Rynneer

You look around the room as your eyes begin to adjust. There’s a fireplace across the room, the dying embers casting just enough light to let you make out the vague shapes of furniture in the darkness. The walls and floor are stone, adorned with plush rugs. The wind rattles the shutters outside the window, hidden behind thick curtains.

This is not your bedroom… and you are not alone. A dark figure stirs next to you beneath the covers. You scramble out of bed but find the floor farther away than expected. You land hard on your side. “Ow!”

You slap your hand over your mouth, but it’s too late. The figure sits up with a groan, rubbing at its face and leaning to peer over the edge of the bed at you. There’s no mistaking that mustache, those braids.

“Fíli? What… where are we?” And why are we in bed together?

Fíli blinks a few times to clear the sleep from his eyes. “What do you mean?” he asks hoarsely, his voice rough. He rolls out of bed and kneels in front of you. “We’re home. In Erebor? You know, the mountain? Big pile of rocks and snow? It’s rather hard to miss.” He raises an eyebrow, trying to coax a smile from you.

Instead, you scoot backwards, putting space between you and the prince as you process his words. “But we were just in Mirkwood,” you protest. “How did we get here?”

Fíli’s confusion turns to concern. “Y/N, that was a year ago.” He shifts closer and brushes a thumb over your cheek. “Are you feeling alright?”

You stiffen against his touch, heart in your throat. Ever the gentleman, he’s never touched you without permission before. But something about the way his palm cups your face feels familiar. “I don’t know,” you whisper, shaking your head. “All I remember is falling into the stream.”

“You don’t remember the elves? Fighting for the mountain? All the time we spent together?” He uncovers a long braid in your hair. “Our wedding?”

“Wedding?!” It’s true, you’ve harbored feelings for Fíli since the two of you met in Bag End. You’d admired him in the book and movies, and to see him for real… it did something to you. But you never thought he would return your affections—how could he? You’re a plain, young woman from another world, and he’s a handsome prince, heir to the throne.

Fíli searches your face, expression unreadable. Finally, he stands, offering you his hand. “Come on.”

You take it hesitantly. His fingers lace through yours, and he helps you to your feet. Strangely, you find that instead of being taller than the dwarf, you’re just level with his chin. But before you can comment on this, Fíli pulls you out the door and down a narrow hallway.

He leads you to a large sitting room, taking you to the sofa next to yet another fireplace. “Wait here,” he orders softly. “I’ll fetch Thorin.”

“Thorin’s alive?” you breathe. “What about Kíli?”

“Kíli would like to know what the pair of you are doing up and chattering in the middle of the night,” replies a voice from behind you. The youngest Durin leans against the wall with his arms crossed, hair still tousled from sleep.

You tip back your head and close your eyes. “They did it,” you sigh in relief.

Kíli raises an eyebrow. “What’s going on?”

Fíli pinches the bridge of his nose. “Let me get Thorin first. I would rather not explain this twice.”

“Again.” Thorin paces in front of the fire.

You rub your forehead. “I told you, that’s it,” you groan. “I fell in the water and woke up here.”

Kíli shakes his head. “It makes no sense.”

“No shit.”

Thorin flashes you a warning look.

“It was no ordinary stream,” Fíli points out. He sits with you on the couch, his hand resting on top of yours. Every once in a while, he gives it a reassuring squeeze. “It had some sort of foul magic. She wouldn’t wake for days.”

“If it’s magic that we’re dealing with,” you glance at Thorin warily before continuing, “it might be a good idea to talk with the elves.”

“Absolutely not,” Thorin snaps. His lip curls in disgust. “I refuse to invite them to interfere in our private matters.”

Kíli’s eyes brighten. “What about Gandalf, then? Where would we find him?”

They all look to you. You close your eyes, teasing and tugging at the cobwebs that cloud the part of your mind where your Middle Earth knowledge is stored. “He’s… there’s no guarantee we even could find him. Gandalf doesn’t have a home, exactly. He wanders. They don’t call him the Grey Pilgrim for nothing.”

“So we don’t know where Gandalf is,” Fíli starts slowly, “but we do know where the elves are.”

“And Gandalf wasn’t in Mirkwood with us,” you add. “There’s no guarantee he even knows about the enchanted stream—but Thranduil definitely would.”

Thorin crosses his arms. “Out of the question.”

“Did you not make peace with Mirkwood?”

“Peace does not mean friendship,” Thorin retorts. His voice, raised in frustration, echoes off of the polished stone walls. Down another hallway, you hear a door slam. Thorin groans at the sound of approaching footsteps.

“And just what in Mahal’s name is everyone shouting about at this hour of night?”

A new dwarf steps into the firelight. In the dim light, she almost looks like a copy of Thorin. But as she approaches, you can see her features are softer, her eyes rounder, her beard thinner. And there’s no mistaking the Durin glare that she levels at Thorin, her blue eyes just as piercing as they are tired.

You glance at Fíli with uncertainty. He squeezes your hand and leans close to murmur in your ear. “It’s just Amad. Mother,” he translates when you don’t seem to understand.

Dís. You nod quickly.

Thorin looks at you, then back to his sister, standing with arms crossed and an eyebrow raised expectantly. As they exchange words in their rough native tongue, Dís’s expression of irritation turns to one of soft, motherly concern. She comes closer to you and gently brushes away a few strands of unruly hair from your face. “You must be tired, natha.”

“Daughter,” Fíli whispers.

“A bit,” you reply quietly, finding yourself suddenly shy with the full attention of a mother focused on you.

“Poor dove,” Dís tuts. She straightens up and pats you on the shoulder. “Fíli, take your lass back to bed. We will speak in the morning.” Thorin looks like he means to protest, but Dís silences him with an icy glare. Planting a kiss on the top of your head, she pushes Kíli and Thorin back down their opposite hallways. Fíli pats your hand and follows her quickly, his words in Khuzdûl fading as he gets further away.

Finally alone, you let out a long sigh. For the first time, you get the chance to look yourself over, to see what has changed. Your hair is longer, brushing the small of your back. When you run your fingers through it, you find braids styled to match Fíli’s. A dwarven marriage custom, perhaps? There’s a thin, gold band on your finger, too, lined with tiny sapphires that sparkle in the firelight. A little smile tugs at the corner of your mouth; at least you kept some piece of your own marriage customs.

And while Fíli has been bare-chested this whole time, you’re wearing a dark green shirt, no doubt one that used to be his. It’s long enough on you to serve as a nightgown. A blush rises on your face when you realize the deep v-neck exposes the dip between your breasts—and has been exposing it to everyone else this whole time.

“Amrâlimê?” Fíli’s voice from the hallway is soft. He pokes his head into the sitting room. “Aren’t you going to come to bed?”

You gnaw on your bottom lip, suddenly very interested in the fireplace. In anything that isn’t Fíli’s too-kind face. “Do you want me to?” you ask hesitantly.

It’s silent for a few seconds. Fíli sighs heavily and comes to kneel before you, taking your hands in his. “Y/N, you are my wife. Of course I want you to come to bed. It is our bed.” His eyes search yours, desperately looking for the light he knows should be there. “Do I not have your love?”

“I mean, sure,” you reply softly. Your voice is strained. “I just… I don’t understand how I have yours. You’re the crown prince, you’re perfect. And I’m just… me.”

“You are so much more than that,” Fíli murmurs. “You are everything to me.” He kisses your forehead and stands. Before you can say anything, you’re swept up in his arms. Startled, you instinctively wrap your arms around his neck to avoid falling, but he carries your smaller frame with ease.

You frown, remembering your observation from earlier. “Shouldn’t I be taller than you?”

“Ah. Well.” Fili’s chuckle makes his chest vibrate against your cheek. “That’s all that we thought the stream did. Make you properly sized.”

“Properly sized?” you repeat in disbelief. “You call this properly sized?”

“You complained about it endlessly,” Fíli continues. A playful smile tugs at his lips. “Until you realized how well you fit in my arms.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re very funny.”

“I’m also handsome, charming, brave…”

“Shut up.” You smack his shoulder lightly, but hide a smile as you tuck your head beneath his chin. Maybe you can get used to this.

But as he kicks open the door to his—your—room, and you see the bed with its rumpled covers, you tense.

“Y/N?” Fíli’s breath tickles your neck.

“It’s… just a lot, all at once,” you mumble.

He squeezes you, then lowers you gently to the bed. “I understand,” he murmurs.

“You really don’t, though.” Pent-up frustration simmers within you. “When’s the last time you fell into a stream, woke up, and found out a year had passed and you’re married?”

“Are you upset that we’re married?” Fíli asks, his face falling.

You feel a pang of guilt for snapping at him. This can’t be any easier for him. Running your hand through your tangled hair, you shake your head. “It feels like one moment, I was a girl with a crush, and then I wake up, and suddenly I’m a married woman. I’ve missed out on everything.”

“It’s in there, somewhere,” he whispers, stroking your cheek. You flinch away, your body unsure of how to react to his touch. Hurt flickers across his face, but he pulls back. “Can I fix your braids?” he asks. There’s desperation in his eyes.

Recognizing his need to touch you in whatever way he can, you nod slowly, and turn. The gentle, rhythmic tugging as he combs and re-braids your hair is hypnotic, and you find your eyelids drooping.

“There,” Fíli says, turning you back to him. He smiles sadly. “Beautiful as ever.”

Your heart aches. Whether it aches for him, the dwarf searching for his loving wife in the uncertain girl before him, or yourself, longing to be that loving wife, you do not know.

After a moment of hesitation, you lean in and reward him with a quick kiss on the cheek. His beard is prickly against your lips. “I’m tired,” you whisper when you draw back.

The kiss brings a real smile to his face, however small it may be. Fíli pulls back the covers and you wriggle underneath them. You settle into a dip worn down into the mattress from hundreds of nights before. Fíli slides into place behind you, his chest against your back. You stiffen slightly, but force yourself to relax.

“Is this alright?” His deep, quiet voice vibrates through your body.

You nod. He can have a little cuddle, as a treat. As an apology.

He takes that as a signal to test the limits further. You can tell he’s holding his breath as he drapes his arm over your waist. “Is this alright?”

“It’s cozy,” you mumble sleepily, letting the warmth of his body overwhelm you.

Fíli lets out his breath, pulling you tightly against him and nuzzling his face into your hair.

As you drift off, you do your best to pretend you don’t notice his quiet tears.

You began to stir, finding your face pressed into something warm and firm. As you tried to pull away to look around, you were met with resistance. You made a disgruntled noise.

“Y/N?!” Suddenly, a hand yanked your head backwards. Wide eyes searched your face frantically. You just barely registered who held you before he pulled you back in a crushing embrace. “I thought we’d lost you.”

“Fíli?” you mumbled, your voice muffled by his coat. “Can’t breathe.”

He released you, finally letting you get your bearings. The two of you were alone in a small, stone cell. Torchlight flickered just outside the wrought iron bars, casting a dim, orange light into your cell.

A shadow crossed over the door. “Oh, so she is alive. Here, then.” An apple landed on the ground in front of you, followed by a waterskin. “That’s the most you get until tomorrow. Make it last.” The shadow retreated, footsteps echoing down a long hallway.

Pieces began to slot into place in your mind. You nodded slowly. Mirkwood, elves, imprisonment. “How long have we been in here?”

“A few days at most, given how often they’ve brought food and water. But it’s hard to tell.” Fíli seemed distracted, eyes scanning your body. “How do you feel?”

You frowned and patted yourself up and down. “A bit sore, but I think I’m fine.” You untangled yourself from Fíli and tried to stand on shaky legs, your knees instantly failing beneath you.

Immediately, he jumped up and grabbed your waist from behind to steady you. “Y/N?” His voice was soft. “Y/N, please do not be alarmed when you turn around.”

“What?” You twisted in his grasp and looked up into his concerned face.

Up. You had to tilt your head up to meet his eyes. He was big. You tried to back away but the space was so narrow, you collided with the wall after just a single step. “You’re taller,” you stated, almost robotically. “But you’re a dwarf. You can’t be taller than me. I’m supposed to be the taller one. How did you get taller?”

“I did not get taller,” he corrected you. “You got smaller.”

You just stared at him blankly. Fíli sighed, gently taking hold of your arm and easing you back to the ground. He took the apple from the floor and placed it in your hand. “Eat,” he ordered quietly. “You haven’t had any food in days. It was hard enough to get water into you.”

Instead, you rolled it between your palms absentmindedly. “How long was I out?”

“Just over a week. We were trying to cross a stream, and you fell in.”

“Instead of Bombur,” you interjected.

Fíli raised an eyebrow. “If you say so. Glóin managed to snag you,” he continues, “and when he pulled you out, you were… well, smaller. But you wouldn’t wake up. You even slept through the spiders. I was so afraid that you were gone before I could tell you–” he broke off, his voice thick. He tore his eyes away from yours, a blush rising on his face.

“What?” You reached out and took hold of his chin, turning his face back to you. Yet his eyes still avoided you. You crawled closer, kneeling between his outstretched legs. Your traitorous heart pounded hopefully against your ribs. “Tell me what, Fee?”

He shook his head. “No, no, it’s foolish. I shouldn’t… you wouldn’t…” Finally, he looked back up at you. “I love you?” He phrased it as a question, his blue eyes filled with hesitation. It was strangely endearing, seeing the normally confident prince so bashful. Fíli lifted a cautious hand to your cheek, fingers just barely brushing your skin.

Surprise temporarily robbed you of your voice. Mistaking your silence for rejection, Fíli quickly pulled his hand away. Shame and hurt flashed across his face. “Forgive me,” he blurted out, ducking his head. “I should not burden you with feelings you can never return.” He pulled his legs back in and moved further into the shadowy recesses of the cell.

But you crawled after him, refusing to let him go that easily. “Fíli, why didn’t you say anything?” When he remained silent, you wound your fingers up in one of his braids and tugged, forcing him to turn his head towards you. “Why are you so sure that I can’t feel the same?”

A cautious spark of hope flared to life in his eyes. “Because you’re perfect, you’re beautiful,” he murmured. “You deserve so much more than I can give.”

You smiled, eyes tracing his face. The gold locks that framed it, the sky blue eyes, the flushed cheeks. And those soft, pink lips, parted ever so slightly as he awaited your next words.

But words were the furthest thing from your mind. Refusing to hold back any longer, you grabbed Fíli by the collar, lunging forward to claim his mouth.

His eyes widened, then fluttered shut as his hands grabbed at your waist. Fíli pulled you back into his lap and wrapped his arms around you, reaching up to comb through your tangled hair with his fingers.

A rock clanged against the bars of your cell. “Get a room!” came Kíli’s voice, echoing down the hall.

You broke away with a laugh. “This is a room!”

It’s true; in your own world you had adored Tolkien’s stories, making it an even bigger shock when you found yourself thrust into them. Although the longer you spend in Middle Earth, the more the exact story beats begin to slip from your head. Probably for the best, as you don’t want to accidentally let any details of future events slip out, lest you change what happens. By now the recollections are just whispers in the back of your mind, images that could be no more than dreams.

You still remember snatches of your companions, though, and Boromir’s gaze certainly makes you squirm the most. He has been nothing but cordial, but you can’t seem to shake your dread of his eventual fate. The exact cause is fuzzy by now, but you know it will not be a pleasant experience. Only Gandalf seems to notice your nerves. Thankfully, he remains quiet.

You shake your head to clear your thoughts and open up your backpack. It’s almost funny, seeing your colorful, modern belongings compared to some of your companions’ more rudimentary items. Pippin had been especially enamored with your flashlight, which he still wears proudly hung on his belt.

And speaking of, Pippin plops down next to you with a grin. “What else you got in there?” he says, in lieu of a greeting. Merry crawls over as well, peering over your shoulder. Aragorn’s gaze flits curiously in your direction, an eyebrow raised.

You return Pippin’s smile, rummaging through your bag for another novelty to amuse the hobbit, though you pointedly leave your phone nestled at the bottom. You haven’t touched it since Rivendell when you, as the sole lady of the party, were given a private room. The battery was still full, and you had the sense to pack a battery bank, good for just about two more full charges. But it seemed a bit too modern, a bit too far-fetched to show to your companions just yet. Just as your hand closes around a small lighter, you hear a frustrated grunt from Boromir as he tosses aside the piece of flint he had been using to start the fire, broken into an unusably small shard. Your face lights up. Finally, you have something useful to show the Fellowship.

You rise to your feet, keenly aware of how close you are to the Gondorian’s sword as you crouch down next his pile of kindling. “Let me try something,” you offer. “This should do the trick.”

Boromir looks first at you, then at the lighter in your hand skeptically, but he shifts aside.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you flick the lighter’s wheel, bringing a small flame to life. It startles Boromir, who jerks away from you. Stifling a chuckle, you carefully light the bundle of twigs and leaves, blowing gently to encourage the flames as they engulf the bundle of kindling. You place a triangle of logs on top, stand, and dust off your hands proudly. Gandalf hides a smile as you look down at a dumbfounded Boromir.

“What sort of sorcery–” his question is cut off by a loud alarm coming from your backpack.

Chaos ensues. Aragorn and Boromir are on their feet instantly, swords drawn as they look around wildly for the source of the noise. Merry and Pippin jump away from your bag. Legolas crouches by the edge of the clearing, looking like a cat ready to pounce on whatever reveals itself. Frodo and Sam are frozen against a tree, staring at your backpack in fear. Gimli comes stomping back into the clearing from where he had started to take watch in the trees, brandishing his axe. Gandalf rises from the ground with a cautious hand on his staff.

You lunge for your bag with a yell, scrabbling to reach your phone and quiet the blaring noise. It stops abruptly and you heave a sigh. “S-sorry,” you whisper meekly as the rest of the Fellowship begin to lower their weapons. “I forgot I had turned it on.” You finally pull your phone out in front of them for the first time, raising it shakily to show them the silenced alarm.

“What in Durin’s name is that thing?” Gimli grunts, slinging his axe onto his back.

“It’s, uh, my phone.” You start to put it away, but it’s snatched out of your grasp by Merry, staring at it in wonder.

“What’s it do?” he asks, turning it over in his hands and clicking the buttons on the side.

“Give it back!” you snap. You yank back it from him, starting to shove it back into your backpack. “You wouldn’t be able to get into it anyway. It’s password-protected.”

“Actually, I believe we would be interested in whatever strange item you’ve brought with you, Lady Y/N,” Gandalf says quietly, but firmly. It’s clearly not a request. “If nothing else to ensure it doesn’t attract unwanted attention.”

His tone is light, but you understand the warning beneath it. Reluctantly you retrieve the phone, sighing as you think of the best way to explain a device far more advanced than anything Middle Earth has ever seen. “Right, uh…” you trail off, shifting uncomfortably as the party draws in closer to you to see your presentation. You clear your throat. “This is a smartphone. It’s, well, it’s honestly one of the most useful things you can have in my world. The original purpose is for communication.” The phone lights up beneath your touch and you quickly tap in your password to reveal the screen, full of colorful boxes.

“If I press a certain button, I can talk into it, and someone else with a phone can hear what I’m saying, anywhere in the world. Or I could send a miniature letter that they receive instantly.” A smile spreads across your face. Everyone is staring at you raptly. Even Gandalf raises an eyebrow as he puffs a few smoke rings from his pipe.

“It does lots of other things, too. There’s dozens of books on it, games, pictures of my friends. And my music, of course.”

“Music?” Aragorn perks up at that. The ranger had proven himself quite the musician during your stay in Rivendell. You often caught glimpses of him in Elrond’s courtyard, playing a flute with surprising elegance given his normally rough exterior.

“Can we hear some?” Sam added eagerly.

You frown, scrolling through your songs. Your library is vast, but you don’t want to startle them with anything too… different. “I’d have to find something suitable,” you reply slowly. Then your face lights up. “I’ve got one! Here, make room.” You stand and gesture for your companions to move to the edge of the clearing, leaving a generous space in the middle. Fingers moving quickly across the keyboard, you select the perfect song and turn the volume all the way up. Their eyes widen as the plucking of guitar strings drift from the little box.

You set it down gently, chuckling as you put aside your nerves and stretch a hand out towards Boromir. “Dance with me,” you beckon.

He stands, cautiously taking your outstretched hand.

There will come a soldier, who carries a mighty sword

He will tear your city down,

Oh lei, oh lai, oh lord

Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh lord

He will tear your city down

Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh lord

You lead Boromir in a lively dance, not really caring for proper dance moves as you spin about your makeshift dance floor. Gimli begins clapping along to the beat, prompting the others to join in. Even Frodo, whose face has been troubled since leaving Rivendell, smiles and slaps his thigh. Boromir allows a smile to slip through his composed mask. You drop into an over-dramatic curtsey as the verse ends and you look for your next partner.

“Pippin! You next!”

The hobbit leaps to his feet eagerly.

There will come a poet, whose weapon is his word

He will slay you with his tongue,

Oh lei, oh lai, oh lord

Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh lord

He will slay you with his tongue,

Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh lord

This time you are the one spinning him, given the difference in height. “Why’m I the poet?” he pipes up as you twirl him around.

“You’ll see,” you whisper. Images flash through your mind: Denethor, Pippin’s oath, his song, his pleas for Faramir’s life.

Releasing him as his verse comes to an end, your eyes fall on your obvious next victim and your breath hitches. The king. Aragorn locks gazes with you, face unreadable as you pull at his hand. He pushes himself to his feet, stepping carefully past the hobbits to join you.

There will come a ruler, whose brow is laid in thorn,

Smeared with oil like David’s boy,

Oh lei, oh lai, oh lord

Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh lord

Smeared with oil like David’s boy,

Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh lord

Though the biblical references may be lost on the man, the meaning certainly is not. Aragorn leads the dance this time, twirling you with surprising grace and dipping you down. You can feel his warm breath on your cheek, faces so close your noses almost touch. He leans close and plants a small, soft kiss on your forehead, so quick you wonder if you’d merely imagined it.

Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh lord

He will tear your city down, oh lei, oh lai,

Oh lord

Aragorn releases you and gives a small, elegant bow. “A pleasure to dance with you, m’lady.”

Your face grows hot, and you stammer back a thank you. The music continues on, and you drag the other Fellowship members to their feet one by one to help you finish out the rest of the song, though you keep sneaking glances at Aragorn. The ranger, the king reclines against a tree, his dark gray eyes never leaving yours. As the song ends, he finally gives you a smile.

The opening notes of another song fill the air, and you look around at your companions—no, your friends.

“Shall we dance to another?”