I ended up sleeping deeply, dreaming, in fact, of the time I'd tried to help DJ milk the cow. I almost didn't sleep at all, listening to Bilbo roll around fitfully on his little bed of hay. To me at least, it's much better than a bedroll on the ground.
I wake up early, as always, to the sound of Gandalf talking, rather casually but still in a business tone. Standing up and brushing off any little stray bits of hay from my clothes, I tiptoe towards the sound, not a single voice telling me not to do so. From what I could gather, no one else was awake. The oxen didn't even appear to be awake yet.
He was sitting at a long dining table, smoking his long pipe, a large burly man sitting across from him. I stopped in my tracks at the sight of him. I would have immediately turned back if he hadn't seen me and said to Gandalf, "Who is this little one, Gandalf?"
I felt myself go pale as Gandalf turns around, a smile suddenly lighting up his older face. "Good morning, dear Helena," he said cheerily. He turned back to his companion. "This, Master Beorn, is Helena Paige Baggins, she's accompanying her father on this journey. Come along, dear Helena, sit down."
I quickly curtsy at the man who I then remembered to apparently be our host, who was therefore Beorn, who was also a bear half of the time if not more often than that, and hopped up onto a chair next to Gandalf, the table almost as tall as my shoulders. He was tall–taller than Gandalf–with dark blackish hair atop his head and around his face. Well… really, it was everywhere actually. He wore very patchwork-y clothes that had probably seen better days.
"Pleasure to meet, young one," he said roughly, pushing a plate towards me.
"Likewise," I mumble, looking at the contents of the plate.
Honey cakes.
I want so badly to laugh but I don't dare. Instead, I picked up one–needing to use both hands–and took a big bite out of it. Very unladylike-looking I was sure. I rolled my eyes at Lobelia, wherever she was.
"We were just discussing how our company will be taking refuge here for a short while, if Master Beorn will allow it," Gandalf informed me.
I could feel the honey gluing my lips together as I ate, nodding.
"A thing that I am completely able to do," Beorn replied. "Though, I'd much more like the leader of this company's to explain to me why I should. You know that I do not enjoy the company of dwarves, I want the leader's story."
Gandalf sighed. "I completely understand," he made clear. "Though, I don't know if Thorin Oakenshield will be likely to comply."
"We shall see when the rest of them wake up," Beorn replied. "In the mean time, would the, uh… Halfling-lass care to help me in the kitchen?"
"Mm?" I hummed, unable to move my lips.
Gandalf chuckled and handed me a large stein of fresh milk. I took it and gulped down a few good swallows, the milk dissolving the gluey glaze of the honey cakes.
"What?" I gasped. "I–I–I mean, yes of–of course, sir."
Bad decision.
Terrible decision.
Beorn then lead me to the kitchen–a complete natural disaster of a kitchen, I might add. The mere sight of the place made me want to drop everything and clean up. He briefly went over how to make the honey cakes. It seemed that those were the main course for breakfast… and lunch, and also dinner, judging by how many this one batch was going to be making. But he had just gotten through all the directions when he apparently heard something and dashed off to deal with it.
I tried to say something to stop him, but it came out as barely a squeak. My stress going through the roof, I tried to calm down and recall all the directions. This much flour… this much honey… this many eggs… My mind was a blank.
So… I kind of just started adding ingredients into the bowl, trying so hard to remember everything Bilbo had taught me about baking and cooking in general. I added more milk if it was too thick, I added more flour if it wasn't thick enough, I added more honey if it wasn't sweet enough, etc.
It also didn't help that everything was kept in containers that were half as tall as I was. I spilled more milk, dropped more eggs, and stepped in more puddles of honey than I'd care to admit. I was sure that the only part of me that wasn't positively soiled was my hair, tucked away in my hat and protected from countless clouds of flour.
By the time all the batter was in every tin and pan that I could find, I didn't care how these would taste whatsoever. I'd already tested enough batter for my fill of breakfast, and quite possibly the rest of the day. I lit up the fire, put the pans in the oven, and slammed the door shut, sliding down to the floor in the process.
It was almost exactly then that Beorn came back into the kitchen. "Thank you, thank you, lass," he said. "I'll take care of the rest, you can go back to your friends." He held the door open for me.
My eyelids hooded, I stiffly pushed myself off the floor. I nodded in his direction, not able to discern if I should say 'thank you' or 'you're welcome', and walked back out into the dining room.
Most of the company is out there, not all of them look at me when I come out. I use the term 'most' dependently, since I don't recall ever counting or having the energy to count how many of them were there.
I immediately find Bilbo's face, go to him, and sit down at a chair along the table. He stares at me when he sees me. I hold up my hand to him and say, "Don't. Ask. Questions. Please."
He is silent as I take off my gloves and slap them against the table to get the flour off of them; I do the same to my hat a moment later, not caring in the slightest about who saw my hair. He soon gives in and chuckles.
"What?" I snapped.
"Just you," he smiled.
I had to give in and giggle. If nothing else, he's my dad and he knows how to loosen me up, and that's got to be goo for something, right?
"What were you doing in there?"
I look to my right to see Kili and, beside him, Fili–I suddenly feel like I haven't seen him in forever.
"So many things," I groaned. "I don't suggest eating what he's about to serve for breakfast."
"Who?" Bilbo asked me.
"Our–"
The door to the kitchen bursts open again with Master Beorn holding an unnatural number of plates on his arms. How had they been in the oven long enough? Didn't they need to bake for longer?
"Host," I finished, biting back the peeved insults I had planned.
Master Beorn slides the plates down the table with expert precision, each of them landing perfectly in front of each member of the company. I smile when I see that my plate has a slightly larger pile of honey cakes. Even if I know that they are going to be terrible, I'm glad that I got more.
"Why can't we eat it? It looks fine," Fili said.
"Because I made them," I answered, picking at the cakes cautiously. "Tread very lightly."
Kili takes a big bite before I can stop him. I can't tell what he's thinking from his face–of course, it's probably all strange and twisted up because he's chewing.
"How is it?" I asked, trying not to sound hopeful. I was already constructing a lie about what I would tell the company when they all started tossing up their breakfast–that is, if I could even think of anything to say–when Kili said through his closed mouth:
"Good. I mean, it's really hot… and sticky," he swallowed, "but good."
"No," I said suspiciously, taking a much smaller bite. "Okay," I said, chewing, surprised to find no one–not even Bilbo–scolding me for it. "That… is decent."
No, they were amazing. Fili and Bilbo both loved their cakes, and everyone else ate every last bite.
"Who made these?" Thorin eventually asked. "Our host?"
The room was silent, only a few knowing eyes going to me. The weight of their gazes made me shakily raise my hand.
Then Thorin looked at me, and nodded. Appreciatively? Sure, maybe for him.
A murmur of congratulations associated with my name went through the group. I smiled down at my big hairy feet.
Around the time everyone was finished eating, Master Beorn arrived again, countless–though, presumably at least fourteen–mugs in his arms and one even larger jug in his hand. He passed the mugs around and poured the milk into each of them. I thanked him when he gave me mine and tried weakly to tilt it up to my face to drink. A good mouthful spilled down my face and onto my clothes. I didn't have time to think too much about it, because then Master Beorn started talking to Thorin, though he kept his voice loud enough for all to hear.
"Tell me," he said, his voice especially low and gravelly, "why is Azog the Defiler hunting you?"
"You know of Azog?" Thorin replied. "How?"
"My people were the first to live in the mountains, before the orcs came down from the north," he said, moving on to pour more drinks. "The Defiler killed most of my family, and some he enslaved." I just then notice the silver bracelets of chains that he wore on his left hand. "Not for work, you understand, but for sport."
He goes on to describe how the orcs had tortured his people–the skin changers–and how he is now the only one left. It made me furious, listening to his story; it made me want to complete this quest even more.
"You need to reach the mountain, before the last days of autumn," he continued, almost in response to my thoughts.
"Before Durin's Day," Gandalf put in, leaning against the wall with his pipe. "Yes, we are running out of time." I hadn't been keeping track of the days too well recently, and this new information made me nearly jolt. "Which is why we must go through Mirkwood."
"A darkness lies upon that forest," Beorn replied, making me turn my head back and forth between the two. "Fell things creep beneath those trees." A shiver went down my spine, wondering just what he meant by that. "There is an alliance between the orcs of Moria and the necromancer in Dol Guldur. I would not venture there, except in great need."
What? What necromancer? What was he talking about? There were so many things that weren't making sense, but the words I needed dried up in my throat as Gandalf spoke again.
"We'll take the Elven Road," he said, as if that made all the difference. "That path will keep us safe."
"Safe?" Beorn countered. "The Wood Elves of Mirkwood are not like their kin." Elves? We'll be visiting more elves? This should go over well with our fearless leader. "They are less wise and more dangerous… But it matters not."
"What do you mean?" Thorin suddenly asked.
"These lands are crawling with orcs and their numbers are growing."
My blood ran cold in my veins.
"And you are on foot: you will never reach the forest alive," he added. He stood up, keeping his eyes locked with Thorin's. "I don't like Dwarves. They are greedy, and blind. Blind to the lives they deem lesser than their own." He picked up a small, white mouse from the table, which immediately made me feel a little squeamish. I feel a little guilty for that.
Beorn looked at Thorin again. "But orcs I hate more."
Hi, guys! ... I'm back!
Okay, I'm really sorry about not posting in a while. It was really complicated–and long story short, I will at least try to write and post the rest of this story. I know where I want to go with this and I don't want to just give up on it. I'd like to thank everybody who has encouraged me to continue the Unnamed Spitfire (Y'all know who you are!). Now on with more Lena and Kili!
~Maddie