Chapter 1

It all started, as it usually does, in a hole in the ground. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or eat: it was a Hobbit-hole, and that meant comfort. This Hobbit-hole in particular was owned and occupied by Miss Briar Baggins and had been since her mother's death. That was until, a Wizard had stopped by, shoved Briar out the door and on a Quest across half of Arda with thirteen Dwarrow.

She had been excited, terrified and extremely naïve. Briar had in fact never so much as travelled to Bree before that encounter. But before the end she; had outwitted Trolls, seen the beauty of Rivendell, crossed a mountain range, riddled with the creature Gollum, fought off Wargs and Orcs, flew on the back of one of Manwë's Eagles, met the Last of the Skinchangers, walked though the sickened Mirkwood which had once been the Greenwood of Old, broken thirteen Dwarrow out of the dungeons of an Elven palace, rode a barrel down a river amid a skirmish, crossed the Lake on which Esgaroth floated, traversed the Ruins of Dale and finally reach the Lonely Mountain with her travelling companions and fast-friends.

Then she had been forced to betray them in the hopes of saving their lives and stopping a War that went ahead anyway. The War of the Five Armies, they'd called it afterwards. All she could remember were flashes of blood and carnage and Death. Death of Orcs and Goblins, Dwarf and Elf, the young Princes, the King.

Dain had taken the Crown and the Mountain after that. It had been rightfully his once the direct line of Durin had been broken. She had said goodbye to what was left of the company of Thorin Oakenshield at what was left of the Great Gates of Erebor, before the funerals were held.

The journey back to the Shire had been swifter and much quieter without enemies at every turn or a band of Dwarrow laughing and singing merrily. The hole in her chest that had been ripped open on Ravenhill had throbbed at every familiar sight. It had been Gandalf that suggested she take the chest that Oin, Bofur and Nori had buried when they reached the three Stone Trolls. He had reasoned that they wouldn't be back for it and she hadn't felt like arguing with the Wizard when she knew it would get her no where.

Gandalf had left her at the edges of the Shire, making no promises to see her soon and she knew if he did indeed stop by, it would be when she least expected it. She had trundled on her pony, numb, taking in the rambling green hills of the Shire. Briar had expected to find her heart lifted by the familiar sight. She thought she would feel happy, at least, to be home at last. She wasn't.

It took a week to reach Hobbiton. She had decided not to stay at the inns she past and instead bunked down in the ditches that ran throughout the Shire, on her bedroll. She hadn't slept as well without the comfiting snores and warm bodies of the company beside her.

Everyone had stared at her as she rode atop her pony, Molly, through Hobbiton and up the Hill to Bag End. She had expected as much. She had been away for over a year and had left leaping over fences shouting about an adventure. What she hadn't expected was the crowd of Hobbits outside her Smial, nor an official from Michael Delving auctioning off her things. He'd even had the gault to ask for proof of her identity, as if everyone there hadn't known her all her life.

She hadn't found herself as indignant as she once would have been. The empty hollow feeling in her chest had just opened more as she stood within the empty shell of her house. In her mind's eye, Briar had filled the rooms with all the things that belonged there. The armchairs her parents had sat in by the fire, her mother's best West-farthing China, her father's rich mahogany desk in the study, her grandfather Mungo's wooden chair, her grandmother Laura's thick crocheted blanket.

The only things that had been only and truly hers were her books that sat piled in the corner of her father's office, the pictures of her parents and few dresses and other clothes she had bought since her mother's death. The house had always been a mausoleum, only now it truly looked the tomb, she had thought to herself as she passed from room to empty room.

When she had gone back outside the crowd had dissipated and only Holman Greenhand and his young apprentice, Hamfast still stood outside.

"I'm so sorry, Miss Baggins. I did everything, I could to stop 'em." Holman had apologised.

She had brushed him off politely and assured him there was nothing more he could have done. He had offered his and his apprentice's help getting all the furniture she had left back into Bagend. Even after they were done, the Smial was half empty. She lacked a mattress or bedframe, even though there had been six when she left, plus a big person bed that seemed to have been sold as well, though she couldn't imagine to whom.

Hamfast had offered her his guest room for the night but she had declined. Even if Hamfast had sensed that she was not ready to speak of her journey, his faunts were likely to have a million questions about where she had been. Hamfast was only a fifteen himself and she could see the curiosity sparkle in his eyes. He would no doubt break his silence if someone else broke it first.

She closed her round, green door to the world. The silence echoed back at her. It continued to echo back at her every time she returned from taking back some piece of furniture or nick-knack that had once been hers, from her neighbours. None had been pleased to see her returned. Most left her alone once her property had been handed back over. She began to wonder why she had missed the Shire so much on her journey.

Only the faunts stopped by to talk if she sat in her front garden on the bench she had once so enjoyed. They came to beg for a story of her adventures. The third time she had been asked, Bilba conceded.

The first tale she told was about the Trolls. It had been the first hint of danger on her journey and had been the least terrifying compared to what came after. She had lightened the tale a touch even so. There was no need to describe how the dwarrow hadn't trusted her, how they had been so sure she had been betraying them so as not to get eaten herself. No need to introduce the wide-eyed and innocent fauntlings to the harsh cruelty of the world.

As the year passed and more of her journey was edited and crafted into tales for children, she eventually found herself dragged out to the Party tree by tiny eager hands to sit in a quiet-ish corner and entertain the faunts with wild tales. At first being around the children helped a little, but the more she told her story the more she remembered everything she left out.

Briar found that she couldn't always drag herself out of bed. And really there was no reason to. Apart from the faunts, she hardly spoke to anyone. They wouldn't miss her for a day or three. There was plenty in the Shire to entertain young curious minds. One night, after not seeing anyone for almost a week, she had smashed the mirror in her bathroom in a fit of rage that had filled her up as she looked upon her reflection.

Briar did not look like the young girl who had flown out her door in her second best dress, wondering if she should have packed a book for her trip. Briar looked like... She didn't know what she looked like. She was thin for a Hobbit, having lost her rounded belly and some of her curves somewhere between Misty Mountains and Erebor and having never fully gained them back. Dark circles shaded her eyes, partially hidden behind the fringe that was the longest piece of her hair, the rest she now kept cropped and indecently short. Dori had helped her cut it, having cut the hair of Men on occasion to make a few coins, and shown her how to keep it cut and neat herself. She could have grown it out now she wasn't travelling but she couldn't find the effort within herself to look after it properly. She wore trousers and shirts more often. They were comfortable and she had long ago stopped caring about silly things like propriety or being pretty.

Another year passed before whispers began about whether she would ever get married and produce an heir for Bagend. She wasn't exactly young for a Hobbit having seen her fiftieth birthday come and go, she was considered middle-aged. Not too late to find a nice husband and settle down though. Briar paid it little attention at first, like she did most of the whisperings of the Shire. She was Mad Baggins after all. But after a while she began to think.

Briar had not thought seriously about marriage since her mother died but she had assumed one day that she would. That eventually she would fill Bag End with faunts as her Father had wanted her to. Now she couldn't even imagine it. What Hobbit could possibly relate to her? Hobbits didn't leave the Shire, or go on Quests or go to War. They didn't lose friends and loved ones on the fields of Battle. Only the Fell Winter could compare and once it was over most Hobbits had decided to never speak or think of it ever again.

What Hobbit husband would look at her cropped hair, her pinched face, her scarred body and find something to love? It was that moment that she realised that there was no place for her in the Shire. No future for her in the Shire. Marriage and Spinsterhood were the only true paths for a female Hobbit in the Shire. And while watching after everybody else's faunts did make her smile and occasionally laugh, it seemed to only rip and tear at the great maw within her.

That night she began to prepare. She went through her pantry and marked the food she would take with her to last the trip to Bree. She pulled out her pack, bedroll, and the cloak Dwalin had leant her that she had managed to keep with her and in good repair. She sorted through the thick male clothes she had bought over the year that would suit her for travel. She poured over the maps she had in the study.

When she finally was tired and went to bed, Briar slept more peacefully than she had in months.