I have seen her face kings. I have seen her face orcs. I have seen her stand in halls where men whisper like she cannot hear them.
But I have never seen her walk this slowly.
The forest of her childhood rises around us—tall, ancient, silver-barked and shadowed in green light. It should feel like home to her.
It does not.
The guards at the edge of the Woodland Realm stiffen the moment they recognize her silhouette.
White hair. Tall frame. Scars unmistakable even from a distance.
They do not greet her.
They step back.
I feel it like a physical thing—the subtle recoil. The shift in breath. The careful silence that follows her like a second shadow.
My jaw tightens.
She does not falter.
She walks forward.
And I walk beside her, reaching barely to her hip, small against the towering trees and the weight of this place.
Whispers trail behind us.
“She’s returned.” “With a Halfling?” “After all this time—”
The great doors open before us, and the halls of Mirkwood stretch long and familiar.
Familiar to her. Foreign to me.
At the far end stands her father.
King of Mirkwood.
Tall. Regal. Unyielding.
His gaze finds her immediately.
It does not soften. It does not warm.
It pauses—lingers on the scars at her temples, the clouded white of her eyes—and something in it shifts.
Not pride.
Not relief.
Pain.
And something colder.
The court parts around us as we approach.
They give her space.
Too much space.
Like she might ignite again if they stand too close.
My heart aches in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
I have seen her face ridicule with composure.
But this—
This is different.
This is home.
Or it should have been.
She stops a respectful distance before the throne.
She does not bow deeply. She does not shrink. She stands tall.
Silent.
Steady.
And I realize something in that moment.
She is not bringing me here for approval.
She is bringing me here because this is where her story began.
And she will not hide the ending.
The King’s gaze shifts to me.
It is not cruel.
It is not kind.
It is assessing.
“You have returned,” he says at last.
She does not answer.
Of course she does not.
Her silence fills the hall.
“And you bring… this,” he continues, voice unreadable.
I feel the heat rise in my chest.
I straighten, though I barely reach the height of the throne steps.
“My name is Peregrin Took,” I say clearly. “And I am her husband.”
A ripple moves through the court.
Shock.
Disapproval.
Curiosity.
I do not look away.
Thranduil's gaze sharpens.
“Husband.”
“Yes.”
The word feels solid in my mouth.
Certain.
“She chose me,” I add, because that matters more than anything else.
Silence stretches long and heavy.
No one steps closer to her.
No one greets her warmly.
No one says they missed her.
They look at her the way Gondor did.
Like she is something fractured.
Something unfortunate.
And it breaks my heart in ways battle never could.
Because this is her realm.
And they are still afraid of her.
I see the way the courtiers keep their distance.
The way their eyes flick to her face and then away too quickly.
The way even her father’s gaze lingers too long on what was left behind.
And something in me hardens.
I don’t care if he approves.
I don’t care if this court whispers.
I don’t care if the entire forest bristles at the sight of a Hobbit standing in their halls.
She is my wife.
And no one is going to look at her like she is less.
Not anymore.
I step half a pace forward—not in front of her, never that—but enough that my voice carries.
“She survived what would have destroyed most of you,” I say evenly. “And she did it without sight.”
A murmur ripples through the room.
“She fought beside us from Rivendell to Gondor,” I continue. “She carved through Uruk-hai who never saw her coming. She stood between me and a wizard once.”
A few eyes widen.
I don’t stop.
“She is not something to step away from.”
The King’s jaw tightens.
“You presume much, Halfling.”
“I presume nothing,” I answer. “I state fact.”
She's my wife now, and I will not let her stand alone.