There, Not Back Again by eris_of_imladris

Chapter 1

No one had ever called her prim.

That was partly from her gait, always going just that little bit too fast like a duck waddling to catch up to something, and partly from the way she acted. It could have been a nickname or a value to live by for a fine society lady like Primula Brandybuck Baggins, but she was far from living up to her name, which was all she could think of as she tumbled down the Brandywine River in a most unladylike fashion.

The boat was so far back that she lost track of it after a single breath, the churning waters of the sudden storm pushing her into weeds and rocks and something that moved in a creepy way that made her want to recoil, but she couldn’t draw her hand back, she was holding him, or at least she hoped she was….

Whatever sat in her hand felt far too light to be Drogo’s hand, but she hoped he was floating, so the water was taking off some of the weight. When she tried to look back for him, her eyes could only see water, splashing and foaming and drawing her down so fast that she cursed herself for ever wanting adventure, and now that she had known even the slightest taste she yearned to be back in her safe little hole, cooking supper at this hour of the morning for lack of anything better to do.

The thought of wanting to be safe made her laugh, but even opening her mouth the tiniest bit made her choke on the salty water, gagging and gasping and squinting her eyes because it hurt there too, and she didn’t know what to cry about first but she did know that fine ladies were not supposed to cry, and the thought only made more water prickle at her eyelids to join the rest as it surrounded her and pulled her away from the boat, which was already (in Drogo’s opinion) too far from anything she had ever known.

She had no idea how long she was under the water, or how long she was over, the rain beating down on her head. She didn’t even realize when the storm stopped until her knees brushed against more rock, and so did her hands and then she was up on the ground, coughing and heaving as what felt like the entire river poured out of her mouth and nose. It tasted like fish gone bad for [i]years[/i], and the smell was almost revolting enough to put her off fish for the rest of her life, if she was even still alive. Then again, how could she go without the creaminess of a fish done well, just like her mother had done it on those lovely afternoons when they were elbow-deep in flour right before the fish hit the oil?

When she was finally able to draw a halfway decent breath, even if it tasted now like limp algae, Primula noticed that it was not morning anymore, or if it was, then the clouds obscured the sky so much that she could have believed it was a starless night. She could see only what was right nearby – trees of all kinds, some mushrooms growing in the ground and little bugs making their way to their homes, and about a stone’s throw away, a fire built atop some thick logs underneath a tree with large, droopy leaves.

She hadn’t realized how frozen she was until she saw the fire; all the warmth of her clothes was turned to weight from how they hung low on her, sticking to her skin in some places and out in others, pouring water like little waterfalls from each white sleeve. They looked more like sheets than sleeves, she found as she plucked at them, noticing the water filling in the little holes of the lacy pattern. And her hand, oh, her left hand was not holding Drogo’s hand but rather the little box he had made for their son’s lunch, dripping and disheveled but still somehow sealed, although its craftsman… like Primula, he never knew how to swim more than a few feet.

Confused beyond words, overwhelmed at the very idea of her survival, she turned to the fire, suddenly noticing a human sitting there. Not one of the merchants who occasionally brought their wares to sell to hobbits, and with a lurch in her stomach she wondered exactly how far she had gone before hitting those stones and somehow finding her way out of the water. Heavens, was she out near Bree?

“Did you pull me out?” she asked the human, who was watching her rather intently. Then she looked at him a little closer and decided the ears poking out of his dark hair were too pointy to belong to a human… but elves were only for adventurers and children’s tales, right? Why would there be an elf so close to the bounds of the Shire? True, they were close to where the river met her family’s home of Brandy Hall because of a visit to her relatives, but why was there an elf here? Where was she?

The elf shook his head slightly, his words taking a longer time than she would have thought for a people she had heard were so smart. “No,” he said simply, “I did not.” He poked at the fire with a new stick as Primula considered his words and his accent, nothing like she had ever heard before.

[i]Well, this is what you always wanted,[/i] she told herself sternly, trying to conjure her sister Asphodel in one of her moods. [i]You’ve made your dish, now eat it, no matter how bitter it tastes.[/i] She looked up at the elf, who looked surprisingly dry considering the storm. Or extra dry compared to Primula, who wondered if she was wetter than the average fish.

“How did I get out, then? Are you sure?” she asked, trying to find her way to her feet, using the lunchbox to brace herself.

“I am quite sure,” he said.

“How?” Primula asked as she made her way over, walking slowly to not slip on the wet leaves. They got drier as she made her way over to the fire, shivering as she walked, but the water pouring down from her hair (the curls her mother made her were long gone, she knew) and her outfit (she had spotted at least three places needing mending even just kneeling there) were soaking the dry leaves.

The elf made no verbal response, instead holding up the hand he had used to poke at the fire. When he held it out, it looked… well, weird. There was a scar in the middle almost like someone had tried to draw a circle but they were horrid at drawing, and the fingers didn’t quite stretch out all the way. She was too small for a hobbit, or at least her entire family thought so, but still, there was no way someone with hands like that could have pulled her out.

She sidled closer, settling down next to him with an awkward thump as she wet and flattened the leaves underneath her. The fire felt so good that she sat there for several moments without trying to speak to the elf again, drawn to the warmth and comfort it provided. It was just like the one she used in the kitchens of Brandy Hall, small enough for a child to learn from and then to teach to her own children. It was about time she started teaching her boy to cook.

“Do you know where we are?” she asked hesitantly after a few minutes, still picking at her clothes and running her fingers through the soaked locks that were a tumble of curls before she left home.

“In the wilds,” he answered simply, and Primula waited for him to say more, but eventually sighed.

“Anywhere near Bree? Do you know where Bree is? I could get a ride there back home, even if I haven’t any money now. I’m sure they’ll have heard of the Master of Brandy Hall, and when they hear he’s my brother…” The perfect plans began to fall apart as soon as she realized what would be waiting for her back home. A family terrified of the storm, wondering what in the world possessed her to go out in it, asking a hundred questions about where was her husband and shooting her glances even if she tried to mourn properly. No one would believe it was anything but her own fault, she was the adventurer, after all….

“We are not particularly near Bree,” the stranger replied, and Primula was just about to get lost in a whirlwind of wondering how to get home and what to do from here when a sudden, small rumbling broke her out of her thoughts.

“You’re hungry,” she said, wondering why in the world he was out here alone. Was he one of those rangers? She thought they were only humans… then again, it was something to latch onto, something to make her think of anything but the cold and the water and the loss. Her mother had not raised an imbecile. She knew how to fix hunger.

“I am fine,” he said, but when faced with a hobbit on a mission, he had little resistance.

[i]If only they could see me now,[/i] Primula thought as she reached down for the lunchbox, the one she had prepared for her son with a fresh fish from their expedition. She was going to ask him if it tasted better than the fish at home, and pray that he said yes, which would give her little mission some validity. But now there was nothing that could do that, now that it had led to a death and probably the capsizing of that nice boat lent to them by the funny fellow with the green suspenders, and not even serving up food like her family always wanted would be able to get her out of this.

[i]I can’t lose, I never have,[/i] she tried to convince herself as she made a first attempt at the latch, only to fail. [i]And I’ll make him a new fish, even nicer than this,[/i] she thought as she pried open the lid, only to see the mess inside. Everything was still there, but the fish was flopped onto the eggs, and the tomatoes slid over onto the bread, and the dandelion greens were positively soaked with juice from the beans…

Still, the elf looked down at the food like he hadn’t eaten in a while, and Primula picked up the fish limply, staring at it as if it alone was responsible for everything that had happened.

“Did you make this?” the stranger asked, and Primula nodded. “It looks quite good – like my mother’s cooking, in fact.”

Primula almost spat back that she hoped his mother could cook better than this mess of ingredients, but she kept her mouth shut.

“I was going to give it to my son,” she eventually admitted. “I do hope he’s safe. I hope he didn’t go out in the rain like a little fool.” Yes, he was twelve, and able to take care of himself, but he was still a child, and the last thing she needed was for him to have endangered himself thanks to listening to one of her stories of tree people and other such nonsense.

“Children will go out in the rain,” the elf said calmly, and Primula wondered if he spoke of himself or his own son. He didn’t look old enough to be a father, but what did she know? Maybe he had his children young. “I find they are happier after having had their adventure.”

“Perhaps it is better to stay inside,” Primula said… well, primly, just like her sister Asphodel would have said if she was around. Not that they had seen each other in years, of course, but there were some memories too deep to erase.

She longed to say more then, as if this man was the cause for her whole problem. To be fair, it was tales of him and his folk (and a whole bunch of other strange creatures) that had set Primula in her ways, drawing her away from the fine society life she was born to. [i]It’s all your fault,[/i] she wanted to tell him, even though she knew that was wrong because she didn’t even know his name. [i]We’re not like your people, chasing every sunbeam on every blade of grass,[/i] she wanted to say, but would that make her an elf then, thanks to all of her strange childhood desires?

In the end, she said nothing. Who was she to talk? She was stuck at this man’s fire, keeping warm thanks to his generosity. She would have to summon whatever of the perfect genteel hobbit lady had ever existed in her to find a way back home. And the first rule of being a hobbit lady was to provide food no matter what.

“Would you like some? I can make some new food for my son when I get back,” she said, taking a slice of the bread from the box and shaking it out. The slices in the middle weren’t quite as bad, but they were still soggy and squishy from all the ingredients, and she didn’t even have a proper pat of butter to offer the elf as he nodded and reached out a hand, taking only what she offered with enough proper manners that he would please her mother.

Her mother who would be ashamed to have a daughter of hers make such bread… it would be worth a talking-to about what had gone wrong, followed by working through it together and figuring out how to make it right. It was what Primula was trying to do with her own son, even though a Baggins boy had less business being in the kitchen. Still, her hands remembered the motions just like her mother had promised back when it was hard for her, when her knuckles rolled the wrong way and the seeds splattered on the floor.

“It’s part of being a hobbit,” she had explained. “You’ll know it like you know to breathe.” But Primula, just out of the water, wondered if she even knew how to do that right anymore.