The next morning, when Westley arrived, Buttercup was ready. "Stop that horse!" she cried, flapping arms at the pirate. "We'll need him!"

Elves and dragons, she felt…herself. Fear lurked in the recesses of her mind, but after the night before, it couldn't bite down with the potency it had prior. Thorin, Westley, and the others had hashed out a plan. A workable one, she hoped. As her king had said, she wasn't alone. When she remembered the feel of being buried in his arms… Well, she knew she'd do anything for him. Even if that moment never returned.

Westley chased after the horse, arms spread to either side to corral the mischievous thing. Buttercup had no idea who the beast belonged to, but they needed him. From here on out, the bay was hers. Or Westley's rather. Buttercup could not hope to control the big beast.

Once Westley had hold of the horse's bridle, he led it to the bushes. The wretched creature had the nerve to nicker softly at the man, giving him doe eyes. But then behind Westley's back, it bared its teeth, laughing at her. So that's the way it is, hmm?

"Do you mean to imply this animal belongs to you?" Westley asked part doubtfully, part chiding.

"No," she huffed. "Of course not. I'd probably break my neck trying to ride him."

"Her," Westley corrected.

Huh. She glared at the mare. Where, she wanted to know, was the unity of gender? Traitor, she thought at the horse. To which the horse bared her teeth again, her tail doing this cocky little swish.

Buttercup smiled sweetly. "We'll need it."

The horse snorted, eyes baleful.

Buttercup abandoned her attempts to further needle the beast. To Westley, she said, "Bear with me. We will need the horse…or you will, rather. I'm not crazy, and yes, I know who you are. You are Westley, also known as the Dread Pirate Roberts. You told me to tell you that you ventured off to seek your fortune because your love—who, I might add, you left nameless—" She narrowed eyes in irritation. "…deserves better than poverty."

He stood stock still, eyes unblinking within his mask. "How? What do you know of my Buttercup?" he asked sharply. One black-gloved hand slapped about the hilt of his ludicrous sword.

Her eyebrows flew upwards. Buttercup? She wondered if that happenstance—that his love and Buttercup shared a name—was why he'd been so kind from the beginning. "That's her name? All this time, you never told me."

"We just met," he said, unappeased.

"No, we haven't."

"Yes, I'm sure this is the first time we've spoken." Then as if unable to contain himself, he added in a heated voice, "Are you a witch? I have to tell you, I do not appreciate—"

"Westley. My name, too, is Buttercup. No, I'm not making that up," she threw in, cutting off the accusation she knew had to be coming. "You never told me your love's name before—which, by the way, was poor planning on your part, but we'll let that go. For now." Feeling ridiculous arguing up at the man from the bushes, she attempted to make herself as helpless and harmless to his sight as possible. "If I promise to tell you everything, will you please get me out of these bushes?"

His eyes narrowed, one hand yet upon the hilt of his sword, the other latched to the horse's bridle. "Buttercup."

She nodded emphatically. "Truly. When we reach Gandalf, he'll confirm it."

"Gandalf."

"The wizard. Old man with the pointed hat, gray robes and long beard?" She gave up and switched direction. She squirmed within the bush. Then in a small voice, "Please don't leave me stuck in here, Westley."

"You really cannot extricate yourself?" His lips twitched, and his eyes crinkled at the corners.

She resigned herself to a life of embarrassment. "No."

Minutes later, the horse trotted toward the Lord's Hall at Westley's urging, the sharp clop of its hooves echoing off of Dale's streets and buildings. Seated ladylike before Westley on the horse's bare back, she gave the pirate the quickest summary of recent events so far. (Perhaps she was getting better at this, she thought hopefully. Though of all the skills to hone, this had to be the most useless, current events aside.)

"Let me see if I have this straight. You wish to change the course of an entire battle with yourself and me—"

"Don't forget everyone else," she said as they passed a number of curious elves and men. "I don't expect us to single-handedly hold back the forces of evil."

"No, but you do expect to pinpoint one or two souls out of how many thousand?"

"Um. Probably at least three," she hazarded to guess.

"Right, three thousand orcs and goblins, and among them we must locate an unknown number who are able to recall this repeating day of yours. It cannot be done."

"You said it could be," she objected. "Last night."

"Unless we can move about unseen…" he began.

Oh. Perhaps she'd patted herself on the back too soon. That was a glaringly foolish omission. Bother. Her penchant had ever been to keep the ring a secret from all but the Company. Foolish, but sharing its existence with outsiders yet felt…wrong. After a furtive look around, she told him, "I have a magical ring that turns me invisible."

He stared at her hard. "That would change things," he conceded.

Good. Good. Ahem. Before her courage failed her, she forced herself to say the words she'd been dreading. Her cheeks heated, but she told him. "I must also tell you the status of my courtship efforts."

Westley's eyes flared, and his head jerked. In a flash, his attention was off the street and clapped onto her. "This grows more interesting by the minute."

"Embarrassing," she corrected with an inner sigh. "The word you want is 'embarrassing'."

Oh, and confound it, they were almost to their destination even with the horse slowed by the crowded square. With a bracing inhale, Buttercup dutifully informed the pirate of her fumbling attempts to woo Thorin. She refused to break her word to him any longer.

"So you promised to report to me, did you?" A wicked glint appeared in his eyes.

"Westley," she said. "We have bigger problems."

He seemed bent upon focusing on her never-to-be romance. "Your sole gift to your king has been a sandwich?" He clucked his tongue.

She fidgeted under his stare. "They were hungry," she defended. "Food is important to hobbits."

"But not exclusive to courtship," he all but challenged her to deny.

Buttercup's tongue poked the inner pocket of one cheek. Her eyes slid away.

"No," he said without a doubt.

"We really have more important things to discuss," she tried with a hint of desperation. Confound the man, where were his priorities?

Foolish question. True love. If there was one thing that jerked on Westley's leash, love was it, and no doubt. She said more seriously, "Lives, Westley. Focus on the big picture."

He tapped her nose. "True love," he countered.

"Time!" she all but begged. "I don't have time for this."

"So," he continued, unmoved. "Let me guess. You fed all of the dwarves to hide your affection."

A groan. She dropped her face into her hands. Easier to comply to get this over with faster. By the Shire, the man was single-minded. Was his Buttercup as tragically romantic? "Of course. But I made him the biggest sandwich."

They arrived at their destination, and she dared to hope the subject was closed. She slid off the evil mare without waiting for him and headed for the stairs.

From behind, she heard his footsteps. "Add another item to your gift this day," Westley said, clearly not willing to let the matter rest.

Like a mangy dog with his teeth around a doily, she grumbled. Her lips pursed. Add something? A glimmer of an idea to spare herself more humiliation curled her lips upwards.

"Something you don't gift to the other dwarves as well," Westley said with heavy disapproval.

She stamped her foot. Confound the man.

The day got better as Alfrid made his appearance. "Look here, now," the odious man said as he once again barred her from the hall. "There are important people inside, and you two aren't invited."

Westley glanced to her. Buttercup surreptitiously cracked a knuckle. This hobbit had had it with interfering men. Revenge. The promise of it tasted sweet on her tongue.

Prodding tears to her eyes, she wobbled closer to the fopdoodle of a man. "How could you?" she asked in a heartbroken (and sweetly loud) voice. "How could you treat me this way?"

From all directions, heads turned.

"Did what we have mean nothing to you?" she continued in the same vein. The back of one hand pressed to her forehead.

For his part, Alfrid looked dumbfounded. Slower than molasses going uphill, she sniffed.

Then with greater drama, "You said you'd marry me. You said you loved me, and I believed you." Wide, teary eyes drifted to the townspeople, pulling them in. Her fingers bunched the hem of her tunic, and her chin wobbled. Her face crumpled as if with shame. She focused on her prey. You, Alfrid Lickspittle, are going down. "What about the baby? How can you deny your own child?"

Murmurs spread through the courtyard, angry and rumbling with disapproval.

"Here, now," an old crone said as she hobbled closer. "If you, Alfrid Lickspittle, took advantage of this small lady, you will make it right." Her cane poked him hard in the chest.

"I never touched her!" Alfrid insisted, face flushed and eyes wide. Sweat dotted his forehead quite satisfactorily, Buttercup thought. He backed away as more people marched towards him with murder in his eyes.

"There, there, dear," one matron said, patting her arm. "We'll deal with this."

"He was so charming," Buttercup insisted, batting her eyes.

"Why, she's no more'n a child," she heard one man grumble.

The mood turned ugly, Alfrid bolted—pursued by many of Lake-town's outraged citizenry, including the crone with her cane lifted high—and just like that, the path was cleared.

Buttercup wiped the tears from her face. Beaming up at Westley, she said, "Shall we?"

"What was that about?" he asked coolly with eyes at half mast.

"Watch him today. You'll understand."

He halted her with one hand to her arm. "A gift for your king. A real gift."

"Westley," she growled, plunking fists on her hips. "I have a war to help orchestrate, an orc to locate—"

"Or possibly a goblin or troll," he interjected.

Buttercup glared harder. "—a debilitating fear of ROUSes to confront, pigheaded dwarves, elves and men to lecture, and still manage to find time for some weapons training. I'm swamped."

"Add to the gift," he repeated. "Even kings need love, and from what you've shared, you are an imaginative lady. You'll think of something." A pause. "You should find time to rest, as well," he said gently. "If we don't have our health, we haven't got anything."

Buttercup jogged down the length of the hall, Westley's quieter feet right behind. Once they spilled onto the terrace, she instantly began speaking.

To the Elvenking: "Tullen tye-rehtien. You told me to inform you these words so that you would know your future self sent me."

"Future self?" Gandalf blurted, his bushy eyebrows flying upwards.

Buttercup spared him a nod, but her focus remained upon the Elvenking. "The rest was 'Súl suuya, anar sila, loti vanwa.' Your wife's words, you told me." The elf's eyes widened considerably, but she moved on.

To Bard, "Braed."

Next to Gandalf, "You said to tell you that you had been imprisoned in Dol Guldur during our absence. There, you encountered Thrain who is now dead."

Silence. The three leaders turned to one another in question and read matching answers upon their faces.

She bobbed on her feet. "Good. Listen up. We have a lot to do and no time to do it in…"

Westley and Buttercup thundered across the fields between Dale and Erebor on the mare. The bay, according to Thranduil, was one of the swiftest horses from the elves' stables even if she seemed to have it in for hobbits.

What Thranduil thought of Buttercup's delay, she didn't want to know. Under Westley's watchful eye, she whipped up a bunch of hastily-constructed sandwiches. Plus the confounded addition which he deemed acceptable.

"True love," Westley dared lecture the king of the elves, "takes precedence."

If Thranduil had any reservations, after that, Buttercup was certain they were gone and the elf was convinced that, yes, the hobbit and the pirate were more than a couple nuts short of a decent pie. Bother.

The horse, Lach by name, skidded to a halt right beneath Nori, who gaped down at them with both surprise and distrust (the second centered more upon Westley). "Bilbo," Nori said. "If you're thinking Thorin will spare you because you brought a masked man—"

"Rope, Nori. Now!" she said urgently, rising to stand on the mare's saddle. "Enemies coming. Azog and Bolg. ROUSes." When the dwarf hesitated, she rolled her eyes and said the password, "Or I tell Dori what happened to Ori's fiftieth birthday cake."

Down came the rope. Up Buttercup climbed while Westley waited below. The instant she was on the balcony, Westley tied her gifts to the rope's end. A kick to Nori's ankle and the food arrived faster than her arms could manage alone.

Buttercup tore through the bindings, dropped the rope back over the railing, then she shoved a sandwich at Nori. Gathering the rest in her arms, she ran. "Nori, you'll need to keep watch," she babbled over one shoulder. "I swear, if we live through this, I'll tell you what's happening. For now, you can't leave that balcony."

"You'd better be telling me the truth, Bilbo," he shouted in her wake.

"Bilbo?" Ori emerged from another passageway. She tossed him food, too, but didn't stop. A breathless, "Food. Eat in a hurry, Ori. Enemies coming."

She repeated it with each subsequent dwarf until only one hefty sandwich remained…and the blasted addition. Buttercup fumbled with both, trying to free up her hand to don the ring, when Dwalin caught up with her, untouched sandwich in his left hand. "You'll want to eat that," she told him. "Or Kíli will."

"Kíli will what?" Fíli asked, arriving with his brother, both carrying their food.

"Never mind that," Dwalin snapped. "What's this about enemies coming?"

She shoved her burdens to the Durin brothers. "Hold these a moment." (Fili held the ribbon with a lock of her hair affixed to it to his brother, both bearing confused expressions.) She grabbed the ring from her pocket and slipped it onto her finger. "Be right back with Thorin," she assured them as she reclaimed her gifts from Fíli and Kíli. "He'll be free of the dragon-sickness."

Behind, she heard Kíli ask his brother, "Bilbo slip a cure into Uncle's sandwich, you think?"

As if.

Buttercup schooled her feet to a slower pace, her heart pounding out a song of urgency that kept prodding her feet faster. Elves and dragons. Why could nothing be easy?

Reaching Thorin, she only wanted to hurl herself in his arms again—they made a truly warm and cozy sanctuary—and that must have been why she was a tad more…ahem…aggressive this time. She grabbed the dwarf by his jacket, hauled him close, and kissed him thoroughly.

Really thoroughly. The way she'd always dreamed of doing.

A gasp escaped the lips pressed to hers. Signal enough that her moment was done, she supposed. Then trying to be as brusque as possible, her cheeks tomato red, she thrust the sandwich at him. "Eat this. You haven't been taking care of yourself, and you'll need it today."

His hands closed instinctively about the food, his eyes wide.

Then using the words he'd given her (which the confounded dwarf had refused to translate), she said, "My pronunciation will be wrong, but you told me to tell you this: Inkhir, uzbadê. Innikh dê. Kilmîn mafarrakh d'afrukh. Amrad inkh gagin ra gagin, Kidhuzel."

By then end, his eyes competed with the Arkenstone in size, and the last caused a flash of…something…to click within them. "How is it you speak Khuzdul? Who was it who taught you our tongue?" he asked in a voice soft with threat.

"You did," she said bluntly. "Or your future self, rather." Then her brow furrowed. "Why? What did you have me memorize to say to you?"

"You do not know what you said?"

"No." With growing impatience, she stepped closer. Thorin, she was shocked to see, took a step back. "Oh, hold still. Like I would ever hurt you. Eat, Thorin." Then clambering aboard his boots for added height, she stretched up and removed his crown. With a flick of the wrist, she tossed it aside. "No more gold," she lectured. "We love you as you are." (Love? You utter ninny! You don't say love like this!)

He stepped back in a hurry, dumping her onto her feet without warning.

"You sure are skittish." Her eyes narrowed. To herself, "Just what was it you told me to say, you wretch?" Shaking away the thought—this Thorin looked no more likely to share than the previous version—she continued.

"No, I'm not a lad. Bilbo is my brother, and it's a long story." She flapped a hand. "Eat, Thorin. I'm not kidding. You need the food." She grabbed his sleeve, and wonder of wonders, he let her lead him out of the treasury. Perhaps his future self had said something shocking, for he sure seemed off-balance.

"Azog's coming," she nattered away. "Enemies are surrounding Erebor. The men and elves will help—oh, don't give me that look," she said when she sensed a death glare boring holes through the back of her head. "I'm well aware of the situation, but unless you think your pride more important than your sister-sons, you'll be quiet and let me finish."

"Us?" Fili asked.

Buttercup sighed. They were close enough to the treasury exit for the rest of the congregating Company to hear her words. "I have no time to prove things to you," she told them. Then she hesitated. "Dwalin, let's say I've been living the same day over and over again, and I needed some phrase or word to tell you that would inform you I wasn't quite as crazy as you think. What would you have me say?"

"What?" a number of dwarves said.

"There's not a thing you could say after a statement like that," Gloin groused.

She stamped one foot. "Look, I am out of time." She whirled to face Thorin and poked one finger in his chest. "Eat, confound you. I went through a lot of trouble to bring you that."

Emotions churned in his eyes, but Thorin slowly took a bite, his expression a demand for answers.

Answers she had little time to provide. She summed it up. She'd been living the same day. It kept changing and people kept dying, including his sister-sons, himself, Bofur and Buttercup…er…Bilbo. (So far, Thorin was the only soul inspecting her as if to assure himself of her gender, but then again, he was the only one she'd kissed.)

A sharp whistle echoed its way down the hall. Westley. She instinctively knew it. "I'm out of time." To Thorin, "Last night you told me to tell you that unless I receive better training, I'll keep dying—"

"Keep dying?" Bofur repeated, his eyebrows vanishing beneath his winged hat.

She managed a smile that held no amusement, and confound it all, her body adopted a fine tremor, one she knew her dwarves spotted by the way they unanimously stiffened. "I've been beheaded, stabbed, crushed, and…" Here, her voice shook violently. "…eaten alive by giant rats. Not sure how much more I can take, so if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not do it anymore."

Sideways glances were exchanged among the dwarves while she took a deep breath. Back to Thorin: "Choose. If you don't believe me, Thranduil has a couple trainers waiting for me back in Dale."

"That fairy?" Dwalin asked in outrage.

"You are a member of our Company," Thorin said softly, halting the others' objections. When her attention returned to him, she found him unbudging. "So long as the rest of you did not teach her Khuzdul?" Hard eyes moved among the others.

"Khuzdul? Nay!" Bofur denied, palms flashing.

"She?" Kili and Fili pounced.

Thorin nodded shortly. "As I thought. Very well, Mistress Baggins, I will believe you."

"If it helps, Nori was teaching me during the battle the first…well, I'm not sure how many times."

"Then Nori will continue," Thorin decreed. "We will not change instructors mid-way. It would only set you back. What?" he asked with exasperation as her hand inched upwards and a couple fingers wiggled with a comment.

"You also said to have Ori remain behind. If there is any record of an event like this in Erebor's library, we have to look for it. Thranduil will be questioning the elves at his disposal, but he sounded doubtful of discovering anything."

"Anything else?" he asked evenly, a muscle along his left jaw twitching.

"Gandalf, Bard, and Thranduil would meet with you if you are willing," she informed him, bobbing on her toes as her sense of urgency climbed. "You planned to use Frathrasir's Maneuver, whatever that is, with the Company and Dain's dwarves being the boot."

The words must have meant something to Thorin, for his face lost another heft dose of doubt. Instead, he nodded slowly, mind racing.

Buttercup flapped one hand. "Oh, for pity's sake, would you eat the blasted sandwich already? Take it from a hobbit who's had nothing to chew on for months now. Food is good. Food is your friend. I suffered that elf's disdain to get you that food. The least you could do is eat it." Then a smile. "Think of it this way. It'll annoy the Elvenking that some of his precious stores are in dwarf bellies."

"Months?" Dori asked, aghast.

She patted his face. "Thank you, Brother, but you don't have the time for a more thorough explanation."

Back to Thorin (the confounded dwarf even looked masterful with a mouth full of sandwich), "Someone else is reliving this day as well," she told him in a softer tone. Once again, all of her dwarves stiffened as if on command. (Too cute!) "The elves and men will be keeping watch, trying to determine who it is. He's better at this than I am, Thorin. This battle gets worse for us daily. The elves and men know the strategy our foes used yesterday, and we're hoping your Frathrasir's Maneuver makes the difference. If I'm staying behind in Erebor, you'd better keep Westley with you. He's out there waiting by the gates. Masked man. You can't miss him."

Ori sidled closer to her. "So I search the library?"

Thorin nodded slowly. "Do. I'll send your middle brother with you. The three of you bar yourselves into the library. If none of us return for you, Mistress Baggins, you will know our efforts today failed. Think of something else."

Before he could leave she tossed him her…blush, blush, blush…gift. Then donning her ring like an absolute coward, she sang to Ori, "See you in the library," and bolted.

What Thorin made of the bit of blue ribbon tied around a lock of one of her curls, she tried not to imagine.

Nori and Ori barged through the doors, interrupting Buttercup's silent jig in the atrium of the library. What could she say? Libraries made her happy. So many books (which she couldn't read) with so many stories (again, which she couldn't read). It was magic. (That she couldn't access.)

Oh, hush, you, she said to that inner detractor. Books were wondrous things. No, she couldn't read these, but her fertile mind raced in fantastical directions just thinking about what they might hold.

Tearing her gaze from the second and third stories of the library—each overlooked the central square atrium—she beamed at the brothers, only to have her smile wilt at the edges at the sheer load of weaponry they carried.

Nori paused inside the threshold to kick shut the two arching iron behemoths that pretended to be doors, then his boots echoed loudly as he jogged to catch up with Ori. Together, the Ri brothers made their way to the atrium where she waited.

"What were you doing?" Nori asked with a slight smirk.

"Me?" She smoothed a curl behind one ear. "Oh, nothing. Just waiting." See? Innocent face. Nothing happening here.

Ori's snort shredded that tale. With a shyly teasing glint in his eye, he said, "Looked like dancing to me."

Nori's grin widened. He nudged his brother's shoulder with his own. "She's thrilled to have us as her instructors. Plainly overjoyed."

The two set their burdens down upon a scarred wooden table in the center of the smial-sized atrium. Then without word, they shoved the squealing, protesting table up against one line of surrounding stone bookshelves.

Ori cleared his throat once that was done. "What am I looking for exactly? Information about traveling through time?" he asked a bit hesitantly.

Buttercup joined them near the table, her eyes slow to cease from drinking in the beauty around her. Yes, the library was dusty and disordered, but purple and yellow crystals hung from the ceiling high above, and more golden crystals illuminated the rows of bookshelves like magic. She'd never seen anything like it before Erebor.

And the bookcases! Elves and dragons, she should have known dwarves wouldn't settle for clobbered-together contraptions of wood and nails. These were of a glowing white stone that stood taller than two dwarves, one atop the other, with runes and carvings along their borders. Best of all, they had ladders. True ladders with wheels that were attached to a brass pole along the top of the shelves, permitting one to slide the ladder up and down one row of bookshelves at leisure.

How brilliant! How ingenious! It put everything in reach for shorter hobbit hands.

"Not traveling through time," she corrected, focusing on their assignments. She pursed her lips, eyes lifting to the second and third stories with sudden dismay. Those floors, too, were crammed with thousands of tomes, scrolls, and loose parchments well into decay.

She knew. She'd poked around a bit back when she was in denial and avoiding reality. This, she lamented, would take forever.

Good thing I have that, a part of her affably provided.

Snorting at her own foolish thoughts, she attended to the scholar. "Time is looping," she explained awkwardly. "I know of no other way to put it. Each day, I wake at the same place, same time. I've relived this day…" She bit her lip. Huh. No matter which way she churned it about in her mind, she came up with a big question mark. Yes, she'd intentionally lost track, but to not know if it was months, half a year, or longer?

"You don't know how many times?" Ori asked, his expression decidedly sympathetic.

"I'm betting dying more'n once had something to do with it." Nori folded his arms, an unhappy look upon his face.

She could have kissed them both. Thorin, she thought, probably would have insisted on such details and not understood her aversion to paying attention to them. "I tried not to keep track," she admitted.

Ori grunted uncomfortably. Then to his brother, "I'll start searching on the top floor."

"Keep track of what you've done," she called after him. "So I can tell you where to resume tomorrow."

He waved one hand over his shoulder.

Leaving her with Nori, who leaned back against the table with arms folded. "So. You resort to blackmailing your own brother?"

Buttercup sputtered, objecting that she'd had no choice, but he tugged upon one of her curls. "Next time," he said, "leave off the threats, pipsqueak."

His grin flashed when she wrinkled her nose at the name. Then with a lightness belied by his eyes, Nori said, "Dwarves are a possessive lot, and we're mighty protective of our lasses. You do our family honor by calling us brothers—and aye, we all heard you call Dori that. We discussed it while Dori armed himself. We accept." Then with momentary uncertainty, "If'n you meant it, of course."

"I meant it," she said softly, setting one hand on his arm. "For many years, it's only been me and Bilbo. I'd be honored to be counted your kin, Nori."

"Bilbo won't object?" he asked, gaze studiously elsewhere.

She leaned into Nori's side. "Bilbo would be relieved," she confessed. At Nori's look of disbelief, she said, "You are a lot more intimidating. Bilbo chased off suitors with a broom. I imagine he'd be more than happy to let you take care of that duty," she ended dryly.

Nori's lips quirked. "Suitors, eh?" He flexed his fingers. "I'd right enjoy that." He glanced down at her, and in a softer voice, he said, "We lost one sister. We'll not lose our second."

It was said with all the solemnity of a vow, and her skin prickled. Her throat tightened, and her eyes turned watery.

Until an image popped into her head: Findo Boffin, the most aggravatingly insistent suitor imaginable, mustering up the courage to speak with Nori. By Yavanna, she'd relish that. Maybe Nori would be enough to convince the pugnacious hobbit that no really did mean no.

Nori grunted and changed topics, his demeanor sobering. "This whole thing sounds like some grant jest, but if you say we're living the same day over and over, I'll believe you. Thorin's convinced, and that's good enough for me." His brown eyes tilted down to her. "From now on, no threats, Namad. When you greet me on watch, call me Nadad." A lecturing finger appeared under her nose. "Try to look your gender. It'll make things easier."

"Are you telling me that you wouldn't protect me as Bilbo? Because I know that's not so. Dori was always looking out for me."

Nori muttered something incomprehensible.

She bumped him with her hip. "Shall I put some flowers in my hair?" she asked dryly.

"Aye," he said with heavy exasperation. "Bilb—" He rolled his eyes. "Buttercup, we've not had endless days to accustom ourselves to your true gender. Give a dwarf some help."

"Flowers? Really? Nori, be serious. Limited time, here." She pointed at her chest. "Bad enough Westley has me fixing courtship gif—" Oh, shut up, you blathering humperdink, a part of her shrieked.

Nori jerked upright, face filling with avid interest. "Courtship gifts. You were going to say 'courtship gifts'!" he accused delightedly. "So that's what that was you tossed at Thorin. A favor." The look upon his face made her groan—it was pure mischief. "Well, well, well." A heavy arm dropped around her shoulders and pulled her up against his side. "Is my new namad sighing over our bonny king?"

That settled it. She was going, by the Shire, to sew her own lips shut. Surely that would stop her from leaking embarrassing information left and right.

His grin grew. "Aye, that's the way of it, right enough." He tapped one burning cheek with his free hand. The other kept her pinned in place at his side.

"Did I say I needed more brothers? Because plainly, I was wrong," she rushed.

Nori laughed in her face. "Too late. You're ours now." Then with a hint of hardness entering his voice, "And I'm warning you, lass. Don't be keeping this private when you relive this day. Dori may be a mother hen, and Ori may seem distracted by his books and papers at the best of times…"

"And you?" she interrupted, detecting something in his voice she felt compelled to poke at.

"Me? I'm a no good rotten thief," he said lightly.

That fast, his tunic was bunched in her hands, and his face was hauled down to her level. "Who dared to call you that?" she snarled. "I'll hit him over his head with my best iron skilled." Then in fairness, "Once I reacquire it."

This time, Nori's smile was slow. He pressed their foreheads together, utterly disarming her. She knew dwarves did not exchange that embrace lightly. It sent chills down her spine. Elves and dragons, the feeling of belonging flooded her.

"So fierce, Namad. Best you gain skills to back up your threats first."

Namad. Nadad. She recalled hearing the latter term a few times between Kíli and Fíli. "Nadad. That's Khuzdul, isn't it?" she managed around a throat suddenly thick with emotions. "Thorin had kittens when I parroted back the bit he taught me last night." Her lips twisted. "Not that I have any idea what the lug taught me to say." Her face brightened. Perhaps—

"No," Nori said with a snort. "If you're wanting a translation, you ask Thorin. I'm not about to get in the middle of that." With a brief smile, Nori tweaked her nose. Then, he stood up straight, releasing her. "First thing we'll be working on…"

"How to avoid rats?"

What he read upon her face brought a grim kind of understanding. "Like that, was it?" A short nod. "Close combat fighting first. That letter opener of yours is handy enough, but if an enemy—rat or otherwise—gets too close, you won't be able to strike effectively with that large a blade. You'll be wanting something smaller." He turned his back, searching the table. Then he presented her with two small sheaths with shining hilts. Steel, she thought.

A short inhale, and she wrapped her hands around them. The hilts were cool. Smooth. "What do I do?"

Nori helped her to latch the sheaths to her thighs. He got her used to the feel of them, their weight and the little grooves on the hilts that told her without looking where the sharp edges would be at all times. A small detail, but crucial.

Little use, Nori said, her blade would be if she accidentally dragged the flat of it across a goblin's neck instead of the razor's edge.

After a few hours of sweaty, repetitious work, he stopped going easy on her.

Her newly acquired nadad proceeded to drill her into the ground.

A thunderous rap ended Nori's torturous excuse for training. Thorin. Jubilation filled her. Breathy anticipation to see him hale and whole.

But before she could rush to the door and throw it open, Nori caught hold of her by the seat of her pants and dragged her back into the atrium, her bare feet squeaking and sliding along the dusty marble floor. "Nori," she whined.

"Wait," he whispered near her ear, and she heaved a sigh of relief that his lips had come no closer. Hobbit ears were sensitive. Very…ahem..stimulating. Explaining that bit to her new brother was more than she was willing to tackle this year.

A sudden thought: did Thorin find her ears appealing…or too elf-like? An image popped into her mind, of her father nibbling on her mother's ear, and her mother giggling and blushing like a youth. Only Buttercup's shameless imagination replaced her mother with herself, and her father with Thorin, and the effect was instantaneous. Heat rushed through her, and Buttercup hastily sheathed the dagger in her hand so that she could fan her face.

Bad, bad, bad hobbit. What was it about that dwarf that turned her into a scandalously wanton creature?

Wanton. She slapped palms over her eyes. What was she coming to?

The door opened. Her heart lifted like birds in flight…only to plummet back to earth and splat on the ground. No Thorin. It was Gloin.

And Gloin doesn't matter? she scolded herself. Rude, Buttercup Baggins. Thoughts of Gloin's wife and Gimli in mind, she hurried to the doorway and gave the dwarf a thorough look-over.

Gloin greeted her with a crinkle of the eyes—Gloin's version of a grin—but his words to Nori never faltered. "…lit the old aqueducts Thror helped the men of Dale construct during the days of Girion's sire. The blaze was a sight, I'll tell ya that. Sent those rats scurrying."

What was this?

Gloin sniffed in satisfaction. "Managed to trap 'em all in the elves' nets down to the last rat." To Buttercup, "Teach them to touch our burglar."

That fast, she had her arms around the redheaded dwarf, as far around as they could reach. "I love you. Have I mentioned how much I love you?"

"She means the Company," Nori said with soft snort.

Gloin patted her roughly on the back and extricated himself. A second crinkle of his eyes, and he said, "I'm to take you to Dale, Bilbo" he said.

"Buttercup," Nori corrected.

Gloin nodded dutifully. "I'll remember it. Thorin, Dain and Gandalf are waiting."

"You want my sister, I'm coming with you," Nori decreed.

"Sister?" Then with a frown. "Who decided you get to claim our burglar, thief? Oin and I have equal claim."

Buttercup swiftly intervened before the fight swallowed up the rest of the evening. "We can discuss this later." A hard look halted Nori's objection. She was not losing valuable Thorin-time… Ahem. She was not losing valuable planning time to their squabbling.

The walk through Dale was heartbreaking. It was packed with wounded. Elves. Men. Even some of Dain's dwarves. This time around, there were no tent infirmaries set up, so pallets lined the streets, and healers scurried from patient to patient.

Buttercup swallowed heavily, and Ori's arm wrapped around her. She had become too acquainted with the moans and cries that characterized the aftermath of battle, but familiarity did nothing to dull the horror of blood smears and the heavy iron tang that permeated the air. Her heart could no more turn off at the suffering around her than it could harden itself against Thorin, and she was glad it was so.

She didn't want to be the kind of person who could be untouched by this misery and pain.

They reached Bard's hall. Inside, they found the space lit by candlelight. More wounded lay on pallets pushed up against the walls near the door, and farther in, she could see a number of elves surrounding Thranduil as he conversed with a filthy-looking Bard, a just as filthy Westley (still wearing the mask), a haggard Gandalf and…

"Thorin!" Call it exhaustion, call it relief after worrying for her dwarves all day. Whatever it was, it had her running to him in a flash. Or trying to.

Buttercup tripped on an uneven stone she hadn't even noticed. Which sent her arms windmilling in a desperate bid for balance. Which sent her careening and splatting belly-down on the floor with a spectacular lack of grace or finesse.

"Tomorrow, Namad," Nori said with light amusement. "Tell me to teach you how to fall properly."

"And to watch where you're stepping," Ori agreed.

She nodded absently as she scrambled to her feet. More of her dwarves were headed for her…well, except Thorin who waited with challenging face and arms folded across his chest.

Don't care, her Took-side insisted. She raced through her friends and their effusive words of relief, bypassed Bard and Gandalf and threw herself at her dwarf king.

She didn't care what he thought.

Okay, yes, she did. She really did as she squeezed him around his middle, her cheek squashed to his hard armor.

Then his arms slowly closed around her. If all he ever felt was the fondness of a friend, it was well.

Buttercup kept glancing at the pocket watch Westley had kindly offered her—much to Nori, Dori and Ori's narrow eyed displeasure. Her brothers grumbled to one another about not knowing to provide her a watch, which in turn ended with her on the receiving end of a triple glower.

"What?" she protested defensively.

9:14pm. The assembled council had discussed the day's successes—with what she'd informed them, they'd been able to completely turn the tables on the unknown mastermind directing the enemy's efforts, resulting in a landslide victory. The council had debated what their nemesis might counter with and changed their strategies accordingly.

Like trying to mind read, she fretted. Just because it worked this time didn't mean it would the next. Doubtless their foe (or foes) would adjust their plans come morning, too.

With each passing minute, her nerves twanged like a viol whose strings had been too tightly stretched. This day would be erased with none to remember the chats that had been had. The kindnesses shared. Not Nori. Not Ori. Not Thorin.

Unsurprising, no one had dug up answers about what might have caused time to break as it had. The elves had discussed it for hours amongst themselves, and Gandalf had thought of nothing. In other straits, he professed that he'd consult the head of his order, one Saruman the White, but that was moot. Time would reset before any message could go anywhere. They could not consult Saruman. They could not seek the Lady Galadriel.

They were, effectively, on their own. A fact that displeased all the plotters in the hall.

She sat slumped against Dori and Nori. Nori had pulled his rank as an older brother to insist she tell the Ris again about their claim to her come morning, and starving for a sense of family and safety, she knew she'd do it. Bilbo was far, far away. If time never mended, she'd realized with a deep pang, she'd never see her brother again.

It made her appreciate the three dwarf brothers all the more. She'd taken Bilbo for granted. In hindsight, it was easily seen. She would never do it again.