jkthiighs

[jkthiighs]

I fell into LotR - chapter 3 || [x reader]

❀lord of the rings/fellowship men x reader (eventually) ➔classic 'girl fell into middle earth' plotline. self indulgent ❀ word count ; 4.7k

The Secret Council.

        You didn’t remember going to bed that night. Only that the sheets were softer than an angel's feathers, and sleep took you like a tide. Morning came quietly, light filtering through the archway, soft and gold, painting the walls in a slow-moving warmth. It took a long while to will yourself awake, having rather just lie there for an eternity in a daze, but you knew there was work to be done. The anticipation of meeting the Fellowship roiling in your chest shoved away all thoughts of staying. 

        You sat up slowly, pushing your hair back and rubbing the tiredness from your eyes, taking a second to notice the gift at the foot of your bed: your new garments folded neatly, their arrival so silent it was like they appeared with the dawn itself. A smile spread to your face as you took them in. 

        The crimson robe was flawless, dyed exactly how you described, and stitched with such fine thread that it shimmered faintly like embers. The hakama was charcoal-dark, pleated with reverent symmetry, and with it, the obi belt lay coiled like a serpent beside them: slate gray, with delicate cord overlay in braided ivory. She had added her own final touch—a soft, navy shoulder wrap with an embroidered edge.

        You pressed your palm against the fabric. It was real. All of it. It made all of last night’s regrets single-handedly disappear. For the moment, anyway. When you dragged yourself out of bed and got dressed, it was its own sort of ritual. A habit you’d learned in Jin’s life. You wrapped yourself slowly, each layer grounding, securing your belt tightly to hold it all together. A part of it was missing, though; your weapons. You remembered from the films that the other council members had been armed during the meeting, so why couldn’t you? First impressions were important, after all. 

        When you were finally ready to leave your quarters, you asked the guards stationed outside ever so nicely to take you to their lord so that you might join the council. Luckily, they obliged without protest and led you along silently. Daybreak was perhaps more exquisite than the evening, with the morning rays casting pillars of light through the trees, rivaled only by the sight of songbirds dancing through them. There was no questioning why Bilbo, or anyone for that matter, would want to live out the rest of their days here. Speaking of that hobbit, you should like to meet him if given the chance, if only to offer condolences for his fallen friends. Though you didn’t know if that would be odd coming from a random girl too young to know either of them.

        When you arrived at Elrond’s chamber, he was by himself and looked to be in the middle of leaving. You noticed someone had moved your weapons to another table, having obviously inspected them, since their scabbards were off and the blades gleamed in the sunlight. The elf paid you little mind when you entered, only offering a glance in your direction. “Ah, Lady (Y/N). You’re just in time. The meeting is about to begin.” His voice carried all the fake courtesies of a Lord dealing with something, or rather someone, he’d preferably avoid. You thought perhaps you might’ve touched a nerve when you mentioned his daughter, Arwen. 

        “I came to offer my apologies.” Your voice was quiet in a way of trying to be unprovoking. That made him pause for a moment. “When I first arrived, I was disoriented, and I fear I may have been a bit…vague. And possibly a bit…disrespectful. I hope you might forgive me any transgressions, as I’m not practiced in the art of proper etiquette.” 

        Elrond turned your way, looking over your face as if trying to gauge your sincerity. Eventually, he nodded a slow acknowledgment. Perhaps a reluctant acceptance. “To be clear, it’s not your lack of manners I take issue with. It is the questionable circumstances in which you arrived, and the timing of it all.” The elf straightened a bit. His tone was curt, but his gaze was more…pitying. Not in the wounded animal sort of way, but in the ‘it’s not your fault’ kind. “However…Gandalf has since vouched for your presence, so from this moment forth, consider yourself an official guest here in Imladris.” He smiled then. A soft, tired smile that didn’t reach his eyes. It was appreciated all the same. You gave a grateful bow of your head. 

        You felt the need to explain why you couldn’t give any details or clarification on your being here, but if the wizard was protecting you, you saw no reason to spoil that. Plus, you literally couldn’t; your new master wouldn’t let you, and you hardly had any answers yourself. Instead, you offered a genuine ‘thanks’. 

        “Come, let us join the others. You may walk with me.” Elrond was damn near out the door already, simply expecting you to follow, however when he saw you hesitate, he faltered. 

        “Yes, do you mind if I—just,” You were considering between asking for approval or simply gathering your things, but you had learned over the years that it's better to ask for forgiveness than permission. “Just a moment, please.” Decided, you strode over to your array of weapons on the stone table. The guards exchanged nervous glances with each other before looking to their lord for guidance. He only stood there, watching. Unsure if your boldness impressed him or irritated him. 

        You were happy to finally see them in the daylight. The katana's curved blade, polished obsidian, reflected light on the faint wave pattern etched near the edge. Its scabbard was a deep black lacquer, interrupted by inlays of silver vines and ivory petals curling along the grain; crimson tassels burst from their bindings, frayed at the tips like feathers soaked in blood. Its companion blade mirrored the same build, smaller but just as sharp. You secured the katana first, sliding it into your obi on your left hip, the curve facing up. The wakizashi followed just behind it, crossing the same side but set at a slight downward angle for quick reach. You left your bows and other blades since you weren’t setting out on the journey on this day, though you were eager to get started. Once you read that the fellowship doesn’t set out for around two months after the council, which gives you plenty of time to train and perhaps get cozy with your soon-to-be companions. 

        Elrond raised an unimpressed brow at you. “Forsee to be needing those?” He asked, only half amused. Thankfully, he had no energy to stop you.

        You couldn’t hide the grin that spread across your cheeks. It was nice to at last have something that instilled confidence. “You know what they say: ‘dress to kill.’” The elf only offered a small hum in return, as if to say ‘do they say that?’, before turning on his heel and striding out the door in that graceful way that only leaders could. You followed quickly behind, forearm resting on the hilt of your blades. There were many things you wanted to ask the immortal, but as the two of you walked, the silence became so heavy that breaking it seemed impossible. Besides, one does not simply make small talk with someone so…legendary. 

        Finally, finally, you made it to the hidden stone grove where the meeting was to take place. The small platform had only a stone table in the middle with twenty or so seats, surrounded by Elvish statues and littered with fallen leaves. Secluded, yet serene. Most of those who were invited had already arrived, but your eyes searched for the ones you could recognize. Gandalf, with his staff, sitting next to the smaller-than-anticipated Frodo Baggins, struck you first. The hobbit looked anxious, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Next to them sat Legolas, hidden between similar-looking blond-haired elves and the dwarves past them were hard to miss, but seeing everyone put a smile on your face. Fire-haired Gimli looked the spitting image of his father, who was apparently in Rivendell, though you did not spot him here. Boromir sat lazily in his chair, and besides Aragorn, you didn’t recognize any of the other men that came. Perhaps they were important, but you weren’t here for them, so they didn’t matter.

        When you had entered the space, Elrond took his place in front of the lead council chair and left you standing awkwardly by yourself with a star-struck look on your face. It was hard to contain your excitement with so many personable men in one place. In your defense, this was every fan’s dream, and here you were living it. You had a mission, sure. But man, you just wanted to enjoy the moment. You bit the inside of your cheek to remind yourself of your manners and quietly stood in the open space between Frodo and Elrond. Quite a few gave you curious glances, but you paid them no mind. Tried not to, at least. You could see from the way they looked at you, with furrowed brows and quiet murmurs to those who sat next to them, their unspoken questions were obvious: ‘Who is she?’ and ‘Why is she here?’ Still, no one dared give voice to it, seeing as you walked in with the Master of Rivendell himself. 

        Gandalf gave you a polite nod as a greeting, and you returned a kind smile. It was then that Elrond’s voice broke through the silence and commanded everyone’s attention. “Strangers from distant lands, friends of old. You’ve been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor. Middle-earth stands upon the brink of destruction. None can escape it. You will unite or you will fall.” 

        You may have only seen the movies in full twice at most, but there were some scenes you had memorised word for word, and this was one of them. You could hear what each of them would say before it even came from their mouths, and it took a tremendous amount of self-control to stop yourself from muttering the words alongside them. As Elrond continued, you wondered if your presence here would change any of the dialogue. 

        “Each race is bound to this fate, this one doom. Bring forth the Ring, Frodo.” 

        On cue, the hobbit rose from his seat and placed the Ring on the stone table for everyone to see. Boromir was immediately entranced, sitting upright in his chair the moment he laid eyes upon it. “So it is true,” you heard him mutter. Well, less heard and more predicted. Frodo took his chair again, quiet and uneasy. You knew the depiction of the ring as whispering, ever luring—seducing, but despite your best efforts to focus, you heard nothing. It sat there on the table, as still as any plain old ring would be. But it clearly affected Boromir. He stood, starting his little speech. You didn’t care to listen; you were busy observing the others. The way Legolas straightened in his chair, the nervous glances exchanged between Gandalf and Elrond, Aragorn’s hand twitching as it subtly grips the arm of his seat. Even Gimli seemed a bit hypnotized by the Ring with the way he was staring at it. When the false heir to Gondor reached out, the wizard and half-elf both jumped from their seats, but it was Gandalf’s voice that made the world spin. Black Speech. 

        As he chanted, the skies themselves darkened, disorientating every person present. It sent you stumbling backward, nauseous. You knew it was coming, but nothing could have prepared you for the sheer dread it instilled. Most seemed to share your sentiment. When Gandalf finished, the light returned, and that sickening feeling vanished as fast as it came.

        “Never before has any voice uttered the words of that tongue here in Imladris.” Elrond was quick to chastise the old man, which apparently was not uncommon. “I do not ask your pardon, Master Elrond. For the Black Speech of Mordor may yet be heard in every corner of the West! The Ring is altogether evil.” The wizard’s voice was so final in its tone that there was no room for argument. Of course, Boromir disagreed. Loudly. This started the exchange between Aragorn, Legolas and Boromir. It was captivating to watch, even more so than the Ring; the tension was so thick you could pluck it like string. However, you knew in your heart you should intervene and speak up. But how could you? When? What would you even say? ‘I know your futures, but don’t ask for proof. I can’t give it to you.’ or ‘This petty squabbling is what breaks the fellowship.’ but that would be a spoiler, wouldn’t it? Unfortunately, someone else already made the choice for you. 

        After the three took their seats, Gandalf spoke. “Aragorn is right. We cannot use it.” A part of you wondered why anyone would consider that in the first place, but it was most likely explained by temptation. Elrond’s voice cut through once again. “You have only one choice:” the half-elf continued. “The Ring must be destroyed. Luckily for you all, there is a clairvoyant among us who has already seen this path.” He gestured to you then, a slow, wide arc of his hand that turned all heads in your direction. Your stomach dropped. “She claims to have seen the fate of the One Ring, among…others. So please tell us, Lady (Y/N), how should we proceed?” 

        The sound of your heart thudding in your chest had to be so loud that you were sure everyone could hear it. It was one thing to make up a lie in front of two beings, but with an entire room full of people staring at you, it was a genuine test of your nerves. A nervous chuckle escaped you before you could stifle it, holding up your palms as if in surrender. “Aha, well…I uh, we—hmm.” You brought your hand to your mouth, shuffling uncomfortably as you reached for something, anything. “We…aren’t at that part yet,” was all you managed. Because you weren’t. If you were to reveal anything about future ‘scenes’, you planned to do so after the fellowship was formed. 

        Boromir let out a dry scoff, not so subtly rolling his eyes while others furrowed their brows. Gandalf looked at you, puzzled. “What do you mean, my lady?” 

        You tried to remain still, but your habit of fidgeting took up again, this time with the hilt of your blade. “There are…some choices that need to be made free of influence.” You avoided looking at anyone in particular, continuing. “Once a ring-bearer has been chosen, I may have more…input.” You had to choose your words extremely carefully. You were warned not to reveal any major events, but you could act as a guiding hand to steer them in a safer direction. 

        Gimi grumbled before standing. “What need have we for a witch? Let us be done with this!” He grabbed his axe, bringing down a heavy, overhand swing onto the Ring. The blade shattered like glass, throwing the dwarf backwards on his ass and making Frodo wince like he took the hit himself. You, as well as Gandalf, turned to the hobbit in concern. Elrond went on to explain how no weapon here could destroy the ring, and what they must do to be rid of it. You tuned in again when he said, “One of you must do this,” because that meant your favorite line was coming up. 

        “One does not simply walk into Mordor,” Boromir said with an exasperated look on his face. You whispered the words alongside him under your breath, a little smile tugging at your lips. He continued his monologue, which sparked Legolas to jump from his seat. 

        “Have you heard nothing Lord Elrond has said? The Ring must be destroyed.” His eyes looked toward everyone present, but it was Gimli who responded first.

        “And I suppose you think you’re the one to do it?” 

        This was no laughing matter to be sure, but you just couldn’t wipe the grin off your face. Dwarves really were all alike in their hatred of elves, but with Gimli, it seemed a bit more personal. You wouldn’t be surprised if Glóin told him about the Company’s treatment in Mirkwood, and that’s why he’s so quick to shout ���never trust an elf!”. Of course, this sparked the near whole of the council into argument, all shouting at each other. Gandalf sighed before being drawn into the discussion, leaving Frodo by himself. In the dull roar of voices, you even heard your name being tossed around under scrutiny, some questioning your presence, your worth. It caused doubt to seep into your mind, because even you didn’t know what the plan was, or what you were doing. All you knew is that you wanted to improve the lives of everyone here and protect the fellowship, perhaps make their lives a little easier and save one altogether. 

        But there was no time to think, for this was the moment you were waiting for, and you simply stood back while you watched the young hobbit. After a few moments, he got up and said, “I will take it.” 

        No one seemed to hear him at first, so he repeated: “I will take the Ring to Mordor.” The entire room fell silent as everyone present turned to look at the one braver than them all. Gandalf seemed to have a look of pity when he gazed towards Frodo, but as realization set in, he looked to you and then to Elrond as if to confirm. What you had said before; ‘travel alongside the hobbit’ turned out to be true, but surely this was some fluke, right? The younger Baggins continued: “...though, I do not know the way.”

        All nine companions rallied behind Frodo then, including the three other hobbits that had been hiding nearby. It was truly heartwarming to watch, and you were content simply to observe as if you were standing on the set of the film, but again you had to remind yourself that all this was real, and you had to speak up if you wanted to be included. ‘Nine companions,’ you knew Elrond to say, but you mean to make the tenth. You stuffed your hesitation, your fear of rejection as deep down as it could go, and finally spoke. 

        “A ring-bearer has been chosen, and so I’m sure you’re all wondering what input I might possibly have.” Your voice broke the silence and gathered the attention of everyone present. The nine turned to face you as well. You gave a soft smile to the hobbits, who were all looking up at you so inquisitively. Pippin leaned toward Merry, whispering with wide eyes, “Is she a warrior or a fancy bandit?”

        Merry tilted his head. “She’s dressed like none I’ve ever seen… and what kind of sword curves like that?”

        Sam, ever practical, squinted down at your feet. “Are those… straw shoes?”

        You were used to negative inquires, but this was…so refreshing. Their quips made you smile, and as you gazed down at them, you found it hard not to answer. Maybe just because they looked so genuinely puzzled. “Waraji,” you murmured, trying not to let them distract you, though your resolve wavered.

        Pippin blinked. “Bless you?” Frodo next to him said nothing—he just watched you quietly, his gaze a little too knowing for someone so small.

        You bit your cheek to keep yourself from laughing and took a deep breath before finally continuing. “I cannot tell you the day you’ll die, or who will fall in battles to come. But I do know these things. I’ve seen the path—not in ink or riddles, but in fire and blood. When your courage fails, I will remind you why you carry this burden. When enemies swarm, I will be the shadow that fells them before you think to reach for your blade. And when doubt takes you—I won’t. My goal is simple: to ease the load, to make your lives easier. To ensure you still have a life when the Ring is destroyed. What need have you for a witch? None. I am a ghost—a guide. I ask that you might allow me to walk beside you on this journey to come.” 

        There was a beat of silence. Then Merry, tilting his head, muttered to Pippin just loud enough for others to hear, “Well, that’s not something you hear every day.” Pippin squinted up at you. “She doesn’t look like a ghost. Ghosts are usually see-through, aren’t they?”

        “She’s got all her limbs,” Sam added, reasonably.

        “And teeth,” Pippin chimed in. “Mostly.”

        You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you, soft and stunned. They were ridiculous. Endearing. And completely unfazed. The rest of the council, though, weren’t as nearly light-hearted. Some might have missed it, but Elrond did not. You said ‘when’ the Ring is destroyed, not ‘if.’ The half-elf spoke, retaking the room's attention. “First, nine have come forward to guard the Ring-bearer, and now a tenth. War never has obeyed tidy numbers—so be it. Let her be counted among you, and be named ‘The Fellowship of the Ring.’”

        You could damn near hear the music swell as relief washed over you. The others seemed pleased—or at the very least, curious. Merry and Frodo looked amused. Aragorn gave a small nod. And Pippin, of course, beamed. “Good,” he said brightly, practically bouncing in place. “So, where are we going?”

        Your grin was stuck on your face, your heart lighter than it had been in the last day. From what you remembered, this was where the Council scene ended in the movies—but apparently, there was much more left to discuss. Elrond had everyone retake their seats again to address logistics, preparations, and scouting. You wished desperately that you'd read the books instead of only watching the films, because everyone else was listening attentively while you sat quietly, hardly retaining a single word.

        The meeting finished in the evening, but several members took their leave hours before. At the end, only you and the ‘more capable leaders,’ as Pippin had cheerfully put it, remained: Elrond, Gandalf, Aragorn, and Boromir. The four of them staring at you put your heart in your throat, and you couldn't think straight under their scrutiny, let alone sit still. They asked you many questions; some you didn’t know the answers to and others you physically couldn’t say, but they didn’t seem vexed, for there were some questions you could answer. 

        It was the half-elf that began cautiously. “We believe that the Nine have fled the Ford, however, I plan to send my sons to confirm. If your foresight is as you say, then tell us: should we fear their return before you leave Imladris?” 

        Your first thought wasn’t an answer, but ‘how many kids does this guy have and who is his wife?’ The films had never touched on that. You furrowed your brows as you tried to focus. “They’ve withdrawn for now, but we’ll see them again, eventually. Your scouts will tell you the same after you send them.” He nodded slowly, satisfied for the moment, but Gandalf leaned forward, keen-eyed and thoughtful.

        “But what of the mountain pass? Does the road through Caradhras remain clear enough to risk? Or will it deny us?” 

        You tilted your head slightly. “Is that the road the Company took after they left Rivendell? The one with the rock giants?” The words he mentioned were foreign, but you could picture the moment he’s talking about; fellowship half buried in snow, debating if they should press on or travel through Moria. Only two of the four knew what you were talking about, and as Elrond looked at you with confusion, Gandalf shook his head. “No child, that is the High Pass. We speak of Caradhras.” As if that helped clear things up. The wizard wondered why your mind was so focused on the dwarves, but also how you even knew that detail. 

        “Oh,” you said while shifting in your seat. “Then no, snow and storm await us there. I don’t think its wholly impassable—not immediately. Still, we should assume hardship.” 

        Boromir took that moment to voice his own concerns—concerns that had clearly plagued him deeply. “What of Gondor?” he asked urgently, eyes sharp with a bit of distrust mixed with anxiety. “Does the White City stand strong as we speak?”

        In truth, you knew little about his story besides his death. He wasn’t one of the members you really paid attention to, but now, with him sitting in front of you, you felt only sadness. ‘Is he fated to die, or can I save him? How much would change if I step in front of the arrows?’ “Yes,” you replied softly, offering reassurance as best you could without breaking the rules. “Gondor is fine, for now.”

        Boromir seemed to breathe a quiet sigh of relief, but he pressed further, almost hesitant. “And my father—does the Steward remain strong in mind and will?”

        That one was more complicated. ‘Yeah but after you die he kinda goes off the rails and sends your brother on a suicide mission’ You took a deep breath before nodding, offering a small smile. “He is strong, but the strain of war will weigh heavily upon him. He’ll need your courage when you return.” 

        Your words seemed to soothe Boromir slightly, and Aragorn, quiet until now, spoke up thoughtfully: “The Gap of Rohan and Isengard—should we fear treachery there? Are those roads safe enough to consider?”

        By gods, did you need a map to look at just to keep up. You knew the words and the visuals of these places, but it seemed like it was getting more complicated by the second. ‘This inquisition was a bad idea.’ Something deep down told you that was something you couldn’t reveal—not yet. “The roads are dangerous, and there is trouble ahead in those lands from places you wouldn’t expect. That’s all I can safely say.” 

        The four of them were considering your words with a lot more insight than what you spoke them with, though it made sense, you supposed. This was an important mission, and your meddling might make things better or worse if you weren’t careful. Despite your fatigue, the questions continued; weather and safe resting spots, provisioning, resupply, and threats. All things you could generally answer without risk. Simple things that would not alter critical decisions but would help them greatly in their immediate planning. Of course, if you revealed too much, time would simply pause and you’d have to start over. Eventually, your responses grew shorter, brain positively fried from trying to remember every detail of the films. Finally, Elrond held up a gentle hand. 

        “You have told us enough for now,” he said quietly. “Rest. We have asked much of you.”

        “Oh, thank god.” You whispered under your breath, relieved beyond measure. Though you winced slightly as you realized he more than likely heard you. You murmured a grateful farewell before stepping away, quickly following the winding path back to Rivendell’s halls and to your room. There were no guards this time, and after you stepped into your chambers, you stood in the silence for a long moment, absorbing everything that had happened. A slow smile spread across your face, widening into something bright and genuine as it truly sank in. This was it—you were a member of the Fellowship. Every fan’s dream now your reality. 

        Despite everything, you couldn’t help but feel a thrill of excitement. Sure, you had preferred the journey with Thorin’s Company, but this? This was something more. Something real, and infinitely more terrifying. You stepped toward the balcony, resting your hands on the smooth stone railing, gazing into the gentle twilight of Rivendell. 

        The thought of changing fate haunted you, spoiling your excitement like an unwanted shadow. Your intervention—however well-intentioned—could shatter the timeline and destroy Middle-earth. What if your attempts at protection led to ruin? What if, in your naivety, you saved the wrong life or changed the wrong detail? Your stomach twisted at the thought. Your fingertips traced the elegant hilt of your katana, the blade a comforting weight against your side. Jin Sakai’s memories lingered, steadying your heart even in doubt. “Just don’t mess it up,” you whispered to yourself softly, voice swallowed by the evening air. You straightened, breathing deeply. Fear and excitement warred within you, but for now, excitement won.

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[jkthiighs]

I fell into LotR - chapter 2 || [x reader]

❀lord of the rings/fellowship men x reader (eventually) ➔classic 'girl fell into middle earth' plotline. self indulgent ❀ word count ; 4.4k disclaimer: this chapter might feel weird but it'll make sense in the long run TRUST TRUST

Ensnared. 

       You really should have thought this through. Of course, they would ask for proof; in fact, it would have been suspicious if they hadn’t. So why couldn’t you produce an answer? Anything would do–anything inconsequential. Your mind raced through the timeline of the movies, teeth catching the skin of your lip, searching for something that could suffice. Meanwhile, Gandalf and Elrond were staring you down expectantly, impatiently even, as they waited for your reply. Surely, this woman did not possess more foresight than a sorcerer's capacity? Even more so than the Elven race? 

        “Well, I could tell you of the council members you invited? There's Legolas, son of Thranduil. Gimli, son of Glóin, or Boromir, son of… Well–I’ve forgotten his father's name, but I know he's the steward to… uh, Gondor. A-and he has a brother named Faramir. There’s Aragorn, son of Arathorn II and heir to Isildur. The hobbits–” You had started rambling, but the half-elf cut you off. 

        “Clever words from a clever tongue. Yet cleverness is no proof of innocence. This does not attest to your claim to see the future,” He started. “It only deepens the suspicion that you are a spy. Perhaps in the service of Sauron himself.” 

        Gandalf raised a hand in your defense. “Now, now, Elrond. Lady, uh–what is your name, by chance?”

        “(Y/N).” You offered quietly.

        “Lady (Y/N) deserves a chance to speak in her defense, and perhaps, uh, offer explanations. You and I know very well not everything is as it appears.” Gandalf spoke with a cadence that was slow and steady, and yet a ghost of a smile haunted the corners of his words, a mischief buried just deep enough to wonder if you were imagining it. 

        They don’t trust you, and why would they? You needed something more convincing. “I… I could tell you of your daughter’s decision, Lord Elrond, and your grandchild that results from it. But it’s nothing you haven’t seen yourself, and it does not break your heart any less.” You were fidgeting again, this time with the silk of the tablecloth that was draped around you. ‘Might as well just get it over with, right? What’s the worst that could happen?’

         “I’m sure you’d rather I just tell you about the ring, though... Well,” You took a deep breath before looking the two immortals square in the eye. “Frodo gets the ring to Mordor, but he isn’t the one who destroys it. Gollum takes the ring from Frodo but falls into the fires while holding it, thus ending the power of Sauron.” 

        You expected a reaction. Disbelief or skepticism. A raised eyebrow. Outrage, maybe? But there was nothing, not even a blink. It was like they were frozen. At least for a few moments, anyway. “‘Well’ what, child? Please, do not keep us here all day.” Elrond spoke suddenly, his irritation seeping into his voice once again. You furrowed your brows, confusion plain on your face. “What do you mean? You didn’t hear what I said?” 

        Gandalf sighed, tapping his staff on the ground once or twice as he re-adjusted his stance. “You haven’t said anything. Now, what can you tell us of the Ring?” It was clear the old wizard, as patient as he claimed to be, was getting irritated as well, but you couldn’t understand why. You had told them already, hadn’t you? 

        “The ring will be destroyed in the fires of Mount Doom. That is its fate.” You answered again, this time with a tilt of your head while you studied the pair. Once again, their faces held no reaction. Frozen, unblinking. Could it be that time paused to prevent you from telling them the future? Their future? ‘What is this, a k-drama?’ You decided to test this theory. Before they could scold you again, you spoke; “Gandalf, you will perish fighting the Balrog that lurks within the mines of Moria.” 

        No movement. Their eyes held no indication of understanding, either. ‘Fascinating.’ You would have kept going, if only to see them stuck there while you admired them as if they were statues. But something–no, someone, interrupted. 

“I will not let you tarnish this universe by spoiling its events so soon.”

        You thought it might have been the wizard at first, but he was still standing there, unmoving. Elrond as well. You looked around the room, spinning on your heels. The guards nearby were also frozen, but otherwise, no one else could have produced that voice. You could feel your heart racing, pulse echoing in your ears. 

        “What was that? …God?” You asked tentatively aloud. There was no reply, but time remained anchored in place. “Who are you? Are you the one who brought me here?” You questioned, looking up towards the ceiling–towards the sky, as if it would help apparate the disembodied voice. You weren’t even sure why you had bothered asking or where those questions came from. But the sound was so…otherworldly, that it seemed unlikely that it was anything but.

“You have been chosen.”

        This voice…did not belong to one speaker alone; it was a tapestry of tones, some high, some low, some no louder than breath. It rolled in like midnight mist—low, steady, and velvet-smooth, each word drawn out with patient precision. The voice was neither warm nor cold, neither urging nor warning, yet stern. Like it was inviting you to step forward, to become something more. Beneath its calm exterior lay the faintest thrumming, a subtle reverberation, as though the voice itself had roots that reached deep into the fabric of the world. 

        “Chosen? Chosen for what?” You were still now, listening. Waiting. ‘Wait…should I be asking permission to speak?’ This wasn't the quiet authority that the immortals in front of you exuded; this was…absolute. Looming. Like breathing wrong might warrant punishment. It wasn’t oppressive, per se, not yet. But it was heavy. 

“To be my sword. My champion.” 

        The voice answered, but you could tell it wasn’t in full. You had a million questions, your mind reeling like it did when you first arrived. But what could you say? What could you ask that would compel a god to answer? You decided on the simplest: “Why me?” 

“I needed someone…moldable, with nothing to lose. Become my vessel and be rewarded.”

        The voice was beckoning now, as if a siren’s lure. You felt your anxieties quelled, your mind lulled, and your hands stopped fidgeting. “What…do I have to do?”

“Obey. You will be my weapon. You will strike without question, without hesitation, mercy, or failure.”

        Could this be the work of Saruman? Or Sauron? You didn’t know. You’ve never heard the voice of a god before. But this one didn’t feel evil. All you could wonder is ‘why’, but you had no will to do so besides one: “What is the reward?” At first, there was nothing. A few moments passed, and you could feel a sort of…amusement in the surrounding air. As if a knowing smile. Victory, even.

“You will not survive ‘middle-earth’ as you are now. In exchange for your life service, I will offer you the abilities of a warrior.” 

        The voice melted into your head, coiling around your thoughts, consuming your being. It showed you the rules, the exceptions, and a taste of the power it offered. This entity knew your deepest desires, your lust for acclaim. The need to be seen, known. Praised. You could be renowned. A hero. In this world, in others. All you had to do was accept. All you had to do was sacrifice. You could not choose any power of godlike capacity, but there were others. Your favorite. The Ghost. The weight of the sword in your hand, the finality of its bite. Your own. Heat spread from your stomach, bloomed into your chest. You felt it snake around your heart, squeezing your pulse ever so gently. ‘Be mine, ’ it called. ‘Sacrifice.’ 

        You would never return home, but you never really wanted to, did you? There is no harm in giving away something undesired. You could no longer tell what wants were your own, what thoughts, what feelings. It blended–no, disappeared into nothing. Refusal would end this dream and would have you tossed aside like garbage. Forgotten into the world you came from. You didn’t want that, right? You wanted to be here. You chose this place. Your testing grounds. ‘Accept.’ It cooed. Coerced. Seduced. ‘Accept.’ A flicker of doubt rose up—small, trembling—but it was crushed under the weight of a thousand unseen hands, ushering you toward your fate. Finally, the words rose from your throat: “Okay…I will be your champion.” 

        The entity—no, your god—did not answer, but you felt its satisfaction ripple through the stillness like a hand smoothing silk. And suddenly, without warning, you were wrenched from your body, no longer standing in Rivendell, no longer yourself. Some unseen force hurled your consciousness elsewhere, locking you behind another's eyes, another's flesh. You were a passenger only, bound to observe, bound to learn. You started out young, heir to a great clan: Sakai. You bore his tragedies as your own—the sting of failure, the hollow ache of endless training, the terror of battle crashing onto blood-soaked shores. You lived Jin’s life thread by thread until the weave of it was damn near indistinguishable from your own. Every failure, every broken bone, every skill and victory, all yours to claim. You wielded his katana as if it were an extension of your very arm, and it was. Months went by, bleeding into years. You got what you wanted and became the Ghost. And when the last invader fell, when Jin’s story closed, you were hurled back—snapped into the body where it had all begun—facing the wizard and the elf once more, as if no time had dared to move.

        Were you the same? Maybe. That was up for debate. You barely recognized your own voice, steady and unyielding. A distant part of you missed the anxious girl from moments before—at least you understood her, but did it even matter in the grand scheme of things? You stood in the same body, wore the same borrowed silk, and yet it was as if your bones were heavier, your blood thicker. You were a stranger to yourself. But knowledge thrummed under your skin, restless and alive, and nothing had changed outwardly. Exhaustion clung to your bones, but otherwise, everything seemed untouched. Seemed. You looked down into your empty hands, not having time to ponder what the hell had just happened before the grey old man cleared his throat. Time had resumed, and they were still waiting for your answer. ‘Right…’ It took a second to recall what the three of you had been talking about before you responded. “The Ring’s fate will be the same whether I interfere or not. However, I might be able to save some lives along the way should you permit me to travel alongside the hobbit.” 

        The words left you crisp and sure, but they startled you all the same. When had your fear been replaced by certainty? Lord Elrond furrowed his brows, clearly contemplating your answer, but Gandalf seemed to ignore it altogether. He was staring at you, more so than before. There was something different; he could sense it. Before, you had been merely foreign. Now, there was something else—something coiled around you, silent and strangling, like a serpent enveloping its prey. Yet you stood there, unafraid, like a lamb resting against the jaws of a wolf.

        “Knowing the enemy’s move before they make it could prove useful,” Gandalf said carefully, finally turning his gaze from you to the elf. Elrond, ever the skeptic, shook his head. “You’d place the fate of Middle-Earth into the hands of this…oddity?” You frowned with a few curses in mind, but said nothing. “She has come to us with knowledge no others possess. With war imminent, we are in dire need of allies. At the very least, we should have the council decide together what to do with her.”

         Elrond stepped away, looking out onto the terrace as he pondered your existence. But then something clicked. You could see it in the way he turned to look at you. “Tell me then, clairvoyant. Why do you ask to ‘travel alongside the hobbit’? No such decision has yet been made–or rather, no hobbit has yet offered themselves to bear such a burden.” 

        Your heart skipped a beat, having not even realized you’d slipped. “I told you, I’ve seen the future.” The reply was a matter of fact, like that was all you needed to explain. You could see it was not enough. Not for him. “Besides, hobbits are resilient in ways greater beings overlook,” you added, an attempt at smoothing things over, knowing that was a sentiment in which the wizard would agree.

        Gandalf’s eyes sharpened with intrigue, turning towards Elrond with a knowing raise of his brow. “Resilient they are. We’ve certainly seen enough to understand that fate often falls upon the smallest of shoulders.” The elf was still unconvinced, and he couldn’t fathom why the wizard had already taken your side. The man always had a penchant for taking in strays, it seemed. Elrond’s eyes narrowed. “Even if we believe your claim of foresight, the path to Mordor is not gentle. You might have been able to enter my halls undetected–but stealth alone will not guard you against Sauron’s forces.”

        You raised your chin slightly, but before you could move to speak, you felt your deity’s amusement—anticipation, tickling the back of your mind. A glint from steel across the room caught your attention, a glimmer in the corner of this vast chamber. Something foreign lies neatly arranged upon a stone table–metal gleaming softly under the ripples of pale moonlight. Weaponry–your weapons placed like an offering. A gift of goodwill from your new master. Unmistakably familiar were a curved katana, a matching wakizashi, two elegantly crafted bows, and a set of kunai. A smirk tugged at the corner of your lips. “Stealth is hardly my only strength now, I assure you.”

        “Prove it.” Elrond’s voice is crisp, a direct challenge that pulls you out of your trance. ‘What is it with this guy and proof?’ You gave a polite nod to mask the exasperated sigh that left you, though you were sure he heard it all the same. Elvish acuteness and all that. Slowly, deliberately, you approached your blades. The pair of immortals watching closely, not even realizing the weapon's appearance until the katana was in your hand. A shiver of recognition runs through your veins, your grip instantly comfortable–familiar, an extension of yourself. Jin’s memories pulse at your fingertips. However, in this body, the blade was heavy. Holding it out in front of you tired your arm quickly, and that would not do. Dread filled you as you realized you'd have to dedicate time to strength training…again. Your personal hell: never being able to escape going to the gym, no matter what timeline you were in.

        “How did you sneak weapons in here?” Elrond's voice cut across the hall, demanding and wary. With a quick motion from their lord, the guards nearby took up their bows and aimed their arrows directly at you. “They were not there before,” Gandalf murmurs, fascinated. He was not as concerned with the elf’s actions as he perhaps should have been.

        You turned, looking more at the archers than their lord, calculating the distance. Fear still managed to bite deep in your chest, knowing that if you mistimed a deflect, it would mean your end. But you didn't need to draw it; the katana remained sheathed, and you weren’t here to fight. Not them, anyhow. “Consider it a gesture of goodwill from my…benefactor,” whatever that meant. You responded calmly, turning the blade effortlessly in your grip, every movement elegant, practiced, controlled despite its weight. “I may have come here by mistake, but I wanted to help. I can help. Do you truly consider me a threat, my lord?”

        He said nothing, tension thickening until finally Gandalf breaks it, voice gentle yet firm. “Elrond. She has offered her service willingly, and clearly she has some measure of skill. Again, we should at least bring her before the Council. Let all decide her place.”

        The elf sighed, visibly troubled but finally conceding. “Very well,” He gave an almost imperceptible nod, to which his guards lowered their bows. “You will join the Council on the morrow, but understand this: if you threaten the lives of anyone here or Middle-earth’s fate in any manner, no weapon nor strange ‘benefactor’ will shield you from my wrath.”

        You bow your head respectfully, taking into account the gravity of his words as relief floods through you. "You got it." Elves were harder to convince than you originally thought. 

        The Master of Rivendell looked less than pleased, his face twisting into that sort of angry, disapproving look that turned him into a meme, creasing lines into his otherwise flawless face. “Escort Lady (Y/N) to the guest chambers,” Elrond instructed firmly, barely turning to his guard's direction. “She shall remain there under guard until the Council convenes.” 

        Gandalf seemed amused. You placed your katana back onto the table where it appeared, not expecting to be allowed to carry it with you, as irritating as that was. You had grown rather fond of them in Tsushima. With a sigh, you followed the guards without further protest, through winding halls and picture-perfect scenery. ‘That's one thing the fanfictions never mention,’ you thought to yourself whilst admiring the roaring waterfalls. ‘Despite all this, you still manage to miss your phone.’ Withdrawal from technology was hard, but luckily for you, there was literally no other choice. Still, you found yourself reaching towards your back pocket for the time or to Google a question you had, purely out of habit. 

        When you arrived in your chambers, the room inside was breathtaking. Ethereal and elegant, blending seamlessly with the surrounding landscape. Evening sunlight filters softly through expansive, arched openings, ever so gently illuminating the room with tranquility. You had thought that ‘under guard’ meant you were a prisoner, but it was hard to feel like it when the room was fit for a king. Intricately carved wooden pillars and graceful arches framed the space, depicting motifs of leaves, flowers, trees, and Elven figures. Candles rested in beautifully crafted holders, adding warmth with an ambient glow. The bed itself was a dream; rich, silken sheets in earthy, muted tones. The frame smooth, dark wood. Outside, lush greenery and winding pathways visible through open balconies that overlook the gardens. 

        The design was so open that you had no idea how they planned to keep you from leaving, but you were hardly complaining, nor did you want to. Your first instinct was to run and jump straight into the bed, but you stopped yourself to save what little dignity you had left. The saree was already dangerously loose around your hips now, and you feared it might come undone entirely. You needed real clothes. There was no way you were going to face a council of Middle-earth's greatest heroes looking like you'd stumbled out of a frat party gone wrong. So, before they could walk away, you turned to the guards with a coy smile. “Could you request the seamstress to visit me? I am in desperate need of new…appropriate attire for the upcoming meeting.”

        The elf raised a brow, looking you up and down. At first, the look was that of vexation, but as his eyes caught more and more of your exposed skin, a flush crept into his cheeks and the tips of his ears. After a moment too long, he tore his gaze away with an ‘ahem’ and a readjustment of his posture before giving a curt nod. He walked away so fast you thought he might trip and fall along the way. 

        After he disappeared into the distance, you were alone again. As much as you could be, anyway. You sat quietly on the bed, running your hand over the silk, finally having a chance to catch up to all your thoughts and feelings. ‘Dropped into a fictional universe, ensnared by a god, thrown into a different one just to be ripped back and tossed back into the beginning.’ You lie back on the bed, closing your eyes for a moment. It was hard to wrap your head around. Especially the part that seemed more like it belonged more in Solo Leveling than in your life. You closed your eyes and collapsed back into the bed, finally letting the exhaustion settle over you. It had only been a day in this universe, but you had spent a few years as The Ghost, and that was…a lot. Not worth dwelling over at this moment. However, before the beginnings of sleep could settle, you heard footsteps coming towards your…archway? There wasn't a door after all.

        It was a beautiful elf maiden who approached. Long, flowing brown hair framed her delicate, ageless face. Her pale blue gown rustled softly, decorated with embroidery of silver thread that shimmered in the fading sunlight. “You asked for me?” Her voice was warm and soothing, like a lullaby. You sat up on your elbows, offering a polite smile. “Yes, thank you for coming.” You replied.

        The seamstress stepped fully into the chamber, having carried a woven basket filled with fabrics and measuring tools. “I was told you needed suitable attire for a council meeting. Was there…anything else that you needed besides that?” Her words were kind, but there was careful curiosity in her gaze that was unmistakable. It felt like she could damn-near see through you. 

        “Well, I don’t have any clothes. Like, at all. So if it’s possible, I’d like to commission two or three pieces for travel and such.” You sat up fully now, fussing with the edge of your silk so that it revealed no more of your chest. “I have something specific in mind if it’s not too much trouble.” 

        The she-elf tilted her head slightly as she looked over you and the tablecloth you wore. “‘Commission’?” She asked, her voice betraying a bit of playful disbelief. “You plan to pay?” 

        “Yes…By courtesy of Lord Elrond.” A lie, and it made a grin spread to your lips, which caused the seamstress to let out a soft laugh. “Very well,” she responded, taking the chair that was next to your bed and placing it in front of you, sitting down, and pulling out a piece of parchment. “Please, describe your wish.” Her eyes twinkled with interest, but you couldn’t tell if it was your imagination or not. 

        You hesitated, trying to find the right words. The memories of Jin’s attire flashed vividly before your eyes. “Clothes that are comfortable, battle-ready, but still look good,” you started carefully. “I’m sure that might sound strange.” 

        “On the contrary,” the elf seamstress replied warmly, already sketching out her ideas on the paper. “We elves hold both beauty and practicality in high regard. I would be honored to craft garments that reflect your spirit.” You watched her draw closely, and though you didn’t doubt her ability, you knew she wouldn’t come up with what you were thinking. You thought perhaps explaining it more might help. 

        “It’s… sort of a warrior’s outfit, not the kind you’re used to seeing here, I think. The top is loose, it’s called a kimono, but for you, perhaps it’ll look more like a robe. I want it dyed a deep crimson—not bright, more like aged blood or dark cherry wood. It should fall past the hips, with wide sleeves that don’t cling too tightly—enough room to move freely, or conceal blades if necessary.” The seamstress nodded thoughtfully as you continued. “The lower half is a kind of pleated trouser—wide-legged and heavy, almost like a skirt at a glance, but stiff, like armor made of cloth. I’d like it dark, nearly black, maybe with the faintest green or blue tinge depending on the light. They wrap around and tie at the waist—thick, layered folds that hang in straight lines.” To your surprise, she managed to sketch down everything you had requested, but you were hardly finished. “There’s an obi belt around the middle—a wide sash to hold everything together. Gray or charcoal in tone, maybe with a white rope layered over it to secure weapons or pouches. It should sit tight but not restrict breathing. Layers matter—not for beauty, but for function. I’ll need it to endure movement, travel, and fighting. Light enough not to drag me down, but strong enough to survive swordplay.” You thought that maybe your ramblings might have been too much, but the she-elf had a smile on her face. 

        “All this is just…one garment?” Her tone was teasing, yet you felt embarrassed all the same. “Too much?” You asked sheepishly. She shook her head. “Consider it done.” 

        Once the seamstress had taken her measurements and later her leave, silence fell again. You sat there for a long while, still unsure of what to do with yourself. You were tired, but now sleep wouldn’t come. Eventually, you wandered toward the open archway. Beyond it, a narrow balcony unfurled like a ledge carved into starlight. Cool marble met your bare feet. The breeze was gentle, brushing past like a whisper, carrying the scent of pine and wet earth. You leaned against the curved railing, eyes tracing the dark lines of treetops below, waterfalls glittering in the distance. The sun had set now, giving way to the stars. They were unfamiliar—sharper, whiter, scattered like glass across black velvet. You couldn’t make out any constellations, nothing you could recognize. This wasn’t your sky, wasn’t your world. 

        That’s when it hit you. 

        Not in a dramatic, cinematic way—but like an ache. A hollowness inside your ribs. You would never go home. That realization was quiet and cruel in its finality. No more late-night drives. No more playlists. No more gaming. No more phone. No more family. No more you, at least the version you were yesterday—rather, before you came here. A single tear escaped down your cheek before you could stop it. You wiped it away quickly with a deep sigh, as if the night itself were watching. “I ain’t no bitch.” You cursed to yourself. “I chose this, so suck it up.”

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I fell into LotR - chapter 1 || [x reader]

❀lord of the rings/fellowship men x reader (eventually) ➔classic 'girl fell into middle earth' plotline. self indulgent ❀ word count ; 4.1k

 The Fall.

       Maladaptive day-dreaming. You never realized there was such a fancy term for your overactive imagination. Though you suppose, given its definition, the term fits like a glove. They call it ‘excessive’, however, and that’s where you have to disagree. You weren’t that bad... Were you? Imagining you were someplace different, some fantasy land compared to the current day and age– who wouldn’t? Doesn’t matter which side of the political tree you’re on; war is still war, and necessities are too expensive. Life is bleak, and yours, particularly, has been mundane. 

        Go to work, come home, eat, sleep, and repeat. The only thing that made existence tolerable was the little scenarios you came up with in your head. Your own personal ‘What If’ series that you’d play out quietly during your tasks, on your drive home, or in your bedroom late at night. It had always been this way. You thought you would grow out of it as you hit your adult years, but if anything, it got worse. When you saw a movie or read a book that particularly spoke to you, you’d spend months imagining yourself within the story, how you’d interact with the characters, how you’d spend life in their world. Your favorites were the works of Tolkien and George R. R. Martin, always managing to hold your attention and adoration over the years, never being able to stray far from them mentally. 

        Your hyper-fixation had been reignited over the last few days when you decided to watch the extended editions of the ‘Lord of the Rings’ trilogy in one sitting during your day off from work. ‘The Hobbit’ trilogy had been your favorite to watch by far, having seen it probably a hundred times since its release, but you had only seen the first trilogy once or twice. Controversial, to be sure, but you blamed your fascination on Richard Armitage– rather, Thorin Oakenshield, for that opinion. 

        Most of your imaginings, or ‘shiftings’ as tiktok likes to call them, take you into the company of the dwarves... but tonight was different. Tonight, you stood in the middle of Rivendell’s courtyard, looking out into the great cascade of waterfalls that littered the mountainside as beautifully as the surrounding leaves fell from their branches. Music blasted through your earphones, a way of focusing your mind and deafening the obnoxious sounds of your upstairs neighbors. It didn’t matter which song you played, for the longer you stared at the wall, the sooner it disappeared and melted into the dreamscape you longed for. 

        You imagined yourself to be standing by the railing, wind licking your cheeks, tossing your hair playfully as it passed by. The scenery became clearer and clearer, and the carpet beneath your bare feet even seemed to turn cold, like it was stone. You must have been staring off into the distance for a while because your eyes began to burn from being too dry. You lifted your hands to rub them, and as you did so, your stomach fluttered as if you had the faintest sense of falling. However, when you opened your eyes again, you were in the same spot as you were before, but now it was… different. You could see into the distance, and it wasn’t fuzzy like it usually was; the details didn’t blur in a haze. The air itself felt alive, fresh, and you could hear birds chirping past the sound of your music. ‘Odd. ’ You rubbed your eyes again, blinking a couple of times, but nothing changed. The walls of your room did not return; in fact, you didn’t even realize they had gone missing. ‘Okay, what the fuck.’ Your heart began to quicken, but you took a deep breath. It was only five steps from the edge of your bed to the wall. If you walked that length, surely you’d meet your bedroom face-first and end the dream with a headache, right?

        You turned from the railing, facing the tall pillars and great halls that lay behind them, and took a step forward. One. You were beginning to think that maybe you were just having a bad trip, maybe you got too high, and now you’re paying the price… The problem with that, though, is that you don’t do drugs. Or drink. So… Now what? Another step forward, that makes two. Your heart has taken up a steady rhythm of thudding against your ribcage, and you fidget with your hands nervously. As breathtakingly beautiful as the scenery was, it was now becoming all too real. Impossible, surely. Your third step forward. At this point, you were considering sticking your hands out in front of you so that you didn’t smack yourself face-first into the wall, but you didn’t want to embarrass yourself even if there were no witnesses. There was hesitation in your fourth step; your foot hardly wanted to pick itself off the ground, but you gathered your resolve and took your fifth and sixth steps in quick succession. 

        There was no wall. Your bedroom was gone. And it was then that you realized you were standing in Rivendell for real, in the flesh. Time froze in that moment as your mind raced with thoughts too quick to comprehend, but the theme of it was along the lines of: ‘How is this possible? Am I dead? How do I get home?’ Each with no answer. Your head swiveled back and forth as you looked, really looked, at your surroundings. There were elf guards in the distance on either side of you, but they were pretty far ahead. Far enough not to have noticed you yet. Other than that, it was a quiet autumn's eve. Then, after a few long minutes of deliberation, you decided you should go talk to them. Maybe Lord Elrond would know of some magic that could reverse whatever brought you here, or at least summon Gandalf and ask him. However, you found yourself frozen in uncertainty. How do you even explain your coming here? Who you are, or where you are from? Would they believe you? You looked down at the clothes you were wearing. ‘Damn.’ The one time you don’t take care to imagine yourself in a pretty silk gown is the day you’re thrown into Tolkien’s universe. ‘Just great.’ You were wearing a pair of high-waisted black jean shorts that barely covered the curve of your ass, and a white front-tie cropped shirt that had a v-neckline so deep it made the fact you weren’t wearing a bra plain as daylight. Men at the bar would have been drooling, but the people in this land would curse you for your indecency if they didn’t pass out at the sight of you first, for much more than your ankles were on display. 

        You drew in a shaky breath as you tried to steady your reeling head. You needed a plan. An excuse. ‘Maybe I could just say that I’m a witch? That could explain a lot, right? But then I would need powers or proof…’ You reached into your back pocket for your phone and were met with nothing. Your hands frantically started patting down all other areas of possibility, as if you had more than two pockets, but your phone had disappeared. Bringing up the question, where was the music from your earbuds coming from? You lifted your hands and took the buds out simultaneously, staring at them in your fingertips. Nature's orchestra had instantly taken their place, filling your drums with the dull roar of white noise and accented with the chirps and tweets of birds flitting through the trees. The grandiosity of it all hit you like a truck as your eyes lifted to take in the sight again, but in that small moment of admiration was when your earbuds disappeared from your fingers. It was a minute or two before you realized, and it was a little saddening, though it made sense, you supposed. Anything not from this world wouldn’t be accepted– would be…unmade, but then again, why were you still here?

        ‘Well, this is just fucking great,’ You cursed bitterly to yourself, rubbing your temples with your now empty hands. You had nothing. No abilities or semblance of home. It was just you here, stuck. But the prospect left you considering: Do you even want to go back? What was there that was worth returning to? Isn’t this most people’s dream: to be dropped into their favorite fictional universe? You took off towards the direction of the two elf guards on patrol, but they were further away now than before. ‘Damn. These people walk fast.’ You took up a brisk stride, making an effort to catch up with them, but as you walked, you could feel the cold seeping into your bare feet with each step. The wind seemed sharper than before, and even through the fair temperature, it had a bite to it. Leaves drifted past you as you traveled along a stone archway, not daring to peer over the side and tempt fate further. The trees that enveloped the mountainside were a spectrum of evergreen, red, orange, and yellow hues, making plain the season. This truly was a beautiful place, but whatever god that was in charge of your suffering just couldn’t let you enjoy it, could they? 

        It took a glimpse of your shirt turning transparent before finally fading entirely, did you realize the reason behind the sudden temperature change. Your clothes, like anything else you had owned, disappeared without a trace. You could have laughed, honestly. Instead, you stood there, exposed and in disbelief. Could it get any worse? Yes. Of course it can. But for you, there was only one option now. You booked it to the nearest doorway you laid eyes on, careful to keep your footfalls as silent as you were capable of. A sheet, a tablecloth, shit- even a curtain. Anything would work at this point. Not that you were religious, but you prayed for the gods– any god, to throw you a bone, and since you were in elvish territory, fuck it. Beseech the Valar while you’re at it. 

        You make it past the threshold just as the guards had turned their heads in your direction. Your eyes searched frantically for anything to cover yourself with, and as luck would have it, you had chosen a door that led into some type of kitchen. Herbs and spices replaced the scent of wet earth from outside, copper pots hung from carved hooks above stone countertops, and bundles of dried flowers stirred faintly by the same wind that stole away your mynute sense of modesty. You dipped quickly behind a long table as your heart pounded in your ears. Blessedly, this room was empty of people but not barren. There was a linen basket near the base of another doorway that caught your eye. You gathered your courage and scrambled towards it like a man possessed, tearing the thing open with shaky hands. ‘Jackpot.’ Inside were meticulously folded lengths of fabric–some sort of table runners or ceremonial cloths smelling faintly of floral scented oils. They were smooth and lightweight, uncolored silk. You didn’t dare complain, and you didn’t have time to feel guilty for theft. 

        You gathered the fabric in your arms and ducked behind the door and the wall, which offered you some cover. You could do as the Romans do, but you decided on a different route. A saree. You’d seen a few tutorials, having awed over the elegance many a late night, but without your phone, your innovation would have to suffice; beginning at the waist, you wrapped the end of the fabric around yourself, tucking the fold where your hip curved. You secured it with mutterings of ‘please god make this work,’ and started folding the next sections into pleats–messy and uneven, but enough to mimic the distinctive cascading drape. In all the videos you’ve seen, the models usually wear a petticoat underneath, and you just had to hope that step was optional. After tucking the pleats into your waist, you swept the remaining fabric around your back and over your shoulder, letting the edge fall across your chest, forming the pallu. Anxiety had you fussing with the edges, tucking one side under your arm for security, and trying to cover your side-cleavage as much as possible since you didn't have a blouse. It was nowhere near perfect or symmetrical. Shit, it probably wasn’t even correct. But it worked. There was that. 

        At the very least, you weren’t naked anymore. You poked your head through the doorway and looked in each direction. Elrond’s sanctuary seemed like a maze, so it was a coin toss on which hall led to civilization. You decided on left and took up walking once again. Though you couldn’t walk very fast, mind you. Any sudden movements threatened to undo the folds around your waist, but it was a small price to pay for semi-decency. It didn’t take long after that for your wandering to be noticed, and you were soon met with a handful of guards who had arrows pointed directly at your face. ‘Dang, it really is just like in the movies, huh. Rather an arrow than a gun, though.’ 

        The surrounding guards eyed you suspiciously, clearly not impressed with your choice of attire, though you never expected to be greeted with compliments. “Who are you, and how did you get in here?” Their voice was clean and clear, tinted with an accent you couldn’t name. You damn near missed what they said though, considering you were staring at the arrowhead that was aimed between your furrowed eyebrows. There was hesitation as you considered your options. Say the wrong thing, and you’d find out if Rivendell featured dungeons. But… What was the right thing to say? What time period were you set in? You’d have to guess, and needed to tread incredibly lightly. In an effort of peace, you raised your hands slowly to show you weren’t holding any weapons. Your voice was soft, delicate, but held an air of provocation to it, having seen enough in the high-fantasy genre to mimic their speech patterns. “Do you think I could have made it this far unchallenged, without an invitation?” You glanced between each of them, gauging their reaction. You were bluffing, obviously. But you were hoping that maybe you had arrived at the same time as the Company. Delusions of grandeur had entered the chat, snuffing out the need to go home and making you think that maybe you could see the line of Durin not so quickly snuffed out, and since you were seemingly stuck here anyway, you might as well make the most of your presence. However, you knew that elves would be the least gullible out of all the races.

         “Your Lord Elrond is expecting me. Could you take me to him?” Your heart was steadily thudding in your chest as all the possibilities flashed through your mind, and it took every fiber in your being to maintain composure. There was a flicker of��  something in the eyes of the elf in front of you– doubt, or reservation perhaps, but certainly not mercy. 

        “Lord Elrond is busy entertaining his other guests. If you were truly summoned, why are you not with them?” He said it coldly, with a slight tilt of his head that made plain his disbelief. But his statement gave you hope. ‘Other guests? Then that means the dwarves must be here already.’ Another guard stepped closer, scanning you up and down with a detached curiosity. Up close, the way they moved–fluid yet precise, economical–they weren’t just aesthetics. They were warriors, and you were just a girl in the grand scheme of things. You didn’t even get the chance to lie and say you had gotten lost before–  “Search her,” the third guard murmured. The fourth approached, and you flinched slightly as his fingers grabbed your arm, feeling the cold press of his gauntlet through the silk. “This cloth–” The one holding you began, eyes narrowing. “It was taken from the kitchen stores.” 

        “A degenerate and a thief, then.” Another replied. That one stung. But in their defense, you were baring a scandalous amount of skin even with the linen draped around you. “Or a spy,” one added. The first, probably the leader, spoke up again, but it wasn’t in English common tongue. It was Elvish, you knew. Fluid, fast, and filled with sharp consonants and words that bled into each other like smoke. You couldn’t understand even if you tried, but situational awareness told you that to them, you were a problem. And problems were never welcomed in Rivendell.

        “You will come with us.” The first one declared, not even glancing your way as he spun on his heel and started the march forward. The others slowly lowered their bows, but did not un-nock their arrows. “Where to?” You asked, biting back the anxiety that threatened to spill from your throat. “Lord Elrond, as you wished.” The reply was simple, however, you couldn’t imagine this situation was gonna play out how you wanted it to, because it never could just be that easy. 

        Clearly, the gods liked playing cat-and-mouse with your dignity, because you didn’t even get to walk there under your own volition. No amount of protests, threats, curses, or pleas swayed the elf who had an iron grip on your arm, steering you along with enough force to make your feet stumble beneath you. ‘The dwarves were onto something, these people are kinda rude.’ There would definitely be a bruise there later, but it was hard for you to blame them, even if you could feel the saree coming undone at your waist. Their job was duty, not sympathy. 

        As they led you—more like herded you—through the pale stone archways inlaid with silver, the halls blurred, your feet whispering against the marble floor. Finally, they shoved you firmly into a vast, echoing chamber of carved stone and filtered starlight. The walls shimmered faintly with runes, silver-veined and ancient, and high above, a skylight poured moonlight through an intricate lattice of crystal and carved metal. It bathed the floor in ghost-pale patterns, like rippling water. At the center stood two figures deep in quiet conversation. One, cloaked in muted tones of grey, leaning heavily on a gnarled staff that clicked softly against the floor as he moved: Gandalf the Grey. The other was tall–taller than you expected–and ethereal, looking as if he had stepped from a painting made by the gods themselves: Elrond the Half-Elven. 

        He turned at the sound of your entry, and the world stilled around his gaze. The Master of Rivendell didn’t need to raise his voice, for when he spoke, even the walls listened. “What is this?” Lord Elrond asked, his gaze more piercing than anything you’d ever known. It raked up and down your form before flicking once to the guards at your side, and under his scrutiny, all thoughts and half-baked plans left your mind. It was much easier to imagine a thing than actually do it. This had to be how people who meet celebrities feel. Fangirling, though, wasn’t an option. You had to play it cool. But holy fuck, did seeing these two characters have you dumbstruck. “We found her wandering the inner halls,” one guard answered. “Clothed in stolen tablecloths. She claimed you were expecting her.”

        Gandalf raised an eyebrow as his blue-grey eyes took you in—amusement and suspicion dancing beneath his shaggy brows. ‘Alien’ radiated off you as vibrant as his fireworks, and yet he looked like someone who had expected oddness today and still found himself surprised. “Indeed?” The half-elf muttered. “And what else does this woman claim?” 

        Obviously, that was your cue to speak, but nothing came. No words; you were a deer in headlights. Stuck there, just staring at the two with naught a clue of what to say. ‘Hey, so I’m actually from another universe. Care to send me back?’ or, ‘Hey, I have main character syndrome and want to join in on this life-threatening quest just for funsies!’ There was nothing you could rationalize that made any amount of sense, and as the silence stretched on, it became harder and harder for you to speak up.

         A loud tap that echoed more in your mind than in the room came suddenly, seemingly from Gandalf’s staff. It startled you, but it brought you back from your spiral inward. “You–your guards… said you were entertaining other guests, but I haven’t seen them. They wouldn’t happen to be a group of dwarves and a hobbit, would they?” Gandalf’s head tilted slightly, though he said nothing. Elrond’s face, which was already unreadable, grew a tad bit colder. 

        “We’ve more hobbits than dwarves, as of late.” He gave a slight quirk of his brow, glancing once toward the wizard beside him as if confirming that your strangeness was painfully apparent. Gandalf came closer, muttering to himself as he inspected you like one would look over a meteorite fresh from the sky. You paid him no mind besides a furrowed brow, and stepped slightly to the side to better stay in Elrond’s line of sight. “Forgive me, my Lord. I just–...might I ask who currently reigns as King under the mountain of Erebor?” Your hands were trembling now, a manifestation of the anxiety coursing through you. Gandalf’s gaze sharpened, intrigue finally piqued enough to give voice to it. “Why do you speak of dwarves, child? Who do you presume is here?” 

        Your mouth opened to respond, but again you hesitated. As you turned to face the wizard, and your eyes met his, you found it increasingly difficult to conjure a story. ‘Shit, he can’t read minds like Lady Galadriel… can he?’ You couldn’t remember. It was hard to think straight under the pressure of these two immortals. The answer was yes, but thankfully, he hadn’t decided on doing so quite yet. 

        “Is this why I summoned you? So that I might educate you on Middle-earth’s current monarchies?” Lord Elrond, as graceful as he is, sounded a bit annoyed. To which you understood, for surely a ruler had better things to do than fuss over a random’s inquiries. You chewed the skin of your lip. You didn’t want them to kick you out so soon, but at the very least, Gandalf seemed interested in what you had to say. “Forgive me, your Grace. I meant no offense.” You bowed your head as you raised your hands in a gesture of peace. They don’t go over manners and proper etiquette much in the Tolkien universe, so you mimicked what you saw in Game of Thrones. That always seemed to work. “I’m simply trying to gain my bearings. I...I'm a bit confused.” 

        “Dáin Ironfoot took control of Erebor after the line of Durin fell.” There was a tinge of sadness in Gandalf’s voice as he spoke, but his gaze remained fixed on you as he watched for your reaction. The words processed, registered, and then struck hard. Your inability to change Thorin's fate saddened you, and it also meant that any purpose for yourself you envisioned died with him. However… If Oakenshield was dead, then that meant this wasn’t the adventure you’d hoped to take part in. It was a darker tale, deadlier, and would explain why the two immortals in front of you seemed so weathered and tired.

        “Thank you,” you muttered, eyes drifting to the floor as you considered your options. There was no use mulling things over now. You felt defeated, but you tried not to show it. “You said ‘more hobbits than dwarves’... I take that to mean Frodo and his friends are here instead?” 

        That caught Elrond’s attention. Those in Rivendell and those summoned to the council were the only ones aware of the hobbit and his possession of the ring. “How do you know this?” The half-elf turned to face you now, stepping closer as he studied you. You raised your gaze to meet his, but the weight of his scrutiny made you glance to Gandalf for help. The wizard only reflected the same sentiment as Lord Elrond. 

        Finally, you answered. “I know a lot of things… And it’s because I have seen the future–I know the fate of the One Ring.” The lie spilled through your lips before you considered the weight of it. While it was technically the truth, you couldn’t just recite three movies' worth of information at them. That had to be breaking some sort of interdimensional time travel rule. However, you knew what they would ask of you before it even left their lips: “Prove it.”

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