AN: This is a gift for Grace (tumblr's blanania) for being such a sweet and generous friend, a person I can gush about The Hobbit to without being ashamed, and just an overall amazing artist. I'm so happy I got to know you, and I hope you enjoy this little piece of mine; we'll get through December yet! Oh, and if you enjoy gajevy and The Hobbit, you'll want to check out Grace's art for it! It's my absolute favourite piece amongst her work.

Warning: beware of artistic liberties and generous mentions of Tolkien lore (but I'll be adding explanatory notes at the bottom for those interested!). The plot won't be the same as in the actual tale, as the characters are somewhat different, but there'll be enough similarities, and I hope you'll enjoy it regardless.

Disclaimer: Fairy Tail and its characters belongs to Hiro Mashima; I own nothing. The Hobbit and its characters is property of J.R.R. Tolkien.

Roots in Foreign Soil

by Miss Mungoe

"All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king."

J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

Part I

"Excuse me?"

Gajeel looked down his nose at the little hobbit lass glaring up at him, her pipe in one hand trailing smoke towards the evening sky, and a finger of the other pointed menacingly at his chest, though he loomed a good two heads above her own. He'd heard talk of halflings, shorter than men but with ears pointed like the elves – small, rotund creatures with a fondness for flowers and homely comforts. He'd never seen one himself until now, and, he had to say, they were rather unimpressive creatures.

He'd been passing by on his way from the Iron Hills, looking for work to be had when he'd heard of a blacksmith needed in Hobbiton. Upon further inquiries, and a handful of suspicious glances awarded by the local folk, he'd tried to locate the smithy. And upon discovering that there wasn't one to be found this side of Bree, he'd promptly given up the whole venture. Leave it to the halflings to petition a blacksmith without even making sure they had a proper workplace ready. Had they expected him to build it himself?

He'd briefly entertained the thought of turning back, but as it was, night had begun to crawl dark and blue across the sky, and being unfamiliar in the neighbourhood, much less the whole Shire, Gajeel had decided to seek shelter for the night and the cold with one of the locals. And it was only after knocking on a handful of oddly shaped doors and receiving no answer that he'd found himself at the very end of a winding road and before a large, green door that opened into a brightly lit hobbit hole–

–and in the doorway of which stood a rather put-upon hobbit lass.

"I asked if you had a room fer the night, halfling," he repeated, some of his ire at being ignored by the populace slipping into his voice despite his efforts.

"Half–" she pursed her lips. "You've got quite some nerve to show up on my doorstep speaking of wholes and halves, Master Dwarf!" Her brows furrowed above her large, dark eyes, and she drew a long, searching glance from the toes of his mud-drenched boots to the top of his head. When she was done, he had the distinct impression that she found him lacking in some sense. "What's a dwarf doing in these parts, anyway? You're a good way from the Blue Mountains."

"I'm not from the Blue Mountains," he answered gruffly. "And my business here is my own."

She didn't look convinced. "Well wherever you're from, it wouldn't kill you to be nicer. Especially if you're looking for lodgings."

His patience was running dangerously thin, and he was tired from the road, but Gajeel channelled his irritation through a long-suffering sigh. "And do you have it?"

She tilted her head, her eyes glittering in the light from the lamp that hung by her door. "Do I have what?"

Another sigh. "Lodgings. For a weary dwarf."

"That depends," she said, curling small fingers around her pipe. A tendril of smoke drifted upward, and Gajeel felt the sudden pang of longing for a good batch of tobacco. But by the way she was looking at him, she seemed even less inclined to offer him that than she did a bed for the night. "What do you have to offer me in return?"

Gajeel spread his arms wide. "I don't carry gold, if that's what yer asking. I can't pay you."

Her round eyes flickered to the sack slung over his shoulder, heavy as it rested against his back. "What about books?"

Gajeel frowned. "Books?"

She nodded, unperturbed by his tone. "Yes. I, well, I collect them."

He thought for a moment, then reached into his satchel. Rummaging through the few items he carried with him, he drew out a dusty old tome, no bigger than the span of his palm. He'd picked it up from a tinker when he'd passed through Bree; he'd always had a good eye for value, and the gold filigree in the leather binding told him it would fetch more than he'd given for it, if he were to re-sell it to some poor fool in the next village over. As it was, he hadn't made it that far, and so he'd have to settle for trading it.

He held it out towards her, and she took it with a pert nod of thanks, and he marvelled at how much bigger it looked in her hands. Turning it over to read the title, her eyes widened, and she looked up in surprise. "It's elven!"

Gajeel suppressed a grimace at the mention, but she seemed charmed, and he muttered a silent goodbye to the coins it would have fetched. It was as good as he could manage for payment, and he'd rather depart with it than spend a night outside in foreign country. Mahal only knew what lurked in these woods. "Good enough fer ya?"

She pressed it to her chest, and for a moment she seemed to consider it. Then she nodded, and stepped out of the way, allowing him a view into the hallway behind her. "It will do," she said, though by the way she clutched it to her chest, he figured it would more than just do. "Come on in then, Master...?"

He hesitated. Then, "Gajeel."

She cocked her head, her blue curls falling against her shoulder. His gaze was drawn by the sight. "Surnames not common with your kind?"

He didn't answer, and she held his gaze a moment longer, as though to gauge who'd give in first. When he showed no inclination towards doing so, she relented. "Fine. But you can have my full name, in any case. Levy McGarden," she said, holding her small hand out towards him. He grasped it awkwardly, his own soot-stained fingers easily covering hers, palms as soft as the rest of her looked. "Of The Garden," she added cheerfully. She gestured to her foyer, a pleased gleam in her honey-dark eyes. "Loveliest smial in the Shire, if I'm allowed to brag."

Gajeel threw a dubious look at the all-wood interior – at the embroidered tablecloths and the soft velvet cloaks on the hangar by the door. A lush carpet in warm colours stretched from the doorway and towards the other end of the foyer, where another round door stood ajar. It was nothing like a dwarrow home, but he guessed that amongst halflings it was of the finer sort.

"It's...nice."

She seemed displeased with his lack of enthusiasm, and without a word – and with her new book tucked under one arm – strode past him into the interior, calling over her shoulder, "Well I'm glad it's to your liking." She paused, then added, not without a hint of veiled mockery, "Master Gajeel."

Gajeel snorted, surprised by her nerve. He'd been of the impression that halflings were meek creatures, soft of mind as well as body. But though he sincerely doubted she could swing a blade, her wit was quicker than he'd given her credit for, when she'd first opened her door.

He was about to follow her inside, when her voice reached him from the next room, halting him in his tracks. "Don't you dare come in here without taking off your boots!"

With a grumble, he complied, but dropped them rather unceremoniously by the door, and was pleased when the resounding thump seemed to bounce between the wooden walls of the foyer. Her hospitality notwithstanding, the lass was too cheeky for her own good, and he wasn't used to being ordered around, least of all by someone half his size.

Discarding his pack next to the boots, he hung his travelling cloak on the row of knobs by the front door, before he made his way after the halfling. The smell of cooking drifted back from what he guessed was the kitchen, and he felt his stomach respond in turn. It had been a while since his last meal at that dingy tavern in Bree, and for a moment he forgot his earlier irritation. If the smell was any indication of her cooking skills, he'd take whatever cheek she was inclined to give.

When he stepped into the doorway – having to bend his head for the first time in his many decades; hobbits were remarkably short creatures – she bustled over to sit him down at the table, a sturdy piece of craftsmanship that looked big enough to seat ten dwarves of his size, and no doubt even more hobbits. But he'd yet to see any signs of a larger family, although he wouldn't have been able to make that deduction from the lack of boots by the door. As he was reminded, catching a glimpse of her bare feet as she bustled past him, halflings didn't wear boots.

A plate was put in front of him, a hefty meat pie, followed by a bowl with roasted vegetables. He felt his mouth water. "So, what is a dwarf doing, carting around elven books? Or is that your own business, too?" She wiped her hands on her apron, before she disappeared, only to reappear a moment later with a bottle of something that looked like wine.

Gajeel eyed it warily as she poured two glasses. It wasn't his preferred drink, but he wasn't about to push his already fragile luck by doling out more criticism, so he accepted it with a mute nod. "Thanks."

When he looked up to meet her eyes, she was watching him expectantly, seated on the other side of the table. "Well?"

He smirked. "You'd really like to know, wouldn't you?"

She tilted her head. "Well, yes. You don't often see dwarves in the Shire. And we're a sheltered folk, so we don't venture far enough from the Shire to find your kind, either."

He snorted, as he lifted his fork. "I've noticed."

"If that's an insult, it's not a very good one." She smiled as she dug into her own meal, speaking over a mouthful, "And if you think us odd, remember that you're the odd one in these parts."

He didn't respond to that, but continued eating his food, and the meal was conducted in a strangely comfortable silence. He'd expected a stream of chatter – questions, too, pressing the issue of his being in the Shire, or where he was from – but she did neither, seemingly too focused on the plate in front of her to offer him much thought. When he was done, she cleared away the plates with a tune hummed below her breath, before she brought back a round, cloth-covered basket.

"Blackberry tarts," she said, when he offered the pastries a dubious look. "A family recipe."

He accepted one, and watched as she sat down across from him again, tucking her skirts around her. "A big family?"

Her hand hesitated, hovering over the pastry where it sat on her plate. Something seemed to flicker over her face, before she chased it away with a smile. "No – not anymore."

Gajeel pondered over this, casting a glance at the large dining room, and the multiple doorways leading to more rooms. "You're living alone then?"

She glanced up at that, suspicion flashing in her warm eyes like frost. "If you're thinking–"

He held up his hands. "Relax, I'm not that kind of bastard. I was just curious. It's big, for a rabbit's warren."

"Smial," she corrected. "And yes, it is. My father had it built for my mother, when they were first married."

But they were long gone, he saw, by the shadows that had entered her eyes. He didn't press the matter. The tart was gone, the bitter-sweet taste of it lingering on the back of his tongue, and giving up the book didn't seem such a loss now, stomach full and warm from the fire crackling in the hearth.

"You look tired," she observed, her voice soft in the silence, drawing him from within his mind. She rose from her seat. "I'll get the guest room sorted out for you. There's tea in the kettle if you want some," she said, the words reaching him through the door as she vanished down what appeared to be just one of many hallways. A rabbit's warren, indeed.

Gajeel didn't immediately follow, but remained where he sat, with two empty plates and half a cup of tea before him. He could hear the hobbit lass moving about, and in a rare moment, let his shoulders relax as he listened to her soft footsteps – floorboards creaking with her familiar weight as she rummaged through the cupboards for fresh sheets. He thought back to the day that had passed, the closed doors that had met him, and the round, green door that had opened.

Something stirred in his chest – an odd feeling, like there was something he was supposed to see but couldn't. He shook the feeling off, and brought his mind back to the little kitchen to find her in the doorway. "It's all set, if you want to get some sleep," she declared, brushing her hands against her apron – a nervous gesture, he noted.

He rose from his seat, careful not to nudge the table. Hobbits were closer in size to dwarves than men, but their homes weren't built for either. "Thanks."

She smiled, and stepped out of the way as he moved to walk past her, down the hallway towards the end where a door stood open, revealing a room with a four-poster bed. "Master Gajeel?"

Gajeel looked over his shoulder, to find her lingering at his back, an odd hesitance to her movements. "Um. Good night."

He nodded once, like a bow – the gesture lower than he usually offered, especially to someone not of his own kind, but it was lost on the little hobbit where she stood, hands pressed flat against her floral apron. "Mistress McGarden."

He caught the flash of her smile, her face illuminated by the candle flickering on the wall beside her. The soft light bathed her hair in golden tones, and her eyes seemed darker in the shadows it cast.

Then she was gone, vanishing around the doorway into the kitchen, and Gajeel breathed out – the sound a heavy thing in the silence of the corridor. Around him the smial rested, a quiet home in a quiet land, and he felt her gentle footsteps through the floorboards. With a last look at the strange place he'd sought refuge, Gajeel settled into the guest room and the freshly made bed that awaited. It was soft – a hobbit's bed, with sheets instead of furs, and more frilly pillows than anyone in their right mind could possibly need.

It was a long time since he'd fallen asleep to a quiet like this. Under the open sky or in a cramped room above a rowdy tavern, sounds were everywhere, above and below; skittish birds and animals, or the clamour of men who'd had too much to drink. Even beneath the mountain as a lad, there'd always be sound running through the stones – of his own imaginings or not, Gajeel couldn't say for certain, but he could remember it clearly now, in the near deafening silence of a hobbit's guest room.

It took him a while for sleep to find him, and when he dreamed it was of curving corridors of stone and veins of liquid gold, running like blood through the rock with a steady whisper of home, home, home.

.

.

.

The next morning saw that a heavy shower of rain had fallen in the night, and as he set out from The Garden, intent on finding someone to ask about setting up his own smithy, Gajeel was glad of his dry cloak and boots.

"Well," the lass said as he stepped out of the doorway and onto the front steps. A thick layer of mist lay over Hobbiton this morning, curling white around the row of apple trees he'd passed on his way to The Garden's door. The ground had a pleasant, earthy smell, and there were no people out this early, which meant he'd be able to make it into the village proper in relative peace without eyes following him and fingers pointed at his back. "Good luck with your...business. Whatever it is."

Gajeel looked up to where she stood, her honest eyes dark in the cold grey of the morning. He sighed, and shifted the weight of his pack. "A blacksmith."

She blinked. "A what?"

His smile was wry as he offered his explanation, "I'm here looking for work. I heard word in Bree that your Thain was looking for a blacksmith to set up shop."

"Really?" A strange smile took over her face. "Well. I confess I'm...a little disappointed."

He snorted. "Disappointed?"

He was rewarded a shrug. "I don't know, I was thinking you'd be something a bit more...exotic? A prince in disguise, or a wizard, maybe? Oooh, or an assassin hiding from his dark past! I considered that, you know. You've got more than just elven books in that satchel." She pointed at his pack, which bulged with the things he carried, but none of which were half as marvellous as she imagined.

He ignored the lurch his heart made at her suggestions. "Has anyone ever told ya you read too much?"

She frowned at that. "You can never read 'too much'."

Gajeel smirked. "Begging to differ there, Mistress McGarden. Reading doesn't give you much but poor eyesight and a want for things out of yer reach." And with that, and a last nod of his head, he turned on his heel to walk down the steps.

"You know, you could do to read some more."

He stopped by the gate, and turned back to look at her. She hadn't moved from the doorway. "I – I have a rather extensive library," she said then, at his raised brow. "You're welcome to come borrow something...if you intend to stay, that is."

There was a question there, he knew, and he was about to decline – so used to being on the move, he was loath to make lasting acquaintances wherever he passed through. It made it easier to leave, when there was nothing to leave, and nothing to uproot. But he wasn't going now, was he? He did intend to stick around for a while.

"And what do you want in return?"

She seemed to ponder that for a moment, turning the question over in her mind. Then she smiled. "A story," she said then, after a pause.

Gajeel raised a brow. "A story? You know I'm a blacksmith, right? I don't peddle songs and tales."

Her smile widened, unperturbed by his response. "No, but you still have them. I can see them in your eyes – you've travelled a lot, haven't you? You must have stories to tell. Adventures you've had, things you've seen..."

A memory flashed before his inner eye – a shadow blocking out the sun, and dragonfire against a soot-black sky; people screaming, humans and dwarves alike, and a long journey under an open sky without a place to call home – but it was over before she'd taken her next breath.

"I might have some stories," he said at length.

She nodded. "Then that'll be my price."

He shook his head with a smile, wondering at her sudden interest as he turned back, opening the little gate to let himself through. He felt her eyes on his back as he walked into the white mist, and didn't hear the green door shutting before he'd reached the first bridge. He considered her words – the eagerness to hear about the stories he'd long kept, stored like treasures in his mountain's heart – and her eyes of topaz and aquamarine hair. He remembered her cheeks, flushed in the firelight and the way she'd moved about, the swish of her skirts such an oddly domestic thing in her home too large for her to fill on her own.

But he stored those memories away like the rest, secrets safe in his soul where no one could uproot them, not even a dragon crafted from the darkness itself. He had fewer treasure now than he'd had, once, when he'd called himself prince and not a common blacksmith. But like the crown he no longer had, those treasures were no longer his to name his own; the dragon had seen to that.

He wouldn't tell her that story, he decided. In her cozy little smial, so far removed from the rest of the world, the affairs of the Big Folk and those blasted elves were no more than legends to her gently curved ears. He'd have them remain that way. Dragonfire was a long way from her quite Shire, and though he carried the memory in his heart hot like the day he'd felt the lap of it against his skin, Gajeel would spare her that knowledge. To her, he'd be the blacksmith and nothing more, and his new treasures would be her wit and her earthen gemstone eyes.

After a life as long as his, he owed himself that much, at least.

.

.

.

A week passed, and another, and he saw nothing to the prim and proper hobbit lass as he went about getting his smithy up and running. It had taken longer than he'd have liked, and he'd come to learn that for all their current want of a smith's work, hobbits were wary of change and loath to make it come about. The Thain, however – a grey-haired hobbit going by the name of Macao – had been willing to hear him out, and after a lengthy chat – which had lasted all through four meals (Gajeel had counted) – he'd been given an old barn to set up his business. It sat a little ways off from the main road running through Hobbiton proper, far enough away so as not to frighten the local folk, but close enough for potential customers to make the trip without undue difficulty. It was a little shabby, but he'd made do with less in the past, and had set about fixing the outer wall and the roof before he'd tackled the interior. He had a little knowledge of woodwork, enough to ensure the place wouldn't cave in over his head, but a proper forge he could build with his eyes closed, and he'd gone about the task with more zeal than he'd thought he could summon in this peculiar halfling village at the edge of nowhere.

He met very few people those first few weeks, other than the odd hobbit come to see if the rumours were true. Most cut a wide path around the smithy, as if wary to approach "the dwarf", which was the moniker he was going by in the village, according to local hearsay. Others were a little braver, and ventured as close as the footpath leading towards the front door. He'd spot them sometimes, when he smoked his pipe on the bench just inside the doorway, but they'd scurry off at the first sight of him. Only the little ones dared invoke actual conversation, and then it was mostly to ask questions of the 'do all dwarves have beards' and 'mama says dwarves are carved from rocks is that true?' sort. He'd humoured a few, and others he'd sent shrieking back to their parents when he'd told them dwarves ate hobbit lads and lasses for breakfast. It was a mostly solitary life, but then, that had been his way for the past century.

Then one morning, when the ground had hardened with the night's frost and Hobbiton lay sleeping, there was a visitor at his door.

"Is this where they've put you?"

Glancing up from where he'd been trying to get a fire going, Gajeel found her lurking in the partly open doorway. She'd thrown a thick shawl about her shoulders and donned a wool skirt, beneath the hem of which, he noted with a grimace, the toes of her bare feet peeked out. "Don't you ever wear boots?"

At the question, she looked down at her feet, toes wiggling against the rough floorboards. "Not really. Hobbits don't need footwear." She said it like much like she'd say 'it gets wet when it rains', and Gajeel only shook his head. Won't find a stranger folk this side of the Misty Mountains.

"Um."

He looked up from the fire again, to find her still lingering by the entrance. "What?" He was about to ask her to come all the way inside if she was going to stand around with the damn door open, when she beat him to it.

"Would you like to come over for supper?" She was blushing, beet-red all the way to the roots of her hair.

Gajeel grinned, wiping his hands on the rag at his belt. "You know, I've heard warnings of accepting invitations to dine at a hobbit's warren."

She lifted a brow, decidedly unimpressed, but humour glittered bright in her eyes. "It's not a warren, it's a smial, and you can't believe everything you hear around these parts."

His smile widened as he stepped closer, but she didn't step back this time, but held his gaze in clear challenge. "So you don't feed your guests to death?"

She snorted, the sound so surprising it made his eyes widen, but he made no comment on it. From the fact that she lived alone and smoked a pipe, he'd assumed she didn't conform much to the ways of any people, let alone her own. "That's highly unlikely in your case, either way."

Gajeel placed a hand over his stomach, feigning hurt. "Ouch. Low blow, Mistress McGarden."

"Levy," she said then, and seemed to surprise herself. She stuttered, "I mean – yes, Levy is fine."

"Doesn't sound very proper, for a hobbit," he observed casually.

Levy quirked a brow. "Says the dwarf with no surname."

Gajeel's grin widened. "Fine. Levy, then." He considered her once more, her short stature seeming even more so now, with the smithy's ceiling looming high overhead. "Or maybe something else."

Her brows furrowed. "Something else?"

"Yer short. Shorter than a dwarrowdam, even." He shrugged. "Maybe I'll call you 'shortstuff'."

She gaped, and he saw her cheeks turn rosy-red again, but with incredulity this time rather than bashfulness. "I beg your–"

"Or 'half-pint' – you know those tiny glasses men serve in their taverns? A proper woman's drink, that." His grin widened at the scandalized look on her face.

"And what does that make you?" she asked then. "A tankard?"

Gajeel barked a laugh. "Compared to you, more like a barrel."

"You're very forward, suddenly," she observed, but didn't sound all that irritated, more perplexed. "When I met you, you wouldn't have cracked a joke if I'd handed you one."

He shrugged. "Didn't know if my humour would be appreciated." And he wasn't so travel-weary now, nor was he putting his pride at the mercy of a stranger in asking for shelter. Not to mention, he felt more vastly more comfortable, with his new living arrangements in order; there was something homely about his little forge, even for a dwarf used to having solid rock overhead.

She smiled, almost shyly. "It would have been. It, uh, still is." Her hands fiddled with the frayed ends of her shawl, and she seemed nervous for some reason as a strange silence descended upon them, carrying many unspoken things.

Gajeel cleared his throat to break the lull. "You mentioned a meal?" It was as good a distraction as any, he'd learned since his arrival, reminding hobbits of food to be consumed.

And it worked. She beamed, and her pleasure was such that he momentarily forgot about the cold drifting in from outside. "Oh, yes! I've got a pie ready, if you're hungry?" She cast a casual glance over his state of dress, nose wrinkling at the sight of his tunic unbuttoned and untucked, and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Gajeel didn't know much about the habits of hobbits, but from his time in the Shire so far he'd garnered that proper dress was something of a prerequisite. "You might want to wash up first."

He snorted, but the grin was hard to hold back. "One of these days you won't mind whether I wash up or not." He paused then, realizing with a start what he'd said, and that he'd spoken it out loud. He didn't know what had possessed him to phrase it quite like that, leaving an unspoken...something, that hinted at motives he wasn't yet sure of himself. Mahal's beard was that supposed to mean?

"Is that a promise?"

He looked at her, surprised, and she startled, before she cleared her throat awkwardly. "Uh, I mean – don't be so presumptuous, Master Dwarf! If your dirty boots will do anything, it'll be to remind me to get a thicker doormat." Then she spun on her heel, hiding the flush in her cheeks as she strode out of the smithy. "I'll have it ready in a hour. Just let yourself in when you arrive, yeah?"

"Wait."

She stopped, and looked over her shoulder. The blue of her hair seemed brighter this day, with the thick cover of clouds – like a stray piece of the sky had fallen down to settle on her head. The curls brushed the tips of her nearly elven ears, and her eyes loomed bright beneath her soft brow as she watched him.

Gajeel drew his courage towards him, armed against a lass who didn't even reach his shoulder like he was about to head into battle. "Would you...do you want to bring it here?"

She blinked, her eyes going wide. "Here?"

He nodded, the gesture deliberate as he tried to gather his thoughts. "I'll...have it cleaned up." He patted the workbench awkwardly. "It's good fer eating. Not as nice as the one in yer warren, maybe."

"Smial," she repeated, but her smile betrayed her irritation. "And...I'd like that. I'll bring a basket."

Gajeel nodded, and watched as she vanished into the white morning, her footsteps light against the frost-hardened ground. And his forge remained a little warmer in her wake, as he set about scrubbing the workbench until the soot and the grime was gone, leaving a table fit for a king. Then he washed his hands in the stream behind the barn, wiping away the smudges that seemed as much part of him now as the hammer at his belt.

But he left just enough, to remind himself more than any that he was a blacksmith and nothing else, though phantom responsibilities still rested, heavy like a crown on his head.

.

.

.

And so the days passed. His business took off, but not without a little push from Levy, or "the McGarden spinster" as some called her behind her back, though Gajeel failed to see how someone who'd barely passed fifty could possibly be considered a spinster. She'd proudly declared herself his first customer, and had purchased an iron-wrought bench for her front porch. And there must have been something to her reputation, or the reputation of her family, at least, for the following week he'd received three such orders, as well as a handful of requests for other knick-knacks of whose uses Mahal only knew. But he spent most of his days in his forge, crafting trinkets by the warmth of the fire. Some days the work would carry his mind with it, until he forgot that he was working in a hobbit's barn in a land of green, rolling hills and not under the earth like he once had – like he still dreamed about. But when reality brought him crashing back, she was there in the doorway, a basket under her arm and a meal ready to share – second breakfast, elevenses, lunch and supper. He'd learned most of them, and though he required only half of what she consumed in a day, he found himself looking forward to her company.

Winter passed into spring in this way, with meals shared at a greater frequency as the cold took hold of the land, and then spring turned to a lush summer the likes of which Gajeel had never seen in all his years. And then one day, just before the leaves would start turning, there was a knock on his door, but it wasn't a hobbit lass with flowers in her hair and a book under her arm, asking if she could read while he worked.

"I was wondering what corner of the world you'd gone off to. I've got to admit, I'm surprised."

Gajeel looked up, schooling his surprise as he found Lily at the entrance to the forge. The dark-skinned dwarf had to duck his head to enter, and the large broadsword strapped to his back nudged against the doorpost as he eased his bulk inside. He threw a look around, keen eyes taking in the barn-turned-smithy with a curious glimmer. "Quaint place."

Gajeel leaned against the workbench with a sigh, arms crossed over his chest. Resignation drummed a heavy tune in his heart. "Who told you?"

Lily grinned, the gesture tugging at the scar on his brow. "Your cousin can't keep his mouth shut for long, especially when there's mead to be had."

Gajeel snorted. "Should've figured." He should have known telling Natsu where he was going had been a bad idea. If he'd been wiser, he would have left without telling anyone, but as it was, he hadn't, and before him stood the consequence of his choice, clad in boiled leather and mail that looked finer than the set Gajeel had seen him in last. His hair had been braided close to his skull, as had always been his preference, and freshly polished copper beads clinked as the braids shifted with his movements. The sword looked new, too.

"Dressed for battle, Lil? You won't find much resistance in these parts." He grinned. "Unless you step in someone's flowerbed."

Pantherlily laughed, the sound welcome after months without it. "Battle, yes, but not with halflings." He gave him a meaningful look. "I've a bigger beast in mind."

Cold raced up Gajeel's spine, and his arms dropped to his sides. "No."

"It's about time we got rid of that dragon," Lily continued, features twisting in an uncharacteristically dark look. "It's been there long enough. And your people have waited long enough, Gajeel."

Gajeel threw his old friend a dubious look, eyes lingering on the hilt of the broadsword peeking up over his shoulder. "And what makes you think we can take out Acnologia when the whole bloody garrison failed last time?" It was a fool's quest, considering how the old wyrm had chased his entire people from the mountain, and more had died escaping than those who'd tried to battle the creature. What was Lily thinking?

"Because I've picked out the best for the job." Lily grinned, and tapped the door-frame twice, and Gajeel's eyes widened as several familiar faces appeared in the opening, before they moved inside to join Lily. An oath fell from his lips as he regarded the dwarves gathering around his old friend – Natsu's presence was a given with the promise of a dragon to be slain, and with how he'd let Lily know of Gajeel's whereabouts, but next to his cousin he found a few faces he hadn't expected.

"Titania?"

Erza bowed low, her long red braids brushing against the armoured plates covering her leather jerkin. Her sword hung at her hip, and she had a shield strapped to her back. "My prince."

Next to her, a blond dwarf – tall, even for their kind – appeared, a familiar smirk visible beneath the scar carving a vicious path over his eye – a gift from Acnologia. Laxus offered him a similar greeting, but before he could return it, Gajeel's attention was claimed by a smaller shape that had pushed its way to the front of the crowd. Hair like lapis lazuli and dressed in a deep blue travelling cloak, she wasn't dressed for battle like some of the others, but the bow slung over her back suggested she was more than prepared for it. Gajeel's mouth dropped open.

"Juvia?!"

She grinned, the expression mimicked by those coming in behind her, and Gajeel spotted Gray's dark head amongst the others, next to Bixlow's helmet-covered face and Elfman's towering shape. Jet and Droy, too, he saw, and beside them the smallest of the lot, Natsu's younger brother Happy, who looked to be wearing a shirt of mail two sizes too big.

And then some ways off to the right, coming in behind the others, Gajeel nearly did a double-take as he spotted his nephews. But his eyes weren't deceiving him; Sting was still sporting his ridiculous moustache, and Rogue stood at his side, quiet as always but with a clever smile at the gentle curve of his mouth. His hair had grown since Gajeel had seen him last, and it fell to his shoulders, thin braids interwoven with silver beads. His mother's work, no doubt, but why in Mahal's name had she let them come? His sister was notorious for refusing to let her sons travel far from Ered Luin, but to let them join Lily on a quest to slay a dragon? It smacked of disobedience.

Gajeel looked at Lily for answers, accusation clear in his eyes, but the dwarf only shrugged. "She let them come. Don't ask me why; I was reluctant to bring them along, and I told her as much."

"You know, we're old enough to make our own decisions," Sting spoke up, crossing his arms with a petulance Gajeel was tempted to point out suggested the exact opposite.

Rogue nodded. "We weren't born in Erebor, but it's our home as much as yours, uncle. We will not be a hindrance."

Gajeel scrubbed a hand down his face as he turned towards the workbench, mind reeling with the sudden reality that had been dropped into his lap. "And you think numbers will give us a better chance against the dragon?" The gruff question was directed at Lily.

"A small one, perhaps, but a chance, regardless. And it's not just us." He sounded pleased with himself for some reason Gajeel couldn't discern, until he added, "We've also got her."

Gajeel spun back around, not even bothering to try and cover up his bewilderment. "The old hag?" He frowned, an old suspicion borne of a too-long life racing to the surface. "What's her interest in a dragon's hoard? Last I checked, she wasn't all that inclined to help our kind." That was putting it mildly – the last time he'd met the old biddy, she'd threatened to turn him into a toad and toss him in the marches. And she'd had a few choice words to impart regarding the stubbornness of dwarves. Why would she possibly want to help?

Lily shrugged. "Didn't ask, but she seemed eager enough. Or, well, as eager as someone like her can look, I suppose. And she gave me this to give to you. Here." He threw something towards Gajeel, who caught it easily, and his breath caught in his throat as he turned the object over in his hand. The leather cord was snapped, but the key rested whole in his soot-stained palm, innocuous enough but for the fact that it was anything but.

"It's time to take back our home," Lily said then. "And your throne." Gajeel tore his eyes away from the key to meet his eyes. "So I ask you now, are you with us?" The humour was gone from his face now, replaced by a severity that made him look older than he was, despite the grey peppering his hair. "Will you call yourself king or blacksmith?"

Gajeel considered them, this company of thirteen, some of his own blood and some not; a tapestry of faces and colours, of mail and armour wrought with dwarven hands, the designs from an era long gone – an era that had ended when the wyrm had laid claim to their home.

Will you call yourself king or blacksmith?

His sigh was heavy, a hammer-against-anvil in the silence that had settled, brimming with anticipation as he made his choice. "I take it we're leaving soon, then?" he asked, and watched the joy like golden sunlight on their faces. "The old hag was never one fer loitering."

Lily grinned. "Indeed, but not yet. The last she told us before she directed us this way was that she was looking for a burglar. For the quest."

Gajeel raised a brow. "A burglar?"

"Yes. You know, to steal."

"And she thinks she'll find that here? In the Shire?" He thought about the soft-shaped little hobbits and their love of warm hearths and seven meals a day; of gardening and pipe tobacco. Well, it'll be plenty warm enough, if they survive long enough to suffer the dragonfire. "And what are we supposed to do while she locates this...burglar?"

Lily looked out at the greying light of dawn visible through the smithy's grimy windows. "She said to meet at nightfall, and to look for the mark – you know the one."

Gajeel sighed. "Yeah." He imagined the poor sod the wily old wizard had somehow managed to convince to join them. He'd never known the witch to be particularly convincing, except when she looked ready to turn you into a toad if you refused. He didn't know whether or not that would be a good thing – a burglar scared out of his wits wouldn't aid them much on their quest. But he'd heard somewhere that the halflings were clever creatures – more so than their soft appearances suggested, anyway – and that they could move without making much sound. So maybe he'd find himself surprised.

He thought about leaving then, and his hands stilled against the workbench, where he'd been busy clearing away his tools so the others could take a seat. Natsu was already unloading the food they'd brought with them, the glutton. He'd do well in the Shire, with the sheer amount of food the halflings consumed. The thought brought him in mind of one halfling in particular. He'd have to tell her he was leaving. Somehow, the thought didn't sit well with him.

"What's on your mind?"

He shook his head, and chased the thoughts of topaz and aquamarine, of earth and sky, from his mind as he turned back to the unfinished project sitting by the forge. It was supposed to be a gift, but he wouldn't have time to finish the book-ends now. "It's nothing."

His friend's lingering look told him Lily didn't believe a word, but Gajeel wasn't about to tell him. With the expectant faces of his companions on all sides – Natsu's laughter rising towards the ceiling beams, and Juvia's quiet smile joyous in its own way – he wasn't about to tell them, these people willing to lay down their lives for his kingdom, that he'd let himself be charmed away from his duties by a halfling's earth-brown eyes and quick wit; that he'd considered the possibility of settling down, and let that bedamned dragon sleep until eternity claimed them all.

But there'd be none of that, now. He'd be leaving in the morning, if they managed to wrangle their burglar out of his warren in time, and then he'd leave the Shire, possibly for good. It wouldn't do him any favours holding on to his attachments, when he might not make it back.

Sorry, shortstuff, he thought as he settled down with the rowdy group of dwarves, letting his mind clear of the smell of meat pies and eyes round like copper coins in the firelight, to make room for thoughts of coins of another metal, an endless hoard of it, and atop it, a sleeping wyrm that would soon be woken from its slumber.

.

.

.

Levy McGarden of The Garden (coziest smial in the Shire thank you very much), hadn't expected much when she'd gotten out of bed that morning. She'd boiled some water for her tea, brought out some biscuits with butter and jam and settled down by her kitchen table, a book propped open before her for her usual breakfast reading. Trying to keep her mind on the contents and not on distracting dwarven blacksmiths, however, proved something of a challenge. And so she'd gotten no further than half a paragraph when there was a knock on the door.

With a frown she shuffled out of her kitchen, tucking her morning coat about her as she peeked through the little window by the side of her front door, only to find nothing. Odd. She was about to turn back, when there was another knock – this time as though something hard had been whacked against the wood. It was an impatient sound, and so she hurried to unlatch the lock, opening the round door to look out onto the porch–

–and found her gaze travelling up, up, up a tall cloaked figure – tall even for one of the Big Folk! – to find a sour-looking, weathered face glaring down at her from under the wide brim of a pointy, purple hat. Startling pink hair fell down the back of a mauve-coloured cloak, and in her gnarled hands was a staff too elaborate to be a common walking stick.

"Um. Hello?"

"Levy McGarden." Sharp eyes narrowed in the shade of the brim. "You've grown." It sounded almost like an accusation.

Levy blinked, and straightened a little where she stood, suddenly self-conscious in the shadow of the towering woman. "Er – yes?" She peered closer, trying to get a better glimpse of the stranger's face. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

The woman snorted. "You used to. Looks like you've forgotten."

A gasp spilled free of her lips as realization dawned on her, before it stretched along her mouth in the shape of a grin. "You're Porlyusica! Oh, I remember you now!"

She was rewarded with a single raised brow. "I'm thrilled."

Levy beamed up at her, cheerfully unmindful of the sarcasm. She remembered the wizard from when she was a faunt, snug in her mother's lap on Midsummer's Eve. Fireworks had painted the night sky like a field of flowers, and she'd been the talk of the Shire for months afterwards.

She also hadn't been seen since.

"What brings to you the Shire?" Levy asked, when the wizard hadn't spoken a word. She seemed content just to look at her, and Levy felt uneasy under her close scrutiny. It felt like she was seizing her up.

"You're going to join me on an adventure," Porlyusica said promptly, in a tone that brooked no arguments. "So pack yer bags." She turned on her heel then, and Levy could only stare after her as she strode brusquely down the stone steps, towards the little wooden gate. "And make a few more pies while yer at it!" she threw over her shoulder.

Levy gaped, startled out of her confusion by the bizarre request. "Pies?"

The old woman didn't look back as she answered, but lifted her staff in a parting gesture as she exited the gate and The Garden's property. One of the neighbours passing by nearly tripped over his own feet in his surprise as he caught sight of her, looming tall as a birch. Her startlingly purple hat stood out against the green-and-yellow of the flowers Levy had planted earlier that spring. "Yes. Pies. Enough food and drink for a party of fourteen."

"Fourteen?!"

Porlyusica glanced her way, an odd smile playing along her severe mouth, and Levy felt her next words like a bad omen. "A right company, you could call it. They'll pay you a visit tonight, so be sure to be hospitable." She snorted, and added with a grumble Levy could just pick out, "Though Eru knows none of 'em deserve it. Blasted dwarves."

Dwarves? "But–"

The wizard slammed the end of her staff against the footpath, and Levy jumped. "Yer going on an adventure, Levy McGarden!" she snapped, her voice carrying easily over Levy's little garden towards where she stood in the safety of her doorway. "Your mother's daughter you are not, but I'll be damned if I let you turn into your bumbling fool of a father. Now go. Get your affairs in order."

Levy frowned, not sure if she was supposed to feel insulted. "My affairs?" It sounded like she meant for her to put down a will!

"That's exactly what I'm saying," Porlyusica said, and Levy realized she'd voiced the thought out loud. "Now get to it, or you'll regret it."

"Wh– but why will I need a will? And why would I want to go on an adventure in the first place? Proper hobbits don't go on adventures!"

The old wizard looked at her then, and Levy had the terrible sense that she could see everything – the thoughts always at the back of her mind, of a rare smile in a metal-studded face, and hair darker than she'd ever seen, long and braided and falling against a broad back; of a forge-fire in her belly, and a flutter in her heart she'd not felt the like in all her fifty years. Somehow, with startling assurance, Levy felt that she knew; all her secrets laid bare before eyes that looked to have seen centuries.

Porlyusica smiled then, and it was such an unexpected thing, Levy's almost took a step back. But she didn't laugh, and the smile looked strangely sad. "You'll have your incentive," she said instead, cryptically, and with a snort she turned to leave. "For all the good it'll do ya."

Then she was walking away down the winding path, leaving Levy where she stood on her own front steps, to ponder her parting words.

An adventure? With a deliberate care to her movements, as though the meeting had somehow jarred her out of her comfort, she moved back inside her smial, closing the door firmly behind her, and it was as though she could breathe again as it cut her off from her visitor. Leaning against it, she considered the wizard's cryptic words, of a company of fourteen dwarves and an adventure she'd be joining whether she liked it or not. She wondered, suddenly, if Gajeel was aware of more dwarves in the area. One had caused enough of a stir; she doubted fourteen of them could somehow make it into the Shire unnoticed. But she hadn't heard a word, and she was sure, with the liberal amount of time she'd been spending at the smithy in the months that had passed since his arrival, that at least one of her nosy neighbours would have come to her for answers if more dwarves had been spotted in Hobbiton.

But none had come, save the strange wizard with her purple hat and grand declarations, and Levy had no other choice but to do the best she could with what she'd been given. Wasn't that what the heroes did in all the great adventure novels? They didn't always know exactly what to do at first, but they always figured it out before the crucial moment. And so, with her new conviction tucked snugly beneath her heart and a pleased sort of jaunt in her step, Levy McGarden of The Garden made her way into her kitchen, ignoring the breakfast that still sat partially untouched on the table.

She had pies to make.

AN: Porlyusica the Purple. I'm gonna pretend Tolkien's not rolling in his grave over this. I'll continue if people are interested? Right now I'm just doing this for fun and as a gift to a friend, but if you want I'll continue. It won't be a rehashing of the entire plot of the novel, but it will feature some key events, plenty of Fairy Tail cameos as well as a good dose of gajevy, with the added bonus of dwarven/hobbit cultural clashes.

Notes of a few words:

Mahal: another name for Aulë, the Smith of Powers, in Khuzdul (dwarvish)

Eru: also called Illúvatar, or the One; the creator of all.

And for those interested, Gajeel's company of dwarves is as follows: Lily, Natsu, Erza, Juvia, Gray, Jet & Droy, Elfman, Bixlow, Laxus, Happy, Sting and Rogue (yes there's one more than in the actual story, just to clear that up). And since Tolkien didn't, I'm taking the liberty of adding some women, and if you've got a problem with that I will cheerfully toss it into the fiery pits of Mordor.