It fought valiantly, but, alas, it lost the battle.”

“I can see that. It would appear that these logs fought valiantly, but were no match for you expertise in swordplay.”

Arathoniel looked down at her young friend, the hobbit, Frodo Baggins. Suppressing a laugh, she ruffled his soft and curly hair. It was moments like these, in the Shire, in the presence of the most wonderful race of people in Middle Earth that it didn’t seem to matter that she didn’t belong. It didn’t matter that she was a part of no one. Here, she was a Baggins, though she was far too tall and her feet were fall to small. Here, she understood that the one who had raised her, Gandalf the Grey (known as Mithrandir to the elves), wanted her to be happy, in spite of her situation.

Where had she come from? She didn’t know. It seemed she belonged to no race of people. And there were many. She did not belong to the order of Wizards, as Gandalf did. She had never met another member of the order, but she had been assured that she was not one. She was not a hobbit or a dwarf. Above all else, she was far to tall. Though she was 2,894 years old, she was not an Elf. Again, she had never met an Elf, but the lack of a point to her ears and an assurance from Gandalf led her to know that she did not belong to an Elven race. She was not of the race of men, either. Her age alone told her that. Men rarely made it to 100 years old. She was not an Orc, a Goblin, a Troll, or any other Dark Being. There was no darkness or evil in her soul. Every day that passed reminded her that she belonged nowhere.

There was only one thing that she was certain of. Of what she was. Arathoniel was a warrior. For all of her long life she was bred to fight and survive. Something was coming. She was certain of it. Of the many visions that visited her, many showed her a coming darkness. And at the center of that darkness she often saw her friend, Frodo. She would give all that she was to protect him and she feared that the time would come when she would have to do so.

“There is a party tonight, you know,” Frodo began picking at the splintered pieces of wood scattered across the ground.

“There is always a party in the Shire, Mater Baggins,” Arathoniel laughed easily as she sheathed her sword, “Unfortunately, I will not be in attendance this evening.”

A frown, a rare occurrence for a hobbit, crossed his cherubic features. “And why not? It’s a Brandybuck gathering, you know?”

“A wonderful gathering, it will be. I must meet with Gandalf, this evening. It’s of vital importance. Or so he says.”

“Oh, everything is vitally important to Gandalf. He wouldn’t mind you taking a break. A bit of pipe-weed and a half of ale would do you well.”

Arathoniel smiled in spite of herself. She was badly in need of the joy of a Hobbiton party. Sadly, the urgency of Gandalf’s message told her that she would have to miss whatever occasion Meriadoc Brandybuck was celebrating. The message, and her visions of the Woodland Elf, told her she would not be back to the Shire for a time to come.

“Would that I could, my dear hobbit, but this truly is important. I fear it will affect us all.”

“Your visions,” the Hobbit questioned, “The elf?”

“Yes, Frodo. Yes,” dropping to a knee, Arathoniel held his hands in her own, “Promise me that you will fight to remain well. No matter what happens. Make me that promise. You must.”

“I promise. Of course, I promise.”

Standing, she placed a hand aside his cheek. “If ever you need me, Frodo Baggins, simply speak my name and there will I be. Do not be afraid. All will be well. That is my promise to you.”

Placing a kiss a top his gentle head, she strapped her arrows and bow to her back. Sadness overwhelmed her as she turned from her friend. Climbing onto her horse, she glanced at Hobbiton. “Bel bre,” she whispered and left Frodo, and the Shire, to her past.