Chapter Text
There was no ceremony when Bilbo Baggins planted the acorn. He was the only one in attendance at what felt like another funeral, and that would be the only sentiment he’d allow himself after such a long journey – and such a long debacle reclaiming his mother’s silver.
Home, at last.
Yet he could hardly recognize it.
There he was, on Shire hills where lush green cushioned the tough soles of his feet. Here were his people. His kin. His fine garden. Even so, everything he once prided was more estranged to him than any night sky he had slept under out on the road.
Over fourteen months had passed, and his mind was starting to fade from one bittersweet memory to another, though the faces he’d come to know in the meantime now blurred – that or his vision. The tired hobbit sensed he was forgetting very important details as grief and darkness wore him down. The journey itself felt as though it did more harm than good, most days anyhow.
Surely there would be songs to remind him as he grew old. Balin had thought so. There’d be hymns to sing of what Bilbo left behind and what had been regained with an ease he had done nothing to deserve. But there was only silence as his hands – no longer soft from idle comforts – pressed the acorn into land that had never seen the ruin he or the wee nut had.
However uneasy it made the halfling, it was nice in some ways. The way simple things often were. It was a feeling he hadn't had since he first abandoned home on a whim and a wizard’s insistence. And yet, as dirt gathered at the center of his palm, the small act seemed almost as defiant as the life he led beyond his yard, with its pretty daisies and trimmed hedges.
A quiet one at least.
It still felt like an oath of sorts, just as he intended it to be before everything went south. It was as if the acorn, tucked into the shallow breast of Middle-earth as gently as he could muster, might take root and restore what he'd lost out there.
Who he had lost.
Fancy that…
In the garden’s gentle curve, a hobbit’s foot from his locked gate, Bilbo found himself contemplating these green hills, round doors, and future mornings in Bag End where he might be free of the nightmares he’d been suffering through ever since blood spilled upon snow.
As he brushed soil back into place, he forced himself not to think anything more of wizards, dwarves, elves, or orcs – and especially not the golden band weighing down his pocket and his heart.
He refused to name the burden that had followed him home, far too large for someone like him to carry.
He tried his best not to wonder whether circumstances might have been different if he had done something different. More.
Then he rubbed his dirtied palms along his breeches that already needed a good scrub, and rose from his aching knees with a heavy sigh.
Unbeknownst to the hobbit, his memories truly had begun to fray; however, it wasn’t because some ring was tightening its hold over him. Bilbo's grip on reality swayed the moment the seed settled into the ground.
For memory is not as rigid as we so pretend. As is fate.
Like any living thing, fate may yet be guided while it’s a tender bud waiting to grow.
You see, the acorn promised Bilbo more than it let on. It promised a return. It promised new beginnings rather than his years pressing in hundreds, where harsh, jaded eyes would look to Rivendell before a bittersweet end.
Instead, Bilbo would wake up in his bed, his limbs unburdened by loss or age, on the very morn sunlight fell across his sleeping face and he chose to take his pipe to his favourite bench.
His unexpected quest would begin again, not as it had been sung, but as it might yet be... more.
For, far beyond Erebor’s shadow, there would be a girl born with silver hair, like the canopy of pale leaves hanging overhead on her first name-day. She did not cry in King Thranduil’s arms as he cradled her head for a time – until time went on, of course. Until her mother, his wife, would croak.
Like her brother, the elvish girl would slip just as quietly from Thranduil’s grasp, as though she belonged less to this lifetime than she did the first time around. She had her mother’s soft eyes after all. Perhaps that was why the Elvenking himself feared how easily they could one day close.
Their similarities were enough to make her loved. But also enough to make her unbearable.
Nevertheless, Anneth, daughter of the Elvenking, Princess of the Woodland Realm, would rise like all great oaks did: from seeds no bigger than a fingertip – quiet and overlooked till she was in full bloom. It would not be affection that watered her either, but the glow from distant stories, filtered through a light unlike the one that touched her kingdom.
Anneth bent towards that light against her father’s discretion.
She was drawn to Dwarven tales. To the books buried deep within Thranduil’s library that spoke of stone kings, perched on gold mountains with a reigning bloodline that endured war and dragonfire.
And far across the realm, in a Shire untouched by flame, Bilbo Baggins packed the last of his Old Toby and struck a match, not yet given cause to wonder whether the destiny of friends whom he had yet to meet might ever be changed.
For something had answered just in time, eager to meddle with the destiny that would soon be carved into the Baggins’ freshly painted door.
And so, it began once more…
Late August, 2941 T.A.
Porcelain nails grazed the neck of bark standing an arm's length from her terrace. Her other hand was braced flat on the thick stone railing as she lifted onto the tip of her toes. Her muscles strained while she risked falling from such a great height to pluck a peaceful flower from a narrow branch.
The tree had grown quickly in the eyes of the elvish girl, who had long since outgrown change itself.
Mere moments ago, she had been organizing her trinkets in an aimless row across her vanity before the floral bundle caught her attention. The fact that she hadn’t noticed it sooner puzzled her, as it rested just beyond the tall glass doors to her balcony.
Intrigued, she stepped outside to get a closer look. The cool marble nipped her bare feet as she stared at the white blossom until, suddenly, she decided she wanted it. But when she reached for its stem, her eagerness caused the nail on her index finger to break against the jagged wood. A sharp ache shot up her forearm, and she retracted her hand in a wince.
Only then did it occur to her that she had never chipped a nail before. She had never so much as seen her own skin break, never felt that particular sting, or seen red spill out.
The thought made her frown, though it really shouldn’t have.
It was strange to be troubled by something so trivial. It was even stranger to envy those who had known a worser pain. Why would anyone wish for such a thing?
Well, the answer was quite simple.
Anneth Thranduilion was a jealous creature, with more hours than distractions. Her fixation on acquiring a lily was proof of that.
Solitude never suited her temperament, yet it was all she seemed to know.
It provoked an envy in her for all those who walked beneath her marble gallery, going about their day, because they also walked free – far outside the fortress that was her kingdom, if they so pleased. To a petty degree, she loathed the elves whose eyes touched more than a bed of flowers in a sheltered garden. Those who saw the other races for themselves, and not just the drawings in storybooks that her tutors had said were more caricatures than accurate.
Most elves didn’t care for men, and cared much less for dwarves, which was scarcely more than they spared a thought for orcs, trolls, and all other unsightly things that moved in darkness. But Anneth did, or, at least, she supposed she might. Either way, she planned to make that determination for herself.
Distractedly, her bottom lip jutted out as she failed to acquire the tallest lily for a second time. The tilt of her expression showed her youth to the few older immortals who noticed her antics from below. They were too accustomed to said antics to wait around and catch when she missed the flower entirely. Her toes slipped out from under her, and the hand pressed into the railing didn’t stop her from tipping forward.
(Although Anneth was an elf, many liked to point out her regrettable inclination toward clumsiness.)
As her face shattered into a gasp, she peered to the ground – rushing closer – before two arms seized her waist. Air fled her lungs as she soared backwards, which was certainly an improvement from falling forward. It startled her, but she wasn’t afraid. After all, it was only her brother.
Anneth recognized Legolas behind her immediately. She may have been clumsy, but her instincts were quite astute, if she did say so herself (...and that she did). His strong but lean arms set her down the way he would a crystal cup, and his laughter steadied her. She twisted, rearing her head to deliver a scowl that sat awkwardly on such soft-looking features.
Truth be told, Legolas suspected Anneth was actually inept at frowning. If not for their father’s influence, he was sure she would've spent her immortal life smiling.
Embarrassment coloured her cheeks pink, though Legolas looked at her with only fondness. But, as noted, Anneth was a jealous soul, and between him and the captain of the guard often venturing beyond the castle grounds, she could only offer him that scowl. Her imagination deemed it her sole rebellion.
“Nethel, it is not yet noon,” he sighed, feigning disappointment. “Do try and live till supper. Father may yet notice your absence.” He meant no harm, but to Anneth, it sounded like a backhanded tease.
She lifted her chin in wounded pride. “And we mustn’t dare displease him,” she murmured, her eyes and words trailing off as she retreated back to the safety of her room. The drapes flew in the warm breeze, brushing against her arms as she side-stepped Legolas, not before he caught her wrist to tug her back into conversation.
He let out a low chuckle. “Come now. Surely you can linger a moment to catch up with your elder brother?”
The faint hitch to his voice drove guilt straight into her stomach. She would be lying if she said her avoidant behaviour hadn’t unwittingly targeted him too lately. Anneth had never been a very good liar anyway. But that didn’t stop her lips from parting to fling back some unclever retort. The false words built on her tongue, but never formed as a distant horn blared.
A whiny call announced itself from past the kingdom walls, warning of unusual activity deep within Mirkwood, which had been cleared barely two moons ago by none other than the prince.
The siblings froze, and Anneth watched intently as Legolas’s eyes widened; his head snapped towards the blare’s source as his grip on her wrist loosened. Pulling away, she took a small step back.
“I must go,” he breathed, hardly finishing his sentence as he brushed past her in urgent strides.
The younger royal turned, instinctively moving after him, her blonde hair whipping around her face and down her long nape. The delicate strands tickled her low-hanging collar and the ivory skin underneath it. Her mouth parted in protest, cut off yet again by the stern glance he cast over his shoulder.
“Stay put, Anneth,” Legolas ordered in a firm tone. “Do not even think to follow.”
Anneth went still, then threw her arms out and let them fall limply to her sides as her body sagged in defeat, as if it knew before her mind that she was secretly tempted to tag along.
Seeing how he could read her every thought, Anneth had no choice but to ignore the chilling worry that creased her forehead and watch him go. Though the fear Anneth harboured was not for herself. Instead, that same old jealousy prickled through her chest as it rose in a huff.
Hearing the clip of her bedroom door’s latch, she inhaled a slow breath, closing her eyes, and when she opened them again, her lashes fluttered against white sunlight. She squinted and frowned, and a stubborn spark burned in her gaze.
Anneth told herself she would consider death to catch even a glimpse of the action outside. And perhaps that was why it went without saying that she was too dramatic for her own good – almost as much as she was determined.
Like any other elf, she had been trained in combat, and so she could not fathom what harm might come from sneaking out to see it for herself.
What could possibly go wrong? She thought as a sly, maddeningly assured grin split her face.
The princess was quick to shed her lilac gown and corset, hastily changing into more practical attire. Black trousers clung to her legs, and a dark green tunic wrapped around her upper body. She draped on a matching cloak before retrieving her largest dagger from beneath her plush animal collection and slipping it into the leather sheath strapped across her torso. Then she pinned her smallest blade to her cloak like it was an ornate brooch.
Several footsteps padded by her room as she slid her feet into knee-high boots. When the hallway outside went silent, she reached for the doorknob.
Like a mouse darting under floorboards, Anneth crept along the corridor, sticking to the shadows while guards hurried in a flurry towards the armoury. When their steps faded into the distance, Anneth dashed over to the hidden passage she’d discovered a decade ago as her heart thrummed with anticipation.
Just as she rounded the corner, a familiar voice thundered behind her.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Anneth stiffened like a startled gazelle. She didn’t want to turn, but she knew better than most that the one behind the command was far from patient, and far less tolerant to insubordination – naturally. He was a king… and also her father. Which meant she was bound to answer him twice over.
“Nowhere, Aran nîn,” she responded, her voice innocent enough, but her back turned gave her words all the attitude he needed to scoff aloud in pure disbelief.
“Sell.”
“Ada.” Anneth corrected herself, using the title he clearly expected, and slowly pivoted to face him fully, shoulders squared. His cool eyes met hers, and the look on his face was as biting as winter. She fought to hold his gaze, but such a thing always proved difficult.
There was a long pause that followed, where both of them waited for the other to speak first: she, for his reprimand; him, for her to tell the truth.
“I should very much like to believe you were not slipping away to do something very, very unwise,” his voice tapered smoothly, and his focus drifted past her as if surveying the empty corridor, only to snap back like drawn steel. “Or ignoring your ‘Aran’s’ explicit orders.”
“I was just–”
With an edge of condescension, Thrandruil murmured “Just?” back to her as he lifted one of his dark brows. “Nowhere, was it?”
Anneth bit her lower lip to stifle another pout – a habit she rarely noticed – and dropped her chin and gaze.
The Elvenking softly clicked his tongue as he glanced up at the wooden columns spiralling around them. The vaulted ceilings seemed to tremble under his keen eye, which promptly flicked back to her once more.
His evasive daughter nodded.
“And I would not suppose ‘nowhere’ includes the additional guard I shall have stationed outside your chambers – should you test me again, Mui tinu.”
The Sindarin term of endearment sounded cold, and Anneth heaved, but held that breath when she saw his brow flinch, threatening to rise again. She grit her teeth and released the air slowly instead of foolishly talking back to him.
She shook her head no in concession.
Thranduil jerked his chin toward the upper levels, toward her room, and her eyes followed the gesture.
“Go. Now.”
Anneth sighed without the faintest surprise, lifting her arms in silent protest much like she had done with her brother earlier. But she said nothing more. She just spun on one heel and stomped off with a rather theatrical affront. Her shoulders slumped as though she was performing for an audience, even as she stomped upstairs.
Halfway there, Anneth glanced over her shoulder and saw that her father hadn’t really moved, as if he was waiting for something – someone else. She sighed again, for her ears alone, as she dragged her feet. The pointless show might have continued had she not heard the main entrance to the palace thrust open with a crude groan as the door’s ancient hinges toiled into motion.
Then came the voices – deep, loud, and unfamiliar. What followed was an unmistakable clang. It sounded like chains scraping against stone, but she couldn’t be sure, as she hadn’t heard such a noise within these halls in what felt like centuries.
She heard boots scuffling inelegantly over the bridge leading toward the King’s throne, and she sensed a shift in the castle. The air suddenly felt charged.
Anneth rushed to the top of the stairs and crouched down till her knees grazed the floor. She leaned into the carved branches that formed the upper railing. Her fingers slipped into the cracks as she peered through the lattice.
Below, a line of small figures – smaller and hairier than the male elves she was accustomed to – marched in formation between armoured guards.
Recognition eclipsed her mind then, while the black of her pupils swallowed the blue of her irises.
Dwarves.
Real, living, breathing dwarves – here, in the Woodland Realm…
Anneth, daughter of a notoriously pretentious and overbearing Elvenking, had never, in all her years, seen a dwarf before. And, perhaps, the book illustrations decorating her shelves hadn’t exaggerated the size of their noses after all, she thought with a curious tilt of her head.