000

Fate be Changed

Reborn as a Hobbit, Willowyn Proudfoot isn't about to let a doughy potato like Bilbo Baggins get himself killed on Gandalf's hairbrained idea of an adventure. She's taking his place. For better or worse.

WARNING
Canon-divergance (in kind of a BIG way in places), fem!Hobbit!Harry, allusions to History and Culture not covered in the films (I did research for this motherfucker and I'm going to damn well show it off), mentioned slash.

000

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN – Fools and Heroes

War leaves it's trail
in moonlight so pale,
it's shadows they flow
in rivers, in rivers
so put on my mask
I'll go where they ask
so I might once again see the
Roses of May
(Rose of May – Lyrics written and owned by Erutan/katethegreat19)

An orc landed upon Beorn's back, and another. A warg latched its jaws onto his leg and when he swept it off another two lunged for his throat.

Willow grunted as she had to throw her dagger up to block a downward blow from a stringy looking Goblin.

Dwalin bellowed furiously as he decapitated an Orc.

Beorn flung another Warg several metres into the air and across the battlefield.

Willow panted, looking around desperately as the Orcs and Goblins continued to fight. Why were they still fighting? Their leaders were dead! Wasn't that how these things went? Cut the head off the snake and the body will die? With Azog and his cohort gone, they were supposed to start running! Break up and flee into whatever dark corner they could find and hope that the elves and Dwarves weren't in a position to hunt them down.

A Goblin landed on Fili's back blades flashing in the dim light.

Bofur clubbed it dead with his mattock before it could kill the Dwarvish Prince.

Six goblins had climbed onto Beorn, stabbing daggers into his sides with vicious abandon as he roared and flailed, brutalising anything in his path – thankfully the Free Folk had the good sense to get out of the way and only the enemy were rendered.

Arrows flew overhead at the eagles.

Shrieks went up as one of them fell.

No, no, they couldn't – they were going to be overrun...

There were just too many.

Beorn bellowed in pain, and Willow saw a grey shape fall from the sky as another eagle dropped.

Gandalf.

Green met blue as Thorin cut down a Goblin, the two of them locking eyes through the swirling snow, the grim light of acknowledgement in the Dwarf King's eyes as they met her own wide horrified green.

They weren't going to win this.

She gritted her teeth. Not if she had any say in it. They were going to survive! They were going to live! Erebor would stand! She whirled around, decapitating the nearest Goblin rushing at her, feeling her blood burn in her veins.

She would not allow this battle to fall into despair or ruin.

"Willow!" Bombur shouted, spotting her as she broke from their group and sprinted through the battlefield, her gaze narrowed determinedly.

She stopped for nothing, skidding in the mud, using her barefeet and toes for purchase as she zigzagged through the enemy fighters. She had one chance. A fool's chance. But really...

What was the Fool... but the symbol of unlimited potential?

She spotted Gandalf, fighting amidst a small group of elves, Tauriel one of them, and then she saw what she needed.

His staff.

"I'm borrowing this!" she shouted over the din of battle, sliding between the elves in a fluffy of mud that splattered up his robes and to the knees of Tauriel's greaves, startling the elves into turning their blades in her direction.

She ignored them, wrenching Gandalf's staff from his hands, the Wizard too startled by her sudden appearance to do anything but let her as she was neither a threat, nor expected.

She shuddered. The staff was not dead wood. It lived. It throbbed with magic. She felt almost choked and stuffed with it under her hands, like something thick and living was swelling in her body. She felt light headed and dizzy and somehow as if she weighed as much as air. She could have floated away from the battle right then and there – if she did not have a task to do.

The Arkenstone was removed from her hippouch, the light of the Trees of Valinor flooding the battlefield and drawing all eyes, Fell and Free Folk alike as she jammed it into the withered knot atop the staff.

She was unaware of the sudden surge of Orcs and Goblins that flooded toward her.

Of Gandalf moving to try and take the staff from her and being forced to turn and defend her from the tidal wave of Fell Beasts that rushed up. Of Tauriel who squeezed her shoulder once in support before turning to defend her, beautiful face twisted in fierce determination as she bared her teeth and tore through any that sought to break their defensive line. Of Bard and Bain, whom she had not seen when she first arrived, furiously battling, plastered with mud and blood as they worked together to protect each other and her.

She was unaware of Thorin managing to lead the rest of the Company to their group, of them seamlessly joining the Elves and Men.

She rested her forehead upon the staff, her eyes gently closed.

You brought me here for a reason.

A reason that I do not know, and you have not told me of.

But no matter that reason – please, just this once, give me the strength to protect that which is most precious.

Give me the power to protect their lives.

Memories of Bilbo, sat smoking in the garden, blowing rings that popped in front of her nose as she returned from another jaunt with the Rangers. Of sitting in front of the fire, going through names for their future children, arguing over this or that, because the name belonged to someone they knew, or had once belonged to an unpleasant late relative. Of Halbarad presenting her with her first Ranger bow, made just to her size. Of Anayla and Marianne taking her out drinking in Bree upon her majority, and Marianne punching out that Hobbit who got crass with her before drinking the cackling Dwarves who had witnessed the whole exchange under the table, and Willow waking up the next morning in the hayloft of the Prancing Pony with Marianne plastered to her side, snoring, hugging her tightly and mumbling about how she smelled nice. Of Arwen and how she fussed and laughed, of reading to her and teasing her Dwarves, her beautiful eyes shining like stars. Of Elrond who was so kind and gentle to her, teaching her medicine. Of Gandalf who said he trusted her even as he handed her the little Elvish dagger. Ori who clung to her trying to stifle his sobs and seeking comfort and reassurance from her.

Ori, Nori, Dori, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Oin, Gloin, Balin, Dwalin, Fili, Kili, Thorin, Thor, Beorn, Tauriel, Bard, Bain, Sigurid, Tilda, even Yroc.

Their faces, their smiles. They filled her mind.

One shot.

One chance.

For the Gods love Fools and Heroes both – and often times... cannot tell the difference either.

She brought the staff up, holding tightly to the memories and brought. it. Down.

"EXPECTO – PATRONUM!"

Light flashed, and the ground... shattered.

The earth roiled, splintering, shattering.

The Arkenstone blazed like a sun blinding all who looked upon her as white and golden light burned away the darkness overhead.

Orcs and Goblins shrieked in pain, and then horror as the broken, shattered ground spread out further, spiderwebbing beneath their feet and then tore open.

Wood and vines.

Thorns and pikes of wood, lancing up from the ground like javelins.

The valley trembled and shook.

"By the Maker..." Gloin croaked as wooden spears burst outward, shredding Orcs from within and growing taller, wider, stretching upwards and unfurling, thick canopies of leaves popping out into the sky. Thorns writhing and bursting into bloom, thick red velvet roses glaring at them like malevolent beads of blood upon the black thickets.

The shrieks and roars of the battlefield were guttering out as the trees and thorns stretched from one side of the Valley to the other, Wargs and Wolves ensnared and dragged into whining, howling death.

And then Gandalf was bellowing: "GET THE STAFF! GET IT OUT OF HER HANDS BEFORE SHE KILLS HERSELF!"

She glowed, her skin white, her hair almost gold, and her eyes tightly closed as she gripped the staff tightly in both hands, blazing Arkenstone pressed to the ground –

Thorin wrenched the staff from her hands and flung it over his shoulder without looking, catching the female as she crumpled, the glow fading, leaving her cold, and grey.

And no longer breathing.

000

/MANIACAL CACKLING