Chapter 1: The Omen of the Uninvited
The air tasted like wet cat and lightning. One moment Brittany was laughing with Saphira, the cool scales of her dragon’s snout bumping her palm as she offered a chunk of salted pork. The next, a sickening lurch tore at her gut, the vibrant greens and blues of Alagaësia’s sky ripped away into a roaring vortex of impossible colors. She choked on ozone, her bones vibrating like tuning forks. Then, silence. Utter, profound silence, broken only by the frantic hammering of her own heart.
Solid ground slammed into her knees. Damp grass seeped through the worn leather of her trousers. She gasped, gulping air that smelled astonishingly sweet – honeysuckle, rich earth, and something baking. Not the familiar scents of Farthen Dûr’s stone halls or the wild tang of the Spine. This air was soft, almost cloying. She blinked, pushing tangled auburn hair from her face, her vision swimming.
Golden light, painfully bright after the chaotic swirl, bathed rolling hills that curved like a contented cat. Small, round doors dotted the hillsides, smoke curling lazily from chimneys. Flowers exploded everywhere – in neat gardens, spilling over fences, clinging to the hillsides. It was unnervingly… pleasant. Like a child’s drawing of peace. The sheer quiet pressed in on her. Where were the clang of forges, the bellowed orders, the deep rumble of dwarven voices? Where was Saphira’s comforting presence in her mind? Just… silence. A hollow, aching void where their bond had thrummed. Panic, cold and sharp, pricked at her.
“H-hello?” A voice, high and tentative, cut through her daze.
Brittany snapped her head around. In the doorway of the nearest hobbit-hole stood a figure. Smaller than a dwarf, clad in simple but well-made clothes – a deep green waistcoat over a cream blouse, sturdy brown trousers. A riot of curly brown hair framed a face currently displaying wide-eyed astonishment. Female. Hobbit. The word surfaced from dusty corners of lore learned at Hrothgar’s table. Bilba Baggins. The name clicked into place like a key turning a lock she hadn’t known existed.
“You… you weren’t there a moment ago,” Bilba stated, clutching a porcelain teacup like a shield. Her knuckles were white. “You just… appeared. In my petunias.”
Brittany struggled to stand, muscles protesting the violent transition. She was taller than the hobbit by a head and a half, lean and wiry. The simple tunic and trousers she wore, practical for dragon-riding, felt suddenly alien in this manicured paradise. Her sword, thankfully, was still strapped securely to her back beneath her travel cloak. She kept her expression neutral, schooling the turmoil inside. Showing weakness in an unknown land was foolish. Never lost a fight, she reminded herself, the mantra a familiar anchor. But this wasn’t a fight. This was… displacement.
“Apologies… for the petunias,” Brittany managed, her voice rough. She winced internally. Her accent, a blend of dwarf-roughened consonants and the more fluid cadence of her unknown human heritage, sounded harsh in the tranquil air. “The journey was… abrupt.”
“Abrupt?” Bilba echoed, her gaze flickering over Brittany’s worn gear, the glint of the sword hilt just visible over her shoulder, lingering on the sharp angles of her face – the high cheekbones, the slightly pointed ears mostly hidden by her hair, the eyes that seemed to catch the dying light with an unnatural intensity. “I should say so. Are you… ill? Or perhaps cursed? Only, appearing out of thin air isn’t terribly common, even for the Brandybucks, and they’re a queer lot.”
The sheer mundane confusion in Bilba’s voice, mixed with genuine concern, was disarming. Brittany saw no immediate threat, only bewilderment. She needed shelter. Information. Time to understand the yawning silence in her head where Saphira should be. Time to figure out how a daughter of King Hrothgar, rider of Saphira Brightscales, ended up flattening flowers in the Shire.
“Not ill,” Brittany said, forcing a semblance of calm. “Merely… lost. Very, very lost. My name is Brittany.” She offered a slight bow, a habit ingrained during her years amongst dwarven royalty. “I seek only shelter, for tonight. I can work. Tend gardens, mend fences… fight, if needed.” She shrugged slightly, the motion making the worn leather of her sword harness creak.
Bilba’s eyes widened further at the word “fight,” but she seemed to be processing the bow, the directness. She took a fortifying sip of tea. “Fight? Goodness. Well, fights are decidedly not on the agenda in Hobbiton, thank the Green Lady. Though Lobelia Sackville-Baggins did try to make off with my best silver spoons last market day…” She trailed off, studying Brittany again. The stranger was clearly weary, disoriented, but there was a stillness about her, a watchfulness that spoke of capability, not menace. And those eyes… unsettling, but not unkind. “Oh, bother,” Bilba muttered, mostly to herself. “Can’t very well leave you sleeping in the petunias. Come in, come in. Before someone sees and starts talk. You look like you could use something stronger than tea.”
Relief, sharp and sudden, washed over Brittany. She followed Bilba through the perfectly round door into a burrow that radiated warmth and cozy clutter. The ceiling was low, forcing her to duck instinctively. The air smelled of beeswax, pipe smoke, and something deliciously buttery. It was a stark contrast to the vast, echoing stone chambers of her adopted home or the wild openness of the sky with Saphira. It felt safe. Temporarily.
“Make yourself… well, perhaps just stand there for now,” Bilba instructed, bustling towards a pantry. “Mind your head on the beam. Now, lost, you say? From where? Rohan? Bree? You’ve the look of the North about you, though… sharper.”
Brittany remained standing, acutely aware of her height in the low space, her senses overwhelmed. The firelight flickered on polished wood and copper pans. The scent of baking intensified – scones, perhaps? It was almost painful in its homeliness, a reminder of everything she’d lost in an instant. Alagaësia. Saphira. Hrothgar’s gruff affection. The weight of her secrets pressed down. Alagaësia meant nothing here. Mentioning Saphira or her lineage would mark her as mad, or worse, a threat.
“Further than that,” Brittany said evasively, watching Bilba arrange scones on a plate with efficient movements. “A land… not on any map you’d know. I traveled through… unstable paths. I don’t think I can return.” The truth, heavily veiled. The silence in her mind where Saphira’s thoughts should brush against hers was a physical ache.
Bilba paused, a scone halfway to a plate. She looked at Brittany, really looked, seeing the strain behind the stoic expression, the shadow of grief in those too-bright eyes. “Lost your way home,” she said softly, a note of unexpected understanding in her voice. “That’s a hard road. Well, you’re welcome under my roof for tonight. I’m Bilba Baggins. And don’t worry about the spoons. Yet.” She offered a small, tentative smile. “Now, scone?”
Brittany accepted the warm pastry. The butter melted on her tongue, rich and comforting. It was the first familiar comfort since… since before. “Thank you, Mistress Baggins,” she said, the formality a shield. “Your kindness won’t be forgotten. If you have need of anything… anything within my power, consider it done.” She meant it. Shelter demanded obligation. And Bilba, bewildered but compassionate, felt like an anchor in this strange sea.
Bilba waved a dismissive hand, though she looked pleased. “Pish. Call me Bilba. ‘Mistress Baggins’ makes me sound like my Great-Aunt Mirabella, and she could curdle milk with a glance. Just help me wash up after supper. And perhaps… perhaps tell me a little of this unmapped land of yours? Over supper?” Her curiosity was piqued, a spark of the Tookishness that occasionally ruffled her respectable Baggins exterior.
Brittany nodded, a flicker of wariness returning. Weaving a believable tale from half-truths would be a different kind of battle. But it was a battle she could manage. For now, the immediate danger was past. She had shelter. She had time. And the terrifying silence in her mind was a problem for the Brittany who wasn’t eating Bilba Baggins’ exceptionally good scones.
The supper dishes were cleared, the tale of a vague, mountainous homeland spun (carefully omitting dragons, dwarven kings, and magical bonds), and a surprisingly comfortable silence had settled in Bilba’s cozy parlor. Brittany found the rhythm of hobbit life – the focus on good food, simple comforts, and quiet evenings – simultaneously soothing and suffocating. She volunteered to bank the fire, needing the simple, physical task. As she carefully arranged the embers, her newly awakened elven senses, a legacy from her birth parents unlocked by the mysterious 'Ancients' after a near-fatal injury, prickled.
Every sound outside the round door was amplified – the rustle of leaves, the distant hoot of an owl, the gentle sigh of the wind. The scents of the night-blooming flowers pressed in, almost overwhelming. And beneath it all… a faint vibration. Growing stronger. Footsteps. Many footsteps, heavy and rhythmic, approaching down the lane. Not hobbit feet. These had the deliberate tread of warriors.
Brittany froze, her hand hovering over the fire irons. Her spine straightened, the weariness of displacement instantly replaced by focused alertness. Every muscle coiled, honed by countless fights in Hrothgar’s training yards and real battles across Alagaësia. The comforting weight of the sword on her back was a familiar reassurance.
Bilba, humming as she wiped down the already-spotless table, noticed the change. “Brittany? Is something wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Before Brittany could answer, a heavy fist hammered against the round green door. Not a polite knock. A commanding thud that echoed through the smial, rattling the teacups on their hooks.
Bilba jumped, dropping her cloth. “Good gracious! Who on earth… at this hour?” She smoothed her waistcoat, a frown creasing her brow. “Probably that bounder, Otho, wanting to ‘discuss’ the boundary hedge again…”
Brittany moved silently, positioning herself slightly to the side of the doorframe, out of the direct line of sight but ready. Her hand didn’t go to her sword, not yet, but it rested easily near the hilt. Her senses screamed danger, not immediate violence, but potential. The footsteps outside had stopped. There was a low murmur of deep voices.
Bilba, muttering about manners, unlocked the door and pulled it open.
A figure filled the doorway, blocking the moonlight. Broad as an oak tree, clad in dark, travel-stained leather and chainmail. A thick, braided beard, dark and shot through with iron grey, framed a face weathered by wind and warfare, etched with deep lines and the sharp angles of dwarvish bone structure. Intricate tattoos snaked up his thick neck, disappearing into his hairline. His eyes, small and piercing beneath heavy brows, swept past Bilba instantly, scanning the hallway beyond with the alertness of a seasoned warrior. They locked onto Brittany.
Dwalin. The name surfaced instantly, though she’d never seen him before. Pure instinct, a primal recognition of power and purpose. This dwarf was trouble. Serious trouble.
He didn’t speak, just grunted, a sound like rocks grinding together. His gaze lingered on Brittany, sharp and assessing, taking in her stance, her worn gear, the unmistakable shape of the sword hilt, and finally, with a flicker of something unreadable – suspicion? recognition? – the subtle points of her ears beneath her hair. His heavy brow furrowed slightly, a silent question hanging in the air.
Bilba drew herself up to her full, unimpressive height. “Dwalin, at your service,” she began, her voice tight with forced politeness, “but I must say, barging in at this hour is quite–”
Another heavy knock, sharp and impatient, sounded on the door beside Dwalin’s massive frame, cutting her off. The dwarf didn’t flinch, his gaze still fixed on Brittany, a silent challenge in his hard, dark eyes. The night air outside suddenly felt colder, charged with the electric tension of impending upheaval. Brittany met his stare, unblinking. The cozy peace of the Shire was shattered. The quest, whatever it was, had found them.
The heavy oak door swung wider, revealing a second figure stepping past Dwalin’s imposing bulk. Thorin Oakenshield filled the doorway with a different kind of presence – not just size, but an almost palpable weight of authority and simmering intensity. His dark hair, streaked with silver, fell around shoulders broadened by years of wielding heavy blades. Piercing blue eyes, sharp as glacier ice, swept the hallway, bypassing a flustered Bilba entirely to fix on Brittany. He radiated a barely-contained energy, like a storm cloud moments before it breaks. "Dwalin," Thorin acknowledged his companion, his voice a deep rumble that vibrated in Brittany’s bones, resonant and commanding. "We are expected." His gaze never left her. It wasn’t merely assessment; it was a probing, uncomfortable scrutiny, stripping away the facade of the weary traveler she presented. Those eyes narrowed infinitesimally, lingering on the line of her jaw, the subtle points of her ears mostly hidden by her auburn hair, then dropping pointedly to the worn leather grip of the sword hilt rising above her shoulder. Suspicion hardened his features. "You are not of the Shire," he stated, a cold certainty in his tone that brooked no argument. It wasn't a question.
Bilba, puffing up like an affronted hen, stepped partially in front of Brittany, though the gesture seemed futile against the dwarf lord’s presence. "Now see here! This is my home! Who are you to barge in uninvited and interrogate my guest? She arrived just this evening, quite unexpectedly I might add, and–"
Thorin cut her off with a single, imperious glance. "Unexpected arrivals often precede unexpected trouble, Mistress Baggins." His focus snapped back to Brittany, intense and demanding. "Your bearing speaks of the forge and the field of battle, not pipeweed and gardening. That blade is not a hobbit’s tool." He took a single, deliberate step forward, the air thickening with tension. Dwalin shifted subtly beside his king, his hand resting casually, but meaningfully, near the axe head strapped to his back. "Speak plainly. Who are you, and why are you here on this night of all nights?" Thorin’s voice dropped lower, a dangerous edge creeping in. "Your eyes hold secrets unnatural for these lands. Elvish secrets."
The accusation hung in the cozy hobbit-hole like a shroud. Brittany felt the familiar surge of readiness flood her muscles, the ingrained response of a warrior confronted. Her fingers flexed near her sword hilt, her senses – amplified by her unlocked elven heritage – screaming a warning not just of the formidable dwarves before her, but of something else. Something colder, more predatory, moving stealthily just beyond the round door, near the trampled petunias. The faint scent of damp earth, cheap ale, and ill intent drifted in on the night air. The man she’d sensed earlier wasn’t just leering anymore; he was stalking.
The stench of cheap ale and foul intent sharpened just as a shadow detached itself from the wall outside. Brittany’s focus snapped from Thorin’s imperious glare to the doorway. The lurking man lunged, grabbing for Bilba’s arm – probably aiming for her purse or worse.
He didn't get close.
Brittany moved faster than thought, a blur of wiry muscle. Her elbow cracked against his jaw before his fingers could brush Bilba’s sleeve. He crumpled with a choked gurgle, sprawling back into the petunias, unconscious. She didn't even draw her sword. One smooth, brutal motion.
Silence crashed down in the hallway, thick and stunned. Bilba gasped, clutching her chest. Thorin’s piercing blue eyes widened a fraction, surprise momentarily cracking his stern facade. Dwalin grunted, a sound of pure approval mixed with new, intense scrutiny. His gaze raked over her, reassessing everything.
Brittany nudged the groaning man further into the ruined flowers with her boot, ensuring he wouldn't be getting up soon. She finally turned back to Thorin, wiping her knuckles on her trousers. That hollow ache where Saphira should be pulsed, but fury was a cleaner, sharper feeling right now. Thorin’s accusation about her eyes still hung in the air, thicker than pipe smoke.
"You," she stated, her voice flat and cold, cutting through the tension like her blade could cut steel. She pointedly ignored Thorin’s question about her identity, her gaze locked on his. "The one bellowing about unexpected trouble and elvish secrets while your boot’s practically through Mistress Baggins’ door." She took a single step forward, not aggressive, but utterly unyielding. "Look at yourselves. Packed in her hall like you own the place, demanding answers you haven’t earned." She swept a hand, encompassing both dwarves. "Who invited you? Where are your manners? Seems the only ‘unexpected trouble’ stomping through the Shire tonight," she finished, her voice dripping with icy disdain, "is wearing a crown of arrogance and travel stains." She planted her feet, the unconscious man at her back forgotten, her challenge hanging in the suddenly frigid air of the hobbit-hole.
The frigid silence crackled. Thorin Oakenshield’s face, sculpted from pride and stone, flushed a deep, dangerous crimson beneath his beard. His hand instinctively tightened on the pommel of his own sheathed blade, knuckles whitening. Bilba squeaked, flitting between staring at the prone man in her flowers and the bristling dwarf king. "My petunias! Oh, my poor delphiniums! This is absolutely…!"
Dwalin, however, let out a low, rumbling chuckle that sounded like stones tumbling down a mountain. His dark eyes, still fixed on Brittany, held a spark of genuine, grudging approval. "Clean strike," he grunted, the words blunt and unexpected. "Quick." His gaze flickered over her stance again, lingering on her hands. "No hesitation." It wasn't praise, exactly. More like an assessment of a weapon he hadn't known was in the room.
Thorin shot Dwalin a withering glare that could have frozen dragon fire. He turned back to Brittany, the fury in his blue eyes warring with a cold, calculating reassessment. Her defiance, her speed, the sheer audacity of calling him out while standing over the wreckage of her own making… it bypassed his suspicion and struck straight at his dwarven sense of order. "Your insolence is matched only by your recklessness, woman," he ground out, his voice dangerously low. "Dropping brigands into herbaceous borders solves nothing but the gardener's temper!"
Brittany held his gaze, unflinching. The hollow ache where Saphira’s presence should vibrate throbbed, a constant, lonely counterpoint to the adrenaline. He calls me reckless? He barges in like a cave troll. "Solves the immediate problem," she countered flatly, nodding at the groaning heap in the petunias. The sticky-sweet scent of crushed blooms mixed unpleasantly with the acrid tang of pipe smoke drifting from the dwarves. "Unlike posturing."
Before Thorin could detonate, another heavy fist hammered on the doorframe beside him, making Bilba jump again. "Oi! What’s this then? Blockin' the door! Move yer great, hairy arses!"
Light flared outside – not moonlight, but a warm, golden glow from a staff held aloft. The silhouette of a tall, pointed hat filled the space behind the grumbling newcomers. A familiar, deep voice, laced with exasperation and a hint of amusement, cut through the tension. "Thorin Oakenshield! Dwalin! Must you always make an entrance that involves flattening the local flora and terrifying the hostess? And who," the voice paused, the staff light shifting to illuminate Brittany’s face, her sharp features etched in gold, "have we here? A guardian angel with a penchant for horticultural assault?" Gandalf the Grey peered past the dwarves, his bushy eyebrows climbing towards his hat brim, his keen eyes missing nothing – the unconscious man, Brittany’s sword, the furious king, the stunned hobbit, and the faint, otherworldly sharpness in the stranger’s eyes. The air sizzled, thick with unanswered questions and the smell of crushed petunias. Thorin slowly turned, his furious gaze shifting from Brittany to the wizard, while Dwalin kept watching her.