A/N: I am SO sorry about the long wait, but I'm back now with another chapter for you all. I hope you enjoy! :)

Chapter 4: And So It Begins

Someone stepped towards Laurel, and behind them through the fog she could see a dark grey mass - there were more of them. Who knew how many more? The one near her spoke; guttural sounds escaping from his mouth, falling harshly on Laurel's ears in a tirade that set off warning bells in her head. She could see the figure held an axe...

Laurel's chest constricted. One word sounded in her head: orc.

She had read about them in the book; she knew what they did to people. She knew she had to get out of there, now.

She turned and fled, her limbs suddenly more agile than ever before as she moved with a speed she had never known she had. She didn't know where she was going, but flight was her only aim as she ran, ignoring the stabbing pain of her ankle.

She heard the leader shout again, his words unintelligible but meaning quite clear: catch her. Laurel sped up, but to her dismay one was in front of her, foul hands outstretched to grasp her. She turned, headed away from him, but more were coming at her from that direction as well. Her ankle an agony and breath catching in her lungs, she made one desperate lunge for freedom, only to feel fingers closing around her forearm. Desperately she tried to wriggle free, but it was no use. She tried biting, but the orc had thick leather gauntlets on and it only made her mouth bleed. The orc holding her was calling out to his leader, and her ankle gave way at last; she sagged in the orc's grip.

The orc sat her on the ground, and she clenched her eyes shut, waiting for the heavy blow of the axe. She heard more arrive, felt the ground beneath her tremble with the force of their heavy boots. One leant over her, and something tickled her head. She opened her eyes, and saw an orc with a bright orange beard peering down at her.

Laurel froze. She didn't remember reading about orcs with beards.

She looked up again, and the eyes that met her own were distinctly un-orc-like; in fact, they were nothing like an orc's, and nor was the face that she could now see, partly obscured as it was by the beard. She took in the helmet, the quality armour, the axe...

A dwarf.

Laurel didn't know whether to laugh or cry. To laugh, because they weren't orcs, or cry, because dwarves were every bit as dangerous as orcs if angry. And she didn't suppose that these ones were particularly happy.

The dwarf standing over her spoke again, and Laurel shook her head as the words washed over her, completely meaningless. The dwarf looked over at another one, and they spoke for a couple of minutes before the one near her turned back to her again.

'We are dwarves...' he said haltingly in Westron, 'from the Blue Mountains. What... Who are you?'

'I am Laurel Brownlock, a hobbit of the Shire. I am lost. My father...' Laurel broke off as tears filled her eyes. She wished her Papa was with her; she wished she'd listened to her sister. Now she wasn't sure what was going to happen to her; her only consoling thought was that if the dwarves wanted her dead, they probably would have killed her by now.

The dwarves around her conferred again in their harsh tongue, and the other dwarf turned to her this time. He was taller and his beard longer, and his armour more decorative. Laurel assumed he was their leader.

'We are journeying south. You may join us, or not. But we march on now.' The others were dispersing, heading towards a patch of orange light. Laurel assumed there were more dwarves, and they had lit a torch to burn the mist off.

'Please, couldn't you show me the way home?' she whispered. 'Just show me?'

The dwarf looked at her. 'I have not the resources or time to take you. But I know that your land lies that way.' He pointed.

'Thank you,' Laurel replied, and made to stand; but as soon as she put any weight on her foot her ankle gave again, sending straight back down to the floor, crying out at the pain. The dwarf helped her up, and Laurel stood, her leg quivering as she held onto the dwarf's arm. He looked at her doubtfully.

'I don't know that you can walk.'

'I can,' she snapped, perhaps unwisely; but all she wanted was to find her father and sister and go home. But again, she tried to take a step and the next moment she was sprawled on the grass once more. She cursed. The running must have made her ankle worse - at least before, she was able to walk. Now she could hardly stand.

'Laurel Brownlock, we are ready to move on. I do not feel comfortable leaving you alone, unable to walk - there are many wild things our here. Please, join us,' the leader spoke again, holding out his hand to help her up. Laurel knew he was right; there was no way she could find her father and sister, and she could hardly just wait for them to find her. She shuddered to think of what might happen to her then.

She looked up at the dwarf, sighed, and took his hand, and he pulled her up. When she was standing, he bowed.

'I am Frerin, son of Berin. At your service.'

Laurel didn't curtsey as was proper, for fear of falling again, but she did incline her upper body as she said, 'Laurel, daughter of Doderic, at yours.'

Frerin smiled. 'What funny names you hobbits have!' Before Laurel could respond, he was calling out in Dwarvish, and Laurel saw the group of dwarves clearly now that most of the mist had been burnt off. They were moving towards herself and Frerin.

'We will carry you in the wagon. Gror will look after you,' Frerin said.

Laurel nodded, a little apprehensively. When the wagon pulled up and Frerin called Gror out, she expected an old, grumpy dwarf; but the dwarf who came forward was entirely the opposite - he looked young, with only a short beard, and he smiled readily enough at Laurel.

Frerin said something to Gror, and the younger dwarf moved forward and quickly picked Laurel up, being careful of her ankle, and placed her gently in the wagon among the many boxes and chests piled up. He passed her a blanket and Laurel accepted it gladly; her clothes were quite soaked from the mist.

'We will get off these accursed downs and then make camp,' Frerin told her. 'If you have need of anything, ask Gror.'

'Thank you,' Laurel said, and Frerin nodded before walking to the front of the line and resuming his place.

He called out in Dwarvish, and the ranks of dwarves began to move, the wagon creaking under the weight of Laurel and the chests. And so Laurel Brownlock left the boundaries of the Shire, wrapped up in a blanket with a broken ankle.

What an auspicious start, she thought to herself wryly.