Chapter Text
Ishter
Spring in the Shire always arrived with a certain hush: warm breezes, gardens whispering secrets, and a world stretching awake beneath gentle sunlight. Bilbo usually cherished these mornings. Yet this year, spring carried him into a quiet adventure—a mission entrusted to him by his good friend and neighbor.
He stood by the gate with a small hand on the wooden latch, glancing back at the round, glowing windows. Longing and loneliness tugged at him; everything inside was neat, tidy, comfortable… and unbearably quiet, too still for the emptiness he carried.
His pony, Myrtle, flicked an ear impatiently.
The little two-wheeled wagon behind her rattled softly, half-filled with sacks, coils of rope, and a crate shrouded in canvas—provisions for the mysterious “seedlings” Hamfast had spoken of. A basket of food and water sat ready for the six-day journey. He’d need to restock before the return.
Bilbo patted Myrtle’s flank. “All right, all right. No need to rush me.”
He wasn’t really talking to the pony.
He adjusted his travel coat and felt the folded letter from Hamfast press against his chest. The request had seemed simple enough: go to this town, Ishter, pick up a rare seedling, and bring it back.
Hamfast had insisted on the wagon, claiming the seedlings needed gentle handling. With Bell’s sister expecting—again—and timing pressing, he’d asked Bilbo to go in his stead. What could Bilbo say but yes? No one waited for him here, or anywhere. So, in the hush of early morning, he found himself preparing for a journey.
For seedlings.
But now… now something about it felt off. Too convenient. Too gentle. Too pointed.
He shook the thought away, forcing himself to focus on the road ahead. No sense borrowing trouble, he told himself, even as anxiety lingered just out of reach.
“Good morning, Master Baggins. Are you ready to get going?”
Bilbo looked up to see a ranger approaching him, horse reins in his hands. He wore the clothes that rangers typically wear. Green, brown, and black. Easy for them to blend into the wild, he supposed. He had long dark hair pulled back at the nape and light grey eyes.
“Good morning, Master Findegil.”
“Please, just call me Fin.”
“Only if you call me Bilbo.”
“Fair trade,” Fin replied, smiling.
Bilbo climbed onto the small wagon and clucked for Myrtle to start. Fin easily swung up onto his horse and kept pace.
“Looks like the weather’s on our side,” Fin said, eyes scanning the horizon.
“Spring can be fickle,” Bilbo replied. You could have a snow shower one day and warm weather the next. Not so much this close to spring, but it has been known to happen.
When Bilbo first requested a ranger to escort him, he thought it would cost a small fortune. He was surprised when Findegil said it was no problem—he was heading to Ishter as well. Bilbo was fortunate to find someone willing to escort him.
A hobbit traveling such a distance was not unheard of. Just very unusual.
The journey out of Hobbiton was peaceful, almost soothing. Myrtle trotted contentedly, bells on her harness chiming lightly. Bilbo found himself humming without meaning to.
Yet beneath the calm, something in him tugged. A restlessness. A yearning he had never quite understood and had never dared name aloud, except once—drunk, miserable, vulnerable—beside Hamfast Gamgee many years ago.
He’d regretted saying it for weeks afterward.
Not because Hamfast reacted badly.
But because Hamfast had met it with kindness.
Hobbits did not discuss such matters.
Not male desire.
Not the wanting Bilbo carried like a smoldering coal he could never allow to flare.
But Hamfast had simply squeezed his shoulder that night and said,
“It doesn’t make you wicked, Mister Bilbo. Just makes you human.”
Since then, they never spoke of it again.
But Hamfast remembered. And Bilbo had no idea how deeply that memory had rooted itself into his friend’s heart.
As he traveled, the Shire’s soft curves sharpened into rockier paths and taller trees. Myrtle’s ears twitched more often; the wind carried scents Bilbo couldn’t quite name. The wagon wheels creaked over unfamiliar stones, and the horizon stretched wider than any hobbit would admit to enjoying.
Still… he breathed easier here.
Out beyond the hedgerows, Bilbo felt bigger, somehow. Not in size, but in possibility.
Like a version of himself waited just out of sight.
And today, for reasons he couldn’t name, hope fluttered behind his ribs like a sparrow testing its wings.
The day passed quickly, and soon they were setting up camp. After a quick meal and a quick smoke, Fin asked him a question.
“Have you been to Ishter before?”
“Afraid not,” Bilbo replied. “My gardener, Master Gamgee, needed me to fetch some seedlings for him.”
Fin gave him an odd look. “Seedlings?”
“Yes, supposed to be unusual or something of the sort.”
“That’s interesting. We’ll be arriving just in time for the spring festival. I thought that’s why you were going.”
“Festival?”
“Ostara. Ishter is pretty famous for its spring festival. It’s a week-long celebration. I’ve been going for several years now.”
“Is it really that big?”
“People from all the nearby towns and villages come. Even had a few from Minas Tirith one year.”
“Goodness. Well, that does sound exciting. But I’m afraid I’ll just pick up what is needed and go. No need for me to dilly dally.”
“Nonsense. You’d be surprised how many couples met during Ostara. It’s one of the reasons I go. A brief, small moment I get to spend with Serin.”
Bilbo turned his gaze into the darkness, crickets weaving their night song. A familiar ache stirred in his chest, but he steered his thoughts elsewhere. Self-pity had long since worn out its welcome.
“I don’t think that would be for me,” Bilbo said softly.
Fin looked at him for a moment, like he was going to ask him a question. But then he nodded and turned back to the fire.
Far ahead of Bilbo — though neither knew it — Thorin Oakenshield rode into the teeth of a rising storm.
The clouds gathered low and heavy across the sky, purple and iron-gray, swallowing the last warmth of the afternoon. Rain threatened without yet committing itself, the air thick with that peculiar tension that came just before the heavens decided whether to weep or rage.
His pony snorted uneasily beneath him.
“Easy,” Thorin murmured, though the word felt more for himself.
He had been on the road too long.
Too many roads.
Too many settlements where dwarves spoke in low voices of lost halls and hopes. Too many nights spent staring into unfamiliar fires while memories crept in like frost.
Erebor.
His grandfather’s throne.
Smoke and flame.
He pushed the thoughts aside as the trees thinned and the land dipped toward a valley bright with unexpected color.
Ishter appeared almost suddenly.
Lanterns swung from posts and balconies, their warm light flickering against stone and timber. Bright ribbons draped across rooftops and archways, snapping cheerfully in the wind. Garlands of early flowers hung from doors despite the cold.
Children darted through the streets laughing, scattering handfuls of petals that skittered across cobblestones like startled birds.
Music drifted faintly somewhere beyond sight — pipes and drums softened by distance.
The air tasted of rain.
And celebration.
Thorin frowned.
Joy unsettled him these days.
It felt fragile. Temporary. Something meant for other people.
He guided his pony slowly through the town, drawing curious glances but no fear. Travelers were clearly expected; wagons lined the outer streets, and unfamiliar accents drifted through open tavern doors.
Storm clouds rolled overhead as thunder muttered in the distance.
A lantern-marked house stood near the center square, larger than the others but not grand. Symbols carved along the lintel twisted into crescents and vines, worn smooth by years of touch. Bundles of herbs hung drying beneath the eaves.
Something about it tugged at him.
He dismounted stiffly, joints protesting from long hours in the saddle. Rain began at last — a slow scatter of cold drops tapping stone.
He lifted a hand to knock.
The door opened before his knuckles landed a second time.
A small woman stood framed in warm firelight.
Short. Slight.
Sharp eyes missed nothing.
Layers of shawls wrapped her shoulders, embroidered with crescent moons and branching vines. Silver threaded through dark hair gathered loosely at her neck.
She smiled.
Not politely.
Not cautiously.
But as though she had been expecting him for years.
“You’re chilled to the bone,” she scolded gently. “In with you.”
Thorin hesitated.
Few strangers welcomed armed dwarves without question.
“Fate brings you here for a reason, Master Dwarf,” she added lightly.
His eyes narrowed.
“I seek only shelter,” he said carefully. “And work, if you have it.”
“Of course you do,” she replied in the tone of someone indulging a child’s excuse. “Everyone does.”
She stepped aside.
“Sit by the fire. We shall see what the season has planned.”
Against his better judgment—
He entered.
Warmth wrapped around him instantly.
The house hummed with quiet life.
Books stacked in precarious towers across tables and chairs. Herbs hung drying overhead, filling the air with rosemary and smoke. Colored ribbons draped from pegs beside carved totems worn smooth by handling.
Nothing matched.
Everything belonged.
Thorin felt tension slip from his shoulders before he realized it.
He disliked that.
She ushered him toward a heavy wooden chair near the hearth and pressed a bowl into his hands before he could protest.
Stew.
Rich.
Hot.
He ate.
Because dwarves did not insult hospitality.
The woman settled across from him, watching with open curiosity rather than caution.
“I am Ellenna,” she said.
“Thorin.”
She spoke of the coming festival.
“Ostara welcomes spring,” she explained, stirring herbs into her own bowl. “Games. Dancing. Flower crowns. Music until dawn.”
He grunted in reply.
Festivals were for settled folk.
“On the final night,” she added casually, “we hold a ceremony for those who wish to participate.”
When he finished eating, she whisked the bowl away and returned with surprising quickness, settling beside him instead.
“May I read your palm?”
“My palm?”
She extended her hand patiently.
He stared at her.
Then, with a reluctant sigh, he turned his own upward.
Her hand cradled his from below.
Light fingers traced calloused lines earned through hammer and blade.
Her expression changed.
Softened.
“You carry a heavy burden,” she murmured.
He stiffened.
“A crown,” she continued quietly, “but no kingdom.”
His jaw tightened.
She did not look at him.
“You have a tired heart.”
Her thumb brushed a scar crossing his palm.
“And a longing so old it must ache.”
He withdrew slightly.
“You presume much.”
She laughed softly.
“I presume nothing.”
Her gaze lifted, warm and piercing all at once.
“But Ostara presumes a great deal.”
He scowled.
She released him easily, reaching instead for a bowl of leaf and packing a pipe with practiced ease. She offered him the bowl, and he packed his own pipe.
Smoke curled upward moments later, forming perfect rings drifting lazily toward the rafters.
“There is work here,” she said. “And a forge, should you wish to use it.”
That caught his attention despite himself.
Before he could answer, she continued.
“But first, another option.”
He did not like the sound of that.
“A hobbit travels here tomorrow.”
Thorin nearly inhaled smoke.
“A hobbit?”
“Oh yes.”
Her smile softened unexpectedly.
“More Took in him than he would like to admit. Sweet at heart. Lonely — though he hides it beautifully.”
Something stirred low in Thorin’s chest.
Annoying.
Unwelcome.
He ignored it.
“He comes under a pretense,” Ellenna went on. “Sent by a friend who wishes him happiness.”
She tapped ash thoughtfully.
“In Ishter, companionship is not bound by narrow expectations.”
Her gaze sharpened slightly.
“I believe dwarves understand such freedom.”
He nodded once.
“We do.”
“Hobbits,” she said gently, “have chosen stricter paths. Roles. Expectations. To stray from them can mean exile without ever leaving home.”
Thorin looked into the fire.
He understood exile.
Better than most.
“This hobbit,” she said softly, “has known loneliness too long.”
Silence stretched.
“And what,” Thorin asked finally, suspicion threading his voice, “is it you wish me to do?”
She chuckled.
“Nothing you do not already wish.”
Infuriating answer.
“I ask only that you meet him. Speak. Share a meal. After that, the choice belongs entirely to you.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then nothing changes,” she said easily. “Stay. Work the forge. Enjoy the festival.”
Simple.
Too simple.
He drew slowly from the pipe.
He had nowhere urgent to be.
No command awaits him.
Only roads.
Only memory.
Meeting a hobbit would change nothing.
“…Very well,” he said at last. “I see no harm in meeting him.”
Her smile brightened like a sunrise.
“Excellent.”
She rose.
“I have prepared a room for you already.”
Of course, she had.
“When you are ready, Lessa will show you upstairs.”
He inclined his head.
“My thanks for your hospitality.”
“My pleasure, Master Dwarf.”
She paused at the doorway.
“Welcome to Ishter.”
Thorin was not planning to stay.
He had no reason to.
Outside, thunder rolled across the valley as lanterns flickered against gathering rain.
But somewhere beneath exhaustion and stubborn caution—
something stirred.
Fate.
Storm.
Or instinct older than reason.
And for the first time in many months—
He did not plan his departure immediately.
The night had been cold and thoroughly wet.
Rain had begun sometime after midnight, first as a soft tapping against canvas and wood before settling into a steady, determined fall that soaked the world beyond their shelter. Fin, however, proved remarkably capable. With practiced ease, he had angled the wagon beneath a stand of trees and rigged a clever covering using spare canvas and rope.
It did not keep them entirely dry.
But it kept them dry enough.
Bilbo woke to the smell of damp earth and woodsmoke, his blankets warm despite the chill creeping through the morning air. His breath fogged faintly as he sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
Myrtle snorted nearby, equally unimpressed by the weather.
Fin crouched beside the small fire, coaxing reluctant flames from stubbornly damp kindling. The ranger looked entirely at ease, as though cold rain and muddy boots were simply another comfortable morning.
“Good morning,” Fin said without looking up.
Bilbo smiled despite himself.
“Is it?”
The ranger chuckled.
“It will be once the sun comes up.”
He was correct.
By the time pale gold light crept over the horizon, the chill retreated quickly, chased away by warming air and the promise of spring.
Breakfast proved simple but satisfying, and conversation came easily afterward.
Fin spoke of his duties along the road — escorting travelers, guiding merchants through dangerous passes, watching borders few people ever realized existed. There was no boasting in it, only quiet practicality.
“Most days,” he explained, poking thoughtfully at the fire, “it’s helping folk who’ve wandered too far or lost their way. Sometimes settling disputes. Sometimes… less pleasant matters.”
Bilbo understood what he meant without needing further explanation.
“And you?” Fin asked.
Bilbo hesitated only briefly before answering.
Family stories slipped out before he could stop them — an aunt who once chased a goose through three gardens over a stolen pie, cousins who attempted to train ferrets for delivery work, a disastrous birthday involving fireworks and a missing cake.
Fin laughed so hard he nearly fell backward.
“I swear,” the ranger gasped between breaths, “your people are far more dangerous than orcs.”
Bilbo flushed with pleased embarrassment.
“I assure you we are generally quite respectable.”
“Of course you are.”
The warmth of shared laughter lingered long after the fire burned low.
They reached Ishter early the following afternoon.
At first, it appeared only as color against distant hills.
Then sound followed.
Music.
Laughter.
Voices carried on the spring wind.
The road widened, filling with travelers moving in the same direction — wagons laden with flowers, couples walking arm in arm, children darting ahead only to be called back by indulgent parents.
Greetings flowed freely between strangers.
“Happy Ostara!”
“Safe travels!”
“Spring blessings!”
Bilbo blinked as several people waved cheerfully to him despite never having met him before.
One elderly woman handed Myrtle an apple without explanation.
Bilbo stared after her in astonishment.
Everyone seemed… happy.
Not politely content.
Not neighborly.
Joyful.
“Everyone looks so happy,” he said after another group greeted them enthusiastically.
Fin’s smile widened as he scanned the crowd.
Bilbo noticed his gaze linger toward the town entrance again and again — searching.
Ah.
Serin.
Bilbo hid a small smile.
“It’s Ostara,” Fin said simply. “Spring returns. The earth wakes again.”
His voice softened.
“It’s a time to celebrate love. Friendship. Companship. Whatever form it takes.”
Bilbo looked away quickly.
He understood what the ranger meant.
Even if such things were not meant for him.
The town walls soon came into view.
Lanterns hung everywhere — from gateposts, balconies, even tree branches. Ribbons streamed in pink, gold, and green. Garlands of fresh flowers framed archways.
Children wearing pink and blue ribbons ran laughing through the streets.
Petals scattered beneath their feet.
Music drifted through the open air like sunlight given sound.
And beneath it all—
anticipation.
Bilbo felt it immediately.
A hum beneath the skin.
The gates stood open, though guards watched carefully from either side.
Fin nodded toward them.
“They always request extra protection this time of year.”
“So the festival may proceed safely?” Bilbo guessed.
“Exactly.”
His expression softened.
“That’s how I first learned about Ishter.”
A pause.
“And how I met Serin.”
Bilbo pretended not to notice the warmth in his voice.
Inside the gates, Ishter felt pulled from a storybook.
Wide cobbled streets wound between sturdy two and three-story buildings painted in cheerful colors. Market stalls overflowed with breads, cheeses, ribbons, carved toys, and flowering plants.
The smell of roasting meat mingled with the scent of fresh pastries and sweet ale.
Bilbo’s stomach growled traitorously.
He laughed under his breath.
Perhaps staying one evening would not be so terrible.
Fin guided them toward a smaller house near the town center.
He dismounted easily and tied both horse and pony to a railing.
“This is the Matron’s house,” he said.
Bilbo climbed down carefully.
“She is the one Hamfast mentioned. Matron Ellenna.”
Fin nodded.
“She is wise.”
The way he said it made Bilbo pause.
“I would listen carefully to whatever advice she offers,” the ranger added.
Bilbo frowned slightly but nodded.
“If you mean to leave quickly,” Fin continued, “you may inquire whether anyone travels toward the Shire.”
He hesitated.
“But with the festival beginning tonight… You may not be lucky.”
Bilbo found himself glancing toward the laughter-filled streets.
Food.
Music.
Stories.
Possibility.
“I will think on it,” he admitted honestly.
Fin smiled warmly.
“I’ll see you tonight at dinner.”
He turned away, already scanning crowds again.
“Good day, Bilbo.”
“Good day, Fin. Thank you.”
Bilbo watched him disappear before turning toward the door.
He knocked.
The door flew open immediately.
“Oh, there you are!”
The woman standing there beamed as though greeting a long-awaited guest.
“Come in, come in! Mind the herbs.”
Bilbo barely had time to blink before being ushered inside.
Warmth wrapped around him instantly.
The house felt alive.
Books overflowed shelves and tables alike. Candles burned gently in bowls of salt. Ribbons hung from branches suspended overhead. Herbs dried in fragrant bundles.
Rosemary.
Peppermint.
Something sweet and earthy beneath it all.
Bilbo felt as though he had stepped into a witch’s cottage from one of his mother’s tales.
Only instead of unease—
Comfort settled over him.
“Sit, dear,” she said, patting a chair beside a small tea table. “Let me look at you.”
“I’m Bilbo Baggins,” he began nervously. “From the Shire. Hamfast sent me.”
“Oh yes,” she said warmly. “I know.”
She settled opposite him.
“I am Ellenna.”
Before he could continue, she reached across the table.
“Now let me see your hand.”
“My hand?” he squeaked.
She had already taken it.
Her fingers traced gently across his palm.
“You’ve been terribly lonely,” she said.
Bilbo blinked.
“Pardon?”
“Kind,” she continued. “Generous. Tempered by stubbornness.”
He opened his mouth to protest.
She hummed thoughtfully.
Her finger paused over a faint crease.
“Well now.”
Bilbo leaned forward.
“What is it?”
Her smile softened.
“Love,” she said quietly. “If you are brave enough to take it.”
His chest tightened painfully.
Cruel thing to say.
He had long ago resigned himself to solitude.
Surely she could not know that.
…could she?
She released his hand and rose to prepare tea.
Moments later, a cup and honey biscuits appeared before him.
His hands had stopped trembling by the time he lifted them.
Steam curled upward.
Comforting.
Then she spoke again.
“I have something to confess, Master Baggins.”
He looked up.
“Oh?”
“There is no seedling.”
The biscuit froze halfway to his mouth.
“What?”
Confusion rushed in.
“Then why did Hamfast send me here?”
Ellenna slid an envelope across the table.
His name rested on the front in familiar handwriting.
Hamfast’s.
“Read this first,” she said gently.
“Then we will talk.”
Bilbo stared at it.
Heart suddenly racing.
Outside, bells chimed, and laughter rose through the streets of Ishter.
Spring had arrived.
And without realizing it, so had fate.