Heart of a Dragon

Chapter 2: The Woes of a Hobbit.

A week had passed since Elerìna had bidden Astorion farewell, and began riding down from Lake Evendim to the Shire, riding leisurely on her Rochallor. Armed only with her bow, sword, and both daggers, Elerìna was travelling light. The only other articles that she took was her sleeping mat, her flintstone, sharpening stone, some provisions—she could always hunt game on the way—and her new collection of prized Dúnedain cloaks. Her old friend Mìriel had woven them for her—they were the ultimate camouflage: the mottled grey one in rocky terrain, the deep green one for deep forest, the muddy-brown one for the Ettenmoors. Currently, she wore her forest green cloak, pinned to her left shoulder with her only token—the brooch depicting a silver, many-rayed star, the symbol of her kin.

She had ridden into the Shire early in the morning, just when the pale-yellow tinge was painting the hills. It was a pleasant place—quiet, quaint, and homely. Rolling green hills swelled all around her, and colourful little round doors peeked from the hillsides. Plump and rotund creatures—the Hobbits—dashed into their houses long before Elerìna passed them.

Elerìna had never been to the Shire, because the Hobbits were not fond of the Big Folk. Fortunately for Elerìna, she was rather shorter than most of her other Dúnedain relatives, which meant that most Hobbits assumed that she was a Took, an adventurous breed of Hobbit. Nevertheless, she kept her hood down. She didn't need any more suspicion with her weapons.

It turned out in the end that Hobbit's tongues wagged faster than she could travel, since the news that a Man was in the Shire reached Hobbiton long before she did.

Trying to find the address that Gandalf had specified was harder than Elerìna had assumed. She couldn't ask for directions, since the Hobbits already knew of her arrival, and were hiding from her as if she was the Witch-King of Angmar.

There was a thump and an annoyed retort.

'Watch where you're riding that thing!'

Elerìna tugged on Rochallor's reins abruptly to stare down at a Hobbit, who was glowering unhappily at her, his hair ruffled from where he had fallen. His face fell into a look of terror as he realised that this was the Man his neighbours had been gossiping about, but he did not run.

'My apologies, little master.' Elerìna said smoothly, slipping off Rochallor to help him up. 'Could you be so kind to direct me to the house of Mr. Bilbo Baggins?'

The Hobbit squinted at her fearfully, one hand on his gate as he deliberated his choices.

'Up on the tallest hill, Bagshot Row.' He said quickly. 'The smial at the very end with the green door.' (1)

'Thank you.' Elerìna offered him an apologetic smile as she continued on, leading Rochallor up the narrow dirt paths. Glancing back, she saw the tail of his yellow coat whip into his red-painted Hobbit-hole, and the lacy curtains shift in the window as he checked that she left.

She followed the directions, and halted in front of the last one. Even in the evening darkness, the distinctive G rune burned bright in the corner of the vivid green door. Two ruffled ponies were grazing unconcernedly in the little garden. Bilbo Baggins already had company, it seemed.

Elerìna tied Rochallor to the gate beside the ponies, biding him good night. She paused in front of the door, smoothing her white hair and tucking her weapons under her cloak. She also tightened her bracers, which was the only armour she wore—to protect herself from her bowstring.

She gave three firm knocks with her knuckled fist, and immediately, Elerìna heard annoyed muttering and thumping footsteps, and the door burst open.

A harried and irritated Hobbit stared at her incredulously. His curly brown hair was dishevelled, as if he had run his hands through it multiple times, and he seemed dazed and confused.