#bilboxreader

More than six months had passed since making your half-hearted request that when “it” finally arrived - wrapped in plain brown paper with your initials in block letters  - you honestly couldn’t recall what you’d asked for.

The package was unceremoniously dropped at the front door with such a thud that it awoke you from your afternoon nap. You had run to the door, hoping it was Bilbo, returning home hours earlier than expected from a farmer friend’s abundant tobacco leaf harvest far on the other end of the Shire. But to your disappointment, there was only the mysterious package. No note.  

After giving the surrounding lush greenery of the beautiful hilly landscape a sweeping glance from left to right, hoping to catch the person who brought you the bundle, you shrugged, picked it up and went back inside, yawning and craving a cup of tea that your new husband so expertly made. You didn’t think you would miss him quite so much, especially since he hadn’t been gone very long.

As you shuffled past the piles of books and papers of the house you had called home since your festive wedding, it dawned on you what the package felt like: a book.   

Your eyes wide, you dug your nails into the thick paper. Bits and pieces sailed this way and that until you uncovered the mystery, confirming your suspicions.

You gulped as you stroked the edges of the cover and read the title of the salacious book in silence: “Of Lips and Fingers.”      

You couldn’t help but laugh out loud. What a different state of mind you were in when you overheard a few rambunctious people at the pub table behind you cackling about the detailed illustrations in the book, which had apparently made the rounds from one end of Middle Earth to another over many years. 

It was actually refreshing to listen in on the conversation. You had just returned from one of the most harrowing adventures you’d ever signed up for, in which you and Bilbo came dangerously close to losing your own lives and those of three friends, the heirs of Durin. And you had fallen desperately, unexpectedly in love with someone you were sure wanted nothing to do with you romantically, a person you could never imagine desiring before the journey: the fastidious, kind and brave Bilbo Baggins.

Given everything you’d been through, getting distracted by a naughty book enticed you. You told the rowdy group of men, women and Shirefolk your name and that you’d be staying in the beautiful area for at least three months, helping your dear friend Bilbo get re-settled before figuring out your next move. If they ever came across the book again, you asked that they drop it by your quarters at the nearby inn.  

“Might take longer ‘n three moons to get to you, my friend,” one of the women said. “People tend to get hung up on those drawings for a bit.”   

“Hung, indeed!” someone else said, setting off several seconds of laughter at the table.

“Alright,” the woman said, “soon as it’s made the rounds back to these parts, if you’re still here, it’s all yours  - as long as you don’t mind teaching us a few moves with that fancy sword on your hip.” 

You bumped mugs with her in agreement, even though you were in no mood to wield your sword any time soon, even for instructional purposes. But you doubted any of this would come to fruition anyway, so what difference would it make?

“Deal,” you said.

And then, just a day later as you helped him re-shelve his cherished books, Bilbo made his timid confession of love. Like a whirlwind, you went from a weary soldier-for-hire to an over-the-moon bride-to-be.

Cradling “Of Lips and Fingers” in your hands, you opened to the title page that had a simple line drawing. At first, it loosely resembled fingers around a pickle. Then you remembered the subject matter and did a double take:   

“Is that what I think it is?” you whispered.

Oh it was. And that was just the beginning.   

Thirty minutes passed as you you sat propped against the wall in the parlor, alternating between giggling, gasping, frowning, turning the book sideways and upside down to understand what you were looking at, and missing your hairy-footed lamb chop with a deep, fiery longing.   

“Hello, hello! I’m home!”   

Startled at hearing Bilbo’s voice exactly when you were thinking of him, you jumped. The sudden movement, combined with slamming the book shut, caused “Of Lips and Fingers” to pop out of your hands, fly into the air, and clip your nose on the way to the floor. ·        

“OW!”    

You rubbed your sniffer with one hand, scooped the book up with the other and stood, looking for a quick hiding place.         

“Darling? Are you hurt?” Bilbo called. 

“I’m fine, lamb chop!” I was just looking at drawings of nude strangers enjoying themselves…

“I’ve got quite a harvest here. Meet me in the garden to have a look and give your lamb chop proper welcome home?”  

“Uh…” You glanced at the stacks of books. You could stick the book in any number of piles but - and maybe it was just your nerves - you just KNEW Bilbo would sniff it out. No new book got by him.  

“I’ll be right there!” you called.    

In fact, you could beat him there, if he indeed had the bounty he claimed he had. It would take him a minute to drag the sack of leaves to the garden. Plus, his legs were shorter than yours. You could outrun him to the garden, stick the book into some freshly-turned earth and he would be none the wiser.  

On the way out, you put on your slippers from the bedroom, then exited through the back. You tiptoed up to the well and crouched, peeking from behind it to make sure he couldn’t see you. He was still struggling with the sack. You dashed to the garden, shoved “Of Lips and Fingers” into a patch of loose earth, brushed off your house coat and then ran toward Bilbo. He turned around just in time to receive your warm embrace.  

“I’m so glad you’re home!” Bending down so that your cheek rested on his shoulder close to his neck, you were in the perfect spot: near his right ear. You lifted your head and kissed the tip of it, felt him shiver in your arms, then switched to the left ear and gave him another gentle kiss. He laughed through a short sigh. You broke the hug, and smiled as you took note of his cheeks, which reddened whenever you kissed his ear tips.

“I’m glad to be back, too. But I was only gone for a few hours,” he said.  

“This is the first few hours we’ve spent apart since the wedding,” you reminded him.  

Bilbo gave you a smile as bright as sunrise and nodded. “True, true. Care to help me lug this away from the door?”  

“Certainly.” You grabbed the top of the cinched sack and dragged it to the garden with ease.  

“Careful! It nearly flattened me, getting it off the wagon…” Bilbo’s voice trailed off while he followed you, watching you handle the sack as if it were empty.

“Sometimes I forget how strong and fast you are,” he said, looking embarrassed.

“Years of training.” You took a quick look at the odd mound of dirt covering the book and wished you’d pushed it deeper into the soil.   

“Training didn’t give you those long limbs.” Bilbo dropped his head for a moment, as he did sometimes when he thought too hard about the differences between the two of you. “What did you ever see in me, fair lady?”  

You bent down and kissed his cheek. “We’ll be out here all day if I answer that. Next question.”  

Bilbo grinned and placed a small kiss on the tip of your nose. When he pulled away, his eyes were on the dirt.     

“Sweetheart, what did you bury in the garden?”    

Curses!  

Straightening up and glancing behind you, you intentionally didn’t look in the direction of the buried book.   

“Um…what? Nothing.”  

Bilbo tapped your shoulder and beckoned you to lower to his eye level again. You complied, melting in his tender, concerned gaze.

“You have never lied to me,” he said.

You sighed and stood erect. “I’m sorry, Bilbo. I lied because I’m ashamed.”    

“About what, my dear?”  

You walked over to the book and pulled it out of the dirt. After you brushed the soil off it, you handed it to Bilbo, and his eyes lit up.

“A new book, for me?” he asked, before opening it.   

“It was for me. I’m borrowing it, I guess.”  

Bilbo ran his hand over the cover. He started turning the pages. “Why would a book embarrass you, love? I know how much you like to read…oh! My.”   

Wanting to run and hide, you took a step back instead and bit your lip.

Bilbo stopped at one drawing and his jaw dropped. “My goodness, she’s certainly limber, isn’t she?” He brought his face closer to the page. “They…they both are. My, my, my. Wherever did you get this?” Bilbo fanned through more pages.  

“It’s a long story.”  

Bilbo held the book at arm’s length, squinting and angling it, just as you had. 

“These look like elaborate tricks performed by contortionists,” he said, amazed. He moved from the images to the book’s ridiculous narrative on lovemaking. “Hm. I’ve never read of coupling referred to as ‘two entangled flowers...’ ”         

“Bilbo, please stop.”                 

He closed it and looked up at you. “These acts…they interest you?”·        

“No. I mean, in a way. Maybe a few. But it’s not something I’m asking you to do. I was just curious. I asked to see this book before we got married - before I even knew how you felt about me. I didn’t think we could have a future together. I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life.”

“But you could be happier. More satisfied, yes?”  

“I am already satisfied. That is no lie.”  

Bilbo looked at the plain cover again, then placed it on top of the sack and reached for your hands.  

“I must admit, I’ve always been intrigued by the positions on page forty-three,” he said.

You wrinkled your brow. “Forty-three?”  

“Yes. The page you bent.”  

You stifled a laugh but failed to hide your shy smile.   

“Shall we try them?” he asked, keeping your hands in his, and taking a step toward you.

 Your face got hot. “Uh…which ones?”

“Every trick in the book.”

At once flustered and aroused, you weren’t sure what to say. You didn’t know if Bilbo was just proposing the shenanigans to please you or because he really wanted to try them. Maybe he felt self-conscious. The men and women in those drawings, with the same long limbs he’d just remarked about you, weren’t Hobbits. Maybe he felt inferior to them, and wanted something to prove.  

“You’re a perfect lover, Bilbo. The illustrators and writers of that book could learn a thing or two from you.”   

He smiled and rocked on his heels. “Let’s practice the suggestions we’ll submit to them for a second volume, then.”

“Lamb chop!” you gasped, followed by a surprised and pleased smile.

When you returned to camp, all you first saw was a rush of scurrying feet kicking up dust as they rounded a bend in the dense forest, with Bilbo whispering for everyone to “go, get out, get out!”

“Where are they headed in such a hurry?” you asked.

“Uh…the corn hash was a bit spicy for their stomachs. They all had to relieve themselves.” Bilbo rocked on his heels and scratched the back of his neck. 

“At the same time?” You picked one of several suddenly-available rocks and took a seat.

“Well, you know. They like to do everything together.”

You frowned and looked from side to side. “All righty…..”

“Anyway, it’s good we’re alone. There’s something I need to tell you,” Bilbo said, arching backwards and checking to make sure the lads truly had disappeared.

Uh-oh. You squirmed. Those last seven words were usually the lead-in to some awful news. You crossed your legs and laced your fingers together at your knees, waiting nervously.

When he was convinced that no one was peeking or listening in, Bilbo straightened up and looked at you sheepishly.

“W-w…” Bilbo started, his gaze sliding from your face toward the fire. “When…uh..”

You resisted the urge to ask him to just spit it out.  Whatever he had to say was obviously difficult enough without added pressure, but you were ready to scream in anticipation.

“When you were off a while ago,” Bilbo finally shot his words out, and met your eyes again, “I came after you to ask about supper…how much you wanted me to save you, and all that.”

You uncrossed your legs, then re-crossed them, switching which leg was on the bottom and returning your folded hands to your knees. You tried your best to remain expressionless.

“But what happened instead is…” Bilbo’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and he looked absolutely horrified just thinking of what he had to say next. Bringing his chin down, he peered at you with shameful eyes. “I saw you.”

As you processed his confession, from the beginning mumbling and stuttering to the last three truthful words, it looked to Bilbo as if you’d become petrified stone. You no longer fidgeted. The only things obviously moving on you were your blinking eyelids and rising and falling chest, which Bilbo tried to avoid looking at.

Finally, you released your hands from your knees and slid your top leg off the other, slanting them together slightly.

“Thank you for telling me, Bilbo.”

Your voice was calm, as was your demeanor.

“It was an accident, I swear it,” Bilbo said, answering as if you’d yelled at him accusingly, which is what he expected. 

“I understand,” you replied.

Bilbo shook his head. This was going entirely too smoothly.

“That’s not all,” he blurted. “I, perhaps, looked for longer than a second. It may have been ten seconds.”

“It sounds as if you were in shock.”

“And I made up a poem about you. No, not you exactly…well, yes, yes it was about you, but it was supposed to be about nature. A view of nature. I told it to the company, thinking they wouldn’t understand. But they guessed it, straight away. I didn’t tell them anything impolite, but…they knew.”

“A poem, about me? I’m flattered. I should like to hear it sometime.”

Bilbo dropped his head and swished it from side to side again, his curls becoming a blur.

“Please don’t ask me to say it again,” he asked.

“All right, Bilbo. As you wish.”

He raised his head and cocked it, his mouth agape, deep lines pulling his brows down.

“You are taking this incredibly well,” he said. “Why? Why aren’t you furious at me?”

You took a deep breath, leaned back and pressed your palms into the rough rock, slightly reclining with your straight arms as support.

“Well, it all sounds like a mistake. There isn’t a rude bone in you, Bilbo.”

“And what of the revealing poem?”

“Um…creative inspiration.”

“And the company? They know!”

You twisted your bottom lip in and bit it for a moment until you conjured up another answer.

“You had a very perceptive, captive audience. Those lads are quite smart.”

“No no no no no no!” Bilbo said,  pacing before the fire pit. If he couldn’t get a rise out of you, he could do it all by himself.

“What’s wrong, Bilbo?”

“What’s wrong? WHAT’S WRONG?” He stopped about a yard in front of you. “I came upon the most beautiful sight I have ever seen, or will ever see, in my entire life, and I stayed for longer than I should have, because I was completely spellbound, and because I am thoroughly and madly in love with you and want to spend my life with you, and you don’t put up one objection?”

Having completely emptied his soul, Bilbo felt woozy, realizing that his big confession about seeing you nude had turned to an even bigger confession of wanting to be your lover. 

He managed to stay upright, and watched a slow smile spread across your face, and your eyes shine with glee.

You stood and contained your own sudden dizziness as you moved closer to Bilbo.

“Why would I object,” you said, placing your hands on his shoulders, “when I rather hoped you would see me?’

His mouth hung in a long oval. “You did? Why?”

“Because….” You gathered your nerve. “Because I love you, too, Bilbo. I can’t recite off-the-cuff poetry about it, but I do.”

Bilbo’s face was aglow with amazement over how these awkward few moments had quickly evolved into the most surprisingly enlightening experience he ever had.

“You love me?” he whispered. Your smile said it all.

Bilbo lifted his hands to the sides of your face, framing you in them like delicate artwork.

“When were you going to tell me, my dear?” he asked.

You cleared your throat and stalled for a bit, then said, “after I made a confession of my own.”

Dropping his hands to your shoulders, Bilbo’s face fell into a confused expression, all frown and shifty-eyes, broken by a nervous smile.

“What confession would that be?”

“When we stopped at Beorn’s house, and after you went off to bathe, I searched for you to ask if it was all right if you had water with breakfast, since Fili was drinking all the fresh milk-”

“I WAS NOT!” Fili’s voice shouted from behind a large bush. Immediately there was a chorus of “shhh!,” “shut up, you idiot!” and the familiar swatting sound of Bofur’s hat to Fili’s head. You smiled at the interruption and eavesdropping while Bilbo rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“Anyway,” you said, “I saw you.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened. “You-you did?”

“I sure did, and let me tell you.” You brought your arms around him, and he followed your lead. “I’m not sorry. You are highly favored, Bilbo. Highly. I was already in love with you, and then I really fell.”

Bilbo threw his head back and laughed. Part of him felt like such a cad for finding your observation so flattering, and the other part of him did not care one stinking bit.

He leaned forward and planted a small, tender peck on your lips, then smiled proudly as he snuggled against your twin peaks.

“Did you hear that, lads? I am highly favored!” he shouted.

There was an envious grumble of recognition as the company emerged from their eavesdropping spot.

Your time in Middle Earth was brief; you’d been advised this was the rule when visiting fictional realms, never the exception.

The only time that the magicae argentum allotted you was three days. Then, you were to return back to the comfort and realness of home.

Passed down from your earliest alchemist ancestors, the “magic silver” coin would give you the once-a-year opportunity of stepping into whatever make-believe world you whispered into it just before giving it a flip. 

As soon as it landed, you would be in your fictional fantasy, where you had absolutely no honorable or fate-changing purpose whatsoever. 

Your task was simply this: to have a good time in your chosen realm, in whatever manner your heart desired, until time was up. 

No coin, no return.

When you came of age and for the first time flipped the dull, rusted and rough coin into reclaimed Erebor, you - the devilish soul you were - happened to be in the mood to make two kinds of trouble while there.

Arriving right near the sea of gold inside the Lonely Mountain, you let out a quick yelp and spin as you excitedly took in your surroundings, falling down and laughing hysterically over the fact that you were actually in Middle Earth. 

Within seconds, the Dwarves of Erebor had surrounded you, pointing weapons at you and demanding to know who you were. 

Because you didn’t look like much of a threat, they accepted your story that you were an honest person on the run from some shady people you owed money to, and had been hiding out nearby ever since the dragon fled. You told them that you only recently stepped inside. 

Thorin opposed granting you asylum, but he was already too deep into the gold sickness to keep up the fight.

Bilbo took an instant special liking to you. He mistakenly thought it was alarm he saw on your face as you adjusted to an unexpected adventure. He could relate.

But it was nothing more than mischief twinkling in your eyes. Knowing all you knew about Tolkien’s story and Bilbo’s role in it, you made him your target.

“I’ve already told you, Thorin, I have not seen the Arkenstone,” Bilbo said for at least the third time on the second day of your visit. You were standing next to him on the throne dais, before the weary king.

“Hmmm ohh my god,” you muttered, too low for anyone to hear the lyrics, but just enough to get on their nerves. “Stop fuc-”

“What is that grating tune again?” Thorin demanded. You had mumbled the parody song before then, much quieter, every time Thorin asked Bilbo point-blank if he’d seen the heart of the mountain. But no one had asked you about it until that moment.

“Why You Always Lying.” You smiled and winked at the Hobbit, who gulped as you kept low-key singing.

You stopped when Thorin shot up angrily from the hallowed seat. 

“What are you accusing me of, stranger?” he asked, his eyes wild.

“Nothing, nothing! Please excuse us,” Bilbo said, taking your hand and hurrying you down the platform stairs.

Walking fast out of Thorin’s sight, Bilbo asked what possessed you to sing such a song about the king.

“I wasn’t singing it about him, Bilbo!” you cackled.

“Then, to…who, me? What have I stolen?”

“I wonder if he knows that I know that he’s lying right now!” you recited, pointing to his waist coat.

“What?” Just then, he patted his pocket, and in a sudden panic, you did the same. 

That’s when you realized you were without your coin. 

You stopped walking, released Bilbo’s hand and screamed, sending an echo through the wide halls. Bilbo implored you to hush, until you explained your loss, but not the magic of it. You only said that without your coin, you could never go back home.

If there was one thing Bilbo understood, it was the importance of home. So he didn’t hesitate to start helping you retrace your steps in agonizing detail, for another day, to no avail.

As time sped forward, your hyperventilating kept you from thinking straight. War was coming! How would you ever get back home?

You couldn’t say anything to anyone about the true importance of that coin, not even to your friend, whose dishonesty with Thorin was becoming annoyingly more noticeable to you.

After Dori offered you some potent spirits in an effort to calm you down, the more you started to see Bilbo as a lying little ass who was playing games with not just poor Thorin’s crumbling mind, but everyone else’s as well. 

For all I know, he has my coin! you thought, not once considering it was the Dwarvish wine talking.

“What is that?!” You heard Thorin snap the words as he emerged from a dark corridor, rushing over to you and Bilbo with murder in his eyes. 

The two of you were sitting on a bench. Bilbo was exhausted from the futile search for your coin, and you were exhausted, tipsy and agitated by his secret.

“In your hand!” Thorin boomed, as Bilbo stood up, frightened.

“It’s - it’s nothing,” Bilbo said.

“Hmm oh my GOD!” you sang with angst, pulling at your hair and rocking in your seat like a stark raving mad lunatic, distraught over having to stay in this realm.

“Not now,” Bilbo pleaded.

Thorin looked at you, puzzled.

“Why are you singing that lying song again?” Thorin barked.

All at once you bolted up from the bench, bent into a squat, and placed your hands on your knees, trying to get at Bilbo’s eye level. You nearly lit him on fire with your breath.

“ ♪ Why you always lying…♪”

“L-lying?” Bilbo sputtered, looking from you to Thorin with a nervous smile. “All right, then, I think the wine finally got to you.” 

He attempted to take you by the arm, but you stood upright and spun out of his grasp. You started replicating Nicholas Fraser’s moves from the “Why You Always Lying” video that you make you laugh until your face hurt. 

Then you launched into the lyrics, louder than you had previously:

“♪ Why the fuck you lying

Why you always lying

Hmmm ohh my god

Stop fucking lying! ♪”

“ENOUGH! What is this absconder and cheat talking about?” Thorin demanded of Bilbo, who only shrugged. “Are you lying about something, Bilbo?”

‘’‘Sconder? Cheeeeeeet?” you slurred, before Bilbo could answer. “You don’t know the Half-ling about cheats!”

Bilbo pulled on your shirt.  “Come now, off to bed!” he chirped.

“Take your thieving hands off me, you liar!”

“Thieving?” Thorin growled, his eyes blazing through Bilbo. “What did he steal?”

“Give me my coin, Bilbo!!” you hollered.

His expression, one of pure hurt, pierced through your tipsiness and despair, and made you want to take him in your arms and hug him forever.

“I do not have your coin,” Bilbo said quietly.

But what really shot you into sobriety was the rage in the king’s eyes. You couldn’t let things unfold this way. It wasn’t up to you to reveal Bilbo’s secret.

“Thorin,” you said quickly, stepping between him and Bilbo, and forcing yourself not to teeter. “Bilbo’s right. He didn’t take it. I lost my coin because I was careless.” 

You turned to your friend. “I’m sorry, Bilbo.” He accepted your apology with a small smile.

Thorin kept his eyes on you suspiciously as he reached inside his lovely fur coat and retrieved something from it, holding it out to you as you looked back at him.

“Are you speaking of this coin?” he asked. “I found this ugly thing yesterday.”

Gasping with delight, you snatched your special magic silver from his palm and shrieked your thanks and kissed the coin. 

Thorin just shook his head at you while Bilbo smiled brighter, glad to see you so happy and relieved.

After your brief celebration, you hugged Bilbo and whispered right into his ear, “You really do need to stop lying. But I know you will in good time. Best of luck, Bilbo.”

You kissed his cheek, then turned to Thorin. You were about to bow to him when you remembered the other trouble you wanted to make while you were in Middle Earth.

Grabbing him by his fur collar, you pulled Thorin to you and planted a kiss on his lips, with plenty of tongue. He was perplexed, but didn’t pull away.

“You are a such a good kisser,” you breathed, “and that is no lie.” Breaking from him as the coin started to feel hot in your hands, you knew it was ready to get to work, as this was the end of the third and final day of your visit.

You could have sworn that you saw a glimmer of sanity in Thorin as he touched his hand to his overworked lips. Your sudden smooch was more like true lust’s kiss than true love’s, but if it helped him climb out of the gold sickness any faster, maybe you really did serve an honorable purpose there. 

And maybe, because of that silly song, Bilbo would confess a little sooner that he had the Arkenstone, and his reasons behind taking it.

The last thing you imparted to Thorin was not to ever take on Azog alone. His only response was a frown, but somehow, you knew the advice sank in.  

When they asked where you were walking off to, you explained that, now that you had your coin, it was time to go home.

“But…” Bilbo said as you left. You’d stamped an odd impression on him, to say the least. But he would miss you terribly.

Poem by Averil-of-Fairlea

Thorin was standing with Gandalf and pointing to a pastoral expanse of land when Bilbo, dazed but not confused, strode up from the wood line and plopped onto a large rock without giving a second thought to discomfort. 

“The safest path is through those hills,” Thorin said to Gandalf, who nodded in agreement.

“We’ll stay low, in the valley,” suggested the wizard.

Thorin shook his head. “No. If there’s trouble we’ll have a better advantage on the peaks.”

“Peaks. Hmmm,” Bilbo sighed as he placed his elbow on his knee and rested his chin on the back of his hand. His eyes twinkled, and he was looking far-off. 

“What’s that, Bilbo?” asked Bofur, ladling into his bowl some corn hash from the simmering kettle, held up by two stones over the camp fire.

“Just thinking of …uh…a lovely view I saw of some hills,” Bilbo stumbled, putting his hand down to join the other in his lap and twiddling his thumbs.

“The ones Thorin’s pointing to?” Bofur looked over at the nondescript mounds. “What’s so special about those?”

“Not those, Bofur.” Bilbo rolled his lips in tight, regretting that he said anything.

“Well, which ones are you…?” Bofur’s voice trailed off.  His hat flaps bounced as he took a quick look around the incomplete circle. “Say, where’s our newest member?”

“Probably washing up,” Dwalin guessed. 

Kili shook his head. “Mum always insisted on us washing up before supper, too. What is it about-”

Bilbo blocked out the rest. His stare was the equivalent of kicking dirt in Kili’s eye.

“There is nothing inherently womanly about washing up,” he said, his tone and look harsher than the lads were used to.

Kili frowned. “Uh, Bilbo, I didn’t say anything like that.” 

Bilbo didn’t care. “You could stand to wash up more often.” 

The Hobbit’s jab got Thorin and Gandalf’s attention, and they stopped debating about the route to take their choice of rock or tree stump around the fire to listen in on more digs.

“Ha-ha-ha! Something’s got the Halfling fired up!” Fili said. 

“Pity. He was just fawning over a couple of hills a second ago,” Bofur said.

“Hills?” Thorin asked dubiously, filling his pipe with tobacco, then coming close to the flame to carefully light it. “Who swoons over hills?”

“All of you would.” AGHK!  Bilbo chided himself. Too much!

Thorin snorted as he returned to his seat. “Must be something with Hobbits.” He took a puff and exchanged a nod with Dwalin.

“I think it’s fair to say that you swoon over a mountain,” Bilbo retorted.

Thorin tightened his jaw and weighed whether or not it was worth it to school Bilbo in front of the others. He decided it wasn’t.

“These pretty hills you speak of sound like the stuff of poetry, Bilbo,” Bofur said.

“DON’T!” Thorin and Dwalin roared in unison, at the exact moment that Bofur, Dori, Balin and Ori started urging Bilbo to “recite a few lovely Shire verses.”

A sudden poetic inspiration blazed brilliantly through Bilbo’s mind like Gandalf’s finest fireworks, ignited by the sight he’d accidentally stumbled upon but vowed he would never reveal: you, naked. He’d walked up behind a breathtaking weeping cherry just in time to see you peeling out of your mud-splattered garments and changing into your extra set of clothes.

The only reason he came after you was to ask how many bowls of food you wanted him to save you, like he always did. 

He didn’t think you’d be naked. Actually, he didn’t know what he thought, blindly pursuing you like that into the woods. It never dawned on Bilbo that what he really wanted was just some alone time with you.

Bilbo cleared his throat and looked behind him, checking for you. You still hadn’t emerged from the woods; last he saw when he finally scurried away, you were scraping off the stubborn mud from your boots with a stick.

“Come on, Bilbo,” Balin said. “I think a poetry night is in order. This lot could use a little culture.”

There was no getting out of it. Whether he wrote it in his journal, said it aloud now, or murmured it in his sleep, Bilbo resigned himself to the fact that this poem was going to get out. 

But these chaps wouldn’t know he was talking about you, right? 

Right.

So Bilbo allowed his gaze to fix on the kettle, then the fire, falling into a trance as he effortlessly began his ode:

“My plodding feet led me to lovely twin peaks

Though to see them was not my intent

So rapt was I by their sheer perfection

That ever closer, my feet went

I dared not cross the weeping cherry tree

Behind its trunk I remained hidden

I lost my manners to that enchanting view

And rejoiced that it was forbidden

I saw a patch of dark grass between two strong stems

A thick and abundant wild cluster

Then my eyes hiked the trail ‘round the landscape’s small divot

Till I shone in the hills’ brilliant luster

Sun rays warmed the peaks’ small sweet buds

A beautiful firm dot on each summit…”

“Er, Bilbo?”

The Hobbit stopped upon hearing Bofur say his name, and more importantly, at hearing the shock in it.

And for the first time since the spontaneous poem came to him, Bilbo’s stare broke from the fire to the stunned faces of the Dwarves and wizard. 

Whatever they’d had up to their mouths - pipes, spoonfuls of food, flutes, clarinets, mugs - were now gripped in their hands, pushed steadily lower by every stanza of the provocative poem.

“You saw her, didn’t you? NAKED!” Kili blurted with a bright smile on his face, pointing at Bilbo 

The Hobbit laughed nervously, which told everyone Kili had guessed correctly.

“Whatever are you talking about?” Bilbo shrieked, looking around for you. Thankfully, you still hadn’t materialized.

“‘Dark grass’? ‘Wild cluster?’ That’s her carpet!” Kili exclaimed.

“Vulgar,” Bilbo mumbled.

Thorin was a bit louder to Kili. “I’ll remember to tell your mother of your ignorant choice of words.”

Fili picked up a nearby pine cone and threw it against his brother’s shoulder. “I told you that’s not what it’s called!”

“Ohhh…I see,” Bofur said slowly, his mouth hanging open for a moment as he put everything together. “And the lovely twin peaks must have been her-”

“SHHH!” BIlbo felt like he was about to implode. 

“Bilbo Baggins!” Gandalf said, disappointment in his voice. “Belladona Took would be turning over in her grave if she knew -”

“No, Gandalf, it’s not like that!” 

“Why, you sly Hobbit fox,” Nori remarked in awe. 

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” Bilbo forced himself to take a breath, then he quieted, not wanting you to come upon the scene hearing his confession. 

“You’ve got to believe me!” Bilbo added in a ragged whisper, terrified that you would magically appear right in front of him at any second.

“Heh-heh, ho ho!” Fili laughed, “we definitely believe you, mate. You’re a burglar, certainly not an ogler.”

Bilbo’s facial expressions scrunched into a dozen different twists as he tried to figure out whether Fili was praising him or teasing him.

He decided he had bigger problems to fret over.

“Please, please don’t-”

“-tell?” Thorin asked, one eyebrow up.

Bilbo nodded emphatically. “Please.”

“As long as there is no more ‘rejoicing in the forbidden,’ ” Thorin glared at Bilbo. He was dead serious, and rather pleased that he was schooling the Halfling after all.

“No more, no more! Just please, let me talk to her. I’ll handle it.”

“All right, Bilbo. There, there. Your secret is under lock and key.” Bofur walked up behind him, bent down and clutched his shoulder until he looked up. “Just tell us this, friend: is she really as beautiful as your poem says?”

Bilbo turned away and looked at the last of the hissing orange embers.

“More,” he said, hearing the twigs snap under your feet as you made your way back to camp. 

For your own sanity, you started to put your entry into this world far in the back of your mind.  

Though you still had a plethora of questions about why the flight of stairs marked “DO NOT ENTER” at the Halloween haunted house led you to good and bad fictional worlds (you couldn’t get out of King’s Landing fast enough! Stupid Joffrey was still alive!), you realized that understanding the details might scare you more than you could handle at this point.

You stepped into worlds one after the other like you were turning pages in a very thick storybook. Westeros, Neverland, and now, Middle Earth.

As fictional fate would have it, you were on the heels of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield.

Only Bilbo acknowledged you until he was rebuffed by both Thorin and Dwalin. A few days after that, Gandalf defied the two grouches and took it upon himself to hang back from the group to talk to you.

You told him your unusual tale, and he thought on it for a few minutes as you walked the dusty road together.

“You would be wise to steer clear of anything presenting itself as ‘haunted,’ ” Gandalf said gravely.

“It was supposed to be fun.”

“There are harmless tricksters, and then there are demons. In taking those stairs, you stumbled upon the latter. How else would you explain encountering that malicious King Joffrey you mentioned?”

No argument there. No more haunted anything.

“About your predicament,” Gandalf said, “I can send word to the head of my order asking how to return you, but it will take a few weeks, I’m afraid.”

Weeks? It was like a punch to the gut, but what could you do? 

“I understand,” you said meekly.

“Now, onto another matter,” he said, first making sure the others weren’t within earshot before going on. “Why are there metal chains on your teeth?”

And that’s the question that moved your obsessive thoughts from the creepy stairs and world-jumping to what was supposed to happen the day after Halloween: finally getting your braces off.

The Nov. 1 appointment had been set for several weeks. You had even planned a little party to celebrate, and cleared your phone’s storage to handle a boatload of selfies and group shots with your friends.

You had the traditional kind of braces, with the brackets and wires. You explained to Gandalf what they were and how they worked.

Then you asked him not to tell the company about your teeth chains or where you came from. You were a strange enough bird to them; no need to make them any more suspicious of you than they already were.

After that conversation, when you weren’t creeping behind the group,  you dashed into every business you encountered in every little town, looking for a Middle Earth version of an orthodontist to remove your braces.

You were getting quite desperate. Of all things, you simply needed the normalcy of a dental visit, a reminder that you were still you.

But - and it should not have come as a surprise - no one knew how to help you, and actually looked at your corrective metalwork in fear.

Sitting behind a wide-trunked pine tree one late afternoon in a wood hissing with noisy insect life, about to eat a handful of blueberries, you suddenly heard a voice above you say, “don’t eat those, child!”

Your head jerked up to see the white-haired Dwarf named Balin standing over you, his eyes wide.

“Why not?” you asked, placing your berry-free hand in front of your mouth.

“Those are pokeberries. They’re poisonous.”

You gasped and threw them away from you. Terrific.

“Glad I came over,” he said.

“Yes, thanks. What brings you?” You were used to being avoided, not approached. Lowering your hand, you reminded yourself to keep your lips tight when you spoke, so you wouldn’t startle him - yet.

“Gandalf will be back in a bit, but he wanted me to tell you his friend Saruman had good news about getting you home, though it still won’t be as quick as you’d probably like, he said.”

Your heart leaped anyway at just hearing the word ‘home.’ Gandalf had found a way! 

“I’d be happy to give you some food and a mug of water,” Balin added, turning around to see if his leader was watching: he was. With disdain. 

Bilbo used to sneak you food but Thorin told him to stop doing that, as you might be a “spy.”

You stood. The top of Balin’s head came to your chin.

“Instead of food, good sir,” you said, “do you know someone who can get rid of these?” You stretched your mouth into an exaggerated smile, and Balin stumbled back.

“What in thunder are those?!” Balin asked, his voice rising.

“Braces. I need them to be taken off.”

“I’ll say!! Why are your teeth in torture devices?!!”

You shook your head. “No, no, you see, they straightened my crooked teeth. But now the job is done and I need to get them off.”

“Er, why not wait till you’re home, child? Didn’t someone there put them on?”

“Yes, but I don’t know when that will be. And without proper oral hygiene and all this harsh water I’ve been drinking, they’re really starting to bother me.“

He frowned as he stared at your mouth. Finally, he said he had an idea of someone who might be able to help, and that he’d be back. You leaned on your tree and waited, watching him return to camp and talk to Thorin.

And a few minutes later, who should stroll up but the company leader himself.

“You have metal on your teeth, spy?” he said, frowning harder at you than Balin did.

You straightened up quickly from your tree post and nodded, forcing yourself to talk through your onset of both jitters and irritation. “I’m not a spy, and yes, I have metal on my teeth that needs to be removed.”

“Stoop and open your mouth.”

You did as he barked, and he got so close to your mouth to peer inside that you actually felt like you were in Dr. Craig’s chair for a second.

Thorin backed up, and you straightened your legs.

“What else is there besides metal? A plaster of some sort?” he asked.

“Yes, exactly… sort of! Bonding cement.” You were so glad he got the gist. “In my land, the people who put these on and take them off are called orthodontists. Is there someone like that here?”

Thorin turned around and started walking off, toward camp.

“Stay there,” he said over his shoulder.

You returned to your tree lean, facing away from the company’s camp this time as you silently gave thanks. You were ecstatic  that even though Thorin was obviously still dubious of you, he was being speedy about summoning a professional. FINALLY! 

But after several minutes, Thorin came back with a small box of tools, accompanied only by Balin, Dwalin and Bilbo.

In each hand, Balin was holding buckets of very hot water from the nearby spring, boiled over the campfire. Anxious-looking Bilbo juggled several towels and a lantern, while Dwalin held a bottle of whiskey in one hand and in the other, a small bowl with a white blob in it: lard.

“Is this a cooking class?” you asked nervously. “Where is the orthodontist?”

“I am he. Sit on that stump,” Thorin said, gesturing toward the hunk of wood a couple of yards away.

“And here,” Dwalin said, handing you the whiskey. “Take a few swigs.”

“Wait a second,” you said, hyperventilating and backing away from the bottle. “You’re going to do it? Do you know what you’re doing? These are my teeth!”

“He’s worked as a blacksmith, child,” Balin said, setting the pails next to the stump.

“SO WHAT?”

“Metal is metal, spy. Sit down,” said Thorin.

 Dwalin set the lard on the ground to unscrew the whiskey bottle top.

“I don’t drink.”

“Trust me,” Dwalin said, both of you looking at Thorin’s daunting “dental” tools, “you do today.”

You grabbed the bottle, trepidatiously took a few swallows of the burning whiskey and coughed like you were dying before thrusting the bottle back in Dwalin's hands. Then you started toward the stump, wringing your hands the whole way.

You would gladly forget what happened over the next two hours if you could.

Dwalin sloppily applied the nasty lard on your teeth, trying to help loosen the bonding agent. Thorin sterilized his rudimentary tools in one pail of hot water, and at several points during the arduous procedure, he had you lean over the other bucket, teeth bared like a rabid animal, and a towel tented over your head in an effort to further weaken the stubborn cement.

As a side benefit, the steam opened your facial pores nicely.

The rest of the company left camp but stayed back, gathered in a circle, craning their necks to see what was going on. 

Throughout the ordeal, Bilbo held the lantern up in one hand and with the other  patted your shoulder reassuringly. When he got in Thorin’s way, he handed Balin the lantern and went to your leaning tree, calling out, “You’re doing great!” while you howled.

“Ihyooo weh ma tee ow, ah wih kihyooo!!!” you growled to Thorin, your head tilted back as far as you could go while Thorin twisted and bent your wires with two different tools.

“What was that gibberish?!” Dwalin roared, not expecting an answer.

Thorin interpreted as he worked: “The spy said, ‘if you rip my teeth out, I will kill you.’ ”

“I NUH UH PY!!!”

“Sure, you’re not a spy. Now stay still!”

“I SEH, I NUH UH PY!!!”

“Quiet.”

About 30,000 tugs later, Thorin was done.

Your brackets and wires and the peeled off adhesive lay in a small pile on one of the towels that Bilbo brought. With another, he gently wiped your face and told you how brave you were. Everyone else was busy cleaning up.

Your neck, cheeks, gums and tongue were sore, as if you’d been repeatedly pummeled. Your teeth felt gritty in some spots, slimy in others. You used one untouched end of the face towel to run along each pearly white row. 

Even though you were applying very soft pressure, it hurt. But you didn’t want to imagine how bad the pain would have been without the whiskey. 

Delving into your back pocket, you brought out your phone and turned it on for the first time in weeks. 

“Another torture device?” Balin asked, staring at the phone curiously, along with the others.

You laughed. It was the most accurate description of a phone you’d ever heard.

You had shut the phone down at 40 percent battery power after it became painfully apparent that Verizon didn’t have service in fictional worlds.

Switching to your camera, you looked at your wonderfully straight teeth, smiling like there was no tomorrow.

“Ok, time to celebrate!” you announced happily, leaping from the stump. “Braces are off, and I’m going back home…someday soon, I hope. Gather ‘round the torture device!”

Bewildered, everyone, including the onlookers, did as you asked, with Thorin standing beside you.

“We’ll have to do this a few times to get everyone,” you advised. 

“Do what?” was the murmur.

They all had a thousand questions about the unusual rectangle in your hands, which you promised you’d answer later. You raised the camera up high and told them to smile. They didn’t ask why they were grinning at a flattened box with a looking glass in it; they just obliged.

At the last second, before you pressed the button, you leaned over, pecked Thorin’s cheek and whispered “thank you, doctor.”

His face heated up to the boiling point as you snapped the photo.

“I’m afraid I’ll never quite get the knack of it,” Bilbo said, shrugging soberly.

“Of course you will, you just need to practice,” You said, encouragingly, “Although, I think Ori will be reluctant to lend us any more of his parchment.”

You turned in unison to glance at the youngest Ri brother, who was rubbing the crease in his journal where he had ripped the pieces from, looking forlorn.

You caught Bilbo’s eye and couldn’t help but grin, a small giggle bursting from your mouth.

You had become quite fond of the hobbits company in the past weeks of travelling. You noticed that he seemed to be tripping and stuttering much less, which you saw as a good sign that his little addiction was fading... or he had simply run out of whiskey to drink.

Bombur’s voice rang around the campsite, signalling that dinner was ready. You leapt eagerly from your seat, your stomach growling.

Unbeknownst to you, the hobbit remained seated firmly in his place, gazing fondly after you with a dazed smile.

When you had finally managed to elbow you way back through the throng of hungry dwarves, you saw that your place beside Bilbo had been taken by Gloin.

And, quite eager to avoid the arduous stories bragging of his son Gimli’s many achievements, you took a spot beside Gandalf.

The wizard smiled warmly in your direction and continued to puff on his long pipe, every now and then emitting the odd ring of smoke.

“... Had a full grown beard by his fifteenth birthday, my lad Gimli did. Did I tell you about the time...”

Bilbo caught your amused gaze and mouthed a silent “help me!” before nodding politely towards Gloin, as if he were actually listening.

You let out a snort of laughter, and began to tuck into your dinner.

“I see you have become close to our burglar.”

You looked curiously to see who it was Gandalf was speaking to, and started when you saw his sparkling eyes on you.

“O-oh! Um, yes, I s’pose so,” You said, “He is quite lovely... once you get past the tripping and the stuttering...”

The wizard chuckled heartily, the action releasing a ring of smoke into the air before him.

“You’ll have to forgive him for that,” He said, “He means well, as all hobbits do. Though even the gentlest of folk fall victim to nerves.”

You paused, mulling over his words, and watch as he blew a tiny ship to sail mesmerisingly through the smoke ring.

“... Nerves?” You repeated, skeptically.

“Well of course,” Gandalf said, “You said it yourself; the tripping and the stuttering... all nerves.”

“But...” You faltered, your gaze flickering from Bilbo, to Fili and Kili. “You’re sure, Gandalf? He isn’t just... fond of the drink?”

At this, Gandalf’s considerate smile spread to a wide grin, and his booming laughter echoed through the campsite.

“I believe, if I’m not mistaken, that you have been made victim to one of young Fili and Kili’s pranks, my dear, ” the wizard said, still chuckling to himself.

You bit your lips, deep in thought. You couldn’t help but feel slightly annoyed at the wizard’s obvious amusement at your predicament.

“So... if it wasn’t drinking that made him act like that,” You thought aloud, “Then what in Mahal’s name would make him that nerv- oh.”

Bilbo was still listening ever politely to Gloin’s ramblings, completely unaware of your epiphany. When you caught his eye, you grinned warmly and waved. He immediately blushed and knocked over the cup resting beside him.

You giggled to yourself, unaware that you also were blushing furiously. You jumped up and headed for the smallest dwarf in the campsite, who was clutching a journal protectively to his chest. 

 “How Did Dwalin Propose to You?”

Mr. and Mrs. Bilbo Baggins had an absolutely gorgeous table set to welcome you and your husband Dwalin to first breakfast.

As much as you enjoyed the decadent meals served on gilded chargers in the mountain kingdom’s lavish dining hall, you loved the genuineness and comfort of Bilbo’s display of fresh fruits, breads, boiled eggs and cheeses.

He had even cultivated the seeds from the chocolate lily flower he’d found on the way to the Lonely Mountain, the same flowers from which he’d plucked petals and sprinkled them over your “honeymoon suite” in the middle of a wood. The beautiful buds were the ideal, sentimental touch.

Last night was spent settling into the guest room in the hole in the ground after your long journey, hugging and sipping wine, and sharing memories of the company’s quest, of which you were all a part. This morning you looked forward to catching up on Bilbo’ and Arya’s life since the reclamation of the Lonely Mountain and the war.

As the couple sat across from you and Dwalin and gushed at each other, it dawned on you that you didn’t know how Bilbo had proposed. So you asked.

They could hardly stop smiling and giving each other lovey-dovey eyes throughout the story of Bilbo’s impromptu question on bended knee, within hours of arriving in Bag End after leaving Erebor.

“That’s absolutely adorable,” you said, while Dwalin just grunted. You smiled at your gruff hunk of burly love as you sipped your peppermint tea and he plopped six boiled eggs on his plate.

“So tell us,” Bilbo said, taking a small bite from a square of bread, “how did Dwalin propose to you?”

“PZZZZZZZ!” 

The tea in your mouth sprayed forth like a geyser, showering Bilbo, Arya, and all their food.

Years before, pre-Lonely Mountain Quest:

“So, what do you think of this getup?” 

Dwalin stood before you in what appeared to be only a red and white plaid apron with frilly sleeves. His bulky thighs popped out from under the hem, and his hands gripped the sides of a tarnished silver tray as if doing so was keeping him dying of embarrassment. The smell of blackened bread wafted from a plate.

Looking up from your pillow, you squinted, then widened your eyes, then squinted again. You sat up.

“What are you doing here? And…what are you wearing?!”

Dwalin decided to turn around slowly, so you could see EVERYTHING.

“First tell me how I look,” he said.

“Well!” you exclaimed, hoping you were fully awake, “I, uh, I-I think you look -”

“-f*%~ing ridiculous, right?”

“No. You look wonderful.”

“How does my ass look?”

“Not as good as mine-”

“No one can compete with that!”

“-but lovely, nonetheless. Why are you in an apron?”

“I asked those imbecile Ri brothers for advice on a way to ask ya something important, something you’d remember. Those knobs came up with this. I should have listened to Thorin.”

“Ask me what?”

He put the tray at the foot of your bed and came to your side. He opened his mouth, he closed it. Then he frowned.

“Come on, I didn’t put that courting braid in your hair for nothing, did I?”

You propped up on your elbows and looked at him with narrowed eyes..

“Surely that isn’t your important question, Dwalin.”

He gulped and sat down beside you, then stroked your special braid, from root to the end of the hair bead he made you.

“I’m just a brute. But you - you are magic. And you make me feel…what’s the word?

“Lovely?” 

“Aye. Lovely.” He meant it, too. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes I will, you lovely brute.”

“It’s a funny story…”

“I am so sorry!!!!” You felt around for your napkin so you could sop up the mess from your tea spray. Meanwhile, Dwalin threw his head back and cackled to the ceiling.

You got up to pat Bilbo and Arya dry, mortified that you’d actually spit on your hosts and friends.

“Must have been quite some proposal,” Arya remarked as you wiped her forehead. 

“It’s a funny story, that’s for sure. So sorry about this. I’ll prepare some more food.”

“No, no, dear. We’ll clean up in a moment and refill on second breakfast later,” Bilbo said. “Go on with your story.”

Returning to your seat, you wondered why the images churning in your head were greatly exaggerating what actually happened. 

In reality, the apron hem fell just above Dwalin’s knee.

But in very bad hindsight, all you could see was the apron stopping much higher, letting his sexy war hammer peek through.

“BWAHAHA!” you laughed maniacally as you threw down your napkin. Dwalin chimed in with chortles of his own. Bilbo and Arya stared at you both, borderline frightened. 

Dwalin beamed as he sat all the way back in his chair and popped an egg in his mouth. He put his feet up on the table, right next to the empty boiled egg platter.

When he proposed, the tray had a small plate of curved strawberry slices on it, clumsily cut with the side of a spoon, and a slice of bread, slightly burnt on the edges.

But your distorted recollection showed everything on fire, including the tray.

You gave Bilbo and Arya the “wait a second’ sign with your lifted right index finger as another laugh crashed over your lips and into your tea cup.

“HOO HA HOO HOO!”

“You know, you can tell us some other time,” Bilbo said politely, exchanging a smile with his sweetheart.  

But you didn’t hear him. Reaching up and over to Dwalin, you slapped his shoulder hard a few times, your belly and shoulders still bouncing. 

“Hee-hee…oh, Mahal, oh Mahal….let me catch my breath….Ok, Ok, so first he called for me from my front door while I was still in bed…and then when he walked around the corner to my room…heh heh…Dwalin was wearing this…this….PLEH HAHA!!!!!!”

Dwalin grabbed you into a bear hug, sat back and kissed your forehead as you roared together. 

Mr. and Mrs. Baggins joined in with their own giggles, and thought of Bilbo’s proposal -  how informal,  unexpected, and insanely romantic it was.