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In the Shire, it was widely agreed upon that hobbits were a simple people. They valued comfort above all things. A well-stocked pantry, a well-tended garden, and a day measured in meals rather than hours were considered the height of a life well-lived. Respectability was cultivated just as carefully as cherry red juicy tomatoes, and one’s reputation was expected to be as spotless as freshly laundered linens hung out in the spring sun.
Hobbits, it should also be noted, possessed remarkably stubborn constitutions. Generations of enthusiastic foraging, questionable mushrooms, and a cultural refusal to waste perfectly good food had rendered them… difficult to poison.
The Baggins family, however, had taken this as a personal challenge.
Respectability, after all, was not simply about what one did; but what one could get away with while smiling pleasantly over tea. The Baggins family, of Bag End, were considered very respectable indeed. They were also, though this was only ever mentioned in the proper company and never above a murmur, exceptionally good with poisons. Not crude things, mind you. Nothing so gauche as slipping something tasteless into a cup and waiting for the inevitable. No, the Baggins’ approached such matters with the same care they afforded their gardens.
Their poisons were cultivated.
Refined.
Discussed, on occasion, over tea.
It was, as Belladonna Baggins had once said, a matter of skill. Her daughter had taken that lesson very much to heart.
Brindle Baggins, known to the Shire as the only child of Bungo and Belladonna, had been, from the start, a slightly unusual hobbit. Not so unusual as to draw concern, of course. Hobbits were, by nature, tolerant of small eccentricities. A Tookish streak here, a fondness for wandering there. These things could be explained away with a knowing nod and a second helping of supper.
But Brindle…..
Well.
Brindle did not sicken.
This, in itself, might have gone unnoticed. Hobbits were sturdy creatures, after all. They recovered quickly, endured much, and thought very little of it. But Brindle did not merely endure. At the age of eight, she had eaten an entire handful of bright red berries she had been explicitly told not to touch, then politely informed her mother that they were “a touch bitter, but promising.” At ten, she had mistaken one of Belladonna’s experimental tinctures for cordial and requested the recipe. At eleven, she had taken up archery, having hand-carved a crude child's bow and proved unnervingly precise with it.
Bungo Baggins, who was by all accounts a sensible hobbit, had chosen to focus on that last development and purchased her a proper bow from the markets of Bree. Belladonna, for her part, had begun labeling her shelves more clearly.
The Fell Winter came when Brindle was still on the cusp of her majority, and with it came a darkness the Shire had not seen in generations.
The Brandywine froze.
The wolves came first, lean and desperate.
Then, worse things followed.
Orcs. Goblins. Creatures that did not belong in the gentle hills and quiet lanes of the Shire.
Hobbits were no warriors.
But they were not, as it turned out, entirely defenseless.
Brindle Baggins stood her ground. Small she may have been, but her aim did not falter. Arrows flew true, one after another, until her fingers burned and the string of the cold bit deep into her skin.
She did not think. Nor did she hesitate.
She endured, even as hope started to dwindle. She was running out if arrows.
One Left
And when the pale towering Orc came, a towering, monstrous, with one arm missing and rage carved into every line of his face—
She did not run.
Not at first.
He cut Bungo down before her eyes. Her father's face showed terror as he was slain, jumping in front of her frozen body.
Bella fell soon after, blood staining the snow-covered ground, letting out wet pained gasps, blood slowly trickleing out of the corner of her mouth.
Something in Brindle went very still.
The world narrowed to a single point.
She drew.
Loosed.
The arrow struck true, burying itself deep into the creature’s eye.
The Pale Orc roared, a sound of fury, of pain, of promise.
Brindle did not stay to hear the rest of it. She knew her odds of winning and was not willing to gamble her life, having just watched the merciless slaughter of her parents.
She ran.
Belladonna did not recover.
Time, which had once been measured in meals and seasons, became something thinner. Sharper. It slipped too quickly through Brindle’s fingers, leaving her grasping at moments that refused to stay.
On her deathbed, Bella told her the truth.
Of Rivendell. Of Elrond. Of a heritage that did not belong to the Shire, no matter how tightly Brindle clung to it.
“Go to him,” Bella had urged, her voice little more than a breath. “When the time comes… You will know.”
Brindle had not gone.
She had buried her parents.
She had cleaned the blood from the threshold.
And then, because the world had the audacity to continue; she had made tea.
Time passed and she thought of venturing out but instead she remained. She became Mistress of Bag End, as was proper, constantly having a battle of wills with the dreadful Lobelia Sackville-Baggins.... And of course in honour of her dear mother, she would spike the tea with alarming amounts of Belladonna leaf, just to see if the gossiper could handle it.
She tended the garden. She kept the house. She perfected her mother’s work.
Years passed. Then more.And more still. The Shire changed, as all things did. Seasons turned, children grew, and those who had once known her began, slowly, to age and fade.
Brindle did not.
At thirty-three, she came of age.
At fifty, she looked no different.
At seventy…
Well.
People began to talk.
Brindle, for her part, continued as she always had.
She gardened.
She hosted.
She refined her recipes.
(Several of which were, technically, not meant for eating. This did not stop her.)
It was on a quiet morning, with the sun just beginning to warm the round green door of Bag End, that Gandalf the Grey came calling. Brindle was seated just outside, pipe in hand, a small tray of carefully arranged cuttings beside her.
She did not look up as he approached.
“You’re late,” she said.
Gandalf paused.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You said, the last time you visited, that you would return ‘before it became interesting,’” Brindle continued, inspecting a leaf between her fingers. “It has, I regret to inform you, already become interesting.”
Gandalf’s brows lifted.
“…Has it?”
Brindle popped the leaf into her mouth, chewed thoughtfully, and nodded.
“Mm. Mildly toxic. I’ll need to adjust the soil.”
Gandalf stared at her.
Then, very slowly, he began to smile.
“Well,” he said, settling himself beside her, “I see Belladonna’s influence remains strong.”
Brindle glanced at him, eyes sharp despite her easy posture.
“You have no idea.”
Gandalf did not begin immediately. He had learned, over the years, that with certain sorts of people. Tooks, wizards, and those who existed somewhere inconveniently between the two...... It was best to let the moment settle before attempting to steer it. Brindle Baggins was, unfortunately, all three in spirit if not in name.
“You haven’t changed,” he said at last, watching her from beneath heavy brows.
Brindle snorted softly, tapping ash from her pipe into a small ceramic dish labeled, in tidy script, "Do Not Use Again."
“I should hope not. It would be terribly inconvenient to wake up one morning entirely different.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“No,” she agreed, glancing at him sidelong, “it rarely is with you.”
Gandalf huffed, though there was no real irritation in it. “You are well, then?”
“I am alive,” Brindle said. “Which, given my habits, continues to surprise certain members of the community.”
“I can imagine.”
She tilted her head. “Can you?”
There was a beat.
Gandalf chose, wisely, not to answer that.
Instead, he shifted. “You have not aged.”
There it was.
Brindle did not look away this time.
“No,” she said simply.
“And you know why.”
“Yes.”
“Yet you remain.”
“Yes.”
Gandalf studied her, the weight of years and knowing in his gaze. “You were told to go.”
“I was told many things,” Brindle replied, rising to her feet in one smooth motion. “Most of them were suggestions.”
“And this?”
She brushed past him, gathering her tray of cuttings. “This was… poorly timed.”
Gandalf watched her disappear into the round doorway of Bag End, then followed with a sigh that carried the faint echo of inevitability. The kitchen was warm. It always was. Bag End held heat the way hobbits held grudges, quietly, persistently, and with no intention of letting it go anytime soon. Brindle moved through it with practiced ease, setting things to rights, pulling ingredients from shelves, and lighting the stove with efficient familiarity.
Gandalf leaned in the doorway, observing.
On the far counter sat a row of jars.
Each was labeled.
This did not comfort him.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Preparing supper.”
“For how many?”
Brindle paused.
“…Define many.”
Gandalf closed his eyes briefly. “Thirteen.”
There was a very long silence.
When Brindle turned to look at him, her expression was not one of horror, but calculation.
“Do they have any dietary restrictions?” she asked.
“They are dwarves.”
“Yes, but are they fragile dwarves?”
“No.”
“Pity,” she muttered.
Gandalf inhaled slowly. “Brindle.”
“Yes?”
“Try not to poison them.”
She stared at him.
“I never try to poison anyone,” she said, sounding faintly offended. “That would be deliberate.”
“That is not reassuring.”
She set to work. Flour, water, herbs. A stew began to bubble on the stove, rich with vegetables and slow-cooked meat. Bread dough was kneaded with firm, capable hands. It all looked perfectly normal.
It was not.
Brindle reached for a jar.
Paused.
Squinted at the label.
“…No,” she decided, setting it aside.
She reached for another.
Opened it.
Considered.
Closed it again.
Gandalf watched this process with mounting concern.
“What,” he asked carefully, “is in that one?”
Brindle glanced down. “Temporary paralysis.”
“And the other?”
“Vivid hallucinations.”
“…And you keep these in your kitchen.”
“Of course,” she said. “Where else would I keep them?”
Gandalf pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose.
Brindle, for her part, was engaged in a quiet but fierce internal battle.
This is for guests, she reminded herself.
Guests should not be poisoned.
(A small, contrary voice added: Not severely, at least.)
She ignored it. Mostly. Instead, she reached for safer options. Minced garlic. Thyme. A pinch of something that would add flavor and only a mild tingling sensation if improperly prepared.
She hesitated.
“…No tingling,” she told herself firmly, and put it back.
Gandalf, who was watching her like one might watch a particularly intelligent but unpredictable animal, exhaled.
“You are taking this very seriously.”
“I am being hospitable,” Brindle said, as if that explained everything.
“It does not usually look like this.”
She sniffed. “That sounds like a lack of imagination.”
Time passed. The kitchen filled with the comforting scents of a proper hobbit meal. Stew, thick and hearty. Fresh bread, golden and warm. Cheese, laid out with care. Tea, steeping. It looked, at last, entirely safe. Brindle stood back, arms crossed, eyeing her work with suspicion.
“…This feels incorrect,” she said.
“It is correct,” Gandalf assured her.
“No,” she said slowly, “I mean it feels unnaturally correct.”
“Yes,” Gandalf said, “that is called normal.”
She frowned at him.
“I don’t like it.”
“I am not surprised.”
A knock came at the door. It was not a polite knock. It was not a hesitant knock. It was a decisive knock. The sort that suggested its owner had no intention of waiting long, and even less patience for nonsense. Brindle stilled, Gandalf straightened up.
“Well,” he said, “that will be the start of them.”
Brindle wiped her hands on a cloth, expression smoothing into something pleasant. Respectable. Entirely unthreatening. (It fooled no one.)
“I’ll get it,” she said.
When she opened the door, she found not a crowd, but a single dwarf. He was broad, solid as carved stone, with a beard that spoke of practicality rather than decoration and eyes that missed very little. He stood squarely on the step, as though the hill itself might try to move beneath him, and he dared it to try. Brindle blinked. Up close, he was… taller than she expected. Wider, too.
“Hm,” she said, not unkindly, simply observing.
The dwarf blinked back. He had, in all his years, seen many things. Deep halls carved from living rock, gold piled high enough to make kings foolish, creatures that crept in the dark, and things far worse that did not bother to hide. He had never seen a hobbit. Not like this. She was smaller than he expected, yes, but not fragile. There was something in the way she stood, easy and balanced, as though the ground itself had decided she belonged to it. Her hair caught the light like spun silver; her eyes were sharp and bright, and far too knowing for a creature he had been told was simple. A beautiful Dam, his mind supplied, unhelpfully.And dangerous, something older added.
“…You are the hobbit,” he said at last.
Brindle tilted her head. “I am a hobbit, yes. I should hope I am not the only one.”
There was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Dwalin, son of Fundin,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “At your service.”
Brindle straightened at once, something in her posture shifting, refined and trained.
“Brindle Baggins, Mistress of Bag End,” she replied, with equal gravity. “At yours, and your company’s.”
Dwalin paused. That… was not what he had expected. Behind her, Gandalf made a quiet, resigned sound. Dwalin’s gaze sharpened, reassessing.
“You offer service,” he said slowly.
Brindle smiled, small and polite and entirely sincere. “You have come a long way, I imagine. It would be poor manners to do otherwise.”
There was no guile in it.
No hesitation.
Just… hospitality.
Dwalin stared at her for a long moment.
Then, abruptly, he barked a short laugh.
“Well,” he said, stepping forward, “we’ll see how long that lasts.”
Brindle stepped aside without hesitation, gesturing him in.
“I’ve prepared supper,” she said. “Do let me know if anything disagrees with you.”
Dwalin snorted as he passed her.
“I’ve a strong stomach, lass.”
Behind them, Gandalf muttered, “That remains to be seen.”
A second knock followed not long after. Then a third. And a fourth. Until Bag End, which had been built for comfort and quiet, began to fill with dwarves. Each one paused, just for a moment, upon crossing the threshold. Each one looked. Some stared openly. Some tried, and failed, not to. Introductions came, one after another. Names offered. Names returned.
“And you are the hobbit?” the one named Dori asked.
“I am,” Brindle replied pleasantly, as she took a coat and hung it with care. “Though I suspect you were expecting someone… different.”
A pause.
“…Aye,” another admitted.
She smiled.
“How disappointing for you.”
There was a beat— and then laughter, low and surprised. They had expected softness. Timidity and plump laziness. Someone easily overlooked. Instead, they found something else entirely. Something bright. Something sharp... scary some might say. Something that watched them just as closely as they watched her. And still; She offered them food. Warmth. A place at her table. Dwalin, already seated, watched it all with narrowed eyes.
“Careful,” he muttered to the others as they passed. “This one’s not what she looks like.”
From the doorway, Brindle caught the comment. She said nothing. Only smiled and returned to her kitchen. By the time the last of them had arrived, Bag End was full. Not unpleasantly so, but full in a way the walls had likely not been designed for. Boots and the majority of weapons by the door, cloaks slung over chairs, voices overlapping in a low, steady hum that spoke of long familiarity and longer roads. And hunger. Deep, dwarven hunger. The smell of the food did not help. It drifted from the kitchen in warm, maddening waves—rich stew, fresh bread, something sweet beneath it all—and the company, for all their pride and discipline, began to… drift.
First one.
Then another.
Until, as if pulled by some invisible current, several dwarves found themselves in the kitchen doorway.
Bombur inhaled deeply. “Oh, that is—”
“Incredible,” Bofur finished, already reaching for a loaf.
“Don’t,” Dwalin said from somewhere behind them.
Bofur paused.
Considered.
Reached anyway.
He did not make it.
“Stop.”
It was not loud.
It did not need to be.
Brindle stood at the center of the kitchen, wooden spoon in hand, gaze level and entirely unimpressed.
Bofur froze.
Very slowly, he set the bread back down.
“…We were only going to help,” he tried.
“By dismantling my kitchen?” Brindle asked.
“No—”
“Yes,” she said.
There was a pause.
Then, briskly, “Out.”
They did not move.
Brindle blinked once.
“Out,” she repeated, sharper this time, and something in the room shifted.
It was not anger.
Not quite.
But it carried the same weight as a door closing very firmly on one’s foot.
One by one, the dwarves backed out of the kitchen.
Even Dwalin.
Gandalf, in the corner, looked deeply unsurprised.
“Honestly,” Brindle muttered, turning back to the counter. “No sense of order at all…”
She paused.
Looked at the table.
Looked at the half-finished setup.Then back at the doorway, where several dwarves were very obviously pretending not to hover.
“…Oh, for—”
She stepped back into the hall.
“You,” she said, pointing.
Several dwarves stiffened.
“You have hands, yes?”
There was a pause.
“…Aye?” Balin offered.
“Good. Then you may use them.”
And just like that, they were conscripted. It was… chaos.
Organized chaos.
Reluctantly organized chaos.
Brindle moved through it like a general on a battlefield, redirecting, correcting, and handing out tasks with brisk efficiency.
“Plates go there—no, not stacked like that, they’ll tip—yes, like that.”
“Cutlery is not decorative; it has a purpose, please respect it.”
“Who moved the cheese—never mind, I’ve found it—no, do not eat it yet—”
A hand darted out.
A slice vanished.
Brindle turned slowly.
Nori froze mid-chew.
There was a very long silence.
He swallowed.
“…I was testing it,” he said.
“For what?” Brindle asked mildly.
“Poison.”
Behind him, several dwarves went very still.
Brindle’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Well,” she said, after a beat, “how thorough of you.”
Nori relaxed, just a fraction.That was his mistake.
“Sit,” she said.
He blinked. “What?”
“In the corner.”
“…What?”
“In the corner,” Brindle repeated, pointing. “Until you remember how to behave like someone who has been raised properly and not, apparently, in a cave with no supervision.”
There was a choked sound from somewhere behind him.Nori stared at her.
She stared back.
He looked to the others for support.
He found none.
Dwalin folded his arms.
Bofur looked delighted.
Gloin was biting the inside of his cheek.
“…You’re serious,” Nori said.
“Deeply.”
Another pause.
Then, muttering under his breath, Nori trudged to the corner and sat.
Brindle watched him go, then nodded once, satisfied.
“Honestly,” she said, “like a fauntling.”
“Pebble,” Dwalin corrected absently.
She glanced at him. “Pebble, then.”
Nori glared at the wall.
Order, eventually, was achieved.
The table was set.
The food was laid out.
The dwarves, now seated, watched with something approaching respect.
And, in Nori’s case, betrayal.
“You may come back,” Brindle told him at last.
He did so immediately.
They fell upon the food.
Not without manners. Dwarves had those, when required, but with an enthusiasm that bordered on reverence.
“This is—” Bombur began.
“—incredible,” Bofur finished, for what was rapidly becoming a pattern.
Gloin nodded approvingly. “Proper cooking, this.”
Brindle inclined her head slightly. “I should hope so.”
She sat.
Served herself.
And, without hesitation, reached for a small dish near her elbow.
Oin noticed immediately.
“…What is that?” he asked.
Brindle glanced down. “A preserve.”
“What kind of preserve?”
She considered.
“…Experimental. Hobbit friendly only”
Oin opened his mouth. Closed it. Reconsidered his life choices. Conversation began to bloom across the table. Names settled into memory. Voices found rhythm. Gloin, seated not far from Brindle, watched her for a time before speaking.
“You run this place alone, then?” he asked.
“I do.”
He grunted, approving. “Reminds me a bit of home. My wife keeps things just so.”
Brindle’s expression softened, just a fraction. “Does she?”
“Aye. And my wee lad—Gimli—he’s just started swinging a hammer proper.” Pride threaded through his voice, warm and solid.
“Nearly took out a table last week.”
Brindle huffed a quiet laugh. “A promising start, then.”
“That’s what I said!” Gloin beamed, then paused, eyeing her. “…You’ve no little ones of your own?”
Brindle stilled, just briefly.
Then, lightly, “No. I find I have quite enough to manage as it is.”
Gloin studied her for a moment longer, something softer settling into his gaze.
“Hm,” he said. “Still. You’ve the look about you.”
“The look?”
“Aye. Like you’d keep ‘em in line.”
From the far end of the table, Nori choked slightly.
Brindle smiled.
“I do try.”
Oin, meanwhile, had not stopped watching her.
Not the food.
Not the dwarves.
Her.
Specifically, the small dish at her side.
Brindle noticed.
Of course she did.
She met his gaze.
Smiled and winked.
And then, very deliberately, took a spoonful.
Oin leaned forward. “I would advise—”
She ate it.
Calmly.
Chewed.
Swallowed.
“…—against that,” he finished weakly.
Brindle dabbed at her mouth with her napkin.
“Hm,” she said thoughtfully. “Still a touch bitter.”
Oin stared at her.
Around them, the table continued on; laughter, conversation, the clatter of dishes, while, at its center, something quietly unhinged unfolded.
Gandalf took a long pull from his pipe.
“Yes,” he murmured to no one in particular. “This will go very well.”
Oin was no longer pretending. “Thst is reckless,” he said, leaning across the table, voice tight with professional distress. “Entirely reckless. You do not know the concentration, the long-term effects, the—”
“I made it,” Brindle replied calmly, taking another neat spoonful of her preserve. “I should hope I know what’s in it.”
“That does not make it safe!”
“It makes it intentional.”
“That is worse!”
“You are treating poison like seasoning!”
“It is seasoning,” Brindle said. “You’re just not evolved enough to appreciate it.”
Around them, the table had gone quieter. Not silent, but attentive in the way one becomes when something fascinating and potentially catastrophic is unfolding. Brindle tilted her head. “You’re all very concerned for nothing.”
“I am a healer!”
“And I am not dead.”
“You may yet be!”
She considered that.
“…I suppose that would be inconvenient.”
Oin made a strangled sound only to be inturupted by a thunderous BANG that shook the door. Every head turned.
Another BANG, louder this time, rattling the hinges like a challenge issued in wood and iron. Brindle went very still.
Slowly, deliberately, she set her spoon down. “…No,” she said. A third BANG. Something in her expression shifted. No, not fear. Offense. Deep, personal offense. “Kili. Fili,” she said, voice suddenly sweet in a way that promised consequences. “Be dears and see who is attempting to dismantle my front door.” The brothers exchanged a glance. Bright-eyed, barely contained amusement flickered between them before scrambling up and doing a light jog to the door.
“
Yes, Mistress Boggins,” Kili said, far too cheeky.
They vanished down the hall. Another BANG echoed through Bag End. Brindle took a breath. Smoothed her skirts. Sat back down. Picked up her spoon. “…Unbelievable,” she muttered, and took another bite. The door opened. Voices, lower now. A pause. Then
Footsteps. Heavy. Measured. Certain. They did not hurry, nor hesitate. They approached like something that expected the world to make room. The room shifted as he entered it. He was taller than the others, broader in a way that spoke not just of strength but of command.
Thorin Oakenshield, Gandalf had warned her about him.
He stepped into the dining room, and came to a stop. The scene before him was… not what he had expected. A table full of his kin.
Well-fed.
Relaxed.
And at the head of it;
A hobbit.
Small. Composed. Black-haired and sharp-eyed.
Holding a spoon.
Looking directly at him.
“You,” Brindle said.
Thorin blinked.
“You,” she repeated, setting the spoon down with deliberate care. “Are responsible for that knocking.”
It was not a question.
Thorin drew himself up. “I am Thorin—”
“I do not care who you are,” Brindle cut in. “You have assaulted my door.”
There was a pause.
A very dangerous pause.
Behind Thorin, Kili bit his lip.
Fili looked like he might burst.
“…Assaulted,” Thorin repeated.
“Yes,” Brindle said crisply. “It was freshly painted.”
Thorin stared at her.
She stared back.
“I required entry,” he said at last.
“And so you chose violence.”
“I knocked.”
“You battered.”
“I—”
“You will apologize.”
The room held its breath.
Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain—
paused.
“…I will not.”
Brindle leaned back in her chair. Folded her hands. “Then you may stand there,” she said pleasantly, “and reflect upon your actions while the rest of us enjoy supper.”
A beat.
Then Bofur coughed into his cup.
Dwalin looked at the ceiling.
Gandalf did not even try to hide his smile.
Thorin exhaled slowly through his nose. Measured. Controlled.
“I have not come here,” he said, voice low, “to be lectured by a halfling.”
“Half—” Brindle echoed, then stopped. “No, actually, we are not doing this tonight.”
She gestured vaguely toward the table.
“There is food. You may sit, eat, and behave, or you may continue standing there and be incorrect.”
Another pause.
Then, with the air of a man choosing his battles very carefully
Thorin sat.
Not because he had been told to.
Certainly not.
But because, quite suddenly, standing felt like losing.
He had taken perhaps two bites before he spoke again.
“You intend to take this one with us?” he asked, glancing toward Gandalf, though his gaze flicked back to Brindle almost immediately. “She is untested. Soft. This is not a road for the delicate.”
The room cooled.
Slightly.
Subtly.
Brindle did not look offended.
If anything, she looked… curious.
“Delicate,” she repeated.
“Yes.”
“Hm.”
She reached for her spoon.
Oin leaned forward in horror. “Do not—”
She ate. Calmly. Swallowed.
“Still alive,” she said.
Oin made a noise of defeat.
Thorin’s jaw tightened. “This is no jest. We face dangers you cannot begin to understand. Orcs. Wargs. Worse.”
Brindle’s fingers stilled against the table.
“Orcs,” she echoed.
“Aye,” Dwalin said, quieter now. “Led by one in particular.”
Something in the air shifted.
“He hunts us,” Thorin said. “Has for years.”
Brindle looked up.
“Does he,” she said.
“There is no levity in this,” Thorin snapped. “His name is Azog. The Defiler.”
The name settled into the room like ash. For a moment. Nothing.
Then—
Brindle leaned back in her chair.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
“…One arm?” she asked.
The dwarves froze.
Thorin’s gaze sharpened. “You know of him?”
“Pale,” she continued, as if reciting a recipe. “Large. Missing his left arm. Bad temper.”
Dwalin sat forward. “You’ve seen him?”
Brindle met their eyes.
And smiled.
Not kindly.
Not softly.
But with something bright and sharp and deeply, deeply satisfied.
“I shot him,” she said.
Silence.
“He killed my father,” she added, almost as an afterthought. “Seemed only fair.”
No one spoke.
No one moved.
Gloin’s mouth had gone slightly open.
Kili looked between her and Thorin like he’d just been handed the best story of his life.
Oin had forgotten, entirely, about the poisons.
Thorin stared at her.
Really stared, this time.
Reassessing.
Recalculating.
“…You expect me to believe,” he said slowly, “that you faced Azog and lived.”
Brindle lifted one shoulder.
“I expect nothing of you,” she said. “But he was there. And now he is missing an eye.”
A beat.
Dwalin let out a low whistle.
“Well,” he muttered, “that explains a few things.”
Thorin sat back.
Studied her.
Something in his expression shifted—not gone, not softened, but… altered.
“Even so,” he said, though there was less bite to it now, “this quest is no small thing. We go to reclaim Erebor. From Smaug.”
Brindle reached for the bread.
Tore off a piece.
“Mm,” she said. “A dragon.”
“A dragon,” Thorin repeated.
“Large, I assume.”
“Very.”
“Fire-breathing.”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
Took a bite.
Chewed.
Swallowed.
“Well,” she said, as if discussing the weather, “that does sound inconvenient.”
Gandalf choked on his pipe.
Gloin leaned toward Bofur.
“…I like her,” he muttered.
Bofur grinned. “I was just thinking the same.”
At the head of the table, Brindle reached for her tea.
“Now,” she said, pleasant once more, “would anyone care for seconds?”
Oin closed his eyes.
Thorin, after a long moment pushed his plate forward.
“…Yes.”
Dinner, eventually, came to an end. Plates were emptied. Bowls scraped. Bread reduced to crumbs and memory. The dwarves sat back in their chairs with the air of men who had just been personally restored to life. Bombur looked faintly emotional. Bofur was already reaching for more. Brindle watched them all with narrowed eyes and a teacup in hand. “…Right,” she said at last, setting it down with a soft click. “Up.” No one moved. Several dwarves blinked at her. “Up,” she repeated, sharper.
There was a brief, collective hesitation—followed by the slow, reluctant shifting of chairs.
Even Thorin stood.
(He did not look pleased about it.)
What followed was not chaos.
It was managed chaos.
Which was, in Brindle’s opinion, the only acceptable kind.
“You,” she said, pointing at Kili, who straightened immediately, “plates. Carefully. If you chip anything, I will know.”
Kili swallowed. “Yes, Mistress Baggins.”
“You,” she continued, turning to Fili, “take those to the sink. Do not stack them like you’re building a fortress.”
“ Yes Mistress Boggins.”
“Bofur, stop eating the leftovers.”
“I’m not—”
“You are. Put it down.”
Bofur put it down.
Dwalin watched all of this with something that looked suspiciously like respect.
Gandalf sat back and did absolutely nothing.
Bag End, as it turned out, could survive thirteen dwarves.
Barely.
Brindle moved through the wreckage with sharp efficiency, restoring order piece by piece. Cushions were straightened. Surfaces wiped. Anything that looked like it might be stepped on, leaned on, or otherwise mistreated was relocated to higher ground. Her guest rooms remained untouched. This was intentional. When the last dish was set aside and the last crumb cleared, Brindle turned to the company.
“Right,” she said. “You will all be sleeping in the sitting room.”
There was a pause.
Bofur blinked. “All of us?”
“Yes.”
“In one room?”
“Yes.”
Dwalin folded his arms. “You’ve more space than this.”
“I do,” Brindle agreed. “And I intend to keep it that way.”
A beat.
Then, pleasantly, “My guest rooms are not built to withstand… whatever this is.”
There was a ripple of laughter.
Thorin did not laugh.
He studied her instead.
Again.
Blankets were produced from cupboards and chests.
Pillows distributed.
The dwarves, to their credit, adapted quickly, an unfortunate skill developed from their less pleasant days of wandering and homelessness. Settling into the space with the ease of those long accustomed to sleeping wherever the road allowed.
Kili and Fili claimed a corner immediately. Nori and Dori negotiated territory like seasoned diplomats, arguing who gets to cuddle with Ori. Dwalin took a position near the door. Thorin remained standing for a moment longer than the others.
Brindle noticed.
Of course she did.
“You will find,” she said, not looking at him, “that the floor is perfectly adequate if you stop thinking of it as an insult.”
Thorin’s mouth twitched.
“…I have slept in worse.”
“I should hope so.”
One by one, the room quieted.
Voices softened.
Boots were removed.
Weapons set within reach.
The fire burned low and steady, casting warm light across a room that had, somehow, stretched itself to accommodate far more than it had ever been built for.
Brindle stood in the doorway.
“…Try not to die in the night,” she said at last.
Several dwarves snorted.
“Goodnight, Mistress Baggins,” Bofur called.
She inclined her head.
“Goodnight.”
She did not go to bed.
Bag End, at night, was a different creature.
Quieter. The kind of quiet that settled into the bones of the hill itself. Brindle moved through it without a sound.
Not out of caution, but instead out of habit.
Her room was unchanged.
Precise.
Ordered.
Safe.
She closed the door behind her. Stood there for a moment. Lost in thought thinking......
A dragon.
Azog.
Dwarves.
Gandalf.
All of it; loud, inconvenient, disruptive.
Yet
All of it was inevitable. She had premonitions of this moment, unshared to the rest of the world. Perhaps a gift of her Elven heritage.
Brindle exhaled.
“…Well,” she said to the empty room, “this is going to be a problem.”
A pause.
Then
“…Fine.”
The decision, when it came, did not feel dramatic.
No lightning.
No grand revelation.
Just a quiet, decisive shift.
Like setting a blade into place.
She moved. Quickly now. Purposefully. A bag was pulled from the wardrobe; sturdy, well-made, already half-prepared in the way of someone who always expected things to go wrong eventually. Clothes. Practical and layered, nothing fussy. Boots. Better than most would expect from a hobbit.Then; she turned to the shelves.
The jars. All neatly labeled and carefully arranged.
Her work.
Brindle considered them. Then reached for the first.
Mildly Concerning
Into the bag.
Temporary Paralysis and Unwilling Sleep
Into the bag.
Regrettable Hallucinations
She hesitated.
“…Yes,” she decided. “That one’s useful.”
She even grabbed some of her more.... fun ones
Mushroom Bane and Mandrake Weed for smoking
Into the bag.
One by one, they disappeared from the shelves. Not all. Never all. She was not reckless.
But, enough, to help on the journey and of course enough to be interesting.
From a small drawer, she retrieved her arrows.
Each one fletched with care.
Balanced.
Poisoned.
Deadly.
She ran her thumb along the shaft of one.
Satisfied and all packed. Lastly she grabbed her bow. She lifted it from its place with familiar ease. Held it for a moment. Then slung it across her back. Brindle looked around the room. At the empty spaces where things had been. At the life she had built; contained, controlled and most importantly safe.
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
“…Lock the pantry,” she muttered to herself. “And for fuck’s sake don’t let them near the mushrooms.”
She stepped out into the hall. Paused and listened. The low, steady sound of dwarven snores of deep sleep drifted from the sitting room. Loud and Unsubtle.
Entirely unbothered.
Brindle rolled her eyes.
Her gaze lingered, just briefly on Thorin.
Then shifted away.
“Idiots,” she murmured.
Not unkindly.
She closed the door and turned and went to prepare for a journey she had already decided to take.
She had a Thain to talk to. Brindle just hoped her uncle would be understanding at this sudden burst of Tookishness.