"Quickly. He's almost here," the trees seemed to whisper to her. Morinehtar bounded in long strides towards the edge of the forest. Soft grey light was beginning to filter through the trees, and her heart pounded with every paw print she left behind her. A few minutes later, bright yellow light shaped like an archway lay ahead on the old dirt path and assaulted her sensitive eyes.

Pupils narrowed to a slit in the midst of deep green irises as she caught her breath and let them adjust slowly. Carefully, she planted one cautious leg in front of the other. How many years had it been since she had left the sanctuary of the forest? Sniffing and listening for danger, she emerged into the field of tall grass in the blinding midday sun. The grass stood stiffly in the still heat. No breeze blew on the dry brush.

She turned her head around, raising a black paw, to get one last look at the dark forest now known as Mirkwood. It did not look the same as when she had first discovered it centuries and centuries ago, long before the darkness had invaded from the south. The trees looked taller, paler, and older.

Slowly sinking into the grass, she prowled her way forward. The sound of birds chirping grew louder and more frequent. "Hurry," the grass pleaded. Convinced there was nothing threatening for miles around the area, she began bounding again, nearly leaping over occasional stones and keeping her head down.

"Wait for me, Gandalf," she thought. "I'm coming." Her heart clenched at the thought of missing him. She desperately needed his help. Climbing to the top of a small valley, she glanced back once more. The tree line was faint in the distance, and the surrounding landscape was beautiful, though foreign. A sudden breeze ruffled her fur and carried the scent of lavender and lilacs to her nostrils. It smelled sweet and calming, and for a moment, she was tempted to forget her worries, tempted to believe that everything would be fine.

Shaking her head, Morinehtar dipped back into the brush and ran. "I'm coming."

The dwarves, wizard, hobbit, and shapeshifter were having a jolly time that evening as the sun began to dip towards the top of the Misty Mountains. Yellow daylight was waning, filtering softly through the windows. Honey, bread, butter, cream, berries, and many other delights covered the low table and in a few places stained the white tablecloth trimmed with animal shapes. Loud guffaws and drunken singing filled the darkening room with mirth and flowed outside.

The sound of revelry made Morinehtar stop to prick up her ears and listen intently. Sniffing the air, it became apparent that there were many more people than she had anticipated. It would be difficult enough to see Gandalf again, but meeting strangers was not on her agenda. Yet, the burden in her heart was too heavy to cast aside so shallowly.

Taking the form of a human, though her original form, was not easy. Her bones creaked stubbornly as they reconfigured, muscles stretching and contracting painfully until she stood tall on two legs. Closing her eyes, she took a few deep breaths to steady herself. The air was sweet with the smell of honey, and buzzing bees were tiredly making their way to their beehives for the evening.

Looking down, she checked her clothing with a frustrating sigh. The black cloth fit the same as it had the last time she had morphed. She tugged here and there until satisfied, then ran her long, thin fingers through her hair to untangle anything. A large leaf had tangled itself in her thick hair, and she pried it gently from her blue black tresses. Huffing and shaking her head, she stepped toward the wooden structure that the ruckus was pouring from as the sun sank below the ridge behind her.

Gandalf was the first to notice the shadowed figure in the doorway. He stood to greet her as the party grew silent at his sudden movement.

"What is it?" Bilbo squeaked, wondering why the wizard would stop mid-feast. He and the dwarves glanced around to see what had arrested his attention.

"Ah, you made it," Gandalf said as he walked slowly to the doorway with arms splayed wide in greeting.

"Indeed, I did," Morinehtar answered, her own voice sounding odd in her ears. It was deeper than she remembered, and almost gravely.

"And who is this?" Beorn asked loudly from his oversized arm chair at the head of the table. "Another one of your adventurous friends?" His tone was one of irritation. Beards hung low over the tabletop in curiosity as the dwarves leaned over to get a look at the stranger. Fifteen pairs of curious eyes stared at Morinehtar.

"Adventurous, no. Friend, yes," the old man answered Beorn, amusement dancing in his eyes. The room had grown quite dark in a matter of minutes after the sun set, and Beorn called for the dogs to light torches and set them around the room. Morinehtar and guests alike watched in wonderment at the kind creatures who obeyed the wild man so well. It was strange to see animals behave that way, when she was used to the wild, untamable creatures of the forest.

The room was considerably brighter now, and she stood on the threshold waiting for a welcome. Beorn huffed and said gruffly, "Welcome, friend of Gandalf. Do you have a name?"

"You may call me Morine," she said, stepping into the hall and cautiously toward the table as Gandalf took his seat again. A dog brought a rounded and polished log up to the foot of the table for her to join the party. It sniffed her in curiosity, and for a second, his gums receded to show his sharp teeth in a silent growl. Just when Morine thought that he might try to bite her, he slunk away.

The exchange was not missed by the host, who gulped his mead from a tankard and was staring at her intently. He had not been expecting another guest, and fifteen was already more than he cared to entertain.

Murmurs circled around the table as they tried to conceal their interest in her, which was proving difficult. She had stood nearly half a head taller than Gandalf. Pale, almost reflective, skin was the only feature they could see, and the black hair and clothes looked too somber for such a lively party. Begrudgingly, they tore their eyes from her to dive back into the delicious spread of food and talk amongst themselves.

Gandalf lifted his cup to her in acknowledgment, and she lifted hers in silence. "We'll talk later," she thought, drinking from the cup. The mead burned her throat unexpectedly, and she nearly choked on it. Searching for water, she found none. An urn of milk was the closest thing, and pouring herself a mug, she chugged it down to sooth the burn.

Taking the basket nearest her, she found warm biscuits wrapped in a cloth. Slathering honey on a few, she enjoyed every bite, slowly mulling it around her mouth in appreciation. The sweetness took some getting used to, but after centuries of her forest diet and running all day to get here, she was glad for any food she could get, even if was from a reluctant host.

A small voice pulled her from her thoughts. "Morine, is it?" A tiny man asked from her left.

Mouth full of biscuits and sticky honey, she nodded her head.

Luckily the little man saw she had her mouth full and looked flustered at having bothered her at such an inopportune time. "Pardon me," he said politely. "My name is Bilbo."

She swallowed the food and said in her deep voice, "Hello Bilbo." Making small talk, or any talk for that matter, was a struggle for the estranged woman, but she knew she had to try. "It is a pleasure to meet your acquaintance." The reply seemed to be gracious enough for him, as he smiled at her contentedly.

"Well, it is a pleasure to meet yours as well," he responded, seeming a little ruffled as he fiddled with his fingers. "You are a friend of Gandalf?"

"Yes, for a long time now," Morine answered. "Though, it has been quite some time since we last met." The fact seemed to sadden the little man, and so she turned the conversation back to him. "And how do you know Gandalf?"

Looking at the table and hiding a smile, Bilbo replied, "It was quite by accident you see. I was standing on my doorstep one lovely morning, minding my own business, mind you, when he happened to walk by. We exchanged pleasantries, and before I knew it, he came over for tea the next day." He chuckled as if this simple explanation were a funny joke.

"Oh, I see," she said, not understanding what he really meant at all. Staring down at the table, he looked sad again, but this time, she recognized the dreamy far-off stare; he was homesick. "And where is home?" she ventured to ask him, "If you don't mind my asking."

"The Shire, of course. That is where all hobbits are from," he said blankly. "Well, any respectable hobbit that is."

While it had been obvious that he was no dwarf or man, she had never seen anyone like him before. "A hobbit?" she repeated.

"Yes my dear. A hobbit! You know? About yea high, large hairy feet, curly hair, homely folk," he said as if this should clear up all confusion.

She started to laugh at his description of his own race, but when he seemed agitated and embarrassed, she shook her head. "No, no. I'm sorry. I do not mean to offend," she apologized, not wanting to alienate the only person at the table who was minding her at all. "I believe that you are the first hobbit I have ever met, so you must forgive my misunderstanding."

This news clearly rattled the little man, though he looked a bit prideful about it. Puffing out his chest and raising his head in high dignity, he said, "It is an honor to represent my race for you."

To mirror his solemnity, she raised her glass as if to toast him. "Then you will not mind my inquiries?"

"Not at all. Ask away my dear," he smiled smugly, more than happy to indulge her as he stuck one hand in his coat pocket comfortably.

"Tell me more about the Shire," she demanded. "Where is it? What is it like?"

"It is quite a ways from here," he began to explain. "Across the Misty Mountains…"

Unbeknownst to the two less-than-strangers deep in conversation at the foot of the table, their host was carefully watching their exchange and growing more unnerved by the minute. He had not liked the woman from the moment she stood on his doorstep. While Gandalf had said that she was a friend—Morine, her name was?—he was less than convinced. Her arrival much later than the others was suspect enough, but he also doubted a woman would travel in the company of fifteen men. Any respectable woman, that is.

At the thought of her character he huffed into his drink, drawing the attention of the old wizard who turned to cock a curious eyebrow. "Alright over there?" he asked, barely hiding an amused smile.

From the few times Beorn had encountered the mysterious man, he knew that his twinkling eyes would always betray him. At their sparkle now, his suspicions grew. "I'm fine," he barked at the man before returning to his favorite foods.

It did not take a genius or even an observant person to see what was the source of the host's distraction. More than several of his guests had noticed his unconcealed stares at the uninvited guest. Staring at her now, he stroked his deep beard in thought. She looked strange to him, though save for a few features, she could have passed for a relative or friend of his. While her hair was black and she was of a strong build like nearly everyone he knew, it was her pale skin that unnerved him so. Its reflective surface suggested that she rarely saw the light of day. What kind of person never went outside? While he was a night owl himself, he had his reasons, and he managed to see the daylight often enough. Her clothes were black and cut like a man's. "A strange person indeed," he thought as he drank haughtily.

The interaction between the woman and the hobbit seemed innocent enough, but he was none too pleased. His would share his thoughts with the wizard when he got the chance. For now, he had had enough of trying to analyze his so-called friend. It was only making him angry. Being in no position to show his ugly side to his many—too many—guests, he called it a night.

When there was a natural lull in the chatter, he banged his tankard on the table to call their attention. Clearing his throat as all their little eyes stared back at him, he said this; "I'm leaving you to your revelries now. Just one thing: do not leave the safety of this hall. If you go outside, you do so at your own peril." He gave them a grave look as they stared back in blatant curiosity. "Goodnight," he said sternly. With that, he stormed outside.