthy of you,” he told her. “That is your decision. If you will allow me to court you over the next two months-”

“Yes,” she interrupted him.

Briar was beginning to think it might take very little persuasion for her to remain in Erebor.

“I will do my best to show you just how much I love you. I will seek your opinion, and I will listen to you,” Thorin said seriously, the words reminiscent of wedding vows. He took a steadying breath. “Is there anything that you wish to ask me?”

There was a question that came immediately to mind.

“Did you keep it?” she asked, despite dreading the answer.

A smile spread across Thorin’s face like sunshine between parting clouds. “Of course,” he replied.

Briar felt momentarily bereft when he let go of her hand. Thorin reached into his pocket, mindful of the possibility that Marís might wake from the movement, and then held out his upturned hand.

There, resting in his palm, was the bead that he had once braided into her hair.

He had not abandoned it.

Briar nodded and came to a decision. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and said, “We can start with morning tea.”

It must have been Suni who had knocked on the door. Perhaps she had surmised what was happening, as there was a tea tray waiting outside the door with plentiful snacks and two tea cups. A hobbit’s appetite could always be relied upon, and after so many tears Briar’s had become voracious.

They shared a plate of biscuits between them, while Thorin explained his dismay upon realising that the round green door belonged to her, among all hobbits in the Shire. He continued on from there.

Theirs was a lengthy story, indeed. But they had not yet reached the ending.

Briar took a sip of tea and savoured it.

Perhaps theirs would be a happy story, after all.

Chapter Text

They shared morning tea together on most days. If his busy schedule did not allow that much, then Thorin would visit her at least twice: once to apologise for his absence from morning tea, and once to sit down for afternoon tea. Briar could find no fault with this arrangement, particularly since Thorin always brought food freshly prepared by the kitchens. There was nothing more heartening than a plate warmed through because it carried food that had minutes earlier been in the oven.

They had managed for so long without much variety in their diet that certain foods which would be considered commonplace in the Shire seemed incomparable delicacies.

“Wonderful!” she remarked about a slice that he had brought, cut into perfect bite-size portions.

“It was necessary to substitute the pumpkin seeds for sunflower-” Thorin explained.

“A good choice.” Briar commended the cooks for their cleverness in adapting her father’s recipes. They had not sacrificed texture or structural integrity. She helped herself to another slice.

“-and more honey than the recipe called for,” Thorin said, sounding somewhat embarrassed. “The slice would not hold together without it.”

“Ah, the honey must have a different texture than we are accustomed to in the Shire.”

“It made the first batch much too sweet-”

Briar snapped her fingers. “-so an extra pinch of salt was added! Very clever, indeed.” She nodded in approval and reached for another slice.

When the plate was nearly empty, she thought to offer him the last remaining slice.

“It is very good,” she told him.

Thorin, who had not looked away from her once throughout this exchange, smiled affectionately. “I am pleased to hear that,” he replied, and gestured for her to continue eating.

Their conversations covered a wide range of topics. Thorin proved intent on honouring his words. He listened even when Briar rambled on about nothing of much importance. He asked questions about the Shire that would have never have occurred to her to explain—that most hobbits rarely ventured past the town in which they had been raised, for example—and shared anecdotes about life in the Blue Mountains.

Briar had not known that the dwarves relied so significantly upon trade to meet their basic needs, devoting their time to mining and refining materials for commercial sale rather than growing crops. Even a few pots in the windowsill with herbs was considered an oddity! Even so, there was interest in establishing farmland in the valley.

Erebor was already markedly different than it had been under King Thráin’s rule. Every difference was to be celebrated, in her opinion. If a dragon would hold no interest in fields of golden wheat, instead preferring troves of golden coins hoarded somewhere in Middle-earth, then all the better.

Although her understanding of Khuzdul was steadily improving, Thorin acted as a translator. He soon developed a habit of repeating words in Westron for her benefit.

“Come here, targ mim!” Fíli held out both arms while sitting cross-legged on the floor.

Marís stared at him for a long moment before deciding that she would cooperate. She loosened her grasp on Kíli’s sleeve and toddled the short distance towards the older cousin.

“Little beard,” Thorin translated without looking away from the apple that he was cutting.

It must be a dwarvish endearment, as their daughter showed no sign whatsoever of growing facial hair. Briar supposed that dwarves might well be confused by the terms used amongst hobbits.

“Did you see that, irak-amad?” Kíli called excitedly.

Marís had managed to walk between them entirely without assistance.

“Aunt,” Thorin murmured.

Briar glanced at him in surprise. She had not thought overlong about what his nephews called her, as they were inclined to mischief more than most other dwarves of her acquaintance. To learn that it was a kinship term was quite unexpected.

Thorin finished cutting into the apple and set down the knife. “Amad means mother,” he explained with a somewhat rueful expression. He held out an apple slice and she accepted it, faintly baffled.

Fortunately, before biting into the apple slice Briar noticed that it had been halved, rather than cut into smaller slices. That was enough for her to take a closer look.

Though she could not guess how he had done it within a few short minutes, Thorin had carved the image of blooming flowers into the flat surface of the apple. The detail was so remarkable that she could even see leaves budding along the flowers’ stems.

“How lovely,” she said softly.

The corners of Thorin’s mouth turned upwards and he picked up the other half of the apple.

The carving would not last long when exposed to air. So Briar admired the apple slice until the raised lines began to brown slightly, and then she bit into it. Soon Thorin had carved another: long grasses growing along a riverbed and a walled-off town with plumes of smoke rising from its chimneys. It was undoubtedly the loveliest apple that she had ever eaten.

“My goodness,” she breathed upon stepping through the door.

The Grand Library of Erebor was being restored by the Scribes’ Guild. Given that the Scribes’ Guild had a smaller membership than the other guilds, and many among them were unfamiliar with the particular methods of storage and sorting used in Erebor for centuries, it would take considerable time. Briar could easily imagine that the restoration might amount to several lifetimes’ work.

The library consisted of several levels, from which you could look down at the main floor. Shelves spanned the length of each level. Few were damaged, as the library had been mostly neglected by Smaug. According to the reports that Briar had received, the texts had suffered from improper conditions over an extended period of time. Damage from exposure to smoke and less than ideal temperatures had been severe.

She had never seen so many texts gathered in one place. Her own library seemed quite humble in comparison.

“It will be opened to the public,” Thorin told her as they walked across the main floor.

Briar was staring at the shelves in such awe that she would have knocked into a stack of books, had Thorin not reached for her hand and tugged her out of harm’s way. “Thank you,” she murmured and threaded their fingers together, pretending that her ears were not burning.

Thorin quirked a smile that was altogether too handsome. He might have said something teasing, but was interrupted by a respectful, “Your majesty.”

They had reached the circular desk at the centre of the main floor. Ori raised his head, which had been bowed before the king, then noticed that Briar was with him and fairly squeaked.

“Briar!” Ori exclaimed with a wide smile. He had matured during their quest—it would have been impossible to remain unchanged by all that had happened—but his enthusiasm had not dimmed. His fingers were even more ink-stained than they had been, now with colours mixed into the black.

He must have understood her wide-eyed expression at a glance. Here was someone who, under different circumstances, would have been perfectly content to fritter away hours upon years, reading through everything that had been gathered here over centuries.

The Grand Library being opened to the public was nearly enough enticement for her to remain in Erebor on its own! Though it was too early to say whether Marís might have any interest in reading. Perhaps Briar could search through the shelves for children’s stories…

While her mind wandered, Ori set a book down on the desk before them.

“It is not in the best condition,” he said ruefully.

Indeed, the binding would need to be replaced. The cover was unreadable, blackened by smoke. If there was glue along the spine then it had undoubtedly lost its stick after being heated by dragon fire.

Thorin picked up the book, which appeared fairly unremarkable. He handled it with great care.

“I will- I have something else to- I just have to-” Ori began to contrive some excuse, but finding that none came to him soon left them in relative privacy.

Thorin turned to face her and held out the book.

She accepted it, casting a critical eye over its pages. The spine cracked audibly at the slightest movement. Like many books in the Grand Library, this one would need significant restoration, or to be transcribed onto new paper and discarded entirely.

The title was in Khuzdul. Briar understood its meaning in part: Durin.

“This is a record of my lineage,” Thorin explained, voice soft enough that it would not be overheard. Without taking the book from her, he turned to a page towards the end and pointed to a set of runes that Briar had learned represented his name.

Below it, there were entries for Frerin and Dís. The next generation had not yet been born when Erebor was invaded.

Thorin turned to an earlier page and pointed towards another name.

Marís. Their daughter’s namesake.

“I hope this is an acceptable gift.”

Briar looked at him sharply. “A gift?” she repeated.

Thorin appeared uncharacteristically nervous. “I can arrange to have it restored-”

“No,” Briar interrupted at once, now intent on rebinding the book with her own hands.

With this book, Briar could count the precise number of generations between Marís and her namesake. She could memorise the Durin’s family history, as was considered genteel in hobbit society. Her parents would have been pleased to read over this book. It was a bittersweet thought.

She shut the book and stepped forward to kiss Thorin’s cheek.

“Thank you,” Briar told him sincerely.

Thorin turned his head towards her, and their faces came much closer than she anticipated. His gaze was intense. If they had been standing underneath a tree near the Brandywine River, she would have kissed him, and he would have pulled her close with an arm around her waist-

As they were presently standing in the Grand Library of Erebor, where the near-entirety of the Scribes’ Guild could observe them, Briar decided to act with propriety.

She took a step back. Thorin could not seem to look away from her mouth, which made her smile.

They were so changed by the past few years that Briar had wondered if he might still wish to kiss her. If Thorin had seen her filthy and tear-streaked during the quest, and still looked at her like that, then she thought it might take a very great deal for him to lose interest.

Chapter Text

The kitchens were busier than she had been expecting. A routine had been established to ensure that the population of Erebor was fed throughout the day, with teams of cooks working on rotating shifts and kitchenhands always quick to follow direction. Briar had never seen the kitchens so crowded, cooks dashing between pots while kitchenhands brought ingredients out from storage. The ovens were all lit with trays already inside.

Although she had brought Marís here with the intention of baking alongside her daughter—though she was not yet old enough to be of any real help—Briar did not wish to be underfoot.

Soon Bombur noticed their arrival and waved her over to a newly cleared bench. Marís was settled into a seat, positioned away from anything that might have been dangerous for her. The seat permitted a view of the bench and some wiggle room. By now, the kitchen staff were familiar with Marís’ propensity to grasp anything within reach and smiled at her, but did not come too close.

“What are you making today?” Bombur asked cheerily.

“I was thinking of almond biscuits. It will be Marís’ birthday soon.”

Bombur nodded in understanding. "A special time.”

The kitchen was operating in a state of organised chaos, so the requested ingredients and tools were set out on the bench in short order. No recipe was necessary, as Briar had relied upon these biscuits many times before. Almond biscuits were simple to make but favoured above those made from wheat flour, making them an obvious choice when preparing gifts for her neighbours in Hobbiton.

Bombur did not return to managing the kitchens right away. “I had best ask you a question, lass. How do you stop a sponge cake from collapsing?”

Briar glanced at him while measuring cups of almond flour.

“He has tried the recipe several times and it just keeps sinking,” Bombur said with a wince.

“Mix sparingly,” Briar replied. “You want air bubbles in the batter to keep the cake nice and airy.”

“Right. Thank you, lass.”

She began measuring sugar with well-practiced movements. “Was there anything else?” Briar asked, upon seeing that he looked somewhat troubled.

“Well, I had best ask you to stop him from emptying our stores…” Bombur muttered to himself, then asked several questions about baking sponge cake that any fauntling would be able to answer. In many instances, her father’s recipes simply stated ‘prepare a sponge cake batter’ without any further explanation, now to the consternation of aspiring dwarven bakers.

The kitchen staff were so accommodating that Briar set aside several of the almond biscuits to show her gratitude. There was an atmosphere of good cheer, and she wondered if dwarves celebrated the end of winter just as hobbits did in anticipation of the growing season.

Winter was not without its own happy traditions. Although Briar had not ventured out into the snow much since her parents’ passing, she still fondly remembered her father checking that her hands were sufficiently warm in the mittens that he had knitted for her, and trudging out into the morning sunlight with her mother carrying a toboggan barely large enough for them both to sit on.

In truth, the toboggan rides had never lasted more than a few seconds, and the snow soon turned to sludge that even the more adventurous hobbits were not well-pleased with. But those memories were precious to her so many years later.

It would not be so difficult to commission a toboggan from the Woodcarvers’ Guild, she mused. Marís was too young to toboggan down the mountainside, but Briar was coming to appreciate that there would be much more for her daughter to experience with every passing birthday.

Thorin knocked on the door, although Briar had long since come to expect him at this hour.

“I must apologise for coming empty-handed,” he said sheepishly.

Briar beamed at him and removed the cloth covering a plate of almond biscuits. “Well, these were baked just this morning. I would be pleased to share them with you!”

Over time, his chair had inched closer to hers so gradually that she had hardly noticed it. Now Thorin sat close enough that she could have comfortably rested her head on his shoulder. He often reached for her hand and held it while they spoke about what had happened since they last saw each other.

Impossibly, Briar felt that she came to love him more with each passing day. In the earliest days of their courtship she had considered returning to the Shire and exchanging letters with him, reasoning that if his affections were true then they would endure a year or two of separation. Now, she could not bear the thought of being parted from him again.

“A celebration will soon be held in Erebor,” Thorin told her.

That was welcome news.

“A celebration of what, precisely?” she asked.

That handsome smile spread across his face, devastating as ever.

Thorin hummed, thumb stroking over the back of her hand. “The success of our quest. Our victory in battle. Your defeat of the pale orc,” he said and brushed a barely-there kiss to her knuckle. “The return of dwarves to our homeland. Our treaty with the kingdom of Dale. Our daughter’s birthday.” He shifted closer without looking away from her face and when he spoke again, his voice was lower. “It seems that we have much to celebrate.”

“Indeed,” she agreed and reached to caress his cheek.

His honour restored, Thorin was growing out his short-cropped beard. The dark, thick hair was interspersed with silver—though that particular spot was noticeably lighter than the rest...

Briar licked the pad of her thumb and dabbed at it.

Flour, she realised.

“Thorin,” she began.

Thorin wiped hastily at his beard in an attempt to remove any lingering flour. His cheeks and even the rounded tips of his ears were reddening with embarrassment.

There could be no doubt as to who had been battling with her father’s sponge cake recipe.

“The snacks that you have been bringing me…” she said, unable to suppress her smile.

“Are courting gifts,” Thorin confessed, not turning away despite his blush. “You had said that the way to a hobbit’s heart was through their stomach.”

Briar laughed brightly and cradled his face. Oh, she loved him.

“Well,” she said, but found that there was too much laughter in her voice. “Well,” she tried again with a better attempt at solemnity. “You have found it.”

She leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together.

Thorin’s mouth parted, though he did not speak.

“I should like to learn how to put braids in your hair,” Briar told him softly.

To hear his voice each day, to wake up beside him and know that she could reach out for his hand—these were blessings that Briar could never take for granted. Even if Erebor was nothing like the smial that her father had built, she had found it wholly suited to her happiness.

"You will have to show me how to craft a bead,” she whispered into the precious little space between them and then smiled. “In return, I can teach you how to perfect a sponge cake.”

Thorin appeared so moved by her words that he could scarcely respond.

So Briar tilted her head slightly and kissed him.

It was a delicate thing, like a butterfly landing on a flower. It was far from the passionate kisses that they had shared in Bucklebury, lacking any sense of urgency. Briar believed that there would be another to follow, and countless others after that, and was content simply to kiss him for its own sake.

“I love you,” she told him sincerely.

Thorin regarded her with such raw emotion that she was rather cheered by it. There could be no doubt that he loved her, perhaps so much that words had escaped him entirely. She pressed another kiss to his mouth and settled both arms around his neck, holding on.

He returned the embrace, resting his cheek against her hair.

And then he said her name, Briar, in such a communicative manner that she understood perfectly what he meant to convey. And she drew back and kissed him again, a firm pressure intended to steady him. And then again, for good measure. And then again, simply because she wished to.

By the time there was a knock at the door, they had been kissing for some time and could have quite happily gone on doing so without any regard whatsoever for their responsibilities.

Thorin very nearly jumped out his seat, having forgotten that visitors often arrived at this hour. He began hastily combing fingers through her hair to neaten it; his hand had been buried in it mere moments before. Thorin was flushed and a little wide-eyed, more preoccupied with making her look presentable than with his own dishevelment.

Briar smiled at him, amused.

His movements stilled upon seeing her expression. An answering smile tugged at Thorin’s mouth. He leaned in to kiss her, as though he could not resist an opportunity to do so.

There was another knock at the door. Having heard no response, the visitor soon departed. Whatever matter would have been brought to Briar's attention could wait.

They could spare time for joy, Briar felt. There was so much to celebrate, after all.

Musicians played lively tunes which carried across the enormous hall. Tables had been arranged so that dwarves could gather with family and friends, each laden with food and drink.

A portion of sponge cake had been placed before Marís at the table reserved for the royal family. Contrary to her mother’s expectation, Marís did not set about throwing the cake. Under her father’s watchful gaze, Marís grasped a fistful and slowly brought it to her mouth. More than once, the cake broke apart and she had to make another attempt at eating it. Progress was slow, but when Marís tasted the cake after all her efforts, she made an odd expression and then quickly reached for more.

Thorin had a cloth ready to wipe at her face. In the meantime, he regarded his daughter with a gravity that would have seemed strange to anyone who did not know this was the first birthday he had ever experienced with her, or that he had gone to great lengths to bake the birthday cake himself.

Marís waved a sticky hand at him and made a sound that had no clear meaning. She had a tendency to stare at Thorin whenever he was nearby, which Thorin reciprocated more often than not.

She mashed the cake into her little cheek and smiled toothily at him.

“Cake,” she said.

This brought about near-immediate chaos, as anyone within earshot understood this to be her first word. Not only had Marís spoken in Westron rather than Khuzdul, but the word was not the least bit dwarvish. No references to stone whatsoever. A distinctly hobbitish word, Briar thought with pride.

“Yes, little one,” Thorin replied.

Marís considered her own cake-covered hand for a moment. “Cake,” she said again, proving that this was no coincidence.

Thorin responded by placing another slice in front of her, much to Marís’ delight.

This slice could be thrown, she soon decided.

As the celebration went on, Primula took charge of settling Marís for her usual nap. The cake remnants she left behind were cleaned. Briar could now freely partake of a tankard of honey mead.

Thorin leaned in, so that she might hear him over the music. “Do you recall hiding behind barrels at Lithe?”

“Do you have any distant relations who we might need to hide from?” she joked and set down the tankard. “That was a pleasant evening, indeed.”

“You are even more beautiful tonight than you were then.”

Briar blushed at the compliment. Though she was rather more scarred and wrinkled than she had been years before, these details seemed to have only added to her appeal in Thorin’s estimation. She no longer wore her hair so relentlessly pinned back, instead allowing it to curl about her shoulders. She was not a dwarf and held no real interest in piercings or other kinds of jewellery—except for the golden bead braided at her temple.

She dared to press a lingering kiss to his cheek.

“Âzyungel,” she murmured.

Thorin was not so restrained about public displays of affection, and drew her close to kiss her. It was no secret that he loved her. Any dwarf who saw them would know it at once from the pattern of braids in their hair, and any hobbit who saw them would know it from how Thorin looked at Briar, as though she was incomparable.

How extraordinary, to have arrived at a destination so far beyond her imagining!

How wonderful it was, to be loved.

Chapter Text

There was much to be said about Briar Baggins, who had once been considered a disappointment by the residents of Hobbiton.

For years she had withdrawn into Bag End and done little more than meet her obligations. Despite her parents both having been quite extraordinary hobbits, Briar Baggins was neither perfectly proper nor shockingly brave. She did not even tend to her own garden, instead engaging the services of Hamfast Gamgee, and was only ever a reliable correspondent in matters of business and with Primula Brandybuck.

Her best attributes she showed least often, a rare talent at making shapes when exhaling pipe-smoke only ever displayed when she thought no one was around to see it, and well-crafted stories only told to fauntlings when she thought other hobbits too distracted to pay them much heed. A hobbit who had the potential to be extraordinary and simply chose not to was rather more disappointing than a hobbit who had no aptitude at all.

So it came as some surprise when none other than Briar Baggins was observed running downhill in the early morning hours, dressed in trousers and an old travelling coat. Her destination was the Green Dragon, where several dwarves had stabled their ponies; they had barely arrived in the Shire before departing again to places unknown.

According to the innkeeper, who revelled in telling the story of that fateful day, the dwarves had been there to recruit a hobbit for a very important quest. That such a hobbit could be found in Hobbiton at all was a far-fetched notion; that the hobbit in question should be Briar Baggins was beyond every expectation!

For nearly a year thereafter, Bag End was occupied by a dwarf who ventured out into the garden far more often than Briar had done, stomping around in her enormous boots before realising that this was causing harm to bulbs buried in the soil. She had been apologetic upon learning that the garden was not so resilient as stone may be, and dirtied her hands when shown how to ensure that the bulbs could sprout properly, and the neighbourhood had found her rather more amiable than they would have guessed. A dwarf this far west was unusual, though not unwelcome.

When it came time for Dís to pack travelling bags and arrange transport to the east, the residents of Hobbiton were saddened. A small crowd gathered to wave farewell as the cart departed.

Bag End had no occupants for some time. The green door remained closed.

As the seasons changed, the garden continued to grow. Hamfast brought baskets of fresh vegetables and fruits around to the neighbours, but could not offer any certainty as to when the Bagginses would return to Bag End.

Time wore on. There was an exciting week when news came from Bucklebury: the mayor had received a letter from Briar Baggins, from a destination so far removed that it could only be understood as ‘further away than Bree’. A copy of the letter was not brought to Hobbiton, despite her neighbours’ vested interest in hearing what fate may have befallen her, and the tantalising question around who could possibly inherit Bag End under these circumstances. The Sackville-Bagginses’ many petitions to put the estate up for auction had been denied. More than once, they had needed to be chased away from the doorstep when they might have entered without permission.

The rumours that reached Hobbiton several days after the mayor received the letter were so extraordinary that many felt they had sorely misjudged Briar Baggins. Not only was she capable of what her mother had achieved, she had managed to surpass her. Briar was no doubt the only hobbit who had ever lived to defeat a dragon, fight in battle, and receive an odd dwarven title of some distinction. Upon returning home, she would become highly sought after, and they would be free to speculate as to the potential of her daughter to follow in her footsteps.

Briar Baggins did not return home that year.

Neither did she return home the following year, nor the year after that.

Bag End was attended to only sparingly, to prevent dust from settling over her belongings. Hamfast planted flowers rather than fruit and vegetables, as the garden was no longer needed to round out food stores. The garden grew so well that hobbits would often stop to marvel at it, flowers blooming prettily and putting out a sweet fragrance.

When a pony-drawn carriage clattered down the road and came to a stop at the Green Dragon, it nearly went unnoticed; deliveries to the inn were not an uncommon sight. A dwarf was sitting at the reins, his beard long and neatly braided. He drew the carriage to a stop and stepped down to tether the ponies, then held his arms outstretched for a faunt to jump into his embrace. The faunt took off running the moment that her booted feet touched the ground, soon crouching down to grasp at a particularly long blade of grass.

And then a hobbit came out from the carriage, holding on to the dwarf’s hand to keep her balance.

At a glance, there was nothing unusual about her. But upon a second look, the details were not quite right. Her hair was worn loose and braided back with something that glinted in the midday sun. The stitching of her dress was not the method currently favoured. She was not particularly tanned, as most hobbits would be during the warmer months.

The faunt ran to her with the blade of grass, and the hobbit showed her how to fashion it into a whistle. Meanwhile, the dwarf arranged for the ponies to be stabled and watered. He would come to collect them in another two weeks.

So the little family walked along the path without any hurry whatsoever, seemingly unaware that they were drawing attention from everyone they passed.

Hamfast was waiting outside Bag End and greeted them in a friendly manner.

“Miss Baggins!” he called out.

Indeed, when she had departed that had been her name. Briar explained that she had since married—which was an immense shock to those who overheard it—and to the dwarf who accompanied her—which was perhaps less shocking, as there was a ready affection between them, and Dís had been well-liked during her short time in Hobbiton.

“This is Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain,” she introduced her husband.

A title alone did not make a good suitor, of course. After some questioning around whether Thorin had courted Briar properly, and whether he would honour her as a good and reliable husband throughout their lives, Hamfast was satisfied that there was nothing amiss and walked them to the green door.

They would not stay long. Two weeks proved enough time to pack her belongings and tend to her parents’ graves. Briar had arranged for ownership of Bag End to be transferred to Primula Baggins née Brandybuck; it would be pleasant to have another young family in residence, though many had hoped that Briar would choose to settle there with her very interesting choice of husband and exuberant daughter.

This was no longer her home, it seemed.

Bag End was the grandest smial in Hobbiton, but perhaps it had been too small for her.

At least with Primula living nearby they would continue to have news about her.

There was much to be said about Briar, who had always defied their expectations. She was a heroic figure—or a cautionary tale, depending upon who was telling the story. She had seized happiness with her own two hands when most would have believed it beyond her grasp.

The seasons continued to change in Hobbiton. Each year around the anniversary of the Fell Winter, when snowmelts formed that would replenish the groundwater, hobbits would venture out to the gravestones of Belladonna and Bungo Baggins. In their daughter’s stead, they would place cut flowers. The eldest hobbits, who still remembered the joyful years when Briar was a fauntling, could say with perfect certainty: You would have been so proud.

Chapter Text

The wheat had grown taller than her. Golden stalks waved in the breeze. Marís resisted the temptation to cut through the fields, knowing that it would earn a stern lecture from any farmer who spotted her about wandering near the crops so close to harvesttime. Speaking of, there was a farmer coming up the path-

“Uzbadnâtha,” the dwarf greeted with a respectful bow.

Apparently not one who had caught her up to mischief.

“Good afternoon!” Marís replied brightly and went on her way.

As she emerged from the fields, she could see her usual destination.

Dale was resplendent in colourful banners and strewn lanterns to celebrate some Mannish tradition that Marís had never quite understood, but certainly enjoyed attending parties for. No doubt she would have to visit again shortly to ensure that she was not missing out on any merriment.

But today she was venturing further than the road well-travelled.

Marís followed the riverbank while peering into the Greenwood.

Aha! There was the odd-looking tree that had been described to her, a marker of the safest path. She checked that her satchel was fastened tightly and that the strap would not catch on any prising branch, then ventured into the forest.

Soon she stopped and put her hands on her hips, frowning.

Marís had long since learned that her amad tended to embellish stories entirely without realising it, and had thought that her description of the forest as so dense that it was near impossible to navigate was rather like her scathing caricatures of the relatives that she had left behind in the Shire.

Marís had, after all, never met a hobbit that she didn’t like—though she had admittedly met very few that she could remember. Her little cousin Frodo often sent letters and she liked them all, especially the ones with pretty leaves or pebbles tucked into the envelopes.

But her amad’s words proved true. The trees were so close together that Marís wondered how it was possible that they could sustain themselves.

The Greenwood was precisely as it had been described, Marís thought wryly. Very green and dense. Traders preferred to take the longer route around it, transporting wares through the Brown Plains.

On an impulse, Marís yanked off her boots. She wiggled her toes into the soil and contemplated the sensation for a moment. Her amad always went without boots, and claimed that bare skin to soil was enriching. The soil here certainly felt different, though Marís could not really articulate why. It seemed that this was another aspect of her amad’s experiences as a hobbit that Marís could not grasp.

Still, bare feet would help her maintain grip. Marís set her boots neatly beside a tree trunk. “Take care of these, would you?” she said while patting the trunk in a friendly manner. If the tree did not understand her words, then there was no harm in it; if it could, then all the better.

Then she picked out another tree with suitably strong branches, and pulled herself up.

It did not take long to reach the canopy. The fresh air was wonderful up here. Marís marvelled at the view in all directions: Erebor, Dale, the River Running, and the places that she had yet to visit.

Her amad encouraged curiosity about the world. Indeed, Marís was looking forward to seeing it.

She went partway down and, remaining a fair distance above the ground, traversed the forest like that. Danger might well be hiding in the leaf litter.

The Greenwood was no longer so hazardous as it had been when her parents came through it. According to Tauriel, who acted as a liaison between the two kingdoms, the spider population was manageable this year and there was not much to fear from other creatures. Elves regularly patrolled the forest, else her amad would not have readily given Marís her grandfather’s travelling coat—more patch than original material, it seemed, but considered lucky for adventurers.

Aside from one instance where Marís thought she might have heard an odd sound—a twang, perhaps—her progress through the Greenwood was uneventful. She reached the waterfall that her amad had described and crossed the suspension bridge, then knocked on the door.

“Good afternoon!” she said brightly. “I have come for a visit.”

The door swung open and she was greeted by a full set of armour. Marís stared up at it in surprise. In her experience, elves rarely wore armour and were loathe to cover their faces. How odd!

She was guided to the throne room, no matter that she would have liked to stop and try climbing onto the enormous roots that wove through the network of caverns.

King Thranduil was seated on his throne, which was rather more ornate than those used by her family. It appeared to have been constructed from intertwined branches; Marís could not say whether the shapes resembling antlers had come from some enormous beast, or had been carved from wood by expert hands.

“Ci maedol hí, gwinig.”

Marís had entirely forgotten her purpose in coming here, along with what few words of Sindarin her amad had endeavoured to teach her. She was enraptured by the throne, having more than a little interest in climbing it. She was still a child by anyone’s standards, and could not be expected to suppress such childlike ambition when there was no parental figure present to remind her of the expected niceties.

“That is a very grand throne,” she remarked.

King Thranduil said nothing. He merely raised his hand and, at some unspoken command, the suit of armour left to return to its post.

“Does it feel very grand when you sit on it?”

King Thranduil stared down at her impassively.

It might have felt oppressive to anyone else. But Marís had received a birthday gift from him each year without fail, and Prince Legolas gave her archery lessons whenever diplomacy brought him to Erebor, and Marís was near-certain that she had been escorted safely through the forest by an elven guard. Not even a bird had crossed her path in the distance that she had travelled.

Not to mention that the Elvenking had always gotten on well with her amad, who described him as more hobbitish that most in the east. Her amad had mentioned that he was partial to flattery.

“I have reigned over the Woodland Realm for centuries. Grand as it may be,” King Thranduil said this with the corner of his mouth almost imperceptibly turned upwards, which could only mean that her amad had been right, “this throne does not truly signify my influence.”

“Oh.” Marís considered that for a moment. He was saying that he was a very old king, and that the throne ought to be replaced with something even grander to show off his years of experience. “If it is not well-suited to you, then it might match a princess better?” she ventured.

After a beat, King Thranduil smiled at her. “You resemble your mother,” he said, perhaps too old to realise that such a comment was the bane of every child with a famous parent. But he obligingly stood and held out a hand to her, so that she might more easily clamber onto the throne.

“I am very good at climbing,” Marís assured him.

“So I have been told,” he replied.

Marís sat on the Elvenking’s throne, somewhat in awe. It was very grand indeed. The throne room looked different from this height, although elves already held that advantage. In her peripheral vision, she could see the antlers coiling around her. The wood was not uncomfortable to sit on, but might benefit from a cushion or two. In all, rather more kingly than her adad’s throne, which had been stripped down to bare stone to represent his humility before their people.

During lessons, Balin often asked Marís to consider what sort of queen she would like to be, as she was in the immediate line of succession. Should she rule like her adad, who defined his worthiness by every achievement and wrongdoing throughout the entirety of his reign? Like Uncle Dáin, renowned for his strategic mind? Like King Bard, who considered himself equal to each of his citizens? Or unlike all of them, landing somewhere else altogether?

But there was no use in thinking too far ahead, as her amad would remind her. There was much to savour in the present moment sooner than imaginings of events that might not come to pass.

Marís now remembered the purpose of her visit and unbuckled her satchel.

“I have brought something for you,” she said while searching around for it.

She held out a bundle of fabric, which had been neatly tied upon her departure from Erebor. The knot had come loose somehow. It was fortunate that her amad would not see how her efforts had gone to waste.

“You might have these for afternoon tea!” she told him cheerfully.

King Thranduil accepted the bundle with an expression that hinted at some confusion—but Marís was confident that elves must have afternoon tea, no matter how stoic they were. How could you live for centuries without such peaceful rituals to wile away the afternoon hours?

He untied the knot with care, to reveal the—only slightly crushed!—almond biscuits that she had helped her amad to prepare in the kitchens. There was an almond pressed into each one, a clear marker that these biscuits were meant to be gifted rather than eaten directly off the cooling tray. She had been assured of their taste by eating about half a dozen fresh out of the oven, as was the responsibility of anyone who intended on sharing their baked goods with others.

Marís grinned at him, expecting that she would shortly be invited to afternoon tea.

“Why have you brought me...”

“Almond biscuits!”

“Almond biscuits,” he repeated.

Marís kicked out her feet absentmindedly. She felt that this adventure had proven rather successful. Soon her parents might let her wander beyond the Greenwood, to visit Beorn the skin-changer’s house. She had been told fantastical stories about his garden at bedtime since she was very young.

Why? That was the simplest question in the world!

Marís answered, “Because we are neighbours!”