A/N: Thank you for the support so far. :)

I lean my elbows on the bar inside the Prancing Pony and tap my foot against the stool. My cloak sits heavy on my shoulders, waterlogged with the rain that started an hour outside of Bree. Water drips from the ends of my hair down my neck, but I don't remove my hood. The fewer people that see my face here, the better.

Around me, the spacious room buzzes with conversation and laughter between people of all shapes and sizes, including some who resemble the group I met at the dock. The air is thick and hazy with pipe smoke that gathers along the rafters like a stormy sky. Warm bodies press in from either side; I bite back a snarl as a sharp elbow digs into my ribs. A harried-looking serving girl weaves expertly through the crowd, her dark curls bouncing around her shoulders. She smiles as she passes, and I look down at my hands.

I'm relieved to be out of the rain, but the solitude of the road has left me ill-equipped to deal with the rowdiness of life.

"You sure there's nothing else I can do for you?" The innkeeper's voice draws my attention across the bar. The corners of his eyes bunch as he smiles, warm and genuine. This is the fourth time he's asked the same question since I arrived.

I glance at the full mug of ale by my elbow and shake my head. His gaze travels over me before snapping back to my face.

"Haven't seen you around here before." He doesn't quite manage to sound nonchalant. "What brings you to Bree?"

I pull my mug closer, tapping my nails on the wooden rim. When I look up, he's still watching me, the mug and towel in his hands forgotten.

"I'm waiting for someone."

Restless energy jolts down my spine. I glance over my shoulder again, scanning the packed room. My target could be anyone in this crowd. There are far too many bodies. Too much potential collateral. The job has to be done somewhere quiet, away from all these eyes.

I take a swig of ale. Rain patters on the roof and gathers in small pools beneath tables whose occupants haven't dried off yet. Things are always more difficult in the rain.

The innkeeper raises an eyebrow at my restlessly tapping fingers. I curl them into a fist as the urge to flee grips me by the shoulders. How easy it would be to slip away, to take Shadowmere and ride east until the mountains swallow us whole.

Astrid's pleading eyes douse the thought instantly. I clamp my teeth together as icy fingers close around my heart. You promised.

The back of my neck prickles, and I twist round on the stool to find the source of the unease. To my left, a man sits alone by the window, a pipe in one hand. Across the room, a second man taps his fingers on the table before him, empty but for a single candle. Beneath a mop of untidy dark hair, wild eyes dart around the room, skipping across the occupants like a stone skips across the surface of a lake, until they land on the man with the pipe. The two share a glance that lasts only a second, but it tells me everything I need to know.

It appears I have some competition.

A sharp gust of wind cuts through the smoky air as the front door bangs open and slams shut against the downpour. Another hooded figure makes his way to the empty table in front of the large fireplace. The two men sit up straighter.

This must be our guy.

I twist sideways, leaning on the bar as the newcomer takes a seat and removes his cloak, hanging it above the fireplace to dry. He's short, but lacks the softness of the creatures I met at the dock—he's all bunched muscles and clenched fists. A mane of dark hair spills over his broad shoulders; the firelight highlights threads of silver amongst the black, and glints off several beads woven into the strands. The air shifts as he surveys the room with bright, fierce eyes. There's something dangerous about him, and it has nothing to do with the sword he props against the table.

After allowing him time to settle in and for the serving girl to deliver a plate of bread and cheese, my rivals rise from their seats. I roll my eyes at their complete lack of subtlety; Astrid would have removed their fingers if they ever dared call themselves assassins in front of her. The target notices the movement and reaches for his sword.

My fingers curl tighter around the mug as the men prowl across the room. I brace my back against the bar. Surely they won't dispatch him here, in the middle of this crowd?

Someone drops into the empty seat opposite the target. The assassins halt as though slamming against an invisible wall. They stand there, frozen, gazes locked on the stranger.

Well, this is certainly an interesting development.

"Mind if I join you?" the newcomer asks. He doesn't give the target a chance to reply before catching the serving girl's sleeve as she passes. "I'll have the same."

The assassins retreat to opposite sides of the room, though the newcomer hasn't even glanced in their direction. Metal gleams as knives slide back into sheaths. I release a breath as relief softens the adrenaline buzzing in my muscles. For this to go smoothly, I absolutely cannot afford to draw attention to myself, and launching across a room to defend a stranger from an assassin's knife isn't exactly the pinnacle of discretion.

But now there's someone else in my way.

Folding myself onto the stool, I lift my mug to my lips and peer over the rim at the new arrival. My line of sight is periodically obstructed by people staggering to and from the bar. The fire casts a flickering yellow light across a face mostly hidden amongst a cascade of grey hair and a beard that falls almost to his waist. He's a foot taller than me and dressed head to toe in grey robes. Sharp eyes contradict his unassuming appearance.

"I should introduce myself. My name is Gandalf," the stranger says. His companion glares from under his eyebrows, but the old man appears oblivious to the animosity he hurls across the table. "Gandalf the Grey."

"I know who you are."

Gandalf the Grey sits back in his chair. "Well now, this is a fine chance! What brings Thorin Oakenshield to Bree?"

Even with my Elven hearing, I have to strain to catch the gruff reply over the noise. "I received word that my father was seen wandering the wilds near Dunland. I went looking and found no sign of him."

"Thorin, it's been a long time since anything but rumour was heard of Thráin."

"He still lives!" Thorin hisses. "I am sure of it."

Gandalf watches him, one eyebrow slightly raised. The hairs on my arms stand on end; the air feels charged, like a storm is about to break directly above Gandalf's head, but he's the picture of stillness as Thorin recovers himself.

"My father came to see you before he went missing," Thorin says after a deep breath. "What did you say to him?"

Gandalf leans across the table, blue eyes sparking. "I urged him to march upon Erebor. To rally the seven armies of the Dwarves." A knotted finger jabs at the scarred tabletop for emphasis. "To destroy the dragon and take back the Lonely Mountain."

Dragon. The word snags on something I've fought hard to bury. Heat floods my veins as the ancient power stirs in my blood. I grip the edge of the sticky bar, shoving the tide down and back into the box where it belongs.

The Dragonborn should have died with Alduin. Instead, I clung to it, enamoured with the power that flooded my body each time I spoke the ancient words. My husband paid for that selfishness with his life. I scrubbed my hands raw for hours, replacing his blood with mine, but I can never erase what I did. What use is my power if it can't bring him back?

Thorin leans away from Gandalf's intense stare. "This is no chance meeting, is it?"

Indeed. Someone in Sovngarde must think themselves extremely clever. This is probably Tsun's way of getting revenge for how hard I walloped him. Never mind that I took care of his dragon problem.

"The Lonely Mountain troubles me, Thorin," Gandalf murmurs. "That dragon has sat there long enough. Sooner or later, darker minds will turn towards Erebor."

From the look of these assassins, that's already happened. Thorin Oakenshield has a hefty price on his head, and someone wants him dead badly enough to bring the unlucky bugger to the Night Mother's attention. What significance could one random Dwarf hold that warrants the invocation of the Black Sacrament?

Gandalf produces a filthy scrap of parchment from inside his robes. "I ran into some unsavoury characters whilst travelling along the Greenway. They mistook me for a vagabond."

Thorin's mouth twitches. "I imagine they regretted that."

Easy mistake to make. He looks like a homeless old hippie.

"One of them was carrying a message." Gandalf pushes the scrap of parchment across the table. Icy fingers walk down my spine. "It is Black Speech." Halfway through reaching for the parchment, Thorin snatches his hand back. "Promise of payment."

"For what?"

It's hard to tell for sure through the smoke, but Thorin looks pale under his dark beard.

"Your head. Someone wants you dead."

Someone who's apparently desperate enough to enlist the help of every assassin they come across, regardless of their skill.

"Thorin, you can wait no longer," Gandalf says. "You are heir to the throne of Durin. Unite the armies of the Dwarves. Together, you have the might and power to retake Erebor. Summon a meeting of the seven Dwarf families, demand they stand by their oaths."

Heir to the throne, eh?

Thorin looks put out, and I can't say I blame him. I've been ordered to risk my life by people who sit on their arses all day enough for a lifetime.

Thorin's teeth flash. "The Seven Armies swore that oath to the one who wields the King's Jewel, the Arkenstone! It is the only thing that will unite them. And in case you have forgotten, that jewel was stolen by Smaug."

The two assassins shuffle towards the door, casting disgruntled glances at Gandalf. I hide a snigger inside my tankard before draining its contents and pushing off the stool.

Can't have these amateurs getting in my way.

When I return, tracking fresh mud and rainwater across the grimy floor, Gandalf and Thorin have fallen silent. The weight of whatever has just been said hangs in the air between them.

Gandalf turns. "Ah, here she is."

I freeze. The sweat drying on my brow turns cold under the weight of Gandalf's gaze. He's looking right at me with a half-smile and those bright, bright eyes.

Words die in my throat. My pulse rattles in my skull.

Run. Get out. Now!

Gandalf beckons me closer. I obey, my feet moving with no input from my brain. Adrenaline fizzes through my muscles, but I'm powerless to do anything except wait for him to speak.

"This is Sif." Gandalf introduces me as though we've known each other forever. "She's going to be your dragon-slayer."

Thorin's scowl might be formidable if he didn't have to crane his neck so much to look at me. "An Elf?" He spits the word as though it's a curse.

Gandalf casts a sideways glance at Thorin. "She's no ordinary Elf." He watches me carefully, as though he expects me to bolt but also knows I won't. The glint in his eyes sets me on edge. It's a glint that says he already knows a lot more about me than I would ever tell anyone.

Thorin huffs and folds his arms. His eyes dart between me and Gandalf, as though he's unsure which of us he wants to glare at the most. "Gandalf, I don't—"

"You could not ask for someone better qualified to face that dragon."

Thorin's jaw twitches. Though he says nothing more, the surrounding air practically simmers with the effort of his restraint.

Hidden inside my cloak, my bloody fingers curl around the hilt of the Blade. Its familiar solidness jostles something in my brain. I narrow my eyes at Gandalf the Grey.

How the hell does he know who I am? Can he read minds? Did he know I was listening the whole time?

I take a breath, shoving down the panic. Think. Somewhere, there's a dragon sitting on an enormous pile of gold belonging to a king. More gold than I could ever dream of having. And this kooky old man is inviting me to take it. It would be rude to refuse.

Thorin's dark gaze burns into me as I incline my head and summon my most winning smile. "At your service."

The door creaks as I shove it open, announcing my return to the empty room. The old floorboards vibrate with the noise from the taproom downstairs as I track mud across the floor and dump my bag on the narrow bed. My shoulders scream their protest as I raise my arms, twisting to work out the knots in my back. A long day in the fields wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I went looking for work, but since there wasn't much else going on, I couldn't afford to be picky. Three coins clink together in my pocket; enough to feed me for the next couple of days and treat myself to a hot bath.

Camellia, the inn's owner, has an uncanny ability to sense other people's needs even before they do. She smiles as I step up to the bar, ignoring the curious glances from her other customers. Her mousy curls are damp at the temples, and she has to lift her chin to look me in the eye. I slide my coins across the bar and she passes me a bucket. Her smile warms me more than the steam rising off the freshly boiled water.

I make my way carefully up the creaky stairs to my room, balancing the bucket on my hip as I slot the key into the lock. The hinges squeal, and I stop. Hot water sloshes over my boots, splashing onto the floor.

Something's different.

I scan the room, squinting in the dark and straining my ears. A rat scurries inside the wall near the bed. A leaky pipe drips in the room below. Camellia calls to her daughter downstairs, her husky voice raised over the clamour of pub conversation.

The attic is silent, the dust and cobwebs undisturbed.

Except for the note.

I set the bucket down before any more of the precious water spills and ease the door closed. My heartbeat is a war drum in my ears.

How did she find me?

I've spent the past year hopping between towns, never staying in one place for longer than a few days, for precisely this reason. I've taken every precaution to ensure anyone that might come looking for me wouldn't be able to get close enough. My fingers tighten around the key, metal digging into my palm.

There's no way the Night Mother knows where I am.

Irritation at my own skittishness burns away the nausea. I snatch the note from the pillow and unfold it, almost tearing it in half.

The Green Dragon inn, Bywater. Tomorrow night. 7 o'clock. Don't be late.

—Gandalf the Grey

I read it a second time. Then a third. My gaze locks on the signature.

Of course.

After parting ways with Gandalf and Thorin outside the Prancing Pony twelve months ago, I hung around Bree for almost three weeks, waiting for a signal that the quest would go ahead. Nothing. Not even a whisper of dragons or Erebor. The desire to travel was an itch in my bones, and the certainty that one of the Night Mother's followers (or, gods forbid, Cicero) would soon drag me back to Skyrim haunted my every step.

So I left Bree and settled into the familiar rhythm of wandering. Weeks and months passed, and I became certain I would rather suffer the wrath of a vengeful god for all eternity than ever set foot in Tamriel again. Here, I'm no longer bound by my title and a destiny I never wanted.

If I stay away long enough, maybe the Night Mother will finally leave me alone. It's a naïve thought, but still I cling to it.

Sitting on the bed, I prop my elbows on my knees and trace the name at the bottom of the note with my finger. Though I haven't seen him for over a year, Gandalf has never strayed far from my mind.

I discovered he's in fact a Wizard and not a homeless hippie shortly after meeting him. The realisation answered a lot of my questions, but raised a hundred others. Thanks to the good folk of Bree, I learned a good deal about Gandalf the Wizard—or rather, about his fireworks. Most spoke of him fondly, but sometimes voices lowered to whispers and eyes darted around the room at the mention of his name. Those fear-filled expressions mirrored the way my heart beat against my ribs when he looked right at me and said my name.

I'd given up hope of ever hearing from him again, and now here he is, summoning me like a loyal dog.

Wizard or not, I am no one's pet.

This particular Wizard certainly knows more than he should. I still haven't figured out how in the world Gandalf knew me. I had never heard of Middle-earth before the Night Mother's contract. Even if he did somehow know me, how did he know I would be in the Prancing Pony? Did he know about the Dark Brotherhood and the contract on Thorin's life?

I turn the note over in my hands. Though he never actually said so, it was clear when we met the Wizard knew about my power. Why else would he introduce me as a dragon-slayer? It's a crude title, but I've been called worse.

Despite knowing so much, Gandalf is a little out of touch. These days the Dragonborn only surfaces during the bad nights, when my dreams are full of fire and screams. The magic in my blood responds to the memories of battles I barely survived, and I wake with sweat dripping down my back and the blankets still smouldering.

But I can't ignore the fact that this dragon that has given Thorin so much grief sleeps on a pile of gold belonging to a king. No doubt even a small portion could buy the Dawnstar Sanctuary ten times over and rebuild it as a fortress. If I bring back as much as I can carry, the Dark Brotherhood can continue indefinitely with enough resources to revive every Sanctuary in Skyrim. They won't need me to look after them anymore. The Night Mother can find a new Listener. I'll repay my debt to Astrid, and maybe I'll stop seeing her blackened corpse in my nightmares.

All I have to do is become the Dragonborn again. Return to everything I swore to leave behind.

Or perhaps not. Either way, I need to get my hands on that gold.

Shadowmere and I arrive in Bywater beneath a sky streaked with deep purple and indigo. Though the evening is warm, I keep my cloak bundled around me and the hood pulled low. Trees rise on either side of the dirt track, shadows deepening between their trunks as the sun sinks lower. The icy fear that overcame me when I found the note lingers in my bones—I glance over my shoulder so often my neck muscles cramp.

The trees give way to a row of grey-stone houses lined up along the bank of a gently flowing river. The smell of roasting meat and herbs mixes with the chimney smoke curling above thatched roofs. Snatches of conversation and music drift through open shutters, but otherwise Bywater is quiet. There's no one else on the road, no one to see us arrive.

No one besides Gandalf the Grey.

The Wizard sticks out like a beacon outside a building with a hanging sign depicting a green serpent-like creature. He looks exactly as I remember: tall, scruffy, and dressed head to toe in grey. The only difference is the pointy, wide-rimmed hat perched on top of his long grey hair. His eyes practically glow in the twilight as I draw Shadowmere to a halt and slide from his back.

"Good evening." My voice comes out scratchy. I clear my throat as Gandalf regards me down his long nose. Despite my best efforts and the hood shadowing my face, I shrink under his scrutiny, curling in on myself. The feeling of layers of my skin peeling back to expose my secrets makes me long to turn and flee.

"Good evening, Sif," he says after a long pause. "You're right on time."

He gestures to a cluster of Dwarves gathered in the shadow of the building behind him. They pause their hushed conversations, and eight pairs of eyes assess me with varying combinations of curiosity and wariness. One of them carries an axe strapped across his back. The twin blades gleam as the Dwarf turns back to his companions, and the murmuring resumes.

"We'll save introductions for when we arrive." Gandalf's voice is too loud in the still evening. "We don't want to be late."

"Late for what?"

Signalling to the Dwarves, Gandalf sets off along the track, his staff thudding on the earth with every other step. The Dwarves trot after him like a flock of hairy sheep in the wake of a shepherd.

I glance at Shadowmere. My legs are heavy, unwilling to move away from his side. On the way to Bywater, I almost turned us around several times as conflicting thoughts swirled around my head. In the end, Shadowmere refused to stop, and broke into a trot despite my protests. His red eyes glow in the semi-darkness, more expressive than words. He bumps me with his nose, a little harder than necessary, and swishes his tail.

"Alright," I grumble, "I'm going." I pat his neck in farewell, and turn to follow the Wizard.

Gandalf leads us through the spring evening at a brisk pace, and the Dwarves have to jog to keep up. Heavy footfalls and clattering metal drowns out the symphony of insects chirping in the hedgerows. When they glance at me, their eyes glitter like gemstones above their elaborate beards, sharp and suspicious. I wonder if Gandalf even told them I was coming.

I almost didn't.

After almost a year of reprieve, the nightmares that plagued me ever since I learned I was the Dragonborn returned with Gandalf's summons. When I awoke in the early hours, the attic room was in complete disarray. My pack lay on its side, my possessions strewn about as though a hurricane had ripped through the space. Sweat pooled in the small of my back, and my fingers and toes tingled with remnants of magic. Unable to sleep again, I sat by the window and watched the sunrise with my traitorous hands pressed tight against my ribcage and Gandalf's note crumpled in my fist.

Our brief walk leads to a village littered with small hills, each with a round door built directly into its side. Flowerpots and woven mats decorate front porches, and little picket fences border the properties. The air is sweet with the scent of the flowers that bloom in every garden. It has all the appearance of a fairytale dwelling populated by gnomes or sprites.

The road loops up a gradual incline to a single house at the top. Yellow light spills through the windows, illuminating a neat garden filled with plants I have never seen before. Gandalf stops outside a little wooden gate and motions to the green-painted front door at the top of a flight of stone steps. A mark on the door glows bright blue, marring the neat paint job.

Beyond the house, the road continues on towards a forest of tall fir trees; as Gandalf ushers the Dwarves through the gate, I linger for a moment and gaze at the trees, listening to the thump of my heart. The wilderness beckons me, and it takes every ounce of strength I have not to run towards it.

When I turn around, Gandalf is watching me. Again, the sense that he can read every thought I have prickles the back of my neck. He holds the gate open with one hand, the other curled around his staff. I can almost feel the power radiating off it; it calls to the magic within me, coaxing it to the surface. I clench my teeth and brush past Gandalf, climbing the steps to the green door with more force than necessary. Gandalf follows me like a wraith and looms over the Dwarves as they cluster outside the little house.

"Prepare to meet our burglar," Gandalf says, and knocks smartly on the door with his staff.

The door jerks open and the Dwarves topple onto the welcome mat in a heap of flailing limbs. A bare-footed creature stands silhouetted in the circular doorway, gazing at the wriggling pile with wide eyes and an open mouth. Realisation drops into my stomach like a stone.

Gandalf's burglar is a Hobbit.

A Hobbit.

Amid a great deal of grumbling and muffled yells of "Get off!", Gandalf bends to peer into a warmly lit hallway.

"Gandalf."

The Hobbit's tone and resigned expression paint a very descriptive picture of his feelings towards the Wizard. Like the other Hobbits I've encountered over the past year, this one stands a few inches over three feet tall, with brown curly hair covering his head and dusting the tops of his large feet.

He looks about as capable of burgling as a dragon is of line-dancing.

The Dwarves disentangle from each other and queue to introduce themselves in twos and threes. The Hobbit stands aside to let them pile into his home, though it seems to take an emotional toll. Gandalf stoops almost in half to fit through the little round door, and the Hobbit glares daggers at his back as the Wizard shuffles off down the hall.

As he turns back to close the door, the Hobbit does a double take. His eyes widen to the size of wagon wheels as he takes me in.

"You're not a Dwarf."

I choke on a laugh, and his cheeks flush. I pull back my hood and tuck my hair behind my ears, exposing the delicate tips to the cool breeze. His eyes linger on them briefly before returning to mine.

"I'm a friend of Gandalf's." Again, the words come out hoarse—I guess it's been a while since I've spoken to anyone. "May I come in?"

The Hobbit's gaze travels slowly over my face, lingering on the scar that bisects my left cheek and on the smaller mark beneath my right eye. His expression hides nothing—I can almost hear the thoughts ticking through his mind. His grip shifts on the door handle. I wouldn't blame him for slamming it in my face.

But he doesn't. Instead, he sighs and offers a strained smile. "Bilbo Baggins. At your service."

My shoulders relax. "I'm Sif."

"Very pleased to meet you, Sif." He waves me inside.