In the wee hours of the morning, her fever broke. The sweat slowly dried up, and Morine shoved the blankets off of her, feeling stifled. The room felt stuffy and still. Finally, she could breath. Beorn was not in his usual spot beside the bed, and she began to get her bearings. Her memory of the last few days was cloudy as she wandered in and out of consciousness, falling in and out of fevered dreams. The moon had set, leaving the room pitch black. While she did not feel tired, she had no energy to get out of the soft, warm bed that was big enough for three people. Kicking the thick, wool blankets into a pile at the foot of the bed, she pulled the thin cotton sheets over and tried to fall asleep once more.

When she woke for good in the morning and she tried to climb out of the tall bed, her legs felt too weak to support her. She clung to the bed as she tried to stand up straight, waiting for the circulation to return to her unused limbs and getting irritated by the feeling of weakness. Luckily, Beorn was not here to witness the spectacle, as she had surely been humiliated enough by the situation.

Feeling stronger, she decided to change into the large grey cotton shirt he had laid out on the chair for her. Her black clothing would need to be cleaned and mended from the battle. In the faint light of dawn that escaped the thick woolen curtains covering the windows, she could see an ugly black scar running down her right oblique, nearly making her gasp, though she knew to expect it from the poison of a moon iris. Investigating her arrow wounds on her left shoulder, right thigh, and ribs, she was pleased to find that they were healing nicely, though the one that hit her ribs left an ugly bruise. Touching it tenderly, she realized that the rib was possibly fractured but counted her lucky stars that it had hit a rib and not slid between two of them to puncture a vital organ. She was fortunate indeed—most of all for Beorn's help.

Pulling the shirt over her head, it reached to her knees like a dress, though it surely was a snug fit for the huge man. Feeling a bit silly, she drifted out into the drafty hall. Cold biscuits and thick spun honey lay out on the table for her, but the host was nowhere to be seen. Though the biscuits were beginning to stale, she was glad to have solid food for the first time in days. The honey was better than she remembered, and she eagerly spun globs onto her butter knife before spreading it on the biscuits. She had consumed several before she realized there was nothing to wash it down with. Morine grabbed another biscuit to eat while searching for a kitchen or someplace to find water and quench her thirst.

Next to the bedroom door she had come out of was another door. Opening it, she was delighted to find an oversized bathroom with a gigantic wooden bath tub that she intended to make use of after finishing her meal, since the smell of her sweat hung in the air. Other than the two doors on this wing of the house, there was an open doorway on the opposite wing that she went to check now.

What she saw caught her off guard: Beorn was baking. He was kneading fresh dough to make bread for dinner. She quietly leaned against the doorway to observe his methods. With intuition, he added a few drops of water or pinches of flour to the dough until it was perfect. He worked it in his hands until it was in a large ball and set it on waxed parchment to rise throughout the day. With crafty fingers, he made a ridge down the middle of the dough to later add herbs and cheese to the center before baking it.

When he turned to the counter behind him to begin another loaf, he saw Morine standing there with a smug smile. "What?" he roared, appearing rather embarrassed at being caught.

She shook her head, somewhat disappointed that he had not jumped or flinched in surprise. "Good morning to you too," she halfway smiled, crossing her arms.

He suddenly realized, with a pang, how attractive she was, especially wearing his shirt. She was looking much healthier this morning; her face was now a soft ivory. The neckline hung low on her square shoulders, revealing defined collarbones. Her hips gently curved into the negative space of the doorway, and toned calves peaked beneath the shirt's bottom hem. He cleared his throat and looked away, hoping she had not noticed his lingering gaze. "What do you need?" he asked, just wanting her to go away.

Swallowing her last bite of the biscuit, she said dryly, "Water."

He poured her a cup and handed it to her. "When you're ready, there is a bathroom in the other wing. I'll have my friends prepare a bath for you."

"Thank you," she said wholeheartedly, meaning it for more than the water and bath.

"You're welcome," he grumbled quietly, ignoring her intense gaze and returning to the bread.

She took the hint and left him to his work. While the horses and dogs carried buckets of hot water to the bathtub, she wandered the grounds, enjoying the strong breezes that occasionally gusted, ruffling the shirt. The variety of wildlife—both flora and fauna—was unexpected, though she realized that life flourished easily outside of the dark forest. Only the most resilient of life forms could survive in the harsh environment she called home. Evolution had left a limited number of twisted species with unique characteristics, such as the moon lily. The life she observed here in the grasslands was plentiful but simple and comparatively harmless.

Finding the valley that she and Bilbo had shared their secrets in, she realized that she missed the friendly little hobbit. Sharing his secret with Gandalf stung her heart with guilt for a minute, but she buried it.

Walking back into the house, she could smell the bath salts from the hall. Excited to be clean, she eagerly entered the bathroom and stripped off Beorn's oversized shirt, setting her feet in the tub. With a grimace, she jerked them out again. The water was still scalding, and the fever had been so high that Morine dreaded to be submersed in heat again so soon. The sunlight from the several windows sparkled off the ripples her fingers made on the water's surface, and she studied her tired reflection. Ten minutes later, the water had cooled to a lukewarm, and she slipped in with a sigh. Her long hair floated like a dark halo around her, and she thought she could lay there for the rest of her life and be content. Such luxuries of a civilized life had long been forgotten when she had abandoned her journey eastward, yet they tempted her now as she floated serenely and let her mind empty.

When she was thoroughly scrubbed and dried, she put more salve on her wounds. Beorn had left the salve on the wash basin for her, proving his thoughtfulness. Noticing how high the arrow struck on her thigh, she blushed at the thought of Beorn tending the wound while she had been unconscious, but it was well beyond the realm of modesty. She was reminded of his impertinent gaze earlier that afternoon while she stood in the kitchen doorway. It was the first time—that she knew of—that a man had looked at her that way. The look would have gone unregistered if she had not seen it between others before. She pulled the grey shirt back on and cast the thoughts aside. Toweling her hair dry, Morine found a pine brush with horse hair bristles to tame it. Without her usual tie, she had no choice but to leave it down. The room had long since dehumidified by the time she stepped out of the bathroom.

Supper that evening was a hearty vegetable soup with the bread Beorn had made that morning. The domesticity of the seemingly wild man seemed never ending. Earlier in the day, after her bath, she had found a sewing needle and white cotton thread in his nightstand that she used to mend her clothing. Cleaned and wearing her own clothes, Morine felt normal again despite the awkward silence at the table. The evening was growing cold as summer was fading into autumn, and Beorn lit the fireplace in the center of the long wall across from the veranda.

The silent supper was cleaned up by the animals, and Morine took her large glass of blackberry merlot with her to the couch by the fireside to warm up as the hall grew steadily chillier. Staring into the flames, she wished she had a book to read or some other entertainment. She was so mesmerized that she barely felt Beorn sit down on the other side of the couch.

As he joined her company, he felt at a loss of what to do. Entertaining many guests had been easy: they simply entertained themselves. With only one unfamiliar guest, he was thrust into the awkward role of a true host, and there nothing to do but talk. "What are you thinking about?" his deep voice rumbled besides her, drawing her from her reverie.

She slowly pulled her eyes from the flames, not expecting his polite intrusion. "Nothing." There was a pause filled with the crackling sound of the fire. "Dinner was delicious."

"Mm-hm," he murmured, leaving another stiff silence that pleasantries could not soften. "Are you feeling better?" he asked, though the answer was obvious.

"Yes, thanks to you," she said before sipping her wine. The crickets were chirping less frequently tonight.

"I don't understand," he finally said with a heavy exhale. "Why were you running the orcs out of the forest?"

Green eyes flashed angrily as she corrected, "I wasn't running them out. I was chasing them down, trying to keep them from leaving."

"And a good job you did," he said sarcastically, flustering her more.

She growled in frustration. "I had slain several before… wait. Are you—" The question seemed too silly to ask, but there was no other way Beorn could have found her. "Were you the black bear?"

They locked eyes. "Yes. Just as you were the panther, I assume" he slowly answered. The unasked question of "how" hung in the air between them. "I'm not sure if I learned it or could always do it, but I have been able to shift shapes as far back as I can remember, long before I relocated here from the mountains." He paused to take a long draught from his mead. "You?"

Playing with the stem of her wine glass, she reluctantly said, "I—I, um." She rubbed her forehead and felt his stare. She sighed. "I'm a wizard." When she looked up to see his reaction, he brown eyes danced in the firelight, and he laughed heartily, the sound echoing around the empty room.

"Are you now?" he asked, seeming rather pleased with the answer. He laughed again. "Now I know two wizards!" He raised his tankard for another drink, and she drank deeply from her wine and stared at the flames. "Like Gandalf?"

"Yes," she said, rather annoyed and hoping he would refrain from endless questions.

"That's how you know each other," he smiled as the pieces clunked together. "Friends, eh?" She did not dignify his prodding with a comment. "How old are you?" he inquired, wondering if all wizards were ancient like his old acquaintance.

"Old" was all she said between frequent drinks, hoping the alcohol would take the edge off of her nerves. Never in Middle Earth had she confessed her nature to anyone, though she was certain that Cirdan had known when she and Romen arrived at the Grey Havens.

After a pause, he asked, "Why a panther?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. To climb trees, I suppose, since they offer the most safety in the forest."

"Except for those pesky spiders," he noted.

"Except for the spiders," she echoed. "I hate those things." They shared a nervous smile before Morine looked into her wine glass that was nearly empty, noticing that her heart was randomly racing. "So, why did you relocate?" she asked, hoping to shift the attention to him.

It was clearly a tender subject for him as his expression tightened in pain. "The goblins," he said darkly, finishing his mead and placing the empty mug on the floorboards. Morine though that he would be able to handle goblins since he handled the augmented orcs the other day. Seeing her curious face, he explained, "There's too many of them. I tried long ago, when I was younger, to fight them off and get them to leave, but it was futile. After I lost my family in the battles, I gave up and left."

Morine had not practiced the art of consolation, and she struggled with what to say. "I lost my only family too," she admitted. Beorn was listening intently. "My brother left me in Mirkwood, and I've been living there ever since." Looking up from her glass, she noticed how close they now were to each other. Brown eyes met green as they inched closer. She felt the warmth radiating from his body as he gently placed his large hand on her lower thigh. As soon as she closed her eyes, smelling the mead on his breath—their lips an inch apart—a loud knocking at the veranda door startled them apart.

"Shit," Beorn cursed under his breath.