I had already reached the limit of what I believed my hallway could reasonably endure.

Thirteen dwarves were in it. Boots, cloaks, weapons, voices, laughter, argument. Thorin Oakenshield stood near the mantel with the unmistakable air of someone assessing a battlefield, while the others made themselves far too comfortable with my furniture. Gandalf, of course, looked entirely pleased with himself.

So when there came another knock—measured, deliberate—I very nearly pretended not to hear it.

Before I could stop him, Gandalf was already moving to the door.

What stood beyond it made the room fall silent.

She had to bend to enter.

Not awkwardly, but carefully, folding herself just enough to clear the round green frame. She was very tall—taller than any elf I had ever seen, taller than most men—and wrapped in a white cloak that caught the light as though it remembered the moon. Beneath it, her gown shimmered like pale silver, worked through with dark moss-leaf embroidery along the bodice and sleeves, as though forest and starlight had been sewn together by patient hands.

Her hair fell white down her back, luminous even in the dim of my entryway.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Thorin’s posture changed at once—subtle, but unmistakable. Several of the others stared outright. Someone inhaled sharply. I, meanwhile, felt my sense of proportion abandon me entirely.

She had to incline her head again just to stand properly beneath my ceiling.

“Oh—!” I said, far too late and far too loudly. “I—please—mind the beam, it’s terribly low, I’m so sorry, it was built for—well—hobbits.”

I gestured helplessly, mortified by the inadequacy of my own house.

Gandalf cleared his throat, clearly enjoying himself far too much.

“My friends,” he said, “allow me to introduce the High Queen of the Teleri Elves. She comes at my request, as a potential ally for the road ahead—if Thorin Oakenshield will allow it.”

That did it.

The word ally seemed to ripple through the room. Thorin’s gaze sharpened, measuring and cautious. Balin looked thoughtful at once. Dwalin’s hand shifted slightly, as if out of habit. I heard a soft, astonished murmur somewhere behind me.

A queen... No a High Queen...An ally. In my front hall.

I swallowed hard and forced myself to remember my manners.

“I—ah—Bilbo Baggins,” I said quickly, bowing a little too deeply. “This is my home. Bag End. It isn’t… designed for guests of your stature, I’m afraid, but it’s warm, and there’s tea, and—well—chairs, though some may be occupied at present.”

I winced faintly at that.

Up close, the sense of her presence was even more unsettling—not threatening, but immense, like standing near deep water. She had to angle her shoulders slightly just to exist in the space, and yet there was nothing awkward in her bearing. Only patience. Composure. A quiet weight that made the room feel suddenly very small.

Behind me, the Company shifted again, whispering under their breath. Thorin did not look away from her.

Gandalf, unhelpfully serene, added, “I thought it best she hear the matter directly. Whether she chooses to lend her aid is, of course, her decision.”

I nodded too quickly. “Yes. Quite. Entirely her decision. Of course.”

I stepped aside at once, nearly tripping over a stool in my hurry to be accommodating. “Please—do come in. Carefully. Mind the beam there—yes, just so. I’m terribly sorry about the ceiling.”

I glanced up at her again, uncertain and flustered, yet unable to stop myself.

If she truly meant to walk beside dwarves on the road to Erebor… then my quiet little hobbit-hole had just become the threshold of something much larger than I had ever intended.

Still, I managed a small, earnest smile.

“If you’re willing to put up with the noise… and the company… then I suppose there’s always room for one more guest at my table.”

And somehow, despite myself, I found I very much hoped she would stay.