Hobbiton, a peculiar community. So peculiar, in fact, that Miquella spent almost the entire ride with half his body hanging out of the cart, gazing around with childlike wonder. Every corner, every detail, every expression of awe or nervousness on the locals' faces at the sight of his unusual group was a source of fascination for him.
And indeed, his company did not go unnoticed. They stood out far too much. Hobbits were not particularly hostile toward outsiders, but neither were they known for welcoming other races with open arms. They weren't bad hosts nor an entirely closed community, but the figures now passing through their streets inspired a natural fear. Strange weapons, dark armor, stern or unreadable faces… all of it heralded trouble. And if hobbits disliked anything above all else, it was trouble.
Parents clutched their children tightly, rushing them indoors. Doors and windows closed, and the usual chatter of the village was replaced by an uneasy silence. Even so, the villagers stepped aside without needing to be told, letting the caravan pass without interruption.
They continued onward until they finally stopped out of sheer necessity. The truth was, they didn't know where they were going. Miquella, so absorbed in watching the village, had given no further orders—and he was the only one who knew the precise reason for their visit.
With a sigh, he set aside his fascination. It was time to make decisions. He gave out specific instructions to his followers and organized their deployment.
...
By nightfall, the group gathered again in a local tavern. Their presence remained just as striking as it had been in the streets, and what was normally a lively, bustling atmosphere became quieter than a funeral parlor. Many customers left as soon as they saw them enter; the few who stayed—either too drunk or too stubborn—kept completely silent, eyes fixed on their mugs with one discreet glance on the strangers.
Hobbits disliked any disturbance to the normal rhythm of their peaceful lives, whether in the tavern or anywhere else in the village. But they weren't confrontational either, and none would dare demand anything from such imposing strangers. In a way, then, there was no problem.
"My lord," Leda said quietly, leaning toward Miquella. "I found one of the hobbits we were looking for. Bilbo Baggins. He lives in a burrow called Bag End. He's forty-nine years old, has no close relatives, and has never left the Shire. He's had no contact with outsiders and lives a rather ordinary life… perhaps a bit secluded."
"Nothing at all?" Miquella asked, frowning. "No mention of the wizard?"
"No, my lord. That Gandalf hasn't been here in quite some time. What little they recall of him is that he used to put on shows, or so they say." Leda's answer carried a faint trace of disdain.
Since arriving in this world, they hadn't seen any sorcerers, and for the first one she heard of to sound so unimpressive did nothing to raise her opinion of Middle-earth. Being from the Lands Between, a place full of dangers, she could not fathom living with so little active magic. Peace made her uneasy.
"Don't underestimate him, Leda," Miquella replied, not taking his eyes off his drink (juice, to avoid repeating disasters). "What you know of him is merely the image this peaceful community holds. Gandalf is not simply a wizard… perhaps it would be more fitting to call him a demigod."
His words startled those present, though no one showed it openly. Miquella went on:
"He may not be the most powerful, but he is certainly not one to be ignored… Nothing else?" he repeated, drifting into thought.
He had come to Hobbiton hoping to better determine the exact point in time they were in—and in a way, he had succeeded. The presence of Bilbo, the absence of Frodo and Gandalf… all indicated they were still before the events of the Lonely Mountain. The problem was not knowing precisely how far before.
Not the worst scenario. He had already anticipated this possibility. Between The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings lay over sixty years. Even if they were right before Bilbo's journey, there would still be a long wait. But at least now he had a reference point.
"We're going to need a place to settle," he finally said, lifting his gaze to his followers. "It's likely we'll have to remain here for quite some time. Our goal will be to integrate into this community, watch Bilbo's movements… and stay alert for Gandalf's possible arrival."
All nodded in unison. No hesitation, no doubt. Miquella's orders were law.
...
Several days passed before Miquella's group managed to settle properly. As expected, hobbits—though mostly hospitable—were not used to receiving visitors who planned to stay for so long. Carving a place in their community was no easy task.
Finding somewhere to live proved harder than anticipated. Perhaps it was their size difference, the martial aura of war veterans they carried, or simply cultural and aesthetic differences, but Miquella's followers intimidated the locals. In the end, it was Miquella himself who had to step forward, negotiate, and persuade personally.
As always, he radiated a charm that was hard to ignore. More than one was left staring, lost in a daze. Perhaps it was that magnetism that smoothed the way. One couldn't say he bewitched anyone—at least not consciously—but there are beauties and presences that, even without magic, are almost impossible to resist. Otherwise, it would have been nearly impossible to secure a place. Hobbits were kind, yes, but still a closed community when it came to accepting other races as residents.
At last, they found a solution: an old hobbit-hole, once owned by an heirless elder who had passed away long ago. No one had claimed or sold it, mainly because of its poor location and dreadful condition. But it was the best they could get without resorting to more "magical" methods.
Leda was far from satisfied when she saw the place. The round door nearly came off its rusty hinges, and inside was nothing but cold, damp rooms smothered in dust and alarming amounts of cobwebs. In her eyes, this hole was not worthy of her lord. To her, Miquella remained the divine being destined to inherit the world.
He, on the other hand, showed no concern. He embraced Leda gently, holding her face so close that her hair was caught between them, and spoke with a serene voice. That alone calmed her enough to move forward.
The hole was tirelessly restored: first cleaned, then repaired, and finally almost completely rebuilt, as it was on the verge of collapse. That explained why no one else had wanted it. It was costly and laborious work, but the group had the resources.
Money was no issue. Miquella continued summoning artifacts from his homeland, which Moore sold. At first, business didn't prosper—the Shire had little interest in weapons or armor, being no warlike race—but other objects stirred curiosity. After a few initial sales, trade slowly grew.
Thus, a new home rose within this community, though not everyone agreed with it. Still, it happened. The only real problem was size: everyone but Miquella hit their heads more than once on the low ceilings and round doors.
...
Days passed, then weeks, and finally months. Those who hadn't stopped traveling since their arrival in this world at last settled down. This time was different: a real establishment, meant for the long term. A respite, at least until Miquella gave the order to leave. But that would have to wait… until signs of dwarves appeared in the area.
Having a fixed home made many things easier. A base from which to coordinate was very useful, though it also had its drawbacks, like reducing their mobility.
Once settled, each member of the group took on a role. Most of their tasks revolved around surveillance and gathering information. Getting jobs as "non-hobbits" was difficult—at least the ones they actually cared for. They were all exceptionally strong, far above ordinary humans. At first somewhat isolated, they soon began receiving tasks. But their objectives remained very specific.
Moore took on the role of merchant. Weapons weren't popular, but certain artifacts from the Lands Between sold well in the Shire.
Dane landed one of the most important positions—not for the pay, but for the location: a modest job as a gardener near Bag End. This allowed him to observe Bilbo's movements.
Ansbach, Hornsent, and Thiollier were assigned to more exploratory tasks outside Hobbiton. They scouted the surroundings… and something else. Ansbach had discovered something back in Bree, though he hadn't explained it at the time due to an "incident" with Miquella. He revealed it later: a strange plant, a dead root protruding from the ground. Neither large nor small. To untrained eyes, insignificant—but to them, who had lived in the Lands Between, it resonated with a familiar echo: the essence of death.
It grew where the undead had once risen. And none believed it to be a coincidence.
Thus, the three were sent to visit other places where undead had been sighted. Their mission: search for traces of these roots… and eliminate any remaining threat.
Finally, the last two: Leda and Freya. Their duty was to stay with Miquella. Not because Hobbiton was dangerous, but because Leda would never allow her lord, in his current weakened state, to be at any risk.
Freya stayed as well—officially as an extra bodyguard. Though the truth, unspoken by all, was that Miquella didn't mind having the choice of whose chest to use as a pillow… though he would never admit it.
And speaking of Miquella, he was, without a doubt, the most satisfied with their new life. While his followers still carried the seriousness and bearing of the Lands Between, Miquella seemed completely at ease. Relaxed, calm, even happy in this environment. Probably because, for the first time in a long while, he didn't stand out: in the Shire, everyone was his height.
He was the first to integrate with the hobbits. True, at first his ethereal beauty and otherworldly aura made him seem unattainable, almost unreal, like a figure from a tale too perfect to be true. But that changed over time.
Attending local parties, sharing fantastical tales, or simply sitting to chat, he won the hearts of the children… and some adults who dared open their doors to these strangers from distant lands.
With neighbors, with merchants, with anyone he met, Miquella cultivated cordial relations. Not all deep, but sincere. Between him and the hobbits, the difference seemed smaller. For a moment, he no longer felt like an "eternal divine child," but simply… another small inhabitant.
Of course, that didn't mean Miquella abandoned his work. He still performed duties within the group: summoning objects from his homeland for Moore to sell, crafting tools and equipment for the scouts, investigating the mysterious "dead root," and obsessing over his ring and the search for a way to restore his family. He spent hours locked in his room, writing books, maps, diagrams, and dark musings.
…And then there were those other moments.
—Flashback—
Miquella lay on the floor behind a small table, raising his head just enough to stare intently at the little Ranni doll seated motionless on a chair before him. He stayed like that for a long time, in absolute silence, until Leda returned from shopping and found him thus, frowning in confusion.
"I think this doll… is more than it seems. It may have some life in it. Perhaps… some part of Ranni still lingers here," Miquella said seriously, eyes never leaving it. "Sometimes I feel like it's watching me. And when we left Bree, I forgot to pack it… yet it appeared in the cart anyway. As if… it had come by itself."
Miquella had spoken a lot with his Ranni doll. Too much, really. It had become his personal confidant, and the possibility that some part of her truly remained there, alive or present in some way, was both hopeful and unsettling. Yet no matter how much he tried, he never got a response. So, in one last futile "just in case," he applied Toy Story logic: he believed the doll only came to life when unobserved. He watched closely for even the slightest blink or shift in its eyes, as if that could confirm his theory.
Leda stood there, watching him. Her lord, the eternal demigod, was so absorbed in his experiment that he seemed like a child at play. And in a way, he was. But instead of disappointment, Leda smiled. She was glad to see Miquella like this, acting with a naturalness he had never shown before. Smiling with the same sincerity he showed when visiting the village, so simple, so real… It was a side of him that only this world seemed to allow.
Very different from that other side that had also surfaced. A more adult and… lascivious one.
The one who used her breasts—or Freya's—as personal pillows. Or who suddenly dropped such suggestive comments that Leda froze, heart hammering in her throat. Who even asked her, with utmost casualness, which of the local hobbit women had the biggest, "most appreciable" breasts and which ones he would "grope," as if she were his male confidant… all of this, from that small body and angelic face that made him switch in an instant from sweet angel to mischievous devil.
In the end… she struggled to admit that it had been she who put the doll in the cart before they left.
—End of flashback—