I own nothing. Even Amaranth and her relatives are at least canonically named from the family tree appendix to Return of the King. Heads-up, this will probably be some eccentric munging of book and movie at my whim, and I cannot promise consistent updates, since I'm a part-time grad student with a full-time job. But I'm kind of happy with this idea and if anyone is still around for Kili/OC stories with an eye for canon and correct grammar, here's some more comfort food for you (and I've got a small stack of one-shots from back when the movies were still big news, if you want to stalk those between updates xD). Thanks for stopping by!

"Amaranth!" Uncle Polo's voice echoed through the cozy hobbit hole. "Amaranth? Prisca needs help with her dress. Amaranth?"

Amaranth sighed as she shook back a stray curl from her sweaty face, not wanting to smear the dough on her hands into her hair. "Here, Uncle Polo. I'm in the kitchen."

"Ah, there you are, child." Her uncle shuffled into the warm kitchen and seated himself on a chair. "Prisca just realized she sewed the left sleeve closed at the shoulder, but she doesn't have time to take the stitches out. Could you help her?"

Laughing, Amaranth laid down the lump of dough she was shaping and wiped her hands on her apron before reaching to untie it. "Where did she learn to sew in the first place? She'll never finish her dress in time for the wedding at this rate. I hope Wilibald won't mind."

"I can finish the pie crusts for you," Uncle Polo offered. "Now, don't look so shocked, child. I've had to care for the baking since Hanna died, I'll have you know. Let me take that." He lifted the flowered apron from Amaranth's hands and solemnly tied it around his waist. "Run along, dear."

As she started off down the hall, feet padding on the wooden floor, she rolled her eyes briefly. How many more pies would she have to make? Prisca was only having a small wedding, but hobbits did love their food, and simply because a small number of them would attend was no reason to stint on provisions. Four berry pies already sat in the cupboard, waiting for their companions Uncle Polo was currently preparing.

Prisca glanced up as Amaranth entered the sewing room. "Thank goodness you're here. Would you mind fixing this? I simply must finish embroidering the bodice tonight so I can sew and hem the skirt tomorrow and sew the ribbons on the day after that and . . ."

Amaranth took the proffered piece of material as she cut her cousin off good-naturedly. "Yes, Prisca, I think we both have your schedule memorized. Best start fetching your embroidery thread—this shouldn't take too long, and you can work on the other side of the bodice while I'm mending—I mean, unmending—the sleeve."

Prisca scurried over to a small chest to one side of the room and began rummaging frantically through it. "Scarlet...cerise...rose...amethyst...where is that confusticated gold—pardon my language!"

Amaranth laughed. "Not to worry, I've got brothers. And the gold thread is on the sewing table right next to your pattern where you left it before supper."

Her cousin straightened immediately and skittered to the table, where she snatched up the spool and needle. "Whatever would we do without you? I'm so glad you could come up to help with the wedding—Father's so good about things but he simply can't manage everything himself, and you've seen the terrible mess I make of even sewing a dress. And Posco can be bribed with sweets only so many times. I don't know if we can ever thank you enough."

Stitch after stitch unraveled neatly under Amaranth's hook. "My pleasure, Prisca." Pleasure. Such a simple word, not nearly strong enough. Getting out of Buckland for a month or more, even if it was only a jaunt over to Hobbiton to do more of the same things she did at home, was reward enough for her. Maybe if she could show her parents that she could be trusted with travel, they'd let her go farther afield, even to Bree. She was 37 after all, hardly a blithering tween anymore.

Pop, pop, pop. "There we are!" She held out the sleeve, now with plenty of room for an arm inside. "Embroider away to your heart's content. I'd better go check on those pies I left with Uncle Polo."

"He's quite to be trusted. You needn't worry about him—it's my brother you'll have to keep eyes out for." Prisca licked her thread and poked it at her needle. "He can be—quite—persistent—when he sees—good food. Ha, there we are. Now stay while I knot you."

Amaranth left her lecturing her thread and headed back toward the kitchen. Just as she was padding through the front entryway, though, a strange sound caught her attention. There were loud voices outside, two of them, raised in what sounded like an argument. Not that that was odd in and of itself, of course; she'd heard plenty of hobbits talking loudly in the lane before. But these voices were deeper, and the lilt was just different enough to give her pause. She cast one glance down the hall toward the kitchen—where without a doubt she heard Uncle Polo warning Posco away from the bowl of pie filling—and then strode to the door.

She cracked it open first, just to get a better look at the strangers.

Oh bebother and confusticate the pair of them, they were standing in Prisca's prize peony patch! Without a second thought, she flung the door open and stormed toward them. "Excuse me, if you wouldn't mind, those happen to be extremely important flowers you are trampling all over with your nasty big boots, so if you would kindly take about two steps to your right, there is a beautifully raked path for the purpose of standing around aimlessly in, thank you very much—"

Wait.

Nasty big boots?

Her eyes traveled slowly up the trespassers, from the detailed workings on their leather boots to the thick fur edging on their coats to the sharp ends of various weapons protruding from their belts to the beards on their chins (well, more so on one than the other) to the beads in their hair.

No, definitely not hobbits. These were actual dwarves. From even farther outside the Shire than she'd ever dreamed of traveling. And they were here, in front of her, killing the flowers her cousin needed for a very important day of her life.

She coughed, more to shake herself out of her dumbstruck awe than anything else, and pointed to the side. "Path. Please."

The one with an actual beard, full and golden, swept a bow and obeyed, towing along the dark-haired one behind him. "Our apologies, mistress hobbit. Fili, at your service. And this directionless young fellow has the gall to call himself my brother, Kili."

Kili bobbed a bow as well, clattering the arrows in his quiver. "At your service. Though I'm not the directionless one, Fili's the one who's been turning left at every crossroads because apparently that's how you get through a maze."

"Not that your lovely village is a maze, precisely, mistress, but for first-time visitors—"

"—It's just that every way is the scenic way," Kili finished.

Amaranth eyed them. "So you're lost, then. The Blue Mountains are a bit more to the west, if that's what you're looking for."

Kili shook his head. "We've just come from the Blue Mountains, actually. We were looking for a Mr. Boggins. Big round door, glowing rune for expert burglar on it—d'you know where he might live?"

She blinked at him, not sure where to start. "In case you haven't noticed, all the doors around here are big and round."

"You can see why we might be having so much difficulty, then," Fili smiled.

"And we've got no burglars around here, thank you very much. We're all very respectable folk here in Hobbiton." Glowing rune, indeed. That was strange talk. Maybe these two had just wandered up from the Green Dragon after a tankard too many—in which case she probably should not be standing out here chinwagging with them, no matter how agreeable they seemed. Especially with all those weapons on them. But the sparkle in Kili's dark eyes and the quirk of Fili's smile seemed lucid enough.

"But master Gandalf told us very particularly we were to come for supper tonight at the home of Mr. Bilbo Boggins, here in Hobbiton," Kili persisted.

Amaranth could hardly believe her ears. The wandering wizard? What did he have to do with dwarves, or Hobbiton, or burglary? What in the Shire was going on? But there was only one Bilbo anywhere in Hobbiton. "Do you mean Bilbo Baggins? Up in Bag End under the Hill?"

They shrugged and nodded.

"Then, begging master Gandalf's pardon, if he is behind all this, he's got it all wrong. Bilbo's my cousin, and he's as far from a burglar as a hog is from a butcher! And I'm sure he would never—I mean, I was not aware he had any, uh, connections with dwarves before."

"Be that as it may, mistress—what was your name, again?" Fili paused.

She'd completely forgotten her manners in all the excitement, practically swooning over the exoticness of their presence. Stupid hobbit. "Beg pardon, I'm Amaranth Brandybuck."

"Be that as it may, mistress Amaranth, we are overdue for supper with him. If you could point out the way to his particular round door, we'd be out of your hair and your flowers in no time."

And just like that, she could have rid herself of them. Washed her hands of these two trespassers and gone back to the pies (or what would be left of them if Posco had gotten his hands on them). But something—whether it was flightiness, irresponsibility, or just plain curiosity—something took hold of her voice, and she heard herself saying, "I could show you the way, if you'd like."