A.N.: I just watched Miranda's new episode, it made me cry with laughter; "Jurassic Park in leggings!" And I am also recommitting to the Doctor. He's put his bowtie back on, the naughty boy! And Call the Midwife last night was so sad… Christmas Day television, you've got to love the specials!

I haven't decided whether I want to kill Thorin or not. I have a thing about character-deaths: I don't like them.

I believe I have missed my calling, both as a builder (my parents are having an extension, and I have huge hands to lay bricks with) and as a hobbit head-double. Because my hair has the perfect hobbit-curl to it. I am so proud of how curly it is. The Lord of the Rings film enterprise has really done a lot for my hair; I used to hate its curliness, now I'm embracing it. I just wish they could've created a female hobbit/dwarf character for the film, instead of a female elf… We had Arwen and Galadriel in LOTR, plus Eowyn, so elves and Men have been represented by their fairer sex; even Rosie Cotton got a mention. So why can't they have a female dwarf?

I can actually imagine myself onset being kitted out by Peter Jackson's costume-department. Because of my hair they'd not even have to bother with a wig; but for some reason I imagine myself with a beard… A hobbit-dwarf hybrid; When Middle Earth Genetics Go Bad.


Nobility is Not a Birth-Right

04

A Burglar Recruited


Ilá had risen with the dawn, the birds twittering merrily in the trees, the bees already beginning to buzz amongst Mr Baggins' flowers, early-risers tending the fields, the market already thriving by the time she wandered up from the lake. She had bathed there, dressing in fresh smalls, a freshly-washed under-dress of fine muslin, her darned crimson cotton overdress with its split skirt, her maille-embellished tunic lined with braided strips of leather. She left off her battered cloak and hood, her leg-warmers and belted jacket, but rolled them up tight and tucked them into her larger pack.

It was a fine morning, hinting to be one of the last fine days of August, and she hummed contentedly to herself as she dawdled back toward Bag End, using Mr Baggins' own wicker-basket to carry back the breakfast-foods she had secured from the market (amongst other things), and, finding the hobbit-hole sleepy and filled with the sounds of the dwarves' snores—twelve different pitches and volumes, a veritable orchestra, and not altogether pleasant—she tucked herself up in the kitchen, probably rousing the dwarves far better with the smell of cooking sausage, bacon, mushrooms and egg than any noise she could create to wake them.

"Good morning, my dwarves," she said pleasantly, as Bofur, Óin, Ori, Balin and Fíli poked their noses into the kitchen, sniffing tentatively and casting her a wary look.

"Well, you're a sight for sore eyes," Óin grunted, grinning at Ilá as Ori sniffed the air and sighed contentedly.

"Nothing better than a beautiful woman at a busy stove," Bofur grinned, eyeing the platter of sausages and bacon.

"Are those griddle-cakes?" Ori asked hopefully, eyeing the skillet on the stove, and Ilá smiled as she removed the little pancakes with a spatula, adding them to the pile already steaming on a fine Delftware plate alongside some freshly-made blueberry turnovers.

"They are indeed, Master Ori," she smiled. "I think we shall spare Mr Baggins' furniture and breakfast in two shifts. While the others eat you can head to the Green Dragon to collect the ponies and supplies."

A shadow loomed in the other doorway; Thorin appeared, already fully-dressed, his long hair combed. "I take six eggs with my ham—fried, not poached, and mind you don't break them." Ilá, stirring the scrambled eggs in the largest frying-pan (the first batch out of four-dozen, to accommodate a dozen dwarves' large appetites) glanced up sharply, frowning coolly.

"You shall eat what you are given," she said, "and be grateful."

Ori's eyes widened as his lips pursed, glancing between Ilá and Thorin as the dark dwarf glowered; Balin coughed into his fist and Bofur hid a grin as he whisked several teacups out of the cupboard, while Fíli counted out cutlery, the plaited ends of his moustache twitching.

Ilá had not been raised in the wilds; she had been raised by an incredibly elegant family with manners that dated back to the beginnings of the world, but even if she hadn't, if she had spent all her life living hard and tough in the backwoods and mountain-passes of Middle Earth, she would have had better manners than to come into a person's house uninvited and start barking orders. She found bitter Thorin Oakenshield's manners callous, ungrateful, and given everything he had endured in his life, if the stories were true, she wondered how he could be so unappreciative. She knew that for someone to take her in, even for a night, meant they went without just that little they offered her, be it meat, bread or broth, and sometimes that single serving could make a huge difference to a person's life.

But Ilá never forgot the kindness of others, nor failed to repay it when she could. Gifts of fresh meat, gold coins, even the mending of tunics or gathering of fruit or ripe nuts if the season granted them. Small things, that people remembered, in appreciation of their kindness.

A cool tension filled the kitchen, Thorin glaring at Ilá as she stirred the scrambled eggs, and it was he who first broke eye-contact long before Ilá's eyes could start to water; she turned to the skillet of eggs, doling out ladlefuls of batter for more griddle-cakes, and eyed the bread baking in the oven with a little tray of blueberry turnovers.

"If anybody wishes for some, there is a little smoked salmon," she said softly, glancing up at the other dwarves, who were each doing their bit to set the kitchen-table for the meal, with the same fine earthenware they had used the previous evening.

"Dori likes smoked salmon, he'll have some with his eggs," Ori remarked, glancing up with wide eyes, and Ilá brought out the freshly-baked bread, setting it to cool on the side, replacing it with fresh dough to be baked for the others to have with their breakfast. Dusting off her hands, she removed the little griddle-cakes from the pan, set the skillet of scrambled-eggs on a woven mat in the centre of the kitchen table, with a platter of sausages and bacon, a plate of sautéed mushrooms and halved tomatoes lightly fried, the blueberry turnovers, freshly-baked bread and the pile of griddle-cakes that rose like a column in the centre of the table beside Mr Baggins' fattest teapot, and a little packet of smoked-salmon.

Perhaps more because Ilá had prepared it—and, being unused to war-scarred shield-maidens of any description (female warriors being a rarity in this age and these parts)—but the dwarves seemed uncertain, as they perched on the benches either side of the table, of helping themselves. They each glanced at each other, glanced at Ilá, wishing the others to make the first move. Even Thorin did not help himself, and Ilá, highly amused, chuckled and smirked to herself as she loaded one of Mr Baggins' larger plates for herself, taking something of everything, and a good amount of it, too.

A breakfast like this, when she was out in the wilds, was an incredible luxury; fluffy eggs, sausage, flavourful bacon, sautéed mushrooms, fresh tomatoes, fresh bread and sweet blueberry pastries with a milky cup of tea, sitting in a sun-warmed kitchen with birds singing, bees buzzing, the kettle singing, and, yes, some of the other dwarves were still snoring away…but it was peaceful; as soon as she had started to help herself, the dwarves, emboldened by Fíli offering Ilá the plate of griddle-cakes before helping himself, started picking at the offerings, loading their plates.

"Well, if this isn't a good start to our venture I don't know what is," Balin said, but his expression wavered as he watched Ilá cracked an egg into her ale before raising it to her lips. He started to stare; and then Ori glanced around, his eyebrows rising further up his brow as Fíli's jaw slowly dropped. Ilá glanced up, setting her empty flacon back on the table, met with the stunned expressions of the six dwarves.

"Is something the matter?"

"You're making us look bad," Fíli remarked, with a grin, as Óin chuckled and broke an egg into his own ale.

"It's the breakfast of champions," Ilá said, smiling softly. "Is it not, Master Óin?"

"Drink up, lads," Óin said, not having heard Ilá due to using both hands to push flacons of ale (with a raw egg apiece) toward Ori, Fíli and Bofur, his ear-horn tucked into his belt for safekeeping. "That'll put hair on your chins."

"Oi!" The three considerably younger dwarves—Ori and Fíli more than Bofur, who chuckled, grasping hold of his ale—shot insults back at Óin, as he impugned the sanctity of their beards.

Dwarves, Ilá knew, were as sensitive about their beards as hobbits were of the hair on their toes. A woman's vanity was nothing compared to the pride a dwarf took in his beard. And to say that these young dwarves needed hairs on their chins was as much a playful insult among dwarves—dwarves who were well-acquainted and friendly, mind you—as to say a young Man needed to put on a little muscle. It was all a mark of masculinity. And, bless him, Ori seemed like he was trying—in fact, he cried plaintively that he'd been trying to grow his beard for the last five years, and intended on growing it to the magnitude of Glóin's great auburn beard, "Just you wait and see, I'll have the greatest beard you've ever seen!"

"I have no doubt," Thorin chuckled, smiling at Ori indulgently as Fíli teased the youngest dwarf.

"—maybe when Glóin trims it, he'll give some of his beard to you, Ori, you could knit yourself a beard," he said thoughtfully, with a pleasant smile, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"You could stand to set the chase-silver aside for a while, too," Bofur remarked, touching a fingertip to Fíli's cheek; his beard was beautifully trimmed along the jaw-line and around his mouth, leaving his cheeks, and his magnificent cheekbones, bare to view. Fíli, smirking, ran a hand over his cheek, smoothing his jaw and moustache, before refilling Ilá's teacup.

"When I've as many years to my name as Glóin, I shall perhaps wear my beard an inch for every year," Fíli smiled, "but until then, the ladies I keep company with prefer it when their kisses are not full of hair. I keep the beard trimmed."

"And your mother thanks you for it!" Bofur remarked, earning a laugh around the table as Fíli punched him on the arm, hard. Bofur punched him back, grinning.

"Who do you think still gives him a hot-shave?" Thorin remarked, eyes sparkling, and Fíli rose in his seat to punch Thorin on the arm, hard, making the older dwarf chuckle quite unrestrainedly; it seemed a rare occurrence, because the other dwarves raised their eyebrows and chuckled, watching Fíli try to swat at Thorin across the table as he defended himself with a rich, rare chuckle.

"Sit down and finish your breakfast, or I shall dock your pocket-allowance," Thorin said, and Fíli chuckled as he sank back into his seat.

"You get pocket-money?" Bofur smirked.

"When I'm a good boy I do," Fíli grinned mischievously, his eyes sparkling as he glanced briefly at Ilá, winking.

"I have not given you or your brother pocket-money for well over five decades now," Thorin mused. "Make of that what you will."

"It's Kíli, he's a bad influence," Fíli remarked, and Thorin shot him a look that said otherwise.

"If all goes as planned and we take back Erebor, you can repay me out of your share for all those things you and Kíli have broken over the years," Thorin said, as he filled his pipe.

"Name one thing we broke!"

"My handmade tapestry of Durin's Awakening, woven by the cloistered helm-maidens in the Second Age."

"I'm sure they made it to last." Thorin eyed the blonde dwarf with an arched eyebrow, a subtle smirk of amusement playing on his lips as Fíli cleared his throat and offered a chuckling Balin the platter of bacon and sausages.

When they had eaten their fill—which took less time and more food than Ilá had anticipated—the dwarves helped set the kitchen to rights, washing the plates, separating sausage-links, helping to crack the eggs, and, despite gazing wide-eyed and fearful at her scar all through breakfast, young Ori seemed to wish to gain her approval and stood at the stove gently stirring the eggs, dodging out of the way of spitting bacon-grease as the sausages popped and the pancake-batter hissed. The table was set again, the fresh bread cooled and sliced, the tea brewed and everything else washed up, an apron strapped around Ori's waist as he stood at the sink humming, "That's what Bilbo Baggins hates" to himself.

"Ruby Cotton will be waiting at the Green Dragon for you," Ilá said, as Balin and Bofur spoke of gathering supplies. "Food, skins full of boiled water, wine, dried meats, nosebags for the ponies, thirteen of them."

"Thirteen? One for the hobbit, or do you believe he will not join our company, and the pony is for you?" Balin asked, turning to her; Óin held his horn to his ear, gazing at her, and she carefully wiped her fingers, conscious of the rings she bore on each. She mused on Mr Baggins and his fainting fit last evening…but she remembered his Took ancestry, and the power that being called "lily-livered" had on a person (as Bofur had teasingly called Mr Baggins the night before while he had sat with his pipe and his teacup in the parlour).

"A pony would not bear me comfortably," she said softly, glancing from face to face. Though she was slender, she stood a head taller than Fíli, who was tall himself among the dwarves, and had not ridden a pony since she before had entered her teenaged years. "I have my own steed, in any case. The pony is for Mr Baggins."

"So you believe he will join us?" Fíli said, looking unconvinced. Ilá shrugged delicately.

"There is always more to a person than what immediately meets the eye," she said softly, sighing gently as she turned to the stove. "Something you should always remember in the wild… Flip those sausages, Ori, or they shall burn."

"Oh," Ori grimaced, quickly flinging the sausages around the frying-pan. "Dori doesn't let me in the kitchen, he says I can't cook anything fit even for troll-consumption, let alone dwarf."

"Come along with us to get the ponies," Fíli said. "We'll get Kíli up, he can take over washing-up." And, striding into parlour, there was the sound of someone being kicked, a grunt, a curse aimed at Fíli, and his dark-haired brother came shuffling into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes and grimacing, wearing his trews and under-tunic.

"Well, what a vision you are this morning," Thorin said drily, eyeing the young dwarf as Ori pressed an apron on him and darted after Bofur. "If the woman had not already seen your table-manners last evening she might now be put off by the sight of you." Kíli peeked blearily at Thorin, who drew himself up from the kitchen bench and tucked his sword around his waist, casting Ilá the briefest of glances before following Óin and Balin, as Bofur set about waking the rest of the rabble. Ilá frowned after him, somewhat resenting being called "the woman".

"Morning," Kíli yawned, stretching. He sniffed the air, eyes at half-mast. "Bacon?"

"Sit yourself down," Ilá said, and soon Kíli was joined at the table by Dori, Nori, Dwalin, Bifur and Óin. "You'll finish eating and we'll be on our way…" It didn't take long for the dwarves at the second-seating to finish their breakfasts; nearly every morsel was tucked away in their bellies (or their beards) and Kíli, as the youngest in attendance, had to do the washing-up (Ilá having cooked). The dwarves clothed themselves fully, kitted out with furs and makeshift armour, leather and maille-reinforced tunics darned with suede; battle-hammers were picked up from the hall and throwing-axes tucked into boots, pocket-knives stowed away in the inside-pockets of belted jackets; the last of the plates was dried and stacked in the cupboard with teacups, polished flacons and cutlery (counted twice by Dori, after Nori hung up the dishcloth to dry before the stove).

Everything was left as if no dwarves had formed an unexpected party in Mr Baggins' home last-night; except for the pantry, which was now sorrowfully empty. A packet of bacon, several eggs, three sausages and a handful of mushrooms were all that remained, all Ilá had set aside for Bilbo, who still had not awoken by the time Balin returned, leaving the Burglar's unsigned contract in the parlour by Bilbo's favourite armchair.

Ori was stationed on the bridge across The Water to the Green Dragon inn, to keep watch on Bag End for any sighting of Mr Baggins. The other dwarves, each kitting out their new ponies with full bridle, carried bed-rolls, extra weapons, in Dori's case a skillet, and took their share of some of the provisions.

In the Four Farthings of the Shire, dwarves were sometime seen wandering toward the Blue Mountains and Ered Luin, but a confluence of them, and all of them with such character, made for some very entertaining viewing for the young hobbit-girls and hobbit-boys who giggled and played kiss-chase on the green before the Green Dragon, where ducks quacked happily, trout poked their lips to the surface of the water and little ships made of dried leaves and twigs floated momentarily before tragically sinking. Dwalin became the object of fascination and fear; a few of the braver hobbit-boys snuck closer to read the runes tattooed on his head; and they found Balin's and Glóin's foot-long beards incredibly curious.

Kíli and Fíli were incorrigible; chasing after the little hobbit-children, making games up on the green, teasing them and threatening to toss one in the water had the children giggling and shrieking giddily, Kíli had them all thinking up names for the ponies, and Fíli brought from out of a pocket spinning-tops and an interlocking wooden puzzle that even the wisest chequers-master could not piece back together once Fíli had 'broken' it.

"Each piece has to be put together in precisely the correct order, or it shan't fit together," Fíli said, and his long, clever fingers nimbly held polished wooden pieces together, the last interlocking to create a many-pointed star. "Clever, isn't it."

"Where did you get it from?"

"I made it," Fíli said, smiling gently, at the little hobbit-children's awed faces as the polished star was passed around. Across the green, Fíli shook his head and watched Kíli playing with a skipping-rope, held either end by two little hobbit-girls in pretty sunflower-yellow frocks and beautifully woven poke-bonnets, ringlets bouncing around their shoulders; he tripped on the rope and fell flat on his back, to the delight of the children gathered. He limped over and yawned, and as the ponies were saddled and fitted out, Mrs Cotton appeared to laden them all with food-supplies.

Sealed pots of flour; earthenware jars of whipped honey, pats of fresh butter and packets of dried meats; dried fruits; skins of wine and water; three sacks of potatoes; links of sausages; blocks of cheese; and some of Mrs Cotton's famous fruitcakes garnished with almonds, the recipe for which she kept a fiercely-guarded secret.

"Do you think he'll show up?"

"Bilbo?" Bofur shot back at Ori, who was still gazing across the bridge toward Bag End, and the great 'party tree' overshadowing the meadow dotted with gorgeously overflowing allotments.

"I don't reckon we'll be seeing him again," Nori spoke up, as Dori frowned at him and handed something to Mrs Cotton.

"He may surprise you yet," Ilá said softly, sitting on a picnic-bench outside the Green Dragon, where hobbits were already puffing away on pipes, playing chequers and watching the market (Bofur was "feeling bad about that B-A-C-O-N I had for breakfast" as he petted the little piglets being sold off) and keeping an eye on the boisterous hobbit-children playing on the green.

"Care to make a friendly wager?" Kíli asked, glancing at Ilá as she delicately cut chunks from a fresh apple with a small knife, each piece deliciously crunchy and sweet. Ilá gazed at him, then smiled.

"Perhaps."

"If our Burglar does join our company…I shall give you ten gold crowns," Kíli said.

"I see. And if he does not?"

"If Baggins doesn't show up, I shall have a kiss," Kíli said, and Ilá raised her eyebrows. She chuckled to herself, noting the look on Fíli's face, disapproving and a little disheartened, perhaps; and the other dwarves each chuckled and poked fun at Kíli for his boldness.

"I shall take your wager, Master Kíli," Ilá said softly, with a smile. He had not specified from whom the kiss was to be from if she lost the wager! They shook hands, and Ilá chuckled to herself as she readied her own parcels and belongings. She was used to wandering long in the wilds, laden with supplies as well as weapons and clothing, so it wasn't a bother for her to put an extra pack over her back; but her horse was not technically her horse. She allowed Ilá to ride her only, but she was a wild, beautiful mare from Edoras, one of the Mearas. The colour of hithlain, Ilá called her Elhith, 'star-mist', and, much like Gandalf, she appeared when she was most needed, even if Ilá did not know it at the time.

At the border of The Shire, Ilá had let Elhith wander off, for the Four Farthings made a beautiful walk, and Elhith had become antsy. She preferred the wilds, and Ilá would only have had to stable her once she reached Bag End, anyway.

So Ilá would go on foot, as she sometimes preferred; nearly a week's hard riding had made her a little saddle-sore, and her injured leg would only become aggravated by inaction if she rode too long.

Three extra ponies were brought into the party, to bear supplies, making the caravan sixteen in number, each of the ponies lovely, hardy Shetlands, ranging from piebald to blue dun, a wheat-coloured silver dapple and a beautiful chestnut-coloured bay among them. With traditional hobbit-names (jewels and flowers for the mares, curious names for the stallions like 'Bungo' and 'Caradoc'), each dwarf claimed his own, Thorin taking the grandest, the red bay with black mane, named Eglantine, and for half an hour Ilá laughed silently, watching Ori first try to climb onto Buttercup, slip off the stirrup, fall over the saddle in his enthusiasm once he'd managed to swing a leg over, and eventually, start moving backward because he wasn't accustomed to horse-riding and was giving patient Buttercup the wrong instructions.

"Come here," Ilá said softly, as Ori gave her a beseeching look, and she took hold of the reins he had dropped in his nervousness, and, the others having already started off in a procession, she led Buttercup after Fíli and Kíli, who rode astride Pearl and Bluebell respectively, and led between them Snowdrop, bearing some of the supplies. Ori was not at home on horseback at all; and, being rather tall beside the lovely Shetland, a young dwarf sitting astride it, Ilá couldn't stop smiling to herself, even chuckling softly once, to remember teaching young boys how to ride without fear. Ori had a little way to go yet. He sat upright, holding the reins with white knuckles, gazing around with wide eyes and glancing every other second down at Buttercup's head as she whickered and tossed her mane, trotting a little faster to catch up with aptly-named Snowdrop.

"Ilá!"

"It's alright, she just doesn't want to be left behind," Ilá said softly, striding alongside Buttercup as she strained to pick up speed and trot alongside Snowdrop. "Let loose the reins a little, see how she's straining… There we go."

"Have you never ridden a horse before, Ori?" Fíli asked, glancing over his shoulder.

"Dori says they're dangerous," Ori mumbled, glancing down warily at Buttercup as she whickered again.

"Oh, he doesn't mean anything by it," Ilá said softly to the pony, clicking her tongue and stroking Buttercup's mane with the back of her fingers. She glanced at Ori. "Shetlands are notoriously lovely. And hardy; they can survive the bitterness of winters in the highlands, and carry twice their weight if they must."

"Sound a bit like dwarves," Fíli said thoughtfully.

"Except for the 'notoriously lovely' part," Kíli said, clearing his throat softly, making his brother chuckle. Up ahead, several of the older dwarves were laughing deeply, to the grim-faced consternation of Dwalin.

While Balin had claimed a male pony named Rollo, and Óin a young mare named Clover, Bifur rode astride Caradoc, and Nori was getting along very well with Bertie.

They were all—Fíli translated, for Ilá was versed in the dwarvish language only as far as reading Cirth, their runes, having had little remarkable association with dwarves before joining this company—"taking the piss about Dwalin's pony."

"Why, what's wrong with it?" Ori asked innocently. Fíli and Kíli shared a smirk.

"She's called Daisy," Fíli chuckled, and Ilá, gazing up the procession to Dwalin, saw the battle-hardened, scarred and tattooed warrior grinding his teeth as Balin, Óin and Glóin jeered and chuckled.

It was very sweet, as they ambled on through Hobbiton, to hear dangerous Dwalin click his tongue and grunt, "Gee up there, Daisy." And each of the dwarves made sure Dwalin knew it. (By the time they parted with the ponies, months later, Daisy would be renamed Nipper, after her propensity to give all who insulted Dwalin a soft bite).

Bungo, Myrtle and Opal ambling along up front with supplies, led by Bofur (cooing adoringly to his pony, Daffodil) and Glóin on Lily, the procession was led by Gandalf in front on a chestnut stallion he had undoubtedly ridden into The Shire on, with Thorin behind him on Eglantine; Ilá strode alongside Ori, keeping watch from the rear on either side. Her experience in the wilds meant there were very few times when she was caught unawares; she was always watchful. Had to be, to stay alive.

So she was aware of someone following them before their party heard the call of one Mr Bilbo Baggins, Burlgar, for she had seen him flapping along behind with his bare feet, unbuttoned jacket and his contract fluttering in the breeze as he pelted along faster than any respectable hobbit had ever run (for anything other than free Longbottom leaf, of course).

"Wait. WAIT!" The hobbit came flapping into view, out of breath but smiling proudly; the caravan of ponies halted, except for Buttercup, who trotted along until she was stood beside Snowdrop, and stopped so suddenly poor Ori was nearly thrown over her neck, and would have been, if Ilá hadn't grabbed the back of his cardigan. Pearl, Fíli's pony, whickered and tramped in protest at the halt of the procession, and he clicked his tongue softly, patting her neck; Ilá glanced from the pony to Fíli.

Her grandfather used to say a man's worth could be measured by the way he treated his inferiors, not his equals; and certainly by the lore of the Rohirrim of Edoras, the way a man treated his horse was taken very seriously. Fíli was gentle with Pearl, stroking her mane, and she settled, though she snorted impatiently. In contrast, Kíli's pony, Bluebell, took the opportunity to bend her neck and start nibbling on the sweet grass to the side of the pony-trodden path.

"I signed it!" Bilbo declared, smiling as he trotted along the stalled procession to Balin, who arched an eyebrow, retrieved a dwarvish loupe (used for examining the purity of precious stones and, in Balin's case, to enlarge small lettering for easier viewing) from the inside of his jacket and examined Mr Baggins' signature.

"Everything appears to be in order!" Balin declared, folding the contract, handing it back to Bilbo. "Welcome, Master Baggins, to the company of Thorin Oakenshield." The others chuckled and cheered—especially those who had taken wagers on Bilbo showing up.

"Give him a pony," Thorin growled, and Ilá, as she led one of the supply-ponies back around behind Fíli, the better not to hold everyone up as Gandalf and Thorin clicked their tongues at their mounts, saw Bilbo's head snap up as he stammered.

"Oh, n-no, no, that won't be necessary, thank you," he said nervously. Fíli and Kíli exchanged a grin and urged their ponies on, reaching down for Bilbo. "I've done my fair share of walking-holidays, you know—argh!" The hobbit's legs dangled in midair for a moment before Fíli and Kíli set him uncomfortably in the saddle of Myrtle, who plodded along with a great cooking-pot and a considerable amount of provisions strapped to her besides the little hobbit, who sat grimacing, back straight, holding his fists clenched before his chest, the reins dangling uselessly.

"Ilá, my dear, where is your horse?" Gandalf asked, having dropped back to confer with Bilbo as coin-purses were tossed about, the grumblings and delight of the dwarves who had lost and won wagers centred on Mr Baggins. She herself counted out the ten gold crowns Kíli had promised her; she strode alongside the caravan, quite at her leisure, enjoying the springy grass beneath her feet, fiddling with wildflowers she plucked from the tall grasses.

"She'll be along," Ilá said softly. She glanced at Gandalf. "Anyway, I do not mind the walk; it's better for my leg not to stay idle, and The Shire makes for some beautiful walks." She sighed and glanced at Gandalf again. "We take the East Road, I presume."

"Indeed," Gandalf nodded. "Hopefully nothing will run us off the road; I do not wish to navigate us all through the Old Forest. Nor over the Barrow Downs." Ilá frowned ahead, her stomach knotting subtly; centuries ago the area now known in hobbit-lore as the Barrow Downs had once been home-in-hiding for some of her people. All had perished, now the only evidence that once the Dúnedain had dwelt there their funeral mounds, haunted by wights sent by the Witch-King of Angmar.

Though she disliked the thought of crossing the Barrow Downs, something about what Gandalf had said niggled at her and Ilá frowned; they had more to worry about after Bree than they did before they could reach the crossroads town.

"Our supplies will suit our needs for a few weeks, if we provision wisely," Ilá said thoughtfully, speaking in the elven tongue, "but a short rest in Bree would be prudent, to rest the ponies and see to any slipped shoes."

"A soft bed and a hot bath would be welcome to all in a few days' time, I believe," Gandalf agreed. "Especially when the weather starts to turn."

"Came you past Amon Sûl?" Ilá asked, frowning as she glanced at Gandalf.

"No, indeed, by the North Road, directly over the Sarn Ford," Gandalf said softly. "Why do you ask?"

"You journeyed by the same path as I then, perhaps, though I took the Andrath Greenway road, but I heard rumours, Mithrandir, in Bree," Ilá said uneasily, glancing at the wizard. "That is why I was delayed in my arrival last evening. Four days past I doubled back to the watchtower in daylight."

"And what did you find?" Gandalf asked sharply, his bushy eyebrows twitching beneath his wide-brimmed hat. Ilá licked her lips, glancing quickly at the dwarves nearby—Fíli, Kíli, Ori—whose conversation had filtered off to silence, each gazing at either her or the wizard as they spoke the beautiful elven language. She sighed and glanced back at Gandalf.

"Bones, Mithrandir. It would not be at all surprising, travellers are sometimes waylaid there by trolls who dare come down from the Weather Hills…but these were orc bones, I have seen enough of them to recognise them—each dented and nicked," Ilá said, striding alongside the wizard as his mount clip-clopped gently.

"As if something had gnawed on them," Gandalf murmured, his expression becoming faraway and uneasy.

"Yes," she confirmed softly. "Gundabad Wargs."

"You are sure?"

"The size of the fangs, they had to have been," Ilá said confidently.

"How fresh were the remains?"

"There was meat left on some of them," she answered. "From the night before, I thought. Remnants of clothing, a blade. Goblin-made, but the garments were of the kind an orc would fashion if he had no fresh victims to scavenge from."

"It is unusual, very few orcs have dared cross the Bruinen for an age," Gandalf frowned deeply.

"And they are using Amon Sûl," Ilá added, with an angry scoff, scowling. "The perfect location for observation and defence… Who knows how many they have already waylaid…"

"But what are they doing, so far West?" Gandalf frowned.

"If they came from the Misty Mountains I can have only one guess," Ilá said, sharing a darkly significant look with the wizard as they heard Thorin calling to Balin in dwarvish. "If word has reached them through their spies, they may yet know the exiled King is abroad. Mithrandir, our journey will be safe until we have passed Bree, then we must journey into the wilds, either through the South Downs or over the Weather Hills. We cannot risk exposure on the Great Road, not if my suspicions are correct. We would be wandering directly into their net."

"Agreed," Gandalf said heavily. "They will most likely be heavily armed, as is their fashion. And these ponies, as wonderful as they are in the bearing of heavy burdens, stand no chance of outrunning the Wargs of Mount Gundabad."

"I have sent Orós to watch over Weathertop," Ilá said softly. "To take stock of any activity."

"And who is Orós, might I ask?" Gandalf asked. Ilá smiled.

"It is not only the enemy who employ spies," she said softly, and that was all she would speak on the matter, though Gandalf chuckled as if he already anticipated Ilá's spy would not be of the conventional type.

Their pace was comfortable, ambling, though they made it only twenty-five miles before the darkness began to creep in through the trees. Though Ilá would have them keep on, the dwarves were saddle-sore, and more than a few had been grumbling about supper. So the ponies were led off the road, into the shelter of the trees, and firewood was gathered from the woodland floor. Dori's skillet was put to use, several links of sausages popping and sizzling on the pan while, having passed by the edge of a crop of corn, the cobs, still in the stringy leaves that protected the sweet yellow treasure within, were arranged on the smouldering ash to cook, a dab of butter slipped in each one. Fresh water from a nearby stream was drunk, the sweet-corn shared around with the crispy sausages, and as the fire simmered lower the dwarves brought out their musical instruments—Dori, Nori and Ori each brought out flutes, Bifur and Bofur clarinets, Dwalin a drum, and Fíli and Kíli two beautifully crafted fiddles. Thorin revealed a golden harp from the inside of his jacket, and as soon as the silver strings were plucked, the other dwarves joined; they sang into the night, long after the shadows had disappeared and the deep navy sky glittered with stars, and only Ori nodding off as he listened to the solemn vespers of the older dwarves hinted that it was time the others put out their pipes and unfurled their bed-rolls.

Bifur took the first watch; he sat with his pipe, humming to himself long after the other dwarves' snores filled the air, quite contented to sit and smoke and keep an eye on things. Ilá, her head full of the dwarves' sorrowful songs, tucked herself up under her fur-lined cloak, her bed-roll (with a quilted segment sewn at the top stuffed with swansdown for a pillow) unfurled at the base of a large oak overgrown with honeysuckle and ivy, outside the circle of the firelight. While they kept a watch, Ilá had found it wise in times past to sleep a little away from a large gathering, for if anything beset the group, she had a little more time to react if someone cried out.


A.N.: I love the idea of Dwalin's pony being called Daisy. I think he's kind of the equivalent of Dagonet in King Arthur (2004 version), in sheer formidableness. *Dagonet and Tristram are my favourite characters from that film; Tristram inspired both Ilá and one of my other OC characters, and Dagonet's personality will influence the way I write Fíli's character development.