Mirkwoods
The forest was sinking into silence, deeper and deeper, like breath being held beneath the weight of green and shadow. Hunger gnawed at the bellies of the Company, and not even Thorin’s stubborn pride could hide the slump of shoulders or the dull look in Fili and Kili’s usually bright eyes.
Marigold Bramblepot sat beside her uncle, knees drawn up and shawl tucked under her chin. Her curls had grown tangled in the damp. She looked out across the sleeping dwarves, her heart aching—not just for them, but for the heavy secret warming her chest like sunlight trapped beneath her skin.
Bilbo leaned in, voice low. “It’s not nothing, what you’re thinking of doing.”
She hesitated. “It’s not nothing… it’s everything, Uncle.”
They both knew the lore. An old truth tucked into seed songs and herb-wives’ lullabies—if a hobbit of ripe age consumed petals, herbs, even clean earth under the right moon, their body might quicken, might give. Not food from hands or field—but milk. Healing, nourishing, powerful. It was rare. Intimate. Sacred.
“I don’t want them to look at me differently,” she whispered.
Bilbo placed a hand over hers. “Marigold, they already do.”
She blinked up at him.
“They look at you like you’ve carried more than your share. Like you’re hope, not pity. You shine, my girl. Even here.”
Silence followed his words, soft as moss. Marigold exhaled shakily and slipped her fingers into her satchel. From the pouch of dried herbs and petals she carried—mostly for tea or tinctures—she pulled calendula. Golden and warm even in the gloom.
“I’ll need water,” she murmured. “To soften them.”
Bilbo gave a quiet nod. “I’ll stay here.”
She wandered toward a shimmer of moonlight threading through the trees. Her steps were light, but deliberate. Her fingers curled around the petals like they might bruise. When she reached the stream—little more than a glistening trickle between roots—she knelt.
The water was clear. She dipped the petals, letting them drink and swell in her palm. The scent rose softly—earthy, sweet, like summer kept in a jar.
A twig snapped.
She turned.
Kíli stood at the edge of the trees, hair tousled and eyes wide. He froze like a deer caught in starlight.
“I—Fíli thought you might be ill,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to… sneak.”
Marigold offered a small, tired smile. “I’m not unwell.”
He glanced down at her hands, then to her face. “Is it something hobbits do? With the petals?”
She tucked the wet herbs close, guarded. “It’s… old lore. Most think it myth.”
Kíli shifted. “We don’t.”
His voice was low, almost reverent. “We’ve seen enough of you to know there’s truth in things you carry.”
She swallowed hard, unsure of what to say.
He took a step back. “You don’t have to explain. Just… be careful.”
Then he turned, and left her alone once more beneath the trees.
When she returned, Fili was waiting. He was crouched beside the moss where she’d been, brows furrowed. As she approached, he stood.
“You’re alright?” he asked gently.
“I’m fine.”
He hesitated, eyes on her hands, still damp with stream water. “Is it true?” he asked. “The stories… about hobbits and earth-given milk?”
Her heart thudded. She looked up at him.
He smiled, gently. “You don’t have to say anything. But I want you to know… if you do help us, no one would see you as anything but brave.”
His voice held no mockery, no pressure. Just quiet awe.
“I don’t know if it’ll work,” she admitted.
“But you’d try anyway,” he said. “That’s more than most.”
She gave a small nod. “I will.”
He held out a hand. When she took it, his fingers wrapped around hers, warm and steady.
As they walked back to the Company, she could feel the change beginning in her body—gentle pressure, the stirrings of something ancient. It did not hurt. It called.
Bilbo looked up as she returned. He said nothing, only met her eyes and smiled.
Most of the dwarves slept. But Kíli stirred as she passed, and their gazes met in the hush.
There was no magic spell spoken aloud. No radiant light or song.
Just a hobbit girl, her uncle, and two princes in love.