By request by the wonderful and fabulous Hristonostore Onediel (and possibly desired by many others), I present to you the goings-on of the 60 years between Hobbit and LOTR! There's a lot of time for adventures of all kinds, so let's dive right in! Mx. Onediel is feeding me some of the chapter ideas, and I'll think of some myself, but if there's anything you're absolutely dying to see, leave a comment and I'll see if I can work it in! Hope you like it!

Disclaimer: Tolkien owns Tolkien, you own you!

Fili and Kili are milling around in the hall outside your room when you wake up the day after Thorin proposed. The greeting on your lips is never given; Kili grabs your hand as soon as the door shuts. He and Fili stare at it for half a second before whooping and snatching you up in a hug.

"Um?" you squeak, returning the gesture. "Did I miss something?'

"He finally did it! He finally proposed!" Fili shouts to the ceiling. "I thought I would go grey before it happened! Congratulations!"

"You'll be officially part of the family," Kili continues, beaming. "I'm so glad it's you. No other lady could have captured Thorin's heart so thoroughly.

"Thank you both," you mumble, blushing. "I'm excited, too."

"Excited for what?" Thorin grumbles, opening the door. "What is this racket?"

Thorin is very quickly woken up when his nephews immediately mob him with similar sentiments. He is left disheveled and also a bit red in the face.

"We'll take care of your pre-wedding celebration," Fili assures Thorin with a gleam in his eye. "It will be the best night you won't remember, I promise."

"And Mother will want to help plan the ceremony," Kili puts in eagerly. "She and Tauriel can do Aniel's party. Would you like it to be traditional, Aniel? Because - "

"Alright, that's enough," Thorin says firmly. "I've only just proposed, and we have plenty of time to plan."

"And the ring is magnificent!" Kili exclaims. "I've never seen such a jewel. But Thorin, where's yours?"

"Oh no!" you gasp. "I forgot, you need a ring, too! Where can I get one?"

"Well, it's traditional for you to forge it yourself - " Kili stops talking at a look from Thorin.

"Is it? I have no idea how to do that, but I can learn! Thorin, let's go to the forges now!"

Thorin says gently, "You don't need to rush. And I can do my own ring."

"No! I wanna do it! I wanna go now!"

Thorin heaves a sigh and shoots his nephews an irritated look. They grin shamelessly after the two of you as you descend to the forges. Not many Dwarves are working this early in the morning, so you have an entire block of work stations to yourself. You're glad for it: you're sure your first encounter with superheated metal will not be a graceful one.

Thorin instructs you on how to heat the metal and pound it around a mandril. You watch closely, wanting to make the ring as perfect as possible. "That doesn't look too hard," you say brightly when the demonstration is finished.

"Just be very careful."

"I'm always careful!"

You select a strip of iron with a long pair of tongs and hold it over the roaring fire. You're fascinated by the way it slowly turns from dull silver to glowing red. You lay the now malleable material on the mandril to shape it and give it a strong blow with the hammer.

Thorin is kind enough not to laugh when the bit of metal only bends slightly. You frown at it. Despite being almost white-hot, it's not that easy to shape. You suddenly have a whole new level of respect for people who make swords for a living. You strike the metal again, again, and again, each time growing more frustrated and using more force.

"There's got to be an easier way to do this!" you pant.

"It's called smelting, but I'm not letting you around molten metal just yet."

You've worked so long that the somewhat curved ring in progress must be reheated. You go back to hammering. Then the unthinkable happens: you miss the metal and strike the mandril, causing it to catapult the burning soon-to-be ring right at your face. You instinctively put up your hands as a shield, which works, but the hot projectile hits your wrist and slips into your sleeve.

You scream curses in every language you know as you flail your arm, trying to shake out the scrap that sears every inch of skin it hits. Alarmed, Thorin grabs you and rips off your entire sleeve. You clutch your arm, tears welling in your eyes. Angry red burns have already popped up in several places, making your arm look like it had come off the worse in a fight with a very small dragon.

"Are you alright? Let me see!"

You wince and whimper when Thorin grabs your arm. His expression twists at the pox-like series of burns. "No more forging," he growls. "Come here, love."

He leads you over to the water wheel that powers the cable carts. You hold your arm in the cool mist, trying not to let the tears overflow. Thorin notices and gently kisses you on the head.

"I didn't do well," you mumble.

"It's alright. I'm sorry, I should have known you weren't ready. I'll finish the ring, just tell me how you want it."

"Maybe I'd have better luck with smelting."

"No. Now let's get some salve on this so it won't scar."

The first phase of your wedding planning leaves you with a white bandage all up your abused arm and no ring to show for it. You very much hope that it's not an omen of things to come, or else one of you might end up dead before the vows can be exchanged.

The whole kingdom knows about the impending marriage by the next morning. You're thoroughly impressed both with how fast word travels and how hard Kili and Fili must have worked to spread the news. Thorin's a bit disgruntled - you suspect he wanted to be the one to make the announcement - but you're beginning to get excited. It's all anyone talks about, and every time someone passes you they give their best wishes.

Dis is possibly the most thrilled. She confronts you only days later with ideas for colors, dresses, locations, menu items, and songs.

"Relax, Dis!" you laugh, shuffling through the parchments. "We've been engaged all of three days!"

"You must understand, Aniel - I never thought my brother would find someone he loved enough to marry. Now that he has, I want this day to be perfect!"

"And it will be! But even so, I wouldn't need anything fancy. A tiny thing with just family and friends would be just as good as a massive ceremony with the entire kingdom in attendance. Just as long as I get to marry him."

"Oh, you will, darling. I'll see to that."

And see to it she does. Dis almost singlehandedly coordinates every detail of the wedding. She consults you, gets your decision, and makes it happen. All you can do is hold on for the ride.

Thorin enters your room one night looking thoroughly put out. It's such an expression that you laugh aloud upon seeing him. "What in the world happened to make you look like that?"

"My sister," he grumbles, flopping on the bed. "I just got out of a measuring session for my wedding wear. It was very thorough."

"Oh, poor thing! I guess I've got that to look forward to tomorrow."

"I can rein her in if she's too much," he offers.

"What's the point of doing that now? The whole wedding's almost planned! It's so exciting! Er...are you excited?"

Thorin pulls you down on the bed. "I am ecstatic," he murmurs into your neck before kissing it. "To have you as my own will be the crowning achievement of my life."

"Y-You already have me," you squeak, trying to focus on the conversation. "I've been meaning to ask you - what exactly does a traditional Dwarvish wedding entail?"

"It's been a while since I've been to one. Let's see - the guests form a circle around the altar with paths for the bride and groom to walk through. We'll meet each other there and say our vows - "

"In Khuzdul?"

"Usually, but in this case we can do it in Common."

"In Khuzdul," you say firmly. "I'll learn it. Go on."

"Then we forge two links together to signify the permanence of our bond, though I was thinking of taking that out, all things considered..."

"All things considered?" You look at him, indignant. "Just because there was a tiny mishap the other day does not mean I can't figure out how to forge for our wedding ceremony!"

"That tiny mishap burned your whole arm," Thorin says darkly, tracing one of the few places that hadn't yet healed.

"I'm doing it and you can't stop me. This is going to be a traditional wedding if it kills me."

"Poor choice of words, love. Perhaps there are other traditions we might incorporate that are a little safer. What does an Elvish ceremony entail?"

"Well, before the ceremony, the bride and groom aren't allowed to see each other. It's considered bad luck. The groom goes to the altar first, then the bride's father walks her down the isle and gives her away. Then the vows are exchanged, and the rings, and sometimes they'll light candles or mix different color sands to symbolize the union, then they kiss and everybody parties."

Thorin smiles. "How tame. No wonder Elves live longer."

"We may live longer, but you live more fun. I'm going to learn the vows in Khuzdul, and I'm going to figure out how to forge."

"I'm going to teach you how to forge," he corrects. "And we'll take more precautions this time."

The next day, you go to Dis' room for the measuring. You open the door, and for a split second you wonder if you went to the wrong place - it's less of a room than it is the apparent origin of all textiles. Bolts of cloth of every imaginable color and texture are heaped in mountains, leaving only a bit of space in the floor for the measuring.

Dis emerges from the cloth wonderland with a big smile in place. "We have plenty of options," she says brightly. "Your dress is going to be legendary."

"Uh, Dis, you do know that I only need one dress, right?"

"I'm aware. Now disrobe, if you don't mind, so I can get your measurements."

You pile your clothes on the edge of the open floor. Dis sets to work with a measuring tape, humming cheerily. You stare ahead into the large three-panel mirror at yourself. It's been a long while since you've seen yourself naked, and the changes to your body are astounding. For one, your upper body is more toned due to so much use of weapons. There is a slightly raised line across your chest, your souvenir from the fight with Azog. But what's truly the most noticeable is the growth in body hair. You haven't shaved in months - did Middle Earth even have razors? - and it shows, especially on your legs. You giggle at your hairy legs and wiggle your toes.

"Sorry, did I tickle?"

"No, I was just looking at myself. I'm so much more hairy than I used to be. It's funny."

"That's a beauty mark in our culture, you know."

"I know. That's why I don't mind it. To be honest, shaving every day got old quick."

"You used to shave every day? Goodness, I'm glad we rescued you from those barbarians!"

"So am I," you say pensively, moving on to examine every inch of your skin. "To each their own, but being with Dwarves is...I don't really know how to explain it. You're more alive, or you live more, or something like that. You're all so simple and yet so complex, and...free."

"Thorin's poetry is rubbing off on you, lass." Dis tickles your tummy, earning a squeal. "But what you say has truth, though we're not without our flaws."

"No one is without flaws."

"Even your beloved Thorin?"

"Please, I could write a novel about his flaws...and another one about why I love each of them..."

"You are beyond help, my dear, and I am glad for it. You're good for Thorin. You balance him well, like the sun and the moon."

"Thank you, Dis. For everything. We wouldn't have gotten around to tying the knot for ages if not for you."

"I can't help but be excited! This is the first wedding these halls have seen in too many years. I would have only the perfect day for my soon-to-be sister."

"And I'm sure it will be perfect, or else."

"Or else." Dis nods thoughtfully. "I like that."

You give Dis a few thoughts on what you want in your dress, but leave it largely up to her discretion. You want it to be a surprise. You then visit Balin to get a copy of the vows in Khuzdul. You spend the rest of the day poring over the parchment with increasing frustration. It is like this that Thorin finds you that evening: hunched over the desk by the light of a drooping candle, squinting at the paper and mouthing more obscenities than vows.

"You do not need to learn these," he laughs, pulling you back against your chair to straighten your back. "We'll do the ceremony in Common."

"I want to," you mutter.

"Why? Why are you so adamant about having a traditional wedding?"

You look up at him. "Why are you so lax about it?"

"I am only lax in comparison."

"I am marrying you because I love you. But that's not the only thing this marriage signifies. Whether you mean it to be or not, this will be a massive political statement. You say the people love me and accept me, and maybe they do, but I'd be surprised if they'd all be so willing to have an Elf as a queen. I want the ceremony to be traditional to show them that I have no secret Elvish agenda, that I am for them a hundred percent. Also, I just really want to see a traditional wedding."

Thorin gazes at you, a small smile of humored awe playing. "You are something else, do you know that?"

"I've been told."

"You already have a political mind. I'll admit I'm surprised by that. You'll make a fine queen, Aniel. But I want this day to be everything you want."

"Everyone seems to be so sure that if this wedding doesn't go off without a hitch, I'll be devastated." You rise, push him into the chair, and sit on his lap. "It could rain enough to flood, or orcs could attack, or no one could show up at all, and all I'd care about is whether or not I get to say my vows and be married to you."

"Then does it really matter what language you say those vows in?"

"No, but I'm still gonna learn it."

He rests his forehead against yours. "Why are you so stubborn, darling?"

"Because I've spent so much time around you."

"Then I suppose it cannot be helped."

Thorin's idea of "extra precaution" for forging is nothing short of humiliating. He outfits you with a pair of thick, elbow-high work gloves and a heavy leather apron. The stiff mitts give you the dexterity of a three-year-old.

"How am I supposed to grip anything like this?" you complain, trying to ignore the stares.

"Tiny steps, love. We'll start with something less precise."

The task is to shape a rod into a curly-cue. It seems simple enough, but Thorin does not simply leave you to it. He guides your arms with his, measuring each firm strike and shifting the rod when necessary. The little comments of instruction are completely lost on you; you were long gone the second his front met your back.

"I'm supposed to be learning something, right?" you say dazedly.

"I would hope so."

"That is not going to happen with you distracting me like this."

"Distracting? I'm only - ah, I understand." Thorin smiles and moves away.

"No, I didn't say for you to stop! Come back and help me!"

"I'm right here. Keep working at it."

You grumble to yourself as you slowly pound the hot metal into shape. The end result is a mixed bag: it is a curly-cue, but the circles are lumpy and uneven. It could pass as a fine piece modern art, but unfortunately Middle Earth culture has not progressed that far.

"Not bad for your first try," Thorin says proudly, examining it. "We should take it upstairs and use it as our fire poker."

You groan. "Are you going to keep everything I do like some proud mother?"

"If you're not careful, I'll declare every practice piece a royal relic."

"Fire poker it is!"

Thorin laughs and takes you in his arms. "It is a good first try. You catch on quick."

"I have a good teacher who has spectacular teaching methods."

Thorin takes the new fire poker. You expect him to follow you upstairs; you have a dress fitting with Dis, and he should be putting that misshapen thing away. Instead he bids you farewell and continues on his way.

"Are you just gonna carry that around all day?" you demand.

He examines it thoughtfully. "Yes, I think I will."

"Thorin Oakenshield!"

He laughs to himself as he disappears down the corridor. Fuming, you ascend to meet Dis. She notices your undisguised bad mood and also chuckles upon hearing the story.

"Don't be hard on him," she says, helping you with your clothes. "He's probably just very proud. Though I don't see how he'll have time to make your wedding gift if you're always in the forges with him - "

"Wedding gift?" You turn to look at Dis, who has a very guilty expression. "What wedding gift? Dis, you tell me right now!"

"I wasn't supposed to mention it, but...well, it's custom for Dwarves getting married to present the other with a gift of their craft. I thought he was going to take that bit out since you don't have a craft, but he told me the other day that he wanted to make you something anyway."

You're outraged. "And you were just going to not tell me and let me look like an idiot?!"

"No! It wouldn't be expected of you, dear, you don't know how to do anything."

"Oh, yeah, really? Is that how it is?"

"No, I didn't mean it that way - "

"I'll show you both! I'll make him a present and I won't have any help and it will be magnificent!"

"I'm sure you will, dear," she says pacifyingly. "Now lift your arms."

Dis refuses to let you see the dress blindfolds you right after dropping it over your head. You gather what details you can through other senses. It's made of a heavy material - delicate ones are not common on Dwaves, you've noticed - something akin to velvet. It fits snugly around your bust and waist and probably shows off all your best curves. The cut is open but modest. The fact that you can't feel the bottom hem on your skin even while you stand on a stool hints at a train. You smugly voice all these little things to Dis while she checks the measurements.

"All superficial little things," she says dismissively. "The real work of art is something only eyes can behold."

"I don't doubt that. Why won't you let me see it?"

"Because it's not ready, and I'm not about give away even one peek! You must be thoroughly surprised!"

You consider teasing her with the possibility of not liking it, but that's not even a notion to entertain. You have no misgivings about Dis' ability to deliver. If she says the dress will be legendary, then you fully expect songs and poems to be written about it.

Your own work of art starts bright and early the next morning. You knew exactly what you wanted to make for Thorin only minutes after being made aware of the exchange. It would be painstaking - no, it would just be a pain in the ass - but you feel like you have things to prove beyond your love for your future husband, so all the work will be worth it.

You find a nice spot with a clear view of the Mountain in its entirety and begin to sketch it on parchment. The sketch grows more and more detailed as you try to include every crevice and facet of the rock. The gates get their own page from a closer vantage point. It takes hours and several restarts, but finally you are satisfied with the concept art.

The next phase you initiate a few days later. You round up a few blocks of wood and some carving tools and hesitantly start into one of the wood blocks. You have never carved wood before. It more than shows. The practice sphere comes out a deformed egg, but you refuse to be discouraged. You work with that chisel until you can produce an almost perfectly straight, uniformly deep line. It's good enough. Using your drawings as a guide, you chip away at the log until a vaguely mountainous form emerges from what was previously a cylinder.

"What are you working on, love?"

"Ahh!" You shout in surprise and throw yourself in front of your workspace. "What? Nothing!"

Thorin grins at your obvious reaction. "Nothing at all? Is that why the floor's covered in wood shavings?"

"Our room is never clean anyway!"

Thorin kindly turns his back so you can violently shove the carving in the closet and cover it. "Do you need your own workspace?" he asks, ignoring the sound of things falling and your subsequent cursing. "We can find you somewhere quiet and open."

"No, it's fine," you pant, shoving the closet door closed. "This is a, uh, special project. One-time thing. And you're not allowed to look at it!"

"You hid it, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but you better not go looking for it."

"I wouldn't dream of it." He surveys the mess in the floor. "I didn't know you work in woodcraft."

"Neither did I." You sweep the chips into the fire. "I'm not sure I'm any good at it, but it's oddly calming to carve something out of nothing. Maybe I'll carry it on...and why do you look so pleased?"

Thorin fails terribly at hiding his beaming expression. "I'm simply happy that you may have found a craft."

"Crafting is big with Dwarves, isn't it?"

"It is integral to our culture. To create anything is to put a piece of yourself into it. It is how we stay alive even after we pass."

You smile at the idea. "Is that why you're trying to teach me to forge?"

"Yes, but if you're more comfortable with wood work, you should pursue your heart's interest."

"Pursue my heart's interest? If you insist." You slump into his arms and plant a lazy kiss on his jaw. Thorin chuckles at your antics and scoops you up. You remark as he carries you to the bed, "You're a lot stronger than you look, and you look pretty strong."

"You weigh nothing. The wind could carry you away. You're like a new, slender tree blowing in the spring breeze."

"Were you always this poetic?"

"I'm not sure. Perhaps I just found new words when I fell for you."

You're sure to take extra care to be stealthy as you move down to the forges to complete the gift. It takes a lot of trial and error, but you eventually work out how to make a mold from the wood carving. You're more careful than you've ever been in your life not to splash any of the molten on yourself or anything else as you ladle it into the mold. After that...you wait. You have no idea how long it should take to cool. You give it three days and stash it somewhere secret and safe.

The moment of truth arrives when you crack the mold. You aren't gentle; you assume that a giant hunk of iron should have some durability. It takes some cleverness, but eventually you remove the mold, leaving a only the replica of the Lonely Mountain you made with your own two hands. After some polishing, it's so breathtaking that you sit and admire it for a while. Perhaps you had more skill at forging than you thought! With a few extra finishing touches, you would be proud to present the gift to Thorin.

What you had in mind turns out to be easier imagined than executed. You attempt to add the front gates in gold and a pretty white gem at the peak to symbolize the Arkenstone. This leads to several cuts and burns on your hands and more cursing than you knew you were capable of. Unfortunately, the injuries do not go unnoticed.

"What's happened to your hands?" Thorin asks with a frown one night before bed. "It looks like you've been juggling knives!"

"I've been working on something," you reply evasively.

"Maybe I should help you with it."

"That would be counterproductive. Besides, I'm almost done with it. And I hear Dis is almost done with my dress, which means..."

The change of subject is the perfect distraction. "Which means we will soon be married," he finishes with a smile. "It cannot come soon enough."

"But we haven't even sent out invitations!"

"There's no need. Everyone is invited."

"Everyone? How many people is everyone?"

"All Dwarves who care to come, and the Men of Dale as well."

"And Thranduil?"

"What? Why would we invite that blight on Arda?"

You shrug. "I just figured that with an Elf bride, you would invite the Elf King."

"Never."

"You know, it might eventually be in your best interest to make peace with them."

"No," he says plainly.

"Not even if it made complete sense to do it?"

"If he desires peace, he can come to me to discuss it."

"I'm not even going to argue," you sigh. "I guess marrying across race lines can't heal all wounds."

"I'm glad we understand each other. I want to be focused on you on that glorious day. No distractions of any kind."

"It won't be hard." A blush creeps up as you contemplate Thorin in whatever Dis planned to have him wear. "I'm sure I won't be able to take my eyes off you. All the women will be desolate that you're off the market. Meanwhile I'll be living a dream come true for the rest of my life."

"A dream come true..." he repeats, smiling at the words. "Is it so much like a fairy story?"

"It's better. It's real."