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Chapter Text

A hush lay upon the ruined stones of Dale. The wind had stilled. Smoke drifted skyward from the chimneys of Lake Town on the horizon, and the mountain loomed behind them like a shadow cast into eternity.

She stood at the edge of it all, the hem of her cloak brushing the ash, her eyes bright with sorrow. Before her, the Company waited in confusion, some in anger, others in aching silence. But none more silent than he.

Thorin Oakenshield did not speak. Not at first.

His gaze was fixed upon her, as if she were some dream that had slipped between his fingers. The weight of the oncoming battle hung from his shoulders, but this—this was the wound that cut deepest. She saw it in his eyes.

Beside her stood a figure cloaked in light—neither man nor woman, clothed not in fabric but in radiance, shaped as though the stars themselves had woven form and purpose into one.

“This is the hour,” said the being. The voice echoed in the stillness like the breath of a mountain. “The thread is severed. The time has come.”

Thorin took one step forward, and the pain in his voice struck her like a blow.

“You would leave us now?” he said. “After all we have endured? After all that you have done?”

She could not lift her eyes to meet his.

“You stood with us,” he said, louder now, disbelief bleeding into fury. “You stood beside me at the gates. You gave hope where none could be found. And now—now you turn away?”

The light at her feet began to glow, creeping outward in a silent tide. She could feel it gathering, reaching for her soul like the tide pulling from shore.

Thorin surged forward—but a hand caught his arm.

Bilbo.

He said no word. There were tears on his face, but he only shook his head and held fast to Thorin’s cloak with both hands, his grip fierce for one so small.

“Let go of me!” Thorin snarled, trying to wrench free.

But Bilbo would not.

The others remained still, stunned. Grief sat heavy upon the Company, but it was Thorin’s voice that broke it all apart.

“No!” he roared, struggling in vain. “Do not do this!”

Her name left his mouth then—a cry torn from deep within, echoing across the stones, filled with everything he could not say.

And she heard it.

It hollowed her. Shattered her.

But the light had risen past her hands now, past her heart, until the world was nothing but white. The wind returned, keening through the ruins.

And when it passed—

She was gone.

Chapter Text

Three Years Earlier
There is a place beyond the circles of the world, where no sun rises and no shadow falls—only endless light and endless silence. It is not for the living to know, save in dreams or death, and even then, few remember.

The Halls of Mandos.

Here, the spirits of Elves rest in waiting, and the echoes of the world’s sorrow drift like snow upon the windless air. There are no walls, yet the space is bounded. No doors, yet none may enter unbidden. The light is neither day nor flame, but something older, deeper, woven from thought and memory and the will of Ilúvatar.
Within these halls, two of the Valar walked alone.

Nienna, Lady of Mercy, moved with the stillness of mourning rain. Her eyes were veiled, though she wept not now. She had wept long, and her tears had carved quiet paths through ages unnumbered. Grief clung to her as a mantle, and yet there was no weakness in her—only patience, and the strength of one who has borne the sorrow of all things and still stands.

Beside her walked Irmo, whom Men name Lórien, master of dreams and visions. He was as a breeze in a sleeping forest—gentle, elusive, but filled with vast and knowing silence. His thoughts drifted like leaves, and yet in his gaze burned the clarity of starlight.

They passed beneath an arch of singing silver, where no mouth moved and no breath stirred, and paused before the Veil of Fate—the place where the Music of the Ainur still echoes, hidden in the threads of the world.

“He mourns them already,” Nienna said at last, her voice as soft as distant water. “Though they yet live.”

Irmo inclined his head. “He feels it in the roots of the stone. The fall of his firstborn craft. The breaking of Durin’s line.”

“Aulë loves all his children, but the Dwarves were his first sorrow. He does not forget.”

“No,” Irmo agreed. “Nor do we. Yet what can be done?”

There was a pause. The Veil shimmered—images glinting like motes in a beam of light. Mountains, fire, war. Gold and ruin. The shadow of a dragon. The mourning of a king.
And one face that did not belong.

A woman—strange, still, unknown. Neither of this world nor shaped by its song.

Nienna’s gaze lingered on her.

“She does not belong here,” Irmo said quietly.

“No,” said Nienna. “But she weeps in her sleep. And listens, even when no voice speaks. Perhaps that is enough.”

Irmo considered. “Eru forbade it.”

“He forbade the sight of other realms. Not mercy.”

“And what is this, if not interference?”

Nienna turned. “A kindness. A small defiance, for the sake of love.”

He did not answer at once. Then, softly:

“Would you change the Music?”

“No,” she said. “Only… add a harmony where dissonance will soon reign.”

They stood in silence once more. Then Irmo raised a hand, and the Veil parted slightly. Beyond it, in the distant folds of another world, a woman named Lyra walked beneath gray skies, unaware that fate had turned its eye upon her.

Nienna closed her eyes. “Let her come.”

…..

Lyra often felt like she was made for a world that no longer existed.

Not in the grand, dramatic sense—she wasn’t born in the wrong century, or dreaming of castles and corsets-though let’s be real, who would turn down a castle? But there was something about the hum of modern life, all its noise and momentum, that made her feel like she’d been left behind in the rush. Too slow. Too still.
She worked. She cleaned. She called in prescriptions. She picked up dry cereal for her sister, who always forgot breakfast. She kept the kitchen quiet after 9 PM because her sister’s migraines were getting worse. And she read. Lord, how she read.

Her copy of The Silmarillion was more annotation than paper now. Pages worn soft at the edges, corners turned, spines re-glued more than once. The Unfinished Tales lived under her pillow. And The Return of the King—her third copy, the one with gilded edges and onion-thin paper—had wept beneath her tears more times than she could count.
She never thought of herself as particularly brave or adventurous. But there was something about Tolkien’s world—its pain, its quiet valor, its long, slow sadness—that mirrored something inside her she didn’t know how to name.

And then there was her sister. Clara.

Bright-eyed, sardonic, brilliant Clara who once played violin on street corners and now refused to go outside unless it was cloudy. Some autoimmune thing the doctors couldn’t agree on. Chronic fatigue. Something systemic and cruel. Lyra had never asked too many questions. She just… stayed. Learned how to help. How to care.
It was only the two of them now. Their mother had been gone for years, and their father had left long before that—if not in body, then in every other way.
Clara needed her.

And Lyra needed Clara.

It made her world small, but safe. Books, tea, the low hum of old music. Her sister’s laughter on good days. The silent steadiness of love on the bad ones.

That night, Clara had already gone to bed—too tired to talk, her limbs aching again. Lyra sat curled up on the old couch with a blanket across her lap and The Silmarillion open in one hand. She wasn’t reading, not really. Just rereading the part about Lúthien and Beren. Again.

She thought of Clara sometimes when she read about Lúthien—someone who shone even in stillness, who endured what others could not.

Outside the window, the stars flickered behind the trees. A late summer wind brushed against the glass.

She turned the page—and sleep crept in like a shadow.

…..

The floor beneath her shifted. She was standing, barefoot, in a place that was not her living room. There was no ceiling. No walls. No sky—only mist and light and the breathless sense that something ancient was watching.
Before her stood a woman, veiled in gray and moonlight, though no features could be seen. Yet the sorrow that radiated from her struck Lyra like cold water down the spine.

“Where—” Lyra began, then stopped. Her voice sounded small here. Smaller than usual.

The woman did not move, but a voice—soft and endless—filled the air around her. “Why do you grieve?”

Lyra blinked. “I don’t. I mean—” She paused. “I suppose I do. But so does everyone, mine is not special.”

“It is. Your sorrow echoes in more than one world.” That made no sense. But dreams rarely did. She did not move, but Lyra felt watched—not unkindly, but with the weight of an understanding too deep to explain.

“I must be dreaming,” Lyra murmured.

“You are,” said the voice—not heard aloud, but felt deep within her chest. “And you are not. A mirror has two sides, and both are the reflection.”

Lyra frowned. “I’ve had vivid dreams before. This is just stress. Or exhaustion. Maybe both.” The figure didn’t reply.

A pressure filled the air, like the stillness before a storm. And with it, something stirred in Lyra’s chest. A sense of… loss. Of being pulled from something important. Someone. She pressed a hand to her heart.

“I feel like I’ve forgotten something,” she said quietly.

“Not forgotten,” said the voice. “Only left behind.”

It wasn’t quite memory—more like a shadow of one. A face blurred by distance. Music from another room. Lyra closed her eyes. She could feel the shape of someone’s laughter if she reached for it, hear a voice that once fit beside her own. Someone had braided her hair once. Someone had cried into her shirt. Someone had said I love you and meant it. But the name wouldn’t come.

“She matters to you,” said the figure beside her. “The one you cannot name here.”

Lyra’s voice caught. “Yes.”

“Would you carry her absence, if it meant others could be spared sorrow like yours?”

She hesitated. Then, slowly, she looked down at her hands—calloused now, smudged with travel and wear. "Why are you asking me that? I’m not anyone. I can’t…”

There was silence, soft as snowfall. “You think small of yourself,” said the figure. “But even the quietest soul carries weight. And you—Lyra of the other world—yours is heavy with love.”

A flicker of memory rose then, sharp and golden. Clara’s arms wrapped around her after the accident. The way her voice cracked when she said, I need you to stay.
Lyra flinched. Her heart clenched like something caught between gears.

“I can give her something better,” the figure said. “Not healing—no. That is not the path laid for her. But ease. Kindness. A life with less pain. A home with more light. All of it can be hers.”

Lyra looked up, eyes wide. “But she won’t remember me?”

“No,” the figure said gently. “And neither will you.” There was a beat. Then another.

Something in Lyra snapped. “You’ve already done it,” she said, her voice cracking with fury. “Haven’t you?”

The figure said nothing.

“You’re taking her from me,” she said, louder now. “She’s still alive, and you’re ripping her out of me like she never existed!” A surge of heat rose behind her eyes, wild and sudden. Her fists clenched at her sides. “You can’t just—take her. You can’t just undo her.”

Light flickered within the flowing robe, almost imperceptibly. “She is not undone.”

“She is,” Lyra hissed. “It’s already happened. I can't hear her laugh. I can't remember the shape of her hands. Her name was on my tongue and now it's gone.” The fear hit next, a cold wave behind the anger. Her breath caught. If this being could erase her sister—this fundamental, sacred part of her—without warning, what else could she lose? Who else?

“What are you?” she whispered, stepping back. “What are you?”

“I am sorrow,” the figure said, calm and eternal. “And mercy.”

“Mercy,” Lyra spat. But her voice faltered. Because beneath the anger, beneath the fear, a deeper truth curled itself like a thorn in her chest: If forgetting meant peace for Clara—real peace—could she bear to remember alone?

“You would keep the love,” the figure said softly. “It would remain in your bones. But not its name. Not its face.”

Lyra’s hands trembled. Her voice was quiet now. “I don’t want to forget her.”

“And yet,” said the figure, stepping nearer, “you want her to be free.”

The ache was unbearable now. Nauseating.

“She has suffered enough,” the figure said. “You would not have found your way here if you did not believe that. You would not have been chosen.”

Lyra’s legs felt unsteady. Like the ground beneath her had shifted. Like something vital was already missing.

And in that emptiness, Clara’s voice echoed again—soft, broken, fading. I need you to stay.

“You feel the weight of the world, even when it does not notice you.”

She sneered, “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“It is a truth.”

The light around them brightened—not harsh, but vast and endless. She felt suddenly small. Unseen. Meaningless in this harsh landscape.

“There is a place where you are needed,” said the voice. “A thread not yet woven. A chance that has not yet been taken.”

Lyra stepped back instinctively—but there was no ground to hold her.

“I’m not the kind of person who—” she began, and then stopped. The words fell flat.

“You fear you are not brave,” said the voice, soft as a lullaby.

“I know I’m not,” Lyra whispered.

The figure tilted her head, as if listening to something far away. Then, almost kindly: “You are not asked to be fearless. Only to be willing.”

Before she could reply the light surged, filling her vision.

And everything else fell away.

…..

The glen was quiet.

Lyra sat up slowly, her head spinning. The air smelled of pine and damp earth—crisp and clean, like the first morning of the world. Sunlight filtered through tall trees, casting shifting golden patterns across the mossy ground.

She blinked hard. It didn’t make sense. She looked down at her hands. Her sleeves hung looser than usual. Her boots were slightly too large. The earth felt strange beneath her—too low, somehow. As if gravity itself had shifted.

It was a dream. That was the only explanation. She must’ve fallen asleep on the couch again. That’s what this was. A forest dream. She’d read about Doriath or the woods near Rivendell and now her brain was piecing together some immersive dreamscape. That had to be it.

And yet…

The trees didn’t feel like a dream. They felt old. Real. Not conjured by the subconscious, but carved by time.

A rustle of movement snapped her head toward the tree line. There—stepping through the ferns, leaning on a wooden staff, came an old man in a grey cloak and wide-brimmed hat. His beard was long and grey, his boots muddied, and his expression curious beneath the brim of his hat. He paused when he saw her.

“Well,” he said, his voice deep and amused. “This is a rare thing indeed.”

Lyra stared.

Something in her head gave a jolt. She didn’t know his face—not really—but something about him felt known. Like a warmth on a winter morning. Like a voice heard long ago.
She gripped the edge of her too-loose jacket. “Right,” she murmured. “Dream wizard.”

He chuckled lightly. “If that is what you believe, you are welcome to keep believing it. Dreams are safer company than the world, I find.”

“I’m asleep,” she said quickly, more to herself than to him. “I must be. Because you’re not real. None of this is real.”

“Isn’t it?” He tilted his head. “And yet here we both are. Curious, isn’t it?”

She took a step back. “No offense, but I don’t usually dream about strange forests and… wandering fantasy gamers.”

The wizard looked delighted. “Gamers?”

“Never mind.” Lyra ran a hand through her hair, only to find her fingers catching on a different texture—thicker, rougher. Not her usual curls. She froze.

The old man’s eyes twinkled. “You’ll find things may not be quite what you left behind. Dreams are like that. Sometimes, they show you what you truly are.”

Lyra narrowed her eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Only a little.”

He turned, as if to walk away, then glanced over his shoulder.

“Well, are you coming?” he asked. “The path is safer with two.”

Lyra hesitated.

Logic told her none of this was real. She’d wake up on the couch, probably with a stiff neck and her cat knocking over a water glass.

But her feet moved anyway. She followed him into the trees.

…..

Lyra had never dreamed anything quite so detailed before.

The glen, the light, the birdsong—they lingered even after she began walking. The dream refused to dissolve the way dreams usually did. No jump-cuts. No surreal edges. Just long stretches of forest trail under her boots and the company of a wizard who, apparently, didn't know how to give a straight answer.

“I don’t suppose you have a map,” Lyra asked as they crested a hill, brushing a hand against a bramble-thick hedgerow.

“A map?” His bushy eyebrows lifted. “Of the dream you mean?”

“Sure,” she said dryly. “Dream cartography. Seems legit.”

He chuckled, and his walking stick thumped along the dirt path. “Alas, dreams rarely come with such conveniences. But the road always leads somewhere. Especially when it’s not trying to avoid you.”

Lyra narrowed her eyes. “That sounds like an answer, but I’m not sure to what.”

“Precisely!” he said cheerfully.

They walked on.

To her credit, Lyra adjusted quickly. That was one of her better traits: when reality shifted, she played along until the rules made sense. She had done it after her mother died. After her father left. When every other "normal" cracked beneath her. And now, here she was, taking long strides to keep up with a wizard she half-suspected was plucked straight from The Fellowship of the Ring—though the resemblance wasn’t exact. His face was less an old man, more... timeless. Kind. Sharpened by secrets.

“So,” she ventured, “do all my dreams include folklore wizards and fairytale woods, or is this just a special occasion?”

The old man gave a considering hum. “I do make rare appearances in people’s dreams. Usually at times of transition. Great turning points.”

“Like a sleep-deprived internal crisis?”

“Something of the sort.”

They shared a stretch of companionable silence.

“How far are we walking?” she asked eventually.

“Not far,” he said. “We’re headed west. A celebration draws near.”

Lyra blinked. “A party? In my dream?”

“A very good one,” He assured her. “I’m expected. Fireworks and all.”

She almost laughed. “Of course there are fireworks. What’s a dream wizard without pyrotechnics?”

They crested another hill just as the sky began to tint orange with the approach of dusk. Far off, Lyra could just make out rolling green fields—and beyond that, something quaint and quiet nestled among the hills.

“That’s…” she frowned. “Are those hobbit holes?”

“If you like.”

She squinted. “Okay, that’s a little on the nose, don’t you think?”

But he only smiled.

They turned down a narrower lane, and the trees grew sparser, the land more open. Lyra had just begun to wonder if the dream might let her taste hobbit food when she heard the voices.

Rough. Male. Laughter that didn’t belong to anything kind.

Three men stood ahead, near a bend in the path—dusty travelers, armed with knives and clubs that looked too worn to be ceremonial. One leaned against a cart with a bored expression; the other two stood in the middle of the road.

Her companions posture changed almost imperceptibly. “If you would be so kind as to stand behind me,” he murmured.

Lyra nodded at once. “Gladly.”

He stepped forward with a calm that surprised her.

“Good evening, friends,” he said warmly. “The road is wide, and it seems you have taken up a great portion of it. Perhaps you’ll allow us to pass?”

One of the men straightened. He had crooked teeth and small eyes that glittered unpleasantly. “Passin’ ain’t free these days.”

“We’re but two travelers,” The wizard said. “And not carrying much of value. You’d do better to rob elsewhere.”

“Maybe,” said the leader, “but I’ve never had the chance to meet a dwarven lady before.” His eyes slid to Lyra. “Always wondered what they were like.”

The air changed. Cold. Tight.

The old man’s expression sharpened into something steel-hard.

“That,” he said, “was very impolite.”

The man smirked. “Just talkin’, old man.”

Then the fight broke.

It wasn’t like the brawls she’d seen on television or in movies—no slow motion, no choreography. Just noise and violence. The man moved with startling agility for someone his age, swinging his staff in powerful arcs that knocked weapons from hands and sent men sprawling. Light flared at the tip once—just briefly—and one attacker cried out, clutching his face.

But there were three of them. And one of them grabbed her.

Lyra struggled. She elbowed him in the ribs—hard—and screamed. His grip shifted, trying to hold her tighter. Her knee slammed into his thigh. He cursed and dragged her sideways, and they both fell hard against the packed earth. Her shoulder slammed into a rock, and pain blossomed down her side. Then he was gone—flung backward by a sudden surge of force she couldn’t explain.

The man in gray stood above them, staff glowing faintly, his cloak torn and his eyes storm-bright.

It was over.

The men scrambled to flee—limping, cursing, vanishing down the hill with bruised pride and empty hands.
Silence settled again.

Lyra stayed where she was, heart pounding. Her arm throbbed. Her shoulder ached. There was blood on her sleeve. Not a lot, but enough.

She stared at it.

Then she looked up at the man, and the world tilted.

She could smell the smoke from the cart’s broken wheel. She could feel dirt caked beneath her fingernails. She could feel pain. Real pain.

“This…” she whispered. “This isn’t a dream.”

The wizard knelt beside her, his tone gentler now. “No. It is not.”

She drew a shaky breath. “Then where the hell am I?”

He gave her a long, searching look.

And for once, he did not answer with a riddle.

“My name is Gandalf, Gandalf the Gray, and though I do not know how you came to be here, you are in the lands of Eriador, just on the edges of the Shire.”

Chapter Text

Lyra stirred again to the crackle of firelight.

For a moment, she didn’t open her eyes. She was tired—tired in a way that reached deeper than her bones. Tired of waking up in strange places. Tired of having no idea where she was, or why. Tired of slipping into unconsciousness like it was some sort of cosmic reset button.

She really had to work on staying conscious.

With a quiet sigh, she opened her eyes and blinked into the flickering orange glow. Shadows danced across the bark of tall trees. She was lying on a bed of moss and leaves, nestled beside a rock in a shallow grove just off a narrow road. It was night now. The stars blinked above through the tree branches, and somewhere beyond the glen, an owl called once and fell silent.

A small fire burned a few paces away.

And there—seated before it, pipe in hand, as though this were the most natural thing in the world—was Gandalf.

He was packing the bowl of his pipe with a pinch of dried herb, humming softly to himself in some language she didn’t recognize. When he noticed her stirring, he glanced over and gave a small nod of approval.

“Ah. Awake again,” he said. “That’s good. You gave me a bit of a worry there.”

Lyra sat up slowly, her muscles stiff and her shoulder still sore from the fight. “How long was I out this time?”

“Not long,” Gandalf replied. “You lost consciousness when the pain caught up with you. It happens. A knock to the side, a spill against the rock. You’ll bruise, but you’ll live.”

Lyra made a face and flexed her fingers. “Wonderful.”

Gandalf struck a match against a flat stone and lit his pipe. The scent that rose was surprisingly pleasant—earthy, spiced, calming. It curled into the air like a sigh.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Still near the East Road, not far from the borders of the Shire. This little nook seemed a fair enough spot for resting. The trees here are kindly, and the stones remember old silence.”

Lyra stared at him, blinking. “The stones… remember?”

He puffed his pipe thoughtfully. “You’ll find that the world speaks more than you’re used to, if you’re willing to listen.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready to listen to anything,” she muttered. “Everything already feels like it’s shouting at me.”

There was a pause. Gandalf leaned back on one hand and looked at her more closely. “You truly don’t know how you came here, do you?”

“No.” Her throat tightened. “One moment I was in my living room, and then I was... somewhere else. And now here.”

He nodded slowly. “I felt it. When I came upon you in the glen. Something not of this world. Something—woven. I cannot say by whose hand, but the thread is bright. You are not meant for this land, and yet you are here.”

“Brilliant,” Lyra said, hugging her knees to her chest. “That’s just what I needed to hear.”

There was silence between them, filled only by the quiet hiss of the fire.

And then the panic hit.

It crept in slowly—first as a cold in her fingers, then a flutter in her chest. And then it bloomed fully: They don’t know where I am.

“My world…” she breathed. “They’ll think I vanished. They’ll call the police, search the woods, check the hospitals—I just disappeared, and they won’t know why.”

Gandalf’s brows drew together. “Your family will do their best to find you, I am sure.”

“I don’t have family,” she snapped, the words cutting sharper than she meant. Her voice cracked. “I have a cat. A stupid, spoiled, neurotic cat who hates everyone but me. And she’s going to be hungry, and alone, and think I left her.”

To her surprise, Gandalf laughed—a deep, amused, genuine laugh that echoed through the trees like warm bells.

“A cat!” he said, smiling around the stem of his pipe. “That’s what you mourn most?”

“She’s the only one I had left,” Lyra said softly.

He sobered at that, watching her through the rising smoke.

“If you were meant to come here,” he said, “then I believe things in your world will shift to meet the absence you left behind. Sometimes, when the world moves strangely, it leaves kindness in its wake.”

Lyra stared into the fire. “What if no one even notices I’m gone?”

“Then perhaps,” Gandalf said gently, “there is something here worth being found by instead.”

She didn’t reply. Her mind was full of questions, scattered thoughts that seemed to vanish as she tried to snatch them.

The fire cracked.

Gandalf looked at her with something like quiet certainty. “There is a purpose to your presence here. I do not know what it is. But I feel it in the wind. In the way the world tenses around you. There is a thread running from you that has not yet been tied.”

Gandalf took a long draw from his pipe, then exhaled a stream of smoke shaped vaguely like a ship with sails.

“You could look at it this way,” he said, his voice low and companionable. “Whatever force pulled you here didn’t mean to leave you stranded. It set you down neatly by the road, wrapped you in starlight, and placed you directly in the path of a wizard. That hardly seems accidental.”

Lyra raised an eyebrow. “So I should be… what? Grateful?”

“Not grateful,” he said. “But perhaps… curious. The world has a way of unfolding toward those who move forward with purpose. Trust your instincts. Something wants you somewhere. You just have to find where that is.”

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. So she did neither. Instead, she let herself lean back against the stone and tipped her head toward the canopy above.

“We’ll rest here tonight,” Gandalf said. “It’s a gentle place, and the night will keep to itself. At first light, we’ll head into the Shire.”

“The Shire,” she repeated, almost numbly.

He grinned. “I’m expected at a party.”

“A party,” Lyra echoed. “Of course you are.”

“It’s a very notable one,” he said with some pride. “Marigold Tunnelly Brambleburrow is celebrating her seventy-seventh birthday. There will be dancing and rhubarb pie and far more pipeweed than is entirely proper.”

“Marigold Tunnelly… Brambleburrow?” Lyra repeated, lips twitching. “That sounds like someone who bakes excellent scones and has Opinions about butter.”

“You’re not far off. She’s a good sort—stubborn, bright, fiercely kind. She married into the Brambleburrow family, and their hole is practically overflowing with cousins. She’ll be able to help you into some clothing better suited to wandering.”

Lyra glanced down at her own clothes. Her oversized sweatshirt hung oddly on her frame now, and the leggings she'd once bought to "stretch and breathe" now sagged slightly at the knees.

“It wasn’t exactly a planned wardrobe,” she muttered.

Gandalf chuckled. “No, I suppose not. You wear it like armor, though—stubborn and soft all at once.”

He tapped out his pipe, then went still.

After a moment, he turned to look at her more closely. “You never told me your name.”

Lyra blinked. “Oh.”

A strange shiver went through her. Something about the question felt too large.

But she answered.

“Lyra.”

She didn’t offer a surname. She wasn’t sure it would matter here.

Gandalf tilted his head. “Lyra,” he repeated. “A star’s name. Fitting.”

She furrowed her brow. “Why fitting?”

But he only smiled and rose to his feet, reaching into a leather satchel. “Are you hungry?”

She didn’t answer right away. Because standing, she realized something felt off—again. Her body felt smaller than it had before. Lighter. Her center of gravity had changed, and the world suddenly looked taller.

She stood.

And gasped.

“What in the hell—” she looked down at herself, eyes wide. Her legs, her hands, her entire frame—everything was shorter. She reached for her jacket and held it out—far too long in the sleeves now, her hands swallowed by fabric. She turned in a circle, almost stumbling.

“I’ve shrunk!”

Gandalf, who had produced a small pouch of dried berries and a hunk of stale bread, gave her a sympathetic look. “Yes, I rather suspected.”

She rounded on him. “You suspected? And you didn’t say anything?!”

“Well,” he said, rubbing his beard, “you had quite a lot on your mind. I thought it best not to add to the list.”

Lyra opened and closed her mouth, utterly at a loss. “How much?”

“Ten inches, give or take.”

She stared. “I was five-six. That makes me—what, four-eight now?!”

He offered her a berry.

She ignored it. “I’m tiny.”

“You’re still taller than most hobbits.”

“I wasn’t a hobbit!”

“I never said you were,” Gandalf replied mildly. “Though I had to consider the possibility. You’re not nearly hairy enough about the feet, of course—and your soles wouldn’t last a half-mile barefoot. But still.”

Lyra stared at him in horror.

“Then I wondered if you might be a dwarf,” he went on, unbothered. “You’ve the temperament for it. Sharp and spirited. But you lack the… stoutness around the middle. And there’s not even a whisper of facial hair.”

A flicker of memory cut across her mind—the rogues in the road. One of them leering, calling her a dwarven lady.

Her stomach twisted.

“No,” Gandalf finished. “You are not quite either. Nor elf, nor orc, nor man.”

He looked at her again—truly looked—his bright eyes flickering like coals.

“So what, then, I wonder… are you?”

.....

The fire had long since burned down to embers.

Gandalf snored gently from his corner of the glen, one hand still loosely curled around his staff, his hat tilted forward over his eyes. Lyra sat with her knees drawn up to her chest, cloaked in an oversized coat that didn’t belong to her and a silence that did.

She couldn’t sleep.

It wasn’t just the hardness of the ground or the unfamiliar stars—it was the hollow feeling in her chest. That sense of absence. Like a word left off the end of a sentence. Like waking up from a dream that had mattered deeply, but dissolved the moment her eyes opened.

Something was missing.

She didn’t know what.

A memory, maybe. A name. A person. No matter how hard she reached for it, her mind slid past it like oil on glass.

It was maddening.

Her chest ached, but she couldn’t say why. The pain was real—it pulsed with her heartbeat—but it had no source she could point to. Just a heaviness, like she was carrying grief she had no story for.

Whatever she had lost… she knew this much:

She had loved it.

Loved them.

She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, curling against the earth as the night wore on. Her body still felt foreign. Shorter. Lighter. Looser in the joints, as if she’d been reshaped without permission. The grass whispered against her cheeks in a voice she didn’t recognize.

She blinked up at the stars.

They were different here.

Closer. Brighter. Older.

But one of them—just one—shimmered with a cold blue clarity that stirred something deep within her. Like a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Like the very edge of a memory that refused to step forward.

For a fleeting moment, she felt less alone.

Then the wind shifted. Morning crept into the sky like a secret.

And the world moved on.

Chapter Text

By the time they reached the hill, the morning mist had burned off and the sky was a soft, forget-me-not blue. Lyra followed Gandalf along a winding garden path that wound beneath flowering trellises and between neat rows of lavender and thyme. Bees hummed lazily over the blooms. Somewhere ahead, a dog barked once, half-heartedly.

Then she saw it.

The hill wasn’t tall, but the round green door tucked into its side was unmistakable. A hobbit-hole. And not just any burrow—it was brimming with life. Children’s voices rang out from the garden beyond, and tiny feet pattered in circles around a gnarled fruit tree. A pair of toddlers chased a chicken in delighted chaos while a harried older hobbit tried, and failed, to regain control of the coop.

Lyra stepped closer just as one of the children—barefoot and berry-stained—sprinted past her, giggling wildly.

“I told you not to feed the rooster jam!” a tiny voice shouted.

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

Gandalf chuckled as he stepped up to the round door and gave it a firm knock with the butt of his staff.

“Brace yourself,” he said to Lyra with a wink. “Marigold’s hospitality comes with an occasional storm.”

The door swung open almost at once.

Marigold Brambleburrow stood framed in the doorway, cheeks pink, apron dusted with flour, a small hobbit child clinging to one knee and another peeking shyly from behind her skirts.

“Gandalf!” she exclaimed, brushing a curl from her brow. “Bless the stars, you’re early—and you’ve brought—oh, oh my—”
Her eyes landed on Lyra and went wide.

Lyra offered a small, uncertain wave. She was exhausted, covered in road dust, and still wearing clothes at least two sizes too large for her now-shrunken frame. Her boots were mismatched. Her hair had given up hours ago.

Marigold looked momentarily horrified.

“This is Lyra,” Gandalf said smoothly, placing a hand on Lyra’s back. “We crossed paths on the road. She was set upon by a few unsavory fellows. Required a bit of… redirecting.”

Marigold’s horror shifted instantly to motherly indignation. “The nerve! Bandits this close to the Shire? I ought to write a letter to the Bounders, see if they’re actually doing their jobs.”

“She’ll need a bit of rest,” Gandalf added. “And, if it’s not too much trouble, perhaps something a touch more… hobbit-sized to wear.”

Marigold clucked her tongue. “Oh, you poor dear. Yes, of course. Come in, come in. Children, move your feet before I trip over them—Milo, that includes you.”

The little ones scattered like windblown leaves, and Lyra found herself gently ushered through the round door. Gandalf ducked to follow, nearly knocking his head on the low frame.

“Mind your hat!” Marigold called over her shoulder. “And go on to the kitchen, you know the way. There’s tea and yesterday’s seedcake still on the counter—though the jam’s off limits, I mean it!”

Gandalf grunted something agreeable and shuffled off toward the back, muttering about needing a stronger doorframe.

Marigold turned back to Lyra and gave her a brisk once-over. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

“No,” Lyra said. “Just… a little rattled.”

“Well, you’re safe now. Come on then, let’s find you something that doesn’t hang like laundry on a line.”

She led Lyra down a narrow corridor that turned twice before opening into a bedroom—small, sunlit, and softly chaotic. Baskets of folded linens, half-mended socks, and a quilt in progress lay across every surface. Lyra paused in the hall for just a moment, taking it all in.

The Brambleburrow home was cozy in a way that didn’t feel staged or aesthetic—it felt earned. There was warmth in the worn wood of the floorboards, in the nicks on the doorframes, the hand-stitched curtains, the herbs hanging from the beams. It was not a grand place, nor an overly large one, but it was full of life. Everything here had a place.

And everything had clearly been loved.

It was, Lyra thought, the kind of place where nothing terrible could happen. The kind of place where grief was held at bay by the smell of bread and the scuffle of children’s feet. She swallowed hard.

Marigold muttered furiously as she dug through an overflowing basket of linens and mismatched socks. “Honestly, you’d think someone else in this house could take five minutes to help fold something once in a season. I love that girl to pieces, but if Clover leaves one more apron under the bed, I’ll stuff it with goose feathers and call it a pillow.”

She pushed aside a pair of striped trousers, two damp kerchiefs, and finally let out a triumphant “Aha!” as she plucked a neatly folded dress from the bottom of the pile.

“There you are, you stubborn thing.”

She laid it out across her arm—a soft slate-blue homespun, well-loved but clean, with careful stitches at the hem. Next came a pair of cream-colored stockings and a knitted shawl the color of clover honey.

“There now,” Marigold said, balancing everything expertly in one arm. “This should do. Come along, dear.”

Before Lyra could object, Marigold gathered up the bundle and ushered her toward the bedroom, the door swinging shut with a gentle click behind them.

Without preamble, she turned and took Lyra’s hands in hers—small, warm, and flour-dusted—and tugged her over to the vanity stool.

“Sit.”

Lyra sat. Rough, certainly, but not unkind. And oddly… comforting. She blinked hard, not from pain, but from something like gratitude that rose too quickly and without warning. She hadn’t been mothered in years. Not since long before—Well. Long before whatever it was she couldn’t remember. Marigold’s reflection appeared behind her in the mirror, her curls pinned back in a quick twist, her eyes scanning Lyra’s tangled hair with an appraising frown.

“Mercy,” she said, reaching for a comb. “This poor mop’s been through something, hasn’t it?”

“You could say that,” Lyra muttered, wincing as the first knot gave way.

“I’ve seen worse,” Marigold said cheerfully, tugging a bit more gently. “My youngest once got a whole skein of embroidery floss knotted into her curls. Took me an hour and a full cup of tea to get it loose.”

Lyra gave a weak smile.

The comb moved steadily through her hair, and for a while, neither of them spoke.

Then, as if she were simply asking about the weather, Marigold said, “So what brought you to the Shire, then? Bit of an odd time for travel, especially alone.”

Lyra stiffened.

Her gaze met her own reflection—pale, exhausted, borrowed—and panic scratched behind her ribs.

She couldn’t tell this woman the truth. Couldn’t say, I woke up here after bargaining away a piece of myself to a goddess made of sorrow. Couldn’t say, I used to be taller and I think I’ve forgotten something that once meant everything to me. Couldn’t say, I’m not supposed to be here at all. So she did what most people do when they’re cornered by kindness and terrified of the truth.

She lied.

“I was heading toward Bree,” she said, trying to sound offhand. “Thought I might have better luck finding work there, but I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.”

Marigold’s hands never faltered in their work, but Lyra saw her eyes narrow slightly in the mirror.

“I see,” she said politely.

The pause stretched just long enough for Lyra to feel the weight of it.

And then—nothing. No questions. No prying. Just a gentle tug as the last knot gave way.

*****

The dress fit better than Lyra expected, though the process of getting into it was nothing short of humbling.

She tried to take it from Marigold with a mumbled “Thank you, I can manage,” but the older hobbit was already undoing buttons and waving her toward the washbasin like a sheep that had wandered off-course.

“Nonsense,” Marigold said, flapping a hand. “You’re half-shaking and haven’t seen a hot meal in who knows how long. Arms up.”

Lyra hesitated, then obeyed—mostly because arguing felt futile. The too-large sweatshirt was peeled off with efficient ease, leaving Lyra in a mismatched undershirt and leggings that sagged at the knees. Her cheeks flushed crimson, but Marigold was entirely unfazed, moving around her with the practiced ease of a mother who’d wrangled too many squirming children to count.

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” Marigold said briskly as she worked. “My middle boy once fell into a pond in the middle of a wedding. Had to get him out of his sopping clothes right there on the lawn.”

Lyra laughed—just once, quick and involuntary.

The stockings were soft and warm, the dress comfortable despite the unfamiliar cut. The woolen shawl settled across her shoulders like a promise. When Marigold finally stepped back, hands on her hips, Lyra turned slowly toward the mirror.

And stared.

It was her. And it wasn’t.

Her face was still her own—she recognized the lines of her jaw, the familiar slope of her nose, the tired set of her mouth. Her eyes were the same shade, though they seemed larger now, rounder in the smaller frame. Her proportions hadn’t changed… just the scale. Like she had been resized to fit some storybook dimension.

It was uncanny. Unsettling. She reached up and touched her cheek, half-expecting the reflection to waver.

“I don’t—” she began, but the words caught in her throat.

Marigold said nothing. She simply moved behind her, opened a small wooden drawer in the vanity, and pulled out a brooch—a silver clasp shaped like a curled fern, delicate but sturdy. She fixed it carefully to the left side of Lyra’s shawl. Then her hand came to rest on Lyra’s arm—gentle, grounding.

“I don’t know where you’ve come from,” she said quietly. “Or what you’ve had to walk through to end up here.”

Lyra blinked hard. Her throat burned.

“But I do know,” Marigold continued, her voice as warm as the hearth, “that there’s nothing in this world quite so healing as a good cup of tea.”

She gave Lyra’s arm a squeeze, then turned briskly toward the door.

“Come now. Let’s find you something hot and strong, and maybe a second slice of seedcake if you ask nicely.”

*****

The kitchen smelled like rosemary and rising bread.

It was small, but full in the best way—lined with shelves stacked high with crockery and half-labeled jars, bundles of herbs drying over the window, and a sideboard overflowing with cloth napkins and mismatched spoons. The sunlight pooled across the stone floor in lazy swaths, catching on motes of flour still hanging in the air. Gandalf sat at the round table with one knee awkwardly propped to the side to avoid knocking it against the leg of the chair—clearly too tall for the space but entirely unbothered. His wide-brimmed hat hung on a peg by the pantry, and his gray cloak had been folded haphazardly over the back of a second chair. He was in the middle of sipping tea and watching two younger hobbits argue over whether or not honey should go in everything.

“I’m telling you, Uncle Petey used it in stew last week,” one said, slapping the table for emphasis.

“And it was disgusting,” the other replied.

“Boys,” Marigold called as she entered, shooing them out with a well-practiced sweep of her apron. “Off with you—go poke the compost heap or organize the carrot bins, I don’t care which.”

The boys grumbled but obeyed, and a moment later, it was just the three of them.

Gandalf looked up and gave Lyra an appraising nod. “Ah. Much improved. I was beginning to worry you’d be mistaken for a wandering ragpile.”

Lyra tugged at the edge of her borrowed shawl. “Thanks. I think.”

“She’ll want something hot,” Marigold said, already bustling toward the hearth. “And something sweet. Gandalf, pass me that pot, would you?”

The wizard complied, and soon enough a fresh cup of tea was pressed into Lyra’s hands. It was too hot to sip right away, but she clung to it anyway, letting the steam curl against her face. There was something disarming about it all—the cozy clutter of the kitchen, the low hum of distant conversation, the smell of spice and earth. It felt… normal. Deeply, achingly normal. And for someone who had just been bodily removed from her world, whose own reflection had become unfamiliar, that normalcy felt both like a blessing and a trap. She wasn’t sure whether to settle into it or recoil.

Gandalf, sensing something in her silence, leaned slightly across the table.

“Strange, isn’t it?” he said. “To find yourself in a place that’s too good to be true—and know it’s real anyway.”

Lyra looked up.

“Everything’s so small,” she said softly. “But it doesn’t feel less. Just… closer.”

“Well said,” Gandalf replied. “That’s the Shire for you.”

Marigold returned with a plate of dense seedcake and a pot of apple butter.

“Eat,” she said, placing the plate in front of Lyra with finality. “You’ll feel more like yourself with something in your belly.”

Lyra wasn’t sure that was possible—she didn’t quite know who “herself” was anymore—but she took the plate anyway and offered a quiet, “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Marigold said, settling into her chair with a theatrical groan. “There’s washing to be done later and I may press you into service if you linger too long.”

Gandalf laughed at that, and Lyra—somewhat to her own surprise—smiled. Just a little.

But it held.“So,” Gandalf said, setting down his teacup with a quiet clink, “where shall I make things explode this year?”

Marigold arched an eyebrow over the rim of her own cup. “If by explode you mean your usual fireworks display, we’ll want you on the north end of the meadow just past the orchards. That way the wind won’t carry sparks into the table linens again.”

Gandalf chuckled, entirely unrepentant. “That was one time.”

“One time too many,” Marigold said with a sniff. “My Aunt Tansy hasn’t worn silk since.”

“I can help, too,” Lyra offered suddenly, surprising herself with how natural the words felt. “With setup, I mean. If you need extra hands.”

Marigold’s eyes widened a little, and then softened into something pleased and utterly matter-of-fact. “Well, I can’t say no to that, can I?”

She stood with a clap of her hands. “Right then. Finish up your cake, Lyra—there’s bunting to be strung, benches to be carried, and several tables that still need polishing. If you’re truly brave, you can help Clover organize the pickle jars. They’re in a state.”

Gandalf gave Lyra a sympathetic look over the rim of his cup. “You did offer.”

Lyra grinned around a bite of seedcake. “I did.”

Outside the window, the sun was beginning its slow descent, turning the hills gold and the garden shadows long.

And for the first time since waking in this strange new world, Lyra felt like maybe—just maybe—there was space for her in it.

*****

The meadow behind the Brambleburrow home had been utterly transformed.

Lanterns hung from every tree branch, glowing gold and amber against the deepening blue of the evening sky. Long tables overflowed with pies, cheeses, breads, and no fewer than three varieties of pickle. Hobbits in every hue of waistcoat and bonnet swirled around the field in noisy delight—singing, dancing, balancing plates in one hand and mugs of frothing ale in the other.

Lyra stood at the edge of it all, eyes wide.

It was chaos—but happy chaos. Hobbits laughed so easily, their joy loud and contagious. Somewhere nearby, someone had produced a fiddle, and a reel had broken out near the main table. Several children chased a goose through the far orchard, and someone had tied ribbons to the ends of their hats. She turned in a slow circle, trying to spot Gandalf’s tall frame amid the crowd, but all she caught was the tail end of his cloak disappearing through a cluster of children near the bonfire. A moment later, a spray of golden sparks lit up the air—small, harmless fireworks that popped like dandelions and left trails of light behind them. The children shrieked in delight. Lyra smiled faintly, but it didn’t last.
She scanned the crowd for Marigold next, but the birthday hobbit was positively buried in well-wishers. Cousins clung to her skirts, old friends handed her garlands, and a flute player had perched on a stump nearby, playing a cheerful (and slightly off-key) tune in her honor. Lyra hesitated, then stepped away. She didn’t want to intrude.

She wandered past the pie table, sidestepped a very intense jam-spreading competition, and skirted a group of elderly hobbits in matching shawls loudly debating the superiority of gooseberry wine. Eventually, she found the edge of the meadow again, where the light dimmed and the music softened beneath the rise of the hill.

There was a table there—smaller than the rest, with only a few chairs, tucked under a tree that looked like it had been planted long before the Shire was mapped. A lantern hung above, swaying gently in the breeze, casting a quiet circle of gold.

And someone already sat there.

He looked to be in the prime of his years by hobbit reckoning—broad-shouldered, tidy, with dark curls that caught the lanternlight and a waistcoat of forest green embroidered subtly in gold. His features were keen and thoughtful, and though he wore a pleasant expression, his eyes were observant—too sharp for someone simply enjoying a mug of ale in peace.

He didn’t seem caught up in the revelry like the others. He watched it instead—like someone reading a familiar book for the hundredth time and still somehow wondering how the next page would turn.

He turned as she approached, polite but alert.

And Lyra, who had grown up on stories, felt something shift in her chest.

She didn’t know his name.

But she recognized him.

He looked up as she neared, his expression open but mildly curious—perhaps wondering whether she meant to join him or was simply lost in the tangle of celebration.

“Evening,” he said, offering a courteous nod. “You’re welcome to the rest of the bench, if it’s peace you’re after. Not many come to this side of the meadow once the dancing starts.”

Lyra hesitated. “Thank you,” she said quietly, and slipped onto the bench across from him.

The quiet here was a relief—only the muted echo of music and laughter drifting from the hilltop, the rustling of lanterns overhead, and the occasional pop of Gandalf’s smaller fireworks still sparkling near the orchard.

“I take it you’re not a fan of noisy parties either?” he asked after a moment.

“It’s not that,” Lyra said, clutching her cup. “I just—needed a moment.”

He smiled slightly. “Then you’ve found the right table.”

He took a sip from his mug and leaned back again in a posture of familiar comfort. It wasn’t the kind of silence that demanded filling. But Lyra’s gaze lingered too long on his face, and her expression—though she tried to hide it—was unmistakably stunned.

She’d read about him. Dozens of times. Knew the riddles in the dark, the trolls turned to stone, the dragon’s hoard, the ring—

Well, she didn’t quite know if that had happened yet. But still.

Bilbo Baggins. Real. Right in front of her.

He raised an eyebrow. “Have we met before?”

Lyra blinked. “No—no, I don’t think so.”

There was a pause.

She flushed. “I’m sorry. That was rude. It’s just—I didn’t expect to meet you.”

“Me?” he asked, perplexed.

“Yes. I mean—” she scrambled. “I didn’t expect to meet someone like you.”

He gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I assure you, I’m not so very impressive. Just a Baggins at the end of the day. We’re quite ordinary, despite what Gandalf might have told you.”

That only made her eyes widen more.

“Oh,” he said slowly, watching her expression. “You’re one of his, aren’t you?”

“I don’t—I mean—” Lyra fumbled. “Sort of?”

Bilbo looked faintly amused, though a pink tinge had crept into his cheeks. “He does like to collect unusual folk, doesn’t he? Says it’s for the good of the world, but I suspect it’s more for his own amusement.” Lyra laughed softly. She couldn’t help it.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I think I’m just a little overwhelmed.”

“Well, that’s understandable,” Bilbo said, nodding toward the glowing meadow. “There are a great many Brambleburrows, and every single one of them has an opinion about pickles or pie. It’s a wonder we’re not buried in biscuits.”

“Or jam,” Lyra added.

He chuckled. “That too.”

The silence between them turned companionable again. And for the first time since she’d stepped into this world, Lyra didn’t feel out of place. Not entirely.

He glanced at her sideways. “So… if you don’t mind my asking—how did you come to be at Marigold’s birthday party? I don’t believe I’ve seen you in Hobbiton before.”

Lyra hesitated. Another lie, or another evasion? But his gaze wasn’t prying. Just curious. Friendly. She settled for something that was true enough.

“I was passing through,” she said. “Gandalf found me on the road and brought me here. Said the party would do me good.”

Bilbo smiled faintly. “That sounds like him.”

He didn’t press further.

And for that, Lyra was quietly, deeply grateful.

Bilbo took another sip from his mug, then glanced at Lyra from over the rim. “You don’t sound like you’re from anywhere nearby.”

Lyra stiffened just slightly. “I’m not.”

“Far, then?”

“Very.”

He gave a short nod, as though that settled it.

“I’ve always wondered what lies far beyond the Shire,” he said, absently swirling the last of his drink. “It’s a strange thing—most folk here are perfectly content to let the world spin out there without ever setting a foot past Bree. But I don’t know…” He leaned forward slightly, voice quieter. “There’s a part of me that wants to see it. Just once. The mountains, the sea, old trees that remember things.”

Lyra looked at him, startled by how earnest he sounded.

“And yet,” he added with a rueful smile, “I’ve never made it past the borders. Not really. A few trips to Michel Delving, Tookland, once to Buckland. But the rest of the world? Just stories and maps.”

“But still,” she said, “you want to go.”

He met her gaze. “Yes.”

She looked down at her cup, unsure how to respond. She wanted to say, you will, but the words caught in her throat.

Instead, she asked, “Do you think stories ever prepare us for the real thing?”

Bilbo huffed a soft laugh. “I think they try.”

From across the meadow came a bright pop, followed by a chorus of delighted squeals. Bilbo turned his head toward the sound, and his expression shifted to something boyish.

“Well, there he goes.”

Gandalf stood on the north side of the field surrounded by children, crouched beside a carefully arranged display of small fireworks. A fuse sizzled, and a stream of blue light shot upward, bursting into a spiral of stars that flickered and danced like fireflies before fading to gold.

“Oh, very clever,” Bilbo murmured, clearly impressed.

More fireworks followed—playful, precise, and impossibly intricate. A goose made of smoke chased a fox that exploded into a burst of confetti. A mushroom cloud shaped like a hobbit hat twirled three times in the air before vanishing with a cheerful pop. Lyra couldn’t look away. It wasn’t just beautiful—it was unreal. But not in the dreamlike way that comforted, it reminded her of how far from her world she truly was.

She glanced sideways, watching Bilbo instead of the sky. He didn’t seem caught up in it the way she was. His face was thoughtful, almost quiet, like someone looking through a window at something they didn’t know they wanted until it was almost too late to ask for it.

She whispered, “How does he do that?”

“Gandalf?” Bilbo smirked. “I suspect he keeps secrets even from himself.”

Another firework soared into the sky, unfolding into a crown of golden leaves that tumbled softly through the dark, and Lyra found herself clutching her cup a little tighter. She didn’t know why it made her want to cry.

“Are you all right?” Bilbo asked, gently this time.

“I think so,” she said, though her voice wasn’t entirely steady. “It’s just… a lot.”

He nodded, looking back at the fireworks. “The best things usually are.”

The last spark launched high above them—a silver tree whose branches shimmered and bent with the wind, blooming against the stars. It lingered longer than the others before dissolving into a cascade of glowing petals that rained down like snow. All around them, the meadow fell into awed silence. And for the briefest moment, Lyra forgot how lost she was.

Chapter Text

The morning after the party dawned slow and warm, with golden light spilling through the round windows of Marigold’s burrow. The scent of chamomile and leftover blackberry crumble lingered in the air, carried on the faint summer breeze sneaking through the open kitchen door.

Lyra sat on the back step, her legs pulled up beneath her, nursing a second cup of tea. Her borrowed dress was a little too loose at the shoulders, and the socks had fallen in scrunched folds around her ankles—but the sun was on her face and the garden was buzzing with life. Bees floated lazily from bloom to bloom. Somewhere to her right, a pair of young hobbits bickered cheerfully over who had stolen the last strawberry tart.

She was beginning to understand what Gandalf had meant about the road leading somewhere.

And then, almost as if summoned by thought alone, the wizard appeared.

“Ah,” he said, stepping lightly around a laundry line. “I had a suspicion I’d find you hiding near a kettle.”

Lyra gave a tired smile. “I didn’t realize I was so predictable.”

“Not predictable,” Gandalf said, settling beside her on the grass. “Just sensible. You’ve had quite a beginning, child. It’s no small thing, crossing into another world.”

She let that sink in. “It still feels… impossible. Unreal.”

He studied her with that keen, unreadable expression. “And yet, here you are. Realer than most, I’d say.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while, the garden stretching out before them like something out of a painting. At last, Gandalf said, “You needn’t decide all at once. About who you are. Where you’ll go. But I think you’ll find answers come more easily when you stop running from the question.”

Lyra looked down at her hands. “It’s not the questions that scare me. It’s the answers I can’t take back.”

He reached out and patted her arm gently. “Then perhaps begin with the simple ones. Where do you feel most at ease? What brings you peace?”

She nodded slowly. “I’ll try.”

*****

Later that afternoon, Lyra found herself in the kitchen with Marigold, who was battling the aftermath of a truly heroic party. Dishes were stacked high in every corner. Crumbs littered the floor. A pie tin had mysteriously vanished.

“You don’t have to help,” Marigold said, though she didn’t pause in her scrubbing.

“I want to,” Lyra replied, rolling up her sleeves.

Marigold handed her a towel with a grateful sigh. “Bless you. My Clover vanished the moment she saw a tea towel.”

As they cleaned, Lyra found herself asking small questions—about the Shire, about Marigold’s family, about the customs of birthdays and second breakfasts and elevenses. In turn, Marigold asked about Lyra’s homeland.

Lyra had learned quickly to hedge. “It’s far,” she said, drying a plate. “Different. A bit colder.”

“Well, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like,” Marigold said, nudging her with a hip. “We’ve made room for stranger folk than you- heavens knows Gandalf seems to be the collector of strange things.”

Lyra smiled—though it faltered a little as that now-familiar pang returned. Not a memory, not quite. Just the shape of something missing.

That evening, as the sun dipped low, she wandered the path that ran alongside the hedge at the edge of the village. The sky was painted in streaks of lavender and rose, and moths had begun to flutter among the firefly-lit fields.

She came upon Bilbo Baggins seated on a bench beneath a flowering tree, a pipe in one hand and a book open in his lap.

He looked up at her with a small, welcoming smile. “Evening.”

“Evening,” Lyra echoed, unsure whether to approach.

He gestured to the bench beside him. “I don’t bite, you know.”

She laughed, and took the seat. “I’m sorry again. For last night. I didn’t mean to be odd.”

“You weren't odd,” Bilbo said, though a faint flush rose to his cheeks. “Just… a touch enthusiastic.”

“I’m not usually like that,” she said. “It’s just—” She hesitated. “You’re Bilbo.”

His brow furrowed. “You say that as though I’ve done something of note.”

“You… look like the kind of hobbit who is renowned,” she murmured, then winced. “Sorry. That probably sounds even weirder.”

He chuckled softly. “Well, you’ve ruined the surprise now. Whatever grand destiny I was meant for, I suppose I’ll meet it with a little less mystery.”

They sat in quiet again, and the comfort of it surprised her. Bilbo was younger than she’d imagined—more boyish in the curve of his cheeks, more restless in his gaze. But there was a spark of cleverness in his expression. A kindness not dulled by age or regret.

“You know,” he said after a while, “I think you might be the strangest person I’ve ever met.”

Lyra groaned. “You really don’t have to say that.”

“It’s a compliment,” he said, grinning. “Strange is interesting. The Shire could use a bit more strange.”

She looked sideways at him. “I could probably supply that.”

“I look forward to it.”

Lyra stood at the edge of the garden behind the Brambleburrow home, still wrapped in the borrowed shawl, watching the mist roll low over the hills like seafoam.

It had been a week.

Seven days since she’d woken in the glen. Seven days of being called “dear” and handed hot drinks. Seven days of pretending she wasn’t waiting to wake up again.

But she hadn’t.

The Shire was still here. Real. Tangible. Gentle, and maddeningly constant.

She’d meant to leave—really, she had. Gandalf had offered to bring her to Bree or beyond, but something about Marigold’s kitchen, about the tiny bed by the window, about the way the garden buzzed with bees and the smell of blackberry jam, had made it easy to say “just one more day.”

And then another.

And another.

She wasn't ready to face the rest of this world yet. But the Shire... the Shire made no demands.

*****

Bilbo started visiting the Brambleburrow hole two days after the party. He claimed it was only to return the borrowed book Gandalf had forgotten. Then again to share a pot of particularly good honeycomb. Then to discuss fireworks logistics for next year.

By the third visit, Marigold gave him a key to the back gate and a dishrag to dry the mugs after tea.

He and Lyra fell into an easy rhythm, though neither could have explained exactly how it began.

They didn’t talk about magic. Or the world beyond.

Instead, they shelled peas together on warm afternoons. They exchanged riddles in the shade of the plum tree. They read aloud from old books by lamplight while the house bustled with distant laughter and clattering pots.

Lyra found herself laughing more. Sleeping better. Eating too much seedcake.

Sometimes, late at night, she still felt the ache—the hole left by something she could not name. But it was softer now, dulled by the warmth of second breakfasts and Bilbo’s dry wit and the way Marigold huffed every time one of them tracked mud into her clean kitchen.

She wasn’t healed. Not by a long stretch.

But she wasn’t unraveling anymore.

*****

One morning, Gandalf announced he was leaving.

He said it casually, over tea, as if it were a given. “Time to be off,” he said, dusting crumbs from his robe. “There’s a bit of unrest in the south, and I promised to look in on a particularly forgetful owl near Bree.”

Marigold handed him a satchel stuffed with biscuits and muttered, “You’d best not bring back anything breathing.”

“I make no promises,” he said cheerfully.

When he turned to Lyra, his expression softened. “You’ll stay?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “For now.”

“That’s enough.” He smiled and touched her shoulder. “You’re where you need to be.”

Then he vanished over the hill, cloak snapping in the wind like a flag.

*****

The days rolled on.

The leaves began to turn.

Marigold began hinting that if Lyra insisted on staying, she might as well start learning to knead bread properly.

Bilbo took to showing up with ink-stained fingers and poems he claimed weren’t worth reading aloud, though he always did anyway.

And Lyra, for all her strangeness, began to belong.

She still didn’t know why she was here.

But for the first time in what felt like a very long while, she was no longer in a hurry to leave.

Chapter Text

A year settled into the Shire like flour into a well—slowly at first, then all at once, until the dough of days held together without thought. Lyra had learned the rhythms. Market on Highday, laundry strung like bunting between apple trees, seedcake for good news and seedcake for bad, because there was never not a reason to slice another piece. Children came and went through Marigold’s round blue door like breezes, leaving scuffed boots and wildflowers and half-finished stories behind them. Lyra learned the art of catching stories mid-air and folding them safely into the quiet of evening. She had a place now for her shawl on the peg by the pantry, and her fern-shaped brooch—Marigold’s gift—caught the morning light just so.

When she needed to feel useful, she went to Master Alder Burrows, the hedge-healer of Bywater. Alder was a willow-boned hobbit with hair the color of oat straw and hands stained green year-round. He kept a tidy kitchen garden and an untidy workbench, and he spoke to plants as if they were neighbors who had popped by for tea. Under his eye, Lyra learned to call things by their Shire names: comfrey for knitbone, yarrow for staunchblood, plantain leaf for bites and stings, willow-bark tea for aching heads, marigold petals steeped in honey for wounds that wanted coaxing more than scolding. She learned to splint a wrist with hazel twigs and a torn linen strip, to thread a needle neat through skin and pride both, and to lay a cool hand where fear had risen hotter than any fever.

“You’ve nimble fingers,” Alder would say, passing her a jar to label. “And a soft voice. Half of mending is in the voice.”

Lyra believed him. She wasn’t a fighter. She knew that now as plainly as she knew the turn of the path from Brambleburrow to the mill. Middle-earth held perils she could name too easily on lonely nights, but when she tried to imagine a blade in her hand, her stomach went cold. This—herbs, hot water, clean bandage, a steadied breath—this she could give. When darkness came, she would be ready with light of a different kind.

Sometimes she saw shadows in the way the clouds massed over distant hills. Sometimes she woke with her heart pounding, sure something vast was drawing nearer by inches.

On those mornings she went out early, picked thyme and rosemary until the steadiness returned, then filled Marigold’s kettle and set the kitchen to rights before the little ones tumbled in.

There were always dishes. Marigold swore crockery multiplied in the night.

“Mind that bowl,” she would call, elbow-deep in suds. “It chips if you look at it crooked. And for mercy’s sake, you two—shoes on the mat, not under the table! Lyra, dear, pass me that towel. No, the other one—the towel, not my Clover’s apron.”

Lyra passed things without being asked by the second week of autumn. By winter she had learned which drawer hid the cinnamon and which boy would admit to spilling it. In spring she could lift a sleeping toddler off the hearth rug with one arm and stir porridge with the other. There were days her back ached and nights she fell asleep before the last story ended, a warm weight tucked against her side and a smear of jam on her sleeve. She did not mind.

And then there was Bilbo.

Their friendship had grown like ivy over a garden wall—quietly, persistently, twining into everything else until one could not imagine the bricks without the green. He was “Mr. Baggins” to most, “Bilbo” to a few, and to Lyra he became the companion whose silences felt like blankets rather than closed doors. On clear nights they carried their tea to the bench near the hedge and watched the stars arrange themselves. Bilbo pointed out the constellations as hobbits named them—The Ladle, The Farthing Pins, The Scythe—while

Lyra traced shapes she half-remembered from a sky not quite the same.

“Do you ever feel,” she asked once, “that the stars are… watching back?”

“All the time,” he said, almost cheerfully. “I try to drink my tea like a respectable hobbit so they won’t judge me.”

He brought her books to read—lore and poetry and travelogues that traveled farther than their authors ever had. She brought him herbs and excuses to walk the long way home. In winter they argued—gently—over whether second breakfast should include mushrooms and bacon on ordinary days or only on feast days. In spring they experimented with lemon in tea and decided together that it was either genius or heresy depending on the hour. Once, when the wind was up and the lamps burned low, he said, very seriously, “I think there’s a piece of the world that’s been saving me a seat. I don’t know where. I don’t know when.”

“Seats don’t run out,” she said, equally serious. “Not for the ones they’re meant for.”

He looked relieved at that, and she didn’t examine too closely why she felt relieved, too.

He also confessed—more than once and in varying shades of embarrassment—that he was, in his own words, “a dreadful coward.”

“I like maps,” he said, “and tidy endings. The thought of trolls and goblins turns my stomach. Adventure sounds very well in a song; in real life, it seems damp and full of blisters. I should like to see the mountains, Lyra, but I shall be wretched the whole way there and back again.”

Lyra considered him over the rim of her cup. “Then perhaps,” she said, “someday the mountains can come looking for you.”

“That’s worse,” he said faintly, and she laughed until the steam from her tea blurred the stars.

Days stacked themselves into a year. Lyra’s dress hems bore the faint green of herb rooms and the flour-dust of six dozen loaves. Her hands knew the measure of a fever without needing the kettle’s hiss. The Brambleburrow door kept opening; she kept answering; it kept feeling right.

Sometimes, in the late blue of evening, she would pause with a dishcloth in her hand and listen to the house: the clink and hum and thrum of it, the place alive as a heartbeat.

A longing would touch her—brief as a moth’s wing—and pass. Whatever she had loved and lost in another life, the shape of the loving remained, and it had found places to fit again.

When word drifted in with the traders from Michel Delving—rumors of stirrings far away, of strangers on the Great East Road, of talk in Bree that had the Prancing Pony pouring cider a little heavier—Lyra set another jar of marigold in the window to steep and asked Alder for more willow-bark. She was not a warrior. But if the world tilted, she would be something steady to lean against.

Bilbo and Lyra sat amid tidy stacks of books and the remains of seedcake, cups cooling in their hands, fresh from an argument that had circled the same hill three times and declared itself satisfied.

“It was genius,” Bilbo said, for the fourth and final time, tapping the spine of the slim poetry book.

“It was arrogant,” Lyra replied, for the fifth and truly final time. “And at least a third of those metaphors could be composted.”

“We must agree to disagree,” he conceded, trying not to look wounded.

“We must,” she agreed, trying not to look triumphant.

They smirked into their tea, truce declared.

Silence settled—a comfortable one—punctuated only by the tick of the clock and the tiny sigh the house made when the evening breeze found the right crack.

Bilbo set his cup down. “If we are putting all our honest opinions on the table,” he began, carefully casual, “I should like to submit one more.”

Lyra arched a brow. “Oh dear.”

“I’ve noticed,” he said, eyes studiously on his saucer, “that several pairs of eyes in Hobbiton have been straying your way of late.”

Lyra blinked. Then laughed. “Have they.”

“They have,” he said primly. “At the market. At the mill. At the party last week—Twice. Possibly thrice.”

“Bilbo.”

“What? I’m merely an observer of social currents.”

“You’re a gossip,” she said fondly.

“A conscientious one,” he countered. “And as such, I feel obliged to inquire: is there anyone you… fancy?”

Lyra snorted. “As flattered as I am—not even a little.”

He looked genuinely perplexed. “Not even a little little?”  

“Not interested,” she said, softer now. “Truly.”  

He leaned back, considering her. “You might try branching out. Your only friends cannot be me, Marigold, and her brood of—what was it you called them?” 

“Screaming cicadas,” Lyra said promptly, and they both smiled.

“Those,” Bilbo said, pointing. “You need variety. A walking club. A reading circle. A—”

“Bilbo,” she laughed, “you’re just not used to the chaos. It grows on you after a while.” 

“Does it,” he said dubiously.

“It does.” She wrapped both hands around her cup, gaze drifting to the round window and the darkening sky beyond. “And… the noise helps.”

“How so?” 

“It’s loud enough that I can’t hear my head as much,” she said, almost to the window. “Home. The not-knowing. How I’ll most likely never go back.” She shrugged, small and a little crooked. “The clatter keeps it from echoing.” 

She didn’t look at him when she said it.

Lyra rose, smoothing her shawl. “I should get back. Marigold will have my hide if I’m late for washing-up.”

Bilbo stood as well, fussing with the tidy stack of books as if they might complain about being left alone. “At least let me walk you to the lane,” he said. “I can fight off any evil bugs that accost you.”

She laughed. “Heroic, truly. But my lantern should do the trick just fine.”

“Very well,” he sighed, performing injury. “If you are determined to face the hordes alone, I shall stand here and… make tea about it.”

“At least two cups,” she said, lifting the brass-lidded lantern from the peg. The flame bloomed; warm light pooled across the green threshold.

They paused at the round door. For a heartbeat the night felt like a held breath—Bag End glowing behind them, the path curving away beneath hedgerow shadow and star-silver.

“Good night, Bilbo.” 

“Good night, Lyra. Mind the… ah… larger evil bugs.” 

“I’ll sing at them,” she promised, and his smile followed her into the dusk.

*****

The lane down from Bag End knew her steps now. Gravel yielded with a soft crunch; hedges breathed with crickets and the small, busy secrets of night. Far off, a window-candle guttered low; nearer, a cat flowed like smoke across the path and vanished beneath a gate.

Lyra lifted the lantern and let its circle of light travel ahead. She thought of how far she had come—measured not in miles but in mornings and mugs, in children’s laughter and quiet chores, in the way the Shire had settled around her like a quilt. A year ago she had woken in a glen with her own name feeling too large in her mouth. Now there was a peg for her shawl and a place at Marigold’s table where hands reached for bread without asking if she meant to stay.

And ahead—

Ahead she knew the road that would knock upon that green door. She knew it in chapter and verse: trolls among the pines, cold fires in a cave under the mountain, a riddle whispered to something with moon-round eyes, spiders and dark trees, a dragon asleep on gold, a sky over stone gone black with wings, a battle where banners would fall.

She had loved these stories once with the fierce, private love of a reader who underlines every margin. Now they were not stories. They were the future, and the future had a face—many faces—she could not bear to see broken.

Bilbo’s gentleness made it worse. The thought of those hard miles beneath his soft, stubborn feet twisted something in her. And beyond him, farther east, names that would matter more than breath: Thorin. Fíli. Kíli. A fate that would break his heart.

Not telling him gnawed at her. But telling him would be worse.

She had asked, once—days after the Brambleburrow party—when Gandalf was shouldering his satchel at the gate, rain in the air and crumbs in his beard.

“I wasn’t just a reader,” she had said, voice low so only the wizard would hear. “I was obsessed. I know the turns of this road. Not by sight—by story. It feels like I’m carrying someone else’s tomorrow in my pocket.”

Gandalf had stilled. He looked at her then not as a curiosity but as a tinderbox.

“Keep that pocket buttoned,” he said, unusually grave. “The lore you bear is not quaint here; it is contraband. There are eyes in this world that would do anything to drag that light into their hands—tear it out of you and twist it to their work. Speak of what you know only if your silence would let the shadow lengthen. Otherwise—lock it behind your teeth, and let your kindness do the talking.”

“And if I say the wrong thing?”

“Then you will say another,” he’d answered, a flicker of old twinkle returning. “Words are arrows and seeds both. Be careful where you loose them. Be careful where you plant.”

Now, lantern in hand, Lyra held that warning close. She would not be the wind that bent a road the wrong way. She would be steadiness where she could. Tea where she could. Healing where she could. And when eastward songs began, she would go—because that was why she had been brought, and because love, even without a name, had always made her brave.

The lane opened to Marigold’s garden. The burrow’s round windows glowed butter-warm; someone inside laughed—the bright, trilling sort that meant a card game had gone magnificently sideways. The sound filled the hollow places in her chest like steam fills a kettle.

Lyra paused at the gate and looked back once more toward Bag End, a small green door against the night.

“Hold fast,” she whispered to the dark, to the stars, to the pages she had once turned. “Seats don’t run out. Not for the ones they’re meant for.”

She lifted the latch—only to see Clover sitting on the front bench, her long red hair catching the lantern light. Her face was blotchy, her eyes swollen, and the sound of a sniffle broke the soft night air.

“Clover?” Lyra hurried forward. “What’s happened?” 

The girl swiped at her eyes with the heel of her hand but the tears came faster. “It’s—” She hiccupped. “It’s Percival.”

Lyra crouched in front of her. “And what about Percival?”

Clover’s voice wavered with wounded pride. “I saw him at the market today… with Poppy.” She spat the name as if it tasted sour. “Poppy, Lyra. My former best friend.”

Ah. Matters of the heart. Lyra’s chest softened with both sympathy and the faintest flicker of amusement. She took the girl’s hands, squeezing them before pulling her into a tight embrace. Clover collapsed into it, shoulders shaking.

“Mmm,” Lyra murmured against her hair, “matters of the heart are always tricky. But if that persimmon fellow couldn’t see how beautiful and kind you are, then he is very much undeserving of your attentions.” 

Clover made a muffled sound that was somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “Persimmon?”

“That’s his new name now,” Lyra said firmly.

They stayed like that for a moment, the hum of the summer night around them, until Clover’s tears finally slowed. She kept leaning into Lyra’s arms as they gazed out over the sleeping lights of Hobbiton. Lyra rubbed her arm gently.

“Come on,” she said at last. “I’ve a mind to sneak you an extra slice of cheese bread.” 

Clover sniffed, looking up. “But—”

“As long as you swear not to tell your mother,” Lyra interrupted with a mock sternness. “If Marigold finds out, she’ll have my ear.”

The ghost of a smile curved Clover’s mouth. “I swear.”

Chuckling together, they rose from the bench and slipped inside, the door closing on the night behind them.

Chapter Text

The night was deep and quiet when the knock came.

It wasn’t the polite tap of a neighbor, nor the firm thud of a tradesman come too early. This was a frantic hammering, rattling Marigold’s door on its hinges.

Lyra startled awake to Marigold’s voice at her bedside.

“Up, child, up! Mr. Baggins will cave my door in if you don’t see to him.”

Blinking herself into the world, Lyra stumbled out of bed, tugged her shawl around her shoulders, and hurried to the front of the burrow.

Outside, in the lantern glow, Bilbo stood wild-eyed and rumpled, his curls disheveled, waistcoat half-buttoned as if he’d dressed in a hurry.

“Bilbo?” Lyra pushed the door open, worried he’d hurt himself. “What’s happened?”

He looked at her with the expression of a man who’d stumbled into a tavern brawl and been tossed about. “Dwarves, Lyra. Hoards of them. My pantry’s been ransacked, my good plates are all in use, and they’re singing.”

She blinked. “... Singing?”

“Yes! Loudly! And in harmony!” His voice pitched higher with each word. “Gandalf’s there too, of course—looking as smug as ever. And now they’re going on about some..quest.”

“A quest,” Lyra repeated.

“A quest!” Bilbo flung his hands up, exasperated. “To march halfway across the world chasing dragons and glory and gold. And Gandalf—Gandalf, mind you—thinks I’m the one for it. Me! Bilbo Baggins, who has never so much as camped in the garden without complaint.”

He paused, then gave her a look—half gossip, half plea.

“Can you believe it?” he demanded. “Gandalf wanting me in this madness? What do you make of it, Lyra?”

Lyra stood in the doorway, the cool night brushing past her ankles, her lantern swaying in her hand. Bilbo looked utterly undone, his curls springing every which way like they had tried to flee the situation before he could.

Her heart twisted. She knew this night. She had read this night a hundred times. The beginning of it all: the song, the map, the contract on the mantel. She knew what lay beyond this door and this night—trolls, goblins, riddles, gold, a dragon, and a battle that would tear lives apart.

“Lyra?” Bilbo pressed, his voice half-desperate, half-indignant. “Am I mad for thinking Gandalf’s lost his wits? Or am I the only sensible creature left in Hobbiton?”

Lyra forced herself to breathe slowly. The truth pressed hot against her teeth—Go, Bilbo. Say yes. This is the road that makes you who you are. Without it, the world breaks worse than you can imagine.

But Gandalf’s warning echoed just as sharply: Keep that pocket buttoned. Speak of what you know only if silence would let the shadow lengthen.

So she smiled faintly, folding her arms against the chill. “Well… it does sound mad.”

“Exactly!” Bilbo threw his hands up. “Madness, the lot of them. Dwarves in my parlor!”

“And yet,” Lyra added carefully, “it does sound rather exciting.”

He froze, blinking at her.

“Exciting?”

“Mm.” She tilted her head, feigning thoughtfulness while her pulse thudded. “Chaotic, certainly. Ridiculous, yes. But dull? No. Not by a long stretch.”

Bilbo’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, like she’d pulled the rug out from under his indignation.

“I…” He faltered. “I don’t want chaos. I’m a respectable hobbit. Respectable hobbits don’t run about with dwarves chasing dragons.”

Lyra’s smile softened, though she hid the ache beneath it. “Maybe not. But you once told me you thought there was a seat in the world waiting for you. That you weren’t sure where, or when. Perhaps… this is it, Bilbo. Perhaps the mountains have finally come knocking at your door.”

His face flickered, torn between horror and intrigue.

“The mountains,” he repeated faintly.

She shrugged, stepping back toward the warm light of Marigold’s burrow. “Well. Whatever you decide, Bilbo Baggins—I’m certain you’ll have a story to tell. And you’re rather good at telling stories.”

She left him there, spluttering, the lantern glow catching his astonished expression before the night folded him back into shadow.

Lyra shut the door behind her and leaned against it, breath coming quicker than she liked. The lantern flame wavered in her hand.

It was beginning.

The night she had dreaded and longed for in equal measure. The night the story shifted from page to path, from ink to flesh. She knew every beat of it: the song that would stir the fire in Thorin’s chest, the contract scrawled across Bilbo’s table, the journey that would carry them east and end in blood. She knew the weight of what had been written—and the temptation to tear the page free.

What could she do? What should she do?

If she stayed silent, the world marched on to its terrible and triumphant end. If she spoke—if she changed a line—she risked unraveling everything. She took a few trembling steps back towards her room. Her chest ached with it, panic sharp and sour.

Then the knock came again. Harder. Louder. Urgent enough that the crockery in Marigold’s cupboards rattled.

Marigold’s door creaked open, her nightcap crooked and her expression thunderous. She gestured furiously at the door. “If Mr. Baggins wakes the littles, there will be no sweets for a year for him, mark my words!”

Lyra startled, shoved her shawl tighter around herself, and hurried back down the hall. She wrenched the door open—half-exasperated, half-dreading— to find Bilbo still stood pale and wild-eyed on the stoop.

Before she could speak, his hand shot out, gripping her arm with surprising strength.

“You must come back with me,” he hissed. His eyes darted, unfocused, like a rabbit surrounded by hounds. “I cannot think straight with all the noise, Lyra, I cannot—I need—”

He swallowed hard. “I need you. I trust your opinion.”

She barely had time to gasp before he tugged, pulling her out into the chill night air.

“Bilbo—wait, I’m not even—” She glanced down at her thin nightdress, shawl barely clutched around her shoulders.

But he wasn’t listening. Already he was half-dragging, half-leading her up the lane toward Bag End, his grip unyielding, his words tumbling out in hurried bursts. And Lyra, heart racing, lantern swinging wildly, was pulled along—toward the green door.

The door flew open with a shove from Bilbo’s trembling hand, and the sound that spilled out nearly knocked Lyra back a step.

Voices. Dozens of them. Deep and booming, sharp and gruff, carrying laughter and the clang of mugs against wood. The smell of roasted meat and spilled ale mixed with pipe smoke, herbs, and something distinctly metallic—like the forge-fire of a mountain.

Lyra blinked hard, clutching her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

The hallway was crowded with boots—sturdy, worn, caked with the dust of long miles. Cloaks draped over pegs and chairs, dripping from the rain. And beyond, spilling through Bilbo’s sitting room, was the Company of Thorin Oakenshield.

Some sat on stools too small for them, others lounged by the hearth or leaned across the table, still tearing into what had once been Bilbo’s carefully stocked pantry. Their voices overlapped, arguing in Khuzdul and Common alike, singing snatches of song even as they passed plates and pitchers.

At the far end of the table sat a figure she could not name aloud—yet there was little doubt in her heart who he must be. Thorin Oakenshield.
Silent, unmoving, he seemed carved of the very stone the dwarves so loved. The chaos of the Company swirled around him—laughter, clattering mugs, snatches of song—but none of it touched him. He sat apart, and by that apartness he ruled.

His dark hair spilled heavy past his shoulders, catching the firelight in glints of bronze and coal. A few loose strands brushed against the stark line of his cheek, shadowing eyes that burned with a depth she hadn’t expected—storm-grey, yes, but bright, piercing, alive. A short yet full beard accentuated his strong jaw and mouth- set in a grim line. His bearing was all stern command, broad shoulders drawn back, chin lifted, every inch of him carrying the weight of something vast and unyielding.

And yet… he was beautiful. Not in the gentle way of fair faces, but in something older, harsher. His beauty was tragic—the kind forged in battle, lined with loss, tempered by exile. She had imagined a proud king in words, but not this: a man whose silence alone could silence a room.

Her breath caught, unsteady, as his gaze lifted. Just once—only once—his eyes found hers in the doorway. And in that single glance, she felt the world still.

Then the noise faltered.

Conversations broke mid-word. Tankards stilled in mid-air. The Company stared at Bilbo Baggins, returning not only late into the night—but with a woman beside him, wrapped in nothing but her shawl and nightdress.

The silence stretched, awkward and curious, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire.

Then, from the corner, Gandalf exhaled a long puff of smoke, his eyes glinting with amusement.

“Ah,” he said, as though this had been entirely expected. “There you are. I was beginning to wonder when you would arrive.” He tipped his head toward the laden table. “You are awfully late, my dear—we’ve already had dinner.”

The Company’s eyes shifted to her again, some suspicious, some amused, all expectant.

Lyra’s heart thudded hard in her chest.

Gandalf ushered them all toward the sitting room, his staff tapping against the beams as though the house might expand to fit his will. It did not. Bag End groaned beneath the press of bodies: twelve dwarves in various states of mud and mail, a wizard, a hobbit flushed with panic, and Lyra—who still hardly knew what she was anymore.

The space was thick with pipe smoke and the heat of too many shoulders crammed too close. Platters and mugs were stacked at every elbow. Boots clattered on Bilbo’s rugs; cloaks trailed along his neat little shelves. Lyra found herself pressed close to Bilbo on the small sofa, so close she could feel the tremor in his hands as he fussed with the edge of a blanket.

He glanced at her then, and his expression crumpled in sudden guilt. “Mercy, Lyra—you’re still in your smallclothes. Forgive me, I dragged you out without a thought—here—”

He fussed the blanket around her shoulders, tugging it close until she was bundled in his earnest apology.

Despite herself, Lyra smiled faintly. “Thank you, Bilbo.”

The dwarves were not what she had expected. The books had given her words—sturdy, grim, proud—but the men before her were more than that. Their presence was solid and comforting, like hearthstone walls. Even wary as they were of her intrusion, their gazes softened when they realized she was a woman alone and underdressed. Some shifted aside to give her space; others looked away politely as she settled. Not a one jostled her. The respect was unspoken but present, and it steadied her heart.

Once everyone had squeezed themselves into some semblance of order, the silence pressed close.

Thorin Oakenshield rose from his place at the far end of the table, his presence like the snap of a drawn bowstring. He was every bit the king she had pictured in her readings, though more arresting than words had ever allowed.

He fixed Gandalf with a stare that could have split mountains.

“What is this?” Thorin’s voice cut low and even, a blade’s edge of impatience. He gestured toward Lyra without breaking that gaze. “Who is she? And why was her presence expected by you, yet not told to me?”

A murmur rippled through the Company.

Bilbo bristled beside her, tugging the blanket tighter around Lyra as though to shield her from Thorin’s tone. “I don’t know why Gandalf was expecting her! It was a rash decision on my part to run and fetch her. I hardly think—”

“Peace, Master Baggins,” Gandalf interrupted, lifting a hand. His eyes twinkled with infuriating calm. “It is rare to find you these days without Miss Lyra at your side. I merely assumed she would already be here to join you.”

He puffed his pipe as if the matter were settled, indulgence in every line of his face.

Lyra’s heart hammered. She could feel Thorin’s gaze shift toward her again—not harsh, not kind, but appraising, heavy with the gravity of someone accustomed to command.

She had read him a thousand times, pictured him a hundred different ways, but none of that prepared her for the truth of him. The room seemed smaller for his presence. She forced herself not to look away.

The others, though—they blurred. She could not put names to their faces, not with any certainty. They looked both familiar and utterly strange, and she realized with a jolt that the stories had never been enough to capture the fullness of them. They were not words now; they were flesh and breath, heavy boots and strong hands, pipe smoke curling around their beards.

Thorin’s gaze shifted to Gandalf, his patience worn thin. “A word,” he said, his voice low and commanding. He didn’t wait for agreement, only strode toward the hallway.

Gandalf rose with a sigh, pipe still in hand, and followed. The door to Bilbo’s study shut firmly behind them.

The Company was left in sudden, awkward silence.

It was a stout, white bearded dwarf who moved first. The white of his beard caught the lamplight as he stepped forward, bowing with grave courtesy. “Forgive us, lass. In all the commotion, we’ve failed to give proper introductions. I am Balin son of Fundin. Advisor to our cantankerous leader.”

That seemed to break whatever spell held the others still.

One by one, the dwarves lurched into motion, stumbling over each other to make amends.

“I’m Fíli—”

“—and Kíli, his brother,” the younger one interrupted with a grin, elbowing his kin.

“Bofur, at your service,” said another, doffing his ridiculous hat with a flourish.

“Bombur,” rumbled a voice from near the table, where the largest dwarf lifted a hand in greeting, crumbs still clinging to his beard.

“Dwalin,” said a bald, tattooed figure, his voice gruff, nodding once in her direction.

The rest followed in a jumble of names and bows—Ori, Dori, Nori, Óin, Glóin—until Lyra was quite overwhelmed by the flurry of courtesy. For all their rough appearance, their manners with her were careful, almost protective.

Lyra found herself smiling despite her nerves. Whatever else they were, these were not the dwarves of her imagination only. They were real—and, for all their wariness, they had a hearty and welcoming air.

Names still hummed in her ears when Kíli, the younger of the fair-haired brothers, leaned forward on his stool with a roguish grin. “Well, Master Baggins,” he said, voice loud enough for the whole room to hear, “you’ve chosen a fine woman for your life partner.”

The silence that followed was so complete that even the fire seemed to pause.

Lyra blinked. Bilbo blinked. Then their eyes met—and both burst into helpless laughter.

“Oh, no, no,” Lyra gasped, clutching the blanket around her shoulders. “Bilbo is closer to a brother. Or perhaps a pet cat—always underfoot, always fussy—than a husband.”

Bilbo spluttered. “A cat?” He pressed a hand to his chest with mock offense, though the corners of his mouth betrayed his amusement. “If anything, I am far more dignified than a cat.” He turned to Kíli with a wicked glint. “And besides, I could never hope to keep the attention of one so studious and beautiful as Lyra.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the room, and one of the older dwarves—Glóin, perhaps—nodded approvingly. “Aye, there’s truth in that. A fair lass indeed.”

Heat rushed into Lyra’s cheeks, and she ducked her head, overwhelmed by so many eyes fixed upon her at once. She had not expected courtesy from these rough-hewn figures, let alone such open admiration.

Hoping to turn the attention elsewhere, she cleared her throat and glanced across the crowded room. “Perhaps you might tell me more about yourselves—and what brings such a company of dwarves to the Shire? Bilbo was in rather a rush when he pulled me into all this, and I’ve not had a chance to catch up.”

Ori, the youngest-looking of the lot, perked up immediately, eyes bright behind his fringe. “It’s a grand quest, you see, to reclaim Erebor—our home under the Mountain! Thorin Oakenshield, our king-in-exile, has called us together to—” He yelped as a sharp elbow caught him in the ribs.

Dwalin loomed beside him, arms crossed, his tattoos stark in the firelight. “Enough, lad. Our business is not for outside ears.”

The warmth in the room dimmed a shade. Lyra’s smile faltered, and she sat back against the sofa. From the set of Dwalin’s jaw and the weight of his stare, it was clear: he either didn’t like her, didn’t trust her, or both.

The blanket felt heavier across her shoulders.

The silence that followed Dwalin’s rebuke lingered, heavy as iron. Lyra lowered her gaze, tracing the weave of the blanket, wishing she could vanish into the sofa cushions.

Then a warm, calloused hand patted her shoulder.

“Don’t mind him,” Bofur said cheerfully, his wide-brimmed hat tipping rakishly as he leaned closer. “Our Dwalin’s a fine warrior, but he’s got all the softness of a stone wall. Not much good for gentle company.”

Lyra glanced up, startled into a small laugh. Bofur winked, his grin easy and disarming.

“We’re only on a quest to reclaim a bit of lost dwarven history,” he continued, lowering his voice as if it were some great secret. “Nothing to worry about. And should he consent, we’d like to employ Master Baggins here as our—” he tapped his chin thoughtfully, “—our lightfooted retriever.”

Lyra tilted her head, eyes glinting. “A burglar, you mean.”

The room stirred with amusement. Bofur threw back his head and laughed heartily. “Quick as a whip, this one! You’ll need to keep her about, Bilbo, if only for the wit.”

Bilbo groaned into his hands, muttering something about terrible misunderstandings, but Lyra only smiled, warmth creeping past her earlier unease.

The moment broke, however, when the study door swung open.

Thorin returned, Gandalf at his side. The chatter dwindled at once, the Company straightening as though summoned by some unspoken command. Thorin crossed the room in silence and lowered himself into the only empty chair.

It was not magic—at least not the kind Gandalf dealt in—but the shift was palpable all the same. The air itself seemed to bend toward him.

Thorin leaned forward in his chair, every inch the king even in exile. His voice was low, heavy with command. “Well, Master Baggins? Are you to sign the contract—or have we wasted our time here?”

The room stilled. All eyes shifted toward the mantel, where a tightly rolled parchment rested against the wood.

Bilbo hesitated, then rose, shuffling forward with a frown etched deep into his brow. He plucked the scroll from its resting place and carried it back to the sofa, dropping onto the cushion beside Lyra with a sigh.

He unrolled it with trembling fingers, eyes darting over the cramped script before lifting to glance around the room. At last, his gaze settled on Thorin.

“I… wonder,” Bilbo said carefully, “if I might have Lyra look over it with me.”

A stir rippled through the dwarves. Dwalin, standing stiff near the hearth, bristled. “This is dwarf business, not—”

Thorin raised a single hand. The silence that followed was sharp as steel. His eyes did not leave Bilbo’s face. After a long moment, he gave the smallest of nods. Then his attention shifted to Lyra, his gaze landing on her like a hammer striking stone.

Lyra froze beneath it, her heart catching. His eyes—vivid, startlingly blue in the firelight—held hers with unnerving intensity. She forgot to breathe until Bilbo cleared his throat and laid the parchment across her lap.

“Do be quick about it,” he muttered.

Startled back into motion, Lyra bent her head to the contract. The script was precise, the clauses exhaustive.

“The undersigned shall be responsible for the recovery of goods, treasure, and valuables, to be shared in equal fourteenth parts…”

“…Compensation shall not be paid in the event of death, dismemberment, or incineration by dragon…”

“…Travel expenses, including food and lodging, to be covered at the discretion of the Company…”

“…In the event of theft, imprisonment, or grievous bodily harm, no liability shall be placed upon the Company or its heirs…”

Her eyes skimmed line after line, impressed despite herself. It was far more specific and thorough than she’d expected. When at last she rolled the parchment back up, she handed it to Bilbo with steady hands.

“Well,” she said softly, “the quest is perilous, yes. But the contract itself is very fair.”

Bilbo stared at her, aghast. “Fair? Lyra, did you read the same part I did about being killed by a dragon? Does that not frighten you?”

Her throat tightened. She couldn’t tell him the truth—that she already knew the shape of his story. That she knew fear would not stop it, nor could it.

Her eyes caught Gandalf’s across the room. The wizard sat in his corner, pipe smoke curling lazily, his expression maddeningly serene. He knew. Of course he knew. And his small, sage smile was no help at all.

Lyra took a deep breath, turning back to Bilbo. She offered him the faintest smile. “At least you would have a death worthy of legend. And to be one of the few hobbits to see more of the world—that would truly be an honor.”

Bilbo gaped at her, scandalized. “An honor? Lyra, are you mad?” He stood, shaking his head furiously. “No, no, Gandalf, you’ve chosen the wrong hobbit. I’m sorry, but you have. You’ll get no burglar here!” And before anyone could stop him, he shoved the contract back onto the mantel and marched toward the hall.

“Bilbo—wait!” Lyra reached for his arm, but he shook her off, muttering, “I’ll not be swept up in this nonsense.”

The door to his bedroom slammed shut.

Lyra turned, finding herself alone on the sofa, still wrapped in the blanket, with twelve dwarves and a wizard staring at her as though they weren’t quite sure what to do with her now.

Gandalf stood, stretching his long frame until his head nearly brushed the beams. With deliberate calm, he walked to the window, pipe smoke curling around him in lazy spirals. “Perhaps it is best,” he said, “that we take the night here. In the morning, with clear heads and hearts, matters may look quite different.”

The dwarves murmured in agreement, already shuffling to claim corners and cushions.

Lyra rose awkwardly, clutching Bilbo’s blanket close, intent on slipping out the door before the weight of so many eyes could pin her again. She was nearly at the threshold when a low rumble stopped her in her tracks.

“Mistress Hobbit.”

She froze. Thorin’s voice was like stone grinding against stone—measured, resonant, leaving no room for doubt.

“Keep this meeting to yourself,” he said. His gaze lingered on her, sharp and unyielding. “For the safety of the Company. And your own.”

Her throat tightened. She did not dare meet his eyes. With a small nod, she slipped from the room. The hallway was dim, the firelight from the sitting room fading quickly into shadow. As she passed, a sound halted her steps: a muffled sob, quiet but unmistakable.

Bilbo’s door was ajar. Lyra hesitated only a moment before knocking softly and stepping inside. He sat at his desk, head buried in his hands, shoulders shaking. At her entrance he jerked upright, wiping at his face in embarrassment. “Oh—Lyra. I’m sorry. I— I’ll see you to the door.”

“Bilbo,” she said gently. Crossing the room, she caught his hand before he could rise. She tugged him toward the bed, guiding him down beside her. “Don’t.”

For a heartbeat, he resisted. Then he collapsed into her arms, his breath hitching as he buried his face against her shoulder. His small hands clutched at her tightly, and she held him close, stroking his back with quiet steadiness.

“I hate myself,” he whispered hoarsely. “For being a coward. For turning away. It’s a noble thing, this quest, but I’m too frightened. Too small.”

Her heart twisted. She pressed her cheek against his curls. “It’s all right to be afraid. Sometimes it’s even wise. You don’t have to be anything but who you are, Bilbo. If happiness lies here, in the quiet ways of the Shire, then let it be so.”

His breath shuddered against her shoulder. At last, he pulled back, weary and hollow-eyed.

“Rest,” she urged softly, brushing his sleeve. “The morning dew brings clarity. You’ll see more clearly then.”

He glanced toward the door, where the sound of dwarves shifting and muttering drifted faintly into the room. His face crumpled with hesitation.

Noticing, Lyra gave a small smile. “I’ll stay. You’ve an extra bedroll, haven’t you?”

They argued briefly—Bilbo insisting she take the bed, Lyra insisting otherwise—but his exhaustion quickly won out. Within minutes he was settled beneath his quilt, his face still damp from tears, while Lyra spread the bedroll across the floor and lay down with her shawl for cover.

The house quieted.

Then it came—a voice, low and resonant, rising like distant thunder. Thorin sang from the sitting room, the words in Khuzdul, but the meaning plain: mountains, gold, memory, loss. One by one, the other dwarves joined in, their voices weaving together in mournful harmony.

Far over the Misty Mountains cold…

The sound filled every corner of Bag End, deep as stone, heavy as longing. Thorin’s voice led them, steady and sorrowful, like waves breaking against the shore of a dark sea.

Lyra closed her eyes. The ache of it pressed into her bones, yet its cadence rocked her gently, like a lullaby written for a world she had never known.

And before the song had ended, she drifted into a deep, dreamless slumber.

Chapter Text

“Lyra—Lyra, wake up!” She stirred at the insistent shaking of her shoulder. Blinking against the pale morning light, she found Bilbo hovering above her bedroll, curls tousled, eyes wide with relief.

“They’re gone,” he whispered, half-breathless.

Lyra sat bolt upright, her blanket tumbling to the floor. “Gone?”

He nodded, almost giddy. “Slipped away before dawn. Every last one of them. Not a bootstep, not a creak of the floorboards.”

Lyra scrambled to her feet, pushing past him into the hall. The sitting room was empty, the platters and mugs cleared away as though the feast of the night before had been nothing but a dream. Cloaks and boots, voices and smoke—gone. The only sign they had ever been there was the faint lingering scent of pipeweed and fire. She stared, stunned.

“I didn’t hear a thing.”

“Neither did I,” Bilbo admitted, pride mingling with disbelief. “And I swear I can hear a worm crawling under the cabbages when I’m in my garden. They must’ve left hours ago—or with such quietness that even owls would envy it.”

Lyra shook her head, impressed despite the gnawing ache in her chest. The Company was already a day ahead of the tale she knew, and Bilbo—dear, stubborn Bilbo—had let them go without him. They wandered into the kitchen together, where Bilbo set the kettle on to boil. The silence between them was contemplative, heavy with what had not been said. Lyra sat at the table, her hands folded, staring at the wood grain as though it might yield an answer. She had failed. Failed to convince him, failed to set the wheel turning. Bilbo dropped into the chair opposite her, equally pensive.

For a long moment, neither spoke. Then, at the exact same breath, both began— “I’ve been thinking—” “There’s something I ought to say—” They stopped, exchanged startled looks, and Bilbo, flustered, gestured for her to continue.

But Lyra shook her head. “No, you first.” He hesitated, the color draining from his face until he looked almost grey. For a moment she thought he might swallow his words altogether.

Then, with a rush, he blurted them out: “I’m going to catch up with them.” Lyra blinked, her heart leaping. Relief and joy crashed over her like sunlight through stormclouds.

“You’re—oh, Bilbo, you’re really—” But then the rest of his words struck her.

“And I want you to come with me.” Her breath caught.

“What?”

Bilbo leaned forward, hands clasped on the table as if to anchor himself. “You’ve only stayed in the Shire because it’s comfortable. I know it, Lyra. You’ve never told me much about your home, but I can tell you miss it. You’re meant for something more than washing Marigold’s dishes and chasing her cicadas about. This—this quest—it could be a chance. A chance for you to see the world. Maybe even find your way back to where you came from. And at least you’d be safe enough, in the company of thirteen dwarves and Gandalf.”

Lyra sat frozen, torn between the thrill of his declaration and the sting of his insight. She had longed for him to take the first step toward his story—she had not expected him to drag her into it. Lyra’s thoughts tumbled in every direction at once.Should she tell him? Should she lay bare the truth—that there was no road home for her? That she came from another world entirely, one he could not even imagine? Her throat clenched at the thought. How would she even begin? And what would he do with such a confession? Think her mad? Pity her? Across the table, Bilbo’s expression softened as though mistaking her silence for sorrow.

Slowly, he reached across the wood and covered her hand with his own. “There’s still a seat at the table for you,” he said gently. “A place in the world, Lyra. Maybe… maybe this is it. And—” he hesitated, his voice dropping to almost a whisper, “—selfishly, I don’t want to go alone.” His fingers squeezed hers, small and warm and trembling. His honesty left her unmoored. He was afraid. So very afraid. And she—who had read these stories in the safety of another life—was here now, sitting across from him, the only one who could give him comfort.

“And who knows?” Bilbo added, searching her face. “Your healing skills might even come in handy along the way.”

Lyra let out a scoff, weak but genuine. “My healing skills? Bilbo, I know the names of a few plants and how to bandage a scraped knee or pull a stubborn splinter. That hardly makes me a healer.” But the look on his face silenced her. It wasn’t her skill he was clinging to—it was her presence. The plea in his words sank into her bones, deep as a heartbeat. And with it came a voice, nameless and faceless, curling through her mind like smoke from a long-forgotten fire: I need you… The same tone. The same ache. She was powerless to resist.

Drawing a steady breath, she straightened and gave his hand a squeeze in return. “All right, then,” she said, mustering every scrap of courage she could. “But if we’re going, Bilbo, we’re going to stop at Marigold’s first. I need some real clothes before I go running off to face dragons in my nightdress.” For the first time since last night, Bilbo managed a shaky smile.

*****

They ran. Hobbiton blurred behind them—the round doors, the curling smoke, the neat rows of gardens—and Lyra’s mind still spun with the whirlwind of leaving. The mad scramble at Marigold’s burrow had been chaos. Bilbo, darting from room to room, had packed as though chased by wolves, shoving books, quills, and handkerchiefs into his bag while Marigold wrung her hands and tried to make sense of it. Lyra had been little better, stammering out half-answers to a torrent of questions. “Yes, there’s a journey—no, not a holiday—yes, with Gandalf—no, I don’t know when we’ll be back—”

But Marigold had caught her just as she reached the door. The older hobbit pulled Lyra into a fierce embrace, holding her as though she could anchor her in place by strength of will alone. Then she pressed a loaf of seedcake into Lyra’s hands, followed by something heavier—a dagger, plain but sharp, the hilt worn smooth with age. “I hope you’ll never need it,” Marigold said, her voice thick with feeling, “but you’ll have it, all the same.”

Lyra hugged her back tightly, words caught in her throat. “Thank you. For everything.” And then there had been no more time for farewells.

Now, the sun was just lifting above the hills, gold spilling across the countryside as they pelted along the road. Lyra’s lungs burned, her shawl flapping wildly at her shoulders, Bilbo puffing determinedly at her side. At last he staggered to a halt, bracing his hands against his knees, chest heaving.

“This—” he wheezed, “—is starting out very poorly indeed, if my lack of breath is any indication. I am not built for running!” Lyra slowed, doubling over with laughter that startled even herself. Genuine, full laughter, bubbling up past the ache in her chest.

She clapped him on the back with a grin. “Well, at least you’ll be fit by the time we reach them.” Bilbo gave her a withering look, though his lips twitched as if he wanted to smile. Then, faint but unmistakable, the sound of whickering carried on the wind—the whinny of horses. Both of them froze, glancing toward the rolling hills ahead.

“They can’t be far,” Bilbo said breathlessly, excitement lighting his eyes. Lyra straightened, patting his shoulder once more.

“Then let’s not waste it.” And together they set off running again, chasing the sound of hooves and the road that would carry them far beyond the borders of the Shire.

*****

“Wait! Wait for us!” Bilbo’s voice cracked through the crisp morning air as he waved an arm wildly, his curls bouncing with every stride. Lyra hurried beside him, her pack heavy on her back, the sound of hooves already slowing ahead. The Company reined in as one, ponies circling back until the two hobbits were surrounded by a ring of sturdy figures on horseback. Dust kicked up, the clink of tack and the snort of ponies filling the air. Bilbo, panting and red-faced, fumbled with his pack until at last he pulled free a familiar roll of parchment. He thrust it toward Balin, who looked down at him with wide eyes.

“I signed it!” Bilbo wheezed, waving the contract as proof. Balin dismounted with surprising grace for his years and unrolled the scroll. His eyes crinkled with amusement as they scanned to the bottom, where Bilbo’s neat hand had been added. But beneath his name was another line, clearly appended after the fact: Participation contingent upon bringing the healer, Lyra, with him. Balin’s beard twitched.

With a low chuckle, he passed the contract wordlessly to Thorin. Thorin read. His jaw tightened. His eyes lifted, steely and unrelenting, to glare first at Bilbo, then at Lyra.

“This is no quest for a maiden,” he said at last, voice carrying like a strike of thunder. “It is impossible for us to travel with a woman.” Heat flared in Lyra’s chest.

She straightened in the saddle of her indignation, her voice sharp as frost. “There is no need for extra concern on my part, Master Oakenshield. I am merely traveling along until we reach my hometown.”

His eyes narrowed. “And where is that?” Her heart lurched. She hadn’t thought that far. Thinking fast, she lifted her chin.

“A small village near the Misty Mountains.” Thorin’s silence spoke volumes. His stare was long and skeptical, the weight of it like stone.

The Company shifted uneasily, mutters rising until Gandalf’s voice cut cleanly through them all. “An additional healer may serve us well,” he said, pipe smoke curling from his lips. He gestured lightly toward Óin, who was squinting with his ear trumpet raised, trying to follow the din of voices. “Would you not agree, Óin?”

Óin grunted, still cupping his ear. “Eh? What’s that?”

Gandalf’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “Precisely.” A ripple of laughter broke out among a few of the younger dwarves, though Thorin remained unmoved.

With a sound that was half growl, half sigh, he turned his pony sharply. “Get them ponies,” he ordered, already riding forward.

Balin gave Lyra a small, apologetic shrug as two dwarves fetched the spares. Within moments she and Bilbo found themselves bundled into saddles, their packs strapped behind them, the Company already setting off again at a brisk pace. Lyra held the reins with stiff fingers, her heart pounding in her chest. She had expected this moment for so long—joining the Company, stepping onto the road east—but the heat of Thorin’s glare still burned in her mind. They were in. But at what cost?

*****

Hours passed. The sun arced slowly overhead, its warmth broken only by the sway of pony-back and the steady rhythm of hooves on the dirt road. The Company stopped once for a hasty lunch—bread, cheese, and whatever dried meat could be passed down the line—before Thorin pressed them onward again. By mid-afternoon, Lyra had already discovered the unique torture of riding a pony for hours on end. Her legs ached, her back twinged, and her hands were sore from clenching the reins too tightly. Bilbo didn’t fare much better; his sighs and groans were frequent enough to draw chuckles from some of the younger dwarves. Still, the Company had begun to sort itself into two distinct camps where she and Bilbo were concerned.

On one side were the warm-hearted few who had already begun to fold them into the group. Kíli in particular seemed delighted to tease Bilbo about his “delicate hobbit constitution,” and even nudged Lyra now and again to ask how she intended to keep the “old fellow” alive on the road. Fíli joined in with a grin, often ribbing his brother just as hard. Bofur rode nearby, tossing easy jokes over his shoulder and humming snatches of song to lighten the mood. Ori, for all his quietness, asked shy questions about the Shire and even scribbled Lyra’s answers down in his little book.

The other side, however, was less welcoming. Dwalin kept his distance, casting the occasional sharp glance back at them as though expecting the hobbits to fall from their ponies at any moment. Glóin muttered to Óin in low tones, clearly skeptical, and even Dori—polite though he was—seemed to hold his tongue more tightly when they rode too near. These dwarves did not jeer or insult, but their silence was weighted, their caution plain. Lyra felt the division like a seam running straight through the Company, and though no one said it aloud, she knew what it meant: to half of them, she and Bilbo were burdens. To the other half, they were curiosities—amusing, perhaps even endearing, but still unproven. The miles wore on, the Company strung out in a loose line along the road.

Lyra let her pony—whom she had dubbed Thistle for its stubborn tendency to nibble every wayside plant—amble near the rear. Bilbo rode a few paces off, looking weary but oddly content, his curls whipped about by the breeze. It was then that she noticed it: the subtle pass of coin bags, from calloused dwarf hands into Gandalf’s palm. No words spoken, only a few raised brows, the faintest twitch of amusement beneath beards. Curious, Lyra urged Thistle forward until she rode near the wizard’s tall figure.

“What was the bet?” she asked under her breath. Gandalf glanced sidelong at her, smoke curling from his pipe.

His eyes twinkled. “Why, whether or not Master Baggins would follow, of course.”

Lyra smothered a laugh, shaking her head. “That’s highly unethical. Betting when you’ve got inside knowledge.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean,” Gandalf replied smoothly. He winked, took a long draw on his pipe, and let the smoke drift lazily skyward. Lyra bit back a smile, though her nerves still thrummed like plucked strings. If Gandalf thought her presence warranted a gamble, what did that say about the road ahead? Her gaze drifted forward, where Balin rode a little ahead of the group. His white beard caught the sun, his back straight though his years showed in the careful way he handled the reins. She couldn’t quite read him. He had watched her and Bilbo since the morning—neither warm nor dismissive, simply… weighing. A counselor once to kings, a mind seasoned in politics and judgment—what verdict had he already formed about two untested outsiders on a quest that was not theirs? Lyra’s stomach knotted. She thought of edging Thistle forward, of catching Balin’s ear and trying to prove herself in some small way. But what could she say that would not sound desperate? Or worse—mad? Better not.

With a quiet tug on the reins, she fell back instead, letting Bilbo’s pony draw even with hers. Ori trotted nearby, scribbling in his ever-present book, his youthful eagerness a small comfort in the midst of so much tension. Still, unease gnawed at her. Every step of the ponies felt like it pulled her farther from any path she understood. She worried—fiercely, silently—that her presence here could shift the balance, tilting the story she knew into some new shape she could neither predict nor control. Would things unfold as they were meant to? Or had she already changed them simply by stepping into the road? She couldn’t bring herself to regret joining—not with Bilbo at her side, not with the thrill of the open world unfurling before them—but doubt clung like a shadow. She had no way of knowing where this would lead, or what her part in it might cost.

*****

By nightfall, the Company made camp in a sheltered hollow beside the road, where the grass grew thick and a little stream wound its way through the stones. The air was clear, the stars just beginning to show, and though Lyra’s muscles ached from a day of pony-back, the promise of firelight and rest eased some of the tightness in her chest. Dwarves moved with practiced efficiency: packs were tossed down, firewood gathered, kindling sparked to life beneath Óin’s careful eye. Within minutes, flames crackled and cast a warm glow across weathered faces and gleaming eyes. The smell of roasting meat soon filled the air, mingling with pipe smoke and the sharper tang of ale from a skin that seemed to pass around without end. Thorin sat slightly apart, as was his habit, yet close enough that the firelight caught on the braids in his dark hair and the silver threads at his temples. His hands, twined around his sword that rested on his lap, shone with rings. Balin had taken a seat beside him, speaking low and steady. Dwalin crouched nearby, leaning on his great axe, his eyes sharp and watchful as he listened. Glóin joined them, muttering now and then about supplies and coin, his voice gruff. The four of them together radiated a sense of command, the core of the Company’s strength.

Nearer the fire, however, the mood was lighter. Fíli and Kíli had already set upon each other in a wrestling match, laughing uproariously as Bofur shouted encouragement and Ori nearly dropped his book trying to stay out of the way. Nori made a show of sneaking an extra portion of food until Dori cuffed him on the ear with a scolding remark. Even Bombur, huffing as he turned the spit, cracked a smile at the antics. Bilbo and Lyra sat close to one another, the warmth of the fire soaking into their tired bones. The hobbit looked both exhilarated and overwhelmed, his curls still mussed from the day’s ride. It wasn’t long before the questions began.

“So then,” Bofur said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “what’s it like, growing up hobbits?”

Bilbo blinked. “Well—peaceful, mostly. Good food, good gardens, not much in the way of adventures.”

“Aye, sounds dull as stone,” Kíli teased, earning a round of laughter. “What about you, lass?” His bright eyes turned to Lyra. “Much the same?”

Lyra stiffened slightly, shifting under their attention. “Not exactly.” She hesitated, then added carefully, “I’m not really a hobbit. At least… not fully. I may be descended from them, but I don’t have all the traits. My feet aren’t nearly hardy enough, and—” she managed a weak smile, “—I’m too tall by half.” A ripple of surprise ran through the group, but it softened quickly into curiosity.

“So what are you, then?” Ori piped up, pen already poised over his little book. Lyra’s throat tightened. She glanced down at her hands, fumbling for words.

“It’s complicated. My home… it’s far, and I’ve never quite fit there either.” That seemed to satisfy no one and yet drew no further challenge. She could feel the weight of their curiosity pressing in, but she kept her answers vague, careful. The more questions came—what her village was like, what her family did, what foods they grew—she offered only half-answers, fragments that gave shape without substance. She could not risk more. Bilbo jumped in now and then, filling silences with tales of Hobbiton: gardens and markets, festivals and songs. The dwarves chuckled at his fussing, ribbed him about his small stature, and yet there was warmth in their laughter. Lyra, for her part, stayed quieter, watching the flicker of firelight on the faces around her. She still wasn’t sure where she belonged in this Company—if her presence was a mistake that might undo everything she knew was meant to come. Yet in the crackle of the flames, in the sound of laughter rising and falling, she couldn’t quite bring herself to regret being here.

When the fire burned low, the warmth of the Company settled into a comfortable hum. Most of the dwarves had shifted into smaller groups: Fíli and Kíli still teasing Ori, Bofur puffing on his pipe with a merry tune on his lips, Bombur dozing with his chin tucked to his chest. Thorin remained where he had been since they made camp—beside Balin and Dwalin, his posture straight, his expression carved in stone. He had spoken little, only now and then answering Glóin’s gruff observations about supplies. The firelight played over the stern planes of his face, catching in the braids of his hair, in the glint of his rings. Lyra found herself glancing at him more than she intended. He hadn’t once directed a word her way. His silence was not disdainful—at least not openly—but it was deliberate. As though by ignoring her, he could erase the fact that she and Bilbo were here at all. It was a heavy thing, that silence. Not cruel, but dismissive. And it stung all the more for how little he seemed to struggle with it.

“Thorin,” Gandalf said suddenly, his tone mild but carrying, “you might ease their nerves with a word or two. New travelers fare better when they know where they stand.” Thorin’s gaze shifted, just briefly, to where Lyra and Bilbo sat on the far side of the fire. For a heartbeat she thought he might speak.

Instead he returned his attention to the flames, his voice low but clear. “They know where they stand. They stand with us, for now. That is enough.” Balin’s brow furrowed slightly, though he said nothing. Dwalin grunted, as if the matter was settled. Lyra lowered her eyes to her hands, twisting her fingers together in her lap. It wasn’t anger that rose in her chest but something colder, sharper. Resentment, perhaps, that she was here and yet invisible. She couldn’t expect warmth, not yet, but being treated like a shadow was its own kind of cruelty. Gandalf exhaled a long stream of smoke, his eyes gleaming beneath the brim of his hat.

“You’ll find,” he murmured, “that ignoring things does not make them vanish. Nor people, for that matter.” Thorin did not answer. But in the silence that followed, Lyra thought—just thought—that his eyes flicked toward her once more, unreadable as the deep places of the earth.

Chapter Text

Lyra woke stiff, her back aching from the hard ground, her head foggy with half-remembered dreams. Around her the camp was already alive. The crackle of fire, the metallic scrape of pans, the deep hum of dwarven voices—all blended into a strange music that was wholly unlike the Shire. Bombur crouched at the fire, scowling at a pan of sizzling fatback. Bofur leaned dangerously close, sniffing with exaggerated delight.

“Back off,” Bombur snapped, batting him away with a spoon. “You’ll eat before you’ve earned it.”

“Earned it?” Bofur scoffed. “I’ve been chopping wood since dawn!”

“You split two logs, and one of them was crooked.” Their quarrel drew a ripple of laughter from Fíli, who was sparring noisily with his brother nearby. Kíli lunged forward, missed, and landed flat on his back.

“That’s three to me!” Fíli crowed, offering a hand to pull him up.

“You’re counting it wrong,” Kíli muttered, brushing grass off his tunic.

Ori sat off to one side, bent over his little book. Every now and then his pencil paused, and his eyes flicked toward Lyra, quick and shy before darting back to the page. Bilbo was awake too, fussing over his folded blanket with painstaking precision. He glanced up as Lyra sat, giving her a sheepish look as though to say, what have we gotten ourselves into? Dwalin passed by, his heavy boots thudding on the earth. He gave her a brief glance, grunted, and moved on. She couldn’t tell if the grunt meant disapproval, acknowledgment, or both.

And then there was Thorin.

He stood at the edge of camp, cloak stirring in the breeze, his arms folded. He spoke only when Balin approached with quiet words or when Dwalin muttered about their march. His eyes scanned the horizon as though the day might already betray them. Not once did he look at her.

“Up you get, lass,” Bofur called cheerfully as he passed her bedroll with another armful of wood. “Best not let Thorin catch you sitting about. He’ll have us marching ‘til sundown without a bite.”

“Thorin will have us marching ‘til sundown regardless,” Balin said dryly, settling beside the fire.

At that, Bombur banged down the spoon and called, “Breakfast!”

The Company surged as one, pressing toward the food with bowls and hands outstretched. Bombur growled like a cornered bear but doled out portions anyway, muttering curses at Fíli and Kíli when they tried to snatch theirs first.

Someone thrust a smaller plate into Lyra’s hands—she thought it might’ve been Ori, though he ducked back too quickly for her to thank him. She murmured her gratitude anyway and sat near Bilbo, nibbling carefully at the greasy fare.

“You’ll get used to it,” Bofur said with a grin, dropping cross-legged onto the grass nearby. “Tastes better after a few weeks. Or maybe your standards just drop. Hard to tell.” That drew laughter from the others, even a twitch of Bilbo’s lips, though he looked far too nervous to truly laugh.

Lyra tried to smile too, but her eyes drifted back toward Thorin. He hadn’t moved. He stood apart from the rest, arms folded, gaze fixed on the distance. His silence was heavier than any words. Gandalf puffed his pipe from a stone just beyond the fire, his eyes glinting under his brows as he watched Thorin—amused, as if he alone knew the jest in the young king’s silence.

Lyra hugged her shawl closer. This was her first morning on the road, and she already felt the weight of being a piece on someone else’s board, moved without her say. By midmorning, the camp was broken, the fire smothered, and the Company moving in a long, uneven line across the rolling hills. The earth smelled rich with dew and wildflowers, the sky pale and cloud-streaked. It should have been peaceful — almost beautiful — but the rhythm of their march left Lyra’s legs aching within the hour.

Dwarves, it turned out, were relentless travelers. Their strides were shorter than Men’s but steady, unyielding, and they seemed made of stone and willpower both. They spoke little as they walked, saving their breath, though now and then a snatch of song rose among them — deep and rough, in a language Lyra couldn’t understand but felt in her bones.

Bilbo struggled more than she did, his pony weaving uncertainly from the path, nose down in every tuft of grass.

“Keep your heels steady,” Fíli called back with a grin. “He’ll walk straighter if you show him who’s master!”

“I’d rather not be anyone’s master,” Bilbo puffed. “I’d settle for staying in the saddle.”

Kíli laughed, trotting up alongside. “You’ll manage, Master Baggins. After a few days, you’ll ride like a Dúnadan!”

“That seems wildly optimistic,” Bilbo muttered, clutching the reins tighter as his pony veered again.

Lyra, riding just behind, bit back a smile. She was no horsewoman herself, but Thistle seemed patient enough to forgive her inexperience. The pony plodded faithfully along the path, flicking its ears back at her soft apologies whenever she tugged the reins too hard.

A short way ahead, Ori sidled closer on his own mount, the stub of his pencil tucked behind one ear. “Miss Lyra,” he began shyly, “if you don’t mind me asking… have you ever seen the Lonely Mountain? Or any mountain?”

Lyra shook her head. “Not like the ones you’re headed for.”

Ori’s eyes widened. “Then you’re in for a sight! Balin says Erebor’s halls were the fairest ever built. Jewels in the walls, golden forges —”

“Empty for now,” Dwalin’s voice cut in, grim and flat. He strode beside them, his heavy boots thudding against the dirt. “We’ll not speak of its glory until it’s ours again.”

Ori flushed, mumbling an apology.

Lyra lowered her gaze. Even the mention of Erebor sent a shadow across the group — not anger, but longing. The air itself seemed to tighten, every dwarf walking a little taller, their eyes turned eastward.

They pressed on. Birds trilled in the trees, and the breeze carried the scent of pine and damp earth. Yet beneath it all was the low hum of armor and the occasional clink of metal, a reminder that this was no simple journey.

Near noon they stopped for a brief rest. Bombur unpacked hard bread and dried fruit, and the younger dwarves sprawled on the grass, arguing over whose turn it was to fetch water.

“Not mine,” Nori declared, stretching lazily. “Did it yesterday.”

“You did not,” Dori snapped. “I did. You vanished the moment the buckets came out.”

“Coincidence.”

“Convenience,” Dori muttered darkly.

Fíli grinned at Lyra and Bilbo from where he sat polishing a dagger. “Best learn quick, the art of vanishing when chores are called.”

“Too late,” Bilbo sighed, gnawing on a piece of bread that looked more like stone.

“Give it time,” Bofur said, tossing him an apple from his pack. “You’ll learn our ways soon enough.”

Lyra accepted her own share with quiet gratitude, though she noticed how deftly Bombur kept the portions fair, his big hands moving with surprising gentleness as he distributed food.

When they set out again, Lyra found herself drifting toward the rear beside Gandalf, who rode in contemplative silence, his staff balanced across his knees. Smoke curled from his pipe, wreathing him in a haze of sweet scent.

Ahead, the dwarves’ voices rose again — a deep, rhythmic chant that spoke of stone halls and hidden fires. Lyra didn’t know the words, but the sound stirred something in her chest: a mingling of hope and sorrow.

“This is their heart,” Gandalf said softly, not looking at her. “Song. Memory. They carry their home with them in it.” Lyra nodded, the ache in her own heart answering his. She had no songs from her world that would belong here.

As the afternoon waned, the land grew wilder. The road narrowed through scrub and bramble, and the laughter faded into wary quiet. Thorin rode near the front, his shoulders rigid, scanning the horizon. Every so often he spoke low to Balin or Dwalin, the words lost to distance.

Lyra watched him, struck again by the sheer weight he carried — not just the packs or the sword at his hip, but something heavier, older. Duty. Loss. It clung to him like shadow.

The day had stretched long and restless by the time Thorin suddenly raised a hand.

“Hold,” he commanded.

The line of dwarves slowed at once, hooves grinding to a halt in the dirt. Even the ponies shifted uneasily, ears twitching. Lyra’s breath caught, heart thudding as silence rippled through the Company like a drawn blade.

Thorin’s head was tilted slightly, gaze fixed on the tree line to their right. The forest pressed close there—dark pines crowding the road, their shadows long and shifting.

“You hear it?” he murmured.

Dwalin stepped up beside him at once, hand falling to the haft of his axe. “Aye. Movement.”

Glóin was already unstrapping his weapon, eyes narrowed. Fíli and Kíli exchanged a glance, the younger drawing his bow. The air grew tight, every sound sharpened—the rustle of leaves, the creak of leather, the soft snort of a pony. Lyra’s fingers clenched on Thistle’s reins, her pulse hammering. She scanned the trees but saw nothing. The shadows seemed to shift, trick of light or something more, she couldn’t tell.

“What is it?” Bilbo whispered, eyes wide.

“Quiet,” Thorin hissed. He took a step forward, his sword half-drawn, eyes raking the darkness. “Dwalin, with me. Glóin, to the flank.”

The three dwarves moved with grim precision, weapons ready, scanning the treeline. The rest of the Company clustered close around the ponies, murmurs hushed. Lyra held her breath, every muscle coiled. She could feel the tension radiating from Thorin—alert, commanding, as though the forest itself had turned hostile.

Then, from behind them, came Gandalf’s calm voice.

“Peace, Thorin Oakenshield. Whatever stirs yonder has no thought for us.”

Thorin stiffened but didn’t lower his sword at once.

“You’re certain?” Dwalin growled, eyes still on the trees.

“I am,” Gandalf said, tapping his staff lightly on the ground. “Had it meant harm, you’d not have heard it coming.” A beat passed, heavy with the weight of their unease. Slowly, Thorin sheathed his blade, though his gaze lingered on the shadows.

Bilbo let out a shaky breath and attempted a joke, his voice high with nervousness. “I daresay the lot of you are jumpier than a young hobbit caught in the farmer’s garden.” Several dwarves chuckled under their breath—but Thorin turned sharply, his expression hard as stone.

“You would do well not to jest about dangers you do not understand,” he said, voice low and edged. “You’d not know the difference between a rabbit and a warg until one was upon you.” The humor drained from the group. Bilbo’s face flushed crimson, his mouth opening and closing uselessly.

“That’s uncalled for,” Lyra snapped before she could stop herself. “He was only trying to lighten the mood.”

Thorin’s gaze swung to her, cold and unyielding. “Protecting the lives of this group is no laughing matter. You chose to walk with us and you will follow my orders if you wish to stay alive, the same as the rest of them.”

Lyra’s spine stiffened. “I don’t need orders to know when someone’s being unfair. A simple joke is no reason to bite his head off.” A low murmur rippled through the Company—some uneasy, some impressed. Dwalin shot her a look that was half-warning, half-curious.

Thorin took a step closer, not looming, but his presence enough to make her breath hitch. “This is not the Shire,” he said quietly. “Out here, laughter won’t guard you from claws or teeth. Discipline will. Obedience will. If you cannot learn that, you’ll not last long.”

Lyra’s cheeks burned, part fury, part shame. But she met his gaze squarely, refusing to look away.

Gandalf cleared his throat sharply. “That’s enough.” The wizard’s voice cut through the tension like a bell. All eyes turned to him.

He tapped his staff against the ground once. “Whatever passed in those woods has passed us by. We gain nothing by arguing with shadows. Come—the light wanes, and we’d best find a proper place to rest before nightfall.” For a moment longer, Thorin held Lyra’s gaze. Then he turned away without another word, striding back to the head of the line.

The Company began moving again, subdued. Bilbo fell into step beside Lyra, glancing at her uncertainly. She forced a small, reassuring smile for his sake, though her chest still ached from the sting of Thorin’s words. She told herself it didn’t matter—that she’d expected no kindness from him. But as the road stretched on and his silhouette led them through the fading light, she couldn’t quite ignore the hollow twist in her heart.

*****

The forest was still beneath a watchful moon, silver light spilling through the trees like mist. The Company sat close to the fire, the flickering flames casting shifting gold across their faces. Beyond the glow, the dark stretched endless and silent — save for the occasional rustle in the underbrush.

A sharp cry rang out from somewhere in the woods.

Bilbo froze mid-sip, eyes wide. “What—what was that?”

Kíli looked up from where he lounged near the fire, his grin sly. “Orcs,” he said darkly.

“Throat-cutters,” added Fíli with a solemn nod. “There’ll be dozens of them out there, moving through the shadows.” Lyra glanced nervously toward the trees, her grip tightening on her cup.

Bilbo’s eyes darted around wildly. “Dozens?”

“Aye,” Kíli said, lowering his voice. “They’ll come for us while we sleep—”

Fíli leaned closer, face grave. “Slice our throats, steal our ponies—”

“—and vanish before dawn,” Kíli finished, deadpan.

Bilbo made a small, horrified sound. Then the brothers burst into laughter, rolling onto their backs with tears in their eyes.

“You should’ve seen your face!” Kíli wheezed.

Fíli clutched his stomach. “I thought you’d faint dead away!”

Lyra exhaled, somewhere between relief and annoyance. “You two are dreadful.”

Before she could say more, a shadow passed by the fire. Thorin. He strode past, every inch the warrior even at rest, the firelight glinting off the braids in his dark hair and the burnished steel of his armor. His voice cut cold and sharp through the laughter.

“You think a night raid by orcs is a joke?”

The mirth died instantly.

Kíli swallowed hard. “We didn’t mean anything by it.”

Thorin’s gaze was glacial. “No,” he said softly, voice like tempered iron. “You didn’t.”

He turned away, stepping beyond the circle of firelight. The moon caught him there — a lone figure wrapped in shadow and silver, his face unreadable as he looked eastward into the dark. The silence that followed was heavy and uneasy.

Balin, seated near the fire, sighed and turned to Bilbo and Lyra with a kind expression. “Don’t mind him, laddie,” he said gently. “Thorin has more cause than most to hate orcs.”

Bilbo glanced toward the prince’s silhouette, curiosity flickering across his face. “Why’s that?”

Balin leaned forward, his voice low and measured as the firelight danced across his weathered features.

“When the dragon took the Lonely Mountain, King Thrór tried to reclaim the ancient dwarf kingdom of Moria. But our enemy had got there first. Moria had been taken by legions of orcs, led by the most vile of all their race — Azog the Defiler. The giant Gundabad orc had sworn to wipe out the line of Durin. He began by beheading the king.”

Lyra’s chest tightened; even knowing the tale did not dull the horror of hearing it spoken aloud.

“Thráin, Thorin’s father, was driven mad by grief,” Balin continued. “He went missing — taken prisoner, or killed. We did not know. We were leaderless. Defeat and death were upon us.” The old dwarf’s eyes grew distant, haunted by memory.

“That is when I saw him — a young dwarf prince, facing down the pale orc. He stood alone against this terrible foe, his armor rent, wielding nothing but an oaken branch as a shield. Azog the Defiler learned that day that the line of Durin would not be so easily broken.”

Lyra’s gaze drifted back to Thorin’s still form, her heart aching with admiration and sorrow.

“Our forces rallied and drove the orcs back,” Balin said softly. “Our enemy had been defeated. But there was no feast nor song that night, for our dead were beyond the count of grief. We few had survived. And I thought to myself then — there is one I could follow. There is one I could call king.”

The fire crackled. No one spoke.

At last, Bilbo’s voice broke the quiet, tentative and small. “The pale orc… what happened to him?”

Thorin, still with his back turned, did not hesitate. His voice came low and hard as stone.

“He slunk back into the hole whence he came. That filth died of his wounds long ago.” The venom in his tone sent a shiver down Lyra’s spine. For a moment, the only sound was the wind in the trees, whispering like ghosts over distant graves.

Then Balin drew his cloak tighter and nodded toward the fire. “Best get what rest you can. There’s a long road ahead.” The dwarves settled down one by one, their laughter gone, replaced by quiet reflection.

Lyra stayed awake a while longer, watching the man in the moonlight — the king without a crown — and wondered how much more sorrow his heart could bear before the end of his tale came to pass.

*****

Lyra woke shivering.

The fire had burned low, its embers dim and flickering like dying stars. A chill crept through the clearing, the kind that sank straight into the bones. She pulled her thin cloak tighter around her shoulders, but it did little good. The night air bit at her skin, sharp and cold.

Around her, the Company slept in uneven rows — dwarves bundled in thick furs, curled close to the fading warmth. Bilbo’s soft snores rose and fell beside her bedroll. Only one figure stirred: Bofur, seated near the fire with his hat pulled low, pipe in hand, eyes scanning the darkness.

Lyra gave him a small nod as she rose, and he returned it, wordless but watchful.

She stepped quietly away from the sleeping camp, her feet crunching softly in the frost-bitten grass. After finding a patch of trees for some privacy, she lingered in a clearing dappled by moonlight. The cold gnawed at her, seeping through her clothes, and she began to bounce lightly on her toes, rubbing her arms, twisting her torso — anything to chase a little warmth back into her limbs.

She was mid–awkward wiggle when a deep voice rumbled from the shadows behind her.

“What in Durin’s name are you doing?”

Lyra spun, startled, nearly tripping over her own feet.

Thorin Oakenshield stood a few paces away, arms crossed over his chest, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief. The moonlight silvered the dark strands of his hair and glinted along the edge of his fur-lined coat. He looked, Lyra thought wildly, like some old statue brought to life — stern, immovable, and very much unimpressed.

“I—uh,” she stammered, her breath fogging in the cold air, “was cold. I thought moving might help.”

Thorin’s gaze dropped briefly to her clothes — the thin cloak, the light tunic. His frown deepened. “You did not think to pack warmer layers?”

“I didn’t exactly have time to prepare a travel wardrobe,” Lyra muttered, rubbing her arms again. She tried for a smile, aiming for levity. “I suppose a year in the Shire made me too used to a warm hearth.”

Thorin’s reply was blunt, missing the joke entirely. “Aye. It has.”

The silence that followed was heavy, awkward. Lyra shifted her weight, unsure what else to say. She was uncomfortably aware of how the moonlight pooled around them, how the night air carried the scent of pine and smoke — and how close he stood, all quiet strength and command.

“Well,” she said at last, forcing a small nod. “Goodnight, then.”

He inclined his head, a gesture almost formal. “Get what rest you can. Tomorrow will be harder than today.”

Lyra moved past him, the hem of her cloak brushing his leg. As she did, a scent caught her off guard — earthy and clean, like damp soil after rain, edged with something sharper, something distinctly him. It was unfair, she thought fleetingly, for a man who’d been living on the road for days to smell so good.

Back at her bedroll, she slid beneath her blanket, still flushed and a little breathless. Across the camp, Thorin had resumed his silent vigil at the edge of the trees, a shadow cut against the moonlight. She briefly wondered if he ever slept, or if such things were below a king. Lyra closed her eyes, though it was a long while before sleep found her again.

*****

The night deepened, the stars cold and sharp overhead. Lyra drifted in and out of uneasy dreams, waking once to the low murmur of voices beyond the fire.

Fíli and Kíli were on watch, their young faces haloed by the glow of embers, half-bored and fidgeting with their blades. Every so often one would nudge the other, whispering some joke that set them both snickering softly.

Moments later, Bilbo stirred from his bedroll. Lyra cracked an eye open to see him rummaging in one of the packs, extracting a heel of bread and a wedge of cheese with careful hands. He crept across the camp and offered the spoils like a conspirator. The brothers grinned broadly.

“Look at that, Kíli,” whispered Fíli, accepting a piece. “Our burglar’s finally burgled something useful!”

Bilbo flushed, half-proud, half-embarrassed. “If stealing supper counts as burglary, I fear I may have reached my peak.”

Kíli laughed under his breath. “Oh, you’ll do fine yet, Master Baggins. Just don’t try sneaking up on anything bigger than a rabbit.”

Their quiet laughter rippled through the camp, warm and familiar. Lyra smiled faintly from where she lay, the sound of their mirth a small comfort against the darkness. She closed her eyes again, letting the peace of the moment settle over her like a blanket.

For a while, the world was still.

It was some hours later when the stillness shattered.

A sharp whinny cut through the camp. Lyra jolted awake as the ponies stamped and tossed their heads, eyes rolling white in the darkness. The sudden noise sent several dwarves scrambling from their bedrolls, weapons half-drawn.

“What’s the matter with them?” grumbled Dwalin, already reaching for his axe.

Another whiney, frantic this time—and then the clatter of hooves. The Company’s supply pony bolted from its tether, disappearing into the trees with a crash.

“Their packs!” cried Nori, lurching to his feet. “The food, the gear—half our provisions are gone!”

Murmurs rose to shouts as the dwarves began to argue, voices overlapping, accusing, worried. Lyra pressed a hand to her temple, trying to shake off the last of sleep.

“Quiet!” Thorin’s voice cut through the din like steel. “We’ll find what’s gone and who’s to blame.”

“Could be a fox,” Bofur offered grimly. “Or worse.”

Fíli exchanged a glance with his brother, eyes bright with mischief despite the tension. “We could send our burglar,” he said, gesturing toward Bilbo.

Kíli chimed in eagerly, “Aye! Time for him to earn his supper.”

Bilbo sputtered. “Me? Alone?”

But Thorin’s gaze was already on him, heavy and unyielding. “Go. See what you can find.”

Lyra stepped forward before she could stop herself. “I’ll go too.”

Several dwarves looked at her in surprise; Thorin’s frown deepened. “No,” he said firmly. “You’ll stay with the Company.”

“I won’t let him stumble into danger alone,” she said, chin lifting. “He’s never been beyond the Shire before.”

The silence stretched taut between them. Thorin’s eyes narrowed, measuring her resolve. At last, he gave a curt nod. “Stay out of the way. And keep quiet.”

Bilbo shot her a nervous, grateful glance as they slipped away from the firelight and into the shadowed trees, following the faint trail of hoofprints and broken twigs.

The forest loomed dark around them, and somewhere in the distance, a low, rumbling voice laughed.

*****

The forest thickened as Lyra and Bilbo slipped from the last wash of firelight into the reach of the trees. The world narrowed to the hiss of their breath and the soft give of moss underfoot. Branches knitted overhead, muting the moonlight to a ghost-pale sieve; every shadow looked like a crouched thing watching.

“Stay low,” Lyra whispered, though her mouth had gone dry. “Mind the twigs.”

Bilbo nodded, swallowing audibly. The two of them crept along the faint trail the panicked pack-pony had torn through the underbrush—scuffed earth, a snapped sapling, a tassel of broken twine dangling from a thorn. Somewhere ahead, something heavy moved and snorted. Lyra froze, one hand raised. The smell reached them first: greasy and sweet, thick as a curtain—fat dripping onto coals, meat scorched at the edges.

Bilbo’s eyes widened. “Roasting,” he mouthed.

“Mutton,” Lyra mouthed back, and had to clamp her teeth against a surge of nausea. The reek crawled down her throat like smoke.

They edged to the lip of a shallow dell. Beyond a screen of bramble, a rough camp sprawled in a tangle of uprooted saplings and stumps: a lopsided spit sagging above a fire pit, a wagon wheel propped like a stool, a hacked-down pine used as a table. And around the fire—great hulking shapes, man-tall and broader, slabs of shadow blotting the firelight when they moved.

Trolls.

Lyra knew them from the page—knew their names, their quarrels, the shape of what was supposed to happen. But knowing did not prepare her for the sight of them: grey hide like river stone, hands like shovels, shoulders that could shear the saplings around them merely by turning. Their faces were slabs—low brow, long teeth, blunted noses—and firelight slicked oilily over the folds of their skin.

One of them—tallest, with a tangle of scraggy hair like a mop left in a ditch—jabbed at the spit with a log. “It ain’t done, Will. You’ll have us chewin’ wool if you drag it off now.”

“It’s burnt, Tom,” growled another, smaller but no less ugly, scratching a belly like a hill. “Black as a soddin’ boot.”

The third, called Bert if Lyra remembered rightly, prodded the haunch with an iron skewer and hissed when a gout of fat spat onto his wrist. “Ow! Blast your eyes, both of you. It’s fine. Crispy. Crispy’s posh.”

“Crispy’s burnt!” William bellowed.

Lyra flinched at the volume. Off to the left she spied the ponies—two of the Company’s beasts and the pack-pony huddled miserably under a makeshift lean-to of branches, eyes rolling white. Their tack hung askew where it hadn’t been ripped off altogether; bundles lay scattered in the mud, burst open—the corner of a flour sack torn and bleeding powder like snow.

Bilbo leaned toward her, his whisper a thread. “We must untie them.”

“Careful,” she breathed. “If they see us—”

“They shan’t,” Bilbo said, with a tremulous bravado that would’ve been comical if Lyra’s pulse weren’t trembling in her throat. His fingers trembled around the strap of his small pack. “I’m… a burglar, aren’t I?”

Lyra nearly laughed—nearly—but the sound died in her. “Keep low,” she said instead. “If you go, I’ll go.”

A grunt from the fire. “Got any more onions?” Tom complained, shoving the spit. “Onions makes it fancy.”

“Onions is for gentlefolk,” Bert sniffed. “We ain’t gentlefolk, Tom.”

“Speak for yourself,” William muttered, sucking singed fat from his knuckles.

Lyra and Bilbo slipped from the bramble and went flat, bellies damp with leafmold. They crawled along the shallow slope, mud squeezing cold between Lyra’s fingers. The ponies shifted and whickered soft; Lyra hushed them with a low, steady sound, the same one she used on skittish children in the market when a kite blew down.

There, at the lean-to, the rope looped to a stout stake. A knife would’ve been a mercy. Lyra had a dagger, Marigold’s plain gift—its weight drew at her belt—but the idea of a bright gleam under firelight made her stomach ice over. She eased her hand instead to the knot, feeling for the give in the fibers.

Bilbo had crawled to the first pony’s halter, fingers moving at the buckle. His breath came fast. Lyra could hear it—those small, damp gasps—and tamped down her own. Quiet. Quiet. Quiet.

On the far side of the fire, the trolls’ quarrel swelled again, voices tumbling and shoving like the great idiots themselves.

“Salt,” Tom declared. “Needs salt.”

“Salt’s for the fancy table,” William snapped. “We ain’t got no salt.”

Bert scratched his ear with the iron skewer. “We got dwarves,” he said dreamily. “Dwarves is salty.”

Lyra’s fingers faltered on the knot. She crushed the sound of her breath in her throat and undid another loop, then another. The rope eased, inch by inch. Thistle—her own borrowed mount, tethered nearest—turned his velvet nose toward her and breathed a tremulous puff into her hair as if to say hurry, please. “I’m trying,” she mouthed, and tugged.

A board creaked—no board, not a board: Bilbo’s knee, cracking a twig as he reached for the second tether.

Every head around the fire snapped toward the sound.

Lyra and Bilbo froze. The trolls’ eyes were small and pale as old milk, but even milk eyes see better than you want them to when your life depends upon shadows. William sniffed—one enormous inhale—and turned his head another fraction. “You smell that?” he said. “Man-flesh.”

“Don’t be daft,” Bert snorted. “Men don’t come this way. Too many trees for their little legs.”

Tom’s head lowered, nostrils flaring. “Ain’t men,” he said. “Hobbit.”

Bilbo made a strangled squeak; Lyra snapped her head toward him—and in that heartbeat, her fingers slipped on the rope. The loop thumped softly against the stake.

Softly—but not soft enough.

“Oi!” William roared, lurching upright. “There’s summat in the pony-corner!”

He came in a rush that shook the earth. Lyra lunged to her feet and found that her legs were not enough to outrun a thing with strides like falling trees. A hand like a root-knotted stump swept through the lean-to and tore it aside, branches exploding, and in the wash of unfiltered moonlight, Bilbo was a small, guilty shape with both hands on a buckle.

William roared again and reached for him.

Lyra didn’t think. She threw herself sideways into the troll’s shin with all the force her smaller body could manage, as if pushing a wall would stop it from being a wall. It was like ramming a hillside. William stumbled—not from the impact, but from surprise—his foot tangling in the wreck of branches. Bilbo bolted like a frightened hare.

“RUN!” Lyra shouted.

Bilbo ran—two great bounds—and then a vast hand closed over the back of his jacket and plucked him from the ground as easily as a woman takes up a kettle. His feet pedaled air. “Gotcha,” William rumbled, breath steaming around his tusks. “What’s this, then? A wee thief.”

Lyra snatched for Marigold’s dagger, but another shape crashed into the lean-to—Bert, iron skewer raised. He swung not to stab, but to hook, and the hook caught Lyra’s belt and ripped her off her feet with a yelp. He swung her up and dangled her so close to his face she saw the cracks in his teeth. “Two wee thieves!” he crowed. “One with a sting.”

“Put ‘em in the sack,” Tom advised, poking at the fire with his log as if this were no more interesting than changing pans. “They’re talkin’ sorts. Talkin’ sorts beg for their lives. It’s entertainin’.”

The sack came down—a reeking, greasy thing that had once held grain and dreams of harvest—and Lyra and Bilbo were tumbled into it, the mouth cinched above in a yank that knocked the breath from her. Dark. Stink. Scratch of burlap under her cheek. Bilbo’s elbow jammed her ribs and then withdrew in frantic apology; she could hear his whisper, thin as thread: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Quiet,” Lyra breathed back, though her own breath came ragged. “Save it. Save it.”

Outside, the trolls thundered about the pony pen, and the ponies screamed and kicked. Somewhere a buckle snapped like a pistol. A pot fell and clanged. Lyra wriggled her hand to find her dagger; the sack was too tight. She felt the handle, then lost it as the sack lurched, swung, thumped a troll’s shoulder and dangled like a grotesque ornament from its fist.

A horn blast would have been beautiful. Instead, there came the next best ugly thing: the sound of dwarves crashing through brush at speed, weapons up, voices raised.

“Leave off, you great stone-stomached brutes!” Bofur’s shout rang first—brave and foolish; then Dori and Nori together, and Ori’s squeak like a kettle let loose.

“Company!” William bellowed, delighted. “Breakfast is serv—ough!”

A throwing axe thunked into his shoulder meat, not deep enough to matter but enough to startle. He dropped the sack—Lyra and Bilbo slammed into mud—then, with a roar, he grabbed a fallen log thicker than Lyra’s waist and swung it in a low arc.

Dori took the blow on a raised shield and went down as if the ground had opened under him. Bofur darted in and slashed at William’s calf; the blade skittered across hide. Tom swung his fire-poker like a mace, scattering dwarves, embers gusting in a red storm. Kíli’s arrow thudded uselessly against Bert’s throat and spun away.

“Back! Form!” Dwalin roared, and the Company tried—Oín and Glóin hauling Dori up, Fíli pulling Ori to his feet while notching another arrow—but trolls are momentum given flesh, and once that kind of weight is moving it doesn’t stop for order shouted in even the hardiest voice.

Lyra clawed at the knot of the sack, teeth bared. It gave half an inch, burned her palms, rolled again out of reach. Beside her, Bilbo twisted his shoulders, getting his arms under him. “If I can just—” he grunted, and then the world pitched. A troll had snatched the sack again and slung it over its back like a child with a satchel.

Air thinned; the sack constricted. Lyra tasted salt and dust and fear. She heard Kíli yelling something about the ponies. She heard Bombur huffing like a bellows, heard the thick, sick thud of a skewer punching earth instead of dwarf.

“Wot’s this one?” Bert chortled, and the sack’s view of the world jounced: Lyra glimpsed—through a split seam—Ori lifted like a rabbit by the scruff, his little book flopping to the mud; Nori snared by one ankle; Bifur ramming his head into Tom’s knee with appalling effect (for Bifur).

“Get their arms,” Tom ordered. “They wriggle.”

“You wriggle,” William muttered, batting aside Dwalin’s axe. “Ow! Not that much.”

Dwalin didn’t bother cursing. He planted his feet and swung again, a hew meant to cleave a sapling. The edge bit deeper this time, through gristle into meat. William howled and, with the offended certainty of a creature who has just been wronged by the laws of nature, grabbed Dwalin round the middle and squeezed. The big dwarf went purple and dropped his axe with a hissed oath.

“Let him go!” Balin’s voice—not huge, but carrying—cut past the dune roar. He darted between the troll’s legs and struck with his short blade for the tender inside of a knee. William stomped reflexively; Balin leaped clear—but not clear enough. A sweeping log sent him sprawling; his helm rang like a bell as it struck a root.

“Enough!” Thorin’s voice.

Lyra felt that word through the sack, through the mud, through the churn of the fight; it had the timber of command hammered at the forge of hard years. The trolls looked up in the same instant the dwarves did. He came into the clearing like a black sea squall, cloak flung back, eyes vivid as struck ice. The glow of the fire found the wet shine along the edge of his sword; the braid at his temple swung as he moved. For a heartbeat, even the trolls were slow to square to him, as if their thought lagged behind their flesh.

Thorin did not waste that heartbeat. He struck first—fast, low, stepping into the swing—not a theatrical blow but an efficient one aimed at the vulnerable tension of an ankle. Steel bit, and Tom roared, rearing back. Thorin pivoted, used the draw of that movement to bring his sword up into a guard that caught the iron skewer on the flat with a shower of sparks. His mouth was set, hard and fine. He fought like a man who did not remember how to lose, only how to survive that memory.

“Get the sacks open!” he snapped, and Fíli lunged toward the bundle Lyra and Bilbo were caged in—too slow; a troll’s heel came down between him and his goal, and the ground swallowed his stride.

Lyra wriggled her hands again, scrabbling at the knot. It had jammed under the weight of the troll’s swing. “Bilbo—my- my knife!” she gasped. “Can you—”

He grunted, working his arm around. Something small and sharp nicked her wrist. “Sorry—sorry—there—” The little blade slid into her fingers by feel. She turned it blind and sawed. The rope’s fibers groaned. One strand popped. Another. Air. She drew a ragged breath and sawed again.

Outside, Thorin drove Bert back with a flurry of blows that had grace under their force. He used the troll’s size against him, stepping inside the strikes, turning his weight to waste, making him hit air. It could not last. A log, swung from the side, came faster than even Thorin could turn to meet. He lifted his sword in a desperate brace; the log smashed against steel and shoulder both with a crack like a tree splitting. He went down to one knee with a groan and surged up again by sheer stubbornness.

“Thorin!” Balin’s cry knifed Lyra even from the dark.

Glóin hurled a hook, tried to snare the log; the hook skipped and flew, catching a branch and jerking uselessly. Dori whipped a coil of rope like a snare—clever, that—and it looped one of William’s wrists; the troll yanked, and Dori skated on his heels like a man on ice until Nori grabbed his belt and jammed his boots into a rut.

The rope gave. Dori and Nori went end over end.

Kíli’s arrow found an eye. Bert howled and flailed blindly—caught Bombur across the back with the skewer and sent him sprawling onto the spit, which collapsed with a hiss and a geyser of sparks. The smell of brunt wool and hair leapt on the air. Lyra’s stomach churned.

She sawed the last strand. The knot spat itself free.

“Now!” she hissed, and Bilbo shoved from beneath as she shoved from above; the mouth of the sack belched them into cold, ash-thick air. Lyra gulped it, coughed, and scrambled to her knees. The world tilted. A shadow loomed—the dirty-grey of troll hide—and a hand came down.

She rolled, the hand slammed the ground where she’d been, mud fountaining. She slashed at the wrist with the little blade—too small to do more than nick, but the troll jerked away with a hiss. Bilbo had already popped to his feet and was trying to drag the sack away from the crush with both hands, barking, “Lyra—this way—”

“Get back!” Thorin’s voice—he had seen them—snapped raw. It startled her enough to look—and that look cost him: Tom’s log came in a broad arc and caught Thorin across the side, flinging him like a thrown coat. He hit a stump and slid, his sword skittering, breath knocked from him in a sound that wasn’t a sound at all.

Lyra lurched toward him without thinking.

Something cinched her waist and hauled her up, legs kicking. William’s fingers, reeking of mutton and smoke, pinched around her middle like a child’s toy. “Wriggly,” he remarked, fascinated. “Like a fish.” He shook her once; her teeth clicked. The world stuttered.

“Put—her—down!” Dwalin bellowed, and charged with his second axe lifted. He brought it down where William’s thumb joint bulged under hide; there was the wet thud of edge in soft place, and William yelped and dropped her. She hit the ground hard and rolled, lost, found the dagger again by miracle. She staggered to her feet on knees made of silt.

It might have turned then—valor makes fools of us—but trolls don’t tire in time with men. Bert, half-blind and enraged, swept his arm through the mass of dwarves like a farmer scything wheat. Dori went down. Nori too, ass over beard. Oín and Glóin were clubbed together like iron tankards and tumbled into a heap. Fíli and Kíli tried to harry the big ones like hounds, darting in and out—Kíli’s bow snapped under a heel and he swore in a way that would’ve got him cuffed at a hearthfire but here only got him backhanded into a bank.

“Bags!” Tom crowed, delighted, snatching up the ripped sack Lyra and Bilbo had just escaped. “Bags for liddle suppers!” He flung it like a net and caught Ori and Bifur together. They writhed and cursed impressively for such small voices.

Lyra lurched toward Thorin again. He had gained his knees. One hand clutched his ribs. The other reached for his sword—fingers closing on mud. His hair had come loose, half-unplaited, and lay dark against his cheek. When he looked up at her, his eyes were very bright and very angry and very alive. “I said—back,” he grated.

“Not leaving you,” Lyra managed. It sounded ridiculous even to her ears—what was she going to do, stand between him and a creature that used tree trunks for clubs?—but she had the compulsion of anyone who has read a story and been smuggled to the wrong side of the page: some things must be, even if you cannot be the reason they are.

A shadow blotched the stars. William scooped both her and Thorin at once—one under each arm—grunting at the combined resistance. Thorin twisted like something made of tempered cable, elbow driving up into tendon; William hissed and squeezed. Lyra saw colors at the edge of her sight and, in the same breath, Bilbo—small, furious—jabbed William’s ankle with his little knife.

It did nothing to the ankle. It did much to William’s attention. He flung Thorin aside and snatched Bilbo up, pinching his sides in that terrible careless troll way that assumes everything squashes. “You again,” he said, almost pleased. “The wee thief.”

“Put him down!” Balin’s voice—scarred with both terror and authority—broke. He hurled his own small knife, a gambler’s throw; it nicked William’s cheek and satisfied nothing but pride.

“Right,” Bert growled, staggering, one eye weeping yellow, “enough play.” He clapped his huge hands once, the sound like sacks dropped from a height. “Sacks. Tie ‘em. We’ll stew ‘em. Or roast. Or—”

“Boil,” Tom suggested, wiping blood from his brow with a forearm. “Boil’s tidy.”

“Tidy?” William scoffed, hoisting Bilbo higher. “You can’t eat tidy. You gotta crack ‘em.”

“Stuff a lemon in them,” Bert said, inspired. “Posh, that.”

“We ain’t got no lemons!” Tom roared.

They were arguing again. Lyra seized the moment and, with what she suspected was the worst timing of her life, found her voice.

“You’ll never get the bones out of your teeth if you roast,” she called—breath ragged, vision swimming, but words steady as she could make them. “Not dwarves. Too dense. Boil’s worse. Makes ‘em stringy. Stew’s the only way. Long and slow.”

Three enormous heads turned toward her like moons arrested in their course.

“Who asked you?” Bert demanded.

She swallowed and forced a shrug. “Just trying to help.”

“What a load of rubbish,” William declared.

“Is it?” Lyra tilted her head, willing her voice not to wobble. “You’re already arguing about salt and onions. You lot care about flavor. You said so yourself.”

Tom blinked stupidly. “Did we?”

“You did.”

“We did,” Bert admitted, grudging.

“Stew,” Lyra said. “Else it’s wasted.” She pointed with her chin at the spit, at the ruined haunch. “That’s already ruined. Burnt fat is bitter. You’d have to bury it.”

They studied the char, each according to his dim culinary conscience.

“Point,” Tom allowed.

“You can’t stew without a pot,” William growled, as if this were a trump that would end the discussion in his favor and lead to cracking something’s skull.

“We’ve a pot,” Bert said triumphantly, and waved the iron cauldron he’d used for scalding the spit. It was not, strictly speaking, a proper stew-pot, but neither were they, strictly speaking, civilized. “We stew.”

“No—roast,” William said mulishly, refusing to let a new idea displace the old in his pebble brain.

“Boil,” Tom insisted, because he had learned a new word and wanted to use it.

And there they were—their boulder-minds colliding in slow, gratifying fashion. Lyra had bought them seconds. Seconds might be all the difference that could be made between life and a stone’s memory of it.

“Keep them bickering,” she hissed at the closest dwarf who could hear—Bofur, dirt-smeared and panting, dragged half upright by Dori. “Whatever you can think of—bones, spices, manners—anything.”

Bofur’s eyes flashed with a quick, reckless understanding. “Aye,” he puffed, then louder: “What about pepper? You can’t stew without pepper. Not proper.”

“Pepper?” Bert said, entranced by this new exotic fancy. “What’s pepper?”

“Spicy grit,” Bofur declared. “Makes you sneeze. Very posh.”

“And a splash of ale,” Dori added in a tone of long-suffering expertise, though his nose bled and it undercut his dignity. “Can’t stew without ale.”

“An onion,” Ori squeaked from the sack where he and Bifur writhed. “Sliced thin—so thin you can see through it—”

“Shut it!” William bellowed, shaking the sack for emphasis. “We ain’t takin’ cookery from supper.”

“You should,” Lyra said, dragging air into her lungs like hauling rope hand over hand. “Else you’ll ruin the lot.”

“I’ll ruin you,” William promised, and for a moment the diversion hung by one frayed thread.

Then a new voice slid into the fray. It didn’t cut like Thorin’s or rumble like the trolls. It joined, like a man overhearing and adding, expert and disdainful at once.

“Roast, you fools,” the voice drawled from the dark beyond the fire. “Everyone knows stew makes the meat fall to mush. Can’t get a decent bite.”

William blinked. “Mush?”

“Mush,” Bert echoed, delighted with the mouth-feel of the word.

Tom squinted into the darkness. “Who said that?”

Another voice, near the fire, just at the edge where light layered into black: “Boil’s worse. Leaches the flavor. You’ll be gnawing boiled boots.”

“That’s true,” Bert murmured thoughtfully. “Boiled boots is awful.”

“Who’s talkin’?” William demanded, head swiveling.

“Who’s arguin’?” came a third voice, perfect mimicry of Tom’s bull-headed tone.

Tom rounded on Bert. “I ain’t sayin’ boil!”

“You did say boil!” Bert objected, outraged by the slander.

“I said tidy!”

“That’s the same as boil!”

“It ain’t!”

“Is!”

“Isn’t!”

They went at it—hashing the intricacies of culinary preference with the passion of priests defending doctrine. Voices rose. Hands flailed. The sacks jounced as the trolls stamped and pointed and accused. Somewhere in the shifting chaos, Lyra staggered to Thorin’s side and braced him as he tried to stand; his breath came in tight hitches, his hand pressed hard to his ribs.

“Stay down,” she whispered.

“Get back,” he rasped again, and it ought to have been infuriating—but there was something softer at the edge of it, like a man too hurt to fashion the proper scorn.

Gandalf’s unseen voice (for she knew it now, though he was nowhere to be seen) kept at them, pitching from shadow to shadow, the better to make three brains think they were six: “Stew!” “Roast!” “Boil!”—until the moon slid a finger higher through the pine boughs and the black east began to pale with the first, faint rumor of dawn.

“Enough!” William roared, driven by that ancient troll impulse to end an argument with a crush. He seized Thorin by the shoulder and lifted him, intent on a demonstration.

Lyra grabbed for William’s wrist and might as well have seized a tree. “Stop—!”

“Put. Him. Down.” The command did not come from Lyra. It did not come from any dwarf, either. It came from the same nowhere the bickering had risen, but sharper now, a knife-blade under velvet.

William faltered, confused—looked for the speaker—and in that exact lost second the horizon snapped from night to pearl. Dawn spilled, sudden and pitiless, across the clearing’s rim and ran like quicksilver over troll-hide.

Bert froze with a finger jammed in Tom’s chest, accusation immortalized. Tom froze mid-insult, mouth opened on a word that would never finish. William froze with Thorin lifted and Lyra clinging—a tableau of surprise and outrage hardening under the newborn light.

Stone.

The sacks sagged, slumping to the ground as the hands that held them became rock. Dwarves spilled in a heap and scrambled up, coughing, swearing, alive. Bilbo dropped the last foot of his fall and sat in the mud with an oof, hair full of ash, eyes enormous.

For a long moment there was no sound but breathing—rough and disbelieving. Then, distant, a thrush began to sing.

Gandalf stepped from behind a split boulder with the serenity of a man emerging from a parlor. The hem of his cloak was dirty, his eyes bright with tired humor. He rapped the nearest stone-troll smartly with his staff. “Stubborn lot,” he observed, as if he’d coaxed a quarrelsome door to shut. “And not much for cuisine.”

The Company laughed, shakily, the sound spilling out of them all at once—relief and leftover terror tangled together. Bofur clapped Ori on the shoulder until the poor lad wheezed. Dwalin retrieved his axe and spat blood. Fíli and Kíli embraced in that rough, boyish way that is a shove disguised as a hug.

Lyra let go of William’s petrified wrist and stepped back on trembling legs. Her hands shook so hard she had to tuck them into her sleeves to hide it. Thorin slid from the stone arm and caught himself against the troll’s knee, drawing breath through bared teeth. For a moment his head dropped, dark hair curtaining his face. When he lifted it, his gaze found Gandalf first—and there was a white-hot anger there, honed and familiar.

“Where were you,” he demanded—quiet, lethal, the voice of a cliff speaking to wind—“when they dragged us like rabbits and trussed us like fowl?”

Gandalf’s brows rose. “Arranging the sunrise.”

A ghost of laughter went around the fire’s ruins. Thorin did not smile.

His gaze shifted—and lit on Lyra. It held a beat longer than before, measuring. His jaw worked. Thorin pushed off the stone arm and came straight to her, breath still tight with pain, fury banked but burning in his eyes.

“What,” he said, low and even, “did you think you were doing?”

Lyra blinked. “What—?”

“You were told to stay out of the way,” he went on, each word deliberate as a hammer blow. “You nearly got yourself—and others—killed. This is not a market quarrel to be soothed with chatter. Next time you will hold where you are told.”

Something hot flared through her shock. “Hold—while you were about to be pulped like a turnip? Forgive me for thinking doing something might be preferable to watching you die.”

A few dwarves nearby went still; even Dori paused midway through dusting ash from Ori’s shoulders. Thorin’s jaw set. He opened his mouth—

“Lyra!” Bilbo barreled into her, flinging short arms around her waist. “Oh, thank heavens—are you hurt? Are you quite all right?” He pulled back, eyes shiny, and fumbled in his pocket. “I believe this is yours—very nearly stabbed me in the sack, but—” He produced Marigold’s plain dagger, holding it up like a recovered treasure.

Thorin’s gaze dropped to the small blade, surprise cutting a cleaner line through his scowl. “And what,” he said, a rough edge of humor sneaking into the weariness, “were you planning to do with that little thing?”

“Whatever I had to,” Lyra shot back—too quickly, and then felt the color rise to her cheeks.

“Whatever she had to,” Gandalf echoed mildly as he came up beside them, tapping his staff once to settle the point. “Were it not for Mistress Lyra’s tongue and Master Baggins’ nerve, we would all be troll-dinner by now.” He gestured with the staff toward the edge of the clearing, where three ponies—Thistle among them—had nosed down into a patch of clover, packs and lead ropes recovered and set to rights. “Not to mention down three horses and a scandalous quantity of provisions.”

Several dwarves followed the line of the staff and made noises of relief bordering on reverence. Bombur actually patted the nearest saddlebag. Fíli gave Lyra a quick, grateful grin; Kíli, bruised and beaming, added a thumbs-up that earned him a cuff from Dwalin for frivolity.

Thorin’s eyes flicked from the ponies to Gandalf, then back to Lyra. The anger didn’t vanish, but it thinned, its edge dulled by reluctant acknowledgment. He inclined his head a fraction—something that was not an apology and not approval, but was, perhaps, the first small easing of a knot pulled too hard.

“Very well,” he said at last, voice roughened. “You are alive. And so are we.” His gaze sharpened again, though the steel in it no longer felt pointed at her. “Do not mistake survival for wisdom.”

“I won’t,” Lyra said, steady now. “But I won’t mistake silence for it either.”

A few of the Company coughed to hide grins. Gandalf’s mouth twitched around his pipe-stem, pleased in spite of himself.

“Enough,” the wizard said, gentler. “There is light and there is time. The trolls could not have moved in daylight- there must be a hoard nearby. Let us bind the bruised, and eat what hasn’t been trampled.” He clapped Thorin once on the shoulder—a spark jumping between flint and iron. “And you, Oakenshield—save your breath for the road. You’ll need it.”

Thorin grunted something that might have been assent and turned away to bark orders, the Company already moving at his word. Bilbo slipped his hand into Lyra’s and pressed the dagger into her palm, fingers warm and shaking.

“Truly,” he whispered, fervent. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“You won’t,” she said, and squeezed back. Over his shoulder, Thistle lifted her head from the clover and flicked an ear at Lyra, as if to say about time.

*****

The camp had grown quieter now, the air still heavy with the stench of singed troll flesh and smoke. Gandalf and a handful of dwarves were combing the clearing for signs of a hoard, while others gathered salvaged supplies and soothed the trembling ponies. The adrenaline of battle had burned away, leaving behind only weariness—and the dull ache of bruises and scrapes.

Lyra knelt beside the fire, her satchel open, sorting through jars and bundles of herbs. Her hands shook faintly, the remnants of fear not quite gone, but she pushed it down and called softly, “Anyone who’s bleeding, come here, please.”

Fíli was the first to limp over, his sleeve torn and blood trickling from a gash along his forearm. “Nothing serious,” he said with a crooked grin, though his skin was pale.

“Let me decide that,” Lyra murmured, taking his arm gently. She cleaned the cut with water warmed by the fire, then reached for a small tin of salve, working it over the wound with careful fingers.

Fíli hissed at the touch, then blinked in surprise. “That feels… almost pleasant. What’s in that?”

Lyra smiled faintly. “Kingsfoil, comfrey root, and a bit of goosegrass for the sting. It’s something I’ve been making since Bree.” The lie rolled easily off her tongue. “It helps the skin knit cleanly.”

“Remind me never to complain about being patched up by you,” he said, flexing his fingers and giving her a wink before stepping aside to let his brother in.

Kíli plopped down with his usual flair, grinning even as he rubbed a bruise on his temple. “Got knocked about a bit, that’s all. Can you make me handsomer while you’re at it?”

Lyra snorted. “Afraid not. My herbs can heal many things, but vanity isn’t one of them.”

He laughed, the sound lightening the mood, and she pressed a cool cloth to his brow before sending him off with a stern warning to rest.

Óin shuffled over next, curiosity gleaming in his eyes rather than pain. “That salve, lass—what was that you said it was? Kingsfoil and comfrey, eh? That’s fine work. Might you share the proportions?”

Lyra hesitated, then nodded. “A handful of kingsfoil leaves to one part comfrey root, crushed together with a bit of goosegrass and honey. It keeps well if sealed tight. The honey helps it spread evenly.”

The old healer grunted approvingly. “Aye, you’ve a good hand for the craft. You’ll be a help yet.”

When the worst of the wounds were seen to, Lyra glanced around for Thorin. She spotted him a few yards off, speaking quietly with Bombur as they inspected the provisions. The king’s movements were stiff, favoring his left side. She frowned. He’d taken a blow to the ribs during the struggle, and though he carried himself like nothing was wrong, she knew better.

Steeling herself, Lyra rose and crossed the clearing. “Master Oakenshield,” she said softly. He turned, expression guarded.

“I need to look at your ribs,” she continued. “You took a hit. I just want to be sure nothing’s broken.”

His brow furrowed. “Dwarves are not so fragile as to be undone by a single blow.”

“I don’t doubt that,” she said, summoning courage she didn’t feel. “But pain makes even the strongest slower. There’s no need to suffer when I can help.”

For a heartbeat, she thought he might relent. His gaze flicked over her face—earnest, determined, far too bold—and something in his eyes almost softened.

Then her next words undid it.

“There’s no honor in needless pride.”

His shoulders squared, the distance between them returning like a slammed door. “I will have Óin see to it. You need not trouble yourself.”

Before she could reply, he turned sharply and strode away toward the ponies. Lyra stood frozen, cheeks burning with frustration. Bombur, still kneeling by the packs, looked up and gave a helpless shrug.

“Don’t take it to heart, lass,” he said kindly. “Our king’s got more armor round his pride than his chest.”

Lyra exhaled slowly, forcing a smile. “So I’ve gathered.”

She returned to the fire, sinking down beside her satchel, the ache in her limbs nothing compared to the tightness in her chest. No matter what she did, Thorin Oakenshield seemed determined to keep her at arm’s length.

And yet, when she looked across the camp and caught the faintest hitch in his movement as he bent to lift a pack, she knew he was hurting more than he’d ever admit.

Chapter Text

It was Gloin who found the trolls hideaway. Inside, the air was damp and heavy with the musk of beasts, but the glimmer of treasure caught every torch flame—gold and silver, tarnished but unmistakable, heaped carelessly among crates, weapons, and armor.

A murmur rippled through the Company.

“By Mahal…” Balin breathed, his voice reverent. “There’s wealth enough here to buy a kingdom.”

Dori grunted. “A foul kingdom, if bought with such blood.”

But others—Kíli, Nori, even Bofur—were already picking through the piles, laughing softly at their luck.

Gandalf moved with deliberate steps, turning over crates and prodding at the heaps with the end of his staff. Something metallic clanged faintly, and his expression sharpened. “Ah—what have we here?”

He reached into a shadowed alcove and pulled free two long, dust-caked blades, their sheaths cracked with age. Even so, the hilts gleamed faintly beneath the grime, silver filigree catching the light.

“These are of elvish make,” Gandalf said, awe threading through his voice. “Forged in Gondolin by the High Elves before its fall.”

Thorin stiffened, his expression hardening as if the words themselves were an insult. “Elvish blades.” He turned away with a sharp exhale. “I’ll not bear a weapon forged by their hands.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Gandalf snapped, eyes flashing as he thrust one of the swords toward him. “There are no finer weapons in all of Middle-earth. You’ll not find better steel, not even in Erebor’s halls.”

Reluctantly, Thorin took the sword, weighing it in his hand. Slowly, almost unwillingly, he drew it from its sheath. The blade sang as it slid free, bright as starlight, the edge still keen though it had lain hidden for countless years.

Thorin’s scowl faltered. “It is… well-balanced.”

“Aye,” Gandalf said quietly. “A worthy weapon for one who would reclaim a kingdom.”

The dwarf gave a curt nod and sheathed the sword again, still clearly unsettled but unwilling to cast aside such craftsmanship.

Not far away, Bilbo yelped as he stumbled over a heap of discarded gear, nearly sprawling face-first into the dirt. Gandalf reached out with the crook of his staff, catching him by the collar just in time.

“Mind your step, Master Baggins,” he chided lightly. Gandalf stooped and lifted a smaller blade, slender and keen, more dagger than sword—but for a hobbit, it was near-perfect. “Another of elvish make,” he said thoughtfully. “Take it, Bilbo. It may serve you better than you know.”

Bilbo gawked at it, gingerly taking the hilt as though it might bite. “Me? Oh, no, no, no—I’d sooner stick a fork in myself than swing this about!”

“Then be careful where you point it,” Gandalf said with a faint smile. “It will glow blue when orcs or goblins are near. A useful warning, if nothing else.”

Bilbo turned the blade nervously in his hands, examining its length. “Blue, you say? Well… perhaps it would make a good lamp, then.”

A laugh burst from Bofur. “Look at him—like a lad holding a lass for the first time!”

The dwarves roared, their mirth echoing through the cave. Even Thorin allowed a faint twitch of amusement before returning to his search. Amid the laughter, no one noticed Lyra slipping further into the shadows, drawn by something deeper within the cavern.

It began as a whisper. A thread of sound that shimmered just beyond hearing—neither voice nor wind, but something in between. It wove through the air, tugging at her chest, soft and sorrowful and impossibly beautiful.

Lyra froze. Her breath hitched. She turned her head, straining to catch it. There. A melody, distant but growing stronger with each step she took.

“Bilbo?” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” he called back, still clutching his dagger awkwardly.

“The… song,” she said faintly, but he only looked puzzled.

The tune rose, clearer now, threading through the darkness like silver light. Her heart began to pound as she followed it, deeper into the hoard, past piles of gold and shattered helms.

It led her to a hollow in the rock—a small alcove untouched by dust. Resting upon a piece of folded cloth lay a silver flask, its surface traced with intricate filigree, jewels glimmering faintly in the torchlight. It was housed within a leather pouch engraved with delicate carvings—she recognized the figures instantly: the Valar, etched in ancient reverence.

Her breath came shallow. The song was no longer faint. It was all around her, inside her, warm and commanding.

“Lyra?” Gandalf’s voice echoed sharply through the cavern. “What are you doing?”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

The world had narrowed to the flask and its shimmering call. Her fingers trembled as they reached toward it, each step slow, inexorable.

Gandalf’s voice sharpened. “Lyra—stop!”

Still she moved forward.

Bilbo called her name, panic in his voice. Thorin’s boots pounded across the stone.

But the song drowned them all. Her hand closed around the flask.

Light exploded—white and blinding, a wave that filled the cavern and hurled them back like leaves in a storm. Thorin lunged too late, crashing into Bilbo as the force flung them both to the ground.

The sound roared in Lyra’s ears, bright as thunder, and then—nothing.

The light swallowed everything.

And the world went black.

*****

The light was endless.

White and blinding and weightless, stretching to infinity in every direction. Lyra gasped as her knees hit the unseen ground, heart hammering, the air sharp in her lungs. She knew this place—knew it in the marrow of her bones. The first time she’d been here, her world had been stripped away. And now, standing once more upon that featureless plain, dread curled cold and tight in her chest.

“No…” she whispered, spinning in place. “Not again.” The horizon did not change. There was no horizon. Only light—boundless, suffocating, serene.

“Hello?” Her voice echoed strangely, swallowed by silence. “Is someone here? Please—I’ve already done what you asked! I’m not supposed to be here!”

Her cry faded into the emptiness, unanswered. Panic clawed at her throat. What if she had been torn from Middle-earth completely, cast adrift between worlds? What if this was forever?

Her breath came faster. She turned again, searching for any sign of the woman she’d seen before—the veiled figure whose words had changed her fate. But the plain remained empty.

Until it wasn’t.

A voice broke the silence—not sharp or commanding, but low and resonant, like rain on leaves, like thunder rolling over distant hills, like the sighing of the sea.

“You wander far, child of another world.”

Lyra froze. Slowly, she turned toward the sound.

A figure stood behind her—tall, robed in silver and pale gold, his presence vast yet gentle. His face blurred when she tried to see it, light spilling from his form, and looking too long made her eyes ache and tear.

She fell back a step, bowing her head instinctively. “Who—who are you?”

The figure tilted his head, studying her with a bemused curiosity. “The question, I think, is not who I am—but how you have come to stand here again.”

Lyra swallowed hard, her voice trembling. “I… I don’t know. There was a cave. A flask—silver, with jewels—and it sang. I touched it, and…” She gestured helplessly at the whiteness around them. “Then I was here.”

At the mention of the song, the being grew still. The air seemed to hum with attention, and when his gaze fixed fully upon her, the sheer weight of it made her knees buckle.

“Describe this song,” he said softly, though his voice carried like a bell through the air.

Lyra tried. “It wasn’t words—it was… music. Like light. Like memory. It felt alive. And I couldn’t ignore it. I had to follow it.”

For a moment, he said nothing. Then, slowly, the tension in the air eased.

“I see,” he murmured. “You have touched something long lost.”

He lifted a hand, and with his words, images unfurled across the blank horizon—two radiant Trees, one silver, one gold, their light mingling in perfect harmony. Beneath their boughs shimmered a dew-like radiance, bright and pure as the dawn.

“That flask,” the being said, “was of my own making, wrought in the elder days when the world was young. It holds the mingled dew of Telperion and Laurelin, the Silver Tree and the Golden, whose light once filled the Undying Lands. In its essence lies the power to restore what is broken—even to call back life itself.”

Lyra stared, awed and afraid. “Then it’s… a weapon?”

“A gift,” he corrected gently. “But like all gifts, its use is bound by the will of the one who bears it. Its power may heal—or destroy. Its song answers only to those of steadfast heart. Should darkness take it…” His voice darkened, heavy as thunder. “A single hand could raise an army of the dead.”

Lyra’s stomach turned cold. “Then why me? I’m no one.”

“You are one who listens,” he said simply. “And you were meant to find it. Perhaps not by design, but by the weaving of many threads.”

The light around him shimmered, and though his features remained indistinct, she felt his eyes upon her—gentle, knowing, ancient.

“I am Irmo, whom the Elves call Lórien,” he said. “I am the keeper of dreams and visions. The flask was lost to the sea long ages ago. That it has returned now… is no small thing.”

He stepped closer, and though his presence filled her with awe, there was kindness in his voice.

“You must guard it well, Lyra of another world. Do not speak of it. Do not wield it lightly. Use it only when the world itself trembles on the edge of ruin, and when your heart knows beyond doubt that no other road remains.”

Her hands clenched. “How will I know?”

“You will feel it,” he said. “In that hour, the song will call again—and your choice will shape the fate of more than you can yet see.”

She bowed her head, the enormity of the task pressing on her chest. “I don’t want this.”

A faint smile warmed his tone. “Few do. But the world often finds its hope in those who do not seek greatness.”

The light around him began to flare, growing too bright to bear. Lyra reached out, desperate to hold onto his voice.

“What if I fail?”

“Then all will unfold as it must,” he said, his form fading into radiance. “But I do not think you will.”

The light swelled, swallowing the plain, the figure, the sound of his voice. And then there was only darkness.

*****

Lyra woke to the sound of voices. Soft at first, blurred around the edges like echoes underwater—then sharpening as consciousness returned. Her lashes fluttered, her head pounding dully, and the stone ceiling above her swam into view.

“—by Mahal, she’s stirring—”

“Careful, give her room—”

“Easy now, lass, you gave us quite a fright.”

The voices overlapped until one cut through, steady and wry.

“I had thought,” Gandalf murmured dryly from her side, “that we were past the days of fainting fits.”

Lyra groaned softly, the ache behind her eyes like a hammer strike. “So did I,” she rasped, her voice hoarse, “but apparently not.”

Relief rippled through the small crowd gathered around her. Bilbo hovered nearest, worry etched across his face, while Ori knelt just beyond, clutching a waterskin in nervous hands. Kíli crouched close at her shoulder, wide-eyed and anxious, and a shadow loomed behind them—Thorin, arms folded, expression unreadable but gaze fixed sharply upon her.

Lyra tried to push herself upright. Her limbs felt heavy, her breath shallow. Bilbo and Kíli were quick to steady her, each taking an arm to guide her into a sitting position. The cave tilted for a heartbeat before righting itself.

“What happened?” she managed.

Gandalf’s brows knitted. “You touched the flask, and it flung us all halfway across the cave.”

Memory struck like a flash of lightning—the song, the pull, the blinding light. Her eyes darted past them, scanning the rocky floor. There—it gleamed faintly in the lantern glow, silver and luminous where it had fallen. The flask.

She reached toward it instinctively.

A firm hand caught her wrist mid-motion. “Perhaps,” Bilbo said gently, his voice tremoring with caution, “you should not… touch it. Just yet.”

Lyra blinked at him, confusion warring with the desperate compulsion to reclaim it. “I have to,” she whispered. “I can explain in a moment- Just-”

“Enough.” Thorin’s voice cut through, low and commanding. “Kíli—stop her.”

Before she could react, Kíli moved behind her, grasping her arms and pulling them back. His hold was gentle, but unyielding. Lyra froze, stunned. The world seemed to narrow around her heartbeat, hammering in her ears. For the first time, the familiar warmth of the Company felt foreign. Cold.

She looked up at Thorin—his hard eyes, the grim set of his mouth—and something inside her faltered. These weren’t characters in a book whose destinies were safely penned and predictable. They were men. Flesh and blood. Capable of courage, and cruelty. Of kindness, and pain.

Of hurting her, if they chose.

The realization sent a tremor through her, quiet and unseen.

Kíli’s grip tightened instinctively as she shifted. “Easy,” he murmured, uncertain, glancing to Thorin for instruction.

She stilled, breath shallow, heart racing. For the first time since she’d arrived in this world, Lyra felt the fragile edge between trust and fear.

For a long moment, no one moved. The air in the cave hung heavy—taut as a bowstring—Lyra still caught between Kíli’s hands, her breath shallow and uneven. Thorin’s eyes hadn’t left her, sharp and assessing as though she were some strange, dangerous creature that had just bared its fangs.

Bilbo broke first.
“Well,” he said, voice cracking slightly as he cleared his throat, “this has all been a rather exciting morning, hasn’t it? Fainting, explosions, strange glowing bottles—really, I’d say it’s all quite enough adventure for one day, wouldn’t you?” His nervous chuckle echoed off the stone.

Gandalf gave him a look of long-suffering patience, but the edge of tension in the air loosened, if only slightly.

Kíli, looking thoroughly mortified, released Lyra’s arms at once. “Forgive me,” he said quickly, stepping back. “I didn’t mean—Thor— I mean, the King said—”

“It’s all right,” Lyra murmured, though her voice trembled. She rubbed her wrists, not looking at any of them. The cave felt smaller now, too close, too full of eyes.

Kíli looked like he might apologize again, but Thorin’s curt glance silenced him. Gandalf bent and picked up the flask where it had fallen. It shimmered faintly even in the dim light, as if it held its own small star within. He turned it over carefully in his hands, muttering under his breath.

“I’ll be taking a closer look at this,” he said at last, his tone clipped. “And when I’m done, I’ll need a word with Lyra. Alone.”

“Alone?” Thorin’s tone was sharp. “If this thing felled her with a touch, you’ll forgive me if I don’t leave her unguarded.”

Gandalf straightened, his brows lowering in quiet warning. “You will learn to trust, Thorin Oakenshield, or you’ll find yourself without the allies you’ll need to reclaim your mountain. Should any pertinent information be revealed you can assure yourself I will make it known.”

For a heartbeat, the two stared each other down—the wizard’s calm steel against the dwarf-king’s pride. Then Thorin looked away first, muttering something in Khuzdul and striding toward the far end of the cave. Gandalf, satisfied, turned his attention to the flask once more and began examining the intricate carvings under the flickering torchlight.

The moment his back was turned, Bilbo crouched beside Lyra, fumbling with something wrapped in cloth. “You won’t believe what he—” he pointed toward Gandalf “—just handed me. Look at this thing.” He unwrapped it to reveal the slender elvish blade. Its edge caught the faint blue gleam from Gandalf’s lantern, smooth and terrible in its beauty.

Lyra smiled faintly despite herself. “It’s a fine sword.”

“A fine death trap, you mean,” Bilbo whispered. “I’ll probably trip over my own feet before I ever manage to draw it. What in the Shire am I supposed to do with something like this?” His voice was incredulous, but there was a boyish awe there, too.

“Wave it about and hope you look impressive?” Lyra offered weakly, the corner of her mouth lifting.

Before Bilbo could reply, Fíli leaned over from where he was tending his pony, a grin tugging at his lips. “If you like, Master Baggins, I could show you how to keep the pointy end in the right direction.”

Bilbo blinked. “You mean fighting? Oh no, no, I’ve no business doing that sort of thing.”

But Lyra—still pale, still shaken—touched his arm. “You should learn. Just a little,” she said softly. “You never know when it might save your life.” Her voice carried more weight than she meant it to.

 Bilbo met her gaze for a long moment, then nodded, swallowing hard. “All right. But if I lose a toe, you’re explaining it to Gandalf.” Fíli laughed, and even Lyra found herself smiling faintly as the tension of the last few minutes finally began to ease.

Gandalf’s voice came softly through the low murmur of the dwarves.

 “My dear,” he said, glancing over his shoulder toward her, “if you’re feeling steady again, come here. There’s something we should speak of.”

Lyra hesitated, her fingers still resting on the cold stone where she sat. The others were distracted — Fíli trying to show Bilbo how not to point the sword at himself — but Thorin’s gaze flicked briefly toward her before he turned away again.

She crossed to where Gandalf knelt beside a flat slab of rock. The silver flask lay there, gleaming faintly, the light of the fire dancing across its filigree. Even at a distance, she could feel its hum — that subtle, thrumming awareness that tugged somewhere deep inside her chest.

Gandalf studied it in silence for a long moment before speaking. “I’ve seen many things fashioned in the Elder Days,” he said slowly, “but this is unlike any I’ve come across. Old — older than the Third Age, perhaps older than the very stones above us. It hums with power, but not one I know how to name.”

Lyra’s throat felt dry. She stared at the flask, heart beating faster. “I… I think I know what it is.”

At that, Gandalf’s eyes lifted sharply to her face. “Do you now?”

She nodded, hesitant but resolute. “When I touched it, I wasn’t here anymore. I was back in that white place — the same one as before, when I first came here. There was someone waiting this time. Not the woman, but a man. He said his name was Irmo.”

Gandalf’s expression changed at once — surprise, even a flicker of awe breaking through the usual calm. “Irmo,” he repeated softly. “Lórien himself.”

Lyra nodded again, voice trembling. “He said the flask was his creation — that it held the mingled dew of the Two Trees, Telperion and Laurelin. He told me it can heal any wound… even reverse death. But that it can also destroy, if it’s used with the wrong heart. He said I have to protect it — that it can’t fall into the wrong hands.”

For a long moment, Gandalf said nothing. He looked down at the flask, his weathered face shadowed and thoughtful. When he finally spoke, his tone was quiet, almost reverent. “To be visited by one of the Valar is rare enough,” he murmured. “But twice? They do not waste their attention, child. Whatever road lies ahead for you, it has been marked by powers few mortals ever touch.”

He picked up the flask carefully, holding it out toward her. “Then it seems it’s meant for you. Keep it close — and hidden. But remember what Irmo said. Power such as this asks for wisdom, not impulse.”

Lyra reached out. The moment her fingers brushed the silver, the faint music returned — not quite a song, but something older, deeper, resonating in her bones. The sound filled her chest like a heartbeat made of light.

Across from her, Gandalf’s head tilted slightly, his expression darkening with recognition. For an instant, his eyes met hers — ancient and knowing — and she understood that he heard it too.

When the sound faded, his hand lingered on hers just long enough to steady her. “Guard it well, Lyra,” he said quietly. “And guard yourself even more.”

When Lyra and Gandalf stepped back into the main chamber, the hum of voices fell away. The dwarves had been busy—packs were tied, weapons sheathed, and the remnants of the trolls’ hoard scattered across the stone floor. All eyes turned to the wizard and the young woman at his side.

Thorin straightened immediately. “Well?” he asked, voice edged with command. “What manner of enchantment is it?”

Gandalf smiled lightly, pipe smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. “A protective spell, nothing more,” he said. “Powerful, yes—meant to deter thieves or the overly curious. It struck at the first touch, and the backlash sent us all tumbling. I suspect it would have done the same to any of you.”

A murmur rippled through the Company. Lyra stood silent beside him, clutching the flask close against her chest.

“It’s quite harmless now,” Gandalf continued. “Just a beautifully made relic. I see no reason why Lyra shouldn’t keep it—after all, she bore the brunt of the spell. Consider it a prize for her trouble.”

Several of the dwarves nodded, relieved to have an explanation that made sense. Bofur muttered something about “fancy decoration for a brave lass,” and even Balin smiled approvingly.

Only Thorin remained unmoved. His sharp gaze lingered on the flask, on Gandalf, and then on Lyra herself, as though searching for the lie he couldn’t quite find. But there were other matters to attend to, and at last he turned away with a clipped, “Very well. We’ve lost enough time already. Mount up.”

Outside, the pale morning light filtered through thinning clouds as the Company began packing the ponies. The air smelled of rain and wet stone. Lyra busied herself checking Thistle’s bridle, still feeling Thorin’s eyes on her back even when she couldn’t see him.

A shadow fell across her, and she glanced up to find Kíli shifting awkwardly beside her. His hands were buried deep in his pockets, his expression contrite.

“I wanted to say…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “About before. In the cave. I’d never have hurt you, Lyra. None of us would. But Thorin gave the order, and I—well, I’m bound by blood and by oath to follow.”

Lyra’s fingers stilled on the reins. She looked at him for a long moment, seeing the genuine regret in his face, the boyish guilt in his posture. Then she shook her head gently. “You don’t need to apologize, Kíli. It was… disorienting, that’s all. I understand.”

Relief washed over his features, his grin returning in a flash. “Still, I’ll make it up to you. Next camp, I’ll fetch the firewood.”

Lyra smiled faintly. “You’ll freeze before I let you do that alone.”

He laughed, the tension between them easing. “Fair enough.”

As he jogged back toward his brother, Lyra turned her gaze eastward. The road ahead wound between the dark trees, still damp with morning mist. Somewhere beyond them lay Rivendell, and beyond that, the shadow of mountains that seemed far too close now.

She exhaled slowly, brushing her fingers against the hidden flask beneath her cloak. Even through the leather, she could almost feel it hum—soft, steady, alive.

And deep down, she couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t done with her yet.

Chapter Text

Thorin seemed determined to cover as much ground as possible after the delay in the troll cave. He urged them ever onward, not stopping to eat, Bombur simply tossing hunks of bread and cheese to everyone on their ponies as they continued forward. Rolling hills gave way to rocky outcroppings and patches of grassland. By late afternoon the company entered a patch of thick forest, the trees so densely packed they blocked the sun. While Lyra was thankful for a break from the beating heat of the sun, she couldn’t help but feel unsettled by the loss of light- like a protective blanket had been stolen from her leaving her cold and exposed. 

The Company moved quietly, their ponies’ hooves dull against the damp earth, the only sounds the creak of leather and the muffled jangle of tack. Even Bofur’s usual whistling had stilled.

Lyra felt it—the change. The unease that had grown since they entered the forest, an invisible weight pressing down on her chest. She couldn’t name it, but she knew it. It felt like the hush before a storm. Shadows pooled beneath the roots. The air smelled of wet bark and decay.

Gandalf rode ahead, eyes sharp beneath the brim of his hat. Thorin followed close behind, every inch of him taut and watchful.

Lyra urged Thistle onward to ride beside Bilbo. The hobbit’s face was pale, his eyes darting to every rustle and whisper in the brush.

“Lovely place for a walk,” he muttered. “Truly charming. I do so enjoy the constant feeling that something’s about to jump out and eat me.”

Lyra gave a small, nervous laugh, though her knuckles were white on the reins. “At least we’d go together,” she said, half-joking.

“Not helping,” Bilbo whispered back.

Up ahead, Dwalin raised a hand. “Hold,” he growled, his voice a low rumble that silenced the Company instantly.

The ponies snorted, restless. Somewhere deep in the woods, a crow cawed—and then, suddenly, even that sound cut short. The silence was wrong. Heavy. Listening.

Gandalf turned in his saddle, his face grim. “Stay close,” he said softly. “And quiet.”

They pressed on another mile before the first sign appeared. A broken arrow, black-fletched, embedded in a tree. Fresh. The sap still ran bright against the bark.

Dwalin dismounted to inspect it. When he turned, his expression was stone. “Orc-make.”

Lyra’s blood ran cold. Orcs. She’d read the word a hundred times, studied their wars, seen them drawn in ink and paint. But nothing—nothing—had prepared her for the reality of that name.

From the shadows ahead came the first scream. It wasn’t human. It was a shriek of rage and hunger, something so raw it scraped the edges of sanity. Lyra’s breath caught, her body seizing as instinct screamed at her to run.

“Ride!” Thorin bellowed, drawing his sword in a single, fluid motion. “Go!”

The forest exploded.

Figures burst from the trees, black-skinned and pale-eyed, their armor made of bone and jagged iron. Their mouths gaped wide, teeth yellow and broken, and they moved with a speed that didn’t seem possible.

Arrows whistled past. One struck a pony, another shattered against a rock. The beasts reared in terror, throwing their riders. Lyra clung desperately to Thistle’s mane as the mare brayed and bolted. 

“Keep together!” Gandalf shouted, his staff blazing briefly with white light.

But it was chaos.

The orcs poured from every side, their guttural cries echoing between the trees. Thorin swung his new elven, its edge cutting through one attacker like fire through silk. Dwalin’s warhammer crashed down on another, bone and iron splintering alike.

Kíli loosed arrow after arrow, his bow a blur, shouting for Fíli to cover his flank.

Balin and Bifur fought back-to-back, axes flashing.

Lyra’s world was noise and terror and blood. She saw Bilbo fall from his pony, scrambling behind a tree. She spurred Thistle toward him, heart in her throat.

But before she could reach him, something slammed into the mare’s flank. The pony whinnied, bucking wildly. Lyra was thrown. The ground hit her hard, the air ripped from her lungs.

“Thistle!” she gasped, but the little pony was gone—vanished into the dark.

All around her, the fight raged. The dwarves were being driven back, their ponies scattering. The sound of snapping branches and hooves fading told her what she feared most—the ponies were gone.

“On foot!” Thorin roared. “Regroup!”

Lyra scrambled to her feet, clutching the dagger Marigold had given her. It felt pitifully small in her hand.

“Ori!” she shouted, spotting the young dwarf struggling with his pack. He’d tripped over a root, fumbling to rise.

And then she saw it—the glint of iron. An orc stood a dozen yards away, bow raised, eyes fixed on Ori.

The arrow flew.

Without thought, Lyra lunged. She collided with Ori, shoving him aside. The arrow struck her shoulder—high and deep. Pain exploded, white-hot and blinding. She staggered, gasping, clutching the wound.

Ori stared, horrified. “Lyra! You’re—”

“Go!” she rasped. “Run!”

The orc snarled, drawing another arrow. Before it could loose, a shaft struck it square in the throat. Kíli, his bow still drawn, shouted, “Down!” as another orc charged him.

Thorin’s voice cut through the din. “Fall back to Gandalf! Now!”

Lyra stumbled through the underbrush, vision swimming. The world was chaos—steel clashing, orcs screaming, dwarves shouting. She saw Dwalin drag Bombur to his feet, Bofur swing his hammer in wide arcs, Gandalf’s staff flare again, scattering shadows.

Her legs gave way once, then twice, but she forced herself upright. Keep moving.

Ahead, Gandalf was calling—his voice carrying over the noise. “This way! Follow me! Hurry!”

They ran. The trees thinned, the ground rising steeply. Lyra stumbled after them, one hand pressed to her wound, the other gripping her dagger. She could taste blood at the back of her throat.

The forest seemed endless. But then—light.

Gandalf pushed through a curtain of ivy and into a narrow cleft between two cliffs. “Through here!” he shouted. “Move!”

The Company poured through, breathless, battered, but alive. Behind them, the orcs’ howls faded, growing distant as the path wound deeper into the rocks. Lyra fell to her knees just inside the pass, the world tilting violently.

“Lyra!” Bilbo was beside her in an instant, grabbing her arm. “You’re bleeding—oh heavens, you’re bleeding—”

“I’m fine,” she lied, clutching his hand. “Just—winded.”

Gandalf turned back, his eyes sweeping over the group. “No time to rest,” he said. “They’ll find this path soon enough. We move.” And so they did—on foot now, their ponies lost, every step heavy with exhaustion.

After nearly an hour of agonizing step after step, the cliffs opened into a high ridge. More than once Lyra’s vision blurred, her stomach turning with nausea, her mind sick with pain. When she thought she could not take another step Gandalf stopped on the ridgeline. Below, bathed in silver moonlight, lay a valley of waterfalls and starlight—a haven untouched by shadow.

Rivendell.

Lyra stared, tears stinging her eyes. She’d seen it once—in ink and parchment, in the words of a man who had never been there. But this… this was life and music and holiness made manifest.

“By Durin’s beard,” Balin whispered. “The hidden valley.”  Even Thorin was silent, his face unreadable in the moonlight.

Lyra swayed, her strength at last gone.

“Lyra?” Bilbo’s voice wavered beside her.

She turned to answer him—but darkness claimed her before she could speak.

Thorin caught her as she fell, his arms instinctively steady. Her head rested against his shoulder, her cloak soaked through with blood.

“Gandalf!” he called sharply.

The wizard turned, eyes widening. “Quickly. Down to the valley—there are healers below.”

*****

The way down was long and treacherous. The Company moved in silence, the only sound the rasp of boots on stone and the steady drip of water somewhere deep in the cliffs. The narrow passage wound through jagged rock walls slick with moss, the air cool and damp. Gandalf’s staff glowed faintly, a small flame of light that pushed back the darkness but did not warm it.

Lyra drifted in and out of awareness. She could feel the rhythm of steps beneath her—the solid, measured pace of Thorin Oakenshield carrying her in his arms—but the world around her seemed distant, veiled by pain and exhaustion. The smell of iron and pine filled her senses, mingling with the faint, steady heartbeat beneath her cheek.

Her wound burned with every jostle, but she kept still, unwilling to burden him further. Through half-lidded eyes, she caught glimpses of the others—Balin glancing back in concern, Ori stumbling but pressing on, Bilbo pale and wide-eyed.

The air grew sweeter the farther they descended. The oppressive stillness of the forest gave way to the distant murmur of water, to wind that carried the scent of something green and living. It was as if the world itself exhaled after holding its breath too long.

“Not much farther,” Gandalf called softly, his voice echoing between the stones. “We are nearly through.”

Thorin said nothing, his jaw set, eyes fixed ahead. His arms were steady beneath Lyra, though his shoulders had to have ached from battle and strain, not to mention the wound on his ribs from the trolls.

Lyra stirred faintly, her voice a whisper against his collar. “Did… we make it?”

His grip tightened unconsciously. “Aye. We did.”

They stepped out onto a bridge that led to the open gates of Rivendell. Waterfalls poured like ribbons of silver from the heights, their spray catching the moonlight and scattering it like shattered glass. The river wound below in pale reflection of the stars, and nestled among the cliffs and trees lay the graceful roofs and arching bridges of the Last Homely House. Soft music drifted faintly upward—something that did not come from instruments but from the place itself.

No orc, no shadow, no darkness could reach so deep. It was peace made visible.

Kili exhaled reverently. “Elrond’s haven,” he murmured. “It certainly beats the tales and stories.”

“It will be safe, for now,” Thorin said quietly. His tone held no joy—only wary gratitude.

But Lyra, through the haze of pain, saw none of his doubt. For her, the valley shone like a dream. Her lips curved in a faint smile before her eyes fluttered shut again.

“Gandalf,” Thorin said roughly. “She’s fading.”

“Quickly, then,” Gandalf replied, already moving down the trail.

The air was warm, smelling of water and cedar. Elven figures appeared from the shadows—tall and luminous, their movements graceful and unhurried. They spoke softly in a language that seemed older than the stars.

One stepped forward, his silver hair gleaming like frost. “Mithrandir,” he greeted Gandalf, inclining his head. “Lord Elrond bids you welcome.”

Gandalf nodded. “Our thanks. We have need of your healing halls.”

The elf’s gaze shifted to Thorin and the pale figure in his arms. “Bring her,” he said, his tone gentle but commanding. “Quickly.”

The Company watched as Thorin followed the elf across the bridge, Lyra cradled close. None dared speak. Even the proudest of them—Dwalin, Glóin, Thorin himself—seemed diminished beneath the serene beauty of the place.

They entered a great hall of stone and wood, the walls carved with flowing designs that shimmered faintly with embedded gems. The air was filled with the scent of lavender and athelas, the soft sound of fountains trickling somewhere unseen.

Thorin laid Lyra gently upon a bed of fine linen, her skin pale as marble, her lashes dark against her cheeks. Gandalf stepped forward, murmuring words of thanks as the healers began their work—cutting away the blood-soaked fabric, cleansing the wound with water that shimmered like moonlight.

“She took an arrow meant for another,” Thorin said quietly. “She said nothing. She walked for a distance with a poison tip embedded in her shoulder.”

One of the elves glanced up, his expression unreadable. “Such bravery seldom goes unmarked,” he said simply.

Thorin watched for a long moment, his hands clenched at his sides. Then, with a small incline of his head, he turned and left the chamber.

Gandalf lingered, speaking softly with the healers before following. Bilbo hesitated in the doorway until Ori tugged at his sleeve, whispering that they ought to let her rest. The hall fell silent save for the sound of breathing and water.

*****

Lyra woke to the sound of birds.

Soft and distant, their calls drifted through open windows. The air smelled of rain and herbs, of clean linen and the faintest trace of woodsmoke. She blinked against the light, the world slowly coming into focus.

White curtains stirred in the breeze. The ceiling above her was carved with interwoven vines. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was.

Then memory returned—the forest, the orcs, the pain.

Her shoulder ached, but it was a dull throb compared to the sharp agony she remembered. She turned her head and saw Bilbo perched on a chair beside her bed, fast asleep, his head tilted at an awkward angle. His curls were a tangled mess, his waistcoat rumpled. On the floor near his feet sat Ori, cross-legged and sketching quietly in a small notebook.

Lyra smiled faintly. “Didn’t your mothers ever tell you not to hover?” she whispered.

Ori’s head shot up. “You’re awake!”

Bilbo snorted himself awake at once, blinking wildly. “What—what happened? Oh, thank the stars! You’ve been out for a full day, maybe more!”

He fumbled to pour water from a crystal jug, sloshing half of it onto the table. “You’ve given everyone a fright, you know. Thorin’s been pacing holes in the floor since yesterday morning.”

Lyra raised an eyebrow, though her voice was still weak. “Thorin Oakenshield… pacing?”

Bilbo nodded earnestly. “All about the place. Muttering. The elves don’t know what to make of him.”

She gave a soft laugh, though it hurt to do so. “Well, I suppose that makes two of us.”

Ori shyly offered her a slice of bread and honey. “The healers said you’d need to eat,” he said. “They said you’d lost a lot of blood.”

Lyra accepted it gratefully. “Thank you, Ori.”

As she ate, she caught sight of the sunlight spilling across the marble floor, painting everything in gold. It was peaceful—so peaceful it hurt. After the chaos of the forest, this felt like a dream she might break if she breathed too deeply.

“Where’s Gandalf?” she asked at last.

Bilbo straightened a little. “He’s with the elves, I think. They’ve been talking since morning. Something about a map, from what I overheard.”

Ori added, “And Thorin hasn’t left the hall. He wouldn’t say it, but I think he was worried about you.”

Lyra smiled faintly, looking toward the open doorway where a shadow moved briefly in the hall. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

Bilbo grinned, eyes twinkling. “You might be surprised.”

She leaned back against the pillows, exhaustion creeping over her again. “Perhaps I would,” she murmured. “But I think I’ll leave that discovery for later.”

As her eyes drifted closed once more, the wind carried the faint music of Rivendell through the open window—soft voices singing in a language older than memory, gentle and sad and beautiful.

For the first time in a long while, Lyra let herself rest without fear.

*****

When Lyra next woke, the sun had shifted—its golden light pouring through the arched windows in long, soft ribbons. Bilbo and Ori were nowhere to be seen. Instead, a gentle handed elf maiden was washing her arms gently. Her long brunette hair was half up, the rest trailing softly to her waste. She excused herself when Lyra stirred. 

Her shoulder still ached, though the pain was dull and bearable now. She could smell athelas and lavender still clinging to her bandages, mingled with the faint scent of baked bread and honey drifting from somewhere far below.

Rivendell was alive with quiet motion.

Outside her open door, she heard soft footsteps, snippets of laughter in Elvish, the faint brush of harp strings carried on the breeze. It was so still, yet full of life—peaceful, but never silent. Even the air here seemed to hum with something ancient and good.

Bilbo returned shortly after noon, looking far more refreshed than before and wearing a clean waistcoat that almost matched in color. “Ah! You’re awake again,” he said, beaming. “You’ve slept through a fine morning, you know. Gandalf’s been pacing about talking of moons and maps and some fellow named Elrond.”

Lyra smiled faintly. “Elrond. The Lord of Rivendell. He’s... not someone you keep waiting.”

Bilbo blinked. “You know of him, then?”

She hesitated, then nodded once. “By reputation.”

That seemed to satisfy him, for he quickly moved on. “Well, Gandalf says we’re all to dine together this evening. Imagine it—hobbits, dwarves, elves, and wizards at the same table! There’ll be songs, I’m sure. Perhaps even wine.”

She smirked. “You’ll fit right in, then.”

By sunset, dinner was ready. Guided by elven attendants through long corridors carved of pale stone and open to the mountain air, Lyra walked slowly, her shoulder still sore, but curiosity drew her eyes everywhere—the intricate mosaics on the floors, the lanterns that glowed like captured stars, the distant songs that echoed faintly through every hall. 

She had been dressed in a light blue gown, softer than anything she had ever worn and impeccably fitted- as if it was made specifically to her measurements though that was impossible. It fit tightly to her waist then gently flowed down to the floor with layers of blue and white interwoven. The sleeves split at the shoulder, allowing her wrapped shoulder and upper arm to sit comfortable, before clasping at her wrists with delicate buttons. Her unruly hair was brushed and silky soft after a bath in the healing halls, and pieces had been pulled away from her face with glowing bronze clips. Though she had no mirror, she felt more beautiful than she ever had before. 

When she entered the dining chamber, her breath caught. It was vast and filled with light. Arched ceilings opened into terraces overlooking the waterfalls, and the long table was laid with silver and crystal, every goblet filled, every plate gleaming. The air was warm with the scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and fruit so ripe it glistened.

The dwarves entered in a rough cluster, murmuring uneasily. None seemed at ease surrounded by so much grace. Thorin, in particular, carried himself like a deer among wolves—alert, guarded, every step deliberate.

Lyra paused beneath the carved archway, her hands smoothing unconsciously at her skirts. The sunlight caught the blue of her gown and scattered it in ripples across the marble. She took a steadying breath and descended the steps.

The talking ceased at once.

Fíli, who had been jesting with his brother, stopped mid-laugh. Kíli blinked, mouth falling open in a half-smile. “By Durin…” he murmured, elbowing his brother. “If all the healers look like that, I might be persuaded to suffer another injury.”

A sharp cuff from Dwalin sent him stumbling forward, muttering, “Mind your tongue, lad.”

Bofur let out a low whistle. “Well, bless my beard,” he said cheerfully. “Our little trouble maker’s gone and turned into an elf-maid.”

Lyra flushed, though the warmth that rose to her cheeks wasn’t entirely from embarrassment. “I hardly think anyone would mistake me for an elf,” she said, voice lighter than she felt.

Gandalf appeared from the shade of a colonnade, pipe in hand, eyes crinkling with amusement. “Ah, our patient joins us at last. You look far better than when we last saw you, my dear—though I daresay you’ve frightened half the healers into fretting over you.”

Bilbo stepped forward, his relief plain. “You’re all right then! You look—well, magnificent, actually. I mean—rested. Whole. Not that you weren’t—oh, you know what I mean.”

Lyra laughed softly, and for the first time since the forest, the tension among the group loosened. “Yes, Bilbo, I know what you mean.”

Her gaze moved across the Company until it caught on Thorin.

He stood a little apart from the rest, as he always did—still, watchful, the dying light painting the edges of his hair in silver. His eyes found her and held her there, unblinking.

He said nothing. Yet in that silence, she could feel the weight of his gaze tracing her from head to toe—taking in the fall of silk, the pale gleam of her bandage beneath the open sleeve, the way her hair caught the light. His face betrayed nothing, but something flickered behind his eyes: a quiet, startled admiration swiftly shuttered by restraint.

When his gaze lingered on the wrappings at her shoulder, she thought she saw something else there too—remorse. A heaviness, deep and private.

He looked away first. The moment passed, but it stayed with her like a held breath.

Ori was the first to break the stillness. “You look lovely, Miss Lyra,” he said earnestly, cheeks flushing pink. “Like someone from the old songs.”

She smiled, warmth returning. “Thank you, Ori. That’s very kind.”

Fíli leaned toward Bilbo, whispering, “Are we sure she’s not part elf?”

Bilbo gave him a look. “Don’t be ridiculous. She’s far too pig headed for that.”Laughter rippled through the Company—quiet, genuine, a sound of ease after too much fear.

Thorin’s voice cut through it gently but firmly. “We should not keep our host waiting.”

The tone brooked no argument. The dwarves began to fall into step behind him, their boots echoing softly on the marble as they followed the elven guide toward the hall.

As Lyra moved to join them, Gandalf offered her his arm with a knowing twinkle. “It seems you’ve made quite an impression already.”

“Unintentionally, I assure you,” she murmured.

Gandalf only smiled. “The best impressions usually are.”

And as they entered the Great Hall, Lyra felt Thorin’s gaze flicker to her one last time—quick, almost imperceptible—before he turned away, the faintest shadow of thought crossing his face.

Gandalf greeted Elrond first, bowing his head. “My dear Elrond, your hospitality, as always, humbles me.”

The Lord of Rivendell inclined his head with a wry smile in return. He was tall and graceful, his dark hair flowing like a shadow of night against the white of his robes. His eyes, ancient and steady, turned to Gandalf first—then to the Company, and at last to Lyra.

“You travel with curious companions, Mithrandir,” he said. “And one who does not belong to their number.”

The words were soft but not unkind, yet Lyra felt her pulse quicken. Gandalf merely smiled. “A long tale, my friend. But one best told after a good meal.”

Elrond’s lips curved slightly. “As you wish. Sit, then, and be welcome in my hall.”

Lyra sat at the long table among the Company, near Bilbo, Dwalin, and Balin. Elrond, Gandalf, and Thorin were seated apart at a smaller table near the dais, a subtle division that none of the dwarves failed to notice.

The spread before them was not what dwarves would have called a proper meal.

Slender crystal dishes held bright fruits and glistening greens, soft breads with herbed butter, roasted venison thinly sliced, bowls of nuts and honeyed cheese, and pale wine that smelled faintly of apples and stars.

Bofur poked suspiciously at a cluster of grapes. “They call this a feast?”

“Perhaps the meat is hiding beneath the flowers,” Gloin muttered, peering beneath a sprig of rosemary.

Bilbo stifled a laugh as Lyra leaned closer. “I suppose to dwarves, ‘light supper’ means half a cow and an ale barrel?”

Dwalin, already halfway through his bread roll, grunted. “Aye, and still room for pudding after.”

Balin chuckled beside him, his tone indulgent. “Show some grace, brother. We’re in the house of lords, not the corner of a tavern.”

That earned him a grin from Bofur. “Aye, but the taverns don’t have this many spoons!”

The table erupted in quiet laughter. Even Bilbo, who had looked painfully conscious of the cutlery arrangement, began to relax.

Musicians drifted among the tables—elves in flowing robes, their instruments gleaming faintly in the lamplight. The melody was light and sweet, too ethereal to be hummed. Lyra listened, feeling it in her bones, a reminder that this world was ancient and strange and achingly beautiful.

When she glanced toward the smaller table, she caught sight of Thorin, head slightly bowed as he spoke in low tones with Gandalf and Elrond. Even here, among splendor and song, his posture was proud, restrained—as though he carried a weight heavier than the gold he sought to reclaim.

Her eyes flicked to the sword resting by his chair, its jeweled hilt catching the light like a captured flame.

Elrond had noticed too.

He leaned forward, his dark hair falling over his shoulder, his gaze intent. “These blades you carry,” he said, his voice smooth and measured, “they are not of dwarven make.”

Thorin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “We took them from a troll-hoard. Fine work, though they sit uneasily in my hand.”

Elrond stood, moving closer, his steps silent on the marble floor. “Uneasily, perhaps, because they were not forged for dwarf-kind.” His hand brushed along the blade’s fuller as he examined the craftsmanship. “These are very old… from before the fall of Gondolin. Made by the High Elves of the First Age.”

Gandalf’s eyes glimmered with interest. “You recognize them?”

“I do.” Elrond’s fingers traced a faint line of script along the sword’s edge. “The one you bear, Thorin Oakenshield, is Orcrist—the Goblin-Cleaver. The other,” he nodded toward Gandalf, “is Glamdring, the Foe-Hammer. They were borne by the great lords of Gondolin in its last days, before the city fell beneath shadow and flame.”

A soft murmur rippled through the Company.

Even Thorin’s expression shifted, the faintest crease of doubt and awe in his brow. “Elvish blades,” he said, his tone guarded but not ungrateful.

Elrond inclined his head. “Yes. And few finer have ever been made. The orcs will know them when they see them—and fear them.”

He rested the sword back in Thorin’s hands, his voice gentling. “Carry it with honor, son of Durin.”

Thorin hesitated, as though the blessing itself carried weight. Then he nodded once and returned to his seat.

At the long table, Lyra exhaled quietly, realizing she’d been holding her breath. Around her, the dwarves exchanged uneasy looks, torn between pride and discomfort.

Bilbo leaned toward her, whispering, “Goblincleaver and Foehammer… what names!”

Lyra smiled faintly. “Yes. Weapons that remember their purpose.”

He gave her a sidelong look. “And here I thought we were just dining in a lovely house.”

“Nothing in this world is ever just one thing,” she murmured, though whether she meant it as a warning or a wonder, she wasn’t sure.

*****

The halls of Rivendell were never truly dark. Even at night, the light lingered—soft and silvery, caught in the marble like the memory of stars. The sound of distant water threaded through the air, blending with the low hum of elven song somewhere far below.

Lyra walked slowly, trailing her fingers along the cool stone as she went. Her shoulder ached beneath its bandage, pulsing in time with her steps, but she didn’t mind. The quiet was balm enough. After the noise and closeness of the road, Rivendell felt like breathing again.

She passed through archways that opened to gardens veiled in mist, through corridors lined with books and carvings of ancient battles. Every inch of the place felt alive—woven through with stories she half remembered from her own world’s retellings, only now they breathed and glimmered before her eyes.

She smiled faintly to herself. “If only Cl—” The thought broke off before it finished, vanishing into the stillness. She pressed a hand to her chest. The emptiness where that memory should have been still ached, though she no longer knew why.

Her wandering feet carried her toward a softly lit chamber near the end of the west wing. She was about to turn back when she caught the sound of raised voices. Familiar ones.

“…I will not see it handled by another,” Thorin said, low but forceful. Lyra froze just beyond the doorway.

Peering through the crack, she saw a long room lined floor to ceiling with shelves of ancient tomes and scrolls. The air smelled of parchment and candlewax. Gandalf stood near the center, pipe unlit, his expression calm but unyielding. Across from him stood Thorin and Balin, both tense, the map clutched tightly in Thorin’s hands. Elrond stood near the table, watching with patient composure.

“No harm will come to it,” Gandalf said evenly. “But if we are to make sense of this journey, we must understand what lies before us. Elrond’s knowledge of such things exceeds us all.”

Thorin’s jaw tightened. “The map is mine to protect, as are its secrets.”

“Then your mistrust will cost you time—and perhaps more than that,” Gandalf replied, his tone sharpening just enough to slice the silence. “You seek to reclaim your home, yet you refuse the hand that could guide your way. Is pride worth your mountain, Oakenshield?”

Balin shifted beside his king, his voice softer but firm. “Thorin, we’ve come far already. There’s no shame in counsel from a friend.”

For a heartbeat, the air stilled. Thorin’s shoulders rose and fell, the faintest motion betraying the storm behind his eyes. Then, with a heavy exhale, he stepped forward and unrolled the parchment on the table.

“Very well,” he said. “But only you are to look upon it.”

Elrond inclined his head with grace, stepping closer. Candlelight pooled across the table as he bent over the map, his long fingers tracing the intricate lines. “This is Durin’s hand, or close to it. See here—the Ered Luin, the Desolation… ah.”

His brow furrowed. He leaned nearer, squinting slightly at the blank space above the Lonely Mountain. “There are markings here. Faint—like shadows of runes, unseen.”

“Unseen?” Balin echoed.

“Not unseen,” Elrond corrected gently. “Hidden. Written in moon runes. They can only be read when the same moon shines as on the night they were scribed.”

“And when would that be?” Gandalf asked.

Elrond moved toward the tall arched window, gazing out at the night. The moon was bright, hanging above the valley like a crown of light. “Not tonight,” he murmured. “These runes were written under a crescent moon. You will have your answers tomorrow night, if fortune holds.”

Thorin’s sigh was quiet but edged with frustration. “Another delay.”

Elrond turned back, his tone patient but carrying quiet authority. “You cannot rush the moon any more than you can rush destiny. Rest while you may.”

The silence that followed carried the weight of truce more than agreement.

Sensing the conversation drawing to a close, Lyra pressed herself back into the shadowed hall, her pulse quickening. She shouldn’t have been listening. If Thorin caught her—

As she turned to go, her shoulder brushed against a tapestry. It swayed softly, the faint rustle echoing far louder than it should have.

For a heartbeat, she was certain they’d heard.

But Gandalf’s low voice carried again, calmer now. “Tomorrow, then.”

Lyra exhaled quietly and hurried away, the hem of her gown whispering over the stone.

She didn’t stop until she reached the quiet garden beyond the library, the moonlight spilling over the path like silver dust. Only then did she let herself breathe, pressing a trembling hand against her heart. Though she had felt marginally better today, the fatigue was catching up with her. She hadn’t brought herself to look at the wound yet, too afraid to find it festering black, a large scar marring her shoulder or something of the like. 

“No time like the present,” she whispered softly to herself. Sitting herself upon a stone bench nearby she began to gingerly unwind the bandaging wrapping around her shoulder and upper arm. Contorting herself to avoid pulling the stitches and only using one hand, she found the task more difficult than she was anticipating. Finally, the wrapping fell away, and only a square cloth covered the space between her shoulder socket and clavicle. 

Lyra took a deep breath before pulling that square away, crinkling her noise as it stuck to a bit of dried blood. She squared her shoulders before looking down. She drew a sharp breath when the wound was finally revealed. It wasn’t as gruesome as she had imagined—it was neatly stitched, the work of elven healers, clean and even. A faint crust of dried blood rimmed the edges, but what startled her most were the faint grey veins spidering outward beneath the skin, subtle but wrong, like ink bleeding through parchment. 

And yet, despite that unnatural touch, it was healing—already scabbed over, the swelling gone. By her estimation, it looked four days ahead of where it should have been. She flexed her shoulder experimentally, watching the skin pull tight over the mending flesh. A flash of pain pulled at the wound, the ache pulling at something deep within her skin- likely the work of whatever poison the orc arrow was dipped in. She gently ran a finger over those dark grey lines, wondering vainly if they would be permanent or fade with the rest of the damage. 

A voice broke the quiet.

“You should be resting.”

Her head lifted, startled. Thorin stood a few paces away, half in shadow, the moonlight catching the dark blue weave of his tunic and the glint of a silver clasp at his throat. He looked carved of midnight and steel.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she admitted softly.

He nodded once, as if he’d expected that. For a long moment, neither spoke. The sound of the stream filled the silence between them.

When he finally stepped closer, it was hesitant, almost reluctant. “I… wanted to thank you,” he said, each word deliberate, as though unused to the shape of gratitude. “For what you did—for Ori. While not the youngest, his soft nature holds a spot in all of our hearts.”

Lyra blinked, caught off guard. “He’s young. He didn’t deserve an arrow through the chest.”

“Nor did you,” Thorin said quietly. The words settled between them, heavier than the still air.

“I only did what anyone would have,” she murmured, though even as she said it, she knew it wasn’t true. 

His deep blue gaze held hers, searching. “No,” he said. “Few would have.”

She looked away, suddenly unable to bear the intensity in his eyes. “You make it sound like heroism. I didn’t think. I just… moved.”

“Sometimes that’s the difference,” he said, voice low.

Lyra’s heart stuttered. It was the first time his tone had carried warmth toward her—rough, but genuine. Her hands twisted the bindings in her lap. Thorin seemed to notice that her shoulder was unbound, the wound open to the air. 

“What are you doing?” He took a step toward her, hand outstretched, as if to rebind the wound himself, before stopping short. “You should not leave it open like that, you’ll only invite sickness and-”

“Thorin,” Lyra spoke resolutely, “It’s alright. A bit of fresh air is good for the wound, it allows for the reduction of swelling, and for any pus to be cleared away, besides,” 

She motioned him closer, “The healing of the elves is not to be exaggerated. I will probably only need to keep it wrapped another couple of days before it is closed enough to begin movement again” Thorin took one more step, glancing at her wound before closing his eyes- if she didn’t know any better she would say that the sight of her ragged skin made him sick- and took a step back again. 

Lyra shook her head at his antics. She stood, meaning to excuse herself before her emotions betrayed her, but the motion made the world tilt sideways. Her vision blurred, knees going weak. Thorin caught her before she could fall. His hands gripped her waist, steady and unyielding.

“Careful,” he said, his voice close, quiet, the heat of him seeping through her thin sleeve.

“I’m fine,” she managed, though her breath came shallow.

He frowned. “You are not.”

Her lips quirked faintly. “You’re very good at stating the obvious.”

That earned a ghost of a smile from him, quick and gone. Still holding her steady, he guided her toward the archway leading back into the halls. “Come. You’ll end up reopening the wound if you don’t rest.”

“I’m a healer Thorin, I know what I’m doing,” she said weakly, trying for levity. “Besides, I don’t take orders well.” 

“Then consider it advice,” he replied. “Healers make the worst patients, just ask Oin.”

The corridors were quiet as they walked—his arm firm around her waist, hers resting lightly against his forearm for balance. She could not help but notice the muscle under her hand, thick and corded, dusted with dark hair. His presence filled the space around her: the faint scent of leather, pine, and earth, the low hum of his breathing.

She was acutely aware of every step, every brush of fabric.

When they reached her door, she hesitated, suddenly unsure what to say. “Thank you. For… not letting me fall.”

He inclined his head. “I would not let any under my care fall.”

Something in the phrasing struck her—not pride, but conviction. Duty and something unspoken beneath it.

Her throat tightened. “I’ll take that as high praise, then.”

He started to turn, then paused, glancing back at her. The lamplight caught the faintest hint of softness at the corner of his mouth. “You may.”

And then he was gone, his footsteps echoing quietly down the hall. Lyra leaned back against the door once it closed behind her, heart racing. The air between them had shifted—subtly, irrevocably.

Whatever wall Thorin Oakenshield had built between himself and the rest of the world, she had seen a crack in it tonight. And it terrified her how much she wanted to see what lay beyond.

*****

At first it was only light—pale, golden, endless. Lyra stood in a great hall carved from mountain stone, sunlight pouring through windows higher than any she’d ever seen. The air shimmered with warmth. Gold and gems caught the light along the pillars; the floor gleamed like molten bronze. She turned, confused and awed, and saw him.

Thorin.

He stood by the great arched window, hair loosed over his shoulders, the lines of his face softened by peace. Not the hard, battle-worn king she’d come to know on the road, but something gentler—clad in royal blue and fur, light resting on him like a crown. He turned toward her, and the weight of his gaze made her heart falter.

“Lyra,” he said, as if her name itself was a vow.

The distance between them vanished. His hand lifted—roughened, calloused, steady—and brushed a stray lock from her cheek. It was such a simple touch, but it unraveled her completely. Behind him, the sun crested the mountains, flooding the hall with fire and gold, and for one aching moment she believed this was real: the journey ended, the danger gone, peace found at last.

Then the light changed. It sharpened—cold, silver, merciless. The hall dissolved into shadow and wind. Thorin’s hand fell from hers.

Suddenly he was standing on a battlefield, armor torn, eyes burning as he faced a pale creature with a blade like black flame. The world tilted; she could smell the iron of blood, hear the clash of steel echoing from stone walls. She screamed for him to run, to turn away, but her voice made no sound.

The pale orc struck. Thorin fell.

“No!” she cried, reaching toward him, but her hands met air. He was gone—swallowed by shadow.

Lyra jolted upright with a gasp, heart pounding so hard it hurt. The candle beside her had burned down to a stub, its wick a thin thread of smoke. For a moment she didn’t know where she was—the mountain? The battlefield? Her small bed in Rivendell? The silk sheets tangled around her legs felt too soft, too alive. She pressed a shaking hand to her chest.

A dream. Only a dream.

But the echo of his voice lingered, low and rough in her ears, and the image of his fall clung to her like frost. She rubbed her arms, shivering though the room was warm, trying to steady her breath.

The healers had given her leave to move about so long as she did not “overreach her strength.” (She suspected their definition of overreach and hers did not agree.) Even so, she promised herself she would be cautious today. There was much she could learn from the elves- if they would allow her to watch.

The healing halls lay along a south-facing loggia where vines crept through carved stone and the air always smelled of crushed leaves and clean water. Beds stood beneath arched windows; tables were laid with mortars, folded linens, and bowls that shimmered faintly with starlit glaze. An elf with hair the color of pale wheat—Eryndor, she had learned—greeted Lyra with a nod warm as sunlight.

“You return,” he said, assessing her with a physician’s eye but a poet’s smile. “Good. The garden is kind after rain. Come, and we will see if your hands remember what your heart surely knows.”

“My hands?” Lyra echoed, amused. “They mostly remember washing dishes.”

“Then they already understand humility,” he replied, which—coming from an elf—sounded like praise.

They walked the herb-garden paths together. A small rill laced through beds bordered with river stones, singing in the quiet. Athelas grew near the water—sharply green, its scent bright as rain—while further back under a lattice’s dappled shade, Eryndor showed her narrow leaves of limlas (“quickleaf,” he translated) which, powdered and mixed with honey, made a salve that knit skin with uncanny speed. He pinched a sprig of seregon—blood-red blooms whose leaves, dried and steeped, steadied a racing heart—and lifted ossë-fern, a silver-fronded plant they used for bruising and swelling. There were others: niphredil petals for fever teas, tathor bark shaved to dull pain, and the star-shaped flowers of gilvín whose oil soothed aching sinew.

Lyra listened greedily. She repeated the names until her tongue could find their music, asked twice where the roots thickened and which parts were poisonous, and what heat would ruin and what heat would wake. Eryndor’s delight in her curiosity was unhidden; he taught quickly and without condescension, as if sharing a song he loved.

By midmorning she had helped strain a syrup of athelas and honey, ground quickleaf to powder, and bound a young elf’s sprained wrist with linen soaked in cool infusion. The work steadied her—hands busy, mind tethered to the small, practical mercies of tending flesh. It was, in its way, a prayer she did not know how to say aloud.

A shadow fell across the threshold.

“Miss Lyra?” came a careful voice.

She turned to find Ori in the doorway, twisting his cap in nervous hands. He had dressed better than usual, beard combed tidy, ink smudged on his thumb as if he’d tried to scrub it clean and failed.

“Ori,” Lyra said, genuinely glad. “You frightened me less today than yesterday.”

He flushed. “I—well. I wanted to… that is—” He took a breath and met her eyes. “Thank you. For the arrow. Dori says I’m not to cry about it anymore because it’s unbecoming, but I think it would be worse not to say it out loud. Thank you.”

Lyra’s first instinct was to wave it away; the second was to make light of it. She did neither. Instead she reached for his hand, squeezed it once. “You owe me a cup of tea someday,” she said. “A very large one.”

Ori smiled, bright and relieved. “Two cups. And a honey bun from the next town that has any worth the name.”

“Done,” she said.

He hesitated, then glanced at the bandage peeking under her sleeve. “Does it hurt much?”

“Less than it looks. More than I admit,” she confessed.

Ori nodded solemnly, as though she had entrusted him with state secrets. Then he backed out before he could spill more gratitude, bumping into someone broad and immovable in the corridor.

“Mind your feet, Ori,” Dwalin rumbled, steadying him by the shoulder with a hand like a mallet. He stepped into the light, scowl in place, the kind that served him for any occasion: battle, breakfast, weddings.

“Dwalin,” Lyra greeted, fighting a smile.

He cleared his throat, not at all comfortable in a room that smelled of lavender and gentleness. “I’ve no time for chatter. But I’ll say what’s due. You kept one of ours from dying. That means something.” He shifted, awkward now that he’d said the thing. “See you’re not foolish with your own life. We’ve enough grief.”

It was as close to tenderness as his voice allowed. Lyra bowed her head, oddly moved. “I’ll do my best.”

“Do better than that,” he grunted, and left before feelings could root anywhere that might embarrass them both.

They came in ones and twos after that, as if the Company had conspired to visit in shifts that didn’t look like shifts. Nori lounged with infuriating casualness against a lintel and dropped a purse on the table—a scattering of coins that glinted like riverlight.

“What’s this?” Lyra asked.

“Insurance,” he said. “For the honey buns Ori promised and all other incidentals associated with not dying.”

“I don’t need—”

“Exactly,” Nori said, already halfway out the door.

Dori followed in his wake, impeccable as ever. He bowed so formally she almost curtsied. “Miss Lyra. I am indebted. If you ever require—” He searched for language sufficient to the weight he felt and found none. “You must allow us to carry your pack for a fortnight. Or year.”

“I refuse to be the reason you trip on a root,” she said, laughing.

He tried not to smile. Failed. “We shall negotiate.”

Bofur brought a lopsided bouquet pilfered (with permission, he assured her thrice) from the least-important edges of the garden, then talked for ten straight minutes about a Rivendell loaf that tasted like cloud and sunlight. Bombur stood behind him nodding emphatically, patting his middle as though to say the proof was in the pudding and the pudding was excellent.

Glóin gave her a curt nod that took obvious effort to soften; Oín peered into her pupil with professional interest and demanded to know the precise mixture in the salve Eryndor had applied. When she recited the proportions, Oín’s hairy brows leapt, impressed despite himself. “Add a sliver of tathor bark and you’ll halve the ache in cold weather.” Then, with the dignity of a physician: “Don’t tell him I said.”

“I’ll inscribe it on the moon,” she said solemnly. He barked a laugh.

Fíli came with apples he’d polished on his sleeves and, with traitorous enthusiasm, demonstrated three ways to disarm a fellow using only a teacup and charm. Kíli apologized again for gripping her arms in the cave and, before she could downplay it, blurted, “You looked very brave at dinner. I mean—healthy. Not that brave people cannot look healthy—Fíli, help me.”

Fíli did not help him. Lyra rescued them both by asking after their ponies. They answered in chorus; for a moment she could almost see the Shire again—Marigold’s girls talking over one another at the table, all knees and laughter and crumbs.

By noon, the knot beneath Lyra’s breastbone—tension she hadn’t named—had loosened. Trust, she realized. Not absolute. Not a blind faith. But something had shifted. Her choice on the road had woven her more tightly into their circle, thread pulling thread until the seam held. She did not know if that was wise. She did not know if she could have borne it otherwise.

Eryndor pressed a cup of broth into her hands when the bell chimed the midday hour. “Sit,” he said, which in Rivendell sounded like a benediction. She perched on a low stool by the open arch. The valley breathed below: a thousand greens, the white spill of water, a hawk writing wide circles in the air with its wings.

“You learn quickly,” Eryndor said, settling beside her. “There are some who pound mortar like a mallet and others who listen with their fingers. You are the second sort. The plants like you.”

Lyra sipped. “That seems a dangerous talent. Dwarves like axes.”

“Dwarves,” he said mildly, “like many things other than axes. But they do not forgive easily the world’s lessons. Neither do we.” He turned the cup in his hands, watching light slant through steam. “It is good for them to see a mercy done at cost.”

She thought of Thorin’s gaze at dinner—how it had fallen, just briefly, to the bandage exposed by the split sleeve. The way his jaw had tightened, not with displeasure then, but with some private reckoning.

“I don’t want any of them to pay more than they must,” she said.

Eryndor’s eyes warmed with a grief that had lived a long time and learned how to sit without consuming. “No healer does.”

Afternoon wore on. She carried basins, counted drops, split leaves along their veins with a thumbnail and laid them, precise as runes, over a boy’s purpled ankle. She learned the feel of limlas when it was ground fine enough, the smell of athelas when it woke properly beneath warm water and breath. Once, mid-task, a low ache rippled through her shoulder and she paused, pressing her palm against the bandage. When she exhaled, the ache ebbed. She counted herself fortunate. She was rinsing a bowl when Gandalf’s shadow poured over the threshold.

“My dear,” he said, and the words already carried purpose, “if you can spare a moment from rescuing Elrond’s dignity with your competence, he and I would be glad of your time.”

Eryndor bowed, as if this had been arranged hours ago. Perhaps it had. “Go,” he told Lyra. “We have enough hands.”

They led her through a side hall to a small chamber open to a fern-hung court. Sunlight pooled like honey on the floor. Elrond stood by a narrow table, his hands lightly resting on his desk.

The study was hushed except for the steady whisper of water beyond the windows, where the Bruinen tumbled endlessly through the gorge below. Lyra sat opposite Elrond and Gandalf, the pale blue of her gown soft against the golden light that filtered through the high-arched windows. The faint scent of parchment and pressed herbs filled the air—tranquil, but heavy with the kind of quiet that asked difficult things.

Gandalf’s hands were folded over his staff, his expression gentler than usual. “You’ve carried this secret long enough, my dear,” he said. “Tell him what you told me.”

Lyra hesitated. Her throat felt tight, as though speaking the truth might unravel the strange, fragile belonging she’d found among the Company. But there was no hiding from eyes like Elrond’s—ancient and knowing, yet kind.

“I’m not from here,” she began softly. “Not from Middle-earth. I don’t even know if my world has a name, at least not one you’d know. I woke up in the woods one morning—Gandalf found me there. Before that… I lived in a place of iron and glass, where there is no magic and no one believes in it.” She looked down, twisting her fingers together. “And yet I knew of this world. I knew your names. I read them in stories. Legends.”

Elrond regarded her silently for a long moment, the lines around his mouth thoughtful, not disbelieving. “Stories,” he repeated. “And yet you found yourself written into them.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Or perhaps I’ve been written over them.”

Something flickered in Gandalf’s gaze—sympathy, and something like worry.

Elrond rose, hands clasped behind his back as he moved to the window. “It is not unheard of for the Valar to move beyond the circles of this world,” he said at last, his voice quiet but resonant. “But for them to send one of another realm—flesh, blood, and memory alike—this is rare indeed. Whatever their purpose, it is not without weight.”

Lyra looked up. “Do you know what it could be? Why I’m here?”

“I do not,” Elrond admitted, turning back toward her. “But such a summons is not made without reason. There is meaning in your being here, even if it is not yet revealed.”

He came closer, studying her with the same grave gentleness he might have shown a wounded bird. “If you would remain in Rivendell for a time, you would be safe here. You could learn from my healers, as you have already shown a gift for tending others. Together, we could search the archives—look for traces of how and why the Valar might have reached beyond the world we know. And perhaps, in time, you might come to understand your place within it.”

Lyra blinked, caught off guard by the offer. “Stay?” she echoed.

“Rivendell is a refuge for those who have lost their road,” Elrond said, smiling faintly. “And I think you have traveled further than any soul I have met.”

Gandalf’s eyes softened. “You would not be unwelcome here, Lyra. There is much to learn in peace, too—though I suspect it is not peace alone that calls to you.”

She wanted to answer, but her heart thudded unevenly. To stay meant safety, yes—but it also meant stepping out of the story she already knew was unfolding on the road. And though fear lingered like smoke in her chest, there was something inside her that refused to turn away from the fire. Lyra’s chest tightened, an ache she couldn’t quite name.

A moment later, the echo of boots in the corridor announced the return of the others. Balin entered first, bowing politely; Bilbo followed, nearly tripping over his own feet in his eagerness. And behind them came Thorin himself, expression cool as tempered steel.

“My lord Elrond,” Balin said. “Forgive our intrusion, but the moon has risen.”

Thorin’s gaze flicked to Lyra briefly—sharp, unreadable, colder than she had ever seen it. Whatever warmth had existed in their quiet moments before had shuttered behind the walls of his pride.

“Indeed,” he said, voice edged and formal. “We should waste no more time on… trivial matters.”

Lyra flushed. Gandalf frowned at Thorin, but Elrond only inclined his head, unruffled. “Then we must go,” he said, gathering the ancient map from his desk. “The moon will not wait.”

The four of them crossed the great bridge that arched over the river, the air crisp with the promise of night. Lanterns hung like stars along the walkway, swaying in the breeze. Elrond led them to a high terrace cut into the cliffside—a place Lyra hadn’t yet seen. A pedestal of crystal stood at the center, glimmering faintly with its own inner light. From here, the entire valley spread out below them, veiled in mist and silver moonshine.

Elrond laid the map carefully upon the pedestal. The parchment seemed to drink in the moonlight. “Patience,” he murmured. “The light must find its angle.”

Gandalf and Balin stood close, speaking in low tones. Bilbo craned to see, breath held.

Lyra folded her arms against the night chill and, despite herself, looked sidelong at Thorin. He stood apart from the others, proud and silent, his profile cut in silver against the valley’s glow. Whatever he had heard in Elrond’s chamber still burned in him; she could see it in the rigid line of his shoulders.

She wanted to speak—to tell him she hadn’t accepted the offer, that she hadn’t even decided—but the words caught in her throat.

And so they waited, the company of the mountain and the girl from another world, as the light of the moon crept slowly across the map.