An unexpected journey to middle earth.
The company x female!reader
Summary: in which you become the subject of a Dwarven interrogation on Bilbo’s doorstep and realize that "Elven grace" is hard to maintain when you're being poked with an ear trumpet.
The sun had begun to dip below the rolling hills of the Shire, casting long, amber shadows across the manicured gardens of Hobbiton. You stood just outside the round, green door of Bag End, the wood-smoke scent of the chimneys mingling with the crisp evening air. Beside you, Gandalf stood like a weathered monolith, his staff planted firmly in the dirt, but you were acutely aware that you were no longer the tallest person in the immediate vicinity.
You were, however, the most scrutinized.
Clustered around the porch and spilling onto the stone walkway was a riot of colorful hoods, thick beards, and the heavy scent of wet wool and iron. The first wave of Thorin’s company had arrived, and they were currently treating you like a structural anomaly they couldn't quite calculate.
Dori, the eldest of the three brothers, was adjusting his fine cloak, his eyes darting from your pointed Elven ears to your travel-stained Wood-elf boots with a look of pinched skepticism. He leaned toward Ori, the youngest, who was frantically scribbling in a leather-bound journal.
"An Elf, Gandalf?" Dori’s voice was a low, disgruntled rumble. "In the Shire? It’s unnatural. They usually stay tucked away in their gilded halls, singing to the stars and eating nothing but lembas and moonlight."
Ori peeked out from behind his brother’s shoulder, his wide eyes full of an innocent, scholarly curiosity. "She doesn't look like the ones in the history books, Dori. Her clothes... they look like they’ve seen a bit of a scuffle. Did you fight a spider, Miss?"
You opened your mouth to answer, but a heavy hand landed on your shoulder. It was Bofur, identifiable by his floppy-eared hat and a grin that seemed permanently etched into his face. Unlike the others, his gaze was warm, though no less intense.
"Leave the lass be, Dori! She looks like she fell out of a tree and landed right in the middle of a wizard’s mischief," Bofur joked, though he leaned in a bit closer, sniffing the air near your sleeve. "Say, you don’t happen to have any Elven wine tucked away in those pockets, do you? It’s a long walk from the Blue Mountains, and my throat’s as dry as a dragon’s sneeze."
Behind him, the massive frame of Bombur shifted, causing the wooden porch to groan under his weight. He wasn't staring at your ears; he was staring at your hands, as if checking to see if you were carrying a tray of appetizers. Beside him, Bifur grunted something in Khuzdul, gesturing wildly with his hands toward his own forehead, his eyes wild and fixed on the way your new, long hair caught the dying light.
"He wants to know if you're a scout," Nori translated, his hair braided into three distinct points that defied gravity. He was leaning against the stone wall, his arms crossed, his sharp eyes scanning you for any hidden daggers or valuables. "He says you’re too quiet. Dwarves like a bit of noise. Keeps the cave-ins away."
Óin and Glóin, the older duo, were huddled together a few feet away. Óin held a large, brass ear trumpet toward you, squinting through heavy brows.
"What’s that? A Wood-elf?" Óin shouted, though you were standing right there. "I heard they’re flighty! Give 'em a bow and they’ll vanish into the leaves before you can say 'good morning'!"
Glóin nodded fervently, stroking his fiery red beard. "And they're expensive to keep! Do we have to share the treasure with her? That wasn't in the contract, Gandalf! One fourteenth for the burglar, and now an Elf? We’ll be walking home with nothing but our socks at this rate!"
The weight of their collective stares was heavy. It wasn't just curiosity; it was centuries of cultural friction, a deep-seated Dwarven suspicion of anything that came from the forests. You felt like a specimen under a microscope, your heart fluttering against your ribs. You didn't know the songs of the Woodland Realm or the politics of Mirkwood. You just knew that five minutes ago, you were eating popcorn, and now you were being debated by a group of legendary warriors who smelled vaguely of goats.
Gandalf let out a sharp, authoritative huff, the sound echoing off the round door.
"Enough! All of you!" the wizard commanded, his voice vibrating in the small space. He looked down at you, his expression softening for a fraction of a second before he turned a stern eye back to the company. "This lady is a traveler of... unique circumstances. She has come a very long way, farther than any of you can imagine, and she shall be treated with the hospitality of the Road."
He leaned down, whispering just loudly enough for you to hear over the grumbling of Glóin.
"Don't mind them, my dear. Dwarves have a habit of measuring everything by its weight in gold or its sturdiness in a fight. Just stand tall. You have the grace of the Firstborn now—try not to let them see you fidget."
You took a deep breath, smoothing the suede of your tunic. You looked at the gathered dwarves—the braided beards, the notched axes, the skeptical glints in their eyes—and felt a strange, terrifying spark of excitement.
Before you could say a word in your own defense, the door behind you swung open with a violent jerk. A very flustered, very small man with a checkered waistcoat stood there, looking absolutely horrified at the crowd on his doorstep.
"Yes? What? Who? No!" Bilbo Baggins stammered, his eyes landing first on the dwarves, then on the tall, grey wizard, and finally, with a look of pure bewilderment, on you.
The adventure hadn't even reached the dining room table yet, and you were already the most interesting thing in the Shire.
