I truly do not think it was that foolish.

In my defense, it looked important.

Ancient. Mysterious, possibly.

Which is how I find myself backed against a stone door in the depths of Moria, Gandalf looming over me like an exceptionally irritated thundercloud.

“If I hear one more word from you,” he growls, staff raised slightly, “I shall knock your head against this door and rid us of your stupidity, Peregrin Took.”

There is a pause.

I consider several responses.

None of them wise.

Before I can choose one—

Leather shifts.

A measured step.

She moves.

Ellariel does not say a word.

She does not ask.

She simply steps between us.

Tall. Straight. Unyielding.

The firelight from Gandalf’s staff catches in her white hair. Her shoulders square as she places herself directly in front of me, close enough that I can feel the steady calm radiating off her.

Two soft, unmistakable sounds follow.

Steel sliding free.

Her daggers rest in her hands, angled but not yet raised.

Not wild, not reckless.

Precise. Silent.

The entire Fellowship freezes.

Gandalf blinks.

She does not speak.

She does not need to.

The message is clear.

Try me.

Behind her look at her unashamed, I grin so hard my face might ache.

Boromir coughs into his fist

Merry mutters, “Oh no.”

Legolas inhales very slowly, as though deciding whether to intervene or simply let the wizard and his sister resolve it themselves.

Gandalf lowers his staff a fraction.

“You would threaten a wizard?” he asks, tone dangerously soft.

She does not move.

Her stance remains rooted.

Ready.

I lean slightly to the side holding the left side her hip so my voice carries past her.

“What was that, wizard?” I call cheerfully. “Couldn’t quite hear you past my absolute warrior woman.”

Merry makes a strangled noise.

Gimli’s beard twitches as he fights a laugh.

Gandalf’s eyes flash.

“You are in no position to be smug, Peregrin Took.”

“Oh, I disagree entirely,” I reply. “I am in an excellent position. Very protected. Also a lovely view of her back here.. living the Hobbit dream truly.”

She shifts half an inch—just enough that I know she’s aware of where I stand behind her.

Always aware.

Gandalf studies her for a long moment.

There is no fear in her posture.

No hesitation.

Just quiet, deadly certainty.

“I meant him no harm,” Gandalf says at last.

Her daggers do not lower.

Not yet.

Aragorn steps forward cautiously. “Gandalf.”

The wizard exhales through his nose.

“I was making a point.”

“Yes,” I say brightly. “And I believe the point has been received.”

She remains motionless.

It is not dramatic. Not theatrical.

It is simply understood.

If anyone strikes at me, they answer to her.

I beam with such intensity I may actually glow.

Boromir leans toward me. “You are enjoying this.”

“Immensely,” I whisper.

At last, after several long seconds, she resheathes one dagger.

Then the other.

The sound is soft but decisive.

Gandalf lowers his staff fully.

“Very well,” he says, adjusting his robes with dignity that has clearly suffered. “Perhaps we shall all refrain from violence—for the moment.”

“That sounds agreeable,” I reply.

She steps slightly aside then—not retreating, not shrinking—just enough that I can stand beside her again.

I straighten proudly.

“You see,” I say to no one in particular, “this is what happens when you marry magnificence.”

Merry buries his face in his hands.

Gimli lets out a bark of laughter he cannot suppress.

Gandalf fixes me with a final stern glare.

“You will not test my patience again.”

“I make no promises,” I say politely.

Silence lingers a moment longer.

Then the Fellowship resumes movement, tension easing into wary normalcy.

I lean slightly toward her—not touching, never presuming—just close enough that my voice carries for her alone.

“That was extraordinary,” I murmur.

Because it was.

She did not shout. She did not posture.

She simply stood between me and a wizard who once faced a Balrog.

And dared him.

I cannot help myself.

I grin again.

If the world wishes to threaten me, it will have to go through her.