The round green door of Bag End had scarcely shut behind us when Gandalf’s staff struck the floor once—sharp, deliberate.

“Mind yourselves,” he said, as if he were warning us about a dragon instead of a guest. “I have brought someone whose counsel I believe will prove… useful.”

Balin straightened. Thorin’s brow drew tight. Dori muttered about wizards and surprises. I leaned a little to the side to see past Bifur’s shoulder, already half‑smiling. Wizards never announced anything ordinary.

Then the air changed.

She stepped in—and by Mahal, the whole room stopped.

She had to duck, no, fold herself under the low beam, long pure white hair spilling forward like moonlight as she bent with careful grace. Seven feet of Elven Majesty pressed into a hobbit hole never meant for such a presence. Her skin was pale as sea‑foam in winter, bright in the lamplight, unmistakably Teleri—salt and starlight and deep water all in one. The walls seemed to hold their breath around her.

Silver caught the firelight. Moss‑green embroidery traced the fall of her gown like leaves stitched into mist. And the way she moved—slow, controlled, deliberate—like a tide deciding where it would break.

I forgot how to breathe.

Forgot how to blink.

Forgot I was holding my mug.

(It tipped and soaked my sleeve. I did not notice. Not even a little.)

Gandalf smiled into his beard, entirely too pleased with himself. “Company of Thorin Oakenshield,” he announced, gesturing grandly. “May I present— Lady Cynthia Singollo. High Queen of the Teleri Elves. Sovereign of Taur Im Duinath.”

Bilbo squeaked something about ceilings and began fussing with a teapot as if porcelain could save him from history. Kíli’s eyes went wide. Even Bombur went quiet.

The words were big. Ancient. Important.

But all I could see was the way she angled herself sideways to pass between the table and the wall, patient and unbothered, as if she had stepped into stranger places than a hobbit’s dining room. She gave Bilbo a gracious nod, and the corner of her mouth lifted as if she found his little hill‑home charming rather than insulting.

Then her gaze—sea‑bright and steady—found me.

Oh.

Oh no.

My heart tripped over itself like a drunk goat on loose stones.

I sprang upright so fast I nearly headbutted Bombur. “H—hello!” I blurted, far too loud. “I mean—Your Majesty—Highness—Queen—welcome to Bag End! Not that it’s mine. It’s Bilbo’s. I’m Bofur. Not the owner. Just… present. Very present.”

Bilbo coughed into his hand. Fíli made a strangled sound that was absolutely laughter. Thorin shot me a look that could split timber.

I didn’t care.

Because the High Queen was smiling.

Not a court‑smile. Not a polite one you wear like armor.

A real one.

And I was done for.

Completely, utterly, cheerfully undone.

I yanked my hat off in a hurry and pressed it to my chest, bowing so quickly I nearly toppled. “It’s an honor,” I managed, trying not to stare and failing entirely. “We don’t get many Queens in hobbit holes. Or… at all. Ever.”

Her laugh came soft and warm—water over stone, moonlight on a river—and the cramped little room seemed brighter for it.

Balin cleared his throat, respectful as ever. “Your Majesty.”

Thorin dipped his head, stiff and measured. “High Queen.”

And me? I leaned toward Bifur and whispered, far too loudly, “She’s taller than Thorin.” then I whispered, far too earnestly “If she bends any lower, she’s going to knock the ceiling out… and I think I might fall in love about it.”

Thorin growled.

I beamed like it was my birthday.

Bifur didn’t even look away. “Aye. Already. There’s no saving you.”

Gandalf, the menace, watched me with open satisfaction. “Sit,” he said. “And listen. The road is long, and counsel is rarer than gold.”

Aye.

And if this was the sort of counsel that walked through doors like moonlight made solid—gentle and terrible and beautiful all at once—then I was already convinced.

Completely.

Hopelessly.

Smitten.