Healing, Magic, And Unexpected Adventures

Chapter One - Meet the Dwarves

The summer breeze tried to untangle my French braid, succeeding only as far as freeing a few hairs which teasingly stroked my face as I walked home. The air was warm and still, and the distant sounds of a party could be heard along with crickets hidden in the front gardens of Hobbiton, among the green grass and sweet smelling herbs and blooming wildflowers, all of which were beautifully cared for.

I walked through the front gate of Bag End, making sure it gave the sharp click to know that it was properly shut, before heading up the short path through the front garden to the door.

The door which had a mark on it. A mark that hadn't been there this morning when I had left for work, scratching off the fresh paint and carved into the wood beneath.

Crouching down so the mark was eye level, I brushed my fingers over it, careful not to get a splinter, before deciding that whatever it was could wait until morning, when I had gotten a good nights rest and some food.

I stood up, brushed any creases out of my skirt and turned the bronze handle of the door, welcoming the homely sight and scent of Bag End. There was the sound of fish frying in a pan, along with the accompanying smell, but other than that there were no noticeable changes to the hobbit hole.

'Uncle, I'm home.'

I took off my cloak and hung it on the rack, setting my bag down on the stool by the front door.

'Hello dear, how was work?' Uncle Bilbo asked, coming in from the kitchen in his dressing gown.

My uncle was at an average height for a hobbit, standing at three foot eight, and he was almost entirely respectable. He had his seven meals a day, smoked his pipe weed and read his books and never got into trouble or broke the status quo.

I, on the other hand, worked in an infirmary that - according to all legal knowledge - doesn't exist, often end up missing or forgetting meals, and somehow end up finding myself in fist fights at least once a week. Although I do smoke pipe week, so maybe that counts for something.

'It was good,' I said. 'Busy, as it always is in summer, but nothing interesting.'

'I'll put the kettle on. There's some spare fish if you want some, or you could just take your pick from the pantry.'

'Scones it is,' I decided. Uncle Bilbo sighed, but knew better to stop me from going into the pantry and grabbing the plate of scones along with butter and jam.

I put the plate by the window and sat on the counter. Uncle Bilbo had given up telling me not to do so long ago, choosing instead to raise an eyebrow at my less than ladylike behaviour and sit at the table with his fish.

There was a knock on the door just as I took a bite of my first scone. We looked at each other, trying to see if the other had invited guests.

'I'll get it,' Uncle Bilbo said. I couldn't argue back because I had half a scone between my teeth (a very delicious, although not very permanent gag).

I followed him anyway, swallowing the mouthful and hopping off the counter to see who was at the door at this time of night.

Uncle Bilbo opened the door to a dwarf who was, in a word, intimidating. He would have been scary enough without the tattoos, as the scars prominent on his muscular arms and the axes he had made no attempt to conceal already told us this was not someone to mess with.

'Dwalin,' the dwarf said, sinking into a bow. 'At your service.'

'Bilbo Baggins at yours,' said Uncle Bilbo, hurriedly tying his dressing gown. I raised my eyebrows at his suddenly flustered face.

Dwalin stepped into the hobbit hole.

'Do we know each other?' Uncle Bilbo asked.

'No,' Dwalin said bluntly. 'Which way is it, laddie? Is it down here?'