Hey, guys, I'm back with a chapter to help tie you guys over until I can start updating normally. Thank you so much for your reviews! I'm so glad you are enjoying the story so far! The reason why there's no review replies at the bottom of the chapter this time is because I went to save the document, but since I didn't have any internet, it was all wiped. But I read all your reviews and they gave me joy! Thank you!

Disclaimer: I do not own the Company, Bilbo, or Middle-Earth. I only own Marcelle and her seemingly emotional instability, lol.

8 – To Make Amends, Or Try To – 8

It didn't take her very long before she began to regret how she had spoken to Thorin. As Hobbiton began to become farther and farther behind them, the more tense she began to feel. What would stop him from waiting until they were hundreds of kilometers away from Bag End to dump her? She didn't doubt that his conscience would stop him from doing out of mere spite, just to test her and her "independence" as a woman of Man.

Her teeth ground away at her bottom lip as she rode in silence, never moving from her place next to Ori at the back of the line. Occasionally, Buttercup would nod her head or try to sneak in a bite of grass, but Marcelle managed to keep her from doing it while she managed to keep her mind from wandering. Marcelle watched the back of Bilbo's head as he rode his pony alongside Gandalf as she prayed for strength.

Most of the time she spent tightening and then loosening her grip on the reigns. Her over-active imagination played several situations involving Thorin leaving her behind—from him yelling at her before leaving her behind, him ordering the company to move out while she was still asleep, to him backhanding her for defying his orders. She couldn't help but shudder at the last one, even though her sensible-side told her that it wasn't likely that he would ever go to that extreme.

Her thoughts gnawed at her throughout the first day, and did not leave her alone even when they found a place to stop at for the night.

Gloin threw down a stack of kindling and branches and went about setting up a fire. Marcelle quietly went about relieving her pony of her burden, unsaddling her before putting her with the rest of the ponies. She set her tack, winter jacket, and rugsack off to the side, being careful to keep her gaze set on the ground. She was afraid to look any of the dwarves in the eye, no longer as bold as she was when they were just outside Bywater.

Marcelle spotted Bilbo setting his bedroll down not too far from the fire. He rolled it out before he sat down, and she soon found herself doing the same.

By this time, the dwarves were shuffling around, trying to figure out who would sit where. Marcelle observed through her eyelashes, her nerves preventing her from looking at any of them directly. What have I gotten myself into? she asked herself. Where is that courage and conviction I had before? She felt empty and small now.

After a while, Marcelle found herself muttering, "Why did I have to be so bold? What have I gotten myself into?"

Her worried mutterings stopped when she felt a hand rest on her elbow. She glanced down and saw that it belonged to Bilbo. He looked up at her with a look of worry, but all she could do was sigh and pet his hand with her own. "I'm fine," she assured him.

"No you are not," he whispered back.

Marcelle looked at him with widened eyes, before she pursed her lips, furrowed her eyebrows, and cast her gaze down to the bedroll under her. Then, arching her eyebrows, she managed to admit in a small voice, "I'm…afraid."

"You should be," a gruff voice spoke up, alerting her to the fact that she hadn't spoken quietly enough to keep unwanted ears from hearing. Marcelle's gaze shot up and she found herself gazing into Thorin's intimidating blue eyes. "The wilds are no place for your kind," he said as he walked over to the log that had been rolled over to the fire.

'My kind'?! Why that— Marcelle's eyebrows furrowed as her temper shot up to the breaking point instantaneously. She tried to stamp down on it, and her conscience screamed at her not to act on it—but she had had enough. She felt that if she didn't, she'd one day end up punching the dwarf in the face.

All trace of fear she had been feeling then was gone. "I'll have you know that I can take care of myself, Mr. Oakenshield. I was merely telling Mr. Baggins that I was ashamed of how I behaved this morning! That I was afraid to approach you and say I was sorry!" She climbed to her feet and shot the dwarf a heated glare before she stomped off to the edge of the firelight's reach.

She turned her back on those gathering around the fire and crossed her arms. Men, she sneered. The whole situation made her think back to how she preferred the company of her family and a few select friends due to the fact that the boys she could see roaming her town and the ones she knew only in passing were stupid and bigoted. And girls tended to be nasty, nasty creatures.

And it seemed that here the men were even more bigoted than they were at home. From what she had learned in history class and what she had read in historical fiction, women were treated as second-class citizens and were viewed as being good at nothing more than keeping house and taking care of the children—right up until not long before her mother was born, if she was correct.

She let out a long, slow sigh and bit her bottom lip. Why am I reacting to this so strongly? she wondered. She knew why—she was desperate to get back home, and if she just rolled over and took it from Thorin, she'd never get anywhere. She didn't have the skills needed to protect herself, and she had no idea what she would face if she went out on her own. She knew of wolves, coyotes, cougars, and bears—but there were also wargs and goblins and a host of other deadly creatures that would, quite possibly, love to make a meal out of her.

Marcelle couldn't help but shudder at that.

"Pardon me, lass?" Balin's sudden appearance at her side made her jump.

She couldn't help but blink several times as she recovered. "Balin?"

"Indeed," the kind old dwarf replied with a slight crinkling at the corners of his eyes.

Marcelle pressed a hand to her chest as she took a few breaths to calm her startled heart. "I'm sorry, you just startled me." She sat down a small fallen tree and stared off into the darkness.

Balin joined her on her perch.

A few moments of silence passed between them as the Company's chatter drifted over to them. Marcelle stared into the dark and tried desperately to not imagine a pair of very realistic eyes staring back at her out of the darkness.

"You know, lass," Balin eventually stated, "I couldn't help but notice how flustered you became at Thorin's comment."

Thorin's snide comment, Marcelle couldn't help but inwardly correct as she raised an eyebrow at the elder dwarf. "Let me say this: I got what he said about how the wilds are not safe for those of the fairer…kind, Mr. Balin," she huffed. "It's not safe for anyone, if you ask me." She nervously began picking at the knees of her pants as she pursed her lips. "I was just upset at what he implied—that I was afraid because I was out here, as if I wasn't surrounded by dwarves. That's what made me angry. I am not weak."

"But you are not strong, either," Balin pointed out gently as he looked her over. "You are hardly anything more than skin and bone! What pushed you to demand that you come with us?" was that concern shining in his eyes?

Marcelle hugged herself and rubbed her upper arms as a chill set in. She wasn't just skin and bones—there was still enough of her that it would be a while before anything would show through. "To put it simply: I'm looking for a way to get back to my family," she finally replied. She couldn't keep herself from imagining how her family must be still searching for her even after any help would have left them. It made her heart ache.

Balin was only quiet for a moment. "Well, are they not in the Shire?"

Marcelle shook her head as she pushed back the tears. "No." Another sigh, albeit shaky, escaped her. "I-I'm not from the Shire, you see. I'm from…somewhere else. A-and I didn't find a way back in the Shire, so I have to go out and find my way back."

She didn't say anything after that and she scooted a few inches away from him. She really didn't know what to think about this situation. Was Balin asking about why she was there because he genuine cared, or just so he had something to tell Thorin? She risked a quick glance at him.

Stop being so defensive, Marcelle! half of her chastised.

I don't know how, she realised. I don't trust Balin—I don't trust anyone but Bilbo and maybe Gandalf. Not here, anyway.

"Family is a very important part in anyone's lives, lass," Balin said, startling her out of her thoughts. "Take Thorin for example. He probably wouldn't want me to tell you, but… Anyway, one of the reasons we are going to the Lonely Mountain is for his family."

"And…the other reason is so…you will get your home back," Marcelle couldn't help but with a small, sad smile. She stood to her feet and took a step forward. She stared off into the darkness and allowed her mind to wander as she waited for Balin to respond.

Mom, would you lie down and take it if someone didn't want you to tag along when you wanted protection while you searched for a way home?

"…How far away from the Shire are you from?" Balin asked cautiously.

Marcelle turned to look at him and shrugged lightly. "I don't know." She sat down and faced him. "One moment I was going about my business, going home from where I worked, when I suddenly found myself waking up in one of Bilbo's guestrooms. All I know is that I'm not from the Shire and that where I come from doesn't appear to be anywhere in or near Middle-Earth." Though Balin's face was calm and didn't show any form of incredulity, Marcelle could see it in his dark eyes. She shook her head and waved her hand. "Never mind. Bilbo didn't believe me when I told him. Only Gandalf seems to have believed me—but he's a wizard. Who knows what he's seen or thinks?"

"All you know is that you're from far away, correct?"

Marcelle nodded. Balin hadn't called her crazy yet… "And I need to get back," she insisted. "And you need to get your mountain back." She didn't feel like mentioning that someone wanted her to get to the mountain so that she could slay Smaug.

On that note, how am I supposed to slay Smaug? Do I have "dame" or "knight" stamped on my back?

"I'll also try to not be a bother—and maybe I'll get a chance to be helpful along the way," she added. She felt like she was trying to bargain with her right to continue on with the Company, and that she was trying to bargain with the wrong person.

"I know you mean well, lass, but it is all up to what Thorin says," Balin said before he got to his feet and walked back to the campfire.

The next morning, Marcelle cracked her eyes open to the sky beginning to lighten in the east. For a moment, she couldn't move as her muscles and her back protested.

The last time she remembered feeling like this was when she slept over at a friend's house for their birthday and woke up to find the inflatable mattress she had been sleeping on had deflated in her sleep, leaving her to rest on the hard ground.

With an unheeded groan, Marcelle sat up and saw that the dwarves were beginning to stir. Bilbo slept on next to her, snoring quietly.

Bombur was the next to sit up, and quickly he was on his feet. For a moment, Marcelle watched as he brought out a frying pan and some meat. Out of curiosity, Marcelle rolled to her feet and watched, hesitant to approach him.

He might need some help, she reasoned with herself. He has to cook for fifteen people.

Slowly, she sucked in a deep breath. She held it for a moment before she slowly let it out as quietly as she could. Then she tiptoed up to the fire, relying on the light steps she had learned to make in the presence of hobbits (hobbits were skittish folk. Marcelle suspected that half the reason they were wary of/didn't like Men was because of how heavily they walked). She made sure to not step on Bilbo or any of the dwarves on her way to the fire, which was now crackling and snapping happily.

"Would you like some help, Master Dwarf?" she whispered just loud enough as she came to stand by the fire.

The round dwarf paused and looked up at her in surprise. She simply stood there and forced herself to keep smiling. "There are a lot of mouths to feed," she noted.

Ten minutes later, after Bombur finally consented, Marcelle found herself simmering pan bread in a skillet. She hummed a little tune, feeling merry despite the fact that her back occasionally reminded her how hard her bed had been by smarting.

As the edges began to golden, Marcelle took the flat piece of wood that served as a flipper and flipped the pan bread over. At the renewed sizzling and the accumulation of breakfast's aroma, the rest of the dwarves began to awake.

The first to stumble over to the fire was Dwalin. As he sat down on the log there, Marcelle sent him a smile before returning her attention to the meal. Everyone was sitting around the fire by the time the second batch of pan bread was finished cooking.

Marcelle left the skillet on the fire in order to let the heat reduce the crumbs to ashes, and went over to where she left her pack.

She sank down onto her bedroll and pulled her rugsack onto her lap. She rifled through her provisions until she settled on a meager breakfast of a bit of Buckley cheese, a strip of salted bacon, and a small chunk of bread. She made sure to turn her attention away from the group of dwarves and her friend as she looked out over the surrounding countryside.

I really should apologise to Thorin for flying off the handle at him like I did, she mused. But then she furrowed her brow. Though, I probably won't get an apology for the sneers he sent my way. It was his comments that made me so angry in the first place. In the end, she let out a heated sigh and focused on finishing her breakfast.

How should I handle this? she mused as she chewed on a piece of bread and cheese. She knew that she would not be able to find mental rest until she apologised. Even if I don't want to do it, I have to. Mom would say that I do it because then it would be a show of courage and strength. Her stomach turned at the thought of grovelling at Thorin's feet and she found that she was unable to eat the rest of her tiny breakfast.

Standing, she brushed the crumbs from her front before she turned to face the dwarves crowded around the fire. The sun shone pale light onto their backs, highlighting their dwarven garb. Thorin was sitting across the fire, facing her way even though he was staring into the flames, deep in thought.

Stepping over the log through a space between two dwarves, Marcelle came to stand beside the fire once again. She hesitated for a moment, then quietly cleared her throat. "Thorin." She made sure to address him without accidently making his name sound like it was coming out as an inquiry.

This visibly broke Thorin out of his thoughts, and chatter around the campfire stilled. When his icy blue irises lifted to meet her gaze, she took a deep breath. "Yes?" he responded.

Marcelle bit the inside of her cheek for only a fraction of a second before she bravely opened her mouth. "Sir, I've…" she was hyper-aware of the eyes that were on her. "I've…come to apologise for my attitude and behaviour yesterday." She then cast her gaze down at the fire and watched it as she braced for Thorin's reaction.

There was nothing. No word. No sneer. No physical contact. Nothing.

Hesitating again, she slowly lifted her head again until she was looking him in the eye once more. There was only a slight furrowing of his eyebrow. She sighed. "I had no right to yell at you like I did," Marcelle continued. She stood there for a few moments after she had finished, hoping that she might hear something in return, but nothing came. She sighed again, but this time in defeat, before she turned and left the campfire circle.

She spent the rest of the time they were encamped there packing up before she saddled Buttercup and made sure her jacket was secured to the back of the saddle. She made sure the long knife Ouglír had entrusted to her hung by her hip and that the belt was snug around her waist when the dwarves began to mount, and soon she was up on her pony's back.

For a moment, she fought back tears as memories of her times riding Raina came rushing back to her. It hadn't occurred to her how much she missed riding her horse until now, when anger didn't currently ablaze within her heart. She sat in the saddle and pressed her free fist into her hip as she fought to keep her emotions under control. She tried to not sniff or whimper, lest she catch unwanted attention.

She remained quiet. She bit down on her bottom lip hard enough that she was afraid that she was about to draw blood—but the pain distracted her from the ache in her chest. This is failure I'm feeling, isn't it? she let out a quiet sigh. I'm sorry, Mom. I'm not as personable as I thought.

It wasn't long before the Company set out, leaving Marcelle to plod along like the loose cannon she thought she was. Or third-wheel—whatever term of phrase that would fit here. Ori positioned himself on his pony next to her and attempted to engage her in conversation.

"You don't have to worry, Miss Bowman," he tried to assure. "Thorin is like that. He doesn't find it very… well he struggles with responding to apologies."

Bless his heart, she couldn't help but think, glad that he was there. Hopefully having a conversation would help her stamp down on the disappointment.

Marcelle managed to send the young dwarf a weak smile, before focusing her attention on the crest of Buttercup's neck. It bobbed up and down as the little mare happily plodded along after Dori's pony.

Lowering her voice, she confessed, "Well, I've never had to deal with someone like Thorin before, so I guess I'm a little shaken."

A new voice suddenly piped up on her right, making her jump in surprise before she whipped her head around. The young, light-haired dwarf who walked across Bilbo's table was now riding just to her right, wearing a small, grim smile. "That's my uncle for you—rough around the edges, he is."

Marcelle shot him a raised eyebrow of incredulity. "Oh, really? Are all dwarves this crass towards women in general?"

Suffice to say, all Marcelle got from Fíli was a thoughtful hum. She never got her answer. Again.

After their second day of travel, news traveled down the line of dwarves that let her know that they would be riding straight through Bree, a town on the road, and would stop to step up camp a few miles from the town.

Marcelle couldn't help but inwardly groan at the discarded chance to lie in a bed for a night—but she wasn't willing to confront Thorin about it. And she understood the dwarf's logic on the subject, no doubt everyone would be getting curious about the mountain, since Smaug hadn't made an appearance in 60 years, and everyone would be watching the dwarves. She didn't want to complain, but the ground wasn't very comfortable to sleep on, though.

You wanted to come because you needed to come, she reminded herself again.

The one thing that kept her going was the fact that she might see her family again. She missed them enough that she wondered if her worry ran deeper than what she was aware of—because the second night into the journey she awoke do find herself drenched in sweat and breathing heavily after dreaming about her family being ripped away from her shortly before being consumed by a dragon.

When they stopped for the night, Marcelle couldn't help but let out a little sigh, of what, she didn't know. But when she thought about it, it felt five parts weariness and five parts loneliness or sadness. But then she slapped herself in the face, loud and hard, drawing a few chuckles from the dwarves around her.

You can no longer go on with this pity-party, Marcelle, she told herself sternly. Do not be sad, do not be lonely. Just think about the day you'll return to your family. You'll fall apart long before you do if you do not stop fretting. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

She took out some bread and jerky and looked out over the edge of the bluff they had settled on. She stood and stared out into the gathering darkness as she enjoyed her meager meal. A fond smile appeared on her face when she thought, I think Mom would love the scenery here. Maybe Dad too. It reminds me a lot of New Zealand.

"Marcelle?" Bilbo's voice gently tore her from her thoughts as she finished swallowing the last of her meal.

Turning, she looked down at her friend. "Yes, Bilbo?"

"I'm going to turn in," he said before promptly rolling out his bed roll.

Marcelle nodded. "Alright." She eyed the setting sun and noted how it was half behind the horizon. She turned to face the sun fully and discretely pulled her phone from a pocket under her jacket. Checking the time, she decided it wouldn't hurt to go to bed this early. She wasn't a morning person, so the more sleep she got gave her a better chance of getting up quickly in the morning.

Tucking her phone back into its pocket, she went over and unrolled her bed roll next to Bilbo's. She stretched out on it and ignored how her heels rested on the dirt, and draped her purple jacket over her. She then rolled onto her side and shut her eyes.

Consciousness faded, but remained within reach for what felt like an eternity until she sensed Bilbo shifting next to her. She listened to him move until it sounded like he had gotten to his feet. A moment later, she heard the tell-tale sound of a pony crunching on something—maybe an apple.

But then, sharp as a sword, a blood-curdling shriek cut through the air. Marcelle found herself lurching into a sitting position, heart racing so fast that it felt like it was going to burn a hole in her chest. For a few moments, she struggled with panic until she managed to stamp down on it.

What was that?