Nárië 30, 2969
The summer wind came warm off the hills, carrying the smell of sun-dried grass and cold river water. Where the Hoarwell met the Loudwater their waters sang in a ceaseless murmur, cradling the small cabin nestled in the shelter of a pine grove; smoke curled from the chimney against the gathering dusk. Inside, the hearth crackled, and Linnea stirred a pot of venison stew, its rich scent filling the room. Brynja sat cross-legged on the worn rug, arranging her wooden animals in an elaborate story only she understood, while Celenneth sat on a low stool by the window, sharpening her hunting knife with slow, practiced strokes, her eyes flicking now and then to the darkening forest.
A knock at the door broke the quiet — sharp, deliberate.
Celenneth was on her feet in an instant, her hand at the worn hilt of her knife. Linnea traded a glance with her, alert but composed; visitors were rare this far north, and uninvited ones rarer still. At Linnea's nod, Celenneth eased the door open just enough to see the figure outside — tall and weathered, leaning on a twisted staff, his long grey cloak damp with river mist, his wide-brimmed hat pulled low.
"Good evening," he said, his deep voice warm despite the distance of strangers, his eyes sharp and knowing beneath the brim.
Celenneth blinked, then her expression softened into something like respect. She stepped back and pulled the door wide. "You'd better come in. The wind's turning."
The old man ducked to fit through the doorway, his boots thudding softly on the worn floor, his gaze sweeping the modest room — the hearth, the plain table, the child watching him from behind Celenneth's legs.
"Linnea," Celenneth said, closing the door. "This is Gandalf."
The name tugged at something half-remembered — campfire tales of a wandering wizard, known across the wildlands for deeds both wondrous and dangerous. Linnea had not expected to find him standing rain-dappled in her home. "Gandalf," she repeated, wiping her hands. "You've come far."
"I often do," he said, inclining his head. "And rarely without reason." His gaze went to Celenneth, and softened. "You've built something strong here. A good home."
"What brings you this far?" Celenneth asked.
"Ah — we'll come to that. But if it's no trouble, a cup of tea would be most welcome after such a road."
Linnea fetched a sturdy clay mug and set him by the fire, and he lowered himself into a chair with a murmur of thanks, stretching his long legs to the warmth. Brynja peeked out, and his face gentled. "And who might this young lady be?"
"Brynja," Linnea said, placing the steaming mug in his hands. "Our daughter."
He sipped, and his brows rose in appreciation. "Fine work. Good tea is harder to come by than you'd think, in these parts." Then he set his staff against the chair, and his tone turned serious. "I need someone to undertake a journey." His gaze settled on Linnea, weighing her.
"What sort of journey?"
"The ring you carry," he said, low and grave. "The one given you by the spirit near the Anduin." Celenneth tensed; Linnea met his eyes and did not let her unease show. "I still have it," she said carefully.
"Good. Its nature remains uncertain — but I fear its history may be older, and darker, than even you know. There is someone in the West, in the Shire, who understands such things. He can examine it."
"You want me to take it there."
"To him. Quietly."
Celenneth stepped forward, her jaw tightening. "Linnea's capable. But I'm the faster traveler. Let me take it."
Gandalf inclined his head. "You are all those things, Celenneth. But this task belongs to Linnea. The burden was placed into her keeping. It is hers alone to carry."
Linnea exhaled slowly, already turning over routes and dangers. "When do I leave?"
"At first light."
Brynja's small fingers slipped into Celenneth's hand, and Celenneth squeezed them, her face unreadable but her eyes fierce. Linnea looked to her. "You know him far better than I. What do you think?"
Celenneth sighed, her shoulders slumping a little. "If he says you need to go, you need to go. Brynja and I will keep things here."
Linnea stepped close and wound her fingers into Celenneth's. "I'll be back soon. Always."
"I'll be waiting," Celenneth said, her grip tightening.
And as the wind rose again outside and the rivers whispered their endless song, shadows deeper than the summer dusk gathered, unseen, in the farthest reaches of the West.1
Cermië 1, 2969
The wind over the Angle carried the warmth of high summer, the land here lying south and a little east of Bree, a quiet reach of Eriador seldom spoken of in grand tales. From that unassuming place Linnea set out westward at Gandalf's side. She had known him only briefly, but the unshakable wisdom in his keen eyes convinced her that wherever he led would be worth the following.
Her horse, Eorlin — the proud chestnut mare of Rohan — stamped the ground as if sensing the road. Gandalf sat astride his own mount, an old but steady creature, and inclined his head to mark the day's start. "Well," he said, voice low yet carrying, "the road ahead is not short, but neither so long that we cannot endure it. Nine days of steady pace, if Eorlin is sure-footed and we meet no ill luck, should bring us to the borders of the Shire. From there, Hobbiton is a quiet ride."
They set off. The Angle's low hills gave way to mild slopes and quiet vales, and the East Road ran westward to guide them; for a while the only sound was the rhythm of hooves and Gandalf's occasional humming of old traveling songs. By afternoon Linnea found herself easing into the saddle, the knots of worry loosening under Eorlin's steady gait — though she kept her eyes moving, as Gandalf had counseled.
They rode until the shadows lengthened, and then a rustling in a stand of thorn drew her gaze. Gandalf slowed, raising his staff. With sudden ferocity two ragged figures leapt out, spears raised — lean, desperate men in stained cloaks and patchwork leather. Brigands.
"Stay your hands!" Gandalf's voice rang clear, but desperation seldom heeds wisdom, and the men took a hesitant step. They had looked for easy prey — and found instead a wizard, and a woman on a horse that could outrun any chase, who did not cower but studied them.
Linnea knew the worth of a kind word over a drawn blade. She raised an empty hand and eased Eorlin forward. "Ho there," she called, quiet but clear. "Strong men like yourselves have no need to waylay weary riders. There's little profit in spilled blood. Far wiser to earn your coin without risk of your lives. Let us pass — and perhaps we come to some small arrangement that spares everyone's skin." She spoke as though greeting guests at a distant homestead, and let them believe themselves reasonable men rather than cornered rats. The brigands traded uncertain glances, their knuckles whitening on the shafts — and then the taller spat to the side. "We ain't fools," he muttered, as if to convince himself. "Coin's better than steel." They took a few silver pennies to see her and Gandalf safe past the next rough stretch, and melted back into the scrub.1
"Well played," Gandalf murmured. "Your courtesy saved us trouble — and them as well."
"Desperation makes men foolish," Linnea said. "But I'm glad we parted without blood. Let's go on."
The next days unfolded in a comforting pattern — the East Road west, once more through the outskirts of Bree-land, the summer air clear and the road quieter beyond. On the fourth day they crossed the Brandywine Bridge, and even as they passed into the gentle land beyond, Linnea felt a change: the grass greener, the breeze sweet with turned earth and warm hay, sheep on the distant hillsides, and here and there a round door set into a hill with smoke curling from a half-buried chimney. Hobbit-holes.
On the evening of the sixth day, near the rolling rises of the Green Hill Country, a stillness settled — and then, drifting on the wind, came a faint singing, clear and lovely and shadowed with sorrow. She and Gandalf halted. "No Hobbit tune," he whispered. Linnea called out, "Fair voice among the trees, we mean no harm! If you are friend, come and speak plainly." The singing ended, and a slender figure stepped from the wooded gloom — an Elf, wearing sorrow like a faded mantle. Fëarnor of Lindon, he named himself, and Linnea dismounted and bowed, and her courtesy softened his guard.
"The barrows to the south have grown restless," he murmured, gentle as distant bells. "The Old Forest stirs, and not kindly. Dark lights flicker near Needlehole, west in the Shire's Westfarthing. Few know what it means. Be cautious. Not all lights are meant to be followed." When Linnea offered him company he declined — "My path leads east; yours west. May the stars guide you" — and slipped away, leaving only a thread of Elvish song fading into the wind.
They rode on, subdued. "Strange lights on the moors — that's no idle fancy," Linnea said. "I've heard tales of will-o'-the-wisps, lights that lead travelers astray. Usually just stories to frighten children in Bree's common-room."
Gandalf nodded. "Keep your wits about you. Shadows linger in Middle-earth, even after great evils are diminished — in hollows and forgotten places, waiting for the unwary."
On the seventh day, watering the horses at a slender stream, Linnea asked the thing that had been on her mind. "Gandalf — you speak with ease of distant lands and old alliances, and I've heard you name Celenneth. I know who she is to me: my beloved, my partner, the mother of my child, a Ranger of the North. But what is she to you?"
He lit his pipe and let the smoke drift. "Celenneth. Yes — we've crossed paths a few times. Not long ago I asked her to carry a message to Balin in Moria. Before that we met near Fornost, when the Dúnedain brought me troubling reports of strange doings in the North, and I sought keen-eyed help. She joined me in studying the old stones and weathered runes. She had only just begun the Ranger's path, and yet she impressed me — her courage, her swift understanding, her steadfast heart. We were not long together, but it was enough for me to trust her judgment. In uncertain times, that trust is precious."
Linnea absorbed every word — parts of Celenneth's story she had never heard, not kept from her but simply never spoken. She pictured her beloved as a young Ranger, striding beside this grey pilgrim, poring over inscriptions older than kingdoms. "It seems you've found friends in every corner of this land," she said. "Elves, Dwarves, Rangers."
Gandalf smiled gently. "All who walk under these skies have their stories, Linnea. I don't claim them as friends lightly — but I'm grateful for each honest heart that crosses my path. Including Celenneth's. And yours, if I may say so."
They talked of many things as they rode, and made camp that night in a sheltered hollow, and in the morning a soft mist draped the hills. Linnea's mood was calm and resolved. They carried warnings, yes — but also hope. The Shire was no land of horrors; perhaps its peaceful folk knew nothing of any disturbance, and these flickers of unease would stay distant flickers only.
Cermië 8, 2969
The sun was sinking low, painting the sky rose and amber, when Linnea drew her cloak against the evening cool and breathed in turned earth and distant chimney-smoke. Gandalf rode beside her sprinkling small memories into the ride like breadcrumbs of comfort — an oak that once sang with nightingales, a hollow where Dwarves had camped decades past — reminders that even in uncertain times, old paths held kind things.
"You know," Linnea said with a wry smile, "I've heard rumors of your fireworks. The Hobbits seem to think you a traveling wonder-maker."
Gandalf laughed, deep and genuine. "They do love a good story in the Shire. And they're not entirely wrong. I've set off a few in my time — bright ones, colorful ones. They remember them fondly, as they remember any magic that doesn't trouble their garden walls." His voice dropped. "The Shire is small, Linnea. That's what makes it worth protecting. The larger world may thrash and burn, but here things stay gentle — at least for now." He turned thoughtful. "In the end it isn't always grand armies that save us. Sometimes it's a soft word, a helping hand, a small kindness that turns the tide. Don't forget that."
The day's last light slipped behind the hills. Soon a glow on the western slope revealed a cluster of lights — Whitfurrows, a small Hobbit village. "We'll try there for the night," Gandalf said. A stout, rosy-cheeked Hobbit closing his market stall called them toward the home of Marigold Bramblefoot, a warm-eyed matron who beamed at their request. "I've stew on and bread from the oven — I'll not turn you away. Come in!" She lowered her voice a notch. "Strange lights have folk uneasy these days. No trouble, I hope?"
"Just travelers in need of comfort," Gandalf said smoothly.
Linnea let him handle the easy chatter, but she marked the tension in some of the Hobbits' eyes; rumors of odd lights in the Westfarthing had reached even here. When it seemed all was settled, she slipped outside to tend the horses and steady her thoughts. In the stable she brushed down Eorlin and Gandalf's mount — and then, stepping back, felt the air shift. A faint rustle whispered through the hedgerow, too quiet to be an animal. Eorlin tossed her head, ears flicking.
Linnea trusted her instincts. Silent, she circled to the stable's side and kept low in the shadows. A hooded shape moved past the back gate, slow and careful, and the faint scrape of metal on wood told of a drawn blade. She crept to the house and tapped the windowsill; Gandalf came out at once, staff in hand, his old eyes gone grave. "Someone's out there," she whispered. "Casing the stable. Armed." He studied the bent grass at the gate. "Fresh tracks. Two-legged, and no Hobbit. We're not alone tonight." He offered to ward the house while she kept the watch, and she agreed, heart pounding but steady — for this she knew: silent vigilance, the weight of a drawn bow, the patience to wait.
She crouched by a low hedgerow with an arrow nocked. Minutes crept by. Then she saw him again, a shape slipping along the stable's edge, blade dull in the moonlight, moving to get inside where he might kill the horses or reach the house. She whispered a silent apology to the night and loosed. The arrow took his shoulder; he staggered, hissing, his hood falling to show a gaunt face — and then he ran. Linnea vaulted the fence and gave chase, tracking him by moonlight and a thin blood-trail across a field, catching him at a small clearing where he stopped, gasping, a hand to his wound.
She drew again. "Throw down the blade, or the next goes through your heart."
His eyes darted like a trapped animal's, and the knife slipped from his fingers. And the moonlight showed her more than fear: a blackened brand on his forearm, a twisted mark carved and burned into the flesh. "Gandalf — over here." The wizard came, his staff-light cutting the dark, and studied the brand, his frown deepening. "You bear a sign of enslavement," he said sternly. "Some darkness made you its servant. Who commands you?"
The man shook, sweat beading. "You don't understand. If I talk, they'll come. They'll find you. It's too late."
Linnea softened her tone, though her bow held steady. "I don't want to kill you. But you leave these Hobbits alone. Swear it, and go. If there's anything human left in you, don't harm them."
He looked at her like a man handed a scrap of hope in a wasteland. "If I stay, worse comes. Fine. I'll go. I swear it — I'll do no harm here." Gandalf gave a small nod, his staff glowing brighter as if to seal the bargain. "Then go. But know this: if we meet again and you bring darkness with you, mercy ends." The man fled, stumbling, into the trees.1
Linnea lowered her bow, and her eye caught something on the ground where he'd dropped his knife: a small wooden charm, carved into the shape of a twisted hand with vines clawing round it, its surface darkened with ash. When she picked it up a faint, unsettling pulse thrummed beneath her fingertips, and she shuddered and slipped it into her pouch as Gandalf stepped close.
"This is worse than I feared," he said quietly, peering at the pouch as if he could see through it. "A charm of enslavement and summoning. It binds its bearer to old powers, long dormant."
"So he really was driven here?"
"Likely. Or at least driven by something beyond ordinary greed." He drew a warding sign in the air.2
They returned to the Bramblefoot home, and Gandalf smoothed it over with a genial word about foxes near the stable, and Marigold ladled out hot stew and fresh tea. Linnea forced her shoulders down and ate, acutely aware of the charm hidden in her pouch, and after, in the tiny guest room, she lay listening to the household settle and wished Celenneth were here — Celenneth would know what to say, would crack a quiet joke about nosy foxes or hum an old tune until the tremor left her. Instead she had a wooden charm thrumming with old malice, and the memory of a branded man no healing herb could cure.
Sleep, when it came, brought no comfort.
She stands in a warped forest, tangled roots and twisted trunks stretching into endless gloom, the air old and damp and suffocating. Whispers call her name and hiss promises she does not want. A flicker of blue-white flame bobs in the distance, and though she knows it a mistake she follows, the whispers pulling her on, branches scratching her arms, vines twisting about her ankles. And in the shifting dark she glimpses a blade — the strange rune-scarred dagger Celenneth once found in Fangorn — and she tries to cry out, to ask why these things haunt her now, but no sound comes. A figure looms ahead, faceless but for two embers glowing like eyes, and the vines drag her down into damp earth. "Why?" she gasps. "What do you want from me?" And the whispers answer in layered voices, some trembling with sorrow, some laughing with cruelty: "You carry what is ours. You will return… or be consumed."
The dream shattered, and she woke in the Hobbit guest room, clammy with sweat, the hearth's embers burned low. She recognized in that threat a hint of Celenneth's own long struggle, as if a single curse reached across their dreams, and it brought tears of helpless anger to her eyes. She lay a long while unable to sleep, listening to Marigold's soft snore through the wall, remembering how Celenneth had once described her nightmares — like old roots digging into the soul. Now Linnea understood too well. She did not close her eyes again, and waited for the first grey hint of morning to ease the weight of the night.3
Cermië 9, 2969
Morning found Linnea awake long before dawn, the night's restless silence still on her. If rest would not come, then action would; she would leave this little home at least a bit warmer than she'd found it. She crept to the small kitchen, coaxed the banked embers back to life, and rummaged the cupboards — flour, honey, oats, fresh eggs, dried herbs that smelled of sunny hillsides. Simple Hobbit fare, honest and humble, and the making of it steadied her: the crackle of the hearth, the sizzle of eggs, the scrape of a spoon in a bowl, and the scents deepening through the cottage — herbs, oatcakes, warm bread, stewed apples. Such an ordinary thing, and yet it fortified her trembling spirit.
When Marigold shuffled in and saw the table laid — herb-crusted eggs, honey-glistened oatcakes, steaming stewed apples — she pressed a hand to her mouth. "My goodness! You've been up and about! If this isn't a treat." Linnea managed a modest smile, her voice quieter and plainer than the polished courtesy of before. "It's not much. But I hope it starts your morning right. I'm grateful you let me rest here."
"Not much? Nonsense, my dear. There's a kindness in you that's hard to come by these days." Marigold patted her arm, and when Gandalf appeared, sniffing the air with a grin — "I thought I smelled hope" — the old wizard's keen eyes softened at the sight of her, quiet and cooking breakfast for a Hobbit family, as if it were a sign that not all paths led to darkness.
They ate, and Linnea helped tidy, and Marigold wrapped bread and cheese for the road and dabbed at a tear. "Your hospitality meant a great deal," Linnea told her, standing straighter. "I'll always remember this welcome."
They rode out under a pale morning sky, and for a while let the Shire's gentle scenery unfold — tidy farms, hedgerows of summer flowers, soft lanes winding toward distant meadows. But the charm nagged at Linnea, a creeping worry that would not settle, and on a quiet stretch of the East Road she spoke. "Gandalf — that charm I took off the intruder. Something's wrong with it. I can feel it even when I'm not holding it. Like it's alive, somehow. Or at least that it remembers."
Gandalf slowed his horse and put out a hand. "Show me." Linnea worked the charm free of her pack, still wrapped in cloth; her fingers trembled, as if the thing resisted her even now. He turned it over — the twisted, vine-clawed hand, the ash-dark wood — and muttered words in an ancient tongue, tracing the air with his staff. A shimmer of silver-white light flickered round him, and the carved lines of the charm flared faint and red, like a creature caught off guard and thrashing in its captor's hold. With a final decisive word the glow vanished, and the charm went dull and cold in his hand.
He wrapped it again and returned it. "This is no idle trinket. It was made with foul intent, bound to old memories that linger. A thing like this doesn't only compel the flesh — it tries to reach into the bearer's mind. To influence. To twist. Keep it covered. Keep it at a distance. And whatever you do, don't sleep with it near you."
Linnea swallowed. "Celenneth found something like it," she said quietly. "The cursed blade, in Fangorn. If that's so — could this be calling to hers, too? Could it reach her?"
Gandalf's face grew troubled, and his silence hung heavy. "If Celenneth carries a similar relic, then yes — there may be a connection. Dark objects call to one another; they carry echoes of their pasts. If you feel this one's pull, it may reach for hers as well. You must be vigilant, Linnea. For both your sakes."
Her heart sank. "How do I keep it from sinking in? How do I shield myself — and her?"
He guided his horse closer, lowering his voice. "There's no simple cure. But there are ways to weaken its hold. Keep it wrapped. Don't dwell on it — the shadow loves attention. Keep your mind grounded: remember who you are, and who you love. Surround yourself with what gives you strength and light — friends, purpose, laughter. And if Celenneth is struggling too, find her, and stand together. You'll need each other's hearts to stay whole."
Linnea drew a steadying breath. "I'll not handle it carelessly. I'll find Celenneth, and we'll stand against whatever this is."
"Good," Gandalf said. "Even in dark times, resolve and kindness matter. They can't break every curse — but they can keep you from breaking yourself."1
They rode on through the summer morning, and Gandalf hummed an old tune, wistful and hopeful at once; shy at first, Linnea tried to hum along, and then to sing a few verses of it — travelers passing through twilight, never losing hope. When they finished she found herself calmer, the tension in her chest eased, thinking of Brynja, who would love a tune like this.
But approaching Hobbiton, the air shifted. The hobbit-holes still looked cozy, gardens tidy, smoke rising — yet the Hobbits themselves seemed restless and afraid, peeking from windows and vanishing. An older woman stacking firewood bolted indoors when Linnea asked if something was wrong. "They're scared of something," Linnea told Gandalf. "The Shire shouldn't feel like this."
"The Shire is changing," he said, frowning. "Or something is pressing in on it. Let's not linger. We've business with Bilbo Baggins — he may know more."
In the narrow lanes there were small signs of trouble — an overturned cart, bruised fruit spilled and abandoned. A Hobbit named Tom Brockhouse, eased by her gentle manner, told her low: "Folk have gone missing along the road. Goods vanish. Strangers lurking at night. Nobody feels safe." He nodded toward Bag End. "If you're here for Mr. Baggins, best get going. Rumor is he's been expecting someone."
As they neared Bag End's hill, Linnea dismounted and read the ground: footprints too large for Hobbits near the garden beds, thin scratches on the gate latch as though tested by a blade. A glint in the grass caught her eye, and she knelt and drew out a small iron clasp engraved with a wolf's head — no Hobbit trinket. She slipped it into her pouch, unsettled.2
A rustle from beyond the hedgerow set her heart racing — but no one came, only the creak of the round green door as it opened. "Gandalf? Is that you?"
"Bilbo, old friend," Gandalf called, leaning his staff by the step. "It's me."
Bilbo Baggins stood in the doorway, older and more pensive than Linnea had imagined, a wary smile on him. His eyes flicked to her. "And you've brought a friend, I see."
"This is Linnea," Gandalf said, calm and warm. "We're traveling through, and hoped for counsel — and a cup of tea, if you're hospitable."
Bilbo puffed his pipe, weighing them. "Come in, then. But mind — if you've brought trouble, I'll have the kettle singing and my doors locked by sundown."
A dry laugh escaped Linnea. "We're not here to cause problems," she said, plainer now. "Only questions, and a road that won't be easier without some honest talk."
"All right." Bilbo stepped aside. "Come in. We'll see if we can't shed light on whatever darkness you're dragging behind you." And Linnea followed Gandalf into the lantern-warm hush of Bag End, the scent of old books and pipeweed and polished wood closing round her, and let out a quiet breath. Inside these round walls, perhaps, they would find some answers.
Cermië 9, 2969
The warmth of Bag End drifted over Linnea like a welcome as she stepped inside — the hall lit by a soft copper-shaded lamp, the scent of pipe-weed and dried herbs on the air, a hearth crackling somewhere ahead. After weeks on the road she let it settle into her bones.
Bilbo came round a corner, his face lighting at the sight of Gandalf. "There you are! I thought I heard your voice."
"It's been too long, Bilbo," Gandalf said.
Bilbo's gaze slid to Linnea with frank curiosity. "And who might this be?"
"Linnea," she said, meeting his eyes. "Thank you for letting me in."
"Any friend of Gandalf's is welcome in Bag End." He led them to a snug sitting room crammed with books, poured tea into small cups with the care of a treasured ritual, and settled back. "Now — I know Gandalf, of course. But nothing of you. Where are you from, and what brings you to the Shire?"
Linnea sipped the warm, floral tea. "I'm from Bree. My father was a merchant there. I never meant to leave home for long, but life leads you places you never expected."
"Bree, eh? Friendly folk. Not many wander far. How did you end up all the way west?"
"I was heading east, first," she said, wry. "This is the second half of a journey that looped through more places than I ever meant to see. I've been as far as Dale, and through Mirkwood, and I spent time in Rivendell." Bilbo's eyebrows climbed, delight creeping in — he had been to both Dale and Rivendell, he said, and there was nowhere like the latter — and when he asked whether she had ever gone as far south as Rohan, her expression softened. "I have. A proud land. They treated me well, once they knew I meant no harm."
"You've wandered a fair piece of the map." He tilted his head. "Did you travel alone all that while?"
Her gaze drifted to the fire. "Not always. I met a Ranger — Celenneth. She saved my life when bandits took me on the road south of Bree. Without her, I might not be here." And when he asked if she had stayed with the Ranger, her smile widened. "We did more than stay together. We built a family. We have a daughter, Brynja, safe and waiting for me. Everything I do, I do with her in mind."
"A daughter! How wonderful." Bilbo's eyes were bright. "That gives you reason to keep traveling — and reason to know when to head home."
"It does," she said softly. "She gives me hope."
For a moment the three of them lapsed into a comfortable quiet, the hearth crackling. Then Bilbo cleared his throat. "Well — I don't mean to pry. But you must have a reason for coming to Hobbiton. You didn't stumble in by chance."
Before Linnea could answer, Gandalf set down his tea and gave the Hobbit a meaningful look. "We have matters to discuss, old friend. Matters that need your particular perspective."
Bilbo straightened, glancing between them. "My perspective? I can't imagine what I'd know that a wizard and a world-traveler would need."
Gandalf only smiled and touched the pipe in his vest. "Let's say you've had certain experiences that might shed light on a question or two."
Linnea decided to trust him. She drew off her glove and held out her hand, and the simple silver ring on her finger caught the firelight, its faint runes hinting at old craft. "This is why," she said. "I've carried it some time. It came to me from a spirit, I think — a wandering presence near the Anduin. It never felt dangerous. Just… sad. I'd like to know what it is."
The instant Bilbo saw it, his posture eased, relief washing over him. "Ah. Not mine," he said, and smiled almost apologetically. "For a moment I thought — well, never mind what I thought." He fetched a small lens and held the ring gently between thumb and forefinger, studying it in silence. "Hmm. Old. Possibly Second Age. Elven craft, but not the common kind. These runes… they're about holding on. A memory ring, maybe — made by someone who refused to let something vanish with time. Not a memory like yours or mine, but a piece of someone's essence. A promise, perhaps. A farewell. But I sense no darkness in it. Only a longing that never settled."
Gandalf let out a gentle stream of smoke. "And no resonance?" he asked, measured.
Bilbo shook his head. "No. It doesn't answer to… others I know of." He met Gandalf's gaze with a wry smile, and tapped his own waistcoat lightly, leaving the rest unsaid. "Whatever else it is, it's its own thing. Not connected."
Linnea caught the undercurrent but didn't pry; Gandalf had asked after resonance, and Bilbo seemed relieved her ring was not bound to whatever he kept close. That was enough.1
"So what do I do with it?" she asked.
Bilbo returned it. "It chose you. I doubt hiding it will help you understand it. Keep it close, listen to your instincts. Maybe one day it will make sense."
"Sometimes these old relics guide rather than harm," Gandalf added. "You said it came from a spirit. That spirit may have needed you to carry something forward — some memory they couldn't let die."
Linnea ran a thumb over the runes. "I've heard no voices, seen no visions. Only a feeling, now and then — like being watched, but never threatened." She slipped the ring back on, deciding to trust herself.
"Best leave it there," Gandalf said. "We've mystery enough to fill a dozen nights. No need to unravel it all this evening."
Bilbo set the lens aside and rose, leading them down a lantern-lit hall to a snug guest room with a small bed under a round window, moonlight silvering the floor. "Bag End has a room made for weary travelers. Get some sleep, my dear. Morning's a safer time for questions."
When he had gone, Linnea drew the wolf's-head clasp from her pouch and turned it over in the moonlight, the engraved head somehow significant — a story lurking just outside Bag End's warm walls. But Gandalf would have thoughts, and that could wait for sunrise. She tucked it away, pulled off her boots, and slid under a quilt heavier and softer than any forest floor. Outside, the Shire slumbered; no rushing wind, no creak of distant trees, no threat at the edge of firelight. For once she did not fight sleep, and it came gently, and no troubled dream reached for her. Within the quiet comfort of Bag End, with Gandalf and Bilbo near, Linnea slept deep and easy, and let the world's troubles spin silently beyond the round green door.
Cermië 10, 2969
Linnea woke to birdsong and the soft light of the round window, and for a while simply lay there, absorbing the morning stillness — after weeks of restless nights under open skies, the quiet security of Bag End was a rare gift. The tension that usually clung to her had eased.
At length she rose and crossed to the little writing desk, and drew out a sheet of parchment. She had words in her chest meant for Celenneth, and she began to write:
My dearest Celenneth,
The world feels quieter here, as if the troubles I carry are muffled by hills of green and flowers in bloom. I'm in the Shire — as peaceful as the old stories say. Hobbits are kind but private, and take their comfort seriously. I wish you could see it. Brynja would laugh at the little ones running about, chasing butterflies without a care. She deserves that kind of peace, and so do you. There is more to say — about the road, about what I've learned — but I'll tell you in person. Until then, stay safe. I hold you both in my heart.
She signed it, folded it, and tied it with a ribbon to carry home.
The smell of fresh bread and mushrooms drew her to the kitchen, where Bilbo turned from the stove with a broad smile. "Good morning! You look better rested. Slept well?"
"Like a log. I don't remember the last time I slept so soundly." She eyed a basket of berries. "Can I help?"
"By all means!" He set her to sorting berries and slicing mushrooms, and she settled gladly into the homely tasks — no eerie whispers, no curse thrumming in her pack, just breakfast. As she stirred the eggs, Bilbo leaned against the table. "Not many travelers stay a while. Where are you headed next?"
"North, I'm thinking. Celenneth was raised by Rangers up that way. We've talked of finding them." She kept it light.
Bilbo nodded, more serious now. "The North's tricky ground. Old stories linger there, and not all friendly." He paused. "Speaking of roads — Gandalf left at dawn. He didn't wake you, but he left a note."
Linnea's heart gave a small twist as she took the folded paper, Gandalf's plain seal pressed in the wax.
Linnea — I must leave sooner than I intended. Dark whispers move in places we cannot ignore. Do not fear; you're stronger than you know. Keep to the road, trust yourself, and seek light where it hides. I'll find you again when the time is right. — Gandalf.
And below, in a hurried hand: The clasp was no accident. Be wary.
Her fingers tightened. The wolf's-head clasp from Bag End's hedgerow. Gandalf's warning confirmed her unease. "Bad news?" Bilbo asked gently.
"Not bad. Just a reminder to keep my eyes open." She tucked the note away.
They ate together, and washed the dishes to Bilbo's humming, and Linnea felt strangely at home — some part of her craved this ordinary life, far from bandits and curses. But Gandalf's caution weighed on her, and after a pleasant morning of small chores she asked Bilbo to show her about, meaning to learn what she could of the clasp.
They wandered Hobbiton's lanes and its bright market — radishes and honeycombs, wheels of cheese, painted clay mugs — Bilbo greeting half the vendors by name, pressing on her the best apple cider in the Westfarthing. By midday they took a quiet corner of the Green Dragon Inn with two pints of ale, and there Linnea laid the iron clasp on the table, its wolf's head looking oddly menacing amid such gentle surroundings.
Bilbo's good cheer faded as he turned it in his hands. "Where did you find this?"
"Near Bag End. It felt left there on purpose."
He frowned. "Not Hobbit-work. Wolves don't figure in our decorations. But I recall something like it from old stories — Men of the North, some wild tribes and wanderers, carried charms like these. Hunters." He looked up. "Or worse. The Shire's not fond of strangers lurking about, especially ones who leave calling cards. If you've picked up unwanted attention, this may be someone's way of saying they're watching."1
A chill brushed her neck. "Has there been other trouble?"
Bilbo leaned in. "A few odd travelers on the West Road — not merchants. Folk said they kept near the Marish, in the shadows. Livestock vanish, carts turn up empty. Small things, mostly. But small things add up. And then this."
Linnea weighed it. If these strangers were in the Marish, she needed to see for herself. She would not lead trouble back to Celenneth and Brynja. "I should look into the Marish," she said, "before I go. Find out who's skulking about, and why."
Bilbo gave her a long, protective look. "Be careful. This isn't Bree or Rohan. The Shire's not used to rough company. Don't stir up more than you must."
She managed a half-smile. "Trouble and I have a way of finding each other. But I'll be careful. I promise."
They finished the day back at Bag End, where Bilbo offered her a taste of pipe-weed — she coughed at the spicy-sweet smoke, and he grinned — and told her harmless stories of the local families as dusk fell soft and the scent of chamomile drifted through the window. Before sleeping she set Gandalf's note and the clasp side by side on the desk, two pieces of a puzzle hinting at something lurking just beyond the Shire's peaceful edges. She would do her best to find the rest.
The night passed quietly, and sleep came easy — green hills rolling on forever, distant laughter over sunlit fields, no shadow pressing at the edge of her vision. In the morning she helped Bilbo with breakfast and thanked him warmly for everything. "You're welcome anytime," he said. "You might find the Shire quiet, but I think it suited you. You look more at ease."
She laughed softly. "It did me good. I feel steadier." She shouldered her pack. "Time I got back on the road, though. But first — the Marish. Quietly. If someone's watching, best I understand why before I head north. I owe Celenneth and Brynja that." Bilbo's eyes flicked to her pack, remembering the clasp, and he only said, "Safe travels. And be careful."
Outside, the morning was cool and bright. She let herself linger one last moment in the Shire — the wind through the hedgerows, the scent of dew and baking bread, a farmer calling to his neighbor, children's voices like distant bells — and stored the peace away, knowing she might need to recall it when darker hours came. Then she set off down the lane, the letter for Celenneth tucked safe inside, and Gandalf's warning echoing in her mind.
Cermië 11, 2969
Linnea left Bag End early, riding southwest with a quiet resolve. She did not regret the days of rest — they had given her strength — but she had business in the Marish now, and her mood matched the land's shifting tone. The gentle hills gave way to low, swampy ground, tangled copses of willow and alder, air that smelled of stagnant water and warm decaying reeds. Hobbits rarely went there but for a few hardy trappers; it was the sort of place that offered no clear paths, only half-submerged trails and thick reeds swaying in the muddy ground.
She rode Eorlin along the outskirts, keeping to the fringes. She was no master of stealth — travelers from Bree did not often practice skulking in marshes — but she made do, dismounting at times to lead the mare behind stands of reed. By midday, on a low mound of dry footing, she caught movement at the edge of her sight: shadows among old willows, not far from a patch of firmer land. She tied Eorlin behind a thicket and crept forward on foot, and voices drifted on the sluggish air — hushed, urgent, purposeful.
Keeping low, using the reeds and uneven ground for cover, she moved closer. At least two men, human, in dark cloaks and worn leathers — no farmers, no friendly traders. They drifted deeper toward a hidden clearing, and she followed at a distance, catching fragments. "They'll come soon," one muttered, crouched by a hummock. "We've made enough noise." — "Good," said another, tenser. "We need to be gone before the next shift arrives." Shift. That sounded organized. These were no random thieves; they were expecting someone, and kept a schedule.
In the deeper clearing four figures waited now, conversing low. She caught only scraps — "the others coming by nightfall," "needing to move soon" — a hand-off, a rendezvous. And she saw one of them handle a cloth-wrapped bundle with great care, setting it on a flat stone almost like an altar. Her curiosity sharpened; the way they hovered spoke of something precious, or dangerous.
A gust rustled the willows, and she used the noise to creep to the edge of the clearing. When the men's focus drifted from the bundle — one scanning the treeline, another bent over a fire-pit, two whispering together — she eased behind the stone and lifted a corner of the cloth. Beneath lay metal, etched with unfamiliar runes: a small circular sigil that caught a muted light, its etchings like dragon-scales, or some old heraldic emblem. An uneasy prickle ran up the back of her neck — the thing was not merely valuable; it hummed with a faint magic that thrummed along her fingertips. She knew the style from old merchants' tales: relics tied to ancient dragons, granting strange powers — fire, or the enchanting of weapons. In the wrong hands, disaster.
A twig snapped, and she froze, lowering the cloth; one of the men shifted, looked her way, and after a breathless moment turned back. Too close. Her gut told her that letting these men keep this thing was a terrible idea — and so, with a quiet, deft motion, she lifted the whole bundle, cloth and all, and slipped back into the reeds. It was reckless. But taking it from their hands would at least slow them, and whoever they waited on would be disappointed.
She had barely cleared the clearing when a curse rang out and the men's voices rose — "Check the perimeter!" "Gone? It can't just vanish!" Crouching low, she reached Eorlin and swung up and steered wide of the clearing, the mare's ears twitching but her feet quiet. When the angry voices had faded to nothing she let out a shaky breath. She still had no idea who those men were — but now she carried their prize, which surely made her a target.1
On drier ground she urged Eorlin to a canter, and passing a small settlement — a handful of cottages round a common yard — she stopped to warn the folk. "I saw odd men in the marsh," she told the wary villagers. "Up to no good. Watch yourselves. Keep your doors locked after dark." She said nothing of the relic — simpler to speak of thieves. A wiry man in a dirt-stained apron nodded grimly. "We've found odd tracks near our fields. We'll spread the word and stay on guard." They took her seriously, and she did not linger.
Back on the road she wondered what Gandalf would make of the wyrm-scale sigil. If it truly let one breathe fire or enchant a blade, it could tip the balance of any conflict — and in the wrong hands, spell ruin. For now she would keep it secret, and learn what she could on her own; perhaps a lore-master, or one of Celenneth's Rangers, would know of such old relics. This was not a thing to show off in a tavern.
The day stretched on as she guided Eorlin toward the roads that would carry her back toward Bree, her pack heavier now — not in weight, but as though it held a piece of old stories and old fires. She was not frightened; she had faced danger before, and if the men wanted their relic back, they would have to find her first. As the sun sank and turned the sky the color of old honey, she looked back only once. No riders followed; the wetlands were far behind, hidden by distance and gentle hills. She pressed on, each steady hoof-fall carrying her forward, and drew her cloak close around the bundle, feeling the faint warmth and odd hum it seemed to carry.
Cermië 14, 2969
Linnea left the Marish with a determined heart and a wary eye, the memory of the willow-shadowed men and the strange relic she now carried heavy in her thoughts. But she fixed on the road ahead, guiding Eorlin south-east toward the Angle near Bree, where Celenneth and Brynja waited — and that thought alone urged her on.
The Shire's farmland faded into open country, the summer air dusty and sweet with distant flowers. With the Wyrmscale Sigil hidden in her pack and the whispers of the marsh still fresh, she kept alert; if the men had followed, she saw no sign. Still she pressed on at a swift pace, wanting the Shire's borderlands behind her before dark. The sigil, wrapped in cloth, gave off a faint old warmth, like a distant ember, and Gandalf's counsel to be wary echoed in her — but worry would not help her now, so she rode.
Somewhere before midnight her weariness grew too great, and though reason told her to stop she was stubborn and pressed on until first grey light, when she led Eorlin off the road to a scrubby stand of trees, tied her, and slept at once against a trunk. She woke to late-morning warmth, stiff but clear-headed; no one had troubled her. After a check of her gear — and the relic — she rode on.
The land grew familiar as the day wore on: a leaning oak by a stream, a cluster of white boundary-stones. This close to Bree the roads felt known, and memories of her childhood tugged at her — market smells, distant laughter, the comfort of a place where people knew your name. By late afternoon she reached Bree's outskirts and passed under the barely-curious eye of the gatekeeper, just another tired traveler come home from far places.
There was someone in Bree she meant to see. Orlen and Maren — an old thread. She remembered Maren from childhood, a kind woman who had known her parents in passing; and Orlen was someone Celenneth had once admired, perhaps even loved from a distance, though nothing had come of it. Celenneth had written him once, and he had replied, and there it had rested. Linnea knocked at the modest house on the quiet street, and after a pause Orlen opened the door — older than she'd imagined, lines at the corners of his eyes, a seriousness that spoke of old regrets. He did not know her.
"Can I help you?"
"I'm Linnea," she said quietly. "Celenneth's partner."
He went still, struggling to place the name, and then surprise and something older crossed his face, and he stepped back to let her in. The house was warm with stew and baking bread. Maren emerged from a back room, puzzled until Linnea named herself again. "Linnea — I remember you as a child," she said, warmer than Orlen's cautious quiet. "It's been years."
They sat in a small room, and Linnea saw how Orlen's eyes drifted to her now and then, searching her face for signs of Celenneth. "She's well, as far as I know," Linnea said gently. "We've built a life together, full of traveling. I know she wrote to you once."
Orlen cleared his throat. "I wrote back. Never heard anything after. I wondered if she got it." His eyes dropped to his hands. "I'm glad she found someone who sees her worth."
"She did," Linnea said. "We have a daughter, Brynja. We're a family. It took her time to trust in what we had — but she's happier now. She never forgot the people who mattered. She doesn't say it often, but the past is still with her."
Orlen looked wistful, but not bitter. "I'm glad she's happy. That's all I ever wanted." Maren reached for his hand, and Linnea gave them both a respectful nod, understanding this was a moment of quiet acceptance. After a little more talk of Bree and old acquaintances, Orlen retired early, and Maren led Linnea to a guest room and invited her to stay the night.1
Later, by the hearth, Maren's curiosity grew bolder, and at last she lowered her voice, fiddling with her apron. "I hope you don't think me rude — but I never expected Celenneth to find a woman to share her life with. How does it… work? I don't mean to offend. I've just never known anyone like that."
Linnea smiled gently; the ignorance came from inexperience, not malice. "It's all right. It's not so different from any other love. We care for each other, look out for each other, share our lives and our burdens and our joys."
Maren leaned in, blushing. "But physically… how do you… well, satisfy each other? I'm sorry — I just don't understand."
Linnea kept her tone calm and kind. "There are many ways to be close," she said. "Love and intimacy aren't limited to one idea. It's about knowing each other's bodies, listening, being patient and gentle. We find ways to make each other happy, as any couple would — man and woman or otherwise. The details differ; the point is that we share love, and trust, and pleasure. We've learned what works for us. That's what matters."
Maren nodded slowly. "I'd never thought of it like that. Thank you. I suppose love is love, no matter who it's between."
"Exactly," Linnea said, and her eyes softened.
They spoke of lighter things then — Maren's garden, the season, Bree gossip — until Linnea's eyes grew heavy, and she excused herself to a bed that felt heavenly after so many nights on the road, and slept deep, dreaming of Celenneth and Brynja.
Morning came bright. Orlen had gone into town early — needing space, she sensed, to sit with all he'd learned — but he'd left word that she was welcome any time. She left a note of thanks with Maren and rode out into the sun, rested and more at peace.
The Angle was not far now, a day's ride at most, and the land grew more familiar with every mile — memories of building their home warming her thoughts. By late afternoon she saw the signs: a bent birch, a rocky outcrop, and then, over a gentle rise, the low building they called home, smoke curling from the chimney. She urged Eorlin to a canter, her heart quickening, and a small figure came racing out to meet her — Brynja, her laughter reaching Linnea before her face did. Celenneth appeared in the doorway, a hand raised against the sun.
Linnea swung down and Brynja barreled into her legs, and she lifted her daughter up and breathed in the sun-and-grass scent of her hair. Celenneth came near, a slow smile forming, relief and a little concern in it.
"I'm home," Linnea said softly. "Miss me?"
"Always," Celenneth murmured, touching her arm. "Long trip?"
"Long and strange. There's a great deal to tell you. But I'm here now." And Celenneth did not press — she knew Linnea would speak when ready — and guided her inside, Brynja chattering of butterflies and sparrows, the warmth of home closing round her, smelling of cooking herbs and clean linen. There would be time enough to tell of the men in the marsh, the Wyrmscale Sigil hidden in her pack, the cursed charm, the meeting with Orlen and Maren. For now she let herself have the simple, priceless comfort of home, grateful for every step that had led her back to where she belonged.2