Soldier, Poet, King
A moment of levity and dancing as the Fellowship sets off on their quest
Silver moonlight begins to pierce through the leaves as the Fellowship gathers in the small grove hidden among the trees. The first day of travel after leaving Rivendell had been grueling; Gandalf insisted on continuing until sunset, and you had always been more of a biker than a distance-walker.
You drop your backpack to the ground with a thud and a sigh of relief, settling against the roots of an ancient, gnarled elm. Thankfully the conversation of the journey so far has been light-hearted, thanks mainly to the antics of the hobbits—and yourself, you admit with a wry smile. You always did think that you’d get along best with Merry and Pippin, and you have not been disappointed.
Boromir, Legolas, and Gimli still throw curious looks your way when they think you aren’t looking. You don’t blame them. Your story of waking up among Aragorn and the hobbits just before the events on Weathertop made just as little sense to them as it did to you. You wore strange, colorful clothing and though your pack was filled for a camping trip, they recognized little of your supplies. And you? A strange, young woman who seem to know far more about the rest of the Fellowship than you have any business knowing.
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?”
A/N: this was an older piece from when I first started writing Middle Earth fanfiction in early 2022. I don’t care for it much now, and find it cringey in terms of writing style, and how it’s such an obvious author-insert, but I was deep in the throes of Aragorn/Reader fics. I still like the concept though.
