The forest goes quiet in the worst way.

Not peaceful. Not calm.

Empty.

I’m halfway through telling Merry that I absolutely saw that rabbit first when the arrow slams into a tree beside Boromir’s shoulder.

“Orcs!” Aragorn shouts.

Of course.

Because nothing ever stays peaceful long enough for me to finish a perfectly good argument.

Steel sings from scabbards. Gimli roars. Legolas’ bow is already drawn.

I reach for my sword—yes, I reach quickly, thank you very much—and then I hear it.

Leather shifting.

A measured breath.

Ellariel.

She does not gasp. She does not shout. She does not hesitate.

Daggers are in her hands before the first orc breaks through the brush.

One charges straight for me.

I lift my blade—

—and she is already moving.

She pivots toward the sound of boots crushing leaves. Toward the uneven breath. Toward the clumsy rush of something that believes it has the advantage.

It does not.

Her first strike is clean and controlled. The second ends it.

The orc drops before it even understands what happened.

I blink.

Boromir slams his shield into another attacker. “Stay close!”

“I am close to her!” I protest, already staring at her again.

She shifts two steps left as another orc tries to circle wide.

She can’t see them.

And yet she moves like she can feel the space bending around her.

No wasted motion. No panic. No flinching.

Just precision.

“That’s my wife!” I shout over the clash.

Boromir glances at me mid-swing. “Your what?”

“My wife!” I repeat, grinning like an idiot. “I asked her and she said yes to me! She said yes to being my wife! I’m the luckiest Hobbit in all of Middle-earth!”

Boromir nearly loses his footing.

“This is hardly the moment—”

“Of course it’s the moment!” I say, ducking a wild swing and jabbing forward with surprising competence.

Another orc lunges for me from the right.

I see it— but she hears it.

She steps between us without colliding, blade flashing upward to catch the descending strike. The second dagger drives forward in a tight arc that leaves no room for argument.

The orc crumples.

I beam so brightly I might rival the sun.

“Did you see that?” I demand of Boromir.

“I am currently being attacked!”

“She didn’t even turn the wrong way!”

Legolas’ arrows whistle past, each one finding its mark with infuriating elegance.

Merry darts past me, breathless. “Stop narrating your admiration and fight!”

“I am fighting!” I insist.

Somewhere in the chaos, Gimli laughs—a booming, approving sound.

She pivots again, shoulders steady, head angled slightly as she listens.

An orc tries to rush her from behind.

I open my mouth to warn her—

—but she’s already moved.

She ducks beneath the swing and slices cleanly across his thigh before finishing the job with ruthless efficiency.

I cannot contain it.

“That is my elven lady!” I shout, entirely unashamed. “Without even seeing! What a woman!”

Boromir actually laughs this time.

“You are insufferable.”

“I know!” I reply cheerfully. “Isn’t she magnificent?”

The last of the orcs falter under Aragorn’s charge and Legolas’ arrows. The forest slowly reclaims its breath.

Silence returns in fragments.

She stands where she finished, blades still but ready, chest rising and falling in measured rhythm.

Listening.

There is no trembling. No sign of fear.

Only composure.

I step closer—not touching, never presuming—just near enough that my voice will reach her clearly over the settling quiet.

“You were extraordinary,” I say, unable to keep the awe from my tone.

Merry wipes his blade and mutters, “He’s unbearable now.”

“I am not unbearable,” I say lightly, though I absolutely am.

Because how am I meant to behave normally when the woman I love just defended me in the middle of battle without faltering once?

Boromir approaches, wiping his sword. “You boast as though you fought the entire skirmish alone.”

“I fought bravely,” I say with dignity. “But she is on another level entirely.”

Legolas joins us, expression composed, though there is pride there quiet and steady.

I puff up shamelessly.

“She chose me."