The Shire is too peaceful for my nerves, but the food helps.

I sit crowded at Bilbo Baggins’ round little table, a plate piled with bread and cheese in front of me, a mug of ale in hand, and Kíli across from me telling a joke that makes absolutely no sense.

“—and THEN the troll says, ‘that’s not my leg, that’s your leg!’”

“Kíli,” I groan, “that isn’t even a punchline.”

“Yes it is!” He thumps the table, delighted with himself. “You just don’t understand sophisticated humor.”

Bofur snorts. Dwalin rolls his eyes so hard his entire head moves. The Company is relaxed—laughing, eating, passing rolls back and forth because hobbit bread is dangerously good. Gandalf is late, which usually means trouble, but even that feels distant for the moment.

I take another drink of ale. Warm. Quiet. As close to peace as I’ve felt in months.

Then the door knocks.

Once. Firm.

The room stills.

Bilbo hurries to open it, and Gandalf ducks inside in a sweep of grey robes, staff nearly knocking a dish from the shelf. His eyes gleam with the kind of look that always spells doom or destiny.

“Mind yourselves,” he says. “You are about to meet someone… essential.”

I raise a brow but say nothing. Kíli nudges me like an excited puppy. Balin murmurs something about wizards and timing.

Then Gandalf steps aside.

A shadow fills the doorway—tall, still, moonlit in its outline.

She must bow—deeply—to pass through the round frame. Moon-white hair slides forward in a shining fall as she enters.

She straightens.

And every sound in the room dies.

Seven feet of sea-born majesty stands inside a hobbit house meant for people half her size. Starlight skin. Long, elegant lines. A presence that bends the air itself.

I forget how to breathe.

Even Kíli forgets how to function. His mouth falls open. Bofur’s hat tilts sideways. Bilbo looks like he might faint.

But me— I lurch to my feet so fast my chair clatters backward.

Gandalf says calmly, “Company of Durin, this is the High Queen of the Teleri. A potential ally.”

A High Queen.

In Bag End.

Where she cannot even stand upright.

My thoughts explode.

“WAIT—WAIT—GANDALF—WHAT—WHY—WHY IS SHE IN HERE?” I sputter. “This—this is—Kíli, are you SEEING THIS? How is she even fitting? Why would—WHO decided this was acceptable?!”

Kíli whispers, “Fíli… calm—”

“CALM? CALM?” My voice pitches embarrassingly high. “She’s a High Queen standing under a hobbit ceiling! This is an insult! A crime! A—A TRAGEDY OF MASONRY!”

Bilbo splutters something defensive, but I’m already sweeping the room with my hands, frantic.

“No, no, NO—this won’t do!” I shove stools aside. Drag cushions into a pile. Clear space like my life depends on it. “Someone help me—make room—give her space—SHOW RESPECT!”

Kíli snorts. “Fíli, are you building her a nest?”

“It is a SEATING ARRANGEMENT!” I roar. Then, quieter, “…fit for a queen.”

Thorin rises halfway from his chair, glaring. “Fíli. Compose yourself.” “I am composed!” I insist, nearly knocking over a porcelain bowl. “That is an heirloom!” Bilbo squeaks, trying to shield a teapot from my reach. “I am RESPECTING royalty!” I snap back. “Your heirlooms will survive. My dignity will not.”

Thorin growls, “Fíli, enough.” “It is NOT enough!” I protest, nearly upsetting a teapot. Bilbo yelps, “Mind that—those are family pieces!” “I’m SAVING her dignity!” I insist.

Dwalin mutters, “Aye. He’s gone.”

“I AM NOT GONE—” I stop. Glance at her again. Feel my chest tighten like armor that suddenly fits wrong.

“…I might be,” I whisper.

Gandalf’s eyes twinkle with ancient amusement. “High Queen, it seems you have already made quite an impression upon our Fíli.”

Impression is too small a word. I feel unmade—re-forged—struck clean through.

I bow—too fast, too earnest—trying to salvage dignity.

If she allows it… If she so much as breathes in my direction…

I will spend the rest of my days making sure no ceiling ever dares lower itself above her head again.