Chapter One:

A Rude Awakening

I have come to the conclusion that I am either:

A) Dreaming

or

B) Hallucinating

Why do I say this? Well, it's quite simple, really. I have absolutely no idea where I am. I have no idea how I got here, and I have no idea how I'm going to get home.

I've been moving along this tiny pebble road in near darkness for as long as I can remember. Of all the places to have some variety of mental breakdown, this place isn't too bad; it's quite pretty, like something out of The Teletubbies. There are dainty streams, babbling brooks, grassy knolls; if I had the time, I would perhaps stop by one, sit myself down on a nice smooth stone and watch the world drift by. But, alas, I do not have the time.

Mainly because, as of about five minutes ago, I am being chased by giant sheep.

Sheep? Sheeps? Sheepi? I've never been great with plurals; not that my grasp of the English language matters all that much right now. I didn't even know that Sheep could run, never mind find it in themselves to chase people. You might wonder why I'm running; what's the worst sheep can do, giant or otherwise? Well firstly, I don't much like the idea of being trampled into jelly, and secondly, there's a good chance that the sheep themselves are running from something bigger, nastier, and a lot less cotton-woolly, so I don't lessen my pace. My eyes catch on to something glowing in the distance and I sprint for it, because light means people, people who can perhaps rescue me from the wrath of the vicious, bloated marshmallows behind me, and whatever might be pursuing them.

After a minute or so more of breathless running, I quite remarkably I fall face-first into the dirt. I scramble sideways, trying to get out of the way of the stampede; I don't scramble fast enough and find myself enveloped in the fluffy white creatures, their tiny hooves hammering into my skin as I flay around, trying to push my way out of the madness. Before I can gather my bearings something has a hold on me, and I'm lifted off the ground for a second before landing with a heavy thud on the hard ground. Someone is beside me there, breathless and coughing.

I struggle to my feet, eyeing the man as he finds his own; he is young, with long bistre-brown hair and stubble grazing his jawline.

"What are you doing, standing in the path of a stampede?!" he barks at me, his voice high, exasperated.

"Standing?!" I choke, half-delirious from the numbing pain of being trampled, "are you blind?! I was running away-!"

"No, you were running straight ahead, stupid thing to do- look out!"

He takes hold of my arm and throws me away from him, out of the path of a huge dog-like creature which bounds towards the pair of us. It's curled claws are stained brown with blood, its muzzle red, gnarled teeth yellow-white against the lunar light. Bloodied gums sneer at us from charcoal-colored lips. I take a step backward and stumble against someone else. I turn, startled, to see a flash of golden blond hair as the figure darts past me, a dagger in either hand, and charges at the snarling creature. The blond crosses his blades and slices them across the monster's throat in one swift movement as it reals back to pounce, letting out a great roar as red rains down over his leather coat; in the same second an arrow pierces the creature's eye socket, and the huge canine falls down dead.

The blond, wiping the beast's blood from his forehead, turns to the bow-wielder.

"I had that," he grumbles, wiping his blades on the wolf's thick fur. I stare wide-eyed as the creature's life force drains into the muddy earth. The faint bleating of terrified sheep can still be heard in the distance.

"I was just making sure," the dark-haired man quips, adjusting the quiver upon his shoulder.

"Oh, please," the blond mutters, "it was dead before your arrow even hit."

"A thank you would suffice, brother."

"You killed it," I interrupt, certain now that I am dreaming. Gigantic wolves do not run amok in in the real world, neither do young men openly wielding dangerous weapons.

I see the duo properly for the first time as they stand there, the parallel of one another. If they really are brothers, you'd never have guessed it. The blond is the older of the two, with warm blue eyes, a wry smirk and a braided moustache. The other brother is taller and darker, with eyes the colour of soot and the same smug smirk as his partner.

"Are you alright?" the blond asks. I nod repeatedly, as if doing so will make it true, feeling as though I might throw up any second.

"You don't look alright," he observes. "You're lucky we were passing. Have you got a home to go to?"

"Yeah, I live… uh, where are we, exactly?"

"Bag End, I think it's called," the darker brother answers. I laugh, possibly delirious.

"Bag End?! What sort of a name is that?"

The blond chuckles. "An unusual one indeed. You Halflings have a habit of naming things strangely."

"Half-whats...? And what the hell are you two wearing? You look like you're on your way to a reenactment."

The two men stare openly at me. I close my eyes, try to wake myself up. I pinch myself lightly, and then harder when it doesn't work.

"Wake up," I say aloud, quietly at first, with my eyes closed. I repeat the mantra, opening my eyes every now and then to see if my efforts have worked. With each failure, I say the words a little louder.

"Wake up. Wake up. Wake up!"

I'm still here, stood in this field beside the corpse of a slaughtered wolf, the beast's handsome young murderers watching me in silence. The darker of the two leans to whisper discreetly to his brother, an art he could do with perfecting.

"Let's get a move on, Fíli," he says, looking concerned. "I think she's mad, or half-witted."

The brothers whisper back and forth until the darker-haired yields. "Alright," he says to me, "we'll see you home safe. Where do you live? Is it here in the Shire, or off somewhere in Bree?"

"Alright," he says to me, "we'll see you home safe. Where do you live? Is it here in the Shire, or off somewhere in Bree?"

Even for a dream, this pair are talking way too much nonsense. "I'd be better off asking that dead wolf for advice," I mutter beneath my breath, beginning to walk in the direction of the light I'd been following earlier. As I get closer, it becomes apparent that the light is coming from a house high in a valley; below in the low hills, dozens of the tiny homes can be seen. I start up the path of the first home I come across. The house appears to be built into one of the hills; the garden is luscious, filled with blooming pansies and oxlips. The two brothers are following after me, and when they catch up, the younger of the two speaks again.

"This is where you live?" he says as I reach the round door, "Ah, so you must be Mr. Boggins!"

I turn and stare at him. His brother clips him around the back of the head with his palm, eyes flaring momentarily with embarrassment.

"Forgive my little brother," he says apologetically, "Kíli is young and has seen very few women in his time, being Dwarrow. He has certainly never laid eyes on a She-Hobbit such as yourself... he meant no offense, I can assure you."

"...Whatever," I say, and bang on the door, hoping to find a creation of my subconscious inside who has a little more sense to offer. Just goes to show that looks aren't everything.

"You said they all looked feminine!" The younger brother whispers, shifting uneasily.

"When I said that I meant that they lack beards and the strength of our kind," the blond mutters, "I didn't think you assumed they were to be... buxom." The word registers in my mind, and I haul the neckline of my top up past my collar bones i a swift, self-consious motion. It is then that I finally take note of what I'm wearing.

Oh, good Lord above...

Pyjamas. Typical.

And not just any pyjamas; the cheapest, scruffiest, most miss-matched pyjamas to ever grace the face of this Earth. A pair of rainbow-covered fleece bottoms and a pale blue t-shirt with a crudely drawn ice cube on the front, with the painfully corny slogan of 'Stay Cool' screen-printed across its front.

The door opens. A small, large-eared man in a patchwork house coat stands the other side, looking just as bewildered as I feel. I look down to see that he sports a pair of enormous, tuft-covered feet.

Okay, brain. you and I are going to have words after tonight.

I try for a smile, though it comes out as a pained grimace.

"Fíli," the blond says over my shoulder before I have a chance to form words.

"And Kíli," the other brother adds, pushing in front of me. In unison the two bow, with such synchronicity they could only have been practicing.

"At your service," they say together. The small man pulls his dressing gown together, looking suddenly very uncomfortable.

"You must be Mr. Boggins!" Kíli proclaims as the tiny man goes to close the door.

"No no no, you can't come in," he waffles, "you've come to the wrong house."

"What?" Kíli balks, "has it been canceled?!"

His brother frowns, the beads of his moustache braids clanging together. "Well no one told us."

"Cancelled?" The large-eared man chokes, "no, no, nothing's been canceled-!"

"Well that's a relief!" Kíli laughs, and begins wiping his muddied boots on a chest in the hallway. "It's nice, this place. Did you do it yourself?"

"Why, uh, no, it's been in the family for generations... that's my mother's glory box, can you please not do that!"

Fíli hands the little man an armful of weapons, oblivious to his plight.

"Careful with these, we've just had them sharpened." He begins drawing daggers and blades from every fold in the fabric of his unusual get-up, piling them onto the weaponry he's already handed over. Kíli takes me by the arm and presents me before the small man.

"We've brought your daughter home safe."

I shrug, play along. "Uh, hi, Dad."

The small man stutters, aghast. "She's not my daughter."

"She was caught in a stampede caused by a herd of sheep being pursued by a wolf which looked to have a little Rohvanion in its blood... wait, she's not? Are you sure?"

"I think I'd know my own kin, Master Dwarf!"

"Dwarf?" I pipe up, "you're Dwarves?"

The blond, Fíli, laughs heartily. "Another who cannot distinguish races, the pair of you are a perfect match!"

"Aren't you a bit tall for Dwarves?" I remark, and Kíli's eyes light up fondly.

"Do you think so?"

Just then a huge, terrifying man moulded from battle scars, tattoos and webs of facial hair bounds into the room, cuffs Kíli by the shoulder and leads him away into the house. I gawp at his studded ears and the two axes braced against his back, in awe, as Fíli follows suit, leaving the home-owner and myself alone in the entrance hall.

"Sorry about all this," I say, and relieve him of some of the weapons which the brothers have thrust upon him. He is a good four inches shorter than me, with a kindly yet frown-set face and a head of hair so thick can barely control my impulse to reach out and take a handful of it. I glance down again at his huge feet and find that I can barely take my eyes off them.

"Was your mother a werewolf?" I ask.

"And who might you be, if you don't mind my asking?!" the small man responds.

"I'm just... uh...passing through," I say with a flustered smile, holding my hand out in a gesture of good faith. He scrunches his nose up at the offer, and instead offers me a tea-towel to wipe away the muck that's embedded into my palms from my fall earlier.

"Now if you'll be so kind as to leave-"

"Where are we, exactly?"

The man looks at me with a gentle yet hard expression. "Those two have just... dragged you in here? You're quite sure you don't know where you are?"

"Quite sure indeed, Mister…?"

"Baggins," he offers briskly, "Bilbo Baggins. I think you really ought to be going, and the rest of your friends as well. It's getting late, and I've had quite enough of this raucous for one night. Tomorrow's the button fair-"

"Mr. Bilbo Baggins," I repeat to myself, not really listening. I play around with the lyrical name; it's almost like bubbles popping on your tongue. I roll it around in my mouth as though it were tangible, quite impressed with the creativity of my subconscious.

The tiny man looks terribly concerned, clearly thinking me mad.

"Sorry," I say, "I'm rambling. I promise I'll listen now. I'm all ears... and it looks like I'm not the only one."

He looks somewhat offended at the joke. I feel a little guilty for teasing him in spite of the fact that he doesn't actually exist.

"Oh, alright then, you go and sit yourself down!" Mr. Baggins cries, defeated, "one more's hardly going to make a difference now. Go on, off you go, get!"

I salute him playfully and follow the sound of bawdy laughter through to the kitchen, resigning myself to enjoy this grandiose dream while it lasts. I quietly sit at the only free wooden stall, between an older white-bearded Dwarf I'm only just meeting and the huge tattooed one. He turns and bares his teeth at me, fish scales caught up between the yellowing tombstones, which I think might be his way of smiling. Kíli quickly recounts the story of our meeting, of the sheep and the wolf-like animal slaughtered outside, making sure to include how it was his arrow that stopped the beast.

"Thanks for helping me out back there, by the way," I say quietly, a little embarrassed. "And you, Fíli, the way you killed that Wolf-thing was pretty cool."

Fíli side-glances smugly at his brother, glad to see his point proven. "The way I killed it."

The tattooed Dwarf calls out to Mr. Baggins, who scurries into the room all a fluster.

"No more wine?" the old Dwarf balks. "Rather an insult. Do you not want your guests to stay? We've traveled far and are oh so weary from the road. Isn't that right lads?"

"Oh, so weary," Kíli agrees, his tone whimsical. "The most weariest."

Bilbo once again looks horrified. "The wine is in the pantry... I..."

"...Shall be getting us some, most kind of you, Mr. Hobbit."

"Very good, this," the Dwarf tattooed Dwarf interrupts, sucking the meat from the bones of the fish he's picked to shreds. "Any more?"

"W-what?" Bilbo stutters, "oh, yes, yes... ah... I suppose you should help yourself. You are guests, after all, no matter how uninvited... Hmm. It's just that I wasn't exactly expecting company, especially not a troup of Dwarves charging into my house at such an hour. It's a little out of the ordinary…"

The doorbell rings. The small man quickly begins ranting as he heads towards it.

"No! No, no, no, no, there is nobody home! Go away and bother somebody else, there are far too many Dwarves in my dining room as it is! If this is some clot-head's idea of a joke, I can only say it is in very poor taste-!"

The heavy front door groans open and a flurry of cries and thuds fill the hallway. I spin my head around to see what's caused the commotion, unable to see anything from where I sit.

"That'll be the rest of them," Fíli notes with a hearty chuckle.

I watch as Kíli reaches over to the tattooed Dwarf's plate and steals a handful of chips as the rest of the table are in conversation; Kíli pops the largest one in his mouth, catches my eye and tosses one across the table to me as a bribe to keep quiet.

'Our secret,' he mouths, throwing me a wink. I smile back awkwardly, feeling my cheeks flush.

I pinch myself again, with no luck.