Believe in Me

Disclaimer: Tolkien's brilliant. Enough said.

A/N: Hello there! (I'm having new-story-induced heart palpitations. But don't worry, that's a good thing.) I've dived into the fandom of The Hobbit after seeing the movie so many times I can nearly recite it the whole way through, and I'm loving every second of the madness. The temptation and plotbunnies were just too much for me to handle, what can I say? :'D I hope you enjoy what I'm constructing here, and with any luck the teaser-prologue will do the trick for now. Further chapters will be longer. Finally, I hereby dedicate the commencement of this fanfic to the wonderful lightning-inspiration for our long-winded rants on character development and plot and The Hobbit and just life in general; here's to finding kindred spirits! Enjoy!

Prologue

The wind was a westerly, coming in from the far-off sea. It was unusual for the spring, but the traveler on the east-west road wasn't about to complain.

A small shadow flitted over the ground in front of the young woman, and she heard the caw of a raven. At this time of year? she thought, squinting up through the harsh sunlight to regard the bird with puzzlement. It was flying at a steady pace, taking the time to glide: something it would do on a long journey. It didn't look like it was just out on a short jaunt in search of food.

She really shouldn't be judging nature's norms, though. After all, this was still a new part of the world for her.

Currently traveling east on, yes, the Great East Road, she wasn't entirely sure where she wanted to go next. She'd been reluctant to leave the hobbits, whose culture she had been exploring lately. It had included much indulgence in the way of food, which she had appreciated entirely too heartily and had grown far too accustomed to. But the merry folk hadn't cared too much about where she was from, which was a plus, and didn't ask too many questions. They did, however, love a good story or two or twelve, and she had plenty of those to tell. Her tales of her travels had fascinated them, and she had to admit, being admired was not a bad feeling. The whole matter of holding the unwavering attention of everyone in the room had been a little alarming initially, as she had never experienced the feeling quite to that degree, but she had gotten over it quickly if only because of their overwhelming eagerness to listen.

At first she had in turn unnerved them; a young woman traveling alone and unarmed (or so they thought) with no one to protect her was not a common occurrence. She had decided not to share the anecdote about the first time she had discovered just how threatening her frying pan could be in a weaponless pinch in the midst of danger. What they didn't know about her occasional unorthodox methods of self-defense wouldn't hurt them. Besides, the peaceful farmers didn't get many foreign visitors in the first place, and she didn't want to completely lay waste to their opinions of travelers.

But leave she did. There were too many more places to visit, and besides, she could always come back in a few years or so. Or decades. She didn't plan on wasting a single minute of the time she had.

So on she went, with miles to go before having to choose a definitive course. Besides, the odds were good that some unknown element along the road would make a choice for her. After all, she was bound to run into something interesting before too long.

She planned to cross the Brandywine the next afternoon, a couple days out from Hobbiton, and then reach Bree in a few more. That might prove to be an adventure all its own, she mused, recalling with a chuckle the vehement urges of the hobbits that she simply must go to the Prancing Pony if she passed through Bree. "Finest ale east of the Brandywine," they'd said. Those were hobbits for you. At first it had bothered her a bit, how simple they were, how contentedly wrapped up in their little bubble of the Shire. Those across the river had been far more to her liking, despite being thought odd by the general population, but the Halflings had all grown on her over time.

Now, as she left the road in search of a place to camp, she almost wished for some company again. But that was silly. As she laid out her bedroll in a hollow spot between two trees, she began humming softly to herself.

The melody, she was sure, had shifted keys in her mind over time, but it was the tune to the lullaby that one of her caretakers had sung to her most often while she was still in the cradle and for years after. She had never forgotten it. The only way she had known how to start, when she was younger, had been to find the lowest note she could possibly sing or hum. It carried up from there, only to descend again before rising to its peak. The tune was somber, but somehow full of hope at the same time. It made her feel as though she missed her home terribly, even though she had never had one.

There was no way anyone could have known, but as she hummed herself into drowsiness, a rich bass voice was marking out the same melody miles to the west. The difference was that the one singing the old song remembered the words, and he did so as mournfully as if he had been there the day they were written.