'Sup!

Real life is hectic and horrible and ... just, life. I have no time at all to write, but once in a blue moon, where the stars and planets align, and I can actually sit down and type, I finally got this baby written. All in one sitting, because you all deserve an update! :) And rather slow than none at all, right? Right? Right. Luckily I am getting much closer to the books and all that happens then, so I can finally write suffering again. This chapter is yet again quiet and much too happy. Can't have that ...

Thank you's to the lovely, LOVELY people that continuously stick around, I'm sorry I suck at updating. Hope you enjoy this chapter.

And as always, I live for the reviews. Thank you to Doria Nell (your ramblings aren't ramblings at all, in fact I feel they are spot on!), Guest (I love writing Rell and Brenion), kyulkyul (HAPPY belated BIRHTDAY!), Ms-lady-Applejacks (welcome to this little story of mine, hope to see you around), and Diarona (your reviews are as always a work of pure art, can you please write stories? I'd love to read them!).

Little Sparrow

Chapter XXIV: A New Friend

The blade felt sharp, scraping against the thin skin of her fingers, cutting at her like a wire of dulled yellow-green. Concentrating, ever so careful, she willed her fingers to move in accordance with her wishes; they would not. Refused her at every turn. Each way and that, struggling, in the end her trembling grew beyond her control and it fell from her grasp. Again. Her brow furrowed in rising ire, and frustration born from failure galled her. The task before her seemed so utmost impossible.

Winds tugged playfully at her as a roar of rushing waters filled the air; her spot by the river Bruinen gave a clear view of the surrounding valley. From the grey-scaling walls of stone, their edges disappearing into a sky that promised rain, to white houses; archways and bridges, peering out through fences of trees of birch and pine. It had been a fortnight since the company of three entered the hidden gorge, following secret paths under the cover of darkness to Rivendell. They had been welcomed as one would distant kin, and after only a long – and much welcomed – night of rest, Rell had stood before the Lord of Imladris.

Where Brenion and Halbarad had gone, she did not know.

Her ears had burned, eyes downcast in her shame to the floorboards below her bared feet. But he had merely offered her a place to sit across from him, on a chair of dark wood and plush velvets, and from there he reached for her broken arm. Clear sun fell on them then. His touch was gentle, travelling over the misaligned lumps of pale white and swollen red; he would pause briefly where the bone had broken, grey eyes searching her face before fingers pressed down into skin. Rell had winced, a sharp breath whistling through clenched teeth, and she attempted to shy away from his grasp.

His words then had reached some burried part of her heart and mind – of mending and comfort – a place so deeply forgotten, that she wept before him. He spoke of hope. Rell had only feeble dreams to cling to, but hearing Lord Elrond, he who was knowledgeable and wise in the great arts? It rekindled the small, but greedy wish in her. A seed left cold from the Winter, now suddenly touched by warmth to bloom once more.

It would take hard work, from her more than anyone, but it was not a fool's hope to pray for recovery. And so, in the days following, Rell did all the Healers asked of her, with diligence and persistence; each night she would stumble to her bed, exhausted and fast asleep within moments, and each morning she would rise to repeat the day. They had begun but slowly, allowing strength time to return to her limb. The swelling and the pain lessened, waning with each sundown and sunrise; with each compress of cool waters and healing herbs.

But already on the second day, Halbarad came to her; he found her sitting under a great tree, her back against the white bole, as she rummaged through fallen leaves. She searched for small pebbles, gravel kicked from the path swerving round the old birchwood. It would mayhap seem purposeless to any watcher, but it strengthened her unwilling fingers that for so long had been without use. For a long while she had sat there, under the far-reaching shadow, and only a small pile of stones had formed by her side.

He had crouched by her, eyes dark and face pale.

He had come to say goodbye.

With the first clear light of morning streaking the distant sky, Rell had bid him farewell; she had watched his cloaked figure disappear beyond the bridges, and he had been the first to return home. His company was no longer required in Rivendell, and he was needed elsewhere. Dangers grew many beyond the Elven borders. His sword was needed.

Brenion left less than a week later. With a smile, he had promised to safe some orcs for her; when her arm was healed and she could wield her bow once more. She had clung to him for many long moments, held on to his frayed cloak and shoulders until duty called him away. And he, too, vanished within the crevices of the valley, until nothing but the roaring waters were left. Alone she had stood, watching the dull-rising mists and high ridges. It had not yet been her time.

Rell blinked.

A drop of icy water trickled down her cheek, a journey soon ended, and she turned from her wandering thoughts to the darkened sky above. The promise of rain was honoured by the clouds, and it was not many moments before another dripped a ghostly touch onto her thigh. Then her arm. Rell bowed down and returned the withered blade of grass, previously dropped, to her hand. For how long she had tried, or how many failed attempts, was hard to tell; to tie a knot on a straw with only one hand, demanded much – if not too much – of her. She pocketed it, hobbling up the path as the downpour broke around her.

Her hair and clothes were damp when she found shelter, but the air inside was warm; she could feel her skin flush, prickling. Careful not to leave sloshing steps down the hallway, Rell ventured further inside and peered one way and another; small chambers brimming with bookshelves, or pots and jars; open spaces with fluttering curtains of white silk. Balconies and darkened, rain-touched bleakness beyond. Rell could hear the wind sighing and singing.

She followed the warmth, smelling ash and fire from a burning hearth. She came to the Hall of Fire. Here, between great, carven pillars a solitary fire burned hot; a deep orange glow filled the room, and it seemed the hall stood empty beside her own presence.

Rell found a spot on the floor, a short distance to the hearth, and from there she watched the dancing embers and licking flames. Pulling her legs close, she found the blade of grass once more. Her uninjured hand twitched, but she forced it to still in her lap, as her other worked the straw between her fingers. Working her lip through her teeth, brow creased and hard set. At first droplets dribbled down her chilled skin, but it was not long before even her soggy clothes dried in the heat; she could feel warmth creep into her cheeks, enlivened her.

For a while, uncertain of how long, Rell had sat by the hearth.

But suddenly, as if sprung from thin air or as a figment of her own mind, a dark figure – a small shadow no larger than a child – stood before her. Rell startled. "Hullo", said he. Dressed in bright colours; a yellow vest over emerald green, embroidered with intricate, almost serpentine gold threads, and a belt of dark, sturdy leather that held a small sheathed blade. Peculiar. His unusually large feet were bare and covered with curly hair. There was a friendly smile, perhaps closer to a grin, on his face as blue eyes twinkled. A hint of pride was in his voice. "It would seem I have not lost the lightness of my own two feet!"

Rell could scarcely reply, instead blinking twice and opening, then closing, her mouth. Many visited Rivendell from far and wide; Elves and Men, from distant lands to both the East and the West, great Lords and travellers alike. But she had not expected a Halfling to spring upon her. "Hello, Master Hobbit," she replied with uncertainty. She glanced about, wondering if there would be more of them.

"Bilbo Baggins am I. At your service and your family's."

The name rekindled a half-forgotten memory. A story told many moons ago, in a land far away; under the shadow of Emyn Muil, where her uncle had finally revealed to her his task. Erebor's terrible malady, a slumbering dragon of old; thirteen Dwarves on a quest to reclaim their homeland. A wizard. Gollum. She repressed a shudder. And a Hobbit. They were face to face, him standing and her sitting, as he gave a well-mannered bow. She returned it with a nod of her head, uncertainty touching her words. "Rell, likewise at yours, Master Baggins."

How strange to meet in such a place.

And with that introductions had been made, or so it seemed, and the Hobbit clapped his hands with eagerness. Then he excused himself for a brief moment, walking off to a place elsewhere, shadowed by the pillars of the hall. Rell heard a loud, scraping noise, and he soon reappeared; clasped under his arm was a red leather-bound book, a couple of quills and an inkpot, and after him he dragged a tiny chair. It was soon placed before Rell.

He sat, and from there he watched her.

The tome was in his lap, hands clasped over it, but this time he said nothing. It seemed as though he was waiting; for her or something else, it was hard for her to glean. And so Rell decided to speak what she thought. "I must admit, it is a surprise to meet one such as yourself, Master Baggins, so far from the Shire. What brings a Hobbit to Rivendell? Is your kin not quite content to call the other races strangers?"

It seemed her choice had been right, for his face lit up once more as he leaned forward. His voice was low, speaking as if a secret shared between them. "Writing."

"Oh," she said. Not what she had expected – if she had expected anything at all. "Writing what, if I may ask?"

"Well, writing. And sitting, and thinking. In truth, it can be quite the task to put all my great adventures to paper. From here and there – and everywhere – I have travelled, and seen so much." His hand patted the sturdy, red leather with a fondness; his cheerful eyes saw things Rell could not, and she had a feeling the small creature before her was half-lost in thoughts. Despite the small size of the chair, his feet did not touch the floor, and they dangled back and forth as he pondered hidden things. Though it was not long, and his attention came to rest on her once more. The twinkle returned. "I have been sitting here for a while today, came to write in the morning's first light. I saw you enter with the rain, though see me you did not."

Rell smiled, not ashamed to have been snuck up upon; even if she took pride in her own quiet feet and stealth, for certainly there was no evil bone in the Hobbit. Clearly, he found amusement in his own accomplishment, and no malice in his actions. Rather, he appeared pleased to have found one who would listen to his tale. "Truly, it would seem you live up to the stories, Master Baggins! That Halflings are seemingly impossible to find, if they do not wish to be found, and no Man, Elf, or other may catch them." He nodded along with her words, humming in agreement.

"That we are." A chuckle bubbled out of him. "Even if it is a skill seldom used. No, no, we are a People of many great loves; of food, and wine, and oh! Pipeweed." A sudden, new thought had come to him. He patted the pockets of his vest and pants, soon conjuring a long pipe of white wood. "Do you mind?" Rell shook her head, and allowed him a moment to fill and lit the dried leaves; a smell took to the air, sweet and deep. The Hobbit puffed for a while, brow furrowed. "Where was I ...? Yes. We have a love of all things home. Never do we venture farther than the borders of Buckland – and most do not ever go that far! I have cousins who have never turned a stone outside the Shire."

"But you have."

"I have," he answered. "Did you know, I have once seen a real dragon?"

She knew, but did not say, and instead angled forward to rest her arm on her knees; Aragorn had told the story, though only what was necessary to explain the path of the Ring, and Gollum's role in it all. She had heard tales of the demise of Smaug – the Terrible, self-proclaimed King under the Mountain – and the battle under the watchful gaze of the Lonely Mountain, yet never from one who had been there. Curiosity had always been a close, well-known friend of hers. "I did not, Master Baggins! There have not been any great serpents for many years now."

"Indeed there has not! But old I am, and I saw with my own two eyes, believe it or not, when a Black Arrow pierced his breast and the last great beast of fire was slain." All about them was quiet, save for the crackling pops of the fire still burning strong it its hearth, and so Rell could hear the storm outside; grown in strength it had, now beating against the roof above their heads, a constant tap-tapping intermingled with the sudden clap of thunder. But the Hall of Fire remained untouched by the weather, and the unlikely occupants – a Hobbit and a Ranger – felt not even a shred of its cold.

An hour came and went, passed in swiftness, as Bilbo Baggins shared his tale. It was a long story; rehearsed and retold many a time, that was certain, for he understood when to pause, or shout, or whisper; suspense hung heavy in the air, and while Rell knew the end, the road to it took her through a remarkable journey. She did not ask questions, nor did she interrupt, and she listened with rapt attention.

Like a child by the fire, listening to bedtime stories of a world beyond the four walls of a home. At times she would close her eyes, imagining the bees and honey of Beorn, skin-changer, and his dogs walking on hind legs; or the dungeons of Mirkwood, and the party of Elves. She could scarcely picture the mountains upon mountains of gold, gems, and treasures of King Thrór, and how one tiny Hobbit had there faced a dragon.

Yet all stories must come to an end, and the one shared then was no different.

And it was with the death of Thorin Oakenshield, that the Hobbit found his.

"I still remember the last words he spoke to me, and the peace we made in the end. A true king he was." A rueful look came over him, a flickering and soon-passed shadow, and instead he smiled. "I was offered my promised one-fourteenth of the treasure by Dáin, then crowned king, but how can one Hobbit ever carry that much? Or what even spend it on!" He gave a short nod. "No, two small chests were plenty for me; one of gold, and one of silver. I returned to the Shire with an incredible story and quite the wealth in my pockets, only to find myself proclaimed dead and my possessions sold off!"

Rell laughed at that. "Truly?"

"Indeed! And I even had to buy my own things back, lest I would end up quarreling with the new owners." He muttered under his breath, something that sounded like a name – those Sagville-Bagginses – before tapping the red book with a finger. "But that is what is written here, or shall be written. I have still a long way to go, for I want the words just right. Yet now my days of adventure and travelling are over, and I shall stay here in Rivendell. To finish my book. Age has caught me, and I am well settled with that thought. And is it not a remarkable place to live out my days? It is a place to listen and think, to hear of the world through those who have lived, and seen, so much more than I."

"I loved visiting here as a child," Rell said. "I heard so many incredible stories, some I could hardly fathom were real, and I dreamed of going myself when I grew up. How many times have I not played knights and battled dragons with my friends?" Her fingers trailed a ghostly touch across her arm, so lightly she barely noticed it herself. The Hobbit watched the movement in quiet appraisal. "I, too, have had my share of adventures. Enough to last me a lifetime, I believe."

"You never know where your feet may take you."

Rell, looking into the bright glow of the fire, felt a dead darkness in her heart. At length she spoke. "I hope they shall carry me home."

Silence came about them. Soft lights and gleaming flames cast grey shapes beyond the pillars, and as they no longer spoke, she found her mind at work. Wondering; would the Healers, and Lord Elrond, soon deem her ready? Could Luin and she return home? Rell longed to go back. Back to the duties she had once found menial and dull, to the humdrum of everyday life and the friends she had left behind. To guard the town and its wooden cottages, or watch the sheep as they grazed the open plains.

A tingle, a clear-ringing bell broke the quiet; calling the guests of Imladris for supper, it rang throughout the great house. Food would be served for those that wished it – and seeing the Hobbit before her suddenly straighten, it appeared to be a sound most welcome. He stood, and bowed with an offer of invitation. "Would you accompany me to dinner?"

Shaking off her glum thoughts, Rell gave another smile. "With pleasure, Master Baggins." It took her a moment, and a struggle, to find her bearings and her legs; but then the pair made their way from the great hall. She fell into step by his side, walking slow and leisurely to match his smaller gait. It suited her well, for her own was still touched by injury. "But only if you share another story with me."

He hummed. "I do not think I have another as grand or exciting, but I can entertain you with my eleventy first birthday? There was a different kind of dragon there, of red sparks and a blast of fire that illuminated the sky; one conjured by that wizard-friend of mine. It certainly gave plenty of good folks a scare, and myself a laugh!"

"I would like that."

Master Baggins – or just Bilbo, as he had asked to be called – proved soon to be a great friend and company while Rell stayed in Rivendell. Often he spent his time in the spot where he had first found her, scribbling away in his large, red book; a drinking-cup and a plate of food by his side, he would mumble and mutter to himself. The quill would dance across the pages, pause, and move once more scratching a different tune. At times he would read aloud to her, or ask her to voice her opinion on a tricky passage. Other times they were not alone, but rather in the presence of Elves; minstrels bringing with them mirth and music.

The Hobbit had made songs of his own, and sometimes he sang them before the small audience. Rell's favourite was about a Man in the Moon, and his peculiar visit to a merry old inn. So much she enjoyed it, that she had learnt it by heart within one night of hearing it. When the Winter weather held, they could be found walking through the gardens or by the riverbank, talking about a great many things; Bilbo would recite stories of his own or made by others, and Rell would share tales about her family and friends. Mostly it was exaggerated deeds or mischief caused by her and Brenion as children, for he seemed to like those the most.

It reminded him of his own cousin – or rather, first and second cousin, once removed either way; Rell found Hobbit-families quite puzzling – back home in the Shire, Bilbo would say. He spoke with such fondness of the boy.

But more often than not, they would sit side by side in peaceful quiet. He would write, and Rell trained her arm meticulously, finding great joy in each small step of improvement she felt and saw.

Those days they spoke little, though neither seemed to mind.

Both were they guests of the Elves, yet they were not Elves themselves; fleeting strangers in a world where time seemed not to pass, and here they had found one another. Where the lands beyond Rivendell's borders were slowly turning to lighter days, of Spring surely, the trees and glades were unchanged; the river flowed steadily, falling with a roar from high peaks, and the people looked the same. It was one such day – a day where Rell had lost all track of time – that Lord Elrond found her. She sat perched on a chair, moving her fingers carefully, as Bilbo was fast asleep by her side. A smile on his face and a pillow on his back.

She made to rise and greet him, but Elrond beckoned her to remain. Brow arched, Rell wondered the reason behind his visit; had something happened? Perhaps word had arrived from her uncle, or the Angle and Halbarad. When she voiced as much, Lord Elrond merely smiled with kindness and reassured her all was well. "Worry not for your kin, child. They are not the reason for me to be here," he replied. Then, taking a seat by her side, Rell noticed an item, long and narrow, and draped in silk. The shape was unmistakable.

Yet she did not pry.

"I am here for you." He motioned for her arm, and she reached out to meet his hands without question. Gently, he rolled up her sleeve; the old injury was revealed, and both they watched the whitening scar. It was fully healed. "How does it feel now?"

"I do not know," Rell answered. "Sometimes I do not feel it at all, which I guess is an improvement. And–," she made an effort, clenching and unclenching her fingers, then twisting her wrist as far as she could. There was a pang, a strenuous pull of muscles. "–I can move it much more freely. It feels as though it is mending." With one last, long look at her arm, Rell glanced up; what Lord Elrond saw on her face, she could not tell, for in her heart she felt many great emotions. Anxiousness and hope. Worry. "Is it better?"

He placed his open palm upon the scar, the touch cool. "It is mending."

A breath rushed through her lips, a sigh of relief, and she gave a thin smile at his words. "I am deeply grateful," she said, about to speak once more. But, deciding against it, Rell withheld her next words and paused instead. There was a light snore from her left, where the Hobbit remained deep in slumber; somewhere outside a crow cawed, hoarse and harsh. She shifted her feet.

"Speak your mind, child."

Her gaze flickered back to meet clever, grey eyes; he seemed to understand her, almost as if he read her mind, and already then knew her thoughts. She wetted her lips. Breathing deeply, Rell spoke. "Can I go home?"

"The answer to your question is the very reason I am here." He reached down for the silk-wrapped object – a sword, she marvelled – and, as it was given forward to her, accepted it. "You may unveil it." Rell removed the cloth with careful fingers, finding first a hilt of dark, almost black, metal that gleamed; revealed by the flames, she saw small figures on the guard. Looking closer, they appeared to be Dúnedain. Swordsmen and archers. It was adorned with nothing more, a simple grip and pommel that felt perfect – almost moulded to fit her hand.

Finally, tightening her fingers and finding no protests from her injury, Rell drew the sword fully from its cover and stood with it.

The blade was long and narrow, but dangerously sharp. Holding the weapon out before her, a straight line with her arm to peer along its length, it weighed almost nothing in her hand. So different to any sword she had held before; her father's had been heavy, a great sword swung with strength. This? A flicker of her wrist would carve flesh and bone. "It is beautiful," she said. Then, turning it one way and another, gauging the balance and swing, she looked back to the Elf. "The craftsmanship is remarkable. It feels ... Flawless."

"And it is yours," he replied, bowing his head in recognition of her words.

"My Lord?" Rell turned the blade to the ground, and fell back into the chair. "This is a sword for great deeds – an Elvish sword."

A smile came to him then, and he reached out; he gently pushed the weapon closer to her. "Your uncle asked for this to be made many years ago, when he took you under his wing. For you. He knew well how deeply you loved your father's sword, a keepsake in his memory; but it was never made for your hand to wield. No one fights the same, and each do we have strengths and weaknesses; Aragorn asked for a blade best suited you."

Rell faltered, glancing from him to the blade. For me ...

The words that came next left her amazed. "I give it to you now, for I believe you are ready to return home."