PART ONE: ANACHRONISM

Chapter VII: One Dwarf Short

My parents' kitchen hadn't changed during the two months I had been away. Of course, all the Thanksgiving dishes were back in their respective cupboards, but the kitchen had the same black marble counter tops and the same wooden table and the same beige tiles as when I'd Skipped to Rivendell. I glanced around, pleased to note that there was no one in sight; I was still holding the Sword Breaker. Quickly, I stuffed the sheathed blade into the back of my pants and covered the handle with my shirt. The Sword Breaker was a little over a foot long in length. I stood with my back straight, trying to look natural even when the handle was pressed against my back.

"Ana?" Mom stood in the hallway, clutching the door frame and staring at me. For a moment, it looked as though she might faint. Then, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around my shoulders in a suffocating embrace. "Where have you been?"

"Sorry," I said. "Something came up."

"You just disappeared!" cried Mom. "And you took the good china with you!"

"Uh…it was an emergency." The last bit came out more as a question.

Mom released me and stepped back. For a second, I could see her struggling with her frustration. I waited, expecting the scolding to come, but her frustration soon disappeared and was replaced by happiness and a hint of worry. She looked over her shoulder, shouting, "Galin, Galin, look who's back!"

There was the sound of footsteps on the stairs and then my dad appeared in the hallway just behind my mother. A relieved grin crossed his face when he saw me. "You're back."

I managed a weak smile for him. "I got a little lost."

"A little lost?" cried Mom, gripping my hands tightly. "You were gone for two months—you missed Christmas!"

"Oh." My stomach twisted in disappointment. As you well know, Christmas is one of my favorite holidays. In the last fifteen years of Skipping, I had missed three Christmases, and each time it was devastating.

"Why am I so surprised?" Mom released me and threw her hands up into the air. Her voice was crisp with annoyance even as her gaze was warm. "You do this sort of thing all the time. One moment, you're at home, nice and safe—the next thing I know, something came up and you're gone. I don't see or hear from you again until you decide to waltz through the door on some random day."

"Yeah…" I had absolutely no idea what to tell my mother. I could say that it wouldn't happen again, but we all knew that to be a lie. Instead, I turned to Dad and asked, "So did you save me any Christmas presents?"

"They are in the hall closet," said Dad. "We figured you would show up eventually. You always do."

"Thanks." I hesitated, realizing that if I didn't escape soon, the onslaught of questions would begin. And, as good as I am at lying, I didn't feel like dealing with my mom's game of twenty questions right then. I smiled weakly at my parents and said, "I'll open them tomorrow. I'm kind of tired."

"You know where your room is," said Dad.

I stepped past Mom, who still had a crease between her brows, and gave Dad a quick hug. My dad is just a few inches taller than me, which is to say—still short, but just tall enough that he's the perfect height for my hugging. Trying to ignore my mom's protests, I scurried up the staircase and then headed down the hall to the farthest door.

Two whole months. I had been gone for two whole months. The empty hole instead my stomach broadened, and it took all of my strength not to collapse on the hallway floor. Two whole months meant that Bonnie and Nick had been gone for even longer, almost four months now. My parents hadn't brought it up, but the fall semester of college had ended and the spring semester had begun. I had not taken exams. I was not enrolled in new classes. My parents had probably withdrawn me for the year. College wasn't even a possibility right now.

Deep breaths. That's all I needed. Deep breaths, and then I could continue on with my life.

I'd known all this of course. I'd known it when I'd been spending my nights in Rivendell partying with elves, dwarves, men, and hobbits. But Rivendell was a difficult place to leave. When sitting beside the fires and listening to the easy flow of conversation in Rivendell, the rest of the world seemed so burdensome. I'd been unable to leave, I'd pushed my problems to the back of my mind, and now I was paying the price.

With the grim thought, I opened my bedroom door.

The room had not changed since I was twelve-years-old and thought boy bands were the best thing since chocolate. Posters of good-looking young men in tacky outfits covered the peach-colored walls. The bedspread was a hot pink—the kind of hot pink that burned my eyes—and there was a box of Barbie dolls in the far corner.

I closed the door behind me and—Skip—found myself standing outside a circular green door.

Well, that was weird.

I was standing on someone's front doorstep. It was a hobbit hole, judging from the size of the door. The sun was setting on the horizon, and the sky was dyed a deep purple; however, the rolling green hills of the Shire looked beautiful and welcoming, even in the rising darkness. I had always associated the Shire with this place that was untouched by dark things. Minas Tirith could burn at the hands of the orcs, and the Lonely Mountain could be possessed by a dragon, but the Shire? No evil could come to the Shire. At least, that was my impression.

The Skip had brought me to the hobbit hole at the top of the hill. From the front gate, a winding pathway descended down the slopes and into the town itself. There were a few scattered figures walking the road late at night, but most of the hobbits were in the brightly lit town just a little way off, enjoying the comforts of the tavern or at home eating dinner.

I turned away from the sights of Hobbiton and faced the door in front of me. There was a rune glowing on the green paint of door. I only just noticed it then, because as I found out later, the rune was only visible in the full moonlight. I traced the symbol with my fingertips, feeling the smooth and finding no indent from the mark. I wondered for what reason the rune was there before I raised a fist and knocked on the green door three times. I stepped back and waited.

A moment later, the door opened to reveal a hobbit—at first, a sliver of his face and then all of him. A young Bilbo Baggins stood before me, dressed in pajamas and a maroon bathrobe. He looked just as surprised to see me as I was to see him.

"Good evening," said Bilbo (at least, he hadn't forgotten his manners). "How can I be of service?"

"Hi." I waved awkwardly.

Bilbo eyed my pants suspiciously. Whatever time I had Skipped to, it was before Bilbo had encountered the trolls, I realized. He didn't know me in this time.

"I'm Ana Stonbit," I said as I wracked my brain for some excuse to invite myself inside. "I'm just passing through Hobbiton, but night seems to have settled before I reached, um, Bree. Someone down at the tavern told me that if I wanted a place to spend the night I should look here. The Baggins of Bag End always keeps a splendid abode, he said… It does seem a terribly nice place, but I would hate to intrude…"

Bilbo opened his mouth and then closed it again. He considered this for a second, likely believing that if he refused me, his reputation in Hobbiton would be at stake. Finally, he puffed out his chest, looking terribly self-important and said, "I am Bilbo Baggins of Bag End. Well, what you have heard is the truth—I do run a very comfortable household. Your informant did well in sending you here."

I smiled. "Thank you. If I ever see him again, I shall tell him so."

Bilbo stepped back, and I entered the little hobbit hole. It was, indeed, a nice place. Well-kept and tidy. Every inch of the hole spoke "home". Neatly placed mahogany chairs, a dusted mantel piece with charming knickknacks, and a carefully carved wooden chest by the door alongside a polished hat stand. The cream-colored walls were curved upwards to form a ceiling that would cause any normal-sized human to hunch forward. Thankfully, I was shorter than the average human, and I could fit fairly easily in a hobbithole.

"Beautiful, beautiful," I said, nodding with genuine awe. "Anyone would be lucky to stay in a place like this."

"Thank you, ma'am." Bilbo's smile widened. "I was just making supper if you would like some."

"May I? That's awfully kind of you."

Bilbo was practically bustling with pride as he led me to his kitchen. He made an incredibly polite host, even pulling the chair out for me. Then he handed me a plate of steaming fish and potatoes, which I accepted gladly, before he took the seat opposite me. Cheerfully, we began to enjoy the meal. However, we only managed to get two bites in before the doorbell rang.

Bilbo paused mid-bite and stared at me. "Are there more of you coming?"

I shook my head. "Maybe someone heard your home was a great place to stay too?"

"This is not an inn," grumbled Bilbo.

Nevertheless, he got to his feet and headed for the door. I could hear voices in the other room (one belonging to Bilbo and the other voice deep and rumbling), but I couldn't make out what they were saying. A minute later, a bald dwarf with a messy brown beard stepped into the kitchen, his boots leaving a light trail of dirt on the wooden floor, while a frantic Bilbo came rushing in right behind him.

"Excuse me!" cried Bilbo, ever polite. "But who said there would be food?"

"Dwalin?" I stared across the table at the dwarf.

The dwarf, who was definitely Dwalin, glared at me. "Who are you?"

"Um. I'm, um, I'm Ana Stonbit." It appeared Dwalin didn't know me in this timeline either, and he was now glowering at me with suspicion in his dark eyes. Nervously, I held out some roasted rosemary potatoes on a fork for him. "The food is great here! You should try some."

Dwalin hesitated and then used his fingers to pull the potatoes off the fork. He tossed the potatoes into the air, caught them his mouth, and then chewed roughly. With a nod of approval, he sat down across from me and began helping himself to poor Bilbo's supper.

"Is anyone else here yet?" asked Dwalin.

"Who? Others?" asked Bilbo. He was so distraught that he didn't even stop Dwalin from eating his food. With wide eyes, Bilbo turned to me. "Do you know these people?"

"I'm as surprised as you are," I said quickly. "I'm just passing through."

Dwalin finished the plate and looked around the kitchen for more food. "Is this it? He said there would be more."

"More?" asked Bilbo. "Who said there would be more?"

"The pantry?" I suggested.

Catching sight of the open pantry door behind me, Dwalin rose from his seat and marched across the room. Bilbo looked as though he might try to stop Dwalin, but just as Dwalin entered the pantry, the doorbell rang again. Bilbo gawked down the hallway and, with a helpless look in my direction, stormed back to the entranceway to see what new guest had arrived.

I watched Bilbo disappear and then got to my feet. Dwalin was still investigating the walk-in pantry.

I leaned against the door frame and, in an attempt to cover for my earlier comment, said, "You're that dwarf-warrior, huh?"

Dwalin spun around. There was a chunk of cheese in his mouth. "Mm?"

"Yeah. I've heard stories about you in, um, Bree. The great dwarf-warrior with tattoos on his head. All very familiar, but I recognized you by your beard. That's an impressive patch of fur, that is."

Dwalin swallowed the cheese. He stared at me for a second and then said, "It is."

"I've seen many dwarves in my time," I continued. "And I have to say, yours is one of the most impressive beards I have ever seen. One time, I saw a dwarf who didn't even have a beard."

Dwalin snorted at the idea of a beardless dwarf. "A dwarf without a beard is a hairless rat."

"Exactly!" I cried. "It's the beard that makes the dwarf!"

He didn't respond, busy finding food, but he seemed to look at me a little more favorably after the beard conversation.

"Who invited you?" came a voice from the kitchen.

I glanced over my shoulder. "Ah, Bilbo's back."

I stepped out of the pantry and saw that another dwarf had entered the kitchen followed by the red-faced hobbit. This new arrival, unfortunately for me, had met me before in his time and very much remembered me. The white-haired Balin took one look at me and cried, "What is she doing here?"

"You know these people?" asked Bilbo, turning his accusing eyes on me.

"Only Balin," I said. "Though I didn't expect to meet him here. Last time we met, he let Thorin attack me."

"You were an intruder in the Blue Mountains," said Balin, as if that excused everything.

"Grouchy old man," I muttered. I turned to Dwalin and said, "Your beard is much more impressive than his."

Dwalin grunted his approval before moving to greet his brother. I watched in fascination as Dwalin and Balin smashed their foreheads together in greeting. Then, they both took seats at Bilbo's dinner table and started sharing stories of their doings since they last saw each other. They spoke so quickly and used phrases that I didn't understand, so I could only attempt to decipher from their hand movements.

"Why are there so many dwarves in my kitchen?" Bilbo, it seemed, did not find the dwarven head-butting nearly as amusing as I did. He did his best to cut across the brothers' rapid conversation and said, "I prefer to know guests before they come to dinner. I do not know who invited you, but it was not me. I think you may have the wrong establishment, and I am forced to ask you to leave. I invited Ana in as my personal guest, but Dwalin and Balin, good sirs, I am afraid you must go."

The doorbell rang again.

"You might want to get that," said Dwalin.

Bilbo sucked in his breath and let it all out in one angry puff. "Dwarves!" He stormed back down the hallway.

"She should not be here." Balin pointed at me but spoke only to Dwalin. "Thorin did not invite her."

"Thorin is coming?" I asked eagerly.

"He will be late," said Dwalin.

"But he's coming." I grinned. "I haven't seen that majestic dwarf in months. How's he doing? Has he managed to remove that stick from his behind yet?"

"He had a stick in his behind?" asked Dwalin. "That must have been painful."

I grinned, but before I could explain what the expression meant, Bilbo returned with two more dwarves: Fíli and Kíli.

"Hey!" I said, waving and completely forgetting I wasn't supposed to know them, Then I muttered under my breath to Dwalin, "It's the hairless rat."

Dwalin looked at Kíli and, despite his brother's disapproval of me, let out a roar of laughter.

"That is not the welcome I wished to receive," said Kíli. "Are you teasing me already, Mister Dwalin?"

"It is not like that was a record time." Fíli stepped past his brother and made straight for the pantry. "Is there anything to eat?"

Balin put his hand out to stop Fíli at the doorway of the pantry. "Get the plates, uzbad-dashat. We will handle the food."

"The food?" cried Bilbo. "Why are you handling my food?"

"I think you might have to accept this." I started opening cupboards until I found the one holding stacks of bowls and dinner plates. "Over here!" I stepped aside to let Fíli collect the plates and take them to the dining room (which was much bigger than the kitchen and, according to Bilbo, was used only for fancy dinner parties).

"I did not agree to this…" Bilbo looked grayer by the second. I have to say here that I love teasing Bilbo. Probably partly, as you would say, because teasing Bilbo meant no one was teasing me, but also because Bilbo is one of those people who gets flustered and red in the face when he's teased. It's great fun.

Kíli grabbed the mugs, and after we had set the table for sixteen, the three of us—Fíli, Kíli, and I—went to find the alcohol. It was in the back room (because of course Bag End had a separate room entirely for alcohol) where we found not only ale but also red wine and spirits. As we emerged from the back, carrying barrels of alcohol, the doorbell rang again. We watched, grinning madly, as a frustrated Bilbo opened the front door to find the fabulously bearded faces of Óin, Glóin, Dori, Nori, and Ori.

"Are we late?" asked Dori as he stepped inside.

"Late for what?" asked Bilbo.

"Hello! Give us a hand!" hollered Balin as he carried three huge blocks of cheese, carefully balanced in a tower, towards the table. "Dwalin is roasting lamb!"

"Oh, lamb!"

Nori made straight for the kitchen from which Balin had just emerged. Dori saw Fíli carrying a barrel of ale and decided that was where his time was best spent. Ori noticed that Fíli and Kíli's place setting skills weren't up to standard and started refolding the napkins. Meanwhile, Óin and Glóin decided to "help" Dwalin roast the lamb (which mainly involved stealing pieces when Dwalin wasn't looking). Soon, dishes of lamb, potatoes, vegetables, bread, and gravy were being carried to the dining room of Bilbo's hobbit hole. The hobbit himself stood in the middle of the foyer, his mouth somewhere around floor level as he watched the chaos before him.

Then, much to Bilbo's horror, the doorbell rang again. I peered over Bilbo's shoulder as he wrenched open the door with such force that the three dwarves outside came spilling through the doorstep onto the floor at Bilbo's feet. Poor Bifur and Bofur hit the wooden floor with the fat Bombur landing on top. Gandalf, his gray-blue hat tilted slightly, leaned down and smiled at Bilbo through the doorway.

Bilbo sighed. "I might have known."

Gandalf offered me a suspicious glance, so I quickly linked arms with Bilbo to justify my presence in the hobbit hole. I was a guest, the only who had actually been invited. Though, when I thought about it, I supposed in this timeline Gandalf hadn't met me yet either. The glare was likely because he didn't like the look of me.

Soon, we—the twelve dwarves, Bilbo, Gandalf, and I—seated ourselves around the dining table, enjoying a marvelous feast (thank you, Bilbo). I ended up squished between Bofur and Óin, and two seats over from me, a space had been left empty at the head of the table. I figured only Thorin was majestic enough to sit there.

"We appear to be one dwarf short," said Gandalf, who had also noted the empty head of the table. "Where is Thorin?"

"He has gone north to talk to some of our kin," said Dwalin. "He will be here."

I grinned. "He probably got lost on the way—though he'll never admit it."

Gandalf ignored my comment. He sat in a wooden chair beside the empty head of the table with Bilbo on his left. At least, Bilbo had the ever-polite Ori on the other side of him; I don't think Bilbo could have handled it if he had spent the entire meal next to Bombur gobbling down pieces of roasted lamb or Kíli shouting things down the table to Fíli.

When I looked at it that way, I probably got a pretty good deal when it came to the seating arrangements. Bofur, I soon discovered, was ridiculously lovely, always asking if I was comfortable or if I had gotten my fair share of food. On the other side of me was Óin. Óin could hardly be considered "ridiculously lovely", seeing as he shouted dwarven curses and threw food in the faces of people during arguments, but once I complimented his beard, Óin warmed up to me. And, more importantly, he stopped trying to cover my face with potato mash.

"Your mother is as hairless as a newborn baby!" roared Óin as he threw a bread roll at his younger brother, Glóin.

"You are more dense than an ox," snapped Glóin. "My mother is also your mother!"

"My mother was as hairy as a bush rabbit," said Óin proudly.

"She never shuts up," said Dori. "She is a squealing pig,"

"Can we eat her then?" asked Bombur.

The table roared with laughter, and in response to the joke, everyone threw fistfuls of food at Bombur. He caught all the bits of bread in his mouth, which caused the other dwarves to stomp their feet and roar their approval. Bombur stood up to bow but ended up tripping over and breaking his own chair. I watched Bilbo's face pale as he realized the damage that had been caused to his dining room.

"More ale!" shouted the dwarves, not noticing Bilbo's discomfort.

Fíli marched across the table top to get refills, kicking empty plates out of the way as he did so.

"Dolzekh menu, uzbad-dashat!" The dwarves called out whenever Fíli filled their mugs with more drink, and I figured "uzbad-dashat" must be Fíli's title, whatever it meant.

"Get me some too!" I called out as I held up my empty mug. Fíli took the mug and balanced it on top of the others in a wobbling tower. I grinned at him and then around at the other dwarves before shouting, "You dwarves drink like Gondor men."

"Gondor men?" asked Gandalf. "And how do you know the drinking habits of Gondor men?"

If I hadn't been having so much fun and hadn't had a little too much alcohol, I might have wondered if I was revealing too much. But as things were, I cheerfully said, "I once had a drinking contest with three elves, a dwarf, two hobbits, and a man—guess who won?"

Of course, the company cried in unison, "The dwarf!"

"Wrong." I slammed down a fist on the wooden table top. "The frigging elves always win 'cause they cheat."

The dwarves stomped their feet and booed.

"You know what," I said, getting to my feet. Fíli handed me a refilled mug, which I accepted gladly. I waited until Fíli had handed out the rest of the ales before lifting my mug into the air and saying, "The word elf practically means cheat. I might as well just say, 'Man, you saw me winning in that card game? Yeah? Well, I was elfing the whole time.'"

Gandalf looked as though he wanted to serve me for dinner instead of roast lamb. Unfortunately, there was no stopping me. I'd just spent two months being stared down at by elves, and I thought some jokes at their expense was fully justified.

"You are an elf!" roared Óin, pushing me back into my seat.

"You have no right to talk," said Glóin, throwing some cooked carrots at his brother. "I know you elf when we gamble with dice of fortune."

"I do not elf!" Óin threw some more potato mash back at his brother, only he missed at hit Kíli in the ear instead.

Guffawing, Kíli threw a chunk of cheese at Óin. "Elf! You elf!"

"Shut up, you hairless rat!" shouted Dwalin, slamming down his mug of ale.

A howl of laughter rose amongst the dwarves, and they fell over themselves at thought of Kíli being a hairless rat.

"I am still young." Kíli pointed madly at the rest of the dwarves. "One day I will grow a beard, and it will be bigger and fuller than all your beards combined!"

"I need more ale!" shouted Nori, followed by Bombur's cry of "Me too!" I also held out my empty mug. "Count me in!"

Fíli, who had accepted the position of Official Mug Refiller, handed out more ale. The merriment continued into a no-rules food fight (Dwalin won) and then a belching contest (Ori won that). The yelling and shouting and laughing raged on full force. It seemed that nothing—not even Bilbo's desperate attempts—could stop the dwarven party.

Nothing but three strong, sturdy knocks on the door.

Silence fell about the table like a blanket, and the mood turned instantly somber as we all turned to stare in the direction of the front hall.

"So, he has come," said Gandalf.

"I'll get it!" I cried. And before anyone could stop me or Bilbo could rise from his chair, I sprinted to the foyer. I threw open the front door and found myself face to face with his majesticness, Thorin Oakenshield.

Needless to say, he wasn't too happy to see me.