Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Amelia Jay Lucas, 69, passed quietly in her sleep in her Rogers, Arkansas home Friday night after a decade long battle with lung cancer. She died surrounded by loving family and friends. An avid philanthropist, Amelia was well known for giving tirelessly of herself to help those in need. She was preceded in death by both parents, Marie Blakesly and Earl Lucas, and an older sister, Annabeth Taylor, nee-Lucas. Amelia never married. However, she is survived by 8 children, all of whom she adopted from the Arkansas Foster Care system, her 18 grandchildren, and 7 great-grandchildren. In lieu of flowers, the family requests donations be made to the THRIVE Foster Family Foundation, an organization that Amelia remained passionate about throughout her life.

———————————--------------------------

Mia had long wondered what would be waiting for her in the afterlife. Ten years of off and on chemo and radiation treatments had given her plenty of time to contemplate her death. In the end, it had come as she would have wanted it to. She hadn’t felt a thing. That had been all she’d dreamed of. An end to the pain. Pain she’d brought upon herself with a two pack a day habit, she thought sardonically.

The bad thing, she thought, sitting here surrounded by white shores bathed in bright light, was that all she could think about was how badly she wanted a cigarette.

It wasn’t the nicotine. She knew the effects of nicotine withdrawal, and that apparently hadn’t followed her into the afterlife. But she’d been sitting here for ages, staring at the waves rolling in, wondering what she was supposed to be doing. A smoke would have given her something to do with her hands, at least. Mia leaned back on her elbows and lifted her face to the breeze. It was nice here. The kind of place she could see herself staying forever, if it wasn’t so, well…

“Boring?” Amelia flinched, snapping her eyes open to to glare, askance, at the figure now seated to her left.

She had to crane her neck to see his face. She imagined that if they were both standing, he would be at least three feet taller than her. His face was wide to complement his broad shoulders and hips. And he was covered in hair everywhere she could see, from the elbow length braids that graced the top of his head and his chin, to the thick, curly ringlets on his arms and what she could see of his chest and lower legs. His beard twitched as he cut his eyes down and to the right, meeting her gaze. His eyes were mischievous. Like she was a child he was playing a prank on, and he was waiting for her to realize just how gullible she’d been to believe the lie.

Mia turned to face the waves again, unconsciously mirroring her neighbors position, resting her elbows on her knees as she brought them up to her chest. Her shoulders relaxed. She was dead. What could he possibly do to hurt her?

“Are you, though?” His voice interrupted again.

“Am I what?”

“Dead.” She swore he was laughing at her. He wasn’t making any noise, but his beard kept jumping erratically with his twitching cheeks. She raised an eyebrow in question, mouth hanging open slightly at the sight before her. He kind of looked like she’d always imagined Hagrid would.

“Who are you?”

At this he grinned and turned to face her excitedly, like that was exactly the question he’d been waiting for. Mia wished he’d moved a bit slower. His massive thigh shifting so quickly had resulted in a spray of sand directly to her open mouth.

“Sorry, honey.” He chuckled as she frantically spat onto the ground in front of her. “I wanted to meet you in a nice, warm cavern. With a roaring fire and warm couch to snuggle down into. Somewhere comfortable and safe. My wife insisted on a location that would seem more realistic after your death.” He laughed again as he handed her a waterskin and a clean, white handkerchief from inside his vest. “White shores.” He said it like it was a joke and eyed her speculatively. “Though, judging by your thoughts on my appearance, perhaps a train station would have been better?”

White shores. Of course.

Gandalf.

She sniggered. The tone of voice her thoughts had taken was just as exasperated as Bilbo’s had been when the dwarves showed up at his door in the movie.

“Should I be looking forward to a far, green country under a swift sunrise then?” She paused to take a swig from the skin, swishing the water around in her mouth and gargling before she spat it out again and quirked a smile in his direction. “Or am I boarding a train to the next great adventure?”

“I’m glad to hear you enjoyed our stories so much, gaihith.” He took the handkerchief from her hand and used it to brush more sand from her cheek, unperturbed when she smacked his hand away.

“Your stories?”

“But of course.”

“Because you inspired the authors? Because you’re God?” She’d taken a leap with that one. He didn’t feel like how she’d thought God would. But there was something omniscient and omnipotent about the always present quirk of his lips.

“Not hardly.” He scoffed and lowered his head in the semblance of a bow. “You may call me Aulë, dear one.”

Admittedly underwhelmed, Mia shook her head. “Of course it’s really that simple. Everyone was wrong, weren’t they? No religion was right after all. Do we all just drift off into a dream world after we die? One of our choosing? I’m seeing you because Tolkien was my favorite author, aren’t I?”

“You are not dead, gaihith.” His voice was gentle and consolatory. It took her back to her twenties, and doctor’s offices, and soft eyes paired with quiet voices telling her she’d never bear her own child. She shied away from that voice as a matter of course. She had no interest in pity.

“So I haven’t passed yet, and this is just the drugs paying havoc on my mind.” She huffed. “If I’d known that, I would have conjured up a cigarette an hour ago.” She turned her face away from him and concentrated on what she wanted, forehead scrunching as she waited for her pack and a lighter to appear in her hand.

A finger reached around to smooth the creases of her forehead before lowering to take her chin and turn her back toward him. She would have resisted, but the smell of burning tobacco was coming from that direction. In the half-minute she’d been turned away, he’d produced a pipe full of tobacco and lit it. He offered it to her now.

“You smoke. I talk. You listen.” Well, a pipe was better than nothing. She took it and settled back, wiggling deeper into the sand to give her lower back something to rest on.

Heavy eyes settled on her face for a long moment. Mia noticed he wasn’t smiling anymore, this being who claimed to be Mahal. It was foolish to believe he really was one of the Ainur. But if that’s what her mind chose to conjure in her hour of need, she wasn’t going to sit here and argue with herself. She took an experimental draw of the pipe and closed her eyes in ecstasy. It reminded her of rum. Deep. Spicy. And it made her throat burn in a pleasant way.

When his voice came, it was contemplative.

“What if I told you, gaihith, that it was a dream? The stories. The buildings. The men and women you worked with. That grubby little boy who bit you on the ear in the first grade. It was all a dream, perfectly designed to keep you happy and occupied. Designed to let you grow up and have a full and worthwhile life. While, in reality, you slept. For sixty-nine years, you slept. Dreaming dreams of baseball, and high school prom, and college. Dreams of a life full of service to others. Of saving children.” He continued to stare hard at her face, watching as she blew perfectly formed smoke rings, one after another.

“Dreaming was I? Ok. I’ll bite. And, pray tell, what was my body doing while I was in this dream?”

“Sleeping of course.” The look he gave her was very dry. But Mia had raised eight children on her own, and simply raised a brow in return. He must have liked her moxy, because the mirthful beard twitch returned, and he rolled his eyes and leaned forward with a sigh.

“Seventy years ago, there was a dwarrowdam named Dogrlia. She was a resident of the Iron Hills. A young journeyman silversmith who excelled in her craft and was well loved by her family. She was only seventy-five when a representative of the royal family arrived in her home, carrying a call to arms. Barely an adult. But the moment of their meeting was written in the Great Song millennia before her birth. And their joining was passionate and all consuming, as most are among the Dwarrow.” The beard twitch had stopped by this point, and his eyes, still boring into her, were incredibly sorrowful. “They only had the one night together. But when he left her the next morn, it was with a marriage braid in her hair and a great treasure planted in her womb.”

Mia tapped the ashes of the pipe out on her palm and blew a puff of air through the stem to clear out any debris. Knocked up on the first shot. Wasn’t that lucky? She’d wished all her life to be that woman. The one whose body didn’t betray her.

“Lucky girl.” Was all she said.

“No, gaihith. She really wasn’t.” He murmured. “Her husband was lost in battle not two months later, along with her father and brother. Dogrlia fought the grief of losing her one, determined to live for the child inside of her. Her own mother, however, was not as strong, and succumbed to grief less than a month later. Dogrlia was left alone, as many were after the Battle of Azanulbizar.”

“Wait. I know this one. It was in the story. That’s the battle where Thror was killed, and Thorin fought Azog, right? Or were the books just stories to entertain?”

“No, not just to entertain.” He answered. “We thought if it was displayed in an entertaining medium, we could use the opportunity to teach you at least some about your people.”

Her disbelief was evident in the incredulousness of her stare. “My people?”

With a smile, he reached out and tapped her on the nose like a child. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves. Yes, that is the battle to which I’m referring.” He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, holding himself close as if for comfort. It was strange to see such a familiar gesture in a being so large and otherworldly. His eyes seemed far away now, lost in memory. “The number of my children I welcomed into my halls that day was beyond count, but I remember Dogrlia’s young mate well. He begged to return to her, and thrashed in his grandfather’s arms when he was told he couldn’t. He cursed my name for giving him his One on the eve of battle, just to rip him away from her. I don’t blame the lad. He knew the pain his mate was likely to be experiencing, and was nearly mad at the thought of her suffering so.”

“Well, it was pretty irresponsible if you think about it.” Amelia couldn’t imagine doing such a thing on the eve of war. Creating a child and then leaving it like that. She’d seen plenty of abandoned children through her work with the Thrive Foundation, but the ones who were orphaned by their parents carelessness always struck her as particularly devastating. They’d had parents who loved them. Parents who wanted them. And parents who condemned them to lives of loneliness due to their own incompetency.

“Ah, child. You have not yet felt the pull of your One. You will understand one day how impossible it would have been for him to walk away from his.”

“So the myth is true, then? Dwarves have Ones? The one person who makes them whole? Love of their life? Other half of their soul? All that nonsense?” He would have to forgive the slight sarcasm in her voice. Mia had never believed in soulmates.

“You will see.” He only answered. “That is not part of what I am here to discuss with you and our time grows short. Now, where was I?”

“Dogrlia was alone.”

“Right. Dogrlia was alone after the death of her mother. Alone and three months in to her pregnancy, she made the only decision that made any sense to her. Packing up her tools and most beloved possessions, she joined a caravan headed for Ered Luin, where her husbands family dwelt. She would appeal to his older brother to care for her and her child, as Dwarrow tradition dictated he should.”

She scoffed. “Husband not even cold in the ground and she headed off to marry his brother?”

“Not marry, child. She was his brother’s wife. By Dwarrow law, she was his sister and he had an obligation to care for her. But that doesn’t matter. Because Dogrlia never made it to Ered Luin.” She didn’t interrupt to ask what happened. Her last interruption had hardened his voice and sharpened his eyes. In that moment, she’d felt very very small.

A finger at her chin lifted her eyes to his, a gaze that was not broken as he finished his story. “Amelia, there are forces in this world that would seek to disrupt the Great Song as it is written. Forces that would seek to tear families asunder and shape great leaders to be hard, hard males. The caravan master had chosen the safest road, considering the fact that there was a pregnant dam in their midst. One who, by that point, was due to give birth at any time. But as the caravan passed through the Gap of Rohan, south of Isengard, the ground was weakened and an underground cave collapsed. Dogrlia was the only one who fell that day. Down into an underground river that carried her even deeper, until she washed out into a cathedral deep in the southern part of the Misty Mountains. Dogrlia never left that cavern, my dear. She lived just long enough to give birth to her bairn, Just long enough to give birth to you.”

And there it was. The declaration she’d been halfway expecting and halfway dreading since the beginning of their conversation. Staring into his eyes, Mia began to believe that maybe this wasn’t a figment of her imagination after all.

She wasn’t that creative.

She reached up and firmly removed his grip from her chin, before rising to her feet and walking away. She needed a moment. Just a moment.

She’d had a foster child with severe anxiety once, and she could almost imagine she was talking to little Carol again as she replayed the mantra in her head. Find five things you can feel. Just find five things. The sand was warm beneath her feet. The breeze cool on her face. The closer she got to the water, the firmer the ground got.

Deep breath in.

She could feel the air moving into her lungs, without the pain that she’d become accustomed to over the last decade.

Deep breath out.

She unclenched her fists, allowing the pain her nails had left in her palm to be the fifth sensation she focused on. Still facing the water, Mia addressed the Ainur. “You’re saying I’m a dwarf. And that this Dogrlia was my mother. And she gave birth to me in a cave in the Misty Mountains after some kind of evil force tried, and succeeded, in killing her.”

“Yes.” One word, spoken evenly and plainly. That was all he said.

“And what, that evil put me in a sleep for sixty-nine years?” She scoffed, still focusing on the waves in front of her. “Why not just kill me?”

“Amelia, whatever force it was that ripped the ground from beneath your mother’s feet did not touch you. You were left in that cave to die, just as your mother was.”

Her brow furrowed in confusion and she turned to face him again. “But then how…”

“Us.” He interrupted, rising to his feet and coming to stand in front of her. She had been right earlier. He had a good three feet on her. At least. “We are limited in the kind of assistance that we can provide, Amelia. I could not march into that cave and save you. Nor could my wife. But the dissonance in the song could not be allowed to stand. You were meant to live, and so live you did. We placed you into that sleep. We gave you your dreams. We taught you the best way that we could, until our agents could find you.”

Here, he frowned and placed a hand on the back of her head, thumb running over her scalp in a soothing manner. Mia wanted to protest the treatment. She was an old lady, for Christ’s sake. But her heart felt like it was going off the rails, and his fingers moving through her hair felt so damn soothing.

“I am sorry, gaihith, that we could not give you the one gift you craved so deeply. But your body was still your body, whether you were asleep or not. They were one and the same. Your body in your dreams could not go through a pregnancy that your true body was not also a party to.” He let out a slow, sorrowful breath. “As I said, we were limited.”

Amelia ignored the tears gathering in her eyes as she looked up at him. “You’re saying my fertility issues will be solved now, when I go back to my body?” She paused, suddenly unsure. “I am going back to my body, right? That’s the whole point of this conversation?”

He chuckled, letting go of the back of her head and chucking her under the chin. “Yes, Amelia. Nienna’s agent, Olorin, has found you at last. After years of searching, your body has been recovered from it’s prison and you will be able to return.” He settled his hand on her cheek and smiled down at her, eyes having once again regained their mischievous spark. “You’ll be glad to know that Dwarrow live quite long lives. At sixty-nine, you are still a young adult. Not even of age yet for another seven months, I believe. You’ll have a long life ahead of you.”

He bent down and laid a kiss upon her brow, before turning to walk away.

Reaching out, she dared to grab his arm before he left, stopping him.

She had one more question for him, after all.

At his quirked eyebrow, she started “My father….”

“Ah.” He nodded. “We never cleared that one up did we?”

“No.” She agreed. “You didn’t.”

He chuckled.

“My dear Amelia, his name was Frerin.”

Chapter Text

“If you insist on smoking all of my pipe-weed in one setting, you could at least do me the courtesy of sharing.”

Mia rolled her eyes, and reluctantly handed the pipe over from her place by the fire.  She’d been traveling with Gandalf for a week now, if you could call it traveling.  They’d barely made it three miles today.  Her body had been kept in perfect health by the Valar’s grace, but being healthy and being strong were two different things.  Her first steps after waking up had been reminiscent of a newborn foal.  She was shaky.  She was weak.  She fell over thrice.  In the first half-hour.  

Not her proudest moment.  

She pulled her cloak in tighter around her shoulders to ward off the chill in the night air, and eyed the wizard across the fire speculatively.  For someone who had supposedly spent decades on and off searching for her, he didn’t seem particularly informed about her unique situation. It had taken three days of being called “my dear” before she’d realized he didn’t even know her name. And his inquiries into her history had been few and far between. 

Admittedly, they hadn’t had the best first meeting. 

When she’d opened her eyes for the first time, she’d screeched at the blinding light, arms flailing up in an effort to block it out.  Arms that weren’t any more coordinated than her legs had been.  Yes, she’d knocked his hat off of his head with one arm, and smacked him in the nose with the other.  Amelia hardly thought that justified his harsh covering of her mouth and command to cease her “mindless shrieking.”  At the time anyway.  In hindsight, they had still been in goblin territory.  Perhaps being quiet was prudent.  

He’d explained later that her eyes were so sensitive because they’d never actually been used before.  She’d been asleep since birth, trapped in that dark cave.  It was common sense that her eyes would not be accustomed to light.  That her arms and legs would be weak.  That she couldn’t walk a hundred feet before needing to sit down and catch her breath.  

She’d been less shocked by all of that than she had been by the deep sideburns now apparent on the sides of her face, trailing down into a fine set of whiskers on her cheeks and chin.  It wouldn’t be obvious from a distance, the facial hair was the color of spun gold, only a shade or two lighter than her waist length curls (and weren’t those a mess right now).  She’d let it be.  In the Before, she’d plucked a few unruly neck and chin hairs.  Now, though, she wasn’t quite sure if it would be termed sacrilegious of her to remove her facial hair.  Wasn’t it a mark of shame?  

A week in, things were improving.  It still took her almost an hour to walk a quarter mile, and her eyes still stung when the sun was at it’s highest, but every day was better than the last.  And she’d managed to find a stream to bathe in, and make a failed attempt at untangling her locks.  

“Amelia.”

And Gandalf knew her name now.  

Mia lifted her eyes up to meet his.  She wasn’t sure how long she’d been staring at him, but it had apparently been long enough for him to notice and become bemused at her gaze.  

“Sorry, Gandalf.  Got lost in thought.” She reached to take the pipe he offered.  “I’m going to have to get my own pipe as soon as we reach, well, anywhere.  This whole sharing thing isn’t gonna work for much longer.”

He huffed. 

“As much as you smoke, we won’t need to worry about that.  My pipe-weed pouch will be empty in another week.  If I’d known of your habits, I would have packed another two full pouches in the pack I prepared for you.”  That drew a laugh out of her as she wiped the stem with her cloak and put it to her mouth.  “We haven’t spoken about what your plans are, my dear.”

“My plans?”

He raised an eyebrow.  “Where are you planning on going?  Living?  Do you have family I can return you to?”

Lowering her gaze, Amelia pretended to be preoccupied with the pipe in her hand.  She took a deep pull and bought herself some time with a smoke ring or two, quirking a smile when the ring reformed itself into a butterfly with a twitch of Gandalf’s nose.  She’d seen him do it more than once at this point, and had begun wondering which of the Valar was responsible for the Bewitched TV series, and whether or not Samantha’s nose twitch had been inspired by the Maiar before her.  

“I haven’t given it much thought..” That was a lie.  After her talk with Mahal, it hadn’t taken her long to realize that she would be alone in this life.  The Valar themselves had shown her the quest for Erebor while she slept.  Her uncle was dead.  Her cousins were dead.  Would Dis welcome her just showing up and proclaiming herself family?  This dwarrowdam who had lost everything?

 “The Iron Hills, maybe?  I mean, I probably need to find some other Dwarrow.  I know the general attitude of the other races towards us tends to be pretty negative, right?  So it would make sense to head toward a Dwarven settlement. So the Iron Hills?  Or Ered Luin?  I’ve got an Aunt that I’ve never met before in Erebor, I think, but I’m not sure about how she’d react to me showing up.”

He nodded with furrowed brows.  “The Iron Hills or Ered Luin are valid choices.  However, I’m not sure if you’d want to go anywhere near Erebor at this point in time, considering the fact that it’s currently occupied by a dragon.”

Amelia froze. 

“Smaug?”

“Ah, you know of him?”

“Y-Yes.” She stuttered.  “I was aware of the dragon, but I thought….the stories the Valar told me said…”

He interrupted with a hum.  He’d made a habit of doing that anytime she’d mentioned any stories she’d been told about Middle Earth.  

“The Valar told you exactly what you needed to hear, my dear.” He gave her a pointed look.  “Whatever information they provided you with was for your ears, and yours only.”

“Right.” Her reply was faint.  “Gandalf?”

“Hmm?”

“What’s today’s date?”  It was the first time she’d asked.  Up until this point, she’d assumed everything she’d been shown was in the past.  She’d been focused on herself all week, building up her strength, but what if……

He stared at her for a long moment, giving a pointed gaze at the pipe that was going out in her hand.  She lifted it to her lips as he replied “It’s September the third.”

Amelia blew the smoke out of her nose, grounding herself in the sting of it as she asked “The year?”

“2939.”

Gandalf had to round the fire and pound on her back to help her through the coughing fit caused by her shocked inhale.  He was quick to take the pipe back from her after the coughing had stopped.  

“I think you’ve had enough of this for now.” He said, as he wiped the stem with his beard and returned to his bedroll across the fire.  Leaning over, Mia grabbed her waterskin from her pack and took a swig, wishing desperately for something stronger, and wiped her chin.  God, it was September of 2939.  Seven months before the company was due to arrive on Bilbo’s doorstep.  The quest hadn’t happened yet. 

Thorin.  Fili.  Kili.  

Her family was still alive. 

And she knew what was going to happen.  They’d told her.  The Valar had told her what was going to happen.  It wasn’t just about familiarizing herself with Middle Earth.  It was the future.  It was a warning.  Mia hadn’t even realized she was crying until a handkerchief was offered to her by her companion.  Taking it, she met his gaze.  

“Take me to the Shire.”

———————————————

It took them almost three months to reach Bree.  

Mia pushed herself, increasing her speed and endurance daily.  She’d also begun a strength training regimen.  One of her sons, Demitri, had been obsessed with wrestling as a teenager.  For two straight years, he’d been sure that pro wrestling was his life’s calling.  She’d indulged him, buying every exercise machine and weight bench he’d wanted.  Reading every book she could get her hands on about the mechanics of bodybuilding.  Spending hours with him at the kitchen table, writing up schedules and menus with him to ensure he was going about things in a healthy way.  That knowledge was now being put to use for herself. 

She was broader in the hips and shoulders in this body, with shorter arms and wider feet.  The very design of her frame screamed sturdiness.  It was meant to be packed with muscle.  She was going to fix that.  

Gandalf seemed both intrigued and concerned at her new determination to get in shape, and advised caution in her weakened state.  His eyes, however, had gained a glimmer of anticipation after their talk of Erebor and her subsequent demand to head to the Shire, and he did not attempt to stop her.  At times,  her antics even seemed to amuse him.  

In the wilderness, improvisation was key.  She had no machines to help her, but she had rocks, and trees, and most importantly, her own body weight.  She’d gotten Gandalf to admit, during that first week, that Dwarrow bones were denser than the other races.  Stronger.  Harder to break.  

Heavier.  

She used that to her advantage.  

And with every squat, every pull-up, every push-up, she thought of the opportunity she’d been given.  With every lunge, every sprint, every interval count, she hardened herself with the knowledge that she would only have one chance.  She had to be strong enough to survive the quest.  She had to be strong enough to accomplish what she needed to.  

She didn’t know Thorin.  Had never met him.  Or Fili.  Or Kili.  

But she wanted to.  Oh, how she wanted to.  Mia had always loved the Hobbit.  It had been her favorite story since childhood.  The loss of the boys had never failed to make her tear up.  The injustice of it.  The thought that their mother would have to live the rest of her life with the knowledge that her luxury and comfort was bought with the blood of her brother and sons.  

And now they weren’t just words on paper.  They were real.  They were her family.  

She’d been given this new life.  But without them, she would be alone. 

Amelia didn’t want to be alone. 

She comforted herself with the fact that she wasn’t in that story.  That was what had happened without her.  She would be there this time.  And she would do what she needed to fix things. 

“You’re pushing yourself too hard, Amelia.” 

If only Gandalf would shut his trap. 

It wasn’t the first time he’d confronted her on how strenuous her training regimen was.  Normally, she just waved him off.  But sitting in the Prancing Pony, still covered in sweat from her morning run around Bree, she wanted nothing more than to strangle the old codger with his own beard.  Today was a test day.  She’d been up before dawn, determined to see if she could push herself to finish a 10k in the hour she used to be able to.  

She couldn’t.  

She’d finished the run, but it had taken her closer to two hours  She’d failed, and now he was rubbing it in her face over breakfast.  

“I’m fine, Gandalf.”  She wasn’t.  But he couldn’t see the compression bandage she’d fashioned around her shin, and there was no reason to point it out to him.  She knew she needed a break.  She’d pushed herself too hard, too fast, and now her legs were paying the price.  She’d have to lay off running for a while.  The last time she’d had shin splints, it had taken her a good two months to heal from them.  Of course, that was in the Before.  She was hopeful dwarves healed faster than humans.  

“I’m sure you are, my dear.  I would, once again, advise caution.”  He huffed as finished his meal and pushed the plate away.  “However, as you’ve ignored all of my warnings so far, I think I’ll save my breath.”

She snorted around her bacon and eggs, casting her eyes around the room.  They been fortunate in their travels so far, but they’d kept mostly to the wilderness.  Bree was the first actual town they’d stopped in.  Already, Mia had felt the stares.  The dislike.  

She’d been excited to enter the iconic Prancing Pony for the first time.  Excitement that had quickly ebbed when the innkeeper had attempted to charge her twice what Gandalf had told her to expect.  She’d refused on principle, ready to sleep on the ground for another night, and walked away.  When she’d met up with Gandalf again and relayed what happened, he’d sent her on her way to the market to peruse while he returned to the Pony to secure a room.  

Even now, she could feel eyes on her.  A hobbit at the bar.  A couple of unsavory men in the corner of the room. The barmaid that was currently walking over to refill their ale.  She’d never felt so scrutinized in her life, and that was saying something.  If she’d thought the DHS interviews and home studies were thorough, they had nothing on the constant dissection she’d been under since they’d stepped foot in town.  To them, she was a criminal, a lowlife, simply by virtue of her race. 

“Why haven’t I seen any dwarrow in town, Gandalf?” She questioned quietly, gaze sill scanning the room.  “I didn’t expect any to live here, but isn’t Bree supposed to be a major crossroads?  Surely there should be travelers.”

“There are, dear.  However, most passing caravans tend to camp outside the walls and only enter to do business.  I’m sure you can understand why.” There was pity in his eyes.  She rolled hers in turn, and dodged the hand he attempted to place on hers in sympathy.  She thought she’d broken him of that months ago. 

“Can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” She muttered to herself as she grabbed her ale and leaned back in her chair.  

“What was that, my dear?”

“Nothing.” She replied, hiding a small smile behind her glass.  She swore his sigh of irritation made even her aching shins feel better.  “So they’re just staying away?”

“It is wintertime, child.  I thought for sure you would have noticed the time passing.  If not that, then surely the considerable amount of snow that we’ve trudged through these last few weeks would have been a solid clue.” He looked down his nose at her.  “Which brings me to my next point.  This winter is proving to be mild, but to travel the last leg of our journey now would be inadvisable.  I’ve made arrangements with the inkeep to extend our stay.”

“Inadvisable?” She growled with a raised brow.  “You said you’d take me where I wanted to go.  I need to get to the Shire.”  She kept her voice low, despite her desire to yell at him.  There was no need to broadcast their conversation to the whole inn.   

“And why is that?  Hmm?  You have not yet given me a reason as to why you are so determined to bed down in Hobbiton.”  He was fishing.  Very well.  She’d throw out a line. 

Amelia leaned forward over the table and queried, “Was this the table you sat at with Thorin when you met earlier this year?”

He didn’t look surprised.  She hadn’t expected him to be.  Instead, he nodded to himself and accepted the information she had just divulged.  “So you are aware of the quest.” He eyed her intently.  “And you know that the Company will gather in Hobbiton.  Though surely not exactly when and where?”

She nodded in answer to both, even though only the last was a question.  

“I want to get there early, Gandalf.  I need to go on this…” she paused to take a drink and glance around to make sure wandering ears hadn’t gathered within hearing range. “this journey.  I’ve thought it over.  I’ve lived a full life.  But, here in Middle Earth, I’m not of age yet.  I won’t be of age until mid March.  If I go to Ered Luin, they won’t allow me to leave, and you know it.”

His face was impossible to read, but he had not disagreed with her yet, so she continued. 

“You plan to foist that lot on his doorstep with nary a ‘By your leave.’  Amusing it may be to you, but things will go a lot smoother if he’s not alone in all of this.  If he has a friend by his side to support him.  Someone who can ‘bridge the gap’, so to speak. 

“And if that friendship helps you gain a foothold in the company?  My dear, you are planning on using the Hobbit.” Too late, she remembered the codger’s affection for the race.  What was it with him and hobbits, anyway?

“I’m not just using him to help myself, Gandalf.  I do truly want to aid him.  I want to be his friend.  He’s going to need one.  When….”  He was humming again.  Apparently she was treading too far into things that were ‘for her ears only.’ 

“You have got to find a different way to tell me to stop talking. That one is getting exceedingly annoying.” She was not going to roll her eyes again.  She wasn’t.  

“My dear, if my hair weren’t already grey, traveling the past few months with you would’ve done it.”  His eyes twinkled at her as he downed the last of his ale and rose from his seat.  “You wouldn’t part an old man from one of the small things that brings him joy, would you?” He winked at her hanging jaw.  

“Have it your way.” He said, leaning down to place a hand on her shoulder, careful to keep it from touching the large dutch braid she’d managed to get her hair into the night before.  “We leave in the morning.  I will get you to Hobbiton, and set you up with lodgings before I leave.” He sighed as his back straightened again, and he turned to head to his room.  

She could’ve sworn she heard him mutter “Valar save me from the stubbornness of dwarves.” as he walked away, but she could have been mistaken. 

Just to be sure, she grabbed the barmaid’s arm as she came to clear the table and told her “We’ll be leaving tomorrow.  Whatever arrangement he made to extend our stay needs to be cancelled.”

She wasn’t surprised when the woman yanked her arm away.  But the barmaid’s reply made her want to curse. “No arrangements were made, sir.  I’ve already got the cleaning girl ready to air your room at noon on the morrow.” 

That old, grey lying sack of…..

Chapter Text

To her chagrin, Mia had not done as well of a job at hiding her shin splints as she’d thought she had. 

When they departed Bree the next morning, it was on horseback, much to her displeasure.  In the Before, Mia had been unbearably short.  Her drivers license had said she was four foot, eight inches tall.  But, in truth, she’d worn heels that day and it was really closer to four foot, six inches.  As such, she’d never had any interest in riding the tall beasts.  The pony at the pumpkin patch when she was a child was bad enough, and she had flat out refused to go anywhere near the camel rides at the zoo.  The thought of riding a horse had never even been entertained.  

She hadn’t had the heart to measure herself yet, but she suspected that this body was even shorter. 

So when Gandalf led her to the stables after breakfast and bid her mount the beast behind him, she had planted her feet, thanked him for his help, and informed him she would find her own way to Hobbiton.  

The wizard, true to form, had raised a brow with a telling glance to her shins, and told her succinctly not to be a fool.  He’d then proceeded to reach down and grab her by her cloak and lift her up behind him on the horse.  

Even now, twelve hours later, she was still reeling at being tossed around like a child.  How the hell was he so strong?

She hadn’t spoken a word to him all day in reprimand, and had taken great pleasure in the way he’d winced and moved gingerly as they’d set up camp that night.  She’d be surprised if she hadn’t at least bruised his ribs with her death grip.

Across the fire from her, her companion sighed.

“Are you quite finished with the silent treatment, my dear?”

A baleful glare was his only reply.  

“You did not come to any danger, and your lower legs were given the chance to rest all…”

“My ass hurts.” She interrupted.  She was being petulant.  She knew she was being petulant.  In fact, she was currently doing her best to channel her youngest daughter, Anna, who could whine and pout her way into and out of anything she wanted. 

Anna was better at it than she was.  As evidenced by the mirthful snort the wizard had let loose at her complaint.  

He chuckled as he reached into his bag at his side and pulled out a simple but beautifully carved, long-stem pipe and a leather-bound pouch, no, two pouches, and handed them to her with a quiet “My apologies, my dear.”

Oh dear, merciful God in heaven.  

He’d bought her a pipe.  And pipe weed. 

“You’re forgiven.” 

She was too busy packing her pipe to see his shoulders shake.  

Lit pipe in hand, Mia leaned back against her pack and considered her companion.  She needed information, and she needed to get it without going into too much detail about what she knew.  The last thing she needed was for him to start humming again.  

“How familiar are you with the more recent additions to the Line of Durin?”

The question had been on Mia’s mind for some time.  Mahal had not disagreed when she’d mentioned Thorin fighting Azog at the Battle of Azanulbizar, but she hadn’t specifically said “Thorin cut off Azog’s hand” and she wasn’t sure if he had fought Azog at any time in the books.  She remembered Azog had been killed by Dain, but not much else.  

Fili and Kili, though.

In the book, both Fili and Kili were portrayed as “yellow-beards”, while Kili had been brunette in the movies. 

“To which of the Line of Durin are you referring?”

“Thorin’s immediate family.” She took a drag of her pipe as she watched Gandalf’s eyes turn inquisitive across the fire.  “More specifically, his sister-sons.  Have you ever seen them?”

“I have.” He confirmed, eyes narrowed in thought.  “In passing only, and it was some time ago.  I’m afraid if you’re looking for information on the lads, I don’t have much to give you.”

“I don’t need information.” She shook her head, and readjusted her legs, pulling her left one up so she could rub her calf with one hand, the other still nursing her pipe.  “I just need to know the color of their hair.”  

She’d surprised him.  

“Their hair?” 

“Yep.  Are they blonde, like me?  Or is it dark like Thorin’s?  And while we’re on the subject, do you know what color hair Frerin had?  Is blonde hair common among the Dwarrow?” She was rambling, but she couldn’t help it.  She’d traveled with Gandalf for three and a half months, but she’d never admitted to him who her father was.  Her name, yes.  Her situation?  He already knew that.  After all, he’d been trying to find her body off and on for almost seventy years.  

He knew that she’d been in contact with the Valar, and that she’d been imparted some knowledge from them.  Though he wasn’t quite sure what.  

She’d never been comfortable broaching the topic of her paternity.  

“Blonde hair is not uncommon among the dwarves,” he mused, “though I wouldn’t call it particularly common either.  As to your other questions, only one of the young princes has golden hair, as did his Uncle.  The younger of the two has dark brown hair.”

Damn.  Movies.  

“If you’re concerned about them discovering your connection to the family, my dear, I’d be less concerned about your hair and more concerned about those Durin blue eyes of yours.”

…Maybe he had known after all.  

He rummaged in his bag for a moment before pulling out a small pouch.  Mia hurried to empty the ashes from her pipe and set it aside so she could take it when he offered.  It was nondescript, brown leather with a drawstring holding it closed, but the graveness in his face was warning enough that this wasn’t just some trinket.  And as she opened the pouch and poured the contents out into her hand, she couldn’t help but agree.  

They were beads.  

There were four of them.  Two gold ones.  One was yellow gold, thick and about two inches long, with geometric patterns and runes that she couldn’t read engraved in a spiral pattern going down the length.  The other was rose gold.  It was shorter, and not as heavy in her hand.  It held only one rune, displayed thrice.  And the top and bottom of the bead were decorated with small sapphires.  Fourteen in total, seven each in both locations. 

The silver bead was thin and stately, about an inch long and sparse in decoration, save for a short pattern around the top and bottom.  It was square, not rounded like the others.  The middle portrayed a crossed mallet and chisel on one side, and another set of runes on the other three. 

The last one, though, took her breath away.  It wasn’t a solid construct like the others, but appeared to be made of very thinly drawn wire, wrapping around and weaving through itself to form the design.  Two crossed axes and a crown, surrounded by seven stars, with sapphires of the purest blue shining out from each of them.  This was the Durin crest.  Set in….Good God. 

“Gandalf, is this…?”

“Mithril, yes.  And the rune on the far side of the bead denotes your father’s name.” He murmured.  She looked up to catch his gaze, but it was on the surrounding foliage, lost in thought.  “You come of age in March, you said.  That would put your conception just before the Battle of Moria. A tragic loss.” He sighed.  “I retrieved the beads from your mother’s remains before I laid her to rest.  It is time they were returned to you.”

Her mother.  Dogrlia, who she’d spared nary a thought for since waking up.  It was hard to form an attachment to someone she’d never met, someone who she never would meet.  Up until this point, the dwarrodam had been little more than an abstract concept in the back of her mind.  She wasn’t sure yet how having her beads would change that, but Mia was grateful to Gandalf for the kindness none the less. 

“Thank you.” She watched as he cleared his pipe and turned to store it in his bag, a question itching in the back of her mind.  

“You may ask.” 

She snorted.  “I know damn well I may.  Gandalf, if you knew who he was all along, why did you bother asking me where I wanted to go?  If I had family I wanted to return to?  You knew I was underage.  You could have easily hauled me off to Thorin and Dis.”

He shook his head.  “It was not my place.” He replied and raised an eyebrow at her snort, turning his head to meet her gaze with a stern one of his own. “Meddler I may be, but some things you must figure out for yourself.”

His voice turned contemplative. 

“If you are planning to hide your identity from your uncle, it is not my place to tell you no.  But I can tell you it won’t last long.  There isn’t a dwarf alive who wouldn’t recognize the color of your eyes.  They’ll know you as family the moment they see you, though they may not make the connection to your father right away.”

“And there’s no way to hide that?” She questioned.  “You don’t have any wizardy way to glamour my eyes?  Make them appear some other color?”  

“Wizardy way?  My dear, what kind of wizard do you think I am?”

She rolled her mother’s beads in her hand absently, choosing not to answer.  Where was Professor Flitwick when you needed him? 

Mia let out a slow breath and examined the precious metals she now held.  They would know her on sight.  She couldn’t pretend to be someone else, and she honestly didn’t want to.  But when they demanded to know why she hadn’t come to them?  Why her mother had kept her away?  What was she going to say?

They packed up and left at dawn the next morn, and were almost to the Brandywine Bridge when she came to the conclusion she’d been dreading.  Forehead pressed into the grey cloth at Gandalf’s back, she questioned him.  “What would they say if I told them about what happened to me?  That I was asleep in a cave for seventy years. That the Valar themselves interceded to keep me alive until you could find me.”

She didn’t need to see his face.  She’d felt his shoulders drop. 

“Amelia, you must understand that it is an incredible story.” He started.  And then stopped. 

“They wouldn’t believe me would they?  They would think I was lying.”

His hand came up to consolingly pat hers where it rested on his ribs.  For once, she didn’t shake it off.  “I truly do not know, my dear.  As a race, dwarves tend to be insular and suspicious.  The shock of finding a new family member that they did not know existed, coupled with such an outstanding story, may be too much to ask of them.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and nodded once against his back.  “Then I won’t ask it of them.”

“Amelia - “

“No Gandalf.” She made her voice firm, and if he noticed a slight wobble in it, he said nothing. “The quest is more important.  There will be plenty of time later for confessions and explanations.  For now, if they ask, I’ll tell them I don’t remember.  An amnesiac is better than a mad fool.”

“You will claim you know nothing of your history?”

“I woke up in the woods.  You found me.  You brought me to the nearest settlement, which just happened to be the Shire.  That is the extent of our history.  That is the extent of my knowledge.  Capiche?”

“My dear, I have no idea what that means.”

“Do you understand, Gandalf?”

The horse stopped, and Mia barely kept from shrieking as her companion half turned in the saddle, throwing her completely off balance, to look at her with concerned eyes and a furrowed brow.  

“Are you sure you want to lie to them, Amelia?” 

She looked away.  The Brandywine was just visible in the distance, and for a moment she visualized the water rushing over her, wiping away the fear and guilt and pain, leaving her clean and clear headed again.  “It’s not about what I want, Gandalf.  It’s about getting through this safely.  It’s about everyone getting through this safely.  I don’t know how hard I’m going to have to fight to join the Company.  But I do know that they’re not going to let me join if they think I’m insane.”

He stared at her for a long moment, waiting for her to meet his eyes again. 

She didn’t.  

She kept her eyes on the river until he nodded and turned forward again. 

“As you wish.” Was all he said as they began moving again.

———————————————————————————

Amelia hadn’t really questioned the lodgings that Gandalf had said he would provide for her.  In hindsight, that might not have been the best idea.  

Of all the possibilities, she certainly hadn’t expected them to come to a stop in front of one of the Great Smials in Tuckborough.  Climbing off of the horse, who she’d secretly named Dinner, Mia attempted to hide her limp as they approached the door.  At least her shins were feeling better.  Either it hadn’t been as bad as she’d thought, or dwarves really did heal faster than humans.  

Or the saddle soreness just hurt more and was drowning it out. 

Stopping abruptly and turning to face her, Gandalf gave her a look over.  “Stop standing so stiffly.  It makes you look older than you are.  We are about to ask for help from a race that is almost as suspicious of outsiders as your own.” He paused and tilted his head to side to side for a moment in thought.  “However, Hobbits are just as well known for their hospitality.  You are a young female, not yet of age, who was just found wandering the wilderness with no memory of who you are.” He narrowed his eyes and looked down his nose at her.  “Act like it.”

Got it.  Be pathetic.  He could have just said ‘Be Pathetic’.

The door opened before they’d even made it halfway to the stoop. 

“Gandalf!” A wizened, but happy, voice exclaimed. 

“Donnamira, my dear.” He bent down to accept a hug from the tiny figure that had emerged from the house.  Donnamira was one of Bilbo’s aunts, if Mia recalled correctly.  His mother’s younger sister.  She stood about a foot shorter than Mia, but wore an elaborate dress that was almost as wide as she was tall.  Maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration, but it was poofy as hell.  Her hair was pure silver, but her back was straight and proud despite her obvious age. 

She pulled back from their hug and reached forward to pinch Gandalf’s cheek, as though he were a child.  “Ages since we’ve last seen you.  Gracious!  I was beginning to worry that I would pass into the Gardens before you showed your lovely face in these parts again!”  

Mia liked her.  Anyone who could make Gandalf blush like that was a gem in her book.  

“Ah, yes.” He reached up and patted Donnamira’s hand gently, disengaging it from his cheek as he stood.  “I’m afraid I’m here on business.”

“You always are, dear.” That was about the time Donnamira caught sight of Mia standing a few feet back and squeaked in surprise.  Mia was sure she’d actually seen the hobbit’s feet leave the ground for a moment, so great was the shock.  But the lady was a pro, and regained her composure quickly, approaching Mia with a hand outstretched in greeting. 

“Forgive me, good sir.  I did not see you hiding there behind this lumbering oaf.”  

Gandalf interceded with a cough before things could go any further. 

“Donnamira Boffin, nee-Took, allow me to introduce my recent traveling companion, the lady Amelia.” The stress on the word lady was entirely overdone in Mia’s opinion.  She'd seen herself in the mirror when they were in Bree.  It was an honest mistake to make. 

Donnamira, however, did not seem to share her views on it, and blushed quite furiously.  The hand she’d held out in greeting went to her warm cheek in embarrassment and Mia had no choice but to step in.  

“It’s alright.” She said.  “Really.  It’s a common mistake to make, I’m sure.” She leaned in conspiratorially.  “It’s the beard.”

Donnamira laughed, clearly appreciating the attempted levity, and invited them both in for tea.  The inside of the smial was warm, a fact that Mia appreciated after having spent the last few days traveling in the cold, December air.  They were directed to hang their cloaks on the pegs by the door and were then shown to one of the parlors (Mia suspected there were many) and settled in soft, cushioned chairs that were upholstered in bright, heavily floral, brocade around a beautifully carved mahogany tea table.  The wealth of the family was evident in the furnishings of the room.  The rugs and tapestries.  The marble fireplace.  The weapons hung above the mantle.  Mia did a double take.  Weapons?  In a Hobbit smial?

Tooks. 

She shook her head and focused on the ongoing conversation in front of her.  

“-and so I brought her here.” Gandalf was saying.  “I was hoping one of my dear friends in the Shire would consent to looking after the young lady for a few months.  Just until I can locate her family, of course.”

It was difficult to gauge Donnamira’s expression.  She could have been troubled at whatever sad story Gandalf had woven about Mia’s presence.  Or she could have been upset at the thought of needing to house a dwarf for any extended period of time.  

Mia suspected it was a little of both. 

“I would love to help, Gandalf.  You know this.  After all, that’s why you’re here.” She paused here and sent a long, worried look Mia’s way.  Knowing their hostess was in the process of deciding what to do with her, Mia tried to follow Gandalf’s advice. 

Look Pathetic. 

She wrapped her hands around each other in her lap and twiddled her thumbs, letting her eyes jump nervously around the room before settling her gaze on the table in front of her. 

She was rewarded with a pitying sigh.  

“Donnamira?” Gandalf prompted. “If she can’t be kept as a guest, then perhaps we could find work for her as a housekeeper somewhere?”

“The only Took homes requiring keepers right now all have faunts.” She shook her head and bit her lip. “No matter the race or age, Gandalf, no Hobbit parent in their right mind would allow a stranger to move into their home with their faunts.”

Fair enough.  Mia certainly never invited strangers around her children.  She could respect that.

“Perhaps a Took-connected family then.” He mused, before his face brightened considerably.  He truly looked as though he’d just had a grand epiphany.  God, one day she hoped she could act as well as Gandalf could.  “Donna, don’t you have a nephew living down in Bag End?  A home that size could surely be in want of a housekeep!”

A slow smile spread across their hostess' face.  

Gandalf was a damned genius. 

Chapter Text

When Donnamira breezed into her room the next morning, it was with a pep in her step and a song in her voice. 

“Rise and shine, dearie!  Time to get the day on….Oh!”  

Mia looked up from her morning workout to examine the dumbfounded look on the hobbit’s face.  She stared at Donnamira.  Donnamira stared at her.  Mia’s lips twitched.  Donnamira rolled her eyes, shook herself, and moved to the bed to start pulling the linens.  

“You’d best finish up, girlie.  I’ve got a hot bath waiting for you in the bathroom two doors down.  We’ll get you cleaned up and dressed, and then we’ll be heading to my nephew’s smial to sit down and talk things over.”  She threw the dirtied blankets and sheets into the corner of the room, presumably for someone to pick up later for washing and then stood facing Mia, hands on her hips and foot tapping.  

Was she going to stand there and watch Mia until she was finished?

With a sigh and a chuckle, Mia decided to call it quits.  She’d almost been done anyway.  Wiping the sweat from her brow, she stood and followed the matron out of the room and down the hall.  

“Is Gandalf up yet?” She asked.  She wanted to talk to him before she headed for Bilbo’s house.  

“Oh, he left last night.” Donnamira answered, waving a hand behind her in dismissal. “You know how those wizards can be.  They come and go as they please.  Well, I assume anyway.  Gandalf is the only one I’ve ever met.”  She opened the door to the bathroom and turned to see Mia frozen halfway to her destination. 

Gandalf was gone.  

The old fart hadn’t even said goodbye.  

Well, then.  

“Are you coming, dearie?”

Right.  Mia nodded and followed the hobbit into the bathroom.  

The bath was absolutely glorious.  

It was piping hot, and chock full of bath salts.  At least, that’s what Mia assumed Donnamira kept pouring into it as she stripped and stepped gingerly into the water.  She accepted the bar of soap and cloth she was handed gratefully and busied herself with washing up while Donnamira opened a cabinet on the other side of the room and pulled a couple bottles out.  

It was only when the hobbit moved to the head of the tub and reached for Mia’s braid that she realized what Donnamira’s intentions were.  

“Nope!” She slipped down and dunked her head under the water to keep her hair out of the hobbit’s hands.  She honestly wasn’t sure if it was ok for others to touch it or not.  But she distinctly remembered reading that dwarves did not shave, and would likely die of shame if they were ever shaven.  She’d taken that to mean hair was sacred, though she didn’t know if it extended to the hair on the top of her head as well as her beard, or if it really had any validity at all.  Either way, she was erring on the side of caution until she was told otherwise.  

When she popped back up above the water, it was to a very bemused Donnamira, still holding onto the shampoo, and once again tapping her foot in irritation.  

“Please don’t touch my hair.” Was all Mia said once she’d wiped the water from her eyes and nose.  “It’s a dwarf thing.”  

At that, the hobbits expression softened and she handed the bottle to Mia, followed by the other one that she’d set on the side of the tub.  “Use this one first.  Then that one.  Leave that one in for a few minutes before washing it out.  There’s a robe hanging on the door for you.  It should fit.  When you’re done, come back to the room.  I’ve had some fresh clothing fetched for you.”  She was gone before Mia’s “Thank you” had even left her mouth. 

The shampoo and conditioner were heavily scented, as the soap had been.  Some kind of flower, though Mia would never be able to hazard a guess as to which one. She wasn’t entirely sure she liked it.  But beggars can’t be choosers, and being clean again was definitely worth it. Her hair hadn’t been washed or combed since her first night in Bree, and even then she’d lacked shampoo so a rinse had been all she was able to do.  

So she took her time.  After unwinding her braid, she sectioned her hair out and worked the shampoo into every piece, following it with a second wash and an application of the conditioner.  The water was an ugly brown color by the time she stepped out of the tub, but for the first time since waking up in Middle Earth, she was clean.  

She tossed the robe around herself and made her way down the hall to her room, opening the door to find Donnamira standing by the window, craning her neck to see something through the curtains. 

“Anything interesting?” She inquired.  

“Oh.  That grandson of mine is making a right mess of himself.” The matron sounded absolutely thrilled at the idea.  She turned as Mia shut the door behind her.  “I think I’ll let him be.  It’s good to remind his father every now and then that they are descended from Tooks.” She winked.  “Now, let’s get you ready to go.”

—————————————————————————

Bilbo Baggins was not what Mia had expected at all.  

Which was understandable.  Her only exposure to him thus far had been through stories that either had him beset on all sides by dwarves and creatures who wanted to kill him, or portrayed him as a crazy geriatric.  The young Bilbo who invited them into his home that day was the picture of poise.  

“Come in.  Come in.” Even his voice was surprising.  Full of confidence, with a touch of amusement thrown in as his aunt attempted to pinch his cheeks and chide him for being too thin.  He took it with grace that spoke of long familiarity, but was quick to shepherd them to the kitchen for afternoon tea the moment the opportunity presented itself.  

Mia kept her laughter to herself when he waited for his aunt to sit and then took a seat across the table from her, well out of her reach. 

They made small talk as the tea was poured and scones selected and buttered.  Mia had been surprised the night before when none of the Tooks present had questioned her presence at their table for dinner or supper.  Now she took it in stride.  It had apparently been quite rude of Gandalf to discuss business with Donnamira over tea when they’d arrived.  Food was meant to be enjoyed.  Not ruined with such ‘nonsense’.  So she sat and enjoyed the spread while Donna regaled her nephew with tales of her youngest grandson’s latest escapades, laughing when appropriate and missing her grand babies more than ever.  

When the last bite was eaten off of Bilbo’s plate, he turned to Mia with a compassionate grin.  

“So we are going to be housemates for a while, you and I?”

And Mia found herself suddenly flustered at his bluntness.  She had been prepared to watch Donna beat him into submission, as only family elders can.  Prepared to coax him out of his shell and hopefully into a friendship over the next few months.  She had not been prepared for him to look at her the way she herself had practiced in the mirror for weeks before her first foster child had arrived.  

Kindness. 

Neutral compassion.  

Dear God, he was treating her like an orphaned faunt.

“Don’t mind him, dear.  I sent a runner yesterday afternoon after our tea to inform him of your situation.”  Donnamira had taken her silence as confusion.  

“Of course.” She said when she managed to find her voice, meeting Bilbo’s eyes and returning his smile with her own practiced amiability.  “Forgive me, I didn’t realize you had already been consulted.  I would greatly appreciate your assistance, if it’s not too much to ask?”

He was already shaking his head. 

“I can’t imagine what you may be feeling at the moment, my dear.  You are more than welcome to stay here until the wandering wizard finds your family.”

And just like that, she was placed under the protection of the Baggins.  Details were quickly hashed out.  Bilbo would provide for her in exchange for her help with the chores.  She’d be given room and board, with a weekly stipend thrown in for spending money.  Before Mia knew it, she was waving at Donnamira from the door as the elderly hobbit climbed back into the wagon they’d arrived in and headed home.  

“Did he shoot off any of his fireworks?”  The excitement in Bilbo’s face matched his voice perfectly when she turned to face him, shutting the door gently behind her.  At her raised eyebrow, he clarified. “Gandalf.  He hasn’t been around these parts since I was a faunt, but I remember those whiz-poppers of his well.”  

She laughed and shook her head, shrugging at him as he waved at her to follow him down the long, winding hall.  “I guess he didn’t have any with him.”

“That’s a shame.” He said, voice wistful.  “They were always an amazing sight.  We should ask him about them when he comes back to retrieve you.  If nothing else, you absolutely must experience Gandalf’s fireworks at least once before you part ways with him.”

He stopped and opened a door on the right.  

“This will be your room while you’re here, Amelia.  Mine is three doors down on the same side.  Though it would not be proper for you to enter it, you are welcome to knock if you ever need anything.  We’ll get you into the tailor tomorrow for some clothing that fits better.”

Thank God.   

Donna had done the best she could, but Mia’s shoulders were a good bit broader than any hobbit, and the seams of the shirt were being put to the test.  She doubted she’d be confused for a male at the moment, with the way the tight fabric left her chest on display.   Donnamira had frowned at it when she’d first donned the shirt that morning, but had stated that it would have to do for the time being and wouldn’t be noticeable with her cloak on anyway.  She had refused vehemently when Mia had offered to put her traveling clothing back on her newly clean skin.

“Mia.” She corrected as she walked in. 

“Hmm?” 

She turned to offer him a smile.  “I like to be called Mia.”

He nodded his head.  

“Mia it is then.”

And he left her to get settled. 

The following days were filled with countless grumbles on her part, and patient exasperation on his as they each acclimated to each other’s presence.  Bilbo, who took his appointment as her guardian quite seriously, had indeed escorted her to the tailor after second breakfast the next morning.  Mia had walked out an hour later, scowl fixed and head held high, as her host offered countless apologies on her behalf to the frustrated hobbit within.  

“Would the dresses have been so bad?” His voice was breathless with laughter when he caught up with her.  

She only pursed her lips and widened her eyes in his direction in reply, prompting another round of giggles on his part.  In truth, she had no problem with skirts.  She’d worn them quite often in the Before.  But in just a few months, she would be back on the road.  Dresses were impractical for her needs.  

And the abominable floral pattern on the fabric the tailor had offered her was certainly not acceptable for someone her age to wear.  She hadn’t been able to hide the disgust that curled her lip.  It had, regrettably, set the stage for the rest of their encounter.  Luckily, by that time, he’d already had her measurements taken.  And a knock at the door the following morning heralded the delivery of several sets of trousers, shirts, and waistcoats.  

And a request that Bilbo provide advance warning any time he decided to bring her back.  He’d taken it in good humor, and laughed with her that evening by the fire as he’d described the delivery boy’s facial expression when he’d been forced to deliver the rude request.  She’d leaned back in her chair and cackled in return. 

Mia had quickly began looking forward to their evening tea time.  For obvious reasons, she couldn’t tell him about her history, but Bilbo filled the silence quite well.  Between his walking holidays and family drama, he had plenty of tales to tell.  And he was very good at telling them.  Mia was glad that the stories had gotten that right, at least.  

But Bilbo didn’t just talk.  He listened.  Mia never had to repeat herself with him.  She’d admitted a distaste for sugar once, and the desserts from that point on had turned savory instead of sweet.  She’d grumbled to herself over breakfast about the horrible flowery soap, and found an unscented replacement in her bathroom the next day.  She’d mentioned in passing how upset she was that there appeared to be no where in town for her to purchase knives or a bow to practice with in her free time.  Privately, she’d kicked herself over that one, lamenting that she hadn’t thought to pick something up in Bree.   

Both items had appeared by her bedroom door the next morning.  

When she questioned him about them, Bilbo had simply winked and reminded her that his mother was a Took.  

After her chores the next day, she’d gone outside to test the blades out for throwing.  Bilbo had a couple targets set up for conkers practice.  She’d been unsurprised when she found them.  The books had gone into some detail about his accuracy at throwing, and in the movie, Bilbo had quoted his skill at conkers when asked about weaponry.  Now, she repurposed the targets for her own needs, repeatedly growling loudly in frustration as her blades hit the ground in front of the targets.  

“You’re releasing too late.” 

Bilbo had come out to smoke at some point, and had settled on a nearby bench to watch her.  

She’d been hoping he would.  She could only miss the target on purpose so many times before she tired of the charade.  And she really did need to get some real practice in at some point. 

“What do you know about throwing a blade?” She questioned irritably as she marched to retrieve her latest failure. 

“Absolutely nothing.” He snorted in reply.  “But it can’t be too different from throwing stones.”  He set his pipe aside and approached, holding a hand out for one of her knives.  

“Why do you hold it by the blade when you throw?” He asked, testing the weight of it in his hand. 

“It’s a little heavier in the handle than it is in the blade.  With knives, you want to throw the heavy part first.” Her daughter, Mackenzie, had loved throwing knives and axes.  It was how they had dealt with the anger issues she’d had after being removed from her parent’s custody, and was a tradition they’d kept up until Mia’s death.  Anytime Kenzie needed to blow off steam, she would text Mia that she was headed to the range.  Mia would meet her there and they would throw sharp objects at targets until the stress had bled out of her baby’s shoulders and the smile was back on her face.  

“Hold it a little further down your thumb.” She pressed as he adjusted the blade in his hand to throw.  “It’s a double sided blade, so you don’t want it too close to the crease where your thumb meets your hand.  You’ll end up cutting yourself.” 

He eyed her speculatively but followed her instructions before turning to the target and raising his arm the way he’d seen her do, shifting his weight forward as he threw.  She wasn’t surprised at all when he hit his mark, though the handle struck the wood and not the blade. 

“I can’t believe you hit it!” She squealed, grabbing his arm and bouncing on her toes in excitement.  He chuckled in response before heading off to retrieve the blade.  

“The handle hit it.” He said. 

“That’s just because it needed more rotation.” She turned to him with a smile and the saddest eyes she could muster.  Remembering her success with Donnamira, she wrung her hands in front of her and let her gaze jump around before meeting his eyes.

“Keep practicing with me?” 

“Mia?” His head canted to the side in concern.  

She shrugged.

“It makes me feel like I’m home.”  It wasn’t a lie, she told herself as she looked down.   

He reached out and chucked her under the chin gently. 

“You try again, and this time release earlier.  Then we can work on me getting the blade to hit the target instead of the handle.” He said. 

Mission accomplished, Mia smiled as she allowed her next throw to hit the target. 

That night was the first night she hummed The Misty Mountains Cold during their evening teatime.  When Bilbo questioned where the tune came from, she raised a shoulder and said she didn’t know.  That it had just came to her.  

He’d taken it as a sign that she was starting to remember things.  Something to be celebrated. 

She’d stared into the fire and fought back the  shame she felt at the deception.