Important: I have edited chapters 1-4. Most of the important changes are in 3 and 4, but I'd appreciate it if you took to time to check out all of them. Thanks (and sorry it took literally a year to give you chapter 5).

The way the sun filtered through the canopy casting speckles of light on the forest floor was enchanting. Leaves and grass glowed brilliantly as they basked in the life-giving light. She walked softly and silently, almost like she was floating through the trees. Her fingertips glided over their bark as she passed. There was a stream with water like liquid glass. A sigh left her lips; everything was more beautiful than she could have ever imagined. Even the sound of the stream and whisper of the wind had a musical quality to it.

"Mirela," a voice called out to her. She turned toward the source and smiled. A boy, around five years of age with dark hair like hers, ran toward her. Once he was within arms reach, he slapped her elbow, giggling "Tag! You're it," and darted away as fast as he could, with Mirela close on his heels.

Her arms wound around his middle as she lifted him off the ground, forgetting momentarily how heavy the boy was. She spun him around once while he shrieked with joy before setting him down.

"Again!" he cried, pulling at her arms.

"I can't, Victor," she said. "You're getting too big. You'll be bigger than me soon."

The boy pouted, puffing out his lower lip and giving her his signature wide-eyed puppy look. She sighed. "One more, then we should go help Papa with dinner, okay?" He nodded vigorously and she lifted him off the ground again, holding him like baby. He put one arm around the back of her neck to hold on as she spun around in several circles.

"Whoa," he said after she put him down, stumbling from exaggerated dizziness. She grabbed his hand so he wouldn't fall and let him get his bearings before leading him back to the campsite.

They found their father huddled over a camping grill. He was dark-haired like his children, though his hair was peppered with gray by now, and had a somewhat short, slim build. He looked up as they approached. "Finally," the man said, "I thought I'd be slaving over this chicken all by myself."

"Where's Bash?" Mirela asked, wondering where her other brother had gone off to.

"Where do you think?" he replied, his gaze not so subtly going toward the tent.

She rolled her eyes. Bash was way too young to be sulking away in a tent on their father's camping trips; if he was in his teenaged years, then maybe she'd understand, but he was still only eleven. Although he never seemed to like the great outdoors—a trait he probably got from his mother who preferred the comfort and noise of the city over the cold and isolated wilderness—he at least made an appearance when it was this close to dinnertime. She was about to drag him out of the tent, but her father beat her to it.

"Sebastián," he called, "come and socialize."

There was the sound of a zipper, followed by Bash peaking his head out of the fluorescent green tent that he was sharing with Mirela—much to the displeasure of both of them. "I'm busy," he said, showing them his DS, and retreating back into the tent.

"At least help out with dinner," Papa said.

"Let me finish this level," Bash called back, his voice slightly muffled through the tent.

"You have two minutes." Their father checked the time on his titanium watch. "Then I'm pulling you out of there myself."

There was a grunt of agreement from the middle child.

"So," Mirela said, "what needs to be done?"

"The veggies need cooking and we need a salad."

"Papa, I want to help," Victor said.

The man thought for moment about what the five-year-old could do that didn't involve fire or sharp knives. "Do you know how to set the table?"

"Yeah," the boy answered, "we learned in kindergarten."

"Great, get on it, kiddo," he said, pointing to a large plastic box outside the other tent. Victor immediately ran over to it and began digging out plates, napkins, and utensils.

Mirela sat at the picnic table with a cutting board and began chopping zucchini and peppers to sauté. "What spices should I cook these with?" She glanced at her father for an answer and suddenly forgot all about the vegetables. "Papa, your nose."

He touched the space above his upper lip and saw blood stain his fingertips. "Joder," he swore and searched his pockets for a tissue.

"Here." Mirela grabbed a napkin that was sitting by the grill. It was a little dirty—her father probably used it to clean the grease off his hands—but it would do. She watched worriedly as he cleaned his face. "Do you need more tissues?"

"It's nothing, Mirela," he assured her, trying to put her at ease with a gentle smile. "Just a little nosebleed. I'm fine."

She was about to say something, but the scene suddenly darkened. Her father disappeared. She looked around wildly for her brothers, but there was no sign of them. Everything had vanished, even the obnoxiously colored tents. She was still in the woods, but night had fallen.

Terror seemed to grip her like a giant hand from the darkness. She found herself running again. The trees around her lost their beauty; they were frightening, now and their limbs reached out like skeletal hands tearing at her clothes, trying to grab her. She tripped and fell over root or rock, and struggled to stand up again. A weight fell on her, holding her down. It flipped her over and she tried to scream, but no noise came out.

Robert straddled her. His face was mutilated and bloody, more terrible than she remembered. His hands instantly found themselves around her neck, squeezing the life out of her. The roots came out of the ground grabbed her body, pulling at her limbs and clothes like unwelcome hands.

She clawed out at his arms and face, kicked and thrashed, but Robert held fast. It seemed like hours she struggled against him, before her vision began to fade.

That's when she woke up, gasping for breathe. Her heart was beating so fast and strong it seemed like it was trying to force itself out of her chest. She touched her neck, where she could almost feel the ghost of Robert's hands.

"Are you alright, lass?" a voice asked.

She whipped her head around and saw Bofur and a couple other dwarves (Nori and Dori, it looked like) staring at her from across the fire. They must have been keeping watch—or at least, that's what she hoped. She would've hated it if she had been making enough noise in her nightmare to wake them up.

"You were crying in your sleep," Bofur said.

She touched her cheek, and sure enough, it was wet. She tried to subtly dry her eyes with her shirtsleeve—technically, Kili's shirtsleeve.

"I'm fine," she said, her voice a lot weaker than she would have liked. "It was just a dream. Nothing more."

Bofur went back to what he had been doing before she woke up, which was smoking and whittling away at a small block of wood. One by one, the other dwarves turned their attention from her and back to either smoking or prodding at the fire.

She lay back down, still petrified and upset by the dream. It was a painful reminder that Damian was still out there, still probably looking for her. She couldn't guess what he'd do if he found. He seemed hesitant to hurt her before, unlike Robert, but she didn't know how deep their bond was as brothers. He could, for all she knew, be capable of the same viciousness as Robert when provoked. And killing Robert could be all the provocation he needed (the thought made her shiver and the memory of Robert's body lying in the wood made her sick). She tried desperately to push these thoughts away while her mind drifted back to the first part of the dream.

She hadn't thought of that camping trip in years; she preferred not to, since it was the last trip she took with her father. She preferred not to think of her family at all, really, seeing as how brought her pain—she missed them too much. She missed New York, too. Maybe if she had listened to her mother when she tried to convince her to stay in New York for the holidays, rather than go gallivanting off to a foreign country with people the older woman didn't know all that well, Mirela would still be home, perhaps wasting away her winter break in their tiny apartment, safe and sound.

She wanted so badly to be able to crawl into her mother's bed, like she when she was a child and frightened by a nightmare, and be held tightly so the monsters and demons could not rip her away. Her mother always told her there was no shame in bad dreams.

But she wasn't a child anymore. She was an adult and running to her parents had stopped being an option years ago.

Grow up, Mirela. No one here is going to hold you and tell you it's all right.

Mirela all but jumped for joy when she woke up again and it wasn't raining. There wasn't a single cloud in the sky actually, from what she could tell. The nice weather and smell of past rain made her feel slightly refreshed—she could forget about her dream momentarily to appreciate it—though the ground and everything was still very wet. She found her clothes on the tree branch where she left them, and excused herself to change back into them now that they were dry enough to wear. She returned Kili's shirt and ate breakfast without much to contribute in terms of the dwarves' morning conversations. Bilbo seemed to sense that she was a little more withdrawn today—well, more withdrawn than usual—but didn't ask questions, though he wished he could help with whatever was ailing her.

When they set off on their ponies, Bilbo began telling her about his home, the Shire. He spoke of rolling hills and a place that was almost perpetually green and peaceful. He said one of his favorite pastimes was relaxing in his garden, smoking on a pipe and watching the sun fall behind the hills. He described the Old Forest, which was to the East, where he would romp as a child and pretend to have all sorts of adventures…

"Sounds beautiful," Mirela said.

"It is indeed," Bilbo sighed wistfully. He was also pleased that his stories had managed to cheer her up and she was no longer sulking. He thought perhaps thinking of home had put her in a sour mood, so he decided not to ask about where she came from and continued telling stories of his own childhood.

"We will make camp here," announced Thorin, finally dismounting his pony after hours of travel. The dwarves, hobbit, wizard, and human followed suit. He began shouting orders to the company. "Fili, Kili: watch the ponies. Oin, Gloin: collect some firewood."

They had stopped in a grassy clearing at the base of a cliff. In the clearing, there were the remnants of a small home. Much of the walls had been destroyed and they were barely supporting the remains of a caved in roof. Gandalf inspected the home, running his hands along the wooden supports and bricks. While ivy and moss clung to the ruins, the ground inside was bare. Ash still remained in the fireplace. This home did not fall apart by any slow force of nature.

"A farmer and his family used to live here," he said, feeling their presence in the wood and stone. There was something else, too, a dark stain left behind. Whatever created it certainly destroyed the home. Concern crossed his features and he turned back toward the company. "I think it would be wise to keep moving. We can make for the Hidden Valley," he told Thorin.

The dwarf scowled. "I have told you before: I will not go near that place."

The wizard and dwarf began to argue again. It seemed to be a common thing. The wizard appeared to be the guide or consultant of some sort for the quest, whatever the quest was, but Thorin—whom it didn't take long for Mirela establish as leader of the company—seemed to be the type who didn't take well to being told what to do. When he did abide by the wizard's advice, it was almost always grudgingly.

Mirela, having heard part of the conversation, turned to Bilbo. "What's in the Hidden Valley?" she asked the Hobbit.

"Elves, of course," he answered, happy that she was speaking to him again. He tried to unstrap his pack and bedroll from Myrtle. Mirela helped him; it was easier for her, since she was taller and had longer arms than the Hobbit.

"Seriously?" Elves, too? Though, she supposed it shouldn't have been too surprising. They had hobbits, dwarves, wizards…why not throw elves into the mix, too? "So, why doesn't Thorin want to go there?"

"Elves and dwarves get on very well."

"Why not?"

"There has always been bad blood between them, it seems," the Hobbit said. "There are stories about wars between elves and dwarves dating back thousands of years. You ask a lot of silly questions. Have you never learned this?"

No, she had never learned this and, from her perspective, her questions seemed pretty standard. Though, to the Middle Earthling, she supposed, this was all probably common knowledge.

"No, I must've missed that lesson in history," she said.

Thorin and Gandalf's argument ended with the wizard storming away, muttering angrily about the stubbornness of dwarves. He marched straight passed Bilbo, Mirela, and the remaining company.

The Hobbit called after him, "Gandalf? Where are you going?" Bilbo began to follow the wizard. However, he was unable to keep up with Gandalf's long strides.

"To seek the company of the only one who has any sense around here," the wizard replied.

"And who's that?"

"Myself, Mr. Baggins!" the wizard thundered. He then disappeared into the trees, long gray robes trailing behind him.

Bilbo worriedly turned to Balin. "Do you think he'll come back?" He asked.

The dwarf shrugged, watching the wizard abandon them.

Thorin simply glared at Gandalf's back as he vanished from sight. His eyes were still burning holes in the trees where the wizard disappeared when he said, "Come on, Bombur. We're hungry."

Mirela wandered off from the rest of the company once they set up camp, exploring the woods just around the outskirts of the small abandoned farm.

She felt bad for being a nuisance and a burden, so she asked Oin and Gloin if she could help them with the fire. The dwarves dismissed her, claiming they could handle it just fine and didn't need her help. She felt even more worthless after that and headed into the woods to keep out of the way.

She ran into Fili and Kili shortly after. They were sitting on logs, idly chatting with one another while they kept watch over the ponies. They heard her approach.

"What are you doing here?" asked Fili.

"Walking," she replied, leaning against a tree and looking out of the hills that they had crossed. She wondered how far they had traveled, how much farther she would be traveling with them, and how much longer would she have to stay here until she could go home. It had been a week since she last saw her friends Carmen and Eric, a week since she last drank coffee, used an ATM, rode in a car. Only a week, she thought. Feels like I've been gone for months.

The sun setting over the hills was a sight she hadn't seen in many years, not since her last camping trip with her father and brothers when she was still a young teenager. And now that she wasn't running for her life or drowning, she had the chance to realize the beauty of this world. The clouds lit up with pink and orange light. The blades of grass and tree leaves caught the light that shown through, giving them an ethereal, yellow glow as the ponies idly grazed and rested after a long day of walking. She gave a wistful sigh, deciding that nothing in New York could top this view, no matter how much she loved that city.

Fili said something to her and she turned away from the picturesque sight to face the dwarf. "Hmm?"

"I asked where you are from, Mirela," he repeated.

"Uh, it's really far away from here. You've probably never heard of it before," she said. After all the responses she's gotten from telling the truth about her origins, she decided it would be better to speak vaguely when answered these questions. She had only told Gandalf and Thorin where she was actually from, because a part of her had still believed they, at least Gandalf, would be able to get her home. In any case, telling the two dwarf brothers that she was from another world would definitely eliminate any chances of friendship. Not that building relationships was her top priority; she had other things to worry about other than friendships. Though, talking to someone did keep her mind off her more negative and despairing thoughts about never returning home. She found that she had grow a little closer to Bilbo, perhaps close enough to call him her first friend in Middle Earth.

"I wouldn't be so sure. We are not the most well-traveled, but we may have heard of it," Kili said.

She shook her head. "No, you've most definitely not."

"If your home is so far away, how did you find yourself here?" Fili asked curiously.

"Jesus, what is this? The Spanish Inquisition?"

"What is that?" Fili gave her an odd look. She was used to it by now.

She still made a mental note to be more careful about what she said. "Nothing. It's just an expression from where I'm from."

Her insistence on being vague obviously piqued their interest—for what reason could she have to keep the name of her homeland a secret?—but her guarded posture and expression made it apparent that, no matter how much prying they did, she would refuse to give them any more information. Mirela actually prided herself in her stubbornness to keep certain things to herself. It used to drive her parents crazy, especially her mother, who always wanted to know the happenings of her daughter's private life.

Kili turned the conversation to something else. "How did you get all those cuts and bruises?"

That's right, she thought. I probably still look like I got into a fight with a lawn mower.

The other dwarf reached over and smacked Kili upside the head. "Have some tact, brother," he said. "I apologize for him. He often speaks before he thinks." Fili gave her a charming smile while Kili glared at him and rubbed the back of his head.

"It's all right," she said. "I had a run-in with some bandits before Bilbo found me."

When Kili opened his mouth to either ask her to elaborate or ask her another question, she interrupted him. "Uh-uh. You already asked me like three questions. It's my turn to ask something."

He grinned and gestured, as if to say, "Ask away then".

She thought for a moment. "Where are you from?"

"Fili and I were born in the Blue Mountains, along with other members of our company. However, our people originally hail from the great Kingdom of Erebor," Kili answered. "It is also known as the Lonely Mountain."

She blinked. Perhaps she shouldn't have wasted a question on that, since none of what he said meant anything to her. Where the hell were the Blue Mountains? Or Erebor for that matter? It didn't even matter that he had told her the Kingdom's second name. Whatever. I'll just get ahold of a map or something. Next question. "If Erebor was so great, then why did your people leave?"

Fili and Kili exchanged glances of confusion. Fili turned to her and said, "Erebor was sacked by Smaug the Terrible. Surely you must have known that."

Shit. Think fast, Mirela. She tried to explain quickly, "My home is very far away and isolated. We don't usually hear about what goes on in other places, because it's so hard for news to travel there." The brothers shot each other incredulous looks. "I get to ask another question," she said, quickly, before they could ask anymore. "It's still my turn."

Fili gave her a nod to go ahead. "Very well."

She pondered again. What would be a good question to ask the dwarves? She remembered the conversation she had with Bilbo earlier, but given his response to it, she figured she'd get something similar from the dwarves, especially since it seems she should have known about the whole Erebor thing. She would have to ask Gandalf about the tense relationship between elves and dwarves when he came back, if he came back.

The brothers were staring at her expectantly, so for lack of a better question, she settled on the generic "I don't know...What's your favorite color?"

"That is your question?" Kili asked, cracking a smile.

"It's a very important question," she said with the utmost seriousness.

After that (Kili answered blue; Fili, red), they went back and forth asking each other questions. The brothers grew frustrated with her short quips, disappointed that she wouldn't elaborate. She deflected their inquiries, gave them unspecific truths, and lied when they tried to press for more information. Some topics she didn't want to talk about (her run in with the Robert and Damian had been labeled simply as a run in with bandits and dropped) and others she couldn't obviously elaborate on (anything more specific about her home or how she ended up in the middle of nowhere). It was difficult to lie, especially with the brothers' earnest faces staring at her as she stammered out answers. The dwarves were far more exciting and interesting with their answers.

Kili animatedly told her stories about his childhood. She liked watching the emotions flit across his face. Both brothers were very expressive, but there was something in Kili's smile or the way his warm, brown eyes twinkled that fascinated her. Most of the boys she was friends with, with an exception of Eric, were so cynical, so pretentious, so obsessed with the future and looking older and mature with cigarettes between their fingers and coffee in their hands. Kili looked like someone in his mid-to-late-twenties, but when he smiled, the years slipped from his face, revealing the unmarred youth of someone without worries of the future. He caught her staring at him once and she quickly diverted her eyes to the ponies, pretending her attention had been on them the entire time. It's only the sun in his eyes, she thought, scolding herself.

"I'm distracting you," she said, pushing herself off the tree. Kili tried to deny this, but she shook her head and made up an excuse to leave. "I better go see if Bombur needs help with cooking or something."

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Mirela could feel her cheeks reddening and hoped neither Kili nor Fili noticed it in the orange light of the sun.

She scurried back to camp, finding Bofur, Bifur, Bombur, Oin and Gloin sitting by the fire. The rest of the dwarves were scattered around the clearing, doing there own thing. It looked like Bombur was still in the process of cooking when she approached, figuring she might as well put her excuse to leave to good use.

"Can I help?" she asked, freezing up the moment the four pairs of eyes landed on her.

Gloin waved her off, like he had done earlier. "That won't be necessary, lassie. Bombur's got it."

She frowned, but didn't leave yet. While the large dwarf seemed to be in his element, he still looked a little flustered trying to prepare everything for the stew, while the three other dwarves were content to sit and watch. "Please?" she asked again, a little more forcefully and addressing Bombur this time. "I can help—I know how to cook. I can chop stuff or whatever."

He looked from the stew to her, and back to the stew, thinking for a moment before hesitantly nodding. She smiled, grateful to have something to do other than wander around the woods and think. Bofur scooted over to make for her. Bombur handed her a small knife and pointed at the potatoes and wooden bowl.

"Do you want them skinned?" she asked.

Bombur shook his head. "No, there isn't time and the skins are good for you."

Mirela rolled up her sleeves and got to work. It was difficult without a cutting board, but she managed to chop the potatoes without cutting herself or dropping anything. She chocked it up to her experience in the kitchen; she was used to making dinner for her family while her mother and stepfather were at work.

"That's an interesting piece of jewelry you have there," Bofur said, pointing at her watch with the end of his pipe.

"It's a watch," she said, and elaborated, "It tells time."

"May I?" he asked.

She was hesitant, but nonetheless unclasped the bracelet and placed it in Bofur's outstretched palm. She watched as he turned it over carefully in his hands, admiring the design.

"This is impressive craftsmanship," he commented. "Where did you get it?"

"It used to belong to my father. He gave it to me before he passed away." She didn't know why she let that slip out; she was just anxious to have the watch back in her hands.

Bofur's smile slipped from his face as he looked at her solemnly. "I'm sorry, lass." He handed the watch back right after that.

She shrugged and placed the watch back on her wrist. "It was a while ago," she said simply, and went back to chopping vegetables. She felt bad for bringing it up, because the air had suddenly gone from slightly awkward to very uncomfortable. "So, what are the Blue Mountains like?" she asked. "It's where Kili said you were from."

Bofur immediately launched into a story about their home in the Blue Mountains. He came from a family of miners, but he liked to dabble in toymaking, boasting that his toys were popular as far as Dale. Gloin interjected occasionally, giving his own family history. He was among Durin's Folk, as were his cousins Dwalin and Balin, and Thorin and his nephews Fili and Kili. Mirela just nodded along, even though she had no idea what he was talking about.

She was most amused by Bofur, who could spin long, elaborate and humorous stories—sometimes folk stories and legends every dwarf knew and other times stories from his childhood. Pretty soon, the other dwarves, save for Fili and Kili, who were still watching the ponies, and Bilbo had gathered around to hear Bofur speak. Mirela didn't feel quite as intimidated by them as she did before, and agreed with Gandalf's earlier claim that they were quite a merry group of men. She continued to help Bombur with dinner, and smiled brightly when the dwarf thanked her for the help. He also didn't fail to mention her help in dinner when the other dwarves praised the stew, which made her blush a little as the dwarves also complimented her.

"Imagine that," she joked, "I'm not entirely useless." There were a couple chuckles in response and murmurs of agreement.

They were still passing out stew when Bilbo said, worriedly, "He hasn't come back." The hobbit worriedly looked out into the night, scanning the trees.

"Who?" Bofur asked.

"Gandalf."

The dwarf dismissed the Hobbit's concerns. "He's a wizard. He does what he pleases. Do us a favor and give these to the lads." Bofur handed Bilbo two bowls of the stew and gestured to the trees where Kili and Fili were watching the ponies.

"It doesn't worry you that Gandalf's gone?" Mirela asked. In the excitement, she had almost forgotten that the wizard had left. "What if he doesn't come back?"

"I wouldn't worry," Bofur said. "Gandalf has a lot resting on this quest. He wouldn't abandon it so easily."

Mirela's brow furrowed. "Quest?"

Bofur shut up immediately, looking nervous and guilty. This only served to pique her curiosity. She had wondered what a group of dwarves plus a hobbit and wizard were doing, but was too busy with her own situation to put much thought into it. Now, she was curious. She stared at Bofur suspiciously. What were they doing out here? Was this a common thing in Middle Earth? What kind of quest? She was wondering if she should try to press him for more details, just in case they did happen to be a strange band of murderers or something, but Dwalin had dragged the dwarf away.

Huddled together, they spoke in hushed voices, so Mirela could not understand them. Occasionally they'd look or nod in her direction. She knew they were scolding Bofur, probably for letting slip the word "quest" in her presence. Their secretiveness was beginning to put her on edge. What was so big that she couldn't know? The feeling of camaraderie she thought had formed during supper had vanished and she was starting to feel suspicion toward the dwarves. Perhaps they were more dangerous than she had originally thought.

She didn't have much time to dwell on these thoughts, because Kili and Fili came bursting through the trees, bowls of uneaten stew in hand. Bilbo was not with them.

Thorin stood up upon their approach. "What is the matter?"

"Trolls," Kili answered, breathless. "They took four of the ponies."

There were trolls here. Nothing could surprise her now.

"And what of our burglar?" asked Thorin. "Has he run off in fear?"

The brothers shook their heads. "No," said Fili, albeit hesitantly. "He went to free the ponies."

Joder="fuck" in Spanish. It's used in Spain a lot.