Revised on December 30, 2014

I stood, fuming, for about five seconds before I realized what a dangerous situation I had been placed in. My anger drained away as I looked around, suddenly fearful for my life.

The eldest dwarf stepped forward. He approached me carefully, hands slightly raised, as one might do when approaching a skittish horse. There was no doubt in my mind that he had noticed my fear and now was trying to soothe it as best he knew how. If he was surprised by my height, he did not show it. "Princess," he said, giving me a small bow, "it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Balin, son of Fundin."

I managed a smile and curtsied, doing my best to calm my frayed nerves. "It is truly a pleasure, master dwarf," I said, "but I do not carry the title of Princess. It has been nearly two centuries since last I stepped foot in the Greenwood, and the elf on the throne is anything but my father."

The old dwarf looked momentary stunned but managed to recover fairly quickly, much to his credit. He leaned in towards me, lowering his voice. "No one can lose her title, lass," he said softly. "Thorin is living proof. He is a king without a kingdom, a prince without a people. However, he does not cease to be that which he was born to be."

"I did not lose my title," I answered, my voice soft and clear. My heart ached as I thought back to happier times, times before fire and death. I sighed; I could barely remember a time before the darkness. "I gave it up. I refused to be recognized as a part of the family of the one who abandoned a people to fire."

A look of remembrance crossed his face. "You were the elf warrior who tried to ride to our aid," he whispered, awed. Several of the dwarves behind him began to murmur, looking at me in a new light.

Gandalf chose that moment to poke his head around the doorframe and give us a smoldering glare. "Are you finished?" he asked, winking at me briefly to let me know he was not truly angry. The other dwarves nodded and marched back to the small room with the table. Many a glance was tossed my way as they passed me by. I followed, feeling slightly calmed.

"What news from the meeting in Ered Luin?" Balin was asking as I snuck quietly into the room, making little more noise than a mouse. I sat down at Gandalf's left hand. "Did they all come?"

Thorin put down his spoon, a shadow crossing his face. "Aye," Thorin said. "Envoys of all seven kingdoms." The dwarves murmured and laughed amongst themselves, cheered by this good news.

"And what do the dwarves of the Iron Hills say?" the dwarf to my left—the one with the tattooed head—asked, grinning. He leaned forward, eyes glinting in excitement. "Is Dain with us?"

Thorin took a deep breath and sighed, looking past me with sad eyes. "They will not come." The dwarf looked down, disappointed. "They say this quest is ours, and ours alone."

The room was silent for a moment as every dwarf retreated into his own mind, thinking. The few candles in the room sent shadows dancing across the walls of the hobbit hole. I looked around at the dwarves, studying them. I counted at least one pair of siblings among them: the dark and light dwarves from earlier—the ones who enjoyed tossing poor Master Baggins's pottery around.

Finally, the silence was broken. "You're going on a quest?" Bilbo piped up, looking interested. He stood at Thorin's shoulder, peering into the alcove we all sat inside.

Gandalf jerked as though he had been asleep and turned to the Halfling. "Bilbo, my dear fellow, let us have a little more light," he requested. Bilbo nodded and left the room.

Gandalf lowered his voice as Bilbo returned, bringing another candle to the table. He spread out a map, smoothing out the larger wrinkles. It was old; nearly as old as I, and was torn and tattered. The wizard began to speak in such a voice that I felt drawn to him, and I leaned forward. "Far to the East, over ranges and rivers, beyond woodlands and wastelands, lies a single solitary peak." His finger rested on an inked in drawing of a mountain, and I moved closer to Thorin's chair out of curiosity, although I already knew what I would see. The Lonely Mountain. The dark haired dwarf from before looked at me questioningly but said nothing; many of the others gave me curious looks or distrustful glares, both of which I ignored.

"The Lonely Mountain," Bilbo read slowly.

"Aye," A red-haired dwarf bellowed, leaning forward to better see the others around him. "Oin has read the portents, and the portents say, it is time!"

Another dwarf, the one I assumed to be Oin, continued. "Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain as it was foretold: 'When the birds of old return to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end'."

Bilbo, upon hearing the word 'beast', looked incredibly concerned. I had the feeling that whatever thought poor Bilbo had previously had about joining the company had just vanished. "What beast?" he asked, looking frightened.

One of the younger dwarves answered him. "Well that would be a reference to Smaug the Terrible, chiefest and greatest calamity of our age." I lifted my eyebrows at him in warning, but he did not so much as glance in my direction. "Airborne fire-breather, teeth like razors, claws like meathooks, extremely fond of precious metals."

"Yes, I know what a dragon is," Bilbo said, sounding both annoyed and frightened.

One of the youngest dwarves stood. "I'm not afraid! I'm up for it. I'll give him a taste of the Dwarvish iron right up his jacksy!"

The dwarf beside him grabbed him and pulled him back into his chair while the others laughed. "Sit down!" I wondered if they were brothers; the grey-haired one certainly fussed over the younger enough for them to be related. The elder caught me staring and glared at me; I quickly turned my gaze away, my cheeks burning.

Balin continued as if nothing had happened, his voice earnest. "The task will be difficult enough with an army behind us. But we number just thirteen. Not thirteen of the best, nor brightest." He muttered this last bit under his breath, but somehow every dwarf heard it and became offended, shouting at the old dwarf.

"Who are you calling dim?" One yelled.

"Watch it!"

"No!"

"We may be few in number," the golden-haired dwarf said boldly, his strong voice capturing the attention of everyone in the room, "but we're fighters, all of us, to the last dwarf!"

His brother butted in, grinning. His voice was slightly higher than his brother's; he clearly was the younger of the two. His was more carefree than the other's, he sounded more joyous. His voice was almost elflike in this way—many of us spoke as if we are about to burst into laughter. "And you forget, we have a wizard in our company. Gandalf will have killed hundreds of dragons in his time."

I raised my eyebrows and looked over at the wizard, who held up his hands in polite protest, shaking his head. "Oh, well, now, I wouldn't say—"

"How many, then?" I covered my mouth with my hand to cover my smile and saw Thorin turn to the wizard, smirking.

Gandalf started, looking cornered. "I, uh, what?"

"How many dragons have you killed?" The same dwarf asked curiously. Gandalf began choking on his smoke. I laughed aloud, at which point the dwarf shouted, "Go on, give us a number!"

Gandalf embarrassedly coughed on his pipe smoke; the dwarves jumped to their feet, arguing about the number of dragons Gandalf had killed. Thorin jumped to his feet, eyes blazing. "Atkât!" he bellowed. Every dwarf dropped into his chair, silent, eyes glued to the kingly figure standing before them.

"If we have read these signs, do you not think that others will have read them too? Rumors have begun to spread. The dragon Smaug has not been seen for sixty years. Eyes look east to the Mountain, assessing, wondering, weighing the risk. Perhaps the vast wealth of our people now lies unprotected. Do we sit back while others claim what is rightfully ours? Or do we seize this chance to take back Erebor? Du Bekâr! Du Bekâr!" He shouted, rallying the dwarves. All the dwarves cheered, and I waited for someone to point out to the prince the glaringly obvious problem he faced.

Balin was the one to do it, and the cheers died out when he did. "You forget: the front door is sealed. There is no way into the mountain," he said regretfully.

Mithrandir smirked and leaned forward. "That, my dear Balin, is not entirely true." Twiddling his fingers, Gandalf produced a dwarvish key seemingly from nowhere, ornately wrought. Thorin gazed at it in awe.

Thorin stared at it as if afraid it would vanish into smoke. When he spoke, his voice was hushed. He sounded stunned; I doubted he could have sounded more surprised if the wizard had announced that the dragon had just dropped dead. "How came you by this?"

"It was given to me by your father, by Thrain, for safekeeping. It is yours now." Gandalf handed the key to Thorin as everyone else looked on in wonder.

"If there is a key, there must be a door," the blond dwarf said, thinking aloud. His brother hid a smile behind a quiet cough. I grinned, turning back to the wizard. He was pointing to a spot on the map with the stem of his pipe.

"These runes speak of a hidden passage to the lower halls," Gandalf said. "There's another way in," the dark haired dwarf said, smiling gleefully. His joy was contagious; I smiled brightly as the mood of the dwarves lifted considerably. I could practically see hope glimmering in their eyes.

"If we can find it," Gandalf replied, his voice lighter than before. "Dwarf doors are invisible when closed. The answer lies hidden somewhere in this map and I do not have the skill to find it. But there are others in Middle Earth who can. The task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth, and no small amount of courage. But, if we are careful and clever, I believe that it can be done."

"That's why we need a burglar," one of the younger dwarves said, putting the pieces together. I recognized him as the one who had leapt to his feet earlier, claiming to take on the dragon single handedly.

Now if only someone would ask why Gandalf needs an elf. I sighed irritably. I would be glad to know that information.

"And a good one, too. An expert, I'd imagine," Bilbo said absently, studying the map. He had hooked his thumbs in the straps of his suspenders.

"And are you?" The red-haired dwarf asked testily.

Bilbo looked up from the map, unaware that he was being spoken to. It was evident to me that he had not realized his purpose. "Am I what?"

The dwarf with the ear trumpet exclaimed, "He said he's an expert! Hey hey!" The other dwarves cheered.

Bilbo looked around, somewhat horrified. "Me? No, no, no. I'm not a burglar; I've never stolen a thing in my life," Bilbo protested.

"I'm afraid I have to agree with Mr. Baggins. He's hardly burglar material," Balin replied. Bilbo nodded in agreement.

The tattooed dwarf to my left continued. "Aye, the wild is no place for gentlefolk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves." Bilbo continued nodding in agreement and the dwarves began arguing amongst themselves. I sat back, rubbing my forehead. One thing I missed about travelling with the Dúnedain was how little arguing there was, if any. Everyone knew their place; there was no room for petty bickering. Clearly this was not the case here.

Gandalf stood suddenly, darkness spreading over the room. Candles dimmed, and every spark of light seemed to vanish. The temperature grew considerably colder until the sitting room began reminding me irrevocably of a tomb. I shrank back, shocked at the power emanating from him. The others froze in awe, sitting back in their chairs. "Enough!" He said angrily, his voice echoing around now silent room. "If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is." By the time he finished speaking, his voice had returned to normal and the light and warmth had returned to the room. He continued speaking as though nothing had happened, and I wondered it he had noticed what had happened. "Hobbits are remarkably light on their feet. In fact, they can pass unseen by most if they choose. And while the dragon is accustomed to the smell of dwarf, the scent of hobbit is all but unknown to him, which gives us a distinct advantage." Bilbo shook his head quickly, afraid to speak but also terrified of what Gandalf was saying. "You asked me to find the fourteenth member of this company, and I have chosen Mr. Baggins. There's a lot more to him than appearances suggest, and he's got a great deal more to offer than any of you know, including himself. You must trust me on this."

"And what of the elf?" Thorin asked, nodding at me with his head. I looked to Gandalf, eager to hear his answer.

"Princess Aeyera—"

"I am not a princess," I murmured.

Gandalf continued on, shooting me a glare but otherwise acting as though I had not spoken. "—Besides being a skilled huntress and archer, has travelled with the Dúnedain these past few decades. For those of you who do not know of them, they are some of the most skilled healers and hunters in Middle Earth, descended from the kings of old. How long exactly have you been with them, princess?" He asked.

I clenched my teeth angrily but ignored the title as best I could, thinking. "I met with Arathorn a decade after…" I froze, but quickly continued when no one noticed my slip up. I cleared my throat. "So… about hundred and fifty years, give or take a few decades."

Gandalf frowned but said nothing about the twenty-year gap I had neglected to mention. I rolled my aching shoulders, wincing as the scars marring my skin stretched uncomfortably. The rangers were the ones who healed me; the ones who found me and kept me alive after I foolishly tried to track down a spider that had attacked my campsite on my way from Erebor. The spider led me to Dol Guldur, where—where unspeakable things happened to me. I shuddered and looked down, fighting the shadows of madness lurking on the edge of my mind.

"Yes," Gandalf said, his tone making it clear to me that he would be cornering me for answers later. "Because of this, she has great knowledge of healing, particularly with the Athelas plant."

"Athelas?" Oin repeated. "It's a weed."

"Not in the hands of the rangers," I replied quietly, meeting his gaze across the table. "Or in mine."

Thorin glowered at the table before answering the wizard. "Very well. We'll do it your way. Give them both a contract," Thorin said.

"Alright, we're off!" One of the dwarves exclaimed. Bilbo began objecting to Thorin and Gandalf, but they ignored him.

Thorin handed Bilbo a long contract, shoving it at him. Bilbo took, shocked, as Balin explained the contents. "It's just the usual summary of out-of-pocket expenses, time required, remuneration, funeral arrangements, so forth."

"Funeral arrangements?" As Bilbo stepped back a few feet to read the contract, Thorin leaned toward Gandalf and whispered to him, clearly not intending for anyone else to hear. My sharp ears caught his words, however, and I froze at his words.

"I cannot guarantee his safety," Thorin said.

"Understood."

"Nor will I be responsible for his fate."

Gandalf looked startled, but said, "Agreed."

Bilbo began reading parts of the contract out loud, and I listened in, declining my own copy. "I do not wish for a reward in treasure, master Balin," I said, catching the old dwarf by surprise.

"Then what do you want, lass?" He asked. I looked up into the eyes of Thorin, who watched me intently. I held his gaze as I thought about what it was I really wanted. When I found it, I replied softly so few others might hear.

"To make things right," I answered gently. He looked away.

"'Cash on delivery, up to but not exceeding one fourteenth of total profit, if any'. Hmm. Seems fair," The hobbit commented, pacing around and unfolding hidden compartments in his letter. "'The present company shall not be liable for injuries inflicted by or sustained as a consequence thereof including but not limited to lacerations... Evisceration…? Incineration?!" Bilbo looked back over at the dwarves in disbelief, perhaps hoping that they were joking.

"Oh, aye, he'll melt the flesh off yer bones in the blink of an eye," one of the dwarves helpfully replied. I closed my eyes in exasperation.

"Huh," Bilbo said.

"You alright there laddie?" Balin asked kindly.

Bilbo was by now bent over with his hands on his knees. "I feel a bit faint."

The same dwarf that had spoken before stood, leaning against the doorframe and watching the hobbit carefully. "Think furnace with wings."

Bilbo let out quick puffs of air, terrified. "Air, I-I-I-I need air."

"Flash of light, searing pain, then 'Poof!' You're nothing more than a pile of ash!" The dwarf continued. I resisted the urge to smack the clueless dwarf upside the head and instead watched the hobbit to make sure he didn't keel over. Bilbo breathed heavily, trying to compose himself as the others stared at him.

He straightened up for a moment, looking better. "Nope." Bilbo collapsed neatly on the floor in a faint.

"You're very helpful, Bofur," Gandalf gruffly said to the dwarf, standing and making his way over to the hobbit. The dwarf—Bofur—and I carried the hobbit into his sitting room, placing him gently in one of the armchairs closest to the fire.

"I'll make him some tea," one of the grey haired dwarves announced, hurrying to the kitchen. The rest of the group dispersed, heading to different corners of the hobbit hold to rest. I sat in the shadows of the room with the hobbit, waiting for him to awaken.

Gandalf came and stood beside me, saying nothing.

"Master Gandalf, I brought him some chamomile tea," the dwarf announced, entering the room with a tray balanced on his hands.

"Ah, thank you, Dori," Mithrandir said, banding down and accepting the platter. Dori make brief eye contact with me but broke it almost immediately.

He looked at the ground, scowling. "Of course, master Gandalf," he said, leaving. He began speaking to one of the others in the hall. "Why is the elf here, anyway? It's not as if she can actually help us at all…"

I turned away, sighing. Bilbo groaned and lifted his chin off his chest, looking around.

"Ah, master Baggins," I said pleasantly, coming around to stand before him. I handed him a mug of tea, which he took gratefully. "I am glad you are finally awake. How are you?"

"I'll be alright," Bilbo said, looking down. "Just let me sit quietly for a moment."

Gandalf replied, coming and standing in front of the hobbit. It was clear that he was tired of asking nicely for these people to do as he said. "You've been sitting quietly for far too long! Tell me; when did doilies and your mother's dishes become so important to you? I remember a young Hobbit who always was running off in search of elves in the woods… who would stay out late and come home after dark, trailing mud and twigs and fireflies. A young Hobbit who would have liked nothing better than to find out what was beyond the borders of the Shire. The world is not in your books and maps; it's out there." He pointed to the window, where the Shire lay cloaked in shadow under the starlight.

"I can't just go running off into the blue. I am a Baggins, of Bag End," Bilbo said, trying his best to convince the wizard.

"You are also a Took!" The wizard exclaimed, waving his arms to explain the importance of what he was saying. He pointed at a portrait that hung in the corner half hidden by shadow. "Did you know that your great-great-great-great-uncle, Bullroarer Took, was so large he could ride a real horse?" I glanced over at a portrait of Bullroarer Took on Bilbo's wall; the hobbit held a large club over his shoulder.

Bilbo sighed irritably. "Yes—"

"Well he could!" The wizard said loudly, speaking over Bilbo. "In the Battle of Green Fields, he charged the goblin ranks. He swung his club so hard it knocked the Goblin King's head clean off, and it sailed a hundred yards through the air and went down a rabbit hole. And thus the battle was won, and the game of golf invented at the same time." I smirked, amused. I didn't quite believe him; wizards tended to exaggerate, but it was an amusing tale all the same.

Bilbo frowned bemusedly. "I do believe you made that up."

Gandalf smiled softly and strode back to Bilbo. "Well, all good stories deserve embellishment. You'll have a tale or two to tell of your own when you come back."

Bilbo smiled slightly, the prospect of an adventure warming up to him. The smile dropped from his face, and his voice took on a pleading note. "Can you promise that I will come back?"

The wizard looked over at the Halfling, the smile slipping from his own face as well. "No. And if you do, you will not be the same."

Master Baggins sighed and rose to his feet. "That's what I thought. Sorry, Gandalf, I can't sign this. You've got the wrong Hobbit." Bilbo stood and walked away down the hall, leaving Gandalf and I alone. The wizard sighed, weary, and turned to me.

"What happened to you in the years before you encountered the rangers?" he asked, sitting in one of the hobbit's larger chairs. I took a seat in the one Bilbo had recently occupied, crossing my arms. I had known these questions would come; I just had hoped they wouldn't.

"I do not wish to speak of it, Mithrandir," I whispered, gazing into the fire. The voices of madness rose, the clamor becoming more pronounced. I shook my head slightly, trying to get rid of them. The fire snapped, crackling loudly.

"You tried to go back to Erebor," he guessed, gazing intently at me. I shrugged, squeezing my eyes shut. "Something stopped you."

"I made it to the mountain," I whispered hoarsely. "But my brother stopped me. Afterwards I headed south, until… until a giant spider attacked my camp. I followed it, Gandalf. I was a fool… It led me to Dol Guldur. It was not empty," I said, my voice catching. I turned so that my back faced the wizard and pulled my tunic up so that the scarred skin on my back was visible. I heard him suck in a breath, horrified, but he said nothing. The silence was so thick that I could have cut it with a knife. I turned, pulling my top down to cover the scars that twisted across my skin.

The worst of all was the mottled, angry scar on my side and back, showing where a Morgul blade had run me through. I had struggled against its magic for decades, and this year was no exception. It usually was worst on the anniversary of the day it had pierced me, which was several months from now. The old wizard sat, frozen, staring at me with horror and pity.

"This is what happened in the twenty years I was gone," I said, my voice broken. "This is how the rangers found me; why they helped me..."

Gandalf did not answer, and we sat in silence together. He asked no more questions.

I stood eventually and moved to the edge of the room, where the rest of the dwarves were gathered, smoking their pipes by the fire. They all began humming, and soon Thorin began to sing, the others joining him as the song swelled in intensity.

"Far over the Misty Mountains cold,

To dungeons deep and caverns old.

We must away ere break of day

To find our long-forgotten gold.

The pines were roaring on the height;

The winds were moaning in the night.

The fire was red, it flaming spread;

The trees like torches blazed with light."

I stared at the fire, which crackled ominously. Feeling someone's gaze upon me, I lifted my eyes to meet the gaze of the dwarf prince whose eyes burned like dragon fire back at me.