Thorin:

(A/N: A backward version here- you defend him. Just thought it would work better with the storyline for this one.)

Throwing flaming pinecones at the vicious enemies surrounding you isn't nearly enough to hold them back- Thorin is about to be decapitated and you can't believe no one's doing anything about it. Summoning your courage, you leap out of the pine tree you've been sheltering in, Ori behind you shouting with alarm. You draw your sword and charge as fast as your short legs will take you toward the orc about to kill the rightful king of Erebor, giving a fierce battle cry fit for any grizzled warrior, despite how your heart races with adrenalin and panic. In moments, the orc is dead, but its many, many comrades are not, and you have certainly upset them. Though your hand trembles, your resolve does not waver, and you stand before the badly-wounded Thorin, daring to protect him. With ferocious, guttural roars, you are charged at by three Wargs at once and wildly swing your blade, a sense of hopelessness overcoming you at the observation that you are clearly outnumbered.

You manage to beat two of the monstrous beasts back, but the last lunges forward and claws out your left eye. As it gives a howl of triumph, you give a yelp of pain and fall to your knees, covering your now-empty socket with one hand as you feebly point your sword, still defiant, at the enemies before you. You're sure your death is to come soon and painfully, and you are swamped with despair that you were likely not able to save Thorin. Surprisingly, no further attack is waged upon you, and you wince as you force open your remaining eye to see a giant bird swooping over your head to gently pick up Thorin in its talons. You, trusting that he'll be safe- what other choice do you have?- close your eye and slump onto the ground, letting the pain lure you into that darkened, dreamless place of between sleep and consciousness.

His Current Impression Of You (HCIOY): He can't believe you would dive forward like that to same him- but you just did, and at such a great personal cost. He watches you as he is carried away, another great eagle carefully picking your limp body up and following its flock. Why would you sacrifice your eye to save him? And how, if ever, can he repay you for this noble deed?

Your Current Impression Of Him (YCIOH): You are very glad he is not dead and hope he will recover from his wounds soon. You believe that the impulse that drove you to save him was fueled by a growing connection you've felt to him in the last month or so- and now, as you drift in and out of awareness, cold wind streaking across your face as you are carried through the dawn sky, you ponder.

(A/N: the rest of the stories from here on will be as specified in the title, he defends you.) 

Fili:

A short way into your journey to Erebor, you discover the loss of two of the Company's ponies and decide to prove your merit to the rest of the group by finding and retrieving them all by yourself. Following a suspiciously obvious path of disturbance through the forest, you sneak up on a trio of vulgar trolls. As you eavesdrop on their discussion on how best to cook the Company's missing steeds (whom you've spotted tied up nearby), you discern that they are fairly stupid and creep around the back of the crude pen and start untying the knots keeping the ponies captive. Just as you slip free the last end of the rope, one of the trolls reaches over, not looking down, and you shove open the gate, shouting for the small equines to flee. The troll snatches you up by the back of your cloak and you frantically try to wiggle free, but the large, foul creature has too tight a grip. You draw your sword, swinging heatedly at the hand holding you, but the troll growls and flicks your only weapon out of your grasp. You curse at the three smelly grumps and they, already unamused at you setting free their supper, unanimously decide to cook you alive instead.

It's just at this moment, as you double your attempts to escape, that you hear an angered shout from a familiar voice, followed by many others. 

Out of the surrounding trees charges the rest of the Company, weapons raised high, led by Fili. Just your luck, the troll holding you drops you directly into the smoldering fire as Nori and Bifur chop their blades into its leg. With a shout, one more from shock than pain, you quickly scramble out of the hot embers and rip off your flaming cloak. Ever resourceful, you decided to not put out the burning fabric and instead throw it with all your might into the face of one of the trolls. It howls and stumbles back, tripping and falling, and his flailing brings down another of his friends. The dwarves swarm both and put an end to their filthy lives as Balin checks to see that you're alright. You've got a few mild burns on your arms, back, left side, and legs, but otherwise you are fine, just a bit mentally shaken up. Your fellow dwarves then turn their collective force toward the last troll; it falls easily, and you are forced to accept that you made a fool of yourself by sneaking off alone. Fili seems oddly smug about the whole ordeal and so you give him a bit of a cold shoulder after offering a polite thank you.

YCIOH: You are grateful for and impressed by the rescue, but embarrassed that he had to save you in the first place. Also, his smugness is rare- it confuses and further embarrasses you.

HCIOY: He thinks you were brave to try to take on three full-grown mountain trolls by yourself, but also rather foolish. He acts smug now because he will forever hold over your head the memory of you swinging about in the troll's grip, shouting obscenities helplessly- quite an amusing sight.

Kili:

Fire is everywhere. Frantic screams, buildings collapsing, people stampeding, flailing, floundering all around you in the water, the flames, the docks. It's something out of a nightmare, nay, this is worse than a frightening dream. Fili, at the front of the narrowboat the seven of you are using to escape the town ablaze with the dragon's ire, gives a shout and you look up to see a rickety bridge above, a cobbled-together passage of planks between the attics of two houses, crumbling at its center. As it collapses, Kili dives forward and holds you to the bottom of the boat, shielding you with his body as the heap of smoldering wood comes crashing down on top of and around you. Water sloshes, freezing and sudden, into the tightly-packed vessel as you hear a sharp inhale. You gently push the dwarf off you and sit up, eyes wide and hands resting on his forearms. He's trying not to wince at the pain in his back, but you can tell by the way he holds himself, a little hunched over- this wouldn't be much to anyone unfamiliar to Kili, but you are sure that he's aching more than he's willing to show. 

You grab his hand as Smaug swoops over with a maw of flame and, over the screams of the doomed townsfolk, tell him that you've got a bit of extra Kingsfoil and you'll tend to the injury when you all make it to the nearest shore. He, not abashed at all and clearly wanting to alleviate some of the fear in your eyes, winks and teases that you only want to see him with his shirt off. You, blushing from the banter, scold him half-heartedly and turn your attention back to more important things- such as Bain leaping off the narrowboat and running away across the docks, intentions unknown, as you and your companions call after him in shocked distress.

HCIOY: He loves to tease you and see you blush, even though he knows now isn't the best time. your pink cheeks give him hope that perhaps you feel something for him, something along the lines of affection.

YCIOH: His flirting has no place right now- well, the joke did rouse your spirits a little, but otherwise, it's not a good time to be coquettish. Other than that, you are grateful for how he protected you from the falling debris, but you are worried about what injuries he might have received due to it.
Although... you kind of are hoping to see him lacking a shirt...

Bilbo:

Thorin has come up with a crazy plan to end Smaug once and for all- and it just might work. The only thing you don't entirely trust about the whole idea is how he's selected you as the bait. Bilbo draws your dwarven leader aside as you quickly suit up for your part in the great siege, and you frown at his anxious expression. When he turns away from Thorin, face cast in the shadows of distress, you clap a gentle hand on his shoulder, reassuring him that you'll be alright. He nods, though still seeming unconvinced, and reluctantly lets you scamper off to hide. The plan goes accordingly and the great beast is covered, completely buried, in at least a thousand tons of molten gold. You start up a cheer as no sign of Smaug reemerges, and the wild grin on Thorin's face gives you hope- but then, the shimmering liquid below shifts and you pause, apparently the only one to notice.

And you're the one standing the closest to the danger.

A cry of despair escapes your lips and you freeze in place as the vast worm in all his wicked fury erupts from before you, a thousand times your size, his eyes, filled with malice, fixed directly. On. You. You feel the world slow in your vision as a pair of hands latches onto your arm and pulls you into the narrow hall to your right, rushing you toward the staircase that leads to relative safety as Smaug's throat begins to swell with flame. You snap back to your senses just as you round the corner and take the steps two at a time, Bilbo- your savior -still clutching your arm tight, giving it a squeeze to remind you not to freeze again. A furious roar echoes from above, the world around you shakes, you hear the scratching of claws against the floor above you, seeking you below. You press your trembling body against Bilbo's as Smaug bellows his intent to attack Laketown in retribution for aiding the Company. For now, you are safe- but your brothers, Bofur, and Oin are not.

HCIOY: He is so glad you are safe, but scared for those left in Laketown, Fili and Kili especially.

YCIOH: You are incredibly thankful that he saved you, and now you're hoping he'll just let you cry in his arms as you panic for your brothers, Oin, and Bofur.

Legolas:

This meeting is a grave one, set to determine the fate of Middle Earth and even, if all goes remarkably wrong, the destinies of those beyond the limits of this world. You sit, posture straighter than usual in hopes of making a good impression, in a chair at the end of the circle, listening carefully. Tensions rise quickly and soon of the men, the leader of the company from Gondor, you gather, shakes his head scornfully at you. He declares how shocked he is that you, a 'weak, jaundiced girl', made it even this far carrying the One Ring. You and your brother, both understandably outraged, leap up from your seats to protest the insult- but Legolas interrupts your clamoring. He rises, fists clenched and posture as rigid as marble, delivering a fierce slew of fiery retributions to the man's unjust assumptions of your courage and tenacity. Your brother isn't at all as grandly pleased as you are at the elven prince standing up for you and sends him a suspicious glance. You quietly thank Legolas once he's finished barraging the man from Gondor (who now appears rightly ashamed), but just as you do, the council thrusts itself into chaos.

As the representatives from all the good races of Middle Earth argue as to what the fate of the One Ring should be, you slip through the quarrels and manage to snatch up the Ring from its pedestal in the center of the circle. Legolas locks eyes with you for a brief instant and offers a nod of respect as you raise your voice and shout over the turmoil for all those gathered to listen and listen well. Frodo watches, clearly at his wits' end, as you declare your pledge to take the risky journey all the way through the gates of Mordor and to the fiery pits of Mount Doom, bravely upholding your responsibility as Ringbearer and swearing upon your life to destroy, once and for all, the one thing that could bring Sauron back to his full strength.

HCIOY: He is very impressed by your bravery, but worries about the toll this quest will take on your health- physically, emotionally, and mentally. The idea of hesitating never crosses his mind and he steps forward, the first to swear allegiance to you in your heroic pursuit.

YCIOH: You think it rather sweet how he defended your honor against that man from Gondor (Boromir is his name, you recall), and wonder if the strange, powerful energy growing between the two of you that prompted him to do so. His pledge of loyalty, given without any delay, also has you wondering- but now Boromir steps forward, offering something like, "You carry the fate of us all, little one", and then, "If this is indeed the will of the Council, then Gondor will see it done". Your thoughts now turn to displeasure at having to go on such a long journey with that so very agreeable gentleman in your company...

Thranduil:

A troupe of suspicious men have been apprehended trespassing in this forest kingdom today, just before the sun begins to dip into its diurnal descent, and you have been summoned for an 'amicable interrogation' with their leader. 

"What a delightful way to spend the waning hours of this day," you mutter to yourself as you climb the stairs to the throne room- or, as it really is, the throne balcony. Knowing Thranduil as well as you do, you aren't at all surprised to arrive to find an aggravated, pacing king. 

"Men! In our lands!" he cries as you approach. "Led by a renowned thief from Esgaroth, no less! The audacity-" You lay a hand gently on his arm and he pauses, tilting his head almost kindly at you. 

"We do not yet know their aim- be it hostile, diplomatic, or simply a case of lost travelers, it is your duty as king to hear him out," you say softly before dropping your hand. Thranduil seems reassured, and just in time too, as a considerably agitated man with an unseemingly scruffy beard is pushed up the stairs towards you two. 

You can sense the tension in the air from the moment the skeevy fellow and Thranduil lock gazes, and it all just goes downhill from there.

All too soon, the felonious man and elven royalty are essentially howling at each other in excessive anger and disdain. You hurry forward in an attempt to placate both, but as you step in between them, the man shoves you roughly to the floor, calling you a name so unspeakable in any language the faces of everyone in the vicinity pale with shock. Immediately, guards are upon him as Thranduil roars for them to 'lock that scum in the deepest dungeon and melt the key into nothing'. You, although quite infuriated by the man, keep a bit of rationality and are about to suggest that such a punishment is not necessary when Thranduil suddenly crouches beside you and lifts you gently to your feet. 

Your thoughts at the moment are completely wiped from your mind as he hugs you, a rare phenomenon, muttering, "No creature, be it man, beast, or anything in between, shall ever harm you lest he feel my undeniable wrath." 

When he steps back, you catch a glimmer of something in his eyes but aren't sure exactly what it is. Just moments later, the captain of the guard of Eryn Galen appears from the corner stairwell and Thranduil turns to question him about how the group of malefactors slipped past his watch. You take a few tentative steps away and, receiving no reaction from either, slip away with your tumultuous thoughts.

HCIOY: He's still inwardly (and somewhat outwardly) fuming about that scoundrel of a man knocking you over and calling you such an appalling name, but he's also worried that he might have said the wrong thing, something that could have too brazenly hinted at his hidden affections toward you.

YCIOH: You can't stop wondering about the sudden, considerably out-of-character hug and his promise. Could there be anything behind his words, or is it just wishful thinking?

Lindir:

One chilly morning, you wake to find it has snowed outside and the northern tip of the river has frozen over in the cold. As an elfling, you had always loved to skate along the ice down there, and now you feel a sudden urge to relive some of those memories. Your Ada is apprehensive of the idea at first, but when you plead, even offering for Lindir (who is just passing by, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes) to join you, asserting that he could use a break and a bit of fun, Elrond gives in. With his blessing and a fairly-confused Lindir in tow, you hurry off to the stables, feeling a childlike glee sweep over you. The paths down to the North Bay are steep and snowy and the horses keep stumbling, causing an uneasy Lindir to grip the reins with white knuckles, a pale face, and a tense posture. You, on the other hand, keep urging you steed to go faster- to Lindir's dismay -and many a time, you almost ride off the edge of an unseen cliff around a corner or boulder. Luckily, you both make it to the riverbank without great incident, though Lindir nevertheless mumbles something about this not being safe at all.

You eagerly swap out your normal winter boots for thicker ones equipped with iron skates and carefully step out onto the ice. Lindir calls for you to wait as he changes his own footwear, but the memories of years and years ago call to you too much and you glide out further onto the frozen river. Everything is going splendidly and Lindir has just begun to tentatively slide over to you when a loud, resounding crack echoes around you and you skate to a harsh stop. Lindir's shout of alarm alerts you to look down and you do so to see a long splinter in the ice just beneath your feet. You edge your right foot a bit forward, but at the sound of another frigid crack and the fracture beginning to widen, you freeze and look up at Lindir, unsure of what to do. He reaches out his arms and says, skating as close as he dares, when I call 'three', jump as far as you can toward me-

"One-"

You bend your knees, swallowing back the panic as the crack beneath you begins to spiderweb.

"Keep your eyes on me- two-"

You look back up and brace yourself, keeping your frightened gaze trained on his forced calm, reassuring expression.

"Three!"

You leap forward in the nick of time as the ice beneath you crumbles. The next few moments are a blur of Lindir's hand holding yours tight and a jagged, messy run toward the shore. The instant you reach safety, your legs turn to jelly and you collapse into Lindir's arms, thanking him again and again for saving you. He holds you close and slowly lowers you both to rest on the cold (and thankfully solid) ground, informing you in a soft voice that he would give his life to save you.

HCIOY: He's incredibly satisfied that you're alright, though his heart, instead of slowing due to said relief, has only sped up since you fell into his arms.

YCIOH: You've been a bit stunned by his declaration. Why would he give his life for you? Surely it's just because you're royalty and it's his responsibility to protect you... Or is he trying to say more? You realize you're hoping for his words to hold greater meaning than mere duty- after all, you're really starting to like the feeling of his arms around you.

Elrond:

You have only been the Royal Astronomer of Imladris (oh, what a wonderfully fancy title!) for two weeks when you decide to make a bold overnight journey to the summit of the tallest mountain that borders this river valley kingdom. Your aim: to observe the night sky from the highest, reasonably-reachable area and document anything new or changed from the last season. And although Lord Elrond has specifically forbidden you from leaving the borders of the city without an escort, you decide that disobeying that order only once won't do much harm to anyone. After all, you certainly know how to protect yourself, and a stargazing trip is always best experienced alone (at least, in your opinion). So you gather the supplies needed for the brief journey into a small travel pack and sneak out of the palace at daybreak. No one seems to take note of your leaving and you whistle a soft tune to yourself as you begin the hike in high spirits. By the time the sun has made its path across the sky and is soon to set, you have reached your destination: the peak of the mountain.

Though now very hungry and tired, you can't help but feel a rush of accomplishment and thrill. From all the way up here, Imladris appears like an intricate, miniature model of itself, and you enjoy the view as you settle on the top of a large boulder, beginning to unpack a light supper. Just as you're unwrapping your Lembas, your unusually-sensitive ears twitch, picking up on quiet growls and jagged footsteps swiftly approaching. You reach for the hilt of your sword, laid out beside, and an arrow with a crude black tip barely misses your wrist as it flies past. You drop the Lembas and stumble upright, shocked and annoyed at the thought of orcs following you all the way up here. Sure enough, your attackers are those foul spawn of evil, and they pour from the trail numbering at least forty. You steel yourself for a rough battle, tightening your grip on your sword and drawing your trusty dual-bladed dagger from your belt as your heart begins to pound harder and faster from the adrenaline brought by this situation.

With a cry of fearlessness and defiance, you leap off the boulder and into the fray. Although you are quite naturally strong and quick, the hike tired you out, and you can feel your stamina and resolve crumbling as you fight. Just as you don't think you can take much more, you hear cries of war from your left and your heart soars. The voices and power of your half-kin, elves, join the battle, and- with your assistance, of course -they defeat every last orc. You are panting as you finally lower your blade and look up at the twilight sky. Just your luck, a layer of silvery clouds conceals the stars and moon. Looks like your little adventure was all for naught... At least Lord Elrond isn't here to see your embarrassing mistake.

Someone then taps you on the shoulder.

With a sigh of defeat, you turn around, your gaze falling from the indigo heavens above to rest upon the face of none other than the king of Imladris himself. His exasperation is evident on his sharp features and you lower your head in humiliation. You are not looking forward to the scolding you're surely about to get- but then Elrond just shakes his head, mouth curving into a wry smile, and turns away, leaving you in a state of relief and confusion.

HCIOY: You're certainly more of a handful than he initially thought, though he has begun to admire your grit, independence, and borderline-irrational stubbornness. He is amused by your attempt to sneak away unnoticed- virtually nothing escapes his watchful eye.

YCIOH: You feel humiliated by this disaster of a trip, yet completely baffled by Elrond's reaction. Perhaps there's an entirely different rebellious and independent side of him you've yet to see.

Gimli:

You are unquestionably not one to need defending; you can stick up for yourself. So when a chuckling Aragorn passes on to you how a certain dwarf gladly leaped to your defense earlier his afternoon, you are just as- if not more than -amused as your brother. The story seems to be that while Merry and Pippin collected firewood, Boromir (who always seems to be either grumpy, boastful, or in a loudly cheerful mood, none of which are preferable) insulted you by declaring that you, as a woman, should be cooking and sewing and having children, not on a long, dangerous quest as this. To that, Aragorn tells you, Gimli hefted his battleaxe onto his shoulder and snapped at Boromir that if he should ever disdain you again, that axe would be the last thing he ever saw. You, unsurprised, by the dwarf's behavior, decide to thank him a bit teasingly the next time you are able to approach him. 

At dusk, as Gimli helps to lay out bedrolls for everyone, you watch him out of the corner of your eye. As usual, he keeps glancing at you with a gentleness in his gaze you never see directed at anyone else in the Fellowship. As he strolls past you to lay out the last bedroll, offering you a gruff yet still warm smile, you swoop in and place a fast kiss on his cheek. It's only a peck, but it's still enough to leave him practically speechless for the rest of the evening.

HCIOY: You already are able to leave him in a tizzy whenever he sees you, and now this?! A kiss, albeit just on the cheek, is almost too much for him to bear. Oh, boy, keeping his growing feelings for you secret just got considerably harder.

YCIOH: It's clear he's fond of you, but you're not yet sure if you return his feelings in the same manner. You can feel something in your heart for him, but you're not sure if it's platonic or something more- only time will tell...

Merry:

(A/N: Kind of a double one here- you defend him and then vice versa.)

You fell asleep for not ten minutes and three of the hobbits you're guarding foolishly started a campfire! You've just snapped to alertness at the smell of smoke and now are frantically trying to smother the fire- but it's too late. The high-pitched screech of a Nazgûl sends a chill down your spine and wakes up Frodo Baggins, the one you know is in the most danger from the Ringwraiths. His face, along with his unwise companions', pales and you cry for them to draw their swords and follow you to higher ground. The shrieks grow closer at a frightening pace and you have the hobbits stand back to back, weapons held at the ready, as you circle them, wielding a torch and your trusty blade. The first of your undead enemies leap over a crumbled wall of these Weathertop ruins and lunges for Meriadoc Brandybuck, the chattiest and most charming (and also, in your secret opinion, the handsomest) of the hobbits- but you are too quick.

A swing of your sword and the Nazgûl's blade is deflected, a thrust of the torch and it backs off with cries of pain because, y'know, it's now on fire and all. You fend off the Black Riders as best as you can, but your efforts are desperate and all too soon, one of them corners you. It attacks viciously and knocks your torch from your hand- but Merry swoops in, grabs it, and drives back your attacker. But then, another Nazgûl finds Frodo and stabs him through the chest with its accursed blade. Just at that moment, Aragorn, your fifth companion, appears out of the night, also bearing a sword and a torch, and together you and he drive away the Nazgûl. And now, quickly, to see to Frodo...

HCIOY: He's grateful for and impressed by your bravery and dedication to protecting him and his friends, and he's also hoping that you were touched by his help in the fight.

YCIOH: Merry isn't much on your mind right now, as you're worried about Frodo, but you will be certain to thank him soon for his aide with the torch in the fight.

Pippin:

There is a spider. In. Your. Hair. You are just reading a lovely novel of a grand adventure concerning a short fellow and a certain piece of jewelry in the palace's magnificent library when you feel little legs scurrying across your scalp. You, understandably, give a yelp of surprise and disgust, shaking your head vehemently in an attempt to rid yourself of the pest, and out of a nearby section of bookshelves pops up Peregrin Took. You know why he's in the library- to research Gondor's history 'in order to better serve your father'- but you hadn't noticed before now how close by he's been. He rushes to your aide and manages to dispose of the spindly creature in a matter of mere seconds. You thank him politely, smoothing out the skirt of your dress as you try to maintain some of your dignity. He smiles and bows in return before retreating back to the shelves from whence he came- but you, on a whim of amiability, call him back over.

He barely tries to hide the wide grin that spreads across his face as he fetches his thick history book and returns to sit beside you at the mahogany table in the center of the library. A few minutes pass in companionable silence as you both read your bound volumes, but after a bit, you notice that Pippin (as he insists you call him) seems exceptionally bored with the immense record before him; you decide to speak up and volunteer a solution. To your pleasure, Pippin is enthusiastic about having you tell him about Gondor's illustrious history rather than having to read about in a heavy, dusty manuscript, and so you begin with the Drúedain, the first pioneers to ever settle in these lands. At least all those history lessons your father made you learn as a child are finally coming in handy, you muse as you continue the tale, Pippin listening, entranced.

HCIOY: He has become quite enchanted by you over the last day or so, especially in these last few minutes, and now he wishes he could stay in this moment for longer than it's sure to last.

YCIOH: He's kind, gentle, and willing to help out a person with a spider problem- in other words, he's become quite positively endearing to you.

Sam:

This morning, as you relax in a comfy hammock bed in a fancy inn in Rivendell, looking over the river of the valley, you take a sip of hot cider as your mind drifts to a memory of a few years ago. You and Sam were just out of childhood at the time, but even then, you had been the best of friends for most of your lives. Sam's thirty-third birthday party had come about on a sunny, warm Tuesday, and that's where your memory starts. You, wearing a spritely yellow sundress with a matching ribbon in your hair, were dancing gaily to a lively jig amidst other hobbit-folk your age. Sam appeared in front of you with a great big smile on his face and boldly swept you up into a partners' dance. You stayed in his arms all afternoon, still sticking close by him even when the dancing was well over. You chuckle as you remember watching the river in the Shire twinkle in the starlight, lounging beside Sam on the knoll atop Bag End, your best friend gently taking your hand and opening his mouth to say something-

But then a rather boisterous and half-intoxicated best friend of your brother's sauntered up and began loudly teasing you and Sam. You merely rolled your eyes, used to Meriadoc Brandybuck's antics, but Sam immediately got to his feet and stood his ground, making Merry leave surprisingly quickly. You had, at the time, thanked him nonchalantly and headed off to your home to get some sleep, but now as you watch the valley river roll by (a similar scene to the Shire's), you can't help but wonder if it was more than annoyance and courtesy that made Sam rise and shoo away the well-meaning but irritating Merry.

His impression of you then/now: He was going to confess his love to you that night, but Merry interrupted and you decided at just the most inopportune moment to retire for the evening and he never got the chance to say anything. To this day, he still holds a bit of a grudge against Merry for spoiling the moment, but his love for you has still never faded.

Your impression of him then/now: You have fallen for Sam as of late, but reflecting upon the memory of that Tuesday now, you suspect what he had been about to do and are grateful he did not, as you then would have had to turn him down due to not (yet) returning his affections.

Frodo:

The Ring has been calling to you. Ever since this quest began, it has been reaching its wily, wicked tendrils of longing into your psyche, trying to poison your mind- but you will not give in. You are strong enough to resist the Ring, you're sure of it. But still... You are gathering firewood with Frodo one evening, the sky just beginning to fade into the ether of oranges, pinks, and indigos that is dusk. Frodo leans down beside you, reaching for a good, solid branch, the Ring on its chain tumbling out from under his shirt, and everything in you screams to snatch it and run. You could rule the world with its power- but your heart gives a sickening lurch that stays your hand. All color in your face drains at what you could have just done. Frodo notices your pallid, fearful expression and drops the firewood in his arms to the ground, drawing his sword. 

"What is it, Osbiel?" he asks worriedly, "I'll protect you!" You swallow back tears and step back from him, shaking your head fervently. 

"You cannot protect me from the Ring, Frodo," you reply uncertainly, stumbling further away and falling to your knees. Your hands fall to rest on the forest floor with a surprisingly loud thump, limbs weak and heart trembling. 

Frodo gasps and he sheathes his sword, approaching as he tries to reassure you, "It isn't you that wants it, it's the Ring-" 

You scramble away from him, visibly trembling. "It corrupts my mind each day, Frodo. I- I cannot tell if I will be able to resist it the next time it calls." He looks at you with wide eyes as your head droops and you choke out, "I am so sorry." Only a moment or two later, brittle leaves crunch under Frodo's feet as he runs to you, throwing his arms around your shoulders to hug you, mindful to tuck the Ring back under his shirt as he does so. 

You let a few tears fall, stinging your cheeks with shame as  Frodo murmurs into your hair, "I trust you, Osbiel. I really do. I promise I'll keep you safe, no matter what. No matter what." You feel the yearning for the Ring begin to fade from your heart, hope taking its place. Perhaps you are strong enough to resist its diabolic power.

HCIOY: In his eyes, you could never betray him; he trusts you more than anyone else in the Fellowship (except maybe Sam). If he can protect you from the Ring by destroying it, then so be it, and let his motive to do so increase tenfold.

YCIOH: You are so very grateful for his trust and friendship and are beginning to feel something blossoming in your heart whenever you're close to him...

Faramir:

You have been in Gondor for only a short time when reports arrive of a vast army of orcs marching to take over the land. You are immediately willing to help out however you can and so volunteer for a night shift watch at the main gate- but Denethor II, the reigning Steward, scoffs at you and commands you to instead 'see the tailors' and wear a dress, 'as all women should' (rather than your typical breeches, tunic, and vest). Despite the misogyny of the Steward, you grit your teeth and reply as diplomatically as possible that you really are qualified to help in this way, but he cuts you off and now scolds you for 'volunteering for a man's work', then snaps at and dismisses you when you appeal to him a third time.

All of a sudden, someone from behind you whom you didn't notice was there, speaks up on your behalf and argues with Denethor- who just happens to be the speaker's father. In the end, the Steward begrudgingly allows you to serve with the night watch and you leave the throne room with higher spirits than when you arrived, offering a wide smile to Faramir in gratitude.

HCIOY: What else could he have done? There's no way he was willing to just stand by as you tried to offer aid to his fool of a father, aid of which will soon be much needed and appreciated. And that smile... entirely worth the argument.

YCIOH: You are impressed by and thankful for his standing up for you, especially the part where he (quite charmingly) insisted you are 'as strong as any man and with twice the mind and wit'.

Boromir:

When you watch as Boromir, the man who had insulted your race at the meeting only a short while ago, declares his allegiance to the hobbit Frodo right after you and your distant cousin Gimli, you are a little surprised. A short while later, when he decides to sit beside you at the long birch and ivy table at supper, you are even more surprised. And when he then tries to apologize for his behavior earlier, you are remarkably surprised- and finally suspicious. He's relenting his wrong through his teeth, you discern, and so you confront him immediately. He admits in a sharp tone that his advisor had warned him to apologize, and you respond in an even brisker manner that you are not at liberty to accept the apologies of such an impudent fellow as he. An argument is about to erupt, everyone else at the table can see, and probably a loud one, too- but then one of the serving elves stumbles and his tray wobbles, spilling a spray of hot soup in your direction. To your utter shock, Boromir flicks out his cloth napkin and swiftly blocks the sizzling drops from ever reaching you. he claims that despite your impudence, he's still a gentleman, and to that, you scoff and move to another seat, far away from that pompous prat.

HCIOY: If you won't accept his apology, then oh well! It's not as if he's truly regretting his words now...

YCIOH: Ugh, what a rude man! You're annoyed at yourself for even considering him handsome...

Aragorn:

A long and treacherous path awaits you and the others of the Fellowship of the Ring tomorrow morning... But for tonight, you can relax by the roaring campfire and drink delectable, steaming soup (courtesy of Aragorn) as you watch Merry and Pippin begin a delightful snowball fight. You set your bowl on your lap, gazing into the fire as your mind wanders, and something freezing, wet, and thick abruptly smacks you in the back of the head. You stiffen up and look behind you to see a nervous-looking Pippin beside a chuckling Merry. You lean down to collect a handful of snow from the little piles around your feet- but someone beats you to it and Pippin yelps as a snowball hits him square in the chest. You glance to your left to see a certain Ranger you've befriended with wet hands a small smirk. With a mirthful laugh, you leap up, flinging a wad of snow at Merry, who yelps and ducks out of the way. You and Aragorn share a glance as your other companions give cheers and declare who they're rooting for now, a few even placing bets. Merry and Pippin surely don't stand a chance, you think- and (spoiler alert) not five minutes later, you've proven your intuition correct.

HCIOY: He's impressed by your ability to be serious when necessary and playful when the occasion calls for it- and also by your impeccable aim with a well-wrought snowball.

YCIOH: You're amused by his willingness to defend you in such a little thing, and you're pretty sure his sudden leap to play wouldn't have happened had you not been the one hit by Pippin's snowball.

Bard:

A/N: A scene of harassment waits below, and I will have to warn you- after this part, well, the story of Janne only grows darker for a few more chapters.

Encountering a drunk man on a weekend night in Laketown is just as likely as bumping into a sober one, so when you're walking to Bard's home this evening and three stumbling stooges block your way, you're scarcely afraid and just mostly irritated. 

"Ayyy, Janne, c'mon 'n 'ave an ale-"

"-or two!-" 

"-or ten!-" 

"-wid us?" 

"Oh, shove it, Specs," you reply evenly to the ringleader and nudge past them, but then the very drunk Ormond Specs grabs your butt and squeezes. Hard. You yelp and slap him instinctively, but now his two equally-intoxicated pals look about ready to toss you in the Long Lake due to your self-defense. You turn to go- and run smack into Bard, who snaps fiercely at the men to leave immediately, employing quite a few choice words to send them on their way. 

Specs jeers, calling you and Bard all sort of unpleasant, boorish things, but he retreats, the other two men leaving with him. You sigh with relief and turn to Bard, but he waves off your typical thanks- this certainly isn't the first time he's saved you from drunken hecklers -and walks with you to his house. His home (and what you consider your second home), where his daughters are waiting to show you their weaving work since the last time you taught them and his son wants to demonstrate to you how best to build a kite.

HCIOY: Those men harassing you tonight really got him aggravated. To see you treated that way is despicable to him. A man should treat you with kindness, respect, patience, trust- yes, he decides as he watches you craft a kite with Bain, every man should treat you like he himself does.

YCIOH: This is your safe haven, and you are finally able to relax at the pleasant normality of it all. Now, if only Bard would discern of your affections for him and realize he could feel the same toward you...

Haldir:

Translations: 'hireyescal' = 'hide-and-seek'; 'Guren glassui, muin mellon.' = 'Thank you from my heart, dear friend.'

You rest your elbows on the windowsill, leaning your chin into your palms, and let out a disappointed sigh. Haldir had promised you that today he would take you out for a ride (on elkback- yes, you read that right), just the two of you, for some 'bonding time'. Your parents were surprisingly keen on the idea when you first proposed it to them, and so the plan was set, the time chosen, and your enthusiasm has grown with each passing day. And now, after all this excitement, on the planned date: it is raining, nay, pouring, and so the riding plans have had to be canceled. Thus, you presently find yourself sullen and disappointed as you gaze out this window at what appears to you like the Western Sea's worth of water catapulting to the earth from the darkened heavens.

 A hand lays on your shoulder and you startle, but relax once you see it's only your mother, Galadriel.  She bears her familiar, mysterious, all-knowing smile and, in the language of your people, tells you that although your plans have been temporarily halted, there is still hope for a good day. With this vague proposal, she leads you to the throne room- where you find, to your delight, at least a hundred (likely more) young elves chattering and laughing. Haldir stands in the midst of the hustle and bustle, talking to a little boy, both with wide smiles on their faces. They look up as the door closes behind you and your mother and they bow accordingly before the little boy runs up to you and throws his arms around your legs in a hug (for that's as far up as he can reach). You crouch before him, jovial as you puzzle out what's going on, and have a lively- if brief -conversation with the boy about the games about to take place.

He reveals that Haldir had an idea to entertain the restless children of Lothlorien and so gathered all he could who wanted to come- with their and your parents' approval, of course -to the palace, planning to host an elaborate game of hireyescal (otherwise known as hide-and-seek) and other such activities. You quickly realize that this is just as much for you as it is for the kids, to cheer you up, and so when Haldir appears out of the crowd and stands with a slender smile before you, you rise from your crouch and fling your arms around him in an appreciative hug. 

"Guren glassui, muin mellon," you say, truly meaning your words of thanks, and he hugs you in return, replying that he is glad to see your smile. He's saved you from a day of utter boredom and instead turned your misfortune into something wonderful and fun- and this, you'll always remember and be grateful for.

HCIOY: He loves to see you smile, especially when it's because of him. Well, to be honest, he loves you in general, but for now, he can't admit that or risk losing your friendship (or so he thinks...).

YCIOH: He's really done so much for you all these years, you now reflect, and always with the claims of 'that's what friends do' and so forth. But now you're beginning to ponder- what if there's more to it, and what could come of this newfound yearning in your heart?

Éomer:

You've only spent a few hours with the Riders of Rohan when, as you anticipated, the teasing about your height begins. You're helping to set up a campfire for breakfast when someone bumps into you and you stumble, the firewood in your hands tumbling to the ground. You give a sharp exhale, briefly annoyed, as you lean down to pick the sticks back up- but a tug on your cape sends you swiftly pitching back upright. You spin around to glare at your harasser and find yourself at eye-level with his lower chest. You raise your head and glower at the man, who sports a laughably untidy goatee and a goading grin. 

"Oh, excuse me, missy," he says, faking an apology, but you, knowing all he wants is a negative reaction, merely nod and allow his pardon, returning to retrieve your firewood- only to find it gone. Beside you resounds laughter and you look up to see another man, equally as tall and unattractive as his pal, holding the sticks tauntingly above your head.

 "The Captain may favor you, but we don't!" he jeers and the other man, the one who started this, sneers in agreement. 

You wrinkle up your nose at the pair's stench and calmly reply, "I would think he'd favor you more if you took a bath for once."

The first man (the one who tugged on your cloak) laughs as the other glares at you in shock and annoyance. "Listen here, you puny-" 

"Malkus! Holdren! Enough." You glance behind you to see Éomer frowning at the two men. You offer him a small smile as he sends your hecklers off to brush up the horses- all thousand or so of them -and once they leave, whining, he smiles back. 

"You are quite patient- admirably so," he praises and you blush as you pretend to shrug off the compliment, responding evenly, "I have found the virtue of patience a useful gift in many situations and so aim to master the skill." 

"An admirable pursuit." You feel your cheeks grow just a bit pinker as he hands you more praise along with the firewood your hasslers withheld from you, then he bids you a good day and goes along his way. You watch as ducks into a nearby tent, shooting one last glance at you before disappearing from your view. You stand there just one more moment, your cheeks rosy and your arms full of sticks, then shake your head in wonder and also move along.

HCIOY: Your patience and gentle wit impress him. He already thought you a peculiar halfling, but now he finds his curiosity leaning toward a friendlier side- maybe a but surprisingly so for a hobbitess (be her lovely as she is) whom he's only just met.

YCIOH: Is this affection? No, it can't possibly be, you tell yourself seven, then eight times as you busy yourself with starting the campfire. And yet: eight times to convince yourself that it isn't? Perhaps there is something there...

Bofur: 

Nightmares are such an unpleasant sort of dream. You've had them for the longest time, always the same theme, over and over: the dragon. The dragon burns. It decimates. It is the apocalypse incarnate. And each twilight, you are crushed in its jagged maw, awoken from your night terrors by your own screams and flailing limbs. Tonight is no exception, and you bolt upright in a cold sweat, panicking for a few moments before remembering you are safe in the honorable Master Baggins' cozy home. 

"Dhamir?" a gruff voice echoes from the darkness to your left and a large hand gently covers yours in a comforting manner. 

"Bofur." 

Those are the only two words spoken between you, but you then instinctively lean into Bofur's surprisingly gentle embrace as he moves closer to you. The rise and fall of his chest and his steady breathing are soothing enough for you to lay back down and drift again into slumber, a gentle brush of Bofur's hand against your arm sending you back to sleep.

HCIOY: It's clear to him that you had a nightmare, and now he lies awake, fretting silently as to what it could have been about. Is it a recurring dream? And if so, can he help to rid your mind of it in any way? He resolves to ask you in the morning, when the sun will hopefully chase away the darkness and leave you more open to questions on the matter.

YCIOH: Tonight's current dream has frightened you more than it usually does, for in your night terrors there was a new face, doomed to die by the dragon's flames, one you only met the evening before: Bofur.

Up next: Who Secretly Fancies You?