Disclaimer: The Hobbit, all characters, places, and related terms are the sole property of J.R.R. Tolkien's estate, and Warner Brothers, New Line Cinema, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, and WingNut Films.

Our (Most Unwilling) Hero

Watch out for all the large scuffling feet! They press closer, hemming you and the always-scowling dwarf in. Swipe a paw towards those snapping fangs! Hiss at the long flashing blades. How dare they separate you from your person and his friends, leaving you stuck with him! (You half wouldn't mind if he was no longer a bother, but your person considers him to be a friend, darn it all.)

Now your anger tings with fear, your ginger fur standing up on end as the foulest creature of the group – pale, ugly, one hand missing – steps forward. Motioning the others to draw back a little, he says something in a tongue you do not know and lifts up a huge, frightful-looking weapon. Yowling loudly, you race back and forth between the dwarf's feet – let me out, let me out! – seeking a means of escape from all this. You were the largest, fiercest tomcat back in the village. Yet even you know when it is time to give way.

Suddenly your paws leave the ground. Limbs flailing about, you squirm wildly in the dwarf's hands. You barely have time to note the fur coat and greasy hair pressed to your back, the hideous faces about you, nor the almost mocking expression on the pale creature's face as he starts to swing down his weapon on the two of you. Because the next thing you know you are flying through the air straight towards the monster!

Your scream is terrified, claws instinctively coming out. You land on that scarred face. The creature roars in startled pain, causing you to shriek once more, and all chaos breaks loose. There are yells, snarls, pounding footsteps, clashing blades all around. But all your focus is frantically to keep your hold as the creature stumbles forward with the weight of his weapon, before moving blindly from side to side.

Everything is a blur, fur flying, you wildly scratching with claws, dodging to avoid the hand and sharp rods fumbling for you, while also wanting to escape somehow. Your howling rises in pitch when something pierces your back and you sink your teeth down hard. The outraged roar makes a chill run through you, and you just know you are going to die at the feel of an enormous hand squeezing you—

Now you are in the air yet again! After an endless moment you land hard on the ground. Your ears ring and your body aches. The loud calling of your name and a long, familiar whistle makes the world grow clear, the still present danger real… And you are running as fast as you can in the direction of the call. You do not mind the rough way you are taken up in the white-bearded dwarf's arms and catches up to his waiting brother who carries the hobbit, just relived to have escaped that ordeal with the pale monster.

It is later, after the grey giant calls for a halt for the day, when you make clear to your company precisely how you feel about what you've endured. You glare and hiss at all for nearly two hours, not permitting any to come within five feet of you. Your anger, fear, and wounded pride is slowly eased by your person and the hobbit not being frightened away, yet respectively keeping a proper distance. They call you "poor darling" and "brave Gimli." They worry about any possible injuries you may have suffered, comment how frightened you must have been by it all, how sad they would have been had you not made it. Can any cat remain unmoved by such cajoling and fretting? You allow your people to approach, to tend your wounds. A purr makes an appearance with all the fuss – careful touches, encouraging and thankful words – and you smile at last.

"Three cheers for our hero, Gimli, who saved the day!" one of the youngest dwarves proclaims happily.

You roll your eyes. You were already a hero, thank you very much: the day you adopted your strange company, the sillies. Today's antics shall not be repeated, however, no matter how heroic they consider them. Really, being flung into an enemy's face without warning, at the risk of life and limb… No, it is not to be borne!

The only sour note to the celebration is the glares you exchange with the scowling dwarf across the campfire. He does not join in praising you. And despite many of the company having words with him, he fails to offer either thanks or an apology to you. Not that you would accept them even if he did offer them. You have not gotten along with the brooding dwarf at all since you met up with your person and the rest of the group. So you issue him one last hiss for good measure before snuggling into the hobbit's side (you fit very well together, with him being almost twice your size) for the night.

And if in the middle of the night, instead of going off into the bushes, you do your business in his boots…well, you want to make sure there are no misunderstandings that you view him now as a sworn enemy after his cat-tossing antics (plus for attempting – unsuccessfully – to steal your hobbit)!

THE END