This is the edited version of Chapter 3. There are some major changes in this one, so please take the time to read it :)

She didn't know for how long she had been running. In the shadows of the trees before her, she kept seeing Robert, poised and ready to grab her. She wanted to put as much distance between her and their camp, so she forced her short legs to carry her farther than they ever have. Fear and adrenaline were the only things keeping the pain away, for now.

Eventually she tripped and couldn't pull herself back to her feet. She breathed heavily into the grass, coughing as her lungs burned for air.

It was only by pure will power that she didn't pass out right there, in the middle of…wherever she was.

Pushing herself up on her elbows, she looked around the area. She was still surrounded almost entirely by forest, but there was a small stream not fifteen feet in front of her. All thoughts about the dangers of drinking directly from a stream flew out of her head. Her tongue yearned for something wet and cool. She crawled to it and dipped her hands into the cold water, but froze.

Blood covered her fingers: Robert's blood, no doubt. Images of him above her came flooding back. Around her neck, she could feel the ghosts of Robert's fingers squeezing the life out of her. She put her hands back in the water and vigorously washed away the red. She could feel the rock in her hand. She could feel the blood on her hands, warm and sticky, with the unmistakable metallic smell invading her nose. She pushed her self away from the stream and threw up what little food remained in her stomach over the grass.

She rolled on to her side and into the fetal position, choking on sobs and wishing she was back home, whether it her home in New York or her temporary home in Inverness. Anywhere where someone would be able to point her in the direction of the nearest hospital or bus station, actually; she wasn't picky.

Where is the Wizard of Oz when you need him? she thought. Some magic slippers would come in handy right about now…

She lost track of how much time had passed, as she lay there, unwilling to move. Lying on the ground and shoulders shaking from crying was how the Hobbit stumbled across her.

Bilbo Baggins considered himself a quite reasonable and fairly levelheaded Hobbit of fifty. He enjoyed the simple pleasures of the Shire and found very few things irksome—unless, of course, you counted the Sackville-Bagginses, but he preferred not to think of them most days. Dwarves were something new he had to deal with. This whole adventure was something new he had to deal with. Far gone was the Shire and all the comforts of home that came with it, and he sorely missed them. He was a lot softer than the dwarves, hardly used to a nomadic lifestyle—a fact that the company, save for maybe Dwalin, Balin, Thorin, and Bifur (solely on the account that he didn't seem to speak a word of Westron)—did not fail to tease him about. After a week or so on the road, however, the teasing began to die down a little. Perhaps their teasing was only an attempt to build some camaraderie, but it only served to make him feel more out of place in the company.

This morning, after breakfast (he was still getting used to the fact that dwarves, despite eating like pigs, did not have elevenses), he excused himself to refill his waterskin in the nearby stream, party because he wished for some quiet time to think away from the raucous party of dwarves.

His heart leapt into his throat when he reached the small clearing; there, lying close to the stream, was what he gathered to be a human child, who certainly wasn't there when the company first passed through. (He could not be completely sure what he was, since his back was to Bilbo. Based on his size, he could not be a Hobbit, and he was too skinny to be a dwarf, so that left human—elf was a possibility, but, although he never seen one, Bilbo was sure he would know an elf if he ever did.) Who was this child? Where did he come from?

It took the Hobbit a moment to recover from his shock at seeing a human child before he noticed the child's shoulders shaking ever so slightly. Was he crying? Oh dear, he must be lost.

"Um…excuse me?" he asked, tentatively, still keeping his distance, "are you all right?" He mentally scolded himself for that; it was obvious the child was not all right. Sobbing alone in the wilderness—Bilbo could only guess what tragedy had fallen him.

At the sound of his voice, the child shot—or at least tried to. He whipped his head around to view the speaker, then propelled himself away, eyes full of fear.

It was then that Bilbo realized that "he" was more of a "she" and that "she", despite her size, was less a child than he originally thought. He would blame the confusion mostly on her clothing, which were unlike any he had seen before. He had never seen a jacket of that style, nor trousers so tight and brightly colored. He shook these thought from he mind for the time being; there were more important matters to speculate on than what tailor would make and sell her such garments.

Biblo wasn't sure what to do. He didn't expect to find a child—or, more accurately, young woman—in the woods on this already unexpected journey. She watched him suspiciously, her glare also betraying her confusion. She must have noticed his size, too, and figured he was less of a threat than she initially believed; the terror in her eyes had lessened and changed to apprehension. He noticed her legs were shaking as she stood, making it seem like she was on the verge of collapsing. Perhaps she was weakened. Judging by her the amount of dirt on her face and clothes, he would guess that she had been lost for at least several days and probably hadn't had a proper meal in such a time. He frowned when he saw the dried blood on one side of her face.

Maybe he could help her. He took a cautious step forward.

"Don't," she warned, voice hoarse and weak. At least she could speak the Common Tongue. "Don't come any closer. I mean it."

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said, lifting his hands to show that he was unarmed.

"Mr. Baggins!" a voice called from camp, followed by approaching footsteps. "Don't tell us you've gotten lost on your quest for water—."

It was then that the two aforementioned nephews of Thorin came bumbling through the trees. Their teasing smiles were instantly wiped from their faces once they caught sight of the girl, whose fear had returned. She stared at Fili and Kili with wide eyes, looking between them and the Hobbit.

The first little man's/child's features did not escape her notice. At first Mirela thought he might have someone with dwarfism, but his proportions were wrong (he looked like someone took a shrink-ray to a once normal sized man), and he had hairy feet and pointed ears. What the hell…? This HAS to be a fucking dream.

Then, the two larger, but still pretty short, men appeared through the trees, one dark-haired and the other blonde. They looked more dangerous than the little man/child, on account of their armor and strange weapons. The blonde one had a hand his sword, just in case her unarmed self went berserk and attacked. This did nothing to dispel her growing anxiety. When the dark haired one started to approach her, Mirela threw all caution to the wind and bolted.

She didn't get very far, partly because her legs felt like rubber, partly because she underestimated how swiftly the dark-haired man could move. His arms wrapped around her waist and lifted her off the ground, kicking and screaming. She remembered how Robert grabbed her in the exact same way during her first escape attempt.

"Let me go!" she yelled, thrashing violently in his grip.

"Stop squirming, girl, I'm not going to hurt you!" He managed to bring her back to the clearing and dropped her on the ground. By this time, more of them were appearing through the trees to investigate, obviously having heard the commotion.

They were all approximately the same size and shape as the first two, but each was distinguishable by their very unique appearance. Almost all of them possessed, a thought that would come to her much later, very impressive, different, and large beards. They stared at her with varying degrees of curiosity and suspicion. Some brandished their weapons, ready to use them.

"What is this?" one asked gruffly, his mouth almost completely hidden by his enormous, red mustache.

"We found her here." It was the blonde one that spoke.

"Who are you?" she asked, trying not to sound scared shitless, but her voice still came out raspy and did not carry the volume that she wanted. She backed up until she hit the trunk of a tree, pressing her body into it as if she was trying to become one with the bark. "Actually, better question: what are you?"

One of them stepped forward. He wore a gentle smile and spoke with a lilt that was so familiarly Scottish, it almost put her a bit at ease. Almost. "I am Bofur, and we're dwarves, of course," he said. He titled his head slightly, confusion evident on his face, like it should have been completely obvious to her that these men were dwarves. "We are not here to hurt you, lass."

"I keep hearing that. Not sure I really believe it," she said. She stood surrounded by them, eying their weapons fearfully, which were equally as strange as the men themselves: large swords, axes, hammers…was that a slingshot? Was everyone here armed with medieval weaponry? She began to think that she was a lot farther from home than she originally thought.

What the hell…dwarves? Like mining, fantasy dwarves? I've gone completely insane.

There was a murmur through the small crowd of…dwarves. It was a mixture of shock and confusion, much like what Mirela was experiencing, only targeted toward her. How has she never heard of dwarves before? Poor lass has gone and lost it.

Her gaze moved from dwarf to dwarf, wondering if this was all some sort of trick. They were all a lot shorter than the average human. Their builds were stocky, their beards massive and elaborate, their weapons medieval. Though these were not the same affectionately named that cared dwarves for Snow White, they were, nonetheless, fairy tale creatures, alive and in front of her.

I am dead. I have somehow died and this is hell. A bizarre hell of psychological torment.

Another one of dwarves stepped forward. He could only be a couple inches taller than her, but his presence was as intimidating as Damian's, minus a face covered in scars. He had long black hair, peppered with a few gray strands, and his beard was trimmed shorter than most of the other dwarves'. His face was twisted into a scowl as he surveyed her, looking her up and down to determine if she was a threat. He held himself highly, like royalty, and he could probably cleave her in half with his giant axe if it pleased him to. He spoke in a rough, no-nonsense, baritone voice, "State your business in these parts, girl. Who are you and what are you doing alone in these woods?"

His question didn't entirely register in her mind. She was still in shock at her discovery.

Dwarves don't exist. They can't exist. They are FICTIONAL. This is just some really elaborate joke they are all playing. There have to be cameras filming this someplace. Oh, this is just cruel.

She looked over the group again, trying to find some logical, non-fairy tale, explanation for their appearance—who managed to set up this meeting of abnormally short men? She glanced at the trees, hopping to catch a glimpse of reflective lenses or black extension cords that would indicate that she was, indeed, being punk'd or something. Still nothing.

The head dwarf—she was guessing he was in charge—asked her again, growing impatient and agitated, but she was only dimly aware of his words.

The only response Mirela gave him was an almost inaudible "I can't breathe."

She looked down at her boots and, feeling herself grow faint, gripped the sides of the tree to steady herself. This place was unbelievable, like a fairytale or a dream, but she knew from the last few days it was too vivid and true to be anything but reality. Her chest was constricting from panic and her head was growing heavy. She felt dread when she realized she was going to faint.

She didn't notice when a tall man, dressed head to toe in gray robes and sporting a pointed gray hat on his head, came forward. He towered over the tallest dwarf by at least a foot. Looking down at the dwarf, he said, "Thorin, the girl is frightened out of her wits and you are not helping the matter." He brushed passed the dwarf and stopped in front of the girl. He leaned forward and placed hand gently against her cheek, instantly bringing her out of the fit. When she had calmed down considerably, he spoke again. "My name is Gandalf. Gandalf the Grey."

Her eyes went from his hat to his staff. "Please, don't tell me you're a wizard."

"Very well," he said. "I won't." There was a lighthearted twinkle in his eye, but it did nothing to quell the emotional crisis that she was going through.

"Oh, god," she groaned, placing her head in her hands. Her head was aching and she felt nauseous. She couldn't tell if this feeling was from dehydration, exhaustion, or just finding out that everything she had known about fairytales and folklore, namely the part about them being myths and fantasies, was a lie. It may have resulted from a combination of all three.

Fearing that she might breakdown again, Gandalf ordered the dwarves to disperse. Thorin told them finish packing their things; they had to be ready to continue their journey once the matter of the strange girl was sorted out.

"Kili," Gandalf said, waving the dwarf as he was about to leave. "Your waterskin, please."

"Are you going to faint?" the dwarf, whom she gathered was Kili, asked. She flushed, embarrassed that she had a panic attack in front of so many people…dwarves. It might have been her imagination, but she thought there was a teasing tone in his voice and it only made her feel more humiliated. Gandalf shot the young dwarf a warning glance. Kili lowered his eyes, feeling slightly guilty from his comment, untied his waterskin, and handed it to the wizard, who, in turn, gave it to Mirela. She eyed it wearily.

"There is nothing wrong with it. Sit down and drink—you must be thirsty," Gandalf said. He addressed the dwarf again. "Kili, bring us some food as well."

He nodded to Gandalf and quickly left the clearing.

She unscrewed the cape, sniffed at the liquid inside, and took a tentative sip that quickly turned into a large gulp. She had been thirsty. She hadn't had any water or food (which she threw up) since yesterday morning.

Kili returned shortly with food, which was only some bread and dried meat. She looked up at him when he offered it to her, but she shook her head.

"Honestly, I don't think I can eat anything now," she said. She doubted she'd be able to keep anything down at all.

"Trust me," said Gandalf, "you will feel better with a little food in your stomach."

She reluctantly accepted the bread and meat, after which, Thorin sent Kili away. She really didn't feel like eating anything, but broke a piece of the bread off and popped it in her mouth, figuring it would be easier on her stomach than meat. The inside of her mouth tasted gross and the bread helped a little bit. She ignored the meat for now and drank more water.

"Why don't we start with your name," the wizard prompted.

She swallowed some more bread and answered, "Mirela Fierro."

"And where are you from?"

She hesitated, remembering how Robert and Damian had reacted when she told them about her home. Would this man react the same way? Would he consider her crazy and dump her in the woods? "I don't think I should tell you."

Gandalf sighed. "I cannot help you find your way back home if you do not tell me where it is. If you fear for your safety or that of your home, then I assure you, Miss Fierro, no harm will come to you or your family from this company."

"It's not that," she told him. "It's just…I don't know if you'll believe. I'm not sure where I am, but I know this place is like something out of a children's story." But, hell, this place is crazy enough, who knows if he can actually tell me where my home is?

The wizard's brow furrowed. He had not expected that. Was she perhaps, implying that she was in a different world? Impossible,he thought. And yet… He had heard the murmurs of the other dwarves, speculations about the girl's sanity, but he did not believe madness was the answer, as simple of an explanation it was. He would have to bring this to the Council's attention, once they reached Rivendell.

She studied Gandalf's expression. There was confusion, curiosity, but perhaps some belief that what she was saying was true. What the hell, what else am I gonna tell him? "I'm from New York City," she said frankly, not sure what else to say. "It's in America…?" There was a slight hope that recognition would show on Gandalf's face and he'd jump up on his wizard legs and proclaim, "Yes, I know exactly where that it."

No such luck. Her answer only puzzled him more.

"I have never heard of such a place," Thorin said, gruffly.

"Yeah, I figured," she said, looking hesitantly over at the dwarf. "Ever since I arrived here, no one's heard of it."

Her statement pique Gandalf's interest. "You say you arrived here?"

"Well, I don't know how else to put it. I kinda woke up in a clearing a few days ago and I have no clue how I got there."

"What were you doing before then?"

She paused, trying to rack her brain for what she was doing. It seemed so long ago. "I don't know. I was visiting a city with my friends. Inverness. It's in Scotland. Have you heard of it?" she asked hopefully, but based on the wizard's and the dwarf's expressions, the answer was a "no". "Well, that's where I was. I don't really remember what happened before I woke up here.

Thorin turned to the wizard. "Gandalf, you cannot honestly believe what she is saying."

"I'm not lying," she snapped. The dwarf turned his frown to her. She forced down her fear of him as best she could.

"I have lived long enough to learn to tell truth from fiction, Thorin," the wizard said. He turned back to the girl. "However, your story is very strange. You speak of lands unheard of and your dialect is certainly strange as well."

"This all sounds crazy, doesn't it?" she said.

"Indeed, but I will not simply accept an ailment of the mind as an explanation. There may be other factors at play here."

So, he doesn't think I'm crazy, but he might be the only one.

Then Thorin spoke, "There is one other manner to discuss: I must know how you sustained so many injuries."

She almost forgot about that. She reached up to gently touch the side of her head, which was sore and sticky from blood. Her face felt pretty banged up with a bruised cheek and split lip. And that was just her face. Her hands were cut, she probably had numerous bruises on her body from the fight with Robert—which she never wanted to think about again. She self-consciously tugged at her jacket collar, trying to hide the evidence of strangulation.

"When I first came here, I wandered around, trying to find a road or something that would take me to civilization. I ran into these two men. They tried to hurt me and I got away from them," she concluded simply.

Gandalf could tell it was not the whole truth, but he could also see that it was not something she wanted to talk about. Her explanation, for now, would satisfy him. He only hoped Thorin would be satisfied, too.

Unfortunately, the dwarf wasn't.

"Why were they trying to hurt you?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said, frustrated and nearly throwing her arms up in exasperation. She wanted this interrogation to stop. Jesus, just leave me alone. She needed time to herself to think and actually process everything. "There were criminals. That's kinda what they do, you know."

"And let us leave it at that, Thorin," Gandalf said, quickly, silencing the dawrf's further inquiry. She was beginning to like the wizard, always swooping in to save her. He also seemed like the only person Thorin was going to listen, too, and for that she was grateful. "Come, Miss Fierro, the company's healer can clean you up. Are there any serious injuries we should be made aware of?"

She shook her head. Luckily not. The wizard stood up and offered a hand to the girl, which she hesitantly took. Even though Gandalf was the kindest to her so far, she was still wary of him. He led her to the healer, an old dwarf with an ear trumpet and braided beard. She was wondering how these dwarves managed to have such elaborate styles in their facial hair that seemed to defy gravity. Gandalf introduced him as Oin. She flinched when the dwarf brought a cloth to the side of her face.

"The less ye fidget, the sooner it'll be over, lassie," the dwarf chastised.

Meanwhile, Thorin still stood in the clearing, mulling over what he was supposed to do with the girl. Their quest had only just begun and there were already complications he had to deal with.

Balin approached the would-be king. "Well?"

"I am not sure," Thorin replied. He needed no elaboration from the white-haired dwarf. It was a question on everyone's mind. "She cannot accompany us."

"You cannot, with good conscience, leave her in the wilds. She would surely die," Balin pointed out.

"She is either a danger or a burden we do not need. We already have the hobbit."

"I doubt a girl of her size could pose a significant threat against thirteen armed dwarves." It was Gandalf who had spoken. He returned to the clearing and stood above the two dwarves. "And if she is indeed a burden, then you shall not be burdened by her for very long. Let her accompany you to next settlement. Ensure the girl's safety before continuing on your quest."

Thorin's frown deepened. "We have already sacrificed enough time on her account."

"But it would be the noble thing to do," Balin advised.

The dwarf prince didn't like it, but Balin and Gandalf were right. It would not be kingly of him to leave a young woman, no matter how confusing or crazy she seems, lost in the wilderness to starve or be killed. Her death would be on his hands and he had enough blood as it was staining him. In addition, the longer they discussed this, the more they would be delaying their quest and their quest took precedence over everything.

"Very well," Thorin said finally, albeit grudgingly. "Get her ready to travel. We shall be leaving soon." He looked to the wizard. "She must be your responsibility while she accompanies us. I will not risk the lives of my kin for a single lost girl."

Gandalf nodded, placated.

Mirela wasn't sure how she was supposed to feel upon hearing that she was to accompany them. Relieved that they weren't going to ditch her in the woods? Yes. But being around the dwarves and the wizard, frankly, made her uncomfortable. They were proof that she sure as hell wasn't anywhere near Inverness, or New York, for that matter, which still left her questioning where she was. The wizard hadn't said anything helpful, besides mentioning that she was in a place that was collectively called "Middle Earth". He could have told her she was on the planet Mars and it would have been infinitely more helpful. At least she knew where Mars was in relation to home.

She was staring at the pony in front of her, like it was further adding insult to injury, when the shortest of the little men approached her and introduced himself. He was the first one she saw in the clearing.

"Bilbo Baggins," the little man said, somewhat awkwardly and still a bit cautiously, even though she had calmed down considerably since their first meeting, "at your service, Miss…"

"Mirela Fierro," she answered. "Just Mirela, no 'Miss'. Are you a dwarf, too?"

He looked insulted. "No," he sputtered. "I am a Hobbit."

"Right…" she said, honestly not caring anymore. He could have said anything and it would have fazed her all the same. Step aside, Alice, there's a new girl in Wonderland. "Well, Mr. Hobbit—,"

"Baggins," he corrected.

"—Mr. Baggins, are we sharing a pony?"

"Ah, yes," he said, a little stammer in his words. She got the feeling that he wasn't used to riding around with a merry band of dwarves, and he was, up until the moment she came along, the odd one out. It made her feel a little better. Maybe she had someone that she could relate to, at least on that one level. "We are the lightest, after all."

He noticed the odd look she was giving the animal. "Do you not like ponies?" he asked.

"I rode a horse once when I was ten," she replied. "It got spooked by a snake and threw me off."

"Oh, you needn't worry about any of that," he assured her. "Myrtle is very calm. Her only vice is she seems more interested in eating than anything else."

Mirela gave out a soft snort and Bilbo felt a little bit a pride from making the girl smile, if only a little bit.