Chapter 1: Strange visits

"Mithrandir," a melodic voice sounded in his mind. The Wizard jolted upright and looked about. He was alone, at least he believed it to be so. His hand grasped his staff sitting mere inches away from him. The campfire was dying with sizzling embers.

Gandalf let out a breath as the voice slowly began to become familiar to him.

"My lady," he greeted with a sigh. He realized she must be watching him now with the Mirror, their telepathic (telepathic) connection requiring quite a bit of strength.

"Your thoughts are troubled, mellon-nin."

"Indeed, for I cannot fathom a reason why the Lady of Lothlorien need disturb me at such a late hour other than one of warning."

"How clever you are. And yet you are right. My thoughts lie with the course you are taking."

"I'm traveling to the Shire to seek a burglar, as I am sure you are aware."

"For a journey you still are secretive about," he could hear the teasing in her voice as she scolded him.

"I doubt a Lady with the gift of foresight need an explanation from an old Wizard with muddled thoughts."

"Mithrandir, the journey you travel on is perilous. Heed my warning, the ending seems not right."

Gandalf's back straightened a bit as he gathered enough strength to listen to Galadriel's fading words.

"What do you mean?"

"I've found someone who may be able to help. Another member whom your company may find useful."

"Who?"

"You will see. My power wanes, I must go, mellon-nin. But be on guard, Mithrandir, I will send her when the time is right."

"Her?"

But her voice was already gone. Gandalf's bushy eyebrows knitted together in thought. Looking up at the sky dawn was fast approaching and he lit his pipe, puffing at the smoke. He was a day or two out of the Shire. Judging by the sky and the weather, if he set out early enough he would make it to Bag-End precisely on time. However, the news from the Lady of Light nagged at his brain like an annoying splinter, something he knew was there but couldn't find or get rid of.

"'Scuse me," she muttered as she barreled past the crowd, wisps of chocolate hair whipping in the harsh city wind, a bag swung tightly over her shoulder. The torment of the weather sent her teeth chattering, her hands clinging to the strap of the bag.

Turning sharply, she was out of the wind, in one of the much calmer streets, with small but cozy houses. Greeted by the neighbour's cat that lay by the gate, nibbling at the grass, Christine cracked a dry smile and shooed the tabby off with a light jab of her boot. She pushed through the gate and made her way down the stone path, reaching for her keys in the deep pocket of her dark-grey coat.

The door opened with a hollow creak and the smell of warm, freshly baked cookies filled the house. She let out a heavy sigh of relief and unwrapped the white woolen scarf, her nose a bright red from the chill.

"Welcome home!" a cheery voice called from the kitchen. Grinning, Christie hung her coat up and tugged off her boots, sauntering into the kitchen in black socks. Mrs. Darwell, her landlady, stood by the oven, pulling out a large plate of Christmas-themed cookies with Santa Claus oven mittens.

The Scottish lady with silver hair and crinkly eyes had been living in Toronto for years now, but her accent had never gone away. After her husband had passed she opened up one of their guest rooms for rent, in hopes of finding some nice company. Christie, being a student, had grasped the opportunity because of the proximity to the university she was attending.

"How was your day?" Mrs. D asked kindly, setting the plate down and pulling out the tub of icing from the fridge.

"Mm, interesting, I guess," Christie responded. "Our professor went over some English Literature classics today."

"Oh?"

"Mhm," Christie said, swiping a finger in the icing when Mrs. D turned away, licking the sweetness from her hand. "The Hobbit was one of them."

"Oh my, that old book? Haven't you read it already?"

"I have, but some people haven't. Lucas, the guy who was sitting next to me, asked me to explain what a Hobbit was. And what the difference between Dwarves and Hobbits was," Christie said with a meek laugh.

"I can imagine you were very offended," Mrs. Darwell noted.

"Oh, very, I was ready to swear at him in Khuzdul."

"Now, are you going to help me decorate these, or are you going to keep eating all the icing over there?"

Christie froze, realizing she was caught. "Sorry," she mumbled before grabbing the nearest sprinkles and arming herself with a spoon of icing, tackling the fresh cookies before Mrs. D could lecture her.

The evening went on between baking and studying on her Literature notes. The great thing Christie liked about Mrs. Darwell was the fact that she could pose any question or tell any story and the woman would listen patiently. She enjoyed her company greatly, finding the eldery woman to be much like a grandmother to her.

Her apron was smudged with flour from the new batch the two of them kneaded together by the time dusk had settled over the city. Christie heard the doorbell ring, followed by a soft rap on the door.

"Now who on earth is that?" Mrs. Darwell scolded, not very fond of visitors. "If it's one of those solicitors, send them off."

"Alright," Christie replied, grabbing a towel to wipe the egg yokes from her hands and brush the flour on her apron. Cooking was something of a constant hobby of hers, but even so, she coughed at the sugar and flower that drifted around her head.

As she pulled open the door and draped the towel over her shoulder, her face met with a waft of chilly winter air.

"Hello!" she said cheerfully, greeting the newcomer. "How may I help you?"

The figure before her was a female, long blonde hair pinned up gracefully. She was wearing heels, even though she seemed tall enough already. Christie looked up and down, taking note of the professional outfit of silver and white with a light scarf and beige coat. She didn't seem at all affected by the wind or the coat, the wavy tendrils of hair hardly moving in the breeze.

"Are you Christine Rousseau?" she spoke with an accent that Christie couldn't place, but she nodded nonetheless. Her voice was surprisingly cutting, even though she barely moved her mouth. Bright eyes looked the brunette up and down carefully and if Christie hadn't been paying attention, she would've missed the slightest tilt of a nod, as if the stranger approved of her.

"This is for you," the lady handed her a brown paper package she hadn't noticed before, tied tightly with ordinary string, no note or anything attached. Christie wiped her sticky hands on her apron again and accepted the package, cringing at the stain her hands were leaving on the clean paper.

"Who's this from?" she asked, inspecting the package carefully, but when she looked up, the stranger had disappeared.

Christie blinked, the slight scent of summer flowers and starry nights pulsing through the air, mixing with the sweetness of baked goods like a perfume.

"Christie! Close that door, for goodness sake, it's freezing," Mrs. D called from the kitchen.

Christie closed the door, shooting one last glance down the street, eventually thinking that the lady perhaps hurried off very quickly. But with the length of the path and the clear view of the entire street from the front door, she'd think she would be able to see the lady leave.

"Who was it?" Mrs. D asked as Christie reentered the kitchen with the package. Resting the towel on the counter, she glanced at the clock and nearly dropped the wrapped item.

"Shit!" she exclaimed, ignoring Mrs. Darwell's question.

"Christie," Mrs. D scolded her for her foul language. "No such words here!"

She'd lost complete track of time. Christie had to be at work in fifteen minutes, a night shift until one in the morning at a cheap and small but nonetheless delicious fast food restaurant.

"What's this?" Mrs. D looked at the package as Christie hurried to the coat rack, throwing the apron on the table and retying her hair, grabbing her coat and leaving smudges of flour everywhere her hands touched.

"I don't know, some lady dropped it off for me," Christie said, grabbing her bag and stuffing the package in it. She stopped to check her pocket for her phone and keys. "Look I gotta go, I'll be back late."

"Alright," Mrs. D wiped her hands gingerly on a towel and picked up the littered apron Christie left behind, folding it neatly. "Watch out for thieves and pickpockets."

She shut the door quietly behind her, brushing off her hands on her jeans as she set off at a brisk walk. The sky was already dark because of the short days and she played a soothing Christmas song on her phone as she walked, barely catching the sweet perfume that lingered fading away.

The night was quiet. Barely any customers came in that evening, and Christie leaned on the counter with sleepy eyes. She
stood at the cash register while the janitor was sweeping the floors, mopping up scraps of paper, ketchup stains, and littered fries from an overexcited child's birthday party.

"Sara, can you keep an eye on the cash register? Call of nature," she asked. The blonde, the only other employee that night, nodded, and Christie hurried to the back. There was the smell of grease and salt, and Christie's uniform hung unflatteringly over her shoulders. The hair net scratched at her hair line as she made her way to the washroom, quickly taking care of business and washing her hands before hearing the familiar ding of her phone.

She exited the washroom and walked over to where her bag was, digging around for her phone, opening up a notification for her younger sister's birthday in two weeks. Christie gnawed at the inside of her mouth. What to get an eighteen-year old highschool senior was troublesome enough.

Speaking of gifts, she thought, reaching inside her bag and pulling out the package. With a surge of excitement, Christie thought it might be a book.

The bell rang, indicating a customer arrived, but Christie was already unwrapping it, and to her surprise, she pulled out a very old and tattered copy of the Hobbit.

Turning it over in her hands, Christie flipped through the pages, finding nothing of significance instead other than of a couple pages that were loose, nearly falling out. The smell was musky and old, and dust scattered around when the pages turned. It was one of the old copies, with a light green cover and Tolkien's Smaug drawn in the corner. The inside was yellow and old and the entire thing had a tinge of ancientness altogether.

Christie's ears perked up to the sound of heels clicking over the floor and she rose quickly, poking her head around to see who it was from the back and nearly tripped over herself to see the same blonde lady with the beige coat. She hurried to the cash register where Sara was waiting, chewing on a piece of minty gum, but the smell of that perfume was as clear as day.

"What did she want?" Christie asked.

Sara shrugged. "She asked for like a slice of lembas, whatever the hell that is. Must be an Australian thing. She sounded Australian."

"Australian?" Christie frowned before the pieces finally clicked. "Oh, my god."

She ran around the counter and called after the woman, pushing through the door with a mighty shove, only to find the lady gone, again.

Christie swore under her breath, kicking at the trashcan standing outside the restaurant, her hand clutching the book tightly in her hand. The night was confusing and troubling, and she couldn't place why.

Lothlorien was still, a light hue of bluish twilight lingering in the air. The Lady Galadriel made her way to the Mirror in almost a floating way, a large pitcher of clear liquid held firmly in her slender hand. Her look was stern, long waves of sun-like hair tumbling down her back and her eyes reflected the stars that could not be seen by the naked eye.

The dress she wore was a silver grey fabric, her circlet polished, clean and refined, much like all characteristics of the Lady. The fabric of her dress rustled over the scattered leaves as she stopped before the mirror, raising the pitcher as if in greeting to the skies before letting the water slide into the basin in a clean tilt of the pitcher.

There were no ripples, the water stilled instantly when landing with hardly a sound. The Elf looked carefully and stared into the water, resting her hands on the edge of the basin as the image of herself disappeared, showing a clear picture of a brunette, standing outside a building, the flickering lights of the restaurant's logo giving an eerie glow to the night.

Galadriel watched as the girl threw her hands up in the air, muttering foul words under her breath, making the Elf quirk her mouth in response. In her hand she saw the book she had gifted to the human. Her blue eyes sharpened as Christine opened it up again, flipping through the pages with a look of confusion.

Someone called the girl's name, and Galadriel focused on the pale blonde that called Christie back inside, saying something about the cold. Her hand snapped the book shut and she shuffled back inside, her boots catching some of the snow lying outside.

The image shifted to the girl once again, this time wrapped in a furry blanket on a black leather couch, a cup of hot tea in her hand, watching one of those TV things that humans enjoyed so much. The Hobbit lay unopened by her side, and Galadriel's eyes shifted upwards, staring into the trees in thought. She waved one hand over the basin and the image faded.

Turning, she noticed her husband, Celeborn, standing at the top of the stairs, silver blue robes regal and fair, looking down at her with a knowing look. Galadriel gracefully walked up towards him where he held out his hand for her to take and quietly lead her away from the Mirror.

Christine's face was frowning the entire night when she came home. Mrs. Darwell was already asleep so she turned the TV on at a soft volume, making herself a cup of tea after getting a quick shower to get the grease and sweat out of her hair.

She'd flipped through the Hobbit enough times that evening on her way back, finding nothing of significance. The theories about the lady kept coming. Knowing the actress Cate Blanchett was Australian and she'd been Lady Galadriel in the movies, for a split second she'd imagined it was the Oscar-winning actress who entered the restaurant. But she wouldn't have come all the way to Canada without some media following her, and there was nothing she'd read online about it.

Then there was the lembas thing. Perhaps it was just coincidence, perhaps Sara had heard the order wrong, perhaps she was just imagining all of it.

The sun had barely started to rise when Christie finally turned the TV off and went upstairs. The cool night made her room even chillier, and she piled an extra blanket or two on the bed before Christie slowly felt her eyes droop and she collapsed on the bed, tired and asleep within seconds.

Christie found herself dreaming something peculiar of saying goodbye to a sad-eyed Mrs. Darwell, who was hugging her tightly, whispering words of luck and giving her a small bag of Christmas cookies that smelled wonderful. The image was coloured strangely and blurry around the edges and she couldn't make out the words that were said. She tossed and turned in her sleep, an uncertain feeling settling in her stomach as she grumbled and frowned.

"D'you think she's alive?" a small voice piped up. Christie's nose scrunched up in confusion.

"'Ere, try to wake her with this," another one said and Christie felt the prodding of a stick in her side, causing her to flinch and her eyes to snap open.

A shriek followed and Christie sat up to see two curly-haired children run down the green hill.

"What the fuck-?" she mumbled, scrambling up to her feet and taking a step back, only to fall and stumble over a backpack behind her. She let out a gasp of surprise as she landed on her back, in a tangled heap. She looked at her black backpack and her eyes looked around frantically. Her eyes adjusted to the dusk and she stood, twisting around to take a good long look where she was.

And her heart stopped.

She knew, she had memorized these hills, this place. The familiar round doors had dug their way into her memory and stayed there. But there was no way any of this was possible.

Christie was gaping at the scenery before her, trying to calm her racing heart-beat and began to run a list in her mind of how this could hardly be possible.

First off, it was way too bloody hot. Last she checked it was mid-winter.

Second, this had to be a very convincing dream or she was in a coma because she had fallen asleep in her own bed.

Third, this could also just be New Zealand. That could explain the weather. Yeah, that had to be it. Mrs. D or her friends might've pulled a prank, brought her here but felt bad and gave her her things in the bag.

But, a small part of her persisted, what if it was real? And what kind of friends would waste so much money and time just to drop her off in New Zealand alone?

And then there were those children, the both of them being the equivalent of Hobbit-children with colourful clothes and bouncy curls.

Christie shrugged off her coat as sweat began to form at the back of her neck and the woolen sweater she also stripped off, leaving her in her cotton t-shirt and black jeans.

As she bent down on her knees and dug into her backpack, surprised at the essentials that had been packed for her, her foot met with something hidden in the grass.

Christie hoisted her bag on her shoulder and picked up the Hobbit that had been lying on the ground and her eyes flashed with sudden disgust of the book. Her bed had been so comfortable that night. She shoved the novel in her bag as well, and carefully picked her way down the hill.

She glanced down and discovered she was wearing her hiking boots. The realization made her eyebrows quirk up, but she knew that they would make the trip down the hill easier, allowing her to get a good grip on the ground.

She stumbled upon the dirt path and nearly collided with a Hobbit that passed by who just looked her up and down with a look of slight surprise and fear before walking on.

Christie was contemplating what on earth to do. The sky had darkened to early evening, by the looks of it. Having been one to not travel or camp much on her own, Christie stood still, her heart still pounding in disbelief, a dull ringing in her ears.

There was only one place she really knew. And it was in plain sight. Her hazel eyes focused in on Bag-End, a round, green door barely visible in the dark, but her feet had never made a decision so fast when her brain was still making up its mind and she walked down the dirt path, keeping her head down as thoughts rumbled around in distress.

She chewed on the inside of her lip, her hand visibly shaking as she pushed open the wooden gate in front of Bag-End. The whole idea of this and the fact that she couldn't talk about it set her teeth on edge.

Mustering enough courage by letting out a deep breath and looking dead-set at the green door, she raised her hand to pull the thick coil of the doorbell and took a step back, just long enough to see the blue shining mark that Gandalf must've put there that very evening before the door was pulled open.

A/N: And thus it begins. Hope it was worth the read for you and a big thanks to krystal lazuli for being an amazing beta!

Any questions/concerns/comments, leave a review or send me a PM~ I love getting them and I love responding to them!

-II

Disclaimer: I do not own anything from either Peter Jackson or JRR Tolkien. If I did I wouldn't be here, I'd be prancing around in the Hobbiton sets of New Zealand.