An ear-splitting neigh jolted Buttercup straight up, only to topple with a shriek. She splashed down with leaves and twigs flying in all directions into a familiar and woody embrace. Thin branches and sprigs gouged her exposed skin, and she gasped, eyes wide. Her hands clutched her neck.

Thorin. That rotten dwarf had died on her again. And then, whilst falling, his right arm had flung outward. The arm holding his overgrown ax. He'd… He'd lobbed her head off.

Yet here she was. Again. In the dratted bush. Breathing. (Well, wheezing might be more apt, but given her last memory, she thought it eminently appropriate.)

As a distinctive clip-clop informed her of the wretched horse's departure, she thrashed, desperate to win free. Enough was enough. Buttercup had no idea what was happening to her, but her heart clanged with horror at all she'd seen. She could not bear to watch Thorin die one more time. A hobbit could only take so much.

She had to find Gandalf. He had to fix this.

"Westley!" she called, almost bursting into tears when the bushes refused to relinquish their hold on her. Sniffling, she muttered, "Oh, where is that confounded ma—Oh, there you are. Help?" She offered the masked man an uncertain smile.

His mustache trembled with his own ghost of a smile, and his arms folded before his chest. "How," he asked, "did you manage to climb in there?"

"I didn't climb," she assured him, blowing a stray leaf out of her face. "I fell."

His chin lifted, his eyes swift to locate the section of city wall big enough for her to have been upon. Then with a spreading grin, "What were you doing up there?" He reached into the bush and gently extricated her before setting her on her feet.

"Sleeping," she explained as if it was the most sensible answer in the world. She straightened her attire, feeling her cheeks heat. Then after coughing into one hand, she said, "Thank you again. Not to be unkind, but I do hope this is the last time we do this."

"I beg your pardon?" His head cocked to one side.

She patted his arm but didn't bother with explanations. Either they wouldn't repeat this morning—a soul can hope, she thought—or he wouldn't remember it. Instead, she took off running, certain of her destination.


Oh, no. She was not going to be thwarted by one Alfrid Lickspittle. Buttercup feigned a rightward lunge, hoping to trip the man up, but he was on to her. When she tried to run left, he was there, blocking her.

Buttercup glared at the twerp, refusing to be deterred by the likes of him. Why, she'd stared death in the face from Erebor's ramparts (she really must send Thorin a thank-you note for that), she'd been shot at by the same dragon-sick dwarf, and then—then!—had her head lopped off. (Her hand stole up to touch her neck and gave it a good rub.)

Alfrid was tiresome and weaselly. But scary? Intimidating? She snorted to think there had once been a time she would have cowered before the buffoon.

"Look here, now," the odious man said as he continued to bar her from the Lord's Hall, his arms outstretched and feet poised to counter her next try. "There are important people inside, and you aren't invited."

Buttercup's teeth gnashed. She had no time for the fopdoodle. Why, he'd disguised himself as an old woman when the orcs and goblins had arrived. Instead of lifting arms as a man of valor, he'd hidden with the old and feeble. He, a man of hale body if unsound mind, a man thrice her size and likely more her weight!

Westley may be a tad…off…but he's braver by leaps and bounds, she concluded with a sniff. She had no doubts the "Dread Pirate Roberts" had fought in the battle.

Or at least, she was pretty certain he had. Come to think of it, she wasn't positive, but in the pandemonium of battle, there was little chance of spotting one man dressed in black.

"Get out of my way, Alfrid Lickspittle. I'm in no mood for your nonsense." By the Shire, she was tempted to simply draw Sting and have at the man. Did he not perceive she was in urgency, here?

"Quite full of yourself, aren't you, halfling? But see, I'm—"

"I'm half of nothing," she snapped. "I'm a hobbit, and a friend to both Gandalf the Gray and Bard the Bowman—"

"That's King Bard," the lout said, one hand reaching out to claim her right elbow in a painful grip. "If you'll not move along, then I'll…"

With her left hand, Buttercup snatched hold of his ear and yanked hard, adding a good twist for effect. He yelped, his hold loosened, and she skedaddled. Her bare feet slapped across the old, cracked stone of the landing and into a hall.

Victory to the hobbit!

"Gandalf," she said, rushing across the echoing space to where the wizard stood framed along with the Elvenking and Bard in an archway leading to a balcony that overlooked Erebor. Beyond them, Erebor's towering gates dominated the view, the space filled with rubble she'd helped her dwarves move since the gates of iron that had once guarded its entrance had been demolished by Smaug.

At the sound of her voice, the three leaders' low conversation halted. Heads panned in her direction.

"Bilbo," her friend greeted with a burdened smile. To be expected, she supposed, given he, Thranduil, Bard and their men planned to march on Erebor for the discussed exchange of Arkenstone for gold.

An event that would not happen. She wondered, looking at Gandalf's tired face, if perhaps he didn't already suspect as much.

With a short nod to both of the rulers, she said, "Gandalf, I need to talk to you."

"What seems to be the difficulty, my dear friend?"

She took a deep breath. With hands twisted together at her waist, she said, "Something is wrong. Things are…broken." Oh, that was clear, Buttercup Baggins.

"Broken?"

Her shoulders drew back. Her chin lifted. "Alright then. You will believe me mad, but I assure you, it is not so. Time, Gandalf. Time is broken. Either that or some Power is having a grand jest at my expense. What is today's date?"

Confused and faintly impatient looks passed among the three. King Bard knelt upon one knee to bring himself closer to her level. "What is this about?" the handsome and regal dark-haired man asked, his brown eyes steady upon hers.

Buttercup rocked on her heels. "Alright," she repeated. Then the words burst forth, tripping over one another like a fauntling taking his first steps. "This is the third time I've lived this day. I don't know how. I don't know why. But I'd like this to be fixed, if you don't mind." Her head craned back to bring Gandalf into view. "No, this is not a joke. I'm not quite Tookish enough for that. Not at a time like this."

Gandalf leaned against his staff, his expression not revealing his thoughts. "Time? I see nothing amiss. Perhaps you have been dreaming. After the way you were summarily exiled—"

"No," she cut off with a shake of her head. "No, Gandalf. That is not it. I have a good imagination, but it could never supply on its own the sights this day will bring. Again."

"Time repeating itself? Inconceivable," Gandalf muttered, his attention seemingly inward.

Bah. Maybe third time was the charm. She faced the Elvenking and met his green and inquisitive eyes. Thorin, she thought, would be railing at her by now with no patience. Come to think of it, Thorin had shouted when she'd told him of this. It made her think better of Thranduil that he remained quiet.

"Azog is coming," she informed the elf sovereign. "Bolg, too. Each is leading an army of goblins and orcs, one from Dol Guldur and the other from Gundabad. Thorin summoned Dain Ironfoot to defend the mountain. The dwarves will be here first. But before Dain can do more than exchange insults with you, the orcs will arrive. They will flow around the mountain from both sides and outflank us."

"When?" Thranduil asked in a voice cool with doubt yet attentive nonetheless.

"It will begin well before elevenses."

Leaf-green eyes bored into hers from beneath the crown of leaves and berries the Elvenking wore. "Mithrandir? I had not heard that the periain possessed the gift of foresight." At no time did the king's focus leave her.

"They do not. At least, not ever recorded." Gandalf placed one hand upon Buttercup's shoulder. "Bilbo—"

"Buttercup," she corrected with a sigh. "Since no one will remember this anyway should tomorrow be another repeat of this day." She gave him a look from under her eyelashes. "Unless we can fix things, Thorin won't live long enough today to object."

At that, Gandalf somehow managed to gain yet another inch or two in stature. To the other two males, he said, "A force from Gundabad… If this proves true, they must be taking the eastern pass through the Iron Hills."

"It would keep them hidden until they round the mountain," Bard agreed, rising to his feet. "We must secure Dale." He paused in the archway. "I will not risk my people by not taking precautions. As unlikely as this seems, I deem it better to play this safe."

Thranduil inclined his head. Gandalf murmured his assent before bringing Buttercup under deep scrutiny. "I agree. We should make all haste in preparing for battle."

"I concur," the Elvenking said.

"Should her words prove true…" Gandalf's regard landed on Buttercup like a stifling cloak. "…we will discuss how this came to be tonight, my friend. Or tomorrow at the latest."

Tomorrow. She growled audibly, hands finding her hair and yanking. "What if there is no tomorrow? Huh? Did you think of that? There wasn't one today!"

She found herself unanimously ignored.


Buttercup's hand was welded to Sting's hilt as men and elves—plus one wizard—rushed about to make Dale secure. If an army was coming, these defenders would not be caught out in the open. Instead of flooding the valley before the Lonely Mountain with their forces at the designated hour to exchange the Arkenstone for some of Erebor's gold, Bard sent only a handful of riders. The rest remained in Dale, working feverishly to erect barricades and shore up walls.

The riders had barely left when they returned, reporting to Bard and Thranduil of Thorin's refusal to honor the agreed upon exchange. Thorin, she overheard, had hurled insults from the battlements and followed them up with arrows.

Thorin, Buttercup grumbled to herself, was growing altogether too fond of that wretched bow.

She felt useless, biding her time while men and elves carried out tasks too big for her—hefting debris from one place in Dale to another to force any invaders into a narrow channel from which the men might more easily defend themselves. Such preventative measures, she heard Bard muttering, would not stop catapults such as she'd reported the trolls would bring, but every moment the enemy was delayed meant more lives spared.

Buttercup tapped a fingernail against her front teeth, fretting and worrying. The first time she'd lived this day, she'd remained close to the Elvenking, aiding where she could. The second, she'd fought her way towards the Company when they'd emerged from their mountain, only to die because her foolish and invisible self had stood in the wrong place at the worst possible time.

How, Buttercup Baggins? Use that head of yours. She didn't know why the day kept repeating. Some fanciful part of her wondered if it was merely her desperate wish to save the dwarf she loved—and his sister-sons—that caused it, but that was ludicrous. She was a hobbit, not an elf-witch of untold power or one of the Valar. The world would not reorder itself on her account. (It certainly hadn't upon her parents' deaths.)

So, what could cause it? And why did no one remember? She stamped one foot. At first word of the upcoming battle, Gandalf had rushed off to prepare, leaving her questions to drop into the dirt like discarded apple cores. She understood, truly. Lives came before a hobbit's pestering questions.

But these were not average questions.

What, she asked herself, if time healed itself before she figured out a way to keep Thorin, Kíli and Fíli alive? She bit her thumb nail. Should she chase after the wizard and demand explanations—Because that has worked so well in the past, a part of her snortedor act as if this time, time might not consent to bend for her should she fail and her dwarves still die?

The image of Thorin's battered, bleeding body returned to her along with his final words of friendship. Yes, he was gold-sick, but deep underneath that, the king she'd trudged through mud and muck to follow, the king she'd threatened Azog to save, remained. Thorin was in that gold-sick dwarf, and she wouldn't give up on him.

Not to the madness and not to death.

Her jaw trembled and tears stung her eyes. I can't keep watching him die. Elves and dragons, it hurts so.

A tear escaped her control and trickled down her cheek. So are you going to stand here weeping, or are you going to do something about it, hmm? Her obstinate Tookish side raised its head.

Buttercup Baggins, Barrel-Rider and Master Riddler, was going to by the Shire do something about it. A small nod. Yes, indeed.

She hurried off, a plan forming in her mind.