The most diabolically shrill neigh shocked Buttercup into instant, heart-yammering consciousness. She bolted straight up and scrambled backwards, her body instinctively seeking a defensive posture. Danger, it screamed. Danger!
Her retreat pedaled her right off solid ground. Oh dear. Her eyes bugged, her arms windmilled, and a squeak escaped her lips. Down she tumbled…
…only to crash not into unforgiving ground but into a mess of spindly twigs and branches. The abused whatever-it-was snapped and crackled its outrage as it spewed its leafy guts into the air. Buttercup's downward plunge halted, leaving her sprawled in a most unladylike fashion with legs parted and one higher than the other. Her arms had flopped open to either side.
Relief pushed away the fearful roaring in her ears. Yavanna. She panted, heart slowing from its mad gallop, and stared at the blue sky above. Well. That was exciting. Then she rolled her eyes at herself. Watch where you're going—wasn't the the first rule of surviving the Wilds her dwarves had pounded into her head?
Heat stole into her cheeks. A dry thought: at least none had been present to bear witness. If they had, Bofur would never let her live this down.
After rubbing her face, Buttercup craned her neck about to assess her situation. Why, she was in a cluster of wildly overgrown bushes, she realized. Bushes squished up against the side of one of Dale's half-ruined walls.
A second neigh pierced the air (Buttercup jumped again at the loud noise, her heart Not Happy at the abuse). Her glare arrowed in on the culprit, a bay, black-maned horse who dared neigh a third time, the sound like so much laughter. The dratted thing trotted itself off—doubtless an escapee from the pen holding its fellows—and Buttercup gasped in outrage at the mocking—yes, yes, mocking!—way it swished its tail back and forth.
Why, that lousy, no good… This was the second time that wretched animal had done this to her, and by Yavanna, this was one hobbit good and tired of such treatment from an overgrown fleabag.
A thought. Her ire fled and her neck twisted uncomfortably as she tracked the misbegotten creature's progress down the broken stone road. Um. A strange, unsettled feeling stole over her.
She twisted back around, relieving neck strain. Her eyebrows pinched together. The night after Thorin had banished her from Erebor, she'd sought the comfort of solitude, climbing up one of Dale's half-destroyed walls to win free of the crush of human and elf bodies busily scurrying to and fro. The next morning, she'd startled awake at the same heinous horse's piercing neigh and fallen into bushes.
Bushes eerily like these.
Oh, it was coincidence, and no doubt, but by the Shire, how could this possibly happen to her again? She'd curled into a ball last night. On the ground. With her ring on.
Now, here she was once more ensnared in a bush that must have been related to yesterday's—with narrowed eyes, she concluded they were conspiring against her with the horse's help—for the prickly things had the same unnatural ability to conform their spiny bodies around her until she could scarcely move a limb. Spitting a leaf out of her mouth, she struggled to right herself.
"Elves and dragons," she grumbled. When she won free, she was going to get her hands on some hedge clippers, just see if she didn't! And maybe—her lips curled wickedly—she'd have a go at (ahem) trimming that horse's tail, too, while she was at it. Perhaps (should it be male), she'd braid its mane and tail both with pretty pink flowers and ribbons so that it would never be able to hold its head high again.
Harrumph. Serve the creature right.
"May I be of assistance?"
The breath wheezed from her lungs. Oh, no. Surely this could not all happen to her twice. Not only to be rudely awakened by the horse from evil's abyss and wind up stuck in bloody bushes—again!—but for the entire event to be witnessed?
Her cheeks and ears reddened with mortification. Truly a smashing start to the day you've managed, Buttercup Baggins. A low groan escaped her. Her eyes slowly slid to her left in search of the speaker, squinting at a face-full of early morning sunlight. She both did and didn't want to know who had found her.
With how her morning was going, it was bound to be…
"You again?" she greeted weakly when he came into focus, wiggling some fingers his way. Oh, this just got better and better.
She'd first encountered the reed-thin fellow while wandering through Lake-town's marketplace during the Company's short sojourn in the town of men. The men had called him mad in hushed voices, but from all Buttercup had overheard and witnessed, he was well-spoken and kindly.
He was odd, she'd grant. The man dressed outlandishly. There was a certain nonconformist, rakish bent about him.
"Let me aid you, my good fellow," he said, hurrying to her.
As she took to be his habit, he wore all black, from his knee-high boots to the half-cap, half-mask that covered the top portion of his face. His mustache was but a thin, dark blond line of hair above his upper lip, and his blue eyes were as pretty as a cloudless sky—not the match of Thorin's mesmerizing blues, but attractive all the same. The absurdly thin sword he'd worn in Lake-town was still strapped to his waist, and she hysterically wondered how he'd managed to survive the Battle of Five Armies with it.
Her mind provided the image of him pricking his foes into irritated retreat, but just as swiftly came the image of one annoyed orc batting his flimsy weapon aside and lopping off his head—like an oliphant swatting a bee that wouldn't leave it alone.
She gave up trying to free herself and sagged into the evil bush's prickly embrace. "Miss," she corrected, gaze on the sky.
"Excuse me?" With no apparent effort, he scooped her up and set her on her feet.
"I'm a miss, not a fellow," she confided, ruffling her curls free of bush-bits. Though not as short as when she'd too-enthusiastically chopped them off in Bag End, her curls were still shorter than she preferred, forming a blond halo about her head that brushed her shoulders.
"You have my profoundest apologies," he said.
She tiredly waved that off. "No need. I was pretending to be male. That you mistook me for one said my efforts were successful." With a wrinkled nose, "Too successful." Shaking herself, she said, "I'm sorry, I know we met yesterday under the same circumstances…" She really, really wanted to know how such an exact repetition of events was possible. "…but I don't believe I caught your name."
His head cocked to one side. "You must be mistaken. We've not met before." All as if she was teasing.
"Yes, we did." Had he forgotten? Did his madness extend to his memory?
"No, my lady, we did not."
"We did," she said with more surety, one finger pointing at the offending bushes in question. "You plucked me from some bushes yesterday morning." Come to think of it… She spun around, hands on hips. Why, this was the same wall. They were the same dratted bushes!
She narrowed her eyes on them. Clippers, she decided. When she wrapped her hands around some clippers, she'd teach the blighted things some manners.
"No, I didn't," he said, polite but baffled.
Her focus returned to him. "Yes, you did."
"No, I'm positive I did not."
With hands balled up on her hips, she stepped closer to him and studied what she could see of his face. He looked sincere enough.
He bowed again with a flourish. "Westley." Then rising, his chin lifting, "Or as I am known elsewhere, the Dread Pirate Roberts."
The…what? And…what? Buttercup did a double-take. Her fingers itched for Sting, but really, what were the chances there was any truth to this man's claim?
Confirmation. He was as mad as a hare in Rethe. "You're a pirate."
"Scourge of the Seas," he said lightly.
Uh-huh. With those manners? "Well. Thank you for your assistance, Westley." She was not calling him the Dread Pirate Roberts. "Perhaps we can do this again tomorrow."
"As you wish."
Peculiar. Very, very peculiar, Buttercup. Or she wasn't a Baggins.
With a last backward glance—the "pirate" headed elsewhere, his hands clasped behind him—she hustled towards the clamor of many souls rousing for the day. A portion of her mind nibbled away at the bizarre morning. She'd fallen asleep with her ring on, but awakened…
She stopped dead in her tracks. Her breath hitched as her hands raced over her person. Truly? Could she be this stupid?
The answer was obvious. Yes, she could and was.
How could she overlook something so important? Had she lost it? How could she lose it? Oh, Buttercup, you silly ninny! She'd fallen asleep wearing it, by the Shire. Yet, she'd awakened on the confounded wall, as visible as the blessed sun. Where and what had—?
Her fingers brushed cool metal. Sweet relief washed over her. The ring was in her pocket where she often tucked it away for safekeeping. She must have returned it there at some point and not remembered.
Relinquishing her grip with reluctance—best not to alert anyone to its existence, she figured—she tapped her teeth with a fingernail. How had she gotten up on the wall once more? Surely no one would have put her there. A person would have to be a couple nuts short of a pie to pick up someone and…
Her head craned around. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. Pirate, hmm? She'd have to keep on eye on that one.
A deep inhale, a shake of her shoulders, and she dismissed the concern. A crazy man fond of stashing hobbits in strange places was the least of her concerns. Worry for Bifur took dominance. Her friend had been severely wounded, and she wanted to assure herself he'd weathered the night successfully.
Please, Yavanna, she begged. No more loss. I can't bear to say goodbye to more of them in this fashion. Thorin's loss was a gaping wound with smaller Fíli and Kíli wounds cuddled up beside it. No more death. No more pain and loss touching the Company.
Though she wasn't positive how deeply the sentiment was reciprocated, Buttercup dearly loved her dwarves. From light-fingered Nori to the perpetual optimist, Bofur, they'd all mined space for themselves in her heart.
She banished her pessimism with determination. Bifur would be fine. He would. And so would Bofur, Bombur, Ori, Dori, Nori, Dwalin, Balin, Gloin, and Oin. Yes. She backed it up with a firm nod.
Buttercup rounded a corner to head deeper into the ruins of Dale, her ears guiding her. Just get to Bifur. The rest, the morning's oddities and annoyances, were superfluous. He and the others were what mattered.
So she maintained for a good block and half.
Until her mind registered what it was her eyes were seeing. Until the ramifications of what she saw set in. Buttercup's steps slowed of their own volition. Then they petered out altogether. Her brow furrowed.
A glance behind. A glace to the fore.
She continued onward, her frown growing. When she reached the first signs of habitation, ice slithered through her belly. Yavanna. She walked among the men and elves, noting discrepancies. There was no evidence of the devastation the trolls' catapults had done the day before nor the black burn marks from the goblin sappers. None of the elves showed any signs of injury…
Her feet stopped again.
…and neither do I. No aches. No throbbing head from where a hurled stone had hit an invisible Buttercup soundly in the head. (She was not so foolish as to enter a battlefield without her ring, thank you very much.) She'd been unconscious for who knew how long.
With trembling fingers, she reached up and touched her face. No scabs. No lacerations or grime. Her heart skipped one beat. What in the Shire was going on? For unless she'd suddenly acquired a miraculous healing ability (she was not that lucky) and been bathed while she slept (an uncomfortable notion), things had taken a decidedly kooky turn, and no mistake.
Gandalf. If one needed answers, he was the soul to locate.
Buttercup sprinted, ignoring as voices called out at many a near miss. Ahead, the Lord's Hall, as Bard had identified it, came into view across a spacious ruin of a courtyard. The tall, rectangular building perched at the opposite end of the square atop a short flight of stone stairs. Though showing the same signs of decay as much of Dale, the hall had survived better than most, so much so that the men had set up their headquarters inside.
With any luck, Gandalf would be within. Oh, please, be here, she willed of her wizard friend as she raced across the courtyard and its silent, dusty fountain. "Gandalf!" she called, not bothering to use her "Bilbo-voice." (After her disclosure to Bofur the night before, the news of her gender was bound to have spread far and wide.) "Gandalf!"
The wizard appeared on the top of the hall's stairs. "Bilbo?" From beneath the wide brim of his pointed hat, her friend's gray eyes crinkled in concern. "Whatever is the matter?"
Hovering to Gandalf's side, Buttercup spotted that Alfrid Lickspittle fellow, but she paid him no mind as she scurried up the stairs, a bit breathless from fear. "Gandalf, what has happened?"
"Happened?"
What did he mean, what had happened? Wasn't it obvious? "The damage is gone," she said, ticking off one finger. A note of hysteria crept its way into her voice. (But by the dwarves' Maker, she was due it!) "The injured are gone." She added a second tick. Then with third finger flying upwards to join the first two, "My injuries are gone. Look at this. Look!" She pointed at her face. "No bruises. No cuts and scrapes."
With a slight shake of the head, the wizard asked, "What do you mean, the damage is gone? Dale is far from rebuilt."
Far from… What? "No," she burst, arms waving. Of course the city had not been rebuilt. Had he been at some of Radagast's mushrooms? It was not like Gandalf to be so obtuse. "The damage the trolls did. The orcs and goblins. What happened?"
Those gray eyes seemed to kindle. "Orcs? What do you mean, orcs?"
"From the bloody battle we fought yesterday!" she all but screeched, one foot stamping the ground with every other syllable. Then she halted, feeling like a tween. But… But… But!
Gandalf knelt, one hand upon her shoulder. "Bilbo—"
"Oh, stop," she huffed, rolling smarting eyes before blinking the tears away. "I let that cat out of the bag to Bofur last night, and—"
"Are you telling me," her wizard said with sudden and cold anger, "that Thorin intended to toss you from the ramparts knowing you to be female?"
She blinked. Truly blinked. The longest, slowest blink of her life. "That was the day before last."
Those coal-gray eyes stared into hers for a long moment. "No, my dear girl. That was last night."
"No, it wasn't." Another blink.
"Mithrandir." At the Elvenking's voice, Gandalf stood. His conical gray hat tilted as his attention turned back to the landing behind him. "Surely we have waited sufficient time," the elf said softly.
"Time?" Buttercup asked dumbly. "Time for what? What's happening, Gandalf?"
"You know," a new voice intruded. Bard's. The man emerged from the Lord's Hall, the same building, she wished it to be known, that the three had been using this same time the day before prior to the battle that did happen that same day before. Bard's broad brow furrowed, his eyes kind but curious upon her. "You were there when the King under the Mountain agreed to exchange our share of the treasure for the Arkenstone."
"Two nights ago," she stressed. "Before Azog, and Bolg, and the goblins, and the trolls…" Her words tripped over themselves at the utterly nonplussed looks turned her way. "Before Thorin died," she said weakly, her chin trembling.
"What's this about Thorin dying?" Gandalf asked, and to her shock, he sounded shocked. What, she begged silently, was going on?
"Azog?" the Elvenking asked, his soft voice sharpening. "What of the Defiler?"
She stared. Simply stared.
Then with a low moan, Buttercup jumped down the stairs and darted though the crowds of men and elves, heart thumping painfully in her chest. Why did no one remember? Or why did they pretend nothing had happened?
"Bilbo!" she heard Gandalf call in her wake, but she refused to halt. She had to see.
Buttercup burst from Dale like a cork from a bottle. There, she slowed. The sound voices grew distant, muted. Only the wind and the rasps of her own breaths filled her ears. Her feet stopped. "No," she whispered, eyes wide. "It was real."
It had to be. Dreams did not come so vivid.
Buttercup wrapped arms around her middle and trudged forward, barren, compacted earth and pebbles beneath her bare feet. Towards Erebor, she walked, unable not to. Its gates were once more sealed with rubble from within the mountain. Its battlements and walls were unstained by the blood of defenders.
It was as if the day before had been erased. There were no signs of earth churned up by thousands of heavy boots and canine paws. No bodies waiting to be buried. Nothing. The land was…empty.
Had it not happened? Truly?
It was real, whispered her soul. It was. She knew it. Thorin had died.
So why was there no evidence to be found?
Maybe it is what will happen. On its face, the notion was absurd, but her heart knew she hadn't dreamed the deaths of her friends. She hadn't imagined the screams, and fear, and pain of battle. Thorin had died and taken the sun with him.
Her chin lifted, her eyes flashed. Perhaps she was as mad as the Dread Pirate Roberts, but if there was any chance the nightmare she'd experienced was a warning, a vision, then by Yavanna, she'd make sure it never came to pass. Fíli, Kíli and…Thorin (her breath hitched)…would live. They had to.
Without letting herself list all the reasons why she was being a foolish ninny, she sprinted across the field towards the Lonely Mountain. She didn't care if she was exiled. She didn't care if Thorin ordered her shot on sight…
…or maybe she really did. Her pell-mell run ended with a high-pitched squeak when an arrow pierced the ground right where she'd been standing. Buttercup danced backwards, wide eyes lifting to find Thorin glaring down with bow in hand. Fíli, she noted wildly, was struggling to free himself from Dwalin's restraint. Nori hovered in the background looking mighty conflicted.
They were alive. Alivealivealivealive! Glee surged through her, and since her feet were already dancing, she did a small jig. They lived! Yesterday's horrible events didn't need to happen! Oh, blessed Yavanna, she could sing her joy to the sky.
"Begone, thief!" Thorin bellowed. "I will not give you a chance to steal from us a second time."
"Thorin," she called back, tears leaking down cheeks that ached from beaming so broadly. "You're okay! If you would just let me expl—"
The next arrow had her diving onto the dirt. He'd aimed higher this time. Like for her head.
That fast, glee did an about-face and roared into fury. Did he have any idea what he'd put her through? The sound of distant hoof beats drew her attention back to Dale, but only for a moment. Gandalf was coming for her, and coming fast, but she was not leaving until she had some words with Thorin Pigheaded Oakenshield.
Alive, a part of her tacked on, still joyously squealing. She granted it had a point, but she had one to make, too.
"You, Thorin Oakenshield, are an absolute humperdink," she snapped, hands balled at her sides. "The nerve! Shooting at an unarmed female? Is that the honor you spout off about so often?"
"Female?" Dwalin, his voice loud with shock. Before him, Fíli mouthed the same words, his eyes wide, and Nori lost his balance and fell from the doorway back into Erebor.
"You wear a blade," Thorin shouted back. Then her words must have registered, because his head jerked. His bow lowered a few inches, the tension slackening.
"Which does me what kind of good from down here, you impossible idiot?" she shouted back. "I suppose I could throw some pebbles," she said with heavy sarcasm. "But I fail to see how that is equitable."
She stomped nearer and wagged a finger up at him. "You listen to me, Thorin Oakenshield. I did not march all the way across the confounded Misty Mountains or endure wargs, and orcs, and goblins for you to go off and die like you did yesterday. I won't have it."
"Die?" Fíli shoved free of Dwalin's grasp and leaned over the balustrade to look down upon her.
"I know this will sound insane," she told the blond prince, pleading, "but I swear to you, Fíli, either I lived this day twice or I dreamed it. Azog returned. Bolg, too. They both led armies, thousands-strong, and they both showed up just after Dain arrived. Dain coordinated Erebor's defense with the Elvenking and Bard, but there was so many of them. We were losing." She dashed a tear off her face. "Everything went so wrong. And then Thorin led the Company from the mountain, and Azog… He kill you, Fíli. You, Thorin, and Kíli."
Fili's face whitened. Dwalin looked horrified.
But then Thorin Oaken-jerk opened his mouth. "You're right. It does sound insane," Thorin denounced with scorn. "Did you think pretending to be female and concocting such a pathetic tale would make us believe your lies?"
Pretending to be female? Pretending? Oh, now he'd done it. She searched in vain for just one lousy apple to lob at the fool's head. Failing that, stamping one foot, she again glared upward.
"You died on me!" she accused, finger pointed like an arrow. And through her angry words, her absolute devastation bled through. "How could you die on me?" She mopped more tears from her cheeks, the pain of their loss ripping anew at her insides.
Buttercup firmed her chin. "It doesn't matter. I don't care if you believe me or not. You take better care of yourself, got it? If Azog and Bolg arrive, you darned well stay with the Company!" She splayed her arms. "And if nothing happens, you can have a good laugh at the silly hobbit maid stupid enough to care about your ungrateful self."
"A trick," Thorin said again from between clenched teeth. "Feigning to be a weepy miss to play upon our sympathies. I did not expect even you to stoop so low, Bilbo."
Her jaw dropped. Snapped shut. Then dropped again. She'd never been so humiliated in her life, and that it was Thorin disbelieving her gender had her flushing bright red. Was she truly so unattractive by dwarf standards?
With difficulty, knowing herself beet red, she tore her gaze from Thorin's sharp blue eyes and sought his sister-son. A Thorin with some notion stuck in his head was a Thorin who couldn't be moved. Not with a sledgehammer and a thousand dwarves.
Fíli, however… "Don't you dare die on me again. Protect yourself and your brother. I'm begging you. You watch your backs, you hear me?"
But there was Thorin, reaching for another arrow. "Enough! Off with you, you miserable rat! I will not stay my hand again."
Her temper flared anew. Only deeper. Harder. Without thought, she scooped down, collected a sizable rock, and flung it at him so fast the rock was in flight before she'd truly thought about the wisdom of her actions.
Thorin ducked, roaring something in his fury. She caught a glimpse of Fili and Dwalin wrestling the bow from Thorin, then she was snatched off the ground by Gandalf, his horse never slowing.
"Gandalf," she objected.
"Fool of a Took," he berated.
"I had to," she defended, twisting about to glance back at Erebor. No arrows pursued them, so she supposed Dwalin and Fili had succeeded in disarming their gold-mad king. Buttercup grimaced. Likely both would get an earful of Thorin's temper for this.
"It was folly," Gandalf countered. "To confront a dragon-sick dwarf?"
"I had to," she repeated to herself, once more facing forward.
Yes, she'd had to. Just in case. Oh Yavanna, let it be needless. Let the events she remembered pass them all by.
But then Dain Ironfoot arrived on schedule, bristling with insult and full of threats. Though she tugged on Gandalf's sleeve, shrilling that the orcs and goblins would be next (Gandalf would ever have her love for actually listening even if the stubborn dwarves and elves did not) all unfolded as it had the day before. The horrible army of orcs, wolves, wargs, trolls, bats, and goblins arrived, swarming at the defenders from multiple sides.
As before, she found herself clutching Sting in blood-slicked hands, desperately trying to make a difference, to turn the tide that seemed bent upon drowning them all. Even with the ring jammed on her finger, rocks, bodies and blades slammed into her. Only the mithril armor Thorin had gifted her with kept her intact.
Despite her warnings, despite fighting hard to win her way to Thorin to protect his stubborn, ungrateful, and miserable hide, he had the gall—the unmitigated nerve—to die on her again.
And this time, as he fell, he took her with him.
She didn't live long enough to see Kíli and Fíli's fates.