Chapter Five: The Unknown Attributes of the Smaller Race

"NOOOOOO!"

I didn't realize I'd spoken aloud until Daisy looked up at me, her sweet little face all scrunched up into an expression of concern. I clapped a hand over my mouth—yes, I did, please don't point and laugh, I'm ashamed enough of my clichéness as it is—and stared right back.

"Are you unwell, Gwen?"

Good Lord, the children in Middle-earth were articulate. At eight, I would've thought that 'unwell' was the opposite of a well, like a big pile of rocks or something. I glanced around quickly; nobody else had noticed my muffled exclamation of terror. "Oh—er—no, I'm fine, Daisy, thank you for asking," I said, giving the little girl a nervous smile and tentatively ruffling her curls. She giggled and seemed to forget that I'd ever spoken, turning her attention back to young Merry's story. It was safe to resume my train of thought.

Was I becoming a... a... oh, no, I can't even say it... Mary-Sue? That most dreadful of all dreadful creatures? The invention of the most inane mind? That cliché, perfect, angsty, irritatingly outspoken, everything-always-goes-my-way ideal of so many amateur fanficcers?

NOOOOOOO!

This time, I was relatively certain that I kept my anguished wail on the inside. Surely it was a coincidence that Estella looked over at me at that moment. Surely.

DAMMIT! No, no, no... please, G—Eru, tell me this is all in my head!

No divine inspiration touched me. No omnipotent voice whispered inside my head that I was, in fact, delerious when I noted the similarities between myself and the dread Mary-Sue. On the other hand, I wasn't struck down by a lightning bolt, either. That could only be a good thing.

Though, quite frankly, death was preferable to becoming the anathema of all fanficcers... no, I couldn't say it. I couldn't even think it. Not again.

And it was true. All of it. No one could possibly be this lucky in real life... I mean, come on! Yeah, so I wandered around the Old Forest for a few hours. But there had been that flash of brilliance when, nearly entrapped by Old Man Willow, I'd recalled Messrs. Merry and Pippin's plight. And what, precisely, were the odds of stumbling across none other than Tom Bombadil before I fell prey to a werewolf or a rogue troll or something? I was also blessed enough—though I couldn't read it—to at least be able to speak Westron, though I was relatively sure that it was the same thing as English (surely if I was speaking some strange language, I would have realized it by now...?).

And the dress! It had fit like a glove—still did, as a matter of a fact, despite the fact that I had eaten way more than was good for me. Seriously, if I'd been wearing jeans, I would've had to let out my belt a hole by now out of sheer discomfort and bloating. These hobbits could really pack it away.

Then there was always the matter of having a great voice, and being automatically given refuge in Brandy Hall, and, in the very hour of my need, falling in not amongst some strange hobbit-children but mini-halflings that actually knew the man I was looking for?

It reeked of Mary-Sue-ishness.

In that moment, as I listened to young Merry finishing his boisterous tale of fungi, famished hobbits, and frivolous dragons, I made a decision.

No matter what happened—no matter how hard I had to work—no matter what pain I went through to do so—I would NEVER become a Mary-Sue.

And that, dear reader, was my first mistake.

Now, I'm sure you're thinking—mistake? What mistake? That's a good thing. Mary-Sue bad. Non-Mary-Sue good. Good decision.

But aside from the sudden inability to form complete sentences, I had also forgotten the fact that I was probably the single most unlucky person EVER.

Ah... I'm getting another brainwave... now you're thinking, But so far, everything's gone your way! Enlighten us, O Great Psychic Gwen, as to the meaning of your avowal!

All right, chances are you weren't thinking that—but guess what? I plan on enlightening you anyway.

So what, exactly, was so unlucky about being saved from imminent death of starvation and insanity by Mr. Cheerful himself? What was the problem with finding a gorgeous outfit that fit so perfectly? Why was I fretting over the fact that I'd just received the warmest welcome of my entire life, and was currently stuffed sick on absolutely delicious food?

I had just made my life so much harder.

Think about it—if I'd accepted my Mary-Sue-ishness, where would I end up? Singing in Master Merry's hall for the rest of my natural life, or until this damned rune decided it was time to leave (whichever came first), loved by all, well-fed, and beautifully clothed.

Instead, I had condemned myself to an eternity of attempting to overcome those damned clichés. And yes, that meant that I was turning down Master Merry's offer to act as Brandy Hall's minstrel. I couldn't demean myself. But... I love music. Seriously. You know in To Kill a Mockingbird, when Scout's talking about how her teacher ordered her to stop reading, and she says something along the lines of, "I didn't know how much I loved it until I lost it—one does not love breathing"?

Yeah, that's pretty much me and music. It's oxygen, as far as I'm concerned.

And I would never, ever sing in Brandy Hall again.

Ever.

There was one thing I'd never have to worry about, though (thank goodness). As long as I stayed in the Shire, there was very, very little chance that I'd fall in love with some tragic hero and have him pine after me, while both of us were firmly convinced that we were despised by the other...

Trust me. As hot as Billy Boyd and Elijah Wood are in real life, once you've seen a real hobbit, you'll swear 'em off for life. Not that they're ugly or anything—no, I could tell that Faramir, at least, would be quite a handsome hobbit when he grew up—but... just no. Seriously... ew. I was so not into dating a guy who barely reached my chest and boasted of his abilities at blowing smoke rings and tucking away a tidy seven meals a day. It just was not going to happen.

I'll admit, that thought (the lack of Prince Charming, not the resolution to never date a hobbit) disappointed me a little. I mean—bright saints and angels!—I was in Middle-earth, and I was a living, breathing teenage girl, with hormones in full swing. Of course I wanted a boyfriend. And I'm not going to pretend that I didn't fantasize, in those first few days, that David Wenham was going to come up to me on a white horse and ride off with me into the proverbial sunset. But... I knew it wouldn't happen. I also knew that, on the off-chance Davy did stop by for a spot of tea, I wouldn't let it happen.

Come hell or high water (again with the damn clichés, I beg pardon), I would NOT become a Mary-Sue.

Note from the Author (that'd be me, Gwen): I'm going to give you fair warning now; the rest of this chapter is rather uneventful. Mostly, it chronicles my first few days in Brandy Hall and how I came to find my niche amongst the hobbits, and includes a bit of helpful description. I think it's rather interesting, but read or not as you deem fit. Just thought I'd give you the option.

For as long as I can remember, I've been short. And yes, I realize that everyone is short at some stage or another of their physical development, but I was always shorter than everyone else. I stand at a rather embarrassing five foot one, and... well, I guess I'm average sized. I'm no Twiggy, but I've never particularly felt the need to go on a diet or work off those pesky extra five pounds. Compared to the hobbits (proportionally speaking, of course), I was still rail-thin. That rather did wonders for my self-esteem, now that I look back on it. I'm blessed to have clear skin of that 'rose petal' complexion—you know, pale with a bit of pink. The only problem is—well, I tend to freckle. And burn. I burn so easily that the mere thought of the sun makes me go scarlet. My hair is bright auburn, and falls in unruly waves and curls... it can never quite make up its mind which it prefers, which bothers me to no end. I have gray eyes, which I suppose will help me fit in here in Middle-earth. Am I the only one who's ever noticed that almost everyone has gray eyes in the books? Seriously!

As far as features go, I wouldn't say I'm particularly blessed or cursed. I kind of have a generic face—I'm the sort of girl that always gets that, "You remind me of someone," or "Have we met? You look awfully familiar." It's sort of heart-shaped—my face, I mean—with an average-sized nose and average-sized eyes. The one thing I do like about my face is my lips, funny as that sounds. They're all pouty and pink and perfect (ah, the alliteration), the sort of lips that the heroines of romance novels always have. Not that I was the sort of girl to indulge in bodice-rippers or anything... well, maybe once or twice. But it was only out of curiosity!

Anyway—where was I?

Oh, yes. Height.

I was lucky enough (though I'd never thought of it that way before) to be just short enough that, even though I retained a somewhat decent height, I had absolutely no trouble in the spacious little hall. I could stand to my full extent, and still have to jump to touch the ceiling. Some of the doorways were a little low, but that was it.

This made finding me a room extremely easy. The one I received was a cozy little nook at the very end of the hall, near the 'back door.' It was, perhaps, fifteen feet in length and ten in width; rather small, but not uncomfortably so. The bed proved a bit of a problem, since I tend to stretch out when I sleep, but eventually one was found in storage that was exactly five feet and three inches. Perfect! It sat nestled in the far corner, with the head facing the door (good feng shui). Beside it stood a small table covered in a linen cloth and topped with a bowl and basin that was freshened every morning and afternoon by the servants employed by the hall. Other than those, there were only four main pieces of furniture; a long, low writing desk set in front of the window, a human-sized rocking chair that Master Merry found along with the bed, a wardrobe for all of my clothes, and a straight-backed chair that went along with the desk. The walls were some sort of plaster and had been painted a mellow, cheery yellow that contrasted nicely with all the dark woods. The floor was wood, as well, and very well kept; a braided, colorful rug covered all but the edges. A quilt in the same colors graced my bed, and, at Estella's bidding, I kept a spray of flowers in a small vase on my desk.

It was almost sickeningly quaint—but in the good way (if there is a good way...).

So, I was set as to living quarters. Estella had promised to teach me how to sew, as well, so that I could have a hand in making my own clothes. I have to admit, although I'd already realized that this was definitely for real, it still came as a bit of a shock that I couldn't just go out and buy new clothes. It would be fun to learn how to make them, though. I guess.

The only problem remained was...

Dundundun!

An occupation.

Master Merry and Estella had informed me that everyone inside Brandy Hall had something to do. There were those hobbits who served, those who led, and those who pitched in with specific chores; some helped care for the animals and crops on the adjoining farm, others made sure that the road leading into Brandy Hall was serviceable, and still others cooked or cleaned or kept careful records of everything that went on. Even the children had chores to do. So what was I, who had so recently turned down the gracious offer of becoming court minstrel, to do?

Babysit.

Uh-huh.

On my first day, I looked around at the faces surrounding me. Glory and Merry and Pippin were there, as were Hamfast and Daisy, who were already bickering. Faramir was sighing, gazing at a pretty hobbit-lass of the Gamgee line whose name, I'd been earlier informed, was Goldilocks.

"So, what do you want to do?" I asked.

Immediately, the boys began to demand trips to the swimming hole or the wood or boisterous games—Daisy wanted to hear a story—Goldilocks wanted to gather flowers for a bouquet for Estella—and Faramir wanted to do anything that Goldilocks wanted to do.

And that's how, at the end of my first day as a functioning member of Brandy Hall, I ended up with blistered feet, thorn-stung hands, and a voice hoarse from talking.

Hobbits could be very persuasive.