Usual disclaimer applies.
She's been an Eowyn twice, and she loves the Books, and she knows just how to save Boromir and win and live happily ever after.
Right.
She does.
She fingers the strange dress she's got on, and looks at the dusty country road – empty and quiet and so long. Why do people who wake up in Middle Earth not get a map?
There's some wood in the distance, not the dark awful Wood of Fangorn, but a homely little copse, and the last leaves still cling to the branches. Rohan was all meadows, wasn't it; Rivendell was wild, and Gondor was all fields and ruined fortifications. This place is probably Hobbiton or somewhere near, and she can join the adventure at the very beginning…
… if she can guess where to go.
Well. There's one way to find out.
She walks, and walks, and walks down the empty long road and plans what she will tell to whom. She doesn't have any food or water, but it's only a little thing – it's even comforting to think about, because the Fate before her is overwhelming.
The sun climbs up, and the light wind is really so nice after Earth's polluted air.
She walks for hours and smiles when she sees a town ahead of her.
The town is Bree.
There's not much to do in Bree, because the hobbits and Aragorn have already gone away – everybody talks about the Disappearing Act and the Night Raid and some are pretty rude about the whole thing.
She could try to follow them, but she isn't a Ranger – crossing the wild lands will be the end of her for sure. Even worse, she could be captured and questioned by one of the nasty spies, and then the Light Side will lose because she can't hold out under torture (she's never had to, but somehow she knows it in her heart.)
She could go to Hobbiton and prevent the horrible things there from happening. Still, she'd rather rest for a bit – Hobbiton is days away on foot. Also, who knows if all Wraiths have already left it?
(It's a good thing Westron turned out to be English, after all.)
…and then it crashes in upon her that she's alone, poor, and keeping a secret that could change the whole world's future, for good or ill.
And where do they – er – where is the outhouse?
She is a bit – a big bit – unnerved. Well, she's found the outhouse, and now she's just hungry, thirsty and very much lost.
What could she do?
She should find a job and a place to live, and maybe she could wait until the opportune moment – the War of the Ring wasn't all that long – and go help Hobbits, because Rivendell or Gondor are out of question.
Okay, what job could she choose?
It rapidly becomes clear that in Bree, there aren't a lot of options, and nobody wants a stranger After What Happened to the 'Prancing Pony'. An unskilled worker isn't welcome, too. Not surprising, really. She should just go on her way.
But weren't Hobbits, in general, distrustful of Men? There was this Border and such. They might not take her in.
And then she'd have to walk back. It's easier to stay where she is.
She should find a way to earn a living. Any way. And soon. It's better to look presentable when you want to impress your employer. What do women here do when they become so… desperate?
Well, in romances they could always marry whenever they wished – actually, for many of them it was the Staying Single that took daring.
She swears to herself that she's better than that, and it's not like she can tap a man on the shoulder and say, 'You're my husband.'
There aren't many bachelors in the provincial town of Bree even remotely eligible.
In fact, she knows of only one.
Bill Ferny hasn't got a chance. She shocks him into agreeing and after a few formalities; he bows her into his house. His friends shout outside and then leave.
It's old, and small, and drab, and there are unwashed things hanging from furniture (there's not much of it, either). Still, it's a house, and she won't starve.
'Cook,' says Ferny. 'Potatoes are in that sack.'
She knows that she mustn't look surprised by what there is. She mustn't use long words or let him know she can read and write. And she absolutely mustn't show any interest in politics.
She's on warpath, after all.
'I hope you're clean,' he says with a sigh. 'Water's in the well.'
'Sure I am! Why?'
'Well, I don't want to lie with a dirty wife.'
Wife.
'You…' she stops herself just in time. 'You don't want children, do you?'
His mouth falls open.
'And just what else would I need you for?'
Children.
Oh no no no, she hasn't agreed to that. Bill Ferny will die soon, and she won't be – can't be – it's absurd!
'And what if I am…'
'Already a mother?' he asks, clearly mocking.
'No!'
'Barren?'
'No!'
'Ah. Suppose it don't matter. Unless they gave you something else?'
What can he mean by that?
'This,' he says, picking the axe easily, though tears still slide down his face and he moans with laughter, 'is an axe.'
'I know!' she snaps.
She's been running about with this thing in her arms for the whole morning. It's heavy! And sharp, too!
'That – hic – is a rooster. One that I thought – hic – you'd make a stew of.'
She could have tripped over the blasted bird, and cut off her own foot. Honestly.
'Yes, yes. Do it. Please.'
'You're hilarious,' he says and goes lazily to behead it. 'Don't forget to keep the feathers this time.'
She gets 'in the family way', and the family way is trouble. Midwifery is not good enough to see her through. She's got these narrow hips. Are there any doctors? Healers? Elrond?
'Bill,' she says. 'Call in someone to have a look at me.'
He leers at her, but finally she bothers him into going out and bringing a goodwife – that's all to be had here.
And since the woman is a goodwife, she's absolutely not fond of Bill. And she doesn't understand why she's been called at all if the baby is not coming out.
'Look,' says Mrs. Ferny. 'I can see you don't like him, and I tell you, I'm not blaming you for it.'
'Hm!' says Mr. Ferny.
'But I'm not a monster for marrying him, and I really need some advice, so please be so kind as to come in and – '
She bullies the goodwife into doctoring, and it seems she might get through this.
And Bill, he stays out of her way for a week.
'Bill, do you have relatives?'
'Wha -?'
'Relatives,' she says impatiently. 'Who would be willing to take me and the kid in, were anything to happen to you.'
He waggles a finger in her face. 'Now don't be too smart, sweetheart.'
'I'm not being smart! I'm in earnest!'
'Huh,' he says and frowns. 'Guess not.'
'It's dangerous times we have now,' she says, and swallows, 'cause she has no idea who is going to win the War of the Ring this time around. 'And people don't like you much.'
He looks at her shrewdly - he often does - just a glance from under heavy lids, but it leaves her troubled and chafing.
That evening, he tells her that in any emergency she's to go to So-and-So and ask for a place. And if she's given one - he can't promise she will have it - she's got to work like she's never worked before. So it's not in her best interests, to have something happen to him.
She doesn't grumble at him, because it's probably the best he can do. Inside, she's just hollow.
To work full time.
Probably domestic service, since she knows no trade.
For a complete stranger.
With a baby on her hands.
And no man by her side, not even Bill Bloody Ferny.
It won't come to pass. It can't.
'You know,' he tells her one day. 'I used to think it mighty suspicious, you throwing yourself at me and all.' He says 'yerself', but she refuses to let her grammar down. 'Now I know better.'
She picks up a frying pan and smiles.
'…cause you're so charming, dear, you can't do no deceivin', o my flower.'
And people talk about her, and she's never given them any reason to say those things, and she can't always stay home.
'What is this?' he asks, smudging the coal drawing with a careless finger.
'A design,' she says, acting indifferent. 'Some people like beautiful clothes or plates.' She stresses 'some' out of habit.
Take that, fate! She can cheat! Not in the scientific department – she's got a degree in a Literature that's never been invented in this world (actually, the folk here think her a bit dumb, seeing as she doesn't know any lore, not even nursery rhymes), no – she'll introduce them to Modern Art. And then, when she's famous, she'll found a sewing agency – maybe in Gondor, there should be more paying customers nearer the capital...
'Ugly,' he says. 'Where's my 'baccy?'
'How come you have a sore throat again?' he asks, though he sounds resigned. She just doesn't have the constitution to wash all their clothes and bedclothes and tableclothes in the cold river. At least she has bought healing herbs and a warm shawl.
'Sorry,' she sniffs. She is sorry – they were going to go to the fair, the only decent entertainment in this bleak place. She might have talked him into buying a bauble, 'for the chile'.
'Don't burn all wood,' he says, and leaves.
She stays in bed; it's still early enough not to think about cooking. He's brought home a few bits and pieces, probably from the South (he forbade her to show them to anybody – as if she ever had guests!) – five big, bright beads, a piece of Oliphaunt's tusk, an embroidered kerchief.
Maybe it's all been stolen.
Maybe it's all been stolen from dead people.
She doesn't know. Her baby will have toys, and what matters where they come from? It's a good thing Bill thinks about it at all.
And anyway, if she's to live in Middle Earth, why not live as well as she can? Everybody in the Books stood to gain something from their efforts. Aragorn had to die or marry Arwen (and he wasn't that reluctant to take the throne, too). Legolas was his father's ambassador – perhaps even heir. Gimli – well, Gimli was a dwarf, she's never been quite clear on what makes them tick. Avarice? Pigheadedness? Frodo wanted to live. Boromir (oh Boromir!) wanted to be Steward.
It wasn't selfish of them, so why can't she just want to be a loyal wife and have enough for tomorrow?
...And maybe if she has seen a live Orc or a burning field or a Nazgul she'd think differently about the War, but – she hasn't. And she certainly wasn't going out to search for any of it. Not with a sore throat.
'Stop,' she whispers. 'Don't go.'
Billy is asleep at last, spread-eagled across her stomach. She can't move – both her hands are under his small body. She's afraid to miss the moment when his fever comes up again.
Nothing special, he's teething. They've been over it already.
Her husband doesn't listen. It's that evening when he goes out and doesn't return.
'Bill!'
They will find him in the morning, lying in a frozen pool of his own blood.
'Bill!'
And Mr. Butterbur will mention it in passing to the returning hobbits. A piece of local news.
'Bill!'
'Hush, woman. Don't rouse him.'
Great idea, she thinks hysterically. Would he stay if she woke Billy up? Or would he leap out into the night without even his coat on?
'Bill.'
'What do you want?'
'You.'