Author's Note: To be completely honest, this fic was written for both fun and practice as I've never written a story of this magnitude - nor did I ever dream of being able to actually do it. I know there are plenty of girl in Middle Earth fics but this has been so much fun for me to tackle, and honestly, I don't think there are ever enough girl in Middle Earth fics. As a disclaimer, this is more of a slow ripple effect fic, so if that's for you, then welcome. Any feedback is always treasured.

Author's Note 2: Thank you for checking out this story! For those of you who have been here before, you may notice several changes to old chapters. Originally my plan was to clean up the chapters I'd always wished were better (Ch. 2 and Ch. 3, I'm looking at you) but then my lack of impulse control took over and I thought: what if I kept going? I've revamped every chapter in hopes that I can finally leave this fic alone to rest.

I hope for those of you that have shown such love to this fic as it's evolved, that this final version holds up. And if you've followed/favorited it, I am so sorry for the notification emails that are going to clog your inbox. This'll be the last time, I promise.

I'll also cross-post this fic to AO3 by the end of 2024 for those of you who might be interesting, because what the heck is up with these ads in the middle of fics these days? OG would never.

Disclaimer: I own nothing except Laura.

Summary: Waking up in the body of a very male Bilbo Baggins in a whole other world was not on the top of Laura Aldine's list. But according to Gandalf, the Valar had their reasons. Laura just wished they had bothered to asked her first.

The thing was, I didn't realize what'd happened, when I woke up.

It was the sun that pulled me awake. That wasn't unusual per say, sometimes I forgot to close my blinds and draw my curtains before I went to bed. Annoying, to be woken by the sunlight streaming through and not my alarm clock, but not strange.

What was strange was when I pulled a hand up to rub at my face, at my eyes. Something about it felt wrong, though at the time I couldn't figure out what. Maybe it was the shape of my fingers, shorter and wider than they should be. Maybe it was my face, my skin dry and lacking the remains of my nightly moisturizer. The shape of my mouth not quite right. My nose not quite the shape it should be.

It was enough, that not-quite-right feeling, to crack my eyes open. The sunlight, thankfully, didn't quite cut across my face, though I still winced as my eyes adjusted. That was when I noticed it.

This was not my room.

I didn't panic right away, though I could feel it sparking, ready to catch into a blaze, in the center of my chest. This was very much not my room.

There was a quilt on the bed, a patchwork of warm colors. The bed was four-postered, like you'd find on a museum or one of those fancy old bed and breakfasts. The floors were hardwood covered in rugs that had distinctly earthy tones. There was a wardrobe- or maybe an armoire? Was there a difference?- on one wall and built ins along another. There were books everywhere, scattered across ever surface and piled high on the floor.

This was not my room.

This was not my childhood bedroom either, not the one I'd started out in when we lived with my grandma when I was very small, or the one I'd ended up growing up in when my dad and I finally moved out. This wasn't my best friend Hayley's room either. Or even her childhood room.

I was sitting up now, letting the blankets of this unknown bed pool around my waist, and reaching up to rub at my eyes more determinedly.

It wasn't my hand.

Well, I mean, it was my hand. I was controlling it, that much was obvious. But it wasn't the hand I was used to. The fingers were shorter, the knuckles wider, and the nails were more square and neatly trimmed and clean of the purple nail polish that I had gone to bed wearing. The forever bracelets that Hayley and I had gotten together on our last birthdays – silver for hers, gold for mine- were also missing.

This wasn't my hand.

The panic was growing, igniting into a flame now. I focused on my breathing, pulling myself to the edge of the bed and throwing my legs over the side.

Those were not my feet.

They were too large- disproportionately large- and impossibly hairy.

What was going on?

There was a chest, set along the wall opposite of the built ins and I was already tearing through it before I'd noticed what I was doing. It was a good call by my instincts. There was something wrong. I needed to see-

I found exactly what I didn't realize I was looking for. It was among folds of linen, a candle holder, several thick-looking jackets, and what looked like a small loom. A mirror.

My hands were already shaking as I brought it up to eye level.

A stranger stared back at me.

They had a round face with a large nose, fair skin, a frowning mouth, brown eyes- thankfully my eyes- and curly golden hair. And- were those- yes- pointed ears? My piercings, that I'd carefully collected over the years, were gone on both. My fingers shook as I traced one carefully over an ear. I could feel them, which made my heart skip a beat, both the pointed tip beneath my fingers and the tremor of my fingers on my ear. But it wasn't my ear. This wasn't my face.

This was not me. This was someone else. I let the mirror fall back in the chest before I quickly pulled at the waistline of the sleep pants I was wearing to confirm my suspicion. A very male someone else.

A dream, I remember thinking, this had to be some weird dream. I ignored the fact that it didn't feel like a dream. Everything was too sharp, my heart was beating too fast, too painfully, I could feel the air in my lungs as I breathed, I could feel the hardwood floors underneath my feet.

It had to be a dream. And I wanted out.

I let my feet carry me out of the room, tripping almost comically through the doorway. I steadied myself against the doorframe.

There was a long hall, built out of dark, gleaming hardwood, round almost like a tunnel. Down to the right I could see another, larger hall, its walls also curved inward. Down the left was a door. It was round, as dark as the wood of the walls, with a doorknob dead center.

I didn't think twice, didn't linger too hard over how strange the door was. It was in the same direction as the window in the bedroom, the one that let in sunlight, and I hoped this would get me out.

The sun felt twice as bright once I'd successfully fumbled with the lock and the doorknob. The threshold meant I had to step down to reach a cobblestone path, cool beneath my too-large feet. Above me was a wooden awning, round like the door. And before me, was a garden.

It was built into a hill, was my first observation. Both the garden and, when I turned to look, the house that I'd just stumbled out of. Looking out past the garden, I could see it was just one of many. Rolling green hills stretched as far as I could see, trees peppered both at the very crests and in the lowest dips. There were other houses too, build just like this one, with wide paths winding through them, branching off occasionally to lead up to more round doors. The sky was a perfect blue, the clouds fluffy and white, and when I turned to look, I found a great tree, its branches dappling the sunlight that hit my face.

It was beautiful, I could acknowledge even then.

But there was something wrong. I saw no cars. There were no powerlines. I could see people, now that I was looking for them, but they looked unhurried. Like they were exactly where they belonged.

What was this place?

I stumbled along the path from where I'd emerged out of a literal hole in the ground, tripping over large feet again and this time felt a bolt of irritation because of it. They were getting old fast. Then, I stopped. What was I doing? Where was I going? What do I do?

A dream. It had to be. I'd wake up soon.

I took comfort in that, though there was still something sharp, like glass, that cut into me still. Doubt, maybe. Something about this felt too real, too real for a dream. I tried to be patient, to wait for the inevitable pull of waking. I ignored the idea that I'd already felt it, back in that unfamiliar bedroom. It'd come, I knew it would.

I didn't notice the man at all. Not when he must've made his way up the winding path, not until he reached the front gate of the underground house, below me. Not until I heard a rather pointed, "Good morning."

It threw me off-kilter, literally, pulling me from the daze I'd sunk into. I shuffled my feet, shifting my balance into something more stable.

The man was tall, I could see it at once. Too tall. His limbs were long, he was cloaked all in grey. In one hand was a walking stick almost as tall as he was, the other was resting on the gate. He was wearing a hat, also grey, and wide-brimmed. I knew I could only see his face because he was making an effort, tilting it up so that his eyes could meet mine. He looked old. Older than my grandma.

My feet made the decision without me and I found myself pulled down to the gate. I stopped just next to a well-worn, and probably well-loved, wooden bench. I could see now that the man's eyes were grey too.

I shivered. I couldn't help it.

The man and I stared at one another for a long stretch of time, too long to be polite. Then the old man moved. I watched, holding my breath, as he carefully opened the gate and stepped through to join me. His movement was slow, as if he was about to attempt to help a wild animal. If I wasn't so absolutely lost, I would have been offended.

When the old man reached me, stopping an arm's length - or at least his arm's length – it was his turn to peer down at me. I was morbidly satisfied to note that my estimation of his height was spot on. He was far too tall.

Something about it was comforting, despite how small I felt now. This was certainly lending itself to it being a dream.

There was another long silence and then the man said slowly, eyes roaming over me, brows furrowed, "Bilbo Baggins."

Never mind. This was not comforting. No. No. Absolutely not. I didn't know what - who?- a Bilbo Baggins was and I had no desire to find out. I spun on my heel and turned to what must be the front door. It was flanked by windows and it was round too, but this time painted green, with the same doorknob in the middle. I was embarrassed by how long it took me to figure out how to open and unspeakably grateful to find it wasn't locked when it finally swung open. I was hyperaware of the man behind me. He hadn't moved yet.

Suddenly, I was tripping into a wide dark hallway. It was beautiful like the smaller one had been, walls that curved inward and shining wood paneling. There was a long bench to my right built into the wall, with spindly posts that reached up into the ceiling and coat hooks lined perfectly above it.

I pushed the door closed behind me and sighed in relief when I heard the door latch and everything was dim again. The light through the windows were just enough to keep me out of complete darkness.

One of the beams of light was gone. And I didn't have to turn to know the reason. I was proven right when a loud knock came from behind me. On the great round door.

The man.

I refused to look back. Something like fear was brewing inside me now. I let my feet carry me to the end of the entrance hall, which split into two more halls, one left and one right. I stopped at the left corner, relatively sure it would take me back to the bedroom. To safety, if I needed. I hoped the bedroom doors had locks. If not, I'd have to make do with barricading them.

The great green door swung open, the entrance hall suddenly filled with light. The old man's shadow cut through it like a knife. I followed it with my eyes, reaching the hem of his robes before moving up to meet his eyes again. I could feel my new body tense, as if on instinct, and I knew I could depend on it to run at a moment's notice.

The man was bent over, which only bolstered my fear. He was so tall, so large, he had to stoop to see beneath the doorframe. The only saving grace was that he didn't look angry, at least from what I could see of his face that wasn't obscured by shadows.

My body didn't react when he stepped inside. Nor when he took a few more steps, still stooping so as not to hit his head on the chandelier, and close the door behind him. It was dim again, but at least from my position I could see more sunlight streaming through more windows in the adjacent room, which looked like a sitting room.

"You," the old man said, pulling my attention back to him like a magnet, "are not who you appear to be."

I thought back to the round face I'd seen in the mirror. The curly hair. The pointed ears. I fought the urge to glance down at my too-big feet. He was certainly right about that.

I don't know what compelled me, looking back on it, but I offered, still half-hidden around the corner, "I'm Laura."

"Laura," the old man said, as if it was something to puzzle over. I nodded.

"Laura Aldine," I offered, feeling strangely brave. Maybe it was because of my new face. What could harm could he do with just my name?

The man hummed in thought, eyeing me closely. Then he said, matter-of-factly, "You do not belong here, Laura Aldine."

"No. God, no," I breathed out before I could stop myself.

This seemed to amuse the man, whose eyebrows- which I could see now that I was paying closer attention, were very bushy- quirked and his mouth tilted minutely upwards at one corner, "Or perhaps you do."

I absolutely did not.

I could feel the urge to run bubble to the surface again.

"Ah, I suppose it remains to be seen," the old man determined, taking one more step towards me. I tensed but didn't move. "Though you are not who I came here to find."

I thought again of the unfamiliar face. Of the body – the very male body – that I was currently in.

"Bilbo Baggins," I said, curiosity overriding the roiling fear and anxiety deep in my chest.

"Yes," the old man confirmed, his voice suddenly very soft, very quiet. "Bilbo Baggins." Then after a pause, he added, very clearly for my benefit, "a hobbit."

Just for a moment, the old man looked just as lost as I felt. It was endearing, despite how much I tried not to let it be. Comforting, to know I wasn't the only one out of my depth.

What was a hobbit? Was that the reason for my feet? My ears? Maybe he wasn't so tall after all. Maybe I was simply small.

"Tea," the old man said abruptly, and before I could stop him, he was ducking into the sitting room, "Let us have tea."

Tea. I thought of my grandma. She always insisted it was far better for you than coffee. I indulged her when I could, though I'd never found any that I'd willingly drink on my own. My dad never did, insisting she'd have to pry coffee out of his cold dead hands.

I moved towards the doorway the old man disappeared into. He was already in the next room over, a kitchen. The sunlight was bright and warm now, streaming through the windows – all round – in both rooms. It felt – well. Not quite good. But better.

I stayed in the sitting room, though I moved at least to stand near the windows. The sunlight felt good. And the vantage point was much better to keep an eye on the old man, who was puttering around the kitchen like it was his. His hat was gone, revealing long grey hair that fell over his shoulders. There was a fire, already roaring, in the fireplace. A kettle was hanging just about it. The old man had a teapot and teacups already laid out. His walking stick was resting against the mantle.

I wondered if I should stop him. This house was Bilbo's I was sure, which meant it didn't belong to either of us. But that would mean getting closer and I wasn't quite brave enough for that. He was too real. Even if he was weirdly tall.

The tea kettle was already whistling and the old man was quick to remove it from the fire and begin steeping the tea. The steam curled around him, stark in the sunlight.

Suddenly, our eyes met. I froze. But all the old man said was, "Come, my dear, come."

I don't know why I listened, but I was now on the other side of the kitchen table, hands curled around the back of a chair. The old man was already pulling out his own. When he sat, it was almost comical. Like Hayley's dad when we'd made him play pretend tea with us at Hayley's pretty pink – which I always envied- playset. He was far too big, his back curled over the table. One of his hands was resting on the tabletop, dwarfing the teacup next to him.

I wavered for a moment, weighing the risk, before deciding it'd be safe enough. The old man was so big, he'd probably struggle to stand. He might even stumble over a few things, maybe even knock into the top of the doorframes, if I tried to run and he followed. I could probably get away.

I sat. The old man looked pleased. There was no hint of malice in his face. I could feel my shoulders loosen.

"I apologize," the old man said, almost warm, almost cheerful. I wondered if he was trying to make me feel better, "for my lack of introduction. I am Gandalf. Gandalf the Grey."

Gandalf the Grey. No surname. A title?

"Who," I said, resisting the urge to say what, instead, "are you?"

"An old friend," the old man – Gandalf – said, though there was a touch of something to his voice now. Concern maybe, or worry. "At least, that is who I am meant to be."

To Bilbo, he meant.

"To most folk," Gandalf said, and there was something in his eyes now. Something patient that I knew was for my benefit. I paid rapt attention as he continued, "I am merely a wanderer. And to those with the wits to see me as I truly am, a wizard."

A wizard. A wizard.

My eyes moved to Gandalf's walking stick – was it – what was the word? A staff? I glanced back at his robes. Then to his hat that he'd placed below the window. Gandalf didn't seem to mind any of it, he was busy pouring us tea.

"You're serious," I found myself saying. My voice was flat even to my own ears.

Gandalf had one of the teacups in his hand now. It looked more the size of a shot glass. "Utterly."

Okay, this really was a dream.

"A wizard," I repeated softly. Gandalf placed the second teacup in front of me. I watched the steam climb and curl, before disappearing.

"My duty is to this world," Gandalf explained further, "to the peoples here. And that duty has brought me here, to the Shire. And to you."

The Shire. Was that the name of this – what, town? Countryside?

"You," I said slowly, unsure. "Knew I was here?"

Gandalf shook his head. His expression was one of deep thought, "No. I came in search of Bilbo Baggins. There is a task that needs doing, and I believe he would be most suited."

"He's not here," I said immediately. I wasn't even close to a substitute.

Gandalf could not have made it more obvious that he disagreed when he said, "No. You are."

Me. Gandalf wanted me.

"No," I said instantly. Absolutely not. I was already half out of my chair. "No, this is a dream."

"This is no dream," Gandalf said, suddenly sharp, his voice reverberating around us. The room turned dark and I knew I wasn't imagining it. Wizard was starting to look more true. I resisted the urge to flinch even as I sunk back into my seat. I couldn't put a finger on it, but there was something beneath Gandalf's words. Something heavy, something powerful. "I am no trick of the mind. Middle Earth, and those who call it home, are no trick. They are here. Alive and very real."

Gandalf's teacup was already empty, I could hear it when he set in back down on the table. Gandalf was leaning back now, his expression growing more and more settled, more determined with each passing moment.

I felt sick. No. No. This was a dream.

"And that is precisely why I am here," Gandalf said, watching me closely, as if he could see something in me, something deep. "There are machinations in this world, those seen and those that remain unseen, even by me. I can see clearly now that Bilbo Baggins was once meant to be tied to them. And instead, here you are."

I was shaking my head now. I could feel my curls – Bilbo's curls – move with me. None of it felt right.

Gandalf was unimpressed, ignoring me as he insisted, "This is no dream, no coincidence. You are here for a purpose. You were brought here for a purpose. I cannot recall a time when the Valar have intervened so directly, but they do not act impulsively, I assure you."

None of that was reassuring. What the heck was a Valar?

"I believe you," I told Gandalf. Or at least, I believed that he believed it. I couldn't though. This felt too – too – much. Too fantastical. Too unbelievable.

"Good," Gandalf said gruffly, approvingly. "We will leave on the morrow. Now, we have much to do."

Gandalf was standing now. I didn't follow his lead. My mind was working over his words.

On the morrow. Tomorrow. Oh my God, no.

"Wait," I said desperately, scrambling to my feet. Gandalf did, to my surprise. He was watching me again. "Please, it's just. I think there's been a mistake. I can't. This can't be-"

I took a deep breath and it rattled in my chest. I hoped I wouldn't cry, I felt very close to it. I could feel the prickling behind my eyes, my face growing hot.

"I believe you," I tried again, "but I don't think I'm the right choice. Please."

I thought Gandalf might snap at me again. That the room would grow dark. But that didn't happen. Gandalf looked almost sad, though in the next blink he was back to looking unimpressed.

"That is not for you to decide, Laura," Gandalf said, and I was relieved that he kept his voice low, almost soothing, "Nor I. You have a part to play now. We must both see this through."

I very much did not want to see this through. I wanted to wake up. I wanted to go home. I needed – I needed –

"Tomorrow," I said before I thought better of it. Gandalf's eyes were on me still and I knew I had to word my offer correctly. "Can you give me that? Just – a little time. If I'm still here tomorrow then."

I paused, swallowing so hard I felt my throat clicked. I didn't want to think about the possibility that I would still be here tomorrow. Gandalf's gaze was much more appraising and I barreled on. "Then I'll do ask you ask."

"Tomorrow," Gandalf repeated, a low rumble to his voice. But it wasn't like the one before, the one that felt powerful, the one that made my hackles rise. It was considering. Almost gentle. "Yes, I suppose that will do."

Oh my God. Yes. Yes! I would wake up by then. I knew it. I only needed a little time.

"And you'll," I paused, trying to word it in a way that wouldn't annoy Gandalf, "Leave me – here? Alone?"

Gandalf's eyes narrowed now. I resisted the urge to break eye contact. Finally, after what felt like a very long stretch that was only punctuated by the occasional crack of the fire and by birds outside, Gandalf let out a soft hum and turned to pick up his hat.

I was absolutely not going to be the one to speak first. I didn't want to give Gandalf any chance to back out. Instead, I followed Gandalf back through the sitting room, then waited as he turned to pull open the round green door. Sunlight enveloped us, bright and direct and warm. It felt like a sign.

I had time now. Time to wait. To, if all else failed, try to reverse this by going back to sleep. That could work right? If I slept in a dream shouldn't that wake me up – some kind of opposite reaction?

Gandalf was waiting for me, I realized, and I turned and craned my head to meet his eyes. He looked very old, suddenly, far older than he should look. Almost uncountably, unfathomably, old. A wizard, he'd said. A wanderer. I wondered for how long.

"Thank you, Gandalf," I said, and I found that I meant it. And it was better than the 'I'm sorry' I wanted to offer instead.

Gandalf nodded again, hat back in place. His face was shadowed, his expression pensive once more. Then, he reached down, put a large hand on my shoulder, and said only, "Laura."

Yes. I was Laura. Not Bilbo.

Gandalf pulled the door shut, and when it finally latched, I let out a large, relieved sigh.

I didn't move, though, until I saw Gandalf's figure – which took longer than I thought – make its way down to Bilbo's gate. He was no more than a grey shape through the window, growing smaller and smaller until he disappeared from view, back down the path he'd come.

I was alone. Alone. And unsure.

I decided to stick to the simplest course of action: I went back to bed. Why not go back to where it all began?

But I didn't sleep. I couldn't even keep my eyes closed, despite how soft Bilbo's bed was. I felt wired, like I'd had too many espresso shots. All I could do was stare and watch as the sunlight that streamed in through the window began to shift and fade, until it was nearly gone.

Perfect, I thought to myself. And then again when the light was gone and the room was cloaked in shadows. Perfect. Not long now.

I thought about who I should tell first, about this crazy dream. Hayley would tell me it meant something, that there was a reason for it, something to learn. I didn't know what, and I didn't know what she'd say either. My dad would tell me that this was a sign that my server gig at the local diner was too stressful. My grandma would tell me dreams are dreams.

I liked the thought of that. That once I woke up, it wouldn't follow me. That it'd just become something to forget.

There was a sudden sound, loud and long and bright and I flinched. My heart started to race. My alarm clock. I was home. It was a dream.

I sat up instantly. The room was dark, still. And I could now see the outlines of the four posters. The rugs on the floor. I could feel the squares of the quilt beneath my fingers.

I hadn't woken up at all. I was still here.

The noise came again, just as loud but longer this time. It wasn't my alarm clock at all, was it? It didn't sound right.

I found myself back out of bed, stumbling again. The noise had been coming from my right, back down to where I knew the great green door was. I should follow it. Maybe it was my alarm after all, maybe I needed to follow it into waking.

The great green door was near-black when I reached it. The only light I had was the soft cool-blue of the moon coming in from the windows, and the low barely-there embers of the kitchen fireplace a few rooms over.

I took a deep breath, hopeful. Perhaps opening the door would be the trigger, opening, literally, to waking. It was worth a shot.

With more effort than I liked, the door swung open.

It was a person.

They were tall, I could see at once, taller than me but nowhere near Gandalf's height. Their shoulders were broad, their hair in a ring around their ears cascading down over their shoulders, the top of their head bald. They were turning to me now, and I could see they had a full bushy beard, not quite as long as Gandalf. They were wearing a cloak.

"Dwalin," said the figure, their voice deep, their words short and clipped, "at your service."

The figure- Dwalin – bowed.

When Dwalin straightened, he said nothing else. His eyes were glowing, like a cat's, from where he was mostly shadowed. I shivered. I realized belatedly- thanks to what Gandalf had mentioned earlier about introductions – that he was waiting for me to reply.

"Bilbo Baggins," I said faintly, unsure of whether I was making the right choice, using Bilbo's name. I was him, sort of, right?

Dwalin stared back for an awkward moment, then he stepped inside. Oh, no, no, that was not-

Dwalin's cloak was already swinging off his shoulders. He didn't even have to stretch to reach up and settle it on one of the hooks above the bench. When he'd finished, Dwalin turned and we were staring at each other again.

I didn't know what Dwalin wanted. I didn't think he knew Bilbo, he'd introduced himself, after all. But he seemed to be here on purpose, for a purpose. I didn't know how to ask. I didn't even know where to start.

I thought back, again, to Gandalf, and, at a loss, I decided to use him as the blueprint.

"Tea?" I offered, hoping I was doing something right.

Dwalin's eyes gleamed. They blinked once, as if considering. Then he answered, not quite hesitant but just as short as before, "If you please."

I nodded and hurried through the sitting room into the kitchen. I had the foresight to grab a few candles and a whole standing candelabra, as I passed.

The fire was only coals now, but they glowed orange and hot still. I carefully added a few of the smaller logs, the ones I could find with a few short remnants of branches sticking out. I blew on the coals carefully, disproportionately pleased when they caught alight. Then, gingerly, I held out one of the candles, and lit that too. I winced as the wax melted more than it probably should, but at least I was successful. Then, I checked the kettle, and found it was still half-full of water. Good enough.

I sighed when I straightened, pleased at my accomplishment. I lit the candles in the candelabra, then, thanks to the new light, I found more candles scattered around the kitchen. By the time I'd finished, Dwalin had followed me, standing in the doorframe that led into the hall. I was only just able to catch him turning away from something. I leaned around him, curious. I tried not move too rigidly, to not catch his attention. He was so big, and I could see tattoos everywhere, especially now in the light.

The candles were a boon, and even their low light was enough to chase the shadows out of the hall and out of the doorway across from us. It was a pantry. Bilbo's pantry.

"Oh," I said, and I felt very awkward again. This wasn't my house. That wasn't my food. I wavered, uncomfortably unsure before deciding I'd appreciate the offer, if I was Dwalin. I hoped Bilbo wouldn't mind.

When I offered Dwalin a candle, he took it. I glanced around, at Bilbo's built ins and found a stack of plates. I offered one of them too along with, "I'm sorry, help yourself."

Dwalin didn't need to be told twice. He was deep inside the pantry with only a few long strides. I took the opportunity to wander down the hall, into the sitting room, then into the entrance hall, lighting candles as I went. I made a quick detour when I realized halfway through that I was still wearing pajamas.

Going through Bilbo's wardrobe and built-ins felt invasive, but I pushed it aside. The shirts were easy to find and so were the pants, which were hemmed strangely to stop at mid-shin. But I figured out quickly that they needed a belt or something to hold them up. It took longer than I'd liked to find a solution and when I did it was suspenders. Trying to get them on took three times more effort than the rest of Bilbo's clothes. I could feel that they were twisted against my back, but I didn't care. They were on and they were working.

By the time I'd gotten back to work was dragging a chair beneath the chandelier in the entrance hall, Dwalin was settled in at the kitchen table. I didn't think this was how Bilbo did it but how could he reach?

Once I'd finished, I felt a disproportionate rush of satisfaction. I dragged the chair back to the table with far less energy than I started with. This section of the house was well lit now, the candles offering a warm glow that reached every corner.

Dwalin glanced up at me. His place was overflowing and he'd found what looked like an honest to God tankard. We stared at each other again.

"It's very late," I said, finally able to work up the nerve. Dwalin's chewing slowed, but didn't stop. "Did we- why are you here?"

This time, Dwalin did stop chewing and audibly swallowed. He opened his mouth, only for the long high ringing to echo, even louder now, like from before.

I turned to the door, then to Dwalin, who was had his eyebrow raised at me, as if to say, 'Well?'

Well, indeed.

I was a little more confident this time, pulling open the great green door, though no less awkward about it.

He looked more like Dwalin than Bilbo, I could see at once. He was tall, too, and sturdily built even beneath his long red coat. His beard was long, forked at the bottom, and white, and so was his hair. When our eyes met, he smiled.

"Balin," the second stranger said, bowing just like Dwalin did. "At your service."

"Bilbo," I offered again, still unsure. It didn't feel right. "Baggins."

"Good evening, Master Baggins." Balin said, polite smile still in place. His voice was friendly, almost. Though compared to Dwalin, that wasn't hard. What did Master mean? Was it because Bilbo owned this house?

"Are you," I started, trying to work it over in my head. Was Bilbo's house some kind of waystation? "Here for Dwalin?"

Balin's face brightened into something genuine and stepped in. He glanced around and then honed in on something in the sitting room. I turned too. Dwalin had gotten up, his plate abandoned, and he was shaking out a jar of cookies into his waiting hand.

Balin let out a laugh, then said, already halfway to Dwalin, "Evening, brother!"

Dwalin looked pleased too. When they were close enough, they both laid a hand on each other's shoulders. In one smooth motion they were headbutting each other, so hard I could hear the crack of bone on bone. I winced.

"Tea?" I said once they pulled apart. They both turned to look at me.

Dwalin added, a little more animated now, "food too."

They both disappeared around the corner. I could hear them talking, low though not quite a whisper, and I couldn't make out what they were saying.

What the f- what was happening?

I followed, unsure of what else to do. The tea kettle was boiling now and while Dwalin and Balin were scoping out the pantry, I fumbled with it, taking it off the flame and resting it on a stone slab that I assumed was Bilbo's version of a hot pad. I suspected, after giving Dwalin's tankard a sniff and clocking it immediately as a very hoppy beer, that tea wasn't their preference. I was right when I watched Dwalin pour a second tankard and offer it to Balin.

I turned over Balin's arrival in my head. He'd introduced himself, too. He'd been a stranger. But why was he here? Why were either of them here?

The ringing came again, and I resigned myself to calling it a doorbell. I abandoned Dwalin and Balin and trudged back down the hall. If these new whoever-they-were knew Dwalin and Balin I'd be sitting them all down, withholding food, until I got real answers.

Opening the door, I saw not one person but two. God, they were multiplying.

They were both young. At least they looked young, younger than the other two who were currently raiding Bilbo's pantry at any rate. But I didn't think they were like Bilbo – what was the word Gandalf used? Hobbit? - they were big like Balin and Dwalin. The one on the left had a mane of blond hair, a short full beard, and a braided mustache. The one on the right, in contrast, had dark almost black hair and a beard that was hardly more than stubble.

They were both smiling. This was feeling both more, and less, like a dream.

"Fili," the blond said genially.

"And Kili," added the other, with a great deal more cheer.

And together with a bow they chorused, "At your service."

I stared at them. I knew I should give my own name, the way I'd done with Balin and Dwalin. But I was just so – lost. Why were there more- whatever, whoever, these people were?

After a long moment of silence, the dark haired one's- Kili's- smile dropped as he asked, "Is this not the right place? Gandalf said there'd be a mark on the door."

Gandalf? What did Gandalf have to do with any of this? He'd promise me time. He'd promised to leave me alone, no less. What the fu- what was this?

Kili's words abruptly registered, and I turned my head to scan the green door, now almost black in the night, and sure enough there was a mark that glowed an eerie blue and looked like a tilted capital 'F.'

I could think of at least one F-word for Gandalf. And it wasn't friend.

I stared at the mark at the door for so long, that the blond one – Fili – finally asked, "You are Master Baggins, aren't you?"

I was not. Not by any real measure, other than I looked like him. Or I assumed I did.

I didn't know these two. I didn't know Balin or Dwalin. I didn't even really know Gandalf. I didn't even know where to start, how to explain. I didn't know if I could explain. Gandalf had done most of it, honestly.

Instead of answering, I pulled the door open wider. Fili and Kili both took the hint. Neither of them had cloaks but they were both well-armed, I noticed. Real fear was creeping up my spine. Who was I letting in? What did they want?

Fili turned to me, arm outstretched, a sheathed sword in hand. I stared. Next to him, Kili was pulling what looked like an honest to God bow off his back. He offered it too.

I stared. For so long, I knew I was making them uncomfortable. They were both frowning and it was Fili who shifted first, his eyes moving from my face to somewhere over my shoulder. He nodded, then stepped past me. Kili did the same on my other side. I turned to look.

They must've spotted Dwalin's cloak. They were offloading their weapons – Kil's quiver of arrow joining his bow while Fili began to pull all manner of blades – swords, knives, of all sizes, out of his coat. Then a few from his boots.

"This place is nice," Kili said, moving into the sitting room. When I turned to look, he was scraping mud off his boots using a nearby chest.

My incredulity must've been written all over my face because Kili's own face fell comically when our eyes met. He lowered his foot slowly, as if trying not to bring attention to it.

I watched, unimpressed and unwilling to give him an out. What patience I had at the beginning of the night, even after Dwalin had come knocking, had dwindled to nothing now. I was over unexpected guests. I was over Gandalf, I was over this dream that didn't feel much like a dream anymore. Kili was looking stricken now and took a step closer only for Dwalin to come up behind and wrangle Kili with an arm around his neck.

"Come on, Kili, Fili, give us a hand." Dwalin was saying, steering Kili away. Fili brushed past me to join them.

I stared at the mud-caked chest. I glanced back to the front door. The door was still open. I seized the opportunity for escape. I stepped out into the cool night air and focused on breathing. I could hear all four of my – what? Guests? That would have to do – guests inside, their voices growing steadily louder. I didn't want to go back in. I wanted to go to sleep. I wanted to wake up.

I stared out into the night. There were little pinpricks of light dotting the hills, windows round like Bilbo's and flooded with light. There were lanterns, too, hanging high above the paths? Roads?

It would be so easy, to keep walking. To let the night swallow me. Maybe then I'd be able to wake.

A shadow beneath one of the lantern posts caught my eye. It was followed by a second, then a third. I started to count, unsure. Four, five – I kept counting and I was nearing a dozen now.

They passed under a second, lantern post, then a third. They were coming this way. The last shadow in the group was much taller than the rest. And their outline, I could see as they grew closer, was distinct. As if they were wearing a wide-brimmed hat.

Oh, absolutely not. It couldn't be.

The line was halfway up the hill now. I could hear them talking to each other, they didn't seem to be putting any effort in keeping their voices down. The line came to as stop at Bilbo's front gate. The tallest shadow hurried to the front and swung the gate open.

It was, in fact, Gandalf. There was no mistake now.

Gandalf looked pleased to see me, obvious even in the low light. He nodded amicably, as if we'd just run into each other, and stopped next to me and placed a hand on my shoulder.

Gandalf turned to the line following him and said, "May I introduce our host, Bilbo Baggins?"

The line turned into a greeting procession. As each one stepped into the light before me, they bowed and offered their name along with a pleasantry. 'Good evening' or 'Thank you for having us' or 'Lovely home.'

Their names rhymed, was all I could remember. Like in a storybook. I could remember my anger too, low and burning, rising with every introduction. With every step taken over the threshold. With every shouted greeting that echoed inside.

This was not what we agreed to. This was – it wasn't fair.

Gandalf steered me gently back inside, just as my anger reached such a burning pitch that it felt cold. I couldn't remember being this angry, this upset.

This wasn't fair.

The door clicked behind us. I barely heard it over the chorus of voices, the echo of shifting furniture. Gandalf was still guiding me, we moved through the entrance hall to stare down into the long connecting rooms- more halls?- that led back towards where Bilbo's bedroom was.

My guests were taking over completely now. Four of them were settling a wide long dining room table in the space between the kitchen and the pantry. More of them were crowding in the pantry, handing out plates spilling over with food to be set on the table. Others were bringing in more chairs. A few had found Bilbo's plates and silverware and were laying the table. The barrel that must be of the beer rolled out suddenly, only to be scooped up by a red-haired guest with a laugh.

It hurt to breathe. Each breath felt too short, too tight. There was a low buzz in my ears, like angry bees.

One of the guests, who had lovely silver braids in his hair, approached. He had a tray in his hands, with the very same teapot and teacups Gandalf and I had used that morning. I dimly remember him offering it to both of us. I don't know why, but I held out a hand to accept. The porcelain was warm, the tea was pale, almost honey colored. I heard Gandalf speaking and then the guest was gone again.

Gandalf cleared his throat. If I didn't know better, I thought it sounded a bit awkward.

"Who are they, Gandalf?" I asked, surprised by how wooden it came out. My anger was still roiling. Anymore pressure and I'd explode like a volcano.

"Thay are dwarves," Gandalf replied, voice low in a way that meant he was trying to keep it between the two of us. I didn't think he needed to bother. The guests – dwarves- were far too busy, in the midst of raiding Bilbo's pantry and arguing about furniture to pay attention to us.

"Dwarves," I repeated flatly. I eyed them. Weren't dwarves supposed to have hats? The kind that were cone-shaped, with no brim. They had beards, I supposed, which tracked. Or maybe I was thinking of gnomes.

"They awoke first," Gandalf said as if that meant anything. "Quite by accident or so I'm told. And put to sleep again. They were made in the image of the First Crafter and are excellent smiths. The mountains are their home."

Then what are they doing here, I wanted to ask. Instead, I said, "They're your friends."

Gandalf let out an ambiguous murmur, as if he wasn't quite sure how to answer. But then he offered, "Acquaintances, certainly. We share hopes, a common goal."

A goal. I thought over the word. It felt familiar, though not quite an echo. What had Gandalf said at tea?

I have a task for you.

Before I could tell Gandalf exactly where he could stick that task, the silver-haired dwarf came back, this time with two glasses of red wine. I stared as they clinked glasses and Gandalf threw his back in one swallow.

My guests – the dwarves – were crowding around the table now. They were growing louder, shouting over each other to be heard. Gandalf took my shoulder again and steered me through them, settling us both at one end of the table. He even pulled out my chair for me. I sat. My anger was somehow receding, down to a simmer. There was something joyful about the dwarves that was hard to dislike. Platters were being passed around, jokes were being shouted at one another. Gandalf took up the task of filling both our plates. I kept my teacup close. I didn't know why I still had it, it was already cold. But I knew it'd be swept away – if not completely swept off the table – if I set it down. It was one thing I could try to keep safe.

Especially when they started throwing food. Something in me snapped as a half a wheel of cheese sailed over my head. I stood up. Gandalf was the only one who noticed and I ignored when he opened mouth to say something. I turned around the corner, back into the entrance hall and set my teacup aside on a nearby end table.

My heart was pounding. I felt sick. None of this felt right. None of this felt like a dream anymore, but what could it be? I couldn't be- couldn't be here. This wasn't possible.

It was hard to breathe again. I pulled open the round green door and sucked in a gulping breath of cool night air. I stared up at the night sky. There were a few clouds now. The stars were very bright, brighter than I remember ever seeing them. I focused on trying to find the Big Dipper, the only constellation I'd ever been able to reliably find.

It took a long time for me to realize that I couldn't find it. That I wouldn't be able to find it, here.

I jerked my head back down and stared out over the dark hills. From inside I heard laughter. It felt out of place, somehow.

I didn't want to go back in. The urge was back again, to walk out into the night, to let the darkness swallow me. To leave this behind. I was tired, in a way I didn't think I should be, in a dream. I tried very hard not to think about why that was.

Something moved beneath one of the lantern posts. My head tilted of its own accord and I watched, waiting, to see if it would appear again.

A few moments later, it did. Beneath the next closest lantern post. In my direction.

Not another one.

It was indeed another one. There was no mistaking it as whoever it was began to climb the path up the hill. I knew the second they spotted me, just before the front gate, because they stopped. The shadow of their head shifted and I knew they were looking up at me.

I waited to see what they would do. After a long moment they decided, and the little gate swung open and then closed again behind them.

When they reached me, the light from the open front door made it clear this was another one, another dwarf. They were wearing a cloak like Dwalin and their hood was pulled up. And like Dwalin, their eyes seemed to glow. I shivered. They reached up and pushed their hood back.

He was tall, I think, for a dwarf - close to Dwalin's height. Long dark hair with strands of silver and sharp blue eyes. His beard was full but shorn close, his mouth unsmiling.

There was a pause and then the dwarf spoke, voice deep and strong. "So, you are the hobbit."

I stared back. The hobbit. Not a hobbit. This dwarf knew me, knew of me, or rather Bilbo. And I knew exactly who to blame.

"You're another of Gandalf's friends," I offered back. I felt even less like Bilbo than I had yet. I couldn't bring myself to offer his name.

The dwarf inclined his head in a barely-there nod. After another, frankly awkward, pause, he said, "Thorin, son of Thrain."

That was interesting. Son of Thrain. I wondered what that was meant as. None of the others had said anything like it. Was it a title, like Gandalf's? A declaration? A homage to his birth place? An allegiance?

"You're late," I told Thorin son of Thrain. Another crescendo of laughter and shouts from inside couldn't have come at a better time.

Something shifted in Thorin's face. I suspected I'd actually annoyed him. "Indeed."

Thorin's eyes moved to something behind me. A shadow fell over us both. "Gandalf."

"Ah," Gandalf said, sounding pleased again. "Thorin. Welcome."

Thorin was already moving past me, and when I turned to look, he'd passed Gandalf, too.

"I thought you said this place would be easy to find." Thorin said flatly, pulling his cloak off the same way Dwalin did. I could see the rest of the dwarves had abandoned dinner now and were crowded in the hall. I lost my way. Twice."

"Ah," Gandalf said from behind me, "but you have found your way to us, even so. And I see you two have already become acquainted."

Thorin moved towards the other dwarves, who all looked relieved to see him. Thorin glanced back over his shoulder. "A strange choice, wizard. He looks more of a grocer to me."

A grocer.

The others dwarves laughed, and oh. The anger was back again. My chest was beginning to ache with it.

Thorin melted into the crowd of the others and they were all already turning away, moving deeper into the hall. I heard Gandalf pull the door closed behind us, then watched, as he came into view, pausing briefly just around the corner, then disappearing entirely from view.

By the time I worked up the strength to join them again, they were all back around the table. Thorin had a plate and a cup of tea in front of him – my plate, my teacup I realized with a bolt of annoyance – and the others had their tankards. Gandalf was at Thorin's shoulder, bent over. To his credit, Gandalf noticed me right away.

Gandalf turned and reached out a beckoning hand, "Ah, there you are."

Against my better instincts, I joined him. There were two pieces of paper- maybe parchment? – covering the corner of the table. Gandalf lifted the top most, which Thorin took with trembling fingers. I narrowed my eyes on the remaining larger paper remaining.

It was a map. I knew it at once. It was beautifully drawn, and looked nothing like any I'd ever seen. There were characters, letters or words, scattered throughout but I couldn't read them, they weren't anything I could recognize. The shape of the land mass was strange, unfamiliar. There was a mountain range that cut clean through the middle.

This was Middle Earth.

Gandalf put a long crooked finger down on the near-furthest part of the landmass and said, "The Shire."

The Shire. Gandalf had said that before. That was where we were, where Bilbo lived.

Gandalf began to move his finger, left to right, slow and careful as he said, ""Far to the east, beyond ranges and woodlands lies a single solitary peak. The Lonely Mountain."

I stared at where Gandalf's finger had stopped on the far right corner of the map. There was a, perhaps aptly, drawn triangle, a peak. A Lonely Mountain.

On the other side of the map. Across a continent. Across a world.

I knew Gandalf was looking at me now. I didn't have to look up to know the others were too. I couldn't tear my eyes away. The other side of the world.

That was what Gandalf meant by a task. He wants Bilbo – me, now- to go – to go-

Gandalf let out a soft sigh, so quiet I was sure I was the only one to have heard it. He turned back. He was talking again, using the same word as before. Task.

I chanced a glance up. Everyone's attention was rapt, on Gandalf. Then on Thorin, who was speaking now.

I turned. I didn't even think about it. And I ran. Behind me the dwarves were bursting into noise. It sounded like cheers.

I was going to be sick.

I followed the hall to the very end and then into a darkened doorway on my left. I felt sick again, though this time for another reason. The room smelled powerfully strong, thick, smokey, almost woody. I tried not to let my head swim.

Fear was warring for dominance now, even as my anger sparked back into an inferno. I could feel my hands shaking, I didn't know which was the cause. Maybe it was both.

There was a light coming through the doorway. A candle. Gandalf followed next.

The room was still dark, but I thought that might be on purpose. The walls were paneled with dark wood, the floors covered in deep red rugs. There was a fireplace in here too.

Gandalf took his time, lighting the candles in my hiding spot. When he finished, I demanded, voice, unfortunately shaking enough to temper how angry I was, "This is your task? This – this- mountain?"

"Yes," Gandalf said simply.

"Across the world," I snapped at him, far too loud, and I realized too late that I was shouting.

I raised a hand to my mouth, shame already sweeping through me, then scrubbed at my face. It was a small consolation that Bilbo's face was as smooth as mine was.

I took a few deep breaths, willing my temper to at least settle into a simmer. I'd always hated losing control of it, always felt terrible afterward. I was feeling terrible already.

Gandalf was patient, utterly silent from his position at the fireplace. If I wasn't so furious with him, I would've been thankful.

"Let's say your right, Gandalf," I said, much softer than before, ignoring the sickening swoop of my stomach. I thought over my next words before saying, "and this isn't a dream. And I'm here."

Gandalf opened his mouth this time to reply, but I had to make sure he understood. I pressed on, "You can't do this. To me. To Bilbo. He's not here – to go out there using his name, wearing his face-"

I stopped. My voice had started to crack and it was embarrassing. Infuriating.

"The world is not always kind, Laura," Gandalf said, low and gentle. The gentlest he'd sounded so far. I hated that it was comforting. "And would it be up to me, I would spare you this. Truly."

I wanted to believe him. I didn't know if I could.

"But it is clear, that you were brought here for this reason," Gandalf continued, this time a little more firmly. I shook my head. "Yes, Laura. Here you stand before me. In a world you have never seen, never known, but is waiting for you. With a path that awaits, clearly laid before you."

I could feel my anger sparking again. I didn't ask for this. I would've never asked for this. I said instead, wishing I didn't sound so petulant, "You promised me time."

It hit me suddenly, painfully, that Gandalf hadn't actually said anything of the kind. He'd sidestepped it entirely.

"And I have given you as much as I can," Gandalf insisted. There was a sincerity threaded through every word, that I couldn't ignore. No matter how much I wanted to. "As much as I would be able to give Bilbo."

Bilbo. My heart hurt thinking about him. About taking his place, his body, his face, his name. We hadn't even met.

"Tomorrow," I said, and I wouldn't be swayed. I couldn't be. I had to hope. That I wasn't meant to be here at all. That Bilbo could come back.

Gandalf didn't answer me for a long time. I braced myself for another argument. But Gandalf surprised me when he answered, "Very well."

I turned to him, eyes wide. He wasn't smiling but there was sympathy on his face, making the lines on his forehead, around his eyes, look even deeper.

"Tomorrow morning," Gandalf said, and I knew he wouldn't tolerate an argument. "I have a room at the inn. And rooms for the dwarves, besides. We will leave you, for tonight."

"Thank you," I said, voice cracking. I couldn't decide if I meant it. It felt like it was the least Gandalf could do. But his response could have been far worse.

"I will look after you, Laura," Gandalf told me, voice soft again. "You have my word."

I believed that Gandalf meant it. I didn't want it to be true. I wanted to go home.

I nodded. Gandalf placed a large hand on my shoulder. Then, he was gone. It was only me and the soft glow of the candlelight.

Eventually, I heard the low voice of the dwarves as they migrated through the hall. There was a great deal more noise, I presumed that cloaks were collected and elbows were thrown. There was the quiet click of a latch, loud through the sudden quiet.

I didn't remember my walk back to Bilbo's bedroom. I didn't remember falling into bed. All I remember was a bright flash of hope, when I realized I was finally being pulled to sleep, that this was the end. I'd be home.

It was, in fact, just the beginning.