The arrow's feathered fletching brushed Bridie's cheek as she released it from the bowstring, sending it flying through the air, into the trunk of the tree in front of her. There was something unusually satisfying in the action, Bridie thought; every time an arrow hit the tree, it was like piercing the image of her mother's dead body, erasing it from her mind completely. Oh, if only it were that simple!

Springtime had now arrived, and the pleasant weather and sunshine along with it. Besides autumn, spring was Bridie's favourite season; everything always looked so bright and brand new, like freshly laundered sheets. But Bridie could not enjoy it properly. The night of Bertha's death still plagued her mind. For the first few weeks, the girl had been inconsolable. Her eyes became red from constant weeping and her face blotchy and tear-stained. Barliman had done his best to cheer her up, holding her as she cried, brushing away her tears, waking her up with her favourite tea very morning and even cooking her favourite meals. But all this just made her cry even more. Barliman was the kindest man Bridie had ever known and the thought of him not being her true father was unbearable. The only place she found comfort now was in the forest, so she went there as often as possible. During these excursions, she usually brought the bow and arrows Bertha had gifted to her. Carrying them on her back was comforting somehow, as if she were carrying her mother around with her.

Bridie was just reaching for a second arrow when the sound of rustling foliage caught her attention. Tearing her eyes away from the tree, she scanned her surroundings. It could have just been an animal, but Bridie wasn't too sure.

"Who is that?" she called out. There was no point trying to be quiet; if somebody else was in the forest, it was likely they knew she was there.

More rustling. It sounded like footsteps, already unnervingly close, and getting closer still. Bridie tightened her grip on her bow and arrow. "I said, who is that?!" she shouted, the fear and unease evident in her voice.

Her heartbeat quickened as she pivoted on her toes, trying to work out exactly where the sounds were coming from and who, or what, was making them. They seemed to be approaching from all directions. Please don't let it be wolves! She silently prayed. Not that wolves were known for coming to this part of Bree, or even Bree in general, but there was always a first time.

The sharp snap of a twig made Bridie jump. It sounded as if it had come from barely a dozen yards away, and it immediately alerted the fight or flight instinct within her. If the person, or thing, that was making the noises turned out to be dangerous, Bridie did not want to be around when they revealed themselves. Picking up her skirts, she bolted in the opposite direction. Deeper and deeper into the forest Bridie ran, casting scared looks over her shoulder to make sure she was not being chased. Only when her lungs began to ache for air and she felt she was a safe distance away did she stop to regain her energy, gasping as she leaned against the trunk of a tree.

Suddenly, a firm hand grabbed Bridie's shoulder and she screamed. Turning around, she saw a bedraggled man in a travel-stained cloak and muddy boots standing there. A hood was pulled over his head, hiding his face in its shadow. Immediately, Bridie realised who he was. She had seen him occasionally, sitting by himself in a dark corner of the inn or passing in and out of the village on mysterious excursions. Nobody knew where he came from or who he really was. Most reckoned he was either some sort of outlaw or vagabond, and the villagers had names aplenty for him, but he was most commonly known as Strider.

"What do you want?!" Bridie cried, backing up against the tree like a cornered mouse.

The man started, clearly alarmed by her reaction. Lifting a hand, he said calmly "Be still. I mean you no harm. I only wished to give you this," and he held up the arrow Bridie had left behind in the tree.

"Ah." Bridie's cheeks flushed pink, embarrassed at how she had just acted. "Thank you, sir," she said, taking the arrow and placing it back in her quiver.

"You ought to keep hold of your arrows; you never know when you may need them," Strider advised. He gestured to Bridie's bow. "That's a fine weapon you have. Are you hoping to become a ranger?"

Bridie shrugged. "I don't know, sir. My papa warned me about rangers. Said they were dangerous folk. If I were to become one of them, I think he might disown me."

Strider gave a chuckle. "That would indeed be unfortunate. Yet, it would also be a disgrace if your talent were wasted. You're a fine shot for your age. I daresay with time you could come to rival even the elves of Mirkwood."

"You've been watching me practice?" was the only response Bridie could conjure.

"I could not help myself. It was like looking into the past. Your mother was a fine archer as well."

At the mention of her mother, Bridie's ears pricked up. "You knew my mother? But…how?" In all the conversations between Bridie and her mother, the latter had never once mentioned a mysterious man who roamed the forests of Bree.

Strider laughed again. "I see your mother has told you little to nothing of her past, though I shan't hold that against her, both for her sake and yours. All you must know is that I was a close friend of her family. It was I who gave her that very bow and taught her how to wield it."

"But Mam said…" Bridie began, then shook her head. "Never mind. Well, mister friend, it's been nice meeting you, but I think I ought to be getting home now."

Under the shadow of his hood, Strider smiled. "Very well. Run along home, and may we meet again." Then, with a hand on his breast, he bowed his head. "Farewell, Annúngil."

It was not until later that Bridie began to ponder the name Strider had called her. Annúngil. It sounded elvish and Bridie knew only a very little of the language. What did it mean and why had Strider called her by it?

When Bridie returned to the Prancing Pony, Barliman was waiting for her. Forcing a smile, she greeted him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

"You should have been here earlier, lass," Barliman told her. "You'll never guess who came to visit. Old Gandalf!"

"Gandalf?!" Bridie's eyes widened and she no longer had to pretend to smile.

The name was spoken with some reverence in the family, for he was one of the Butterburs' oldest friends. Everyone in Bree knew him as the wandering wizard who gave magnificent firework displays and told wonderful stories at parties. A particular favourite of Bridie's was the tale of a hobbit who went on a quest to slay a dragon and, along the way, found a mysterious ring that could make him invisible.

"Gandalf?" Bridie repeated. "Goodness, I had no idea he was still in these parts! What was he doing here, then?

"Only delivering a message," replied Barliman. "He was sad to have missed you, though. I told him you were out in the forest, but that if he was quick he might be able to catch you with Mildred."

Bridie's head shot up and her already pale face became whiter still. "You told him to go to Mildred's house?"

Barliman nodded. "Aye. I know you sometimes go there to deliver herbs after you've been to the forest, so I told Gandalf- Here, Bridie, where are you off to now?"

In a flurry of skirts and curly hair, Bridie was out the door again and racing down the street. Several young men whistled and made saucy remarks as she passed, for she had pulled the hem of her skirt all the way up to her knees avoid tripping on it, providing a view of her stockings and garters. But they could whistle until doomsday as far as Bridie was concerned; she had more important matters to attend to, like getting to Mildred's house before war broke out. But it was already too late. Mildred stood on the doorstep with a face that could curdle new milk, wielding her broom like a pitchfork. Poor Gandalf stood before her, dressed all in grey with a pointy hat and leaning on a tall wooden staff. He was slowly backing away from the woman, his hands raised in surrender. The scene was rather comical in a way; Mildred was easily several years younger than Gandalf, yet she seemed to be the only person of whom the old man was afraid.

"My dear Mildred, just listen for a moment and let me explain," Gandalf pleaded.

"No, you listen, you old codger!" Mildred spat. "You won't find nobody in this house except me. You just get that into your head!"

Sensing things were about to get ugly, Bridie quickly jumped in. "Gandalf, there you are!" she called, running over to him. "Papa told me you were in town."

The old wizard looked over in Bridie's direction and relief filled his wrinkled face at the sight of her. "Ah, Miss Bridie, how wonderful to see you!" he said, and he meant it.

"There!" Mildred snapped at Gandalf. "I said she wasn't here, didn't I? But you wouldn't listen, like always. Now be off with you, double-quick! Or I'll take that staff of yours and break it in half and shove it up your-"

"Yes, yes, of course," Bridie interrupted her. "Come, Master Gandalf," and she hastily steered him away from the house.

"Whatever made you go to her?" she hissed in his ear as they began their walk back up the street. "Don't you remember what happened last time you were there?"

Gandalf nodded sheepishly. "Yes, I remember quite well. Although, I must confess, I had hoped she'd forgotten about it."

The old wizard had not been welcome with Mildred since an experiment with a cauldron and an elvish incantation had blown part of her house to smithereens. Mildred had chased Gandalf all the way to the borders of Bree, screaming curses that would make even the most foul-mouthed villager blush, swearing that she would kill him if he stepped foot inside her house again.

Bridie scoffed. "Even Papa remembers that and he has a memory like a sieve!"

"Speaking of which, he told me what happened to your poor mother. I am sorry. Your mother was a very kind woman, and I do not doubt she was a good mother."

"That she was," Bridie agreed. "She certainly had her fair share of adventures."

Gandalf arched his bushy eyebrows. "What does that mean?"

"Oh…it's just something she told me. Apparently she did a bit of travelling when she was younger. Went off visiting all sorts of places."

Gandalf nodded. "Oh yes. She certainly had a knack for travelling, did your mother. But then it is hardly a surprise, since she grew up surrounded by rangers. It was always in her blood to become one of them. And she certainly had a good teacher for it."

"Oh. Who was that?" Bridie asked.

"Only the very finest," Gandalf told her, smiling. "Aragorn, chief of the rangers of the North, a great friend of mine. The man was more like a father to her than her own kin, especially after her family was killed. A dreadful business, that was. But for Aragorn, your mother might have died in the wild. That was one of the greatest deeds he ever did, when he took your mother to Rivendell and raised her as his own."

The conversation Bridie had had with Strider earlier came to mind and she ventured to ask "Did this Aragorn happen to have any other name?"

"Yes, I believe he did. In his youth he was called Estel, which means Hope in the elven tongue. Then, for a time, he was called Thorongil. But here in the north, and especially in these parts, I believe folk refer to him as Strider."

Bridie's heart skipped a beat and she drew a gasp. The girl could scarcely believe her ears. She had just met her mother's foster father and didn't even know it.

"I say, are you alright?" Gandalf's voice snapped her back to reality.

"I'm alright," Bridie insisted. Eager to change the subject, she added, "What did you come to the inn for, anyway? Papa said you had a message for him."

"Well, really it is more of a favour. And, since you're here, I might as well tell you also, especially considering your father's sieve-like memory, as you so eloquently described it."

Bridie laughed. "Alright. What sort of favour is it, then?"

"I may be sending somebody to the inn, soon," Gandalf told her. "A hobbit from the shire who goes by the name of Baggins, but he will not be traveling under a different name. Remember that. I cannot tell you when to expect him, only that when he arrives he will be expecting to meet me. However, if I am not at the inn, I must ask that you and your father help him in any way you can."

"What does this Baggins fellow look like?" asked Bridie.

"Much like any other hobbit. A stout fellow with red cheeks. Taller than some and fairer than most and he has a cleft in his chin; a perky chap with a bright eye and dark hair."

Bridie listened to Gandalf's words carefully, making sure to commit every detail to memory. "Alright. Papa and I will do what we can."

Gandalf thanked her gratefully. They continued talking as they wandered through the village, all the way to the borders of Bree-land.

"I do not know when and if I shall return," Gandalf said. "There are many errands that demand my attention and I have delayed long enough already."

"You will come back again, though, won't you?" Bridie said hopefully. The girl missed Gandalf dearly when he was away from the village, and that was more often than not lately.

Gandalf smiled. "I hope so, my dear. I hope so. Take are of yourself and your father. Good-bye!"

With a wave of his hand, Gandalf turned and set off down the road. Bridie did not see him again for a long time.