Bag End is a mistake.

Too round. Too soft. Too many walls that curve when they should stand straight. The ceiling hangs low enough that it makes my shoulders itch, and the furniture looks like it would splinter if a dwarf sat in it wrong. Hobbits might find comfort in this sort of place. I find it irritating.

I stand with my back near the wall, arms crossed, boots planted firm against the floorboards. We are guests here — uninvited, unwanted, and temporary — and I intend to stay that way. Gandalf hovers near the door like he always does when he’s about to spring something clever on us. Thorin holds himself stiff near the hearth. Balin watches the room. The lads whisper.

I wait.

Then the door opens.

And I know instantly that whatever Gandalf dragged in has teeth.

She steps inside, ducking only as much as she must, straightening once she clears the doorway. She is tall — far too tall for this hole — and the moment she fully stands, I have to lift my chin to meet her eye-line.

I don’t like that.

Elven. No question about it. Not just the ears, sharp and unmistakable, but the way she stands like the room should rearrange itself around her. Calm. Still. Unbothered by the fact that she’s just walked into a space filled with armed dwarves and tension thick enough to taste.

She doesn’t speak.

That alone sets my teeth on edge.

Gandalf smiles, already drawing breath to begin one of his speeches, and I cut him off before he gets a word out.

“We don’t need her kind,” I snap.

The room goes quiet.

I don’t take it back.

“We don’t need Elves watching us,” I continue, voice rough, honest. “We don’t need someone standing there judging us in a hobbit’s hole like this is a court. And we sure as stone don’t need an ally who won’t even open her mouth.”

Gandalf turns toward me, brows knitting, but I don’t look away from her. If she’s offended, she doesn’t show it. If she’s angry, she hides it well.

That calm stare lands on me, steady and unflinching.

It irritates me more than shouting would.

I’ve fought beside Elves before. I’ve seen them arrive late, leave early, and wash their hands of battles once the cost grew heavy. I’ve buried dwarves who never saw home again while others walked away untouched. I don’t forget that. I don’t pretend it doesn’t matter.

“This isn’t our hall,” I mutter, gesturing around the cramped space. “And it’s no place for posturing.”

I shift my stance, boots scraping against the floor as I angle myself so I don’t have to crane my neck quite so much. I adjust myself, not her. Still resent that I have to.

She remains where she is — tall, silent, unyielding — like she’s carved from something harder than stone. Like she’s waiting to see who breaks first.

I let out a short, humorless breath.

“Say what you came to say,” I growl. “Or don’t. But don’t stand there like we owe you room.”

The words are sharp. Deliberate. I don’t soften them.

If Gandalf has brought trouble into this house, I intend to meet it head-on — not wrapped in courtesy, not dulled by politeness. I’ve no patience for riddles or measured silences.

Gandalf clears his throat, patience thinning. “If you would restrain yourself for half a breath, Dwalin,” he says dryly, “you might learn who you’re snarling at. This is the High Queen of the Teleri—”

“Teleri,” I cut in with a short scoff. “Sea-Elves. Figures. All tide and silence. Never seen one yet who knew how to stand their ground without waiting a century to decide.”

And if this Elf thinks standing tall and saying nothing will earn her respect—

She’s about to learn that dwarves don’t yield ground easily.

Not even to the tide.