"And where might you be going, little one?" The Man asks Bilba as she walks miserably along the great east road out of Bree. She turns to look up at him, taking in his worn clothes and unwashed hair and skin. He's tall, as all big folk appear to her, and slender under his layers of tunic and cloak. Something about him makes her uneasy, although his voice had seemed kind enough when he spoke. Besides, not answering would be impolite and if there is one thing that he family has drilled into her it is to be polite to people.
"I'm going to Rivendell," she replies, continuing her pace and shifting her too heavy pack on her shoulders. She half wishes she had purchased a pony in Bree the day before, but she had been uncertain her funds would stretch that far, and she knows nothing of ponies in any case. The Man hums.
"Alone?" He asks. "That is a long way to go for a single hobbit." Bilba has nothing to say to that beyond a shrug. The man obviously knows something about hobbits. "I am meeting some friends on the road," he continues, "perhaps we could walk together until then? The miles go more easily with company."
Bilba does not want company. She has spent so many years in the constant presence of her grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins that being alone has been a welcome change over the last several days. On the road she can hear her own thoughts and sing without being joined by a veritable cacophony of voices of varying levels of talent. Alone she can dedicate herself to remembering the sound of her mother's laughter and the nonsense limericks her father would spend hours writing just to make his wife and daughter laugh. Even though her pack weighs heavily on her and makes her shoulders, neck and back ache, even though her feet burn with the mile upon mile she has travelled since fleeing the Great Smial, Bilba feels more free than she has since her parents passed.
While she does not wish for the company, however, she also has very little desire to appear rude and she is well aware that there will be no avoiding the man if he is going in the same direction as she. She accepts the offer as graciously as she can and listens to the Man as he tells her a little of the road they are travelling. They are passed, sometime around elevenses, by a party of dwarves on ponies, their faces grim as they ride. Bilba's companion shifts when he sees them, turning as though he does not wish to be seen, and that uneasy feeling settles in her again. She ignores it, she is unfamiliar with the ways of things outside the Shire, after all, and it is probably not all that unusual that the Man would wish to avoid the notice of dwarves. They continue in silence until Bilba announces that she is going to stop for some lunch, a meal of bread bought before she left Bree the previous day and cheese while it can be had. She offers to share out of politeness, the Man not seeming to be carrying as much as she is. He accepts the food gladly, to her annoyance, but suggests, strongly, that they continue onwards.
"It will take you until winter at this pace if you stop for every meal," he tells her.
Bilba is not sure whether she should believe that or not, she has seen the maps, measured the distance and calculated the miles from the scale of them, but she is unaccustomed to anything other than a leisurely stroll. This man is obviously well travelled, has seen far more of the world than a sheltered Shire lass, and so she shoulders her belongings and eats as she walks. The man's pace has increased, to the extent that she has to trot to keep up with him, and she would let him go ahead of her but for the fact that every time she slows, even a little bit, the Man looks back and asks her if there is a problem. Not wanting to offend him, she shakes her head and picks up her pace a little.
She still begins to fall behind fairly quickly, not accustomed to the speed and lacking the stamina to maintain it. The Man's face twists unpleasantly when he notices that she is not keeping the pace he has set and Bilba begins to rethink the wisdom of travelling with him, recalling the cautions about Big Folk she has heard for most of her life. Her hesitancy, however, is noticed and the Man grabs her arm to pull her along. She cries out in protest, wriggling in an attempt to break free but he is stronger than she and his fingers close about her wrist painfully. Tears prickle the corners of her eyes as he sneers down at her, all trace of kindness is gone now, and she bitterly recognises her mistake in being polite rather than trusting her instincts, though she doubts it would have done her much good. She has no weapon, nor means to defend herself, and with no thought other than cursing her own foolishness she follows as he tows her along until darkness has long fallen and she is stumbling with every step.
"You have slowed me down, halfling," the Man growls. She wonders how she never managed to get his name, though she had not offered hers either. "We should have been further along by now. Still, we'll fetch a pretty price for you in the markets. It isn't often we get a halfling to sell."
Fear settles over her like an icy blanket. Bilba has heard of slavers, everyone in the Shire has. More than one hobbit has left to go to Bree or the Blue Mountains and never returned. More often than not their disappearance is linked to the rough men in the wilds who are known to raid villages and caravans to take slaves for orcs or ships bound for the east. The rangers do what they can, but there is only so much they can do when so much of the land between the Shire and the Misty Mountains is wilderness, the thriving cities of Arnor are long gone and the towns of Men are spread few and thin.
When she trips and falls to her hands and knees her captor huffs in annoyance and drags her to her feet roughly. Bilba lets out a pained whimper when he pulls her close enough to feel his breath on her cheek as he hisses at her to stop stalling and twists her arm in such a way as to make her whimper turn into a cry and he promises more pain if she doesn't do exactly as he tells her. He has pulled her so close, however, that she is able to reach the dagger in his belt and she is desperate enough, and frightened enough, that she draws it and plunges it into him with what little strength she has. He roars and rears back, letting go of her arm and dragging the blade from her suddenly numb fingers. It is too dark for her to see much, the light of the half moon is weak, but she sees enough to see him stumble and she turns to run into the trees with no idea whether the Man is following or not.
As a rule, hobbits move quietly and unseen. Headlong flight, however, does not allow for stealth, even when by accident or nature. Branches will be bent back, leaves will rustle, twigs will snap under feet that fall with more force than usual. The light and quiet breath of a hobbit moving at a regular, measured pace will give way to the deep and desperate pants of one frantic for air as they flee an unknown assailant. And so it is that Bilba's flight draws the attention of others camped just off the road and she finds herself swept into powerful arms and held against a firmly muscled body. She screams, high pitched and terrified, and claws at the shoulders and face of the one who holds her and lifts her from the ground as she thrashes.
"Easy, lass," a rough voice says, his tone almost soothing though she barely hears it.
"Caught yourself a wild cat there," another chuckles. "Should I be jealous?"
"Ah, leave off, Nori, and help me get her to camp," the one holding her says. "See if we can get her calmed enough to find out what's got her so spooked." The words hardly register through her panic, although now that she has stopped running, she's starting to realise that the one holding her, though larger than she is, lacks the height of a Man. "Take her pack, will you?" The straps of her bag are eased down arms that have begun to tremble, she has apparently lost the ability to move, and her legs go out from under her. The arms holding her tighten.
"You sure it's a lass?" The one taking her belongings asks. "I can never tell with Shirelings."
"Oh, aye," the one holding her laughs, "this is a lassie. They feel different."
"I bow to the experience of advanced age," is the reply. "Our fearless leader will be looking for us in a moment if we don't get a shift on. Can she walk, do you think? Or will you sling her over your shoulder?" Bilba gasps and makes an attempt to push away but her limbs won't obey, and her captor seems to be made of solid rock for all the good her attempts seem to do.
"Easy, lassie," he rumbles again, "no one here is going to harm you." He swings her into his arms as though she weighs nothing more than one of her grandmother's feather pillows, then makes his way through the trees, boots crunching the leaf litter left over from autumn and sticks cracking underfoot. His steps are quick and confident and before she knows it Bilba is being set in front of a fire. Tremors race through her as wide eyes fall on her new captors (or rescuers, she can't be sure either way). Dwarves, she realises.
"A hobbit," one with dark hair and piercing eyes says flatly.
"Aye," the one who carried her here comes into her line of sight. His face is hard, rendered terrifying by the tattoos about his crown and the ear that ends in a ragged stump. His arms are inked as well, where the skin can be seen around the straps of leather he wears. "A mighty scared one to be making that racket."
Half a dozen pairs of eyes turn towards her and Bilba skitters backwards. In the back of her mind her mother's voice reminds her that dwarves do not harm those they do not feel threatened by. Her eyes, however, turn down to her clothes as one of them comments that she is covered in blood and all she can hear is the thundering of her heart in her ears as she notices the rust stains on her trousers and jacket. Her hands are also covered, and she stares at them in horror as the voices around her drone on. She cannot hear their words over the rush of blood, doesn't think she would be able to understand them anyway even if she could hear them.
"Hey," a soft voice says, and she turns her eyes away from her hands (there's so much blood, she must have dislodged the knife, he cannot possibly have survived). "You're alright," he continues when he sees he has her attention. "No one here will hurt you." He has a gentle face, she thinks, and he must be young because his features are not hidden by a wealth of hair like most of the others. He takes her hands in his, folding them out of her line of sight and apparently not caring about the blood on them. "You do need to tell us what happened though."
"Fíli!" The dark-haired one barks, and she shrinks away again. The young one, Fíli, is still holding her hands, however, and when she moves the sleeves of her poorly fitting jacket and shirt pull up to expose the edge of a dark, vicious looking bruise on her wrist that Fíli's eyes find instantly. He tenses, though his grip remains gentle.
"Uncle," his voice is still soft but there is a firmness to it as well. "You need to see this."
The other dwarf approaches, his steps slow as one might use when coming near a frightened animal and he crouches beside his nephew. Roughly calloused fingers push her sleeves further back towards her elbow, almost tender for all the harshness of his skin, and the fully formed bruise is revealed in the shape of the Man's fingers. Disgust floods across the dwarf's face, but his expression quickly closes again when he looks at her.
"Does the blood belong to the one who did this?" He demands and she nods mutely. "A Man?" She nods again and the dwarf moves away to join his fellows once more. They talk quietly and though Bilbo can make out the words she has no idea what they are saying, the language is foreign to her. Another young seeming dwarf joins Fíli and Bilba when the two who brought her here leave in the direction they came from. No doubt they have gone searching for the Man. This dwarf has a water skin and cloth in his hands and seems far more wary of her than the others.
"For your hands," he says with a flush and she makes a noise that could be thanks or gibberish as Fíli helps her to rinse and dry them.
"I'm Fíli," the blond says, although it is unnecessary based on his interactions with his uncle. "That's Ori," the other young one bows and mutters the traditional 'at your service'. "Balin is over there next to my Uncle Thor and Dwalin and Nori are the ones who carried you here." She blinks. "Can you tell me your name?"
"Bilba," she stammers. "Bilba Baggins." All thoughts of false names or pretty stories to explain her presence rush from her mind. She's too tired and too scared to do much more than answer truthfully, although it is likely she will regret it in the morning.
"Can you tell us what happened to you, Miss Baggins?" He asks, his voice still gentle though his eyes dart to his uncle. Thor nods, almost approvingly, but his eyes are still hard when he looks on her.
She stumbles through the events of the day, not that there is all that much to them, culminating in her escape and as she speaks she comes to realise just how foolish this whole endeavour has been. She is almost completely ignorant of the ways of the world outside the Shire and it is little wonder that every hobbit bound to Moria has been sent an escort by the Lord Steward. She finds herself longing for the safety of her home and the warm embrace of her grandfather against the horrors of the world.
"Well, Bilba Baggins," a familiar voice says, and she turns to see Gandalf the Grey approaching with Nori and Dwalin just behind him. "It would seem that you are far more stubborn than your mother ever was."
"Gandalf," she breathes.
"So," he smiles, "you remember me."
Of course, she remembers him, she wants to scream. Gandalf had been the one to come to her rescue during the Fell Winter, too late for her parents but just in time for her. Gandalf had been the one to take her to the Great Smial in Tuckborough and Gandalf had been the one to suggest that she be sent to Moria as all Took daughters are. In fact, as she understands it, Gandalf is the one who put that particular clause into the treaty in the first place.
Gandalf, quite honestly, is the very last person she wants to encounter.
