Chapter Eight: Of Burns and Bothersome Hobbits

Now what, you may be asking yourselves, is she on about NOW?

Let me tell you—if you had seen the delicious piece of manflesh standing in front of the hobbit-hole door only days after privately celebrating two-and-a-half successful months of struggling against Mary-Sue-ishness, you would've cursed, too.

The fact that a gorgeous hunk of Gondorian had oh-so-conveniently showed up at my doorstep—well, Sam's doorstep—just reeked of 'Sue-ishness. If I had been reading my own story, at this point I would've begun to severely question whether or not to continue. Really, what are the odds of an attractive male like that showing up completely out of the blue, when I'd gone months without speaking to someone at eye level?

Calm down, Gwen, I counseled myself. Just because he's got a face a sculptor would kill to immortalize in marble doesn't mean that the whole of Middle-earth is conspiring to turn you into a Sue. I mean, after all, it's not like he's famous or something. Yeah, if he was Eldarion or Legolas or something like that, I'd have to run for the hills. But I'm positive I never read the name Bowen in any of the books. Bowen. Bowen. Nope, not ringing any—

My slightly hysterical contemplations were interrupted as a ringing laugh echoed up the lane. I shifted forward so that I was kneeling, my fingertips digging into the fresh earth at my knees and my head lifted just far enough that I could see. Lily and Dahlia were coming up the lane, skipping and dancing, all psyched for the party. I lowered myself back down again and extinguished the lantern—but, apparently, not in time.

"Gwen Sherbourn!" came Lily's laughing voice. "What on earth are you doing sitting in the dirt, all dressed up in your best gown? Get up, you goose!"

Cheeks burning—Eru bless the new moon!—I stumbled to my feet, book in one hand and cooling lantern in the other.

"Silly child!" Dahlia said with an indulgent smile, "reading at such an hour? What could have been more interesting than finding a partner for the couples' dances?"

Ah, the challenges of having friends. On one hand, you weren't always alone. On the other, you quite often wanted to kill them.

"The Tale of Bard," I said, using that 'governess' tone of voice that I employ when the Terrible Trio get into trouble. "For your information, Miss Dahlia."

"Oh, it's Miss Dahlia, is it?" the hobbit laughed.

"I think she's a bit miffed, Dahl," Lily said with a bright smile as I clambered out of the rose bushes to join them on the path. I didn't look directly at him, but I could tell from the shape of his silhouette that Bowen of Gondor had turned to hear our conversation. Probably, I thought with equal parts despondency and hope, he's come to the conclusion that I'm either the bastard child of a hobbit and a Man, or I've had one too many Ent-draughts. "Feeling left out, sweetling?"

"Why would she feel left out?" Dahlia asked, looking suddenly confused.

Lily dropped her voice, but not nearly low enough for my liking. Really, I could've garroted them both quite happily right then and there. "Well, she hasn't got a partner for the dances, has she? Certainly, she makes even Masters Merry and Pippin look like children!"

I moaned and whirled away, running up the path and towards the house. I stopped suddenly as the lantern in my hand hit something—Bowen of Gondor yelped, and I whirled, gasping. "Sorry!" I said. "Shit, sorry—oh my gosh, am I ever sorry."

Now, repeat that last line in your mind, only make your mental voice get steadily softer and slower as you go—you know, the standard fade-to-a-murmur thing? Dammit, I even talked like a Mary-Sue. Still I maintain my excuse—I was dealing with a bona fide god here. One look from those warm, hazel eyes would have reduced anyone to Mary-Sue levels of ickiness.

"It's—ah!—it's all right, miss, I assure you," Bowen said, though I could tell from the way he involuntarily pinched his brows together that it wasn't. I lay one finger softly against the lantern, and drew it back with a hiss—not only was it full of sharp corners, but it was also hot. Like, scalding.

"Did I—I mean, did it burn you?" I asked, feeling absolutely terrible.

No, no, NO! Don't feel bad for him! Laugh and be all cold-hearted—I swear, Gwen Sherbourn, you even dare go all Florence Nightingale on him and I'll—

"You should take him in and put some salve on that, Gwen," Dahlia said wisely, Lily nodding her agreement.

"I really don't know if I should," I blurted just as Bowen stammered, "I'm—ah—waiting for Master Gamgee here, don't know if I should leave." We glanced at each other and blushed.

Well, I comforted myself, at least I'm not the only one completely mortified. At least I'm not a big, bad warrior who can't even handle a little burn!

"Nonsense! We'll let Mister Sam know where you've gotten to. Go on, now, Gwen," Lily said, shooing us inside.

"Er—follow me, then, I guess," I said in a very small voice, feeling so awkward that I couldn't even look at him. "And watch—"

THUD.

"OW!"

"—your head," I ended lamely, half-turned towards him with one finger lifted admonishingly.

"Mmmf," he grunted, rubbing his head and then grinning at me. "Do not fret so, Miss. I've often been told that I'm the clumsiest man to ever serve his Majesty."

Meh. That didn't make me feel a whole hell of a lot better as I led him down through the bustling corridors and into a small corner parlor that was largely abandoned. I motioned to the settee—the only piece of furniture that could comfortably hold a man who stood at a good six-foot-four—and put my book and lantern down a safe distance away from him. "Wait here, I'll go get the salve."

"As you wish," I heard him respond as I whipped out of the parlor, narrowly avoiding trampling over a pair of hobbits carrying a massive basket laden with sweet baked goods out to the main tent. "Rosie!" I called, spotting her down the hall. "Where's the burn salve?"

"Burn salve?" she repeated, then contemplated. "I'm afraid it's all gone—I've been meaning to replace it, what with the lads returning home, but haven't gotten around to it yet. I'm sorry. Is it serious?"

I thought back to the reddened skin I'd glimpsed on Bowen's abused hand. "Not too bad, but probably painful."

"Try some butter. It will help cool the skin," she advised. No sooner had the word 'butter' escaped her lips than I sprinted off again towards the kitchens.

One thing I had learned early on was to avoid kitchens whenever hobbits were having a get-together of any kind. Not only was there no room to move, but the women tending the stoves tended to get an early start on their drinking while slaving away in the stifling room; this resulted in many a toppled dish, shattered plate, spilled mug, and a great deal of merry singing.

Drunken hobbits, as a rule, are immensely amusing.

Ignoring the young hobbit-womens' requests that I join them for a mug of sweet mead, I grabbed a small, ceramic pot of butter and slipped out as quickly as possible, running right back into the parlor where I'd left Bowen.

On second thought... maybe running wasn't the best idea.

I was distinctly aware of my mussed hair and flushed cheeks as I came to an abrupt stop in the doorway. Bowen looked up, an expression of surprise on his face; I gasped a moment, trying to catch my breath from my sprint.

"Sorry," I breathed. "No salve left, but I have some butter."

"Butter?" he said, raising one eyebrow eloquently.

I blushed even brighter. "Mrs. Gamgee said it... would help... with the pain?" I ended what had begun as a mere reply on a questioning note, and his skeptical expression slid easily into a smile. "I'm sorry, I'm really no good at this whole healing thing... I wish I had an aspirin to give you or something—"

"Aspirin?"

"Ah—never mind." My cheeks were now officially on fire. Mentally, I slapped myself upside the head. "Here, let me see your hand," I said, sitting down on the settee next to him and avoiding his gaze. He held it out dutifully, and I drew my breath in with a hiss. "Sorry," I said softly.

"I wish you would stop that."

"Sorry, am I hurting you? I really didn't mean to—I'm sorry—"

He laughed, and I swear, somewhere there were angels singing. Honestly, this guy was that hot. And he had a voice like no one's business... not too deep or loud, neither smooth nor gravelly, but just—perfect.

"I meant," he said as I dared to glance furtively up at his face through my eyelashes, "that I wish you would stop apologizing. It is none of your fault; I should have moved out of the way more quickly, and there is nothing that you could have done about the lack of burn salve. Certainly you were not intending to have to play nurse on such a festive evening."

"Sor—I'll stop now," I said, wishing that I could just sink through the floor.

And he was still smiling at me. Blessed saints and angels, this was one hell of a guy.

I will NOT become a Mary-Sue. I will NOT become a Mary-Sue.

Oh, bug off, another mental voice retorted, it's not like he's frigging Legolas or something. A single romance with a character—er, man—that no one's ever heard of before is not going to turn you into a Mary-Sue.

But—but—

Shut up.

But—

All right, we'll make a deal; if you happen to run into an absolutely gorgeous, perfect guy whose name is actually mentioned in the books, then you're allowed to drive him away. Until then—suck up and deal.

Oh, yes, and it would be ever so hard to deal with a charming, attractive, and sweet Gondorian. Mm-hm.

"So," I said once my cheeks had cooled somewhat, "you work with Aragorn?"

He raised his eyebrows.

"Did I say something wrong? Sor—I mean—meh. Did I say something wrong?" I repeated.

"No, not at all," he said quickly. "I am simply... unaccustomed to hearing my lord spoken of so casually."

"Oh. Lord Elessar, I mean. You work with him?"

"Yes, I do," he said. "I am, for all my inelegance on my own two feet, quite talented on horseback—the gift of my mother, a woman of Rohan, or so I believe." Ah. That explained the coloring. Gondorians usually leaned more toward brunette than blond. "I am one of his lordship's royal messengers." He patted the package that sat beside him on the settee. "I bear a gift for Master Gamgee, on my lord's behalf."

I nodded, concentrating on attempting to soothe the burn; the skin looked slightly puckered and reddish, but the tense muscle between Bowen's eyebrows had relaxed. Apparently the butter was doing some good, after all. "We should probably—oh, bother!" I said, slapping my forehead with one buttery hand. "Ick," I said as Bowen laughed at me. Shooting him a glare, I wiped the slippery substance off my forehead with the back of the other hand. "I forgot all about bandages," I continued with a carefully cultivated air of dignity, which I'm afraid made me seem less like a cool-and-in-command professional and more like an insulted kitten. "We should bind that up."

"Alas, I'm not accustomed to carrying bandages with me, though with my grace, I probably should," Bowen said with an apologetic smile.

I thought for a moment, then grinned. "Aha! As they say, necessity is the mother of invention."

"Who says—Miss!" he said, practically squeaking, and whirled around so that his back was to me. I hesitated, looking confused.

"What?"

"I can—" he dropped his voice. "I can see your petticoats."

"Well, since I did just lift my skirt, and you're burned, not blind, I would've assumed that," I said sardonically.

"But—Miss, this is not proper, I don't even know your name, and—"

It was actually quite cute how distressed he was becoming. I smiled as I tore a long strip of fabric off the bottom of my petticoat. "My name's Gwenith Sherbourn. You can call me Gwen." I dropped my skirt—I hadn't lifted it that high, it wasn't like you could see more than my ankle or anything—and laughed. "You can turn around now, Bowen."

He did so tentatively, as though afraid of what he might encounter. Finding my clothes fully in place, he relaxed and returned his hand to my care, letting it fall, palm-down, on my thigh. This time it was his turn to blush like a maniac. "Forgive me, Miss Sherbourn, I meant no harm—"

I snorted, and he looked at me in amazement, his cheeks still scarlet. "Stop apologizing," I said, mimicking his voice. "And I told you, call me Gwen. Everyone does. Anyway, it's no big deal," I said, lifting his hand, applying a little more butter, and tying the bandages securely.

What was I saying? Of course it was a big deal! The single most beautiful man I'd ever seen in my life had just put his hand on my leg! But I wasn't about to let him see how excited I was, especially after I'd decided that maybe I wouldn't have to drive him off after all.

"Miss—Gwen, I confess that I am having some difficulty placing your accent, and as much in deciphering the reasons behind your presence here," he said after a few more moments.

"I'm the governess at Brandy Hall—I look after the children," I said carefully, securing the last knot before releasing his hand reluctantly. "I live there."

"And before?"

"She won't tell," came a slightly petulant voice from the doorway. I looked up to see Faramir Took standing there, arms crossed over his chest. "She'll never tell us anything about her past."

Uh-oh. Pissed hobbit alert. Even worse, pissed Took alert.

"Will she not?" Bowen asked, seeming surprised.

"My business is mine. Faramir—"

"No, you're not getting away from me this time, Gwen!" the boy said. I raised my eyebrows, thunderstruck. Who knew that such a small being could have such a forceful personality? "Answer my question, if you please. Where did you live before coming to Buckland?"

My mouth was as dry as the Sahara. I swallowed thickly, eyes darting between the peeved hobbit and the curious messenger. Damn, damn, DAMN! Damn that bothersome little Took! He just had to bring it up now, of all times—

Obviously, I thought, unfortunate timing was a trademark of the Took bloodline.

"Before I came to Buckland," I said slowly, "I lived in... the house of Master Bombadil."

Well, technically, I had—there was no way they could know it was just for one night!

"Oh."

"Yes, oh, Mr. Busybody," I said tetchily. "Now, you run along. The party's beginning."

He meekly bowed out of the room, and I turned my attention nervously to the man sitting beside me.

"Who is this Master Bombadil?" he asked curiously. "I've never heard the name before."

I virtually sagged with relief—I had really dodged that bullet... for now.

"He and his lady live in the Old Forest," I said, then quickly changed the subject. "Come on, let's go! You have a birthday present to deliver, if I remember right."

"Verily, I do," he agreed, standing to follow me out of the hobbit hole. We'd only made it a few steps into the pleasant evening air when he spoke again. "Miss Sherbourn—Gwen—I was wondering..."

"Yes?" I prompted, when no question seemed forthcoming.

"Would you like to dance?"

Maybe I wasn't so unlucky, after all.