Fireside Tales I’ve a fireside tale myself, though I didn’t know at first that I’d

Fireside Tales I’ve a fireside tale myself, though I didn’t know at first that I’d walked right into a ghost story. The silly thing was I didn’t even take more than a few steps out my door.  Then again, what was it that Mad Baggins used to say?  It’s a dangerous thing, just going out your door.  Just taking those first few steps on the Road and it will bring you to all sorts of places, all sorts of adventures.  My Gran used to say that we hobbits weren’t much for adventure.  But now with the Tooks and the Bagginses and the Brandybucks and the Gardners going on adventures and putting all sorts of odd notions in folks’ heads…. Well, perhaps we’d see more hobbits in tales and songs, with Old Bilbo and Frodo of the Nine Fingers and the old Mayor Samwise.  Wouldn’t that be a bit of a lark? I was a wee bit of a lass when it started, when I first saw the Dwarf walking down the Road. Oh, he was a handsome one, that Dwarf - that’s what first stuck in my mind.  Hair the color of those dark sable furs my Uncle Fredegar would go and buy in Bree, that the traders would bring from up North.  And those eyes - the clear blue of a winter sky.  Well, you may laugh at me, mooning over a Dwarf like he was a fair Elven lord but you might have agreed and swooned yourself if ever you saw him.  But right fierce he looked too, since he was armed with axe and sword and there was the oddest thing he carried on his back, a stout oaken branch worked in with some metal and leather like a shield.  So there I was, just standing by the gate to our home, just enjoying the evening and daydreaming a bit before Ma called me up for bed when I see the Dwarf coming up to me.  Since the all the goings-on with the Bagginses and the Gardners all those years ago, it’s not much of a surprise to see a Dwarf in the Shire.  “Little mistress, would you happen to know the way to a place called Bag End?"  "Of course, Master Dwarf,” says I.  “Everybody knows where Old Mad Baggins used to live.  You just keep walking down this Road and you take the next left and it should get you to Bagshot Row.  Green door, can’t miss it.” “My thanks, little mistress,” he says to me and off he goes.  And at first I think nothing of it until I see him again, just a week or so later, looking much the same and asking me the way to Bag End.  But he spoke to me kindly and was ever so polite so I don’t mind telling him the way and I don’t say, “Mind you remember next time” because that wouldn’t be polite and my Ma had raised me to be a respectful hobbit lass.  I just remembered thinking, That Dwarf must have the worst sense of direction, poor man.  And so it goes on - I’d see him, once, every few nights or a week or two might pass before I’d see him walking down the Road again.  Sometimes I’d hear him singing, in this low sweet voice, of misty mountains and fires in trees.  That first time, why, I just stopped and listened hard - for his song was beautiful, as fair as Elven music, I would say.  I almost wanted to walk out the door and follow him on an adventure, just like Old Mad Baggins did long ago. Finally, on one of those nights where he’d stop and ask me for directions again, I was bold enough to ask him for his name.  And he stops and looks a bit fiercer than usual and I think, Oh no, now you’ve done it, Bellflower Buttons, Ma would be ashamed of you, being all disrespectful like that. But then he smiles and my heart stops a bit, because I think, what a pity, if there was ever a Dwarf who needed to smile more often, it would be this one, because he always looks so fierce and so sad at the same time.  “My name is Thorin,” he tells me.  “Thorin Oakenshield, at your service, little mistress.” I tell him mine, which was the polite thing to do, and tell him again how to get to Bagshot Row and send him on his way.  And of course, I think the name’s oddly familiar and in those days, Rosie Gardner was my very best friend and we both loved listening to the stories from the copy of the Red Book of Westmarch sent to her by her Aunt Elanor.  So I ask her about the Dwarf who kept visiting Bag End and then Mistress Gardner, her Mam, is all surprised, because there haven’t been any Dwarves visiting, not one, not since the birthdays of the Ringbearers, which the Gardners celebrated every year, even though old Mister Bilbo and Mister Frodo had sailed with the Elves to the West a long time ago.  And well, a name like Thorin Oakenshield would never be claimed by any Dwarf, except for the great King Under the Mountain, the very same King who old Mister Bilbo went on an adventure with.  Thorin and twelve other Dwarves and Mister Bilbo, who was their burglar, off to slay a Dragon and take back Erebor.  Thorin Oakenshield, who died in the Battle of the Five Armies all those long years ago.  When I saw Thorin Oakenshield walk up to my gate one more time to ask for directions, I made up my mind to follow him.  I’d been one of the best at hide and seek and my playmates then would say I could walk quiet-like just like a cat.  So I thought I could follow one Dwarf-ghost, if ghost he indeed was, with a terrible sense of direction.  I’d like to think that he did know I was following and perhaps he laughed a bit at the little hobbit lass sneaking about like the very best of burglars.  There was just one light left to burn in one of the windows of Bag End, probably Mister Frodo Gardner, who loved his books and liked to read. I crept to my favorite hiding place, underneath some flower bushes, careful not to squash Mistress Gardner’s prize gardenias. When Thorin came up to the door, perhaps there was still a part of me that thought maybe Mistress Gardner and my friend Rosie were playing some sort of prank on me and I wasn’t seeing some sort of Dwarf-spirit after all.  But the door opened and just standing there was a hobbit I’d only ever seen from a picture in the Red Book of Westmarch.  Bilbo Baggins.  “Thorin,” he breathes and it’s easy to see, in the light of the full moon, that there are tears in his eyes.  “You still,” says Thorin Oakenshield to him, “look more like a grocer than a burglar, Master Bilbo.” “And you still have a woeful lack of manners for a king, Thorin Oakenshield,” Bilbo tells him with a wry little smile. And then Thorin catches him up in his arms and… well, I can tell you now that kiss they shared made me blush a fair bit and it was all I had not to giggle at the sight and give myself away.  Thorin, I remembered, was quite reluctant to end that kiss but he did and pressed one more on BIlbo’s forehead before he said, “The others are waiting.” And Bilbo laughs up at him and says, “Hang on a moment, I can’t forget my handkerchief this time.” But Thorin pulls Bilbo along with him and there isn’t much of a fight from Bilbo, really and there, suddenly on the Road, are twelve other Dwarves.  Two of them were quite young, one bearing a fair resemblance to Thorin himself and they went to Bilbo with glad cries of “Uncle” that made Bilbo laugh.  The other Dwarves chuckled amongst themselves and bags tinkling with coins were exchanged, with good-natured jibes.    And I remember running out on the Road to see them off, not caring whether they were ghosts or wights and I find myself waving goodbye and wishing them luck on their adventure.  And Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, turns back for a brief moment and tosses a wave and a smile in my direction before he and Bilbo and twelve other Dwarves continue on their way.  I hear Thorin raise that beautiful voice of his in song once more and he’s joined by twelve other Dwarvish voices and one Hobbit’s.  Misty mountains, the deep caverns within, the bright jewels and the gleam of gold… that song stayed with me all the days of my life. I still hear them singing sometimes and while it’s been a long time since I was that little Hobbit lass, I still sit at my gate most evenings, wondering if a Dwarven King will walk up to my door and ask me for directions to Bag End once more.  If you ever see him, don’t be frightened.  Greet him kindly and smile and show him the way home. - end - Note:  It’s not MPREG, it’s not CRACK, it’s an ACTUAL FREAKIN’ FIC.  Yep, I’m doomed.    -- source link

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