Boggins, not Baggins. {A Kili love story}

Chapter 1: An Unexpected Party.

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.

This evening in Hobbiton was truly proving to be that of an interesting one. 

A young woman returns from patrol. Serene, and gentle; with a clear system for everything, especially post. However, upon her return from her nightly horseback patrol of the Shire borders, there was a gold wax-sealed letter under her door. The rings of an ancient stump were stamped into the rich wax. Tracing the skillful, familiar design, she peeled the letter open. 

Tonight, a young friend of yours shall meet an unorthodox opportunity. In the morning, he shall have a decision to make. 
Help him to make the right one, and come prepared. 
Nothing too fancy; please bring that fine Brandywine pipe-blend, the journey has been long and tiring.

Thank you, little bird.

G.

The ways of Wizards and old nature folk were unpredictable and vague at best. A particular spirit in the form of a tall wizened man was no exception. He was passive aggressive at best, and demonic at worst. His moments of generosity were erratic, but after thousands of years in existence, who could blame him?

I wonder what kind of trouble Bilbo has gotten himself into, queried her conscience as she opened her desk drawer. Kicking her boots onto the table, a bad habit which had flourished in the absence of authority, her fingers found her large case of pipe-weed. Nearly every room in her dwelling hid something pertinent but unorthodox for whatever task was usually done there. Saraen did her best thinking while smoking her pipe. 

The pipe itself was a gift from a local beet farmer when she had first arrived. The hobbits loved their peace and quiet; they heartily demonstrated their gratitude for a defender of those privileges. Now, she smoked frequently, though mostly for medicinal purposes.

She recalled the first time she met Bilbo Baggins. Her soft bare toes curling in the short grass along her hole in the ground. While packing her pipe with dried rose hips for a winter cough, a child approached her. 

Looking up at the scent of a stranger, she realized that the soft voice was in fact a fully grown hobbit. He offered her a light, in exchange for some of her sweet smelling leaf. 

Sara had since become great friends with Bilbo Baggins; quickly coming to know how he detested folk mispronouncing his name.

"More frequent than you may think, you know," he had insisted indignantly, voice squeaking. 

But now she was ready to clean her weapons, eat her supper, maybe read or go for a walk. Alas, this was not in her cards tonight. Saraen had a will of iron with the exception of two things: Hobbits, and small children. Many days, Bilbo acted like both. Silently she moved to look out her window to spy on her friend's house. 

For the next few minutes, she watched amazedly as a comically large number of dwarves filed and piled into Bilbo's tiny abode. 

Seated in her large rounded ivory painted window seat, she slid her slender knives back into her boots. Adjusting her poofed off-white sleeves, she secured a sage green ribbon in her hair. Momentarily she debated with herself upon whether or not she should go help Bilbo quiet the dwarves or join the party herself. Undecided, but decided, she slipped silently from behind her red door. 

The lock clicked satisfyingly.

With a skip in her step, the young woman rounded the path. The great door which Saraen had only painted a few weeks prior had a glowing rune on the front. Damn wizard, I'll make him see how much he likes repainting with Bilbo.