Bag End was loud in the way only hobbit holes ever are—laughter bouncing off low beams, mugs knocking, chairs scraping, someone arguing about sausages in a corner. The Company was scattered through the room in varying states of cheer and collapse. I had claimed the space beneath the table by the hearth, back against the wall, tankard in hand and dignity… well. We’ll say set aside for the evening.

The door opened and Gandalf’s voice cut through the noise. “Mind yourselves,” he called, and there was a hitch in it that made me look up. Chairs shifted. Someone shushed someone else. The room didn’t quiet so much as… listen.

“She is late,” Gandalf said mildly. “But worth the wait.”

I took another pull from my drink, smacked the bottom of the mug against the floor for emphasis, and immediately regretted the confidence of that motion. The table leg met my forehead with a sound that was both loud and humiliating.

“—ow,” I managed, as laughter broke out.

“Bofur, you absolute menace,” Kíli snorted from above.

I squinted at the underside of the table, blinking stars away, and then—

The door opened again.

The air changed.

Not with noise. With presence.

She ducked to enter, all white braid and worn leather, a spear riding high in a back scabbard that made the room feel suddenly smaller. Worn armor, not ornamental. Practical. Travel-stained. The kind that had seen roads and didn’t complain about it. Her hair was bound in a single, clean braid down her back, bright against dark leather. Pale. Quiet. Tall enough that the beams had opinions.

My brain stopped doing useful things.

“Mind the beam,” Gandalf said gently, one hand lifted in warning.

She inclined her head, calm as water, and stepped in.

Gandalf turned, staff tapping once. “Company of Thorin Oakenshield,” he said, and the room shifted into something like order. “This is Eärwa Singollo, Princess of Alqualondë.”

A pause.

“Exiled,” he added, and there was no pity in it. Only fact. “Alone for many years. I thought… perhaps she might find something like kinship here.”

I forgot I was under a table.

Forgot the bruise forming on my head.

Forgot the mug in my hand.

I just stared.

Fíli leaned forward, curious. Kíli’s grin softened. Balin’s eyes warmed in that way of his. Dwalin took stock and approved. Thorin went very still.

And me?

I tried to stand.

Which would have been impressive, if not for the table.

My shoulder caught first. Then my head. Then the edge of a bench. I swore, tangled, and surfaced into the light like something half-drowned, hair askew, face flushed, dignity officially lost to history.

Laughter erupted.

“Bofur—” Ori started.

“I meant to do that,” I said, pointing at no one in particular. “Dramatic entrance.”

Gandalf’s mouth twitched.

She was watching.

Not laughing.

Just… watching.

Curious. Calm. Unstartled.

I straightened, cleared my throat, and tried very hard to remember how legs worked. “Evenin’,” I managed, and immediately hated how small the word felt in the room with her.

Her gaze met mine. Steady. Bright. Unafraid.

The noise of Bag End seemed to fall away around the edges.

I tipped my head, because I didn’t know what else to do with myself and it felt like the right kind of respectful. “Bofur,” I said, and then, because I am who I am, added, “And that was… not how I usually greet royalty.”

Kíli choked. Fíli hid a smile. Balin’s eyes crinkled.

Gandalf leaned on his staff, satisfied.

She stood there in worn leather and quiet steel, a princess without a palace, a traveler without a home, and something in my chest did a strange, hopeful thing I hadn’t invited.

I didn’t know who she was yet.

But I knew I was very glad she was here.