Thorin:

The mountain looms before you like a majestic yet cold beast, intimidating and all-too-quiet for your like. The boat you share with Thorin, Bifur, Ori, Gloin, and Bilbo Baggins abruptly seems diminutive and frail compared to the Lonely Mountain's silent power, in your mind. Swallowing reflexively against your dry throat, you reach for Thorin's hand, only half-realizing you're doing so. His fingers curl around yours and you meet his gaze. You don't mean for your apprehension to be so obvious in your eye, but it is, and a flash of concern crosses his own vision.

"Thus we arrive," he declares to the passengers of both boats journeying up the Long Lake, "to the rightful home of our fathers and our father's fathers." Cheers meet this sentiment, but your voice, stolen by the worry in your heart and the frigid wind sweeping across the lake, is absent from them. "The fight is not yet won," the leader of the Company goes on, and you frown. Is this supposed to make you feel you better? If so, it isn't much working. "-though I have faith in the valor of each of you and doubt none of your determination." He looks to you once more now. 

"Even the smallest of us boasts the heart of a true warrior." 

His thumb runs gently over the side of your hand and a shiver trills up your spine. A slight smile finally appears on your lips at his words, clearly directed at you (and Bilbo). "Together, triumph is inevitable, and Smaug, that miserable worm, shall perish before our might!" Further calls of approval greet Thorin's encouraging words, and this time, you volunteer yours as the loudest of them all, squeezing his hand in a silent thanks for reigniting your courage.

Time moves on. The Company (excepting Fili, Kili, Oin, and Bofur) beach the boats and hike up to the foot of the mountain, then further up one of its sides. Bilbo spots the staircase leading to the secret door, you remember the moon-letters detailing how it may be opened, the last light of Durin's Day shines upon the keyhole and Thorin unlocks the enchanted stone. From there on out, things pass in much of a blur for you, and it is only the fury of Smaug's bellowing as he chases you (the bravely-self-suggested bait) into a grand hall that brings the usual passage of events back into your mind.

Huffing and panting, you sprint for your life across the hall into an adjacent stairway and only stop when you hear the creaking of molten gold. You return to the mouth of the staircase just in time to see Smaug bellowing like the thunder of the heavens as he is buried under a thousand, nay, twice a thousand pounds of scalding-hot liquid gold. From your lips comes the first cheer, and you lock eyes with Thorin where he stands on a high ledge across the hall. He beams at you, and you grin right back- but then Bilbo shouts to get out of the way and you, having learned many times over to trust your cousin in these sorts of situations, quickly scamper back down the stairs. The light of flames and a roar of pure wicked rage come from above and your heart siezes up in your chest. 

Thorin- Bilbo- no, no, no- 

And the dragon, still undefeated, screeches his intent to burn Esgaroth down to the very surface of the lake it is built upon. His powerful wingbeats fade from your hearing within a minute's time; still, you wait, petrified, on the last step of those stairs until Thorin appears, spouting reassurances you both know hold no weight, his voice sharp and hollow. He draws you into a tight, brief hug, then the two of you rush up the stairs and follow your companions, all equally dismayed, outside to watch helplessly as the dragon swoops down toward Laketown, the fire contained in his monstrous body burning through his scales, alighted with his fury.

Your Current Impression of Him (YCIOH): You are absolutely terrified of what's to come. The immediate future looks achingly bleak, and tears slip silently down your cheeks now from just your left eye, an additionally-depressing reminder of all that you've sacrificed for this quest, as you stare at the flames consuming Esgaroth. Even Thorin's hand holding yours does not bring you comfort, your fear and sorrow are so great.

His Current Impression of You (HCIOY): He cannot help but feel like this mess was all his fault, though something holds him back from claiming his mistakes aloud. Where normally your hand in his would warm his heart or at least calm him, it now brings a sense of disconnection, of dread, as if his mind is twisting itself to try and make sense of this terrible turn of events and can only stiffen as it searches for the appropriate emotions. He looks at you crying and, peculiarly, he does not feel inclined to wipe away your tears, and this frightens him just as much, if not more than, Smaug's destructive power.

Fili:

Down the river in freedom you fly! Unfortunately, your excitement lasts only a moment before a blackened arrow hits the side of the barrel you currently occupy, of the same sort that wounded Kili only a few seconds prior. You give a shout- the orcs are in pursuit along the riverbank! Luckily, you'd had the good sense to steal the sword off a sleeping guard in the palace of Mirkwood during your escape. Against your fortune, however, next to none of your companions have anything to defend themselves with. And poor Bilbo Baggins- he isn't even inside a barrel and is just trying to hold onto yours, spluttering and shouting at the current continuously shoving him about and drenching him, as well as at the orcs posing a great threat to the Company.

"Duck!" you yelp only a moment later, spotting a blonde elvish archer (come to fend off the orcs from his home, you suppose) takes aim right over your and Bilbo's heads. His shot rings true and an enemy topples into the water. You raise a fist and give a call of abrupt solidarity- yet this proves a mistake, as he isn't expecting this and misses the orc leaping at your barrel, his arrow sinking into your arm. Your wordless cry, first of shock, then pain, brings a shout of your name in return from Fili, but your grit your teeth and manage to fend off the orc now clinging to your barrel with one grisly hand (Bilbo tumbled and is currently holding onto the barrel Oin is in for dear life). 

Still, you sustain three small cuts on your already-wounded arm and one deeper gash along your other shoulder, and the turbulence of the river's rapids jostling you about doesn't help clear the pain. The one small comfort you have is that the orcs have halted their pursuit of the Company and now all you need fear is drowning of your barrel flipping over and crushing you on one of the many rocks in the rapids. Soon enough, the currents calm and the terrain over which the river flows through levels out. Thorin waves for all to follow him ashore on a thin bank of pockmarked stone slabs and the moment you are out of your barrel, you fall to your knees.

Fili, kneeling by his wounded brother, looks to you, and at Kili's grumbling that he's fine, he hurries over to you. You manage to sit up, wincing, and he grimaces at your two deepest wounds. With called advice from Oin, the Company's resident healer, who is currently tending to Kili, you and Fili (mostly him) wrap your cuts and gashes. It feels like every time you move your shoulder of your non-dominant arm, it burns like real fire rushing through your muscles and tearing at them with searing claws of flame. You don't mention this to Fili, half-not wanting to worry him and half-desiring to seem tough in front of him, but he seems to sense it, frowning as his gaze flickers to the cloth bound around your shoulder. 

The arrow wound on your forearm is somehow already feeling better, but since it was shot from an elvish bow and accidentally hit you, you wouldn't be too surprised if there was some charm of the elves that quickly heals mistaken injuries, or something like that. You mention this thought to Fili, but he scoffs at the elves as if he's unsure that elf didn't mean to shoot you. You swat his arm reproachfully, then wince, and he doesn't say more, only retrieved the elven blade you stole from where it lays half-in the river's shallows and lets you sheath it yourself once you've managed to stand. You share a glance with Kili, both of you wordlessly encouraging the other through the pain, and thus, you set off with the Company towards Esgaroth (Laketown) and, ultimately, Erebor.

YCIOH: You do hope he isn't worried too much about you- a bit of concern would nice, to see that he really cares, as you're sure he does -for you are strong and you will heal soon enough. Hopefully, your injuries don't dissuade Thorin from letting you all the way to the Lonely Mountain to fight that wicked beast Smaug as your steadfast dwarven heart so yearns to do.

HCIOY: Two of the people he cares the most about are now in pain, and although he doesn't show it, he's fretting over your and Kili's wounds. Not to mention how he's come to dislike elves almost as much as his uncle- how dare that Mirkwood prince shoot you and then have the gaul to look apologetic! He's having trouble hiding both his great concern and his anger.

Kili:

"Why does he hate me so?"

Kili hesitates. You sit down on the chair just beside you, gaze dropping to the stone floor. All you want is to understand, so perhaps you can mend the things that bring Thorin to distrust and look down upon you.

"You've done nothing wrong, Tirnethêl," he replies after a long beat, but you shake your head, unaccepting of his answer.

"No, no, I must have-"

"You're an elf." He doesn't say it harshly or as if he thinks you are fragile, no, he states this like the fact it is, and at once you understand.

"Of course," you mutter, "of course! How could I be so blind? I must go to him now, renounce my kin, if that is what it takes-"

"It would be of no use." You pause, halfway toward the stairs, and turn back. "You cannot reason with my uncle now, no one can," he goes on despondently, and your chin, just held higher with hope, drops again. As much as you wish he was wrong, he's right. Thorin Oakenshield's mind has been warped by Dragon Sickness, possibly beyond repair. 

"He still trusts you, though, doesn't he?" you ask softly, a twinge of sad frustration going through your mind at how you will likely never be able to earn the trust of the King Under the Mountain. "What am I saying?" you add after barely a moment. "Of course he does." Your tone is a bit sharper than you mean it to be, and Kili doesn't meet your gaze; your heart sinks as you realize he doesn't think he can definitively answer. Gaze softening, you cross the few paces you must to get to him and wrap your arms around him. He hugs you back and you blush a little at how he leans the side of his head against your chest. You give a sigh that ruffles the hair on the top of his head and he holds you a bit tighter. Swaying absentmindedly in each other's embrace, the rise and fall of your chest and Kili's sync up for a minute. Inhale. Exhale. You want to say something, but you haven't a clue what.

"Tirnethêl, I must tell you-"

"Kili?" Fili pops into the room. He sees you and his brother hugging (or, more accurately, releasing each other from a hug) and a small smile appears on his face. "I do not like to interrupt your moment," he says, clearly meaning his regret, "but Thorin is looking for both of us, and he'll have a fit if he sees you with Tirnethêl." He tilts his head at you. "No offense meant, of course."

"None taken," you respond, giving a gracious nod of assent, and Fili turns to leave this little workshop you've taken up tinkering in. Kili seems hesitant, like he's positively burning to tell you what he started to say a moment ago, but you shake your head. "Later. You must go." Still, he does not move.

"For both your sake and hers, Kili, come along, and swiftly," advises Fili, poking his head back out of the hall, and finally, his brother heeds him and moves to leave. As he steps through the doorway, however, he looks back and you blush at having been caught watching him go. A slight smile flickers upon his lips and in that moment, you know, you just know.

YCIOH: He's left the room and you sink down on the bench beside the stairs. He loves you. There's no other explanation for that shine in his eyes, the way he smiles at you, all the flirting- not to mention everything else you've picked up on in your time knowing him, especially in the last week or so. The weight of this realization knocks the wind right out of you and you draw in too quick of a breath, conjuring up a round of hiccuping. You lay your hand over your mouth and try to piece together your whirling thoughts and frighteningly-strong feelings in return.

HCIOY: He saw how your eyes widened at his smile now he tries to pay attention to his uncle's words about Dáin II Ironfoot on his way to Erebor with a host of warriors to defend the mountain from the desperate Laketown folk and stubborn elves, yet his mind keeps straying to the feeling that you know of his love for you now. How will you react? By Mahal, he hopes you feel the same, and for some reason he can't quite place, he has little trouble believing you could, or even do.

Bilbo:

"Absolutely not."

"Too late. I've already made up my mind." 

Bilbo scrunched up his face, clearly displeased. "Aili-"

"If he finds out it's you, I'm worried he'll lash out violently." You lower your head sadly. "I'm part of his family. I have hope he'll remember that. It's safer this way, you see?"

Bilbo sighs. "Fine." He reaches into his pocket, then hesitates. "Swear to me you'll be careful?"

"As swift as a raven and as silent as a shadow," you promise, and thus the Arkenstone changes hands and you hug Bilbo quickly before you must go on. Bombur appreciates it when you offer to take the earliest night shift, but you feel bad for deceiving him, as you won't be on this rampart for long. Down a rope you go, then sneaking across the rocky country, you stumble many times, your only guiding light the stars and slim moon. The camp of the refugees from Laketown appears within the hour and you manage to persuade the guards you're here to make peace- but not under Thorin's orders. They bring you to Bard, their newly-instated leader (some say king), Thranduil, ruler of the Mirkwood elves, and, by some stroke of fate, Gandalf.

"You can't bargain with him," you conclude to the three, "unless you have this." Withdrawing the Arkenstone from your inner vest pocket, you fight back the temptation to just take it and flee West and instead meet Gandalf's gaze. The old wizard is smiling wryly.

"I wouldn't suppose our dear burglar had a hand in this, too?" 

"Both hands, I would assure," you admit. "He wanted to bring it himself, but I talked him out of it."

"Your uncle is Thorin." Bard, a grim-faced man with an archer's sharp eye, frowns as he says this. "What would become of you if he discovered your betrayal?"

You wince. "At the least, he'll throw me out of Erebor. At most..." You shake your head. "But you must understand it isn't really Thorin, the gold has taken his mind." Your gaze falls to the earthen floor. "He is still my family, no matter this Dragon Sickness, and I will do what I can to save him, and my brothers, and the rest of our Company." Silence falls.

"You are brave, Master Dwarf," finally says Bard. "You have my thanks, as well as my people's."

Thranduil nods at you. "Your heart is good," he concedes, and you, knowing this is the closest thing to a thanks he will give you, hand over to Bard the Arkenstone, though not without a tremble of your fingers. The night draws closer and you must return to the 'No-Longer-Lonely Mountain' (as your brother Kili has jokingly renamed it). Courteous farewells- and good-lucks from Gandalf -are said and then you are off, back to Erebor, back to a probably-fretting Bilbo, back to ultimately face your uncle's wrath.

YCIOH: You are dreading the moment when Thorin learns of what you've just done, and a part of you wishes you hadn't done it; still, overall, you know this will be (most hopefully) for the best. Eventually.

HCIOY: Since the moment you disappeared over the rampart wall, he's been pacing and worrying. His heart nearly stopped when Fili came looking for you, but your eldest brother was deterred by the 'explanation' that you were asleep on watch and Bilbo was covering for you. When you tug on the rope twice to let him know you're back, he can't remember a time when he felt this relieved, maybe only when he learned Smaug was dead. As soon as you're back up, he embraces you in a tight hug and only lets go when you fail to stifle a yawn. Of course, you need sleep, he does too, and now as he lays on his bedroll, tossing and turning, he hopes to the high heavens that whatever tomorrow brings, it won't be a battle.

Legolas:

The beast which seemed so dismally far only a month or so ago grows uncomfortably closer with each passing day: Orodruin (Mount Doom in the common tongue). Sméagol, that poor wretch, leads you, Sam, and Frodo deeper into the lands of the Enemy, and with each step, your heart feels heavier. This journey has been a difficult one for you especially, as the Ringbearer. Your mind is drawn every day to the wicked things you carry, and every day, you resist its claws, but the mental battle, combined with the endless walking, leaves you exhausted at the end of your daily travels. You fear Gollum, if he tried to, could easily strangle you in your sleep and vanish with the One Ring, his 'Precious'. 

Sam agrees with your distrust of Gollum, but not with your belief that Sméagol is another person, a better creature than the crooked, slimy being your uncle Bilbo met deep in the goblin caves many, many years ago. Frodo, on the other hand, seems much too trusting of both of your guide's mindsets, and you worry he might be quickly beguiled should Gollum or Sméagol attempt any mischief. Most of all, your dismay is greatest at the Ring's sway over you. Its power is not simple to fight  against, and with rations diminishing, you catch yourself thinking more Gollum-ish 'my precious' thoughts by the day. At night (or whenever you four decide to find rest), you are plagued by visions of a great Eye, always searching for you, full of malice, only inches away from your face when you awaken in a cold or sometimes hot sweat.

You've overhead your brother and Sam worrying over your state, and you don't like how they say you've become sharp of tongue and wary of any other person's nearness to you. The Ring clouds your judgment to disallow you from seeing the truth and genuine concern in their words and glances. In the last few days, you've felt suspicion growing in your mind that Frodo will try to take the Ring from you, and your eye on your own brother has become watchful with distrust. If you had any time or free will to think of it, you would realize this fear only pertains to Frodo, not at all Sam and, most peculiarly, not Sméagol either. Alas, the Ring is blackening your mind without you even realizing it, and if you don't make it to the fires of Mount Doom in time, it will take your heart, too.

YCIOH: Your emotions have been so malleable as of late that this morning, as a heavy black cloud blocks out the sun and the wind blows hot, filled with ash and dust, you start to question your love for Legolas. Was it all a fanciful dream, your time knowing him? How could love appear, when all that matters, all that has ever mattered, is the Preci- the Ring? Still, your heart is uncomfortable with these thoughts and so you hold onto the memories of Legolas, even when you realize with horror you can hardly remember his face. It feels like eons since you've seen him. You left a letter for him, didn't you? But what did it say? Your memory of it is too foggy to recall...

HCIOY: So know this: I love you. Those words, your words, have kept him believing for weeks. Believing that you are alive and near to succeeding in your quest, that this war's end and Sauron's defeat are close at hand, that you will come back to him one day soon. Yet as battles rage on and the signs of the Great Eye's growing power become ever-more-threatening to the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, Legolas' heart holds dread alongside his longing for you. This morning, he wakes from an awful dream in which you died before his eyes in a lake of fire and the first thing he notices is that your precious letter to him is missing from his hand, where he held it as he fell asleep. Quick investigation reveals its charred remains in the campfire, and for the first time, he lets himself realize how strong the chances are of you not coming back to him from Mordor.

Thranduil:

You've always believed attraction should be to the mind and heart rather than the physical beauty of a person, but that doesn't mean you don't enjoy dressing up every so often. Take tonight for example: you are rocking a gorgeous gown in your favorite color, hair done up just how you like it for formal events, comfortable yet elegant shoes, and a maple-leaf pendant necklace Thranduil gave you a few years ago. The occasion? An Autumn banquet, with dancing to follow!

"Good evening," Thranduil starts to say as you enter the dining hall, but trails off as his gaze flicks up and down over you. A blush comes to your cheeks, but it's not like you mind the attention, and a smirk plays onto your lips.

"Good evehhh..." you tease, trailing off in imitation of him, "to you, too."

Thranduil coughs and offers you his arm, so you take and smile as he replies, humbled, "You look lovely tonight."

"As do you." He seems surprised at the compliment returned, but then a light grin dances across his mouth as he pulls out your chair, beside his own at the long banquet table, for you.

"Ah, yet you are always the fairest between us by many leagues, Silevel."

Your cheeks turn a rosy pink at that and you could not hold back your pleased smile if you wanted to. The meal passes quickly, you and Thranduil conversing as you usually do about matters concerning the kingdom, though by the time dessert is served, your discussion has swerved to more personal things, like your mother's soon return fromher summer trip to Imladris and his enjoyment of a poem you wrote a few days ago. When supper is over, the musicians begin to gather, and you and Thranduil stand and move just past the table to keep talking. It takes you a good few minutes to realize it, but when the music starts for the first dance, you and Thranduil have been subconsciously ushered by the guests to the very edge of the flower-wreathed dance pavilion. Thranduil seems to understand this just as you do, and only a moment later, he offers you his hand. 

"Dance with me?"

"Gladly."

He sweeps you onto the floor and you have a hard time keeping your eyes off him- fortunately, he can't seem to look away from you either. Other couples soon join you in dancing, but ultimately, you and Thranduil are the first ones onto the dance floor and, at the end of the evening, the last ones off it. You aren't usually a fanciful person, but tonight does feel rather like a pleasant dream. It's nicer, however, to know it's all real. As the servants come in to start cleaning up, you and Thranduil head off to bed (though first, you make him wait a bit while you help with the sweeping). Once at the door to your chambers, you feel a very strong urge to kiss him, to finally let all your feelings out, but being a stubborn, wary elf, you convince yourself it's just the wine you had tonight talking and refrain. Still, somehow, your lips find his cheek before you wish  him a good night, and once the door is shut behind you, you regret not taking the full shot while you had the opportunity.

YCIOH: Sleep doth not come easy to a troubled mind, so it's a good thing your heart is light and your mind content tonight. It's past midnight when you climb into bed, and slumber falls upon you within minutes, peacefully dreamless.

HCIOY: Well, if a kiss to the cheek from a blushing you doesn't give him hope for your reciprocated love, he'd be a fool. And Thranduil, king of Eryn Galen, is many things, but a fool is not one of them. A smile graces his lips as he falls asleep, quite certain that the moment of him revealing his affections to you is close at hand and, he believes now, likely to be a success.

Lindir:

This has just really not been your day. First, you woke up late and missed breakfast, then you weren't able to read with Lindir like usual because your father required your presence, and then you found out you were wanted to greet a visiting nobleman and his party. This wasn't too peculiar, as you often greet guests with him when your siblings are otherwise occupied, but then you noticed Arwen was also there, bearing an expression of thinly-veiled annoyance, and you became suspicious. It was only when your father drew you and her aside and asked that you both try to make a good impression that you realized this elf's visit was not one of the usual sort, but a trip made to potentially find himself a royal wife. Naturally, you and Arwen were dismayed at the prospect, both of you desiring to marry for love, not familial connections; it did not take you long to find an excuse out of dinner with the visitor tonight, though, unfortunately, this meant Arwen couldn't back out, too.

You were hiding in the long-unused nursery of the palace, reminiscing about the simpler days of your childhood, when Lindir managed to track you down. Now, as you lay on your bed, head on his lap as he hums softly, you are a little amused at how he seems just as disagreeable as you at the visitor's (and, somewhat, your father's) motivations, but mostly you are appreciative of his sympathy. He keeps pausing his humming as if he wants to say something, but never does, and the ninth time it happens, you ask what's on his mind.

"Do you want to get married?"

You grin, a bit of humor sparkling in your eyes. "Is that a proposal?"

"Ah- no-"

"Are you sure? You hesitated." Lindir sighs, but doesn't protest again, and your heart swells. You know he wasn't actually proposing to you, he was asking if you ever want to marry someone, but still, there's hope to be found there. "Yes," you say after a long beat, "I would like to marry one day. To someone I love."

"Who is the sort of person you would like to fall in love with, Roquenis?"

A small smile appears on your lips. "Hmm..." You hesitate, but really, you barely have to think about it. "Someone kind," you answer, "who likes to read. And who I can first call my friend. A person who likes cuddling and cats and the music of a harp. And who will put up with my grouchy behavior when traveling." You share a soft laugh, both of you knowing just what you mean (it's safe to say you don't like road trips). "Someone who knows my favorite color." 

Almost immediately, Lindir blurts out that exact color, and you don't even have to turn your head to know he's blushing. 

"A person who is always looking out for me, who recommends the best books, who I can sometimes catch staring at me and then who will blush but seem otherwise unabashed." You let out a yawn, really starting to feel sleepy. "Someone who has a very comfortable lap." You close your eyes then and fall silent, drawn into slumber by the peace of the moment, and also by how Lindir is gently stroking your hair with a light, almost-shaky touch.

YCIOH: He's put you in a much better mood than you were most of the day, and your sleep is restful and without dreams. The next morning, you will wake to find yourself tucked into bed (you hope and assume this was Lindir's doing) and wondering if you exposed your affections towards him too much in your words concerning your perfect partner (who, of course, you were describing as Lindir to himself).

HCIOY: By the time you fall asleep, he's all in a tizzy, and he trembles as he tucks you into bed. He's pretty, pretty sure you have feelings for him in return now, but his shy nature still leaves him with doubts- though not enough to stop him from kissing your cheek goodnight as his heart does a jig inside his chest.

Elrond:

It wasn't like you meant to go for a walk around the gardens right before a storm- really, how could have known it would start raining as soon as you reached the middle of the rows and rows of hedges and flowers and small trees? And the darkness fell so quickly when the clouds grew black, anyone could have gotten lost. Not to mention catching a cold from it all could have happened to every person outside at the time. A pity it only struck you. For the last few days, you have been sniffling, sneezing, and coughing incessantly, and the only person who will come near you is Elrond. He has no fear of catching your minor illness, or so he says, for he is half-elf by blood, and even Half-Elves has strong immunity against sicknesses. 

"And," he adds as he hands you a mug of tea, offering with it a small smile, "I do not mind taking care of you." 

Giving a sharp snort as you blow your nose for what feels like the thousandth time, you mentally note that you don't mind him looking after you either; in fact, you rather like it. "Dwarves," you insist, "as a rule, are hardy and hearty folk. We do not tire easily and our wills are stronger than- Achoo! -iron, nay, mithril." You wrinkle your nose up and Elrond tries unsuccessfully to hide a smirk. "Yet, somehow, my strength feels strained and I desire little more than hot soup and tea and sleep. Not even the stars call to me at this time." You take a sip of the tea he's given you and offer him a grateful nod. "For once, your resistance to meat does not bother," you tease, and Elrond, a strict vegetarian, pretends to roll his eyes. "Even the finest leg of roast mutton appeals to me less than this tea," you admit, "though it's also making me awfully sleepy." Along with soothing your sore throat and stuffed-up nose, of course.

Elrond rises from where he's been seated on the end of your bed. "Then I shall leave you to rest." He steps back, but then pauses and moves toward you again. Your eyelids flutter as you fend off a yawn, and a soft smile comes to your face when he kisses you on the forehead. "Sleep well, Tiram," he says in parting as he steps backward out of your chambers, and you wave goodbye drowsily, taking another sip of tea once he's gone.

Mmm, he makes good tea.

YCIOH: You quite like this new form of attention he's giving you now. It's caring, and warm, and even tender, and you kind of just want to cuddle with him when you gives you that sweet look, like he just did a moment ago after that forehead kiss. Maybe it's about time you reveal your feelings for him- but how, and when, and where? Truth be told, you have the perfect chance to think about it now, sick in bed, so that's exactly what you set out to do as you drink up your (delectable) tea.

HCIOY: He doesn't like to see you ill, even though it's only a cold, but he does think your bleary smiles, ever-pink cheeks, and overall sleepiness are rather sweet. Not that he'd tell you that, of course- then again, maybe he should let slip some word of his attraction to you. He knows that if he never takes a shot, he'll never miss, yet he's already missing out on a possible relationship with you by not speaking up. Ah, well, better sooner than later, he supposes, he just has to figure out the right means, time, and place (not knowing these are the same things you are trying to decide upon halfway across the palace at the same instant).

Gimli:

A long, low sigh escapes your lips as you survey the soldiers of Rohan burying their comrades, their friends, their brothers. Beside you, leaning against the parapet, too short to see out onto the field of ruin, Gimli takes a swig from the flask of whiskey you are sharing. He offers it to you and you take it gladly, not noticing how he frowns at the despondency of your expression.

"They were good men," he says quietly as you grimace, the alcohol going down with a burn. "I dread the time when more will lose their lives to protect this world as we know it."

"Sad words, Gimli," you reply, handing over the flask, "and unfortunately doomed to pass, it seems." 

A hand is laid on your shoulder and you turn- it is your brother. You draw him into a hug, but the comfort you gain from his presence fades to deep chagrin when he reveals to you the death of Haldir, an old friend to both of you. A lengthy draught of the whiskey fends off the tears and you step back from the wall towards the rampart stairs. Gimli follows you, Aragorn does not. In silence, you walk with your dwarven friend down to the encampment of weary soldiers established around the main hall where kind Théoden now holds counsel with his nephew Éomer and his best captains. A few men wave or saulte at you and Gimli, recognizing your triumphs in harsh battle still fresh in the minds of all. Finding your small tent (set up, more-or-less coincidentally, beside Gimli's), you relinquish to your companion the last of the whiskey and accept the hug he offers. If this time was one of lesser grief, you might have smirked or jested at how you have to stoop to be eye-to-eye with him.

"Rest well, Ningannel," he says in parting, his voice uncharacteristically gentle, and you manage a slight smile with your nod of thanks. Once inside your tent, laying down on your narrow cot, you are quickly overtaken by mournful exhaustion, though ominous dreams grant you little asylum from the darkness ever-growing in the waking world.

YCIOH: Though as of late you've come to realize the extent of your feelings toward Gimli, you have also been forced to confront the harsh reality of this changing world, and the chances of you or he dying before the Enemy's success or demise are dismally high. You know that these next few days could be the gap between now and never, so you've got to make up your mind very, very soon: do you want him to know of your love or not?

HCIOY: After this fight especially, he has a weight on his heart, and this afternoon as you slumber, he finally confronts it: yes, he loves you, and he wants you to know before it is too late (lest death take one of you before your time).

Merry:

The Fellowship has taken a brief respite from traversing slopes high and vales broad to sup and rest the weary feet of hobbits unused to so much walking. You, for one, are willing to keep going whenever Aragorn or Gandalf decrees it, but for now, you are well-entertained by Merry and Pippin practicing swordfighting with Boromir. Blades clash, Merry seems to be getting the hang of it, and you grin when he and Pippin tackle their teacher to the ground, 'defeating' him in raucous, infectious laughter. You get up, heading over to Merry as he and Pippin knock over an amused Aragorn, and just as you're giving him a hand up from the ground, Legolas gives a shout for all to take cover and Gandalf cries the same.

Quickly, you draw Merry aside and to the cover of an overhanging boulder- but it's not enough. Your hobbit companion, thinking fast, pulls your body against his and throws his stone-grey elven cloak over both of you. A deep blush comes to your cheeks at how you can feel curve of his leg, the corner of his hipbone, the heat of his body, against yours. His arm, around your shoulders to hold the cloak still, trembles for a moment; then when you lean into him, your own arm slipping around his back, he leans his head on your shoulder and you would smile but for the flock of crebain, spies of Saruman, circling menacingly overhead. 

You can hear Merry's heartbeat, and to both your hope and amusement, it seems to be going a good deal quicker than you'd expect to be normal. Then again, you don't often (or, really, never) listen to hobbits' hearts, so maybe this is how fast they usually beat. Then again again, his cheeks are as pink as yours are and once Gandalf calls the all-clear as the crebain continue their scouting elsewhere, he kisses your cheek before getting up and retracting  his cloak. Isn't that something?

YCIOH: Your love for him has been steadily growing these last few weeks, and you're quite certain that you want to tell him soon. The kiss he just placed upon your cheek has confirmed this decision in your heart and, even better, it's given you much confidence that he returns your affections.

HCIOY: You being all pressed up against him has made him all dizzy and set his nerves on fire. He could feel your heartbeat through your shirt and his side and now, as he kneels beside a shaky Samwise and tries to cheer up his friend, he wishes for the thousandth time that that heartbeat was for him (in a romantic manner, not literally). Pippin and Boromir both look like they have something to say about you and Merry huddling (or cuddling) together a minute ago, judging by their barely-concealed smirks, and he knows it's about time he fesses up his feelings to you- but can he find the words and the courage?

Pippin:

Your expression is grim as you fasten the scabbard of your trusty blade Balangren ('Divinity of Iron' in Sindarin) to your belt. Beside you, Pippin is struggling to find a chainmail shirt that fits his shorter stature. Though your father insists you not go into battle, you believe that to stay hidden away in the city while your people die would be a dastardly thing to do, and thus you are determined to fight. Pippin seems more nervous than you about this battle, and his face is pale as you help him cinch up the waistcoat he has chosen. The standard of the Steward makes you grimace as you see it emblazoned on all the available shields, but you take one anyway. With one final hug given to you by Pippin, you resolve yourself to keep him safe at all costs, not knowing that he's determining the same, though vice versa.

Out into the pavilion of the Citadel you go together, and your heart tightens up as you see your brother Faramir, recently injured in the siege upon Osgiliath, lain on a cot beside the once-great now-dead white tree in the midst of the grass. You hurry forward while Pippin readjusts his boots and find your father pacing by the seventh and final wall of the city. As he turns to you, the wild look in his eyes chills your very bones.

"Lothuial!" His hands shake and his chin quivers, yet when he grabs your wrist, his grip is fierce.

"Father, what is the meaning of this?" you demand, Pippin catching up behind you, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"My line ends here!" Denethor laments and pulls you roughly towards your brother. He sleeps in a fever and you kneel at his side, worried, but your father, still clenching your wrist, tugs you back up to stand after just a moment. "My son is dead," he cries, "and Faramir lays dying."

"He is your son as well," you remind him hotly, your eyes flaming up in anger at how he, as of late, seems to refer to only Boromir as his son. Faramir doesn't deserve this lack of fatherly affection, you think bitterly, and neither do I. At that, you yank your wrist free of the Steward's grip, though the motion hurts and you're sure it will soon bruise. 

"My only daughter goes off to war against my wishes and even my command," he snivels and your heart groans as, for just a moment, he trembles and you see the grieving, weary man behind the madness. "Gondor falls to ruin." You look out over the wall and your heart sinks at the battle already begun in the lower city. You should be down there, in the thick of it, and your give a start. Turning back toward your brother, you give a cry.

"He should be at the House of Healers!" To your father now: "Send him back!" But something has hardened in his mind and you see it in his gaze just before he siezes your arm.

"My line ends here," he repeats, and though you struggle, a dark strength has awakened in him and you can't free yourself.

"Pippin!" you cry as you are pulled toward the Silent Street, Rath Dínen, where only the dead and those who pay tribute to them go.

"Ah, yes, the Halfling. I release you from my service, Peregrin Took!" Two of your father's most loyal guards prevent the hobbit from coming to your aid, though he struggles valiantly, and four more raise the stretcher-cot Faramir lays upon in a sicky slumber, following your father (and you) away to the door called Fen Hollen in the sixth wall of the city. Horror and dread seep into your heart and you shout to Pippin to get help. 

He calls back something that you don't catch, then: "I'll find you! I swear, I will!" And he takes off, gait as fast as any fellow his size can make it, and you lay a hand on your brother's fever-hot arm as you are brought to the funeral hall against your will by your lunacy-stricken father. A pyre is half-laid out already and you start to weep silently, trembling.

Is this the end?

YCIOH: A pitcher of foil is brought into the hall and you renew your struggles against your father's iron grasp, and finally, he lets go, but shoves you to the floor beside Faramir. You, crying, know you can't leave your brother hereto die, Denethor knows it too, so you huddle beside the only family you have left (the mad Steward, in your mind, no longer counts) and hope desperately that Pippin is on his way with help. Pippin. You never told him you love him. Your heart sinks as you realize now you may never get to...

HCIOY: He's panting and panicking as he rushes down into the battle in the lower part of Minas Tirith to find Gandalf, the only person he can think of who can right this wrong. To his dismay, he's pretty sure you only heard the second part of his shout and missed the 'I love you, Lothuial' he first said. There- Gandalf- he rushes forward,s pouting a mess of words in his dismay, heart going a mile a minute at the thought of your impending doom. He's barely been able to get to know you- he can't lose you now!

Sam:

The moment you wake up and see Gollum's gaunt face bearing a smirk, you know something is about to go wrong. You give a hushed cry and scramble to your feet, Sam waking up as you do so, and you draw your sword. "What are you up to, you little-"

"Magnolia?" Frodo questions wearily, cutting you off. Sam gives a grumble and sits back down, but you keep your blade pointed at a now-whimpering Gollum.

"Don't let him fool you, Frodo!" you insist. "He's been rooting through our packs. Sam- check the rations." He does so, but Frodo is glaring at you peculiarly and you blink at him, surprised.

"Don't blame your greed on Sméagol, Magnolia." You and Sam both pause, but then your best friend gives a yelp.

"The last of the lembas, Mr. Frodo, it's gone! He's taken it-"

"Oh, so it's both of you plotting, then?" Still, you're confused and concerned, and now you lower your blade as you shift your attention toward Frodo's sudden anger. 

"'Plotting'? Frodo, what-"

"Nellie?" Sam's voice seems small and you instinctively turn to him. He stares at your shoulder and you look down- there are crumbs on your cloak. 

Your eyes widen with horror. "Frodo, you don't think I'd really take the last of the rations." A beat of silence. "Right?"

"Go home, Magnolia."

Your mouth falls open. "What?"

"Go home." You turn to Sam and your heart falls. He looks torn between two people he loves dearly. You start to tremble. "Frodo, you don't really mean-"

"Nasty hobbit-girl," whines Gollum, "nasty, selfish, hobbit-girl."

"Shut it!" you snap. "Traitorous wretch! Frodo-" You turn a pleading gaze toward your friend, the Ringbearer. "-would you really believe him over me?" 

His telltale silence just about breaks your heart. "Go home."

You crumple to your knees. "Sam?" He kneels beside you, expression grave, and you begin to weep. "Sam, I swear on the Shire I didn't-"

"I know, Nellie." His voice cracks. "I- I've got to go with Mr. Frodo." You pull him into one last hug and then Gollum leads them away, shooting you a sneer when neither Sam or Frodo can catch it. You curl up sobbing, into a little ball.

YCIOH: What now? You can hardly go back and staying here isn't an option, you'll be caught before the day is up, so onwards it must be. You swipe your sleeve across your cheek, determination blooming, once more, against all odds, in your heart. Stumbling upright, you lay your hand on the hilt of your sword and press on. A seed of worry starts to grow in your heart and you scold yourself- how could you let Sam and Frodo go forth, led blindly by Gollum, of all creatures? Hurry, you tell yourself, before he pulls another wicked trick to get rid of Frodo's trust in Sam!

HCIOY: He keeps tripping as he follows Frodo miserably. He can't believe he just left you back there, but now that he's one or two miles away, he can hardly run back and get you without losing track of Frodo. To his utter dismay, he knows he has to protect the Ringbearer before you, and as he goes along, parched, hungry, unable to cry for lack of water in his body, his heart feels like it's crumbling in his chest.

Frodo:

According to Sméagol, you are finally just one more day's journey from the Black Gate of Mordor. Truth be told, you'd rather be just about anywhere else right now, but you made a promise to yourself and the Frodo that you would see this quest through, by his side each step of the way. Still, you shiver as the night, barely darker than the day by now, falls upon this parched, sunken land. Your heart is heavy with the knowledge that it will only become more desolate as you go on. Beside you, huddled under a large row of briar bushes, Frodo carefully shifts onto his side. Sam volunteered to take the first watch, which you are quite grateful for, but though you are very weary, sleep evades you.

Frodo crawls forward out into the cramped glade among the thickets where you are laying and asks in a whisper, "Are you asleep?" You can see your eyes in the darkness and you're sure he can spot yours open too, so the question is more of a courtesy.

"No. You?"

"No." 

You are more concerned about Frodo's respite than your own, for as an elf, you need very little to no sleep to feel rested- although to your dismay, as you travel further from the kingdoms of your kindred, you have found yourself, for the first time in your life, feeling a need for sleep. Frodo's fingers touch your leg and you lay your hand over his, orienting him to where you are in this nearly-pitch-black space. He crawls up beside you, and as if with an unspoken understanding, you curl up against his body. He rolls over and wraps an arm around you, tucking his head against your upper chest, and you lean your chin gently upon his curly hair. Your legs tangle together and the sound of his even breathing brings a peace to your mind. As your eyes droop, your exhaustion taking hold of you, you place a tender kiss on the top of Frodo's head and murmur a soft "Good-night".

YCIOH: You feel a good deal safer now in his arms, holding him as he holds you, and your thoughts finally quiet enough for you to close your eyes and fall into slumber- at least, until Sam wakes you or Frodo when he can no longer muster the energy to keep up watch.

HCIOY: If he was awake enough to notice it, he'd be blushing at how fast his heart is going. His eyes are closed and as he is lulled into sleep by the gently rise and fall of your chest, he longs that one day, he'll be able to lay like this with you in a proper bed, safe at home in the Shire at last.

Faramir:

"Tomorrow?" You nod, hands clasped in your lap as you sit on the end of Faramir's bed. You are telling him about your intent to join the armies of Rohan and Gondor as they march to the Black Gate of Mordor the very next day. "Are you making a joke?" Your brow creases at his half-skeptical, half-annoyed tone.

"No, I am not," you reply, narrowing your eyes at him. "Why would you think that?"

He frowns right back at you. "You should not go."

"Why?"

"You could die."

You throw your hands up, growing exasperated. "Tell me something I haven't thought of."

"You are a healer."

You give a huff of air, almost-incredulously offended. "And that means I cannot be a warrior as well?" You rise from the bed.

"No, it's not-" He hesitates, so you go on, miffed.

"I am a Shield-maiden of the Mark!" you remind him, eyes flashing, stance proud. "Men of my people go to what may be the final battle," you insist, "and my sister cannot join them, for she is next in line for the throne after my brother." You voice breaks. The death of Théoden weighs heavy on your heart and has filled you with a desire for vengeance. "I will represent the Rohirrim's womenfolk in this fight."

Faramir looks solemn now, and somewhat stern, too. "Éalryth." You cross your arms, unsure if his tone feels concerned of demeaning. "Do not make me do this."

"You cannot hold me back." 

He sighs and looks down like he doesn't want to- or simply can't -meet your gaze. "As the governing Steward," he says, voice quiet but steady, "I command you to remain in Minas Tirith until-"

"The end of my days?" you snap and he clenches his teeth.

"Èalryth-"

"Absolutely not."

"Please-"

"Oh, now you're beseeching me, after all else fails?" 

His gaze, grim and unsettled, flicks back up at last to meet yours and he finally moves to stand. "I need you here-"

"Your body is greatly healed already and there are people whose livelihoods as healers far surpass my own, you don't 'need' me-"

"You know what I mean."

Your hands tremble and you tuck them in your pockets. He stares at you, almost glaring but not quite, and you return the look.

"I am not so sure I do." He doesn't reply; still, he takes a step toward you and reaches out. His hand shakes ever-so-slightly like yours do now. Tears well up behind your eyes and you back away in the direction of the door out of his chambers. "Are you ever going to say it? Or do I only dream?" Though you don't wait for him to reply before turning and leaving, you think bitterly in your frustration that he probably wouldn't have spoken anyway.

YCIOH: Finding refuge within the palace library, you curl up on a settee and cry for some time, your tears first stemming from anger and disappointment, then regret and fear, and finally, as they start to fade, love. You don't want to leave Minas Tirith with a fight standing between you and him, so you know you have to back sooner than later, and your heart sighs.

"Éalryth?"

HCIOY: He feels terrible after your argument for a myriad of reasons: he's frustrated at himself for trying to order you around, at the truth in your accusatory questions, at his own hesitation, and, most of all, he wishes he could find the right words to tell you how he loves you beyond mortal measure.

Boromir:

As of the last few days, you've noticed that Boromir seems distracted, lost in thought. This evening, you asked him what was on his mind and learned he dearly wants to go home to Minas Tirith, but Elrond has insisted he (and you) stay in Rivendell for a few weeks more. You aren't too happy about this news either, but you don't say so and instead suggest that you and he go out for drinks. After finding out there are only two taverns in the valley kingdom, you instead go on a little escapade and bribe a few flagons of ale from the palace kitchen staff (most of whom sneak knowing glances between you and Boromir, though neither of you catch them). An hour later, in his room, you've set up an impromptu darts game and both of you are giggling and swaying on your feet drowsily as you each throw the projectiles and miss the board consistently. Laughing at nothing yet everything and leaning against each other, you take a long dredge of alcohol as Boromir tosses a dart that lands right on the floor, sending off another cacophany of raucous giggles. 

"Splendid throw!" you declare and raise your mug in a toast, mostly just so you can drink from it again, and he swats your arm, hiccuping. His face is crinkled with laughter and you lean daringly close, swaying a little from the effects of the ale. "Kiss me?"

"Nawww-" 

You push him reproachfully and he tumbles onto the floor, both of you laughing once more. He holds his breath in an attempt to vanquish his hiccups, but you keep laughing at his puffed-up cheeks and little shimmy he keeps doing and it's a good five minutes before the hiccups fade. You have flopped back onto his bed in this time and now you bury your face in a pillow, woozy and weary from the eight mugs of ale you've had so far, game of darts forgotten. The mattress shifts and you turn your head to see Boromir laying down beside you and wrapping his arms around you. You squirm playfully but he keeps you close, and finally, giggling along with him, you lean your head against his chest and remain in his embrace.

He murmurs something inaudible into your hair and you mumble wordlessly into his shirt in a drunken reply. With an unsteady hand, he tilts your chin up and his lips come towards yours, but he misses and instead places a wet kiss on your jaw instead. You blushing, bush at his chest and make a fake expression of dismay which soon dissolves into giggles once more as he pretends to be hurt, giving the whole 'woe is me' shtick and everything. You, quite boldly, pepper kisses along his neck and he draws in a sharp breath- but promptly, you fall asleep mid-peck and don't realize he was about to try and kiss you again, yet this time, he would have made sure not to miss.

YCIOH: You dream of talking cutlery and many assorted supper foods performing a song you've never heard before in your life, something about you being their guest, but truth be told, this isn't the strangest drunk vision you've had in your sleep before. It's sort of a pity that when you wake the next morning, you won't remember it- however, the events of the night before will remain with you, fully present in your mind alongside a nasty hangover.

HCIOY: He hasn't gotten this drunk in years, and he half-regrets not getting intoxicated with you before, as tonight has been great fun. A shame he didn't get to really kiss you, though; then again, it will be for the better. As he drifts off, tangled in the sheets with you, he hopes to feel your lips on his (and his neck again) soon- and sober.

Aragorn:

Elves, as a matter of fact, do not require much sleep to maintain energy, stamina, and focus. For some of your kind, however, this differs- you have apparently received the short end of the stick, as it is said among the hobbits you've come to know as your friends and allies. You can run on little to no sleep just fine for a few days, but any longer than half a week tires you out substantially. Your nephew Legolas is similar to you in this regard, but he can often remain alert for a day or two  after you have puttered out. This evening, as you cross the Rohirrim's extensive camp, behind which lurks the narrow entrance to the Paths of the Dead, you can feel the busy last few days and nights weighing on you. 

In the great battle fought at Helm's Deep, you lost an old friend, Haldir, and his death has grieved you deeply, adding to your physical weariness to bring you to the brink of exhaustion. As you pass by three soldiers trying to calm a spooked horse, too tired to offer your help, you hear a pair of familiar footsteps approaching from behind you. Aragorn draws up to your side a moment later, as you expected, and you look to him with a gentle smile yet sleepy eyes. He takes one look at your face and quickly takes your arm, turning you toward the righthand row that leads to your tent.

"Seron," he calls you quietly, a word meaning either 'friend' or 'lover' in Sindarin, "you should rest." You open your mouth to protest that there is always more for you to help with, but he narrows his eyes at you and adds before you can speak, "The troops can bear eight hours of missing your guidance."

"Six."

"Seven."

"Six and a half-hour?" His gaze clearly asks you 'really?' and you give a soft sigh.

"Just... hodasi, alright?" You nod and draw your arm back from his, relenting to his command to 'rest now', and draw back the flap of your tent, then think twice and turn back. You have only half-reached for Aragorn when he draws you into a hug you're pretty sure you both need right now. You linger in his arms a moment longer than is friendly, and as you step back, he lays a kiss on your forehead. "Good-night," he offers in your people's tongue, that of which he is as fluent in as you are, and you reply the same:

"Maer-dû."

YCIOH: You appreciate him looking out for you, especially when he expected your wordless request for a hug. You can still feel the shadow of his kiss on your forehead as you lay down on your cot for the first time in almost a week, and his word choice in addressing you- seron as 'friend'/'lover' versus meldis as just 'friend' -brings a certain warmth to your heart that you'll be sure to cling to in this cold, dark time.

HCIOY: Legolas was the one to tip him off about your lack of sleep, and though he has been awfully busy lately and his time available for you is briefer than brief, he feels bad for not fully noticing before your nephew mentioned it. He resolves now, as he leaves you to you rest, to be more attentive to your emotions and energy, and thus be a better friend and, as is the hopeful ultimate, lover.

Bard:

What a day it has been! First, Beorn did not come back to his home for breakfast as he usually does after a night of prowling in his bear form; then, one of the great eagles bore to the homestead news of orcs on the move; and now, thirteen dwarves, Gandalf the Grey wizard, and a smaller fellow who says he is a hobbit have appeared at Beorn's threshold out of the western heaths at the feet of the Misty Mountain, seeking food, lodging, and counsel. You provide them with supper and, once hearing of their troubles with goblins and orcs and their quest East, you assure them that your skin-changer host will likely aide them further once he returns. One by one, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield falls into slumber, yet you remain awake, waiting for Beorn. He returns soon enough and arrangements are made the next morning to send the wizard, hobbit, and dwarves on their way. 

The following few days, a strange heaviness falls upon your heart, and eventually, a week and a half after the Company's departure, a night falls on which sleep evades you. Sitting on the roof of the grand hall, your favorite perch to observe the night from, you draw the blanket around your shoulders tighter- Winter is on its brisk way. The stars are bright, but they are cold as well, and you find your thoughts drifting to a similarly-constellationed eve many years ago. It was the night after the day of Bard and his late wife's wedding- a bittersweet day for you, you remember. You have never been able to dislike her, truth be told, even when she stole the heart of the only man you've ever loved.

The ceremony was small yet beautiful, and you vividly recall the exact moment you were asked to give an impromptu address, though peculiarly, the words of that very speech evade your memory. You felt joy that day, yes, but more clearly, you remember standing on the balcony of the venue, alone and crying, after Bard and his new wife had retired to their wedding bed. Such regret and despair and jealousy came upon you then, and now, you reflect on that time with shame. After the wedding, you more-or-less faded out Bard's life by your own doings until his eldest child was born. The day you held her for the first time, Sigrid, you swore you would protect her with your dying breath. A pang of grief enters your heart this night as you lament your inability to keep that vow so distant from her and her siblings.

You squeeze your eyes shut, fighting back tears, but something has changed in your very soul, and you cry until the first light of day pricks your vision. Climbing down from the roof with a new resolve, you see Beorn watching you from the courtyard, his arms crossed. As soon as you meet his ever-intimidating gaze, you can tell he understands what you have decided upon and you are grateful now more than ever for his fatherly compassion towards you.

"You are going back."

You smile, though grimly. "Yes."

Without any hesitation or skepticism, he then helps you pack, and by the end of the morning, you are ready to go. However, because you did not sleep a wink last night, you remain one more day to rest up. The next morning dawns cloudy yet dry, and you bid Beorn a warm farewell with much gratitude before setting off back home- not Laketown, per say, but the people you love more than you could ever express: Bard, Sigrid, Tilda, and Bain. Your family.

YCIOH: Beorn lent you one of his horses, so your travel to the western border of Mirkwood is fairly swift, yet all the while, you cannot help but feel as if you are late for something grave, perhaps even monumental, but you haven't an inkling why. Surely, once you reach Esgaroth, you'll understand- or perhaps this foreboding feeling is simply paranoia. Two days pass and on the third afternoon of your journey, you arrive at your elf friend Filegeth's home just in time for tea. Then day four dawns and you are off again, on foot, now accompanied by Filegeth, who has agreed to show you the fastest route through Mirkwood, and so you draw ever-closer to Laketown.

HCIOY: So much has happened as of late, Bard is not surprised to notice himself wishing more and more frequently for your return. The dragon's attack, his defeat at Bard's own hands, the refugees on their way to Dale as Winter threatens to swoop in too early- a good deal occupies his mind, especially the welfare of his children, and he knows if you were here to help him lead, all would seem better. He still feels the ghost of your kiss on his lips from time to time, and if his thoughts were not so vitally preoccupied, he might realize how he longs to feel your lips on his once more.

Haldir:

The last few days have been tiresome for both you and many members of the royal house of Lothlorien. A great festival has been held, four days of wonderful fun and food and music. You spent most of your time with Haldir, ignored your visiting once-friend Acharon's flirting, and bought multiple bags of toys for the local children. Feasts abounded each night, dancing regularly lasted past midnight, contests were held on every corner, and not a single tear was shed unless it came of gladness. This afternoon, on the fourth and last day of the festival, you and Haldir have crept away from the merriment for a private respite.

Now, as you sit atop loosely-packed bales of the soft hay stored for the elven horses of the realm in a barn near to the festival, you hum softly to yourself. Haldir, sitting in front of you as you braid his hair, joins in every now and again, harmonizing. He has a pleasant singing voice and the warm summer day adds to your feeling of relaxed joy. Atop your head rests the crown of woven flowers and smooth grass you won from a racing competition. A petal slips from its perch and brushes your nose. You give a light laugh and Haldir abruptly turns toward you.

"Hey- the braid-" you protest at first, then your voice catches at the way he looks at you. His gaze is strong, almost intense, and as it wanders over your face and neck, you start to blush. His hand comes up to caress your cheek and you grab his wrist- but your grasp is gentle and you lean into his tender touch. Your heart is fluttering about and as he leans closer, you abruptly panic and pull him into a hug. You are certain he was going in for a kiss, though, and immediately after you avoid it, you regret the choice. You want him to kiss you, terribly so, yet the strength of your desire frightens you. Realizing you are trembling slightly, you still yourself and nuzzle your face into his shoulder. His shirt bunches up there and you breathe into the cloth for a moment, registering how he has drawn you onto his lap and now holds you close. 

Your chest presses against his, but you are more aware of how you are straddling him, knees on either side of his hips. He inhales quickly when you shift just an inch and you can feel the blush on your cheeks deepen. He probably thinks you only see him as a friend, now, doesn't he? By the Valar, you didn't mean to give that impression- how can you remedy this? Drawing your head up just slightly, your lips find the skin of his jaw just below his ear. He murmurs something into your hair that you don't quite catch, yet when you lean back, slipping off his lap, he looks reluctant to let you go. You watch each other for a long moment, then he breaks the silence by quietly clearing his throat and you blink your gaze away, smoothing down your shirt as if you can brush off your nerves that easily.

"Haldir-"

"We should head back. The children will be flying their kites soon, you said you did not want to miss them." He's halfway down the ladder before you gather yourself enough to follow him down from the hayloft. Your running-prize crown slips off your head, but you hardly notice.

"Hey." He half-heartedly smirks and glances at the hay around you, though the look doesn't stay for long once you take his hand and draw him back toward you. "I didn't mean it... like that."

His eyes flick down to your jaw, just below your ear, and you bite your lip. Before you can amend that the kiss was not what you were referring to as 'it', he crouches, picks up the crown, and places it back on your head with noticeably-stiffer movements.

"I know." 

His tone is clipped and his voice is quiet, and before you are able to put together an objection, he has led you back outside and stepped away into the crowd. Your eyes follow him leaving, but your feet refuse to do the same and you stand there for a long minute until a throng of children swarms you and pulls you along to see their kite-flying contest.

YCIOH: You never knew love could be so strong- those moments in the hay loft made you a nervous, wordless, blushing elleth with a heart so yearning it frightened itself. Your developing affections for him have been no mystery to you; still, you somehow overlooked the power of these feelings until just then. Your mind cannot seem to leave the knowledge of this deep love alone for the rest of the day, and after he does not appear at the feast tonight, your consciousness is not able to find sleep until many restless hours of wondering have passed. You love him, there is no longer any doubt, yet something tugs at your heart as if this realization has come too late.

HCIOY: You do not love him, he now thinks miserably. All the things he thought were clues to your returned affection- he should never have hoped. Avoiding the feast and the dancing after it, not much wanting to see you at this particular time, he slips away to the garden glade where you and he often come to spend time together, and he is in such a state that he does not notice how a particular nobleman follows him there...

Éomer:

The flap of your tent is pushed open and Éomer enters, having to duck to keep his head from hitting the roof. His gaze is solemn and you are sure yours is as well.

"Do you wish to talk?"

Nodding after a beat, you rise from your little fold-out desk and follow him outside and a few paces away to his own tent. Together, you sit upon the mat covering the hard ground and he graciously lets you think for a minute before speaking. A good deal has happened in the time between sundown last eve and this afternoon. Firstly, soon after dark, the Riders had finally caught up to the orc pack you'd been pursuing and you were thrust into your first armed conflict. Despite your novelty to such occasions and your short stature, you managed to slay five Uruk-hai all on your own and assisted in the demise of three more. You know you have Éomer to thank for some of this, as when training you for battle, he noticed your knack for archery and focused the greater part of that time developing your natural skill.

Your success in this recent skirmish has earned you new respect among most of the other Riders, and the proud twinkle in Éomer's eye continues to brighten your heart even now, nearly a day later. Then, this morning, an unusual trio hailed the Riders- an elf, a dwarf, and a Dúnedan -and asked after two hobbits. Curious, you had ridden forward, and your shock was great when you learned Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took, childhood friends of yours, are out here in Rohan, possibly kidnapped by (and escaped from?) the same orcs the Riders slew the night before. And when Gimli, the dwarf, revealed to you the quest of Frodo Baggins and how he was accompanied to Orodruin by your own brother, Samwise- well, you're still reeling. It seems Éomer noticed this, thus the offer to discuss these events.

"To be honest, I feel rather confounded," you begin, "not to mention awed." 

As you go on to express your concern of each fellow hobbit's welfare (though especially Sam's), your mixed feelings towards the unpredictable and raw ways of battle, and your blossoming desire to make a greater impact in this war as your hobbit-kin are, your friend remains silent, taking in your every word. Now and again he nods, or smiles just slightly, or shifts his seated position; all the while, he does not speak. Once you are finally done, your heart feeling a good deal lighter, he ponders a moment and apparently decides a hug is what you need, which you can guess from how he wraps you in his arms now. You, as a hobbit, are small enough to curl up on his lap, so that's precisely what you do next. He twirls a lock of your hair around his finger, then releases it and does the same to another, and you give a contented sigh. Disappointingly, he has duties to attend to soon, so you cannot stay like this for long, but the moment is quite nice while you have it.

YCIOH: You definitely feel better about all your doubts and concerns and hopes and everything else after just spouting it all out like that, and though you would have appreciated some advice from him, you would not trade those few minutes of cuddling for even the greatest wisdom he could have offered you instead.

HCIOY: He honestly enjoys the very sound of your voice, so listening to you ramble was nice for him, too. And when you made yourself comfortable in his lap right after- really, it's a miracle he's still able to restrain his desire for you after instances such as that. By the Valar, he so very much wants to scoop you up in his arms and kiss you every time he looks at you, yet he resists, believing (more and more reluctantly, though) romance is better left for after Sauron's vanquishing.

Bofur:

Half-leaning against Bofur, you tepidly wring out sleeves of your damp coat for the twelfth time this afternoon. After such a harrowing escape from the Mirkwood elves' dungeons, followed by an equally-anxious ride down a rapids-filled river while being pursued by orcs, one would think the Company would be tuckered out, but not one of your fifteen even looks tired. In fact, you are rather exhilarated by all the adventure of the last few hours, yet you feign a sense of weariness to justify the way you are sitting hip-to-hip with Bofur, your head on his shoulder. His arm is wrapped around your back almost too subtly to be noticed, but you certainly know of it. Despite the gloomy fog all around you, the worrisome nature of Kili being wounded, and your uncomfortably-sodden clothing, you are starting to feel your spirits lifting.

A shiver from the moisture clinging to your shirt runs through you and Bofur draws you closer to his body, his hand slipping just under your shirt. Despite the nip of the air and his similarly-damp garb, his touch is warm and, along with making you blush, starts to chase away your chill. A quiet argument is being had by a few of your companions across the barge, concerning the fare to be paid to the owner and captain of said waterborne vehicle, a grim-faced man by the name of Bard, but you hardly pay attention, as you and Bofur have already chipped in your fair share. Through the heavy mist, though, something catches your eye and you sit up, craning your neck up to get a better view. This causes Bofur to look as well and at your hasp, he realizes what that looming peak is, too.

"Look," you mutter, then louder, "Look!" Thorin turns, then Balin and Ori and Gloin, and the rest follow disagreement now at a standstill. All of you (minus a seemingly-indifferent Bard) stare for a long few seconds at the visage of the one-and-only Lonely Mountain. Even from this distance, and just the peak, its majesty is enough to take your breath away. "Our home," you say, voice quiet, but in the silence among your companions, all of them hear. You vaguely recall Thorin saying the same thing to Bilbo some time ago, yet its impact is still the same. The mountain is again covered by fog, but its effect on the entire mood of the Company remains. Wordlessly, those who were being stingy with their coin purses hand over their dues, Thorin gets a mighty gleam in his eye, and Bofur runs his thumb along your side to get you to look at him, your skin tingling wherever he touches. 

"Our home?" he asks you in a whisper, and you smile tenderly at him, knowing just what he means.

Brushing your lips against his cheek, you murmur in reply, "Yes, our home," and you don't even have to look at him as you lean your head back upon his shoulder to know he is smiling now, too.

YCIOH: The implied 'together' of his simple-yet-meaningful question did not escape you, and of course, you would love nothing more than to make a home with him in Erebor, thus your affirmative reply. The little kiss was just for affectionate emphasis.

HCIOY: His heart sighs happily to know you firmly acknowledge the hopes of a future with him, but he also now feels a strong wariness- a sort of defensiveness, almost -seep into his mind. It is undoubtedly foreboding, and although he has his arm around you at this moment, the shadow of your kiss on his cheek lingering, he cannot shake the thought that things just might start cascading downhill quite soon.

What comes next: A Moment of Theatre Song Quote Dialogue.